Widget and Sassoon will blow your mind

It's Monday. It's boring. Andrea and I are job-hating. So why not start a weekly series of ridiculous conversations? Yes? YES.

Enter The Weekly Widget and Sassoon, which will be brought to you fresh every Monday. I'm not gonna lie, we totally stole this idea from Jed and Sara, but maybe they stole it from Dave and Staci and maybe a zillion other blogs doing it because the internet is killing all my "original" thoughts.

ANYWAY we have so many gems archived in Gchat that we can't keep it to ourselves anymore. Also, my blog is suffering from a lack of interesting topics so this will guarantee that I actually post more than once a month.

"Why the hell are you weirdos calling yourselves Widget and Sassoon," you ask? I don't really know. It was Halloween and we were drunk on 40s and mini wines and pretending we were in a Wes Anderson movie.


So YEAH! Let's DO this! I'm too busy (read: LAZY) to search way way back for the super gems, but here's a taste from February to get you started:

• 2/19/09 - 11:55am

andrea: there's nothing like buying monistat from a grumpy old man first thing in the morning

just nothing.

molly: i hope you gave him sexy eyes

andrea: i'm pretty sure i gave him grumpy eyes...

molly: darn

i almost irished my coffee this morning

came real close

allison had some jameson sitting out and i was like... what if...

andrea: ph MAN

or "oh man"

molly: pppphhhh man is good too

i hear it

andrea: what if...your day was AWESOME

molly: HA

true

Check back every Monday for more! And check out Andrea's blog too! We'll each be posting a different favorite chat, in no particular order. Although there is a chance we may post the same one some week because we have the SAME BRAIN. I actually wanted to call this series SAME BRAIN but Andrea thought that was lame. She's probably right. Although I don't know how hip Widget and Sassoon is either. Whatevs. You'll love it.

Spring cleaning

It's springtime, which means I'm wide awake and deciding that everything needs to be cleaned up and pastel and white-ish.

So... wipe your feet.

I have only worn gym clothes and pajamas all day

I swear Crunch saves all their best videos for Saturdays. This was the actual lineup I saw today while sweating profusely:

Billy Joel - "Tell Her About It"

Talking Heads - "Road To Nowhere"

Violent Femmes - "Blister in the Sun"




Blondie - "The Tide is High"

And - for a big finish - Dexy's Midnight Runners - "Come On Eileen"

Goddamn. That was an amazing time on the elliptical, let me tell you.

Also: I want every outfit that every chick is wearing in these videos. Except maybe Eileen's overalls.

Cat injection!

I've been getting allergy shots for a really long time now. OK, by "really long time" I mean about a year and a half. It just feels like it's been going on forevvvvver. My body is apparently taking a long time to build up a solid defense to the things I'm allergic to, specifically dust mites and cats. It weirds me out a little to get the allergy itself injected into my arm, but I guess that's the only way.

Besides the fun of having an excuse to get out of my office is the fun of chatting with my crazy allergist. I won't give you his full name for fear that you will steal him away from me and learn to do better impressions of him than me, so for now he'll just be Dr. M. Here's a sample conversation that we had today:

Dr. M: "How was your last shot?"

Me: "OK. Well, actually my eyelid swelled up again. [For real - this actually happens pretty frequently] Why is that? Is it because it's near my sinuses?"

Dr. M: "No."

There is a long silence. I can't tell if he's prepping the shot or just pausing for drama. Then he whips around and looks at me all serious:

Dr. M: "Your cells have something called a 'sensory memory.' When your body is under attack, your cells can react in unpredictable ways. I don't like that. I'm lowering your dosage."

Wow, DRAMA.

Me: "Oh... that's uh... interesting."

Dr. M: "No, it's not interesting, it's WEIRD."

You said it, Doc.

He is just full to the brim with dramatic moments. Sometimes he's lecturing me on how to do my taxes and other times he's muttering about these kids today and their iPod phones. He's like that uncle you getting cornered into talking to at family gatherings and suddenly you've been talking about how wind-up watches are better than battery watches for like 25 minutes and all you can think about is how he's blocking your access to the hummus.

I'm afraid I can't do that Dave...

Um... whoa.



Will this just be a fancier version of 2001 or will it actually be awesome? I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a man-vs-computer knife fight.

Housekeepiiiiiiing!

This morning I dropped a mushroom behind the microwave, which sits on a handy rolling cabinet thingy.

When I rolled out the cabinet and poked around with the Swiffer, I found not only the mushroom, but a sponge, a few packets of Splenda, a ladle, and a packet of ramen. I'm not kidding.

Sooooo... might be time to clean the kitchen.

I need to get out more

Warning: I may already be asleep as I'm writing this.

Here's a rough breakdown of my average day lately: roll out of bed at 7:45am wondering why the hell I'm awake, propel myself to work with caffeine, spend 8 to 10 hours smiling and nodding doing shit that no one else wants to do, jet to my evening box office job for 2 more hours of smiling and nodding, propel myself to the gym for as long as I can handle, get home around 11:00pm, eat cucumbers and tortilla chips and drink lots of gin, then finally collapse into bed. And then wake up and do it all over again. I'm starting to forget what day it is.

BUT, hallelujah, there is a moment of zen. OK, two moments if we count gin. Or three if we count sleeping on the subway. OK OK, but the TOP moment of zen is going to the gym. For reals. I know, I know, but I'm one of those weirdos who actually likes the gym, mainly because it gets out a lot of pent up aggression and gives me the illusion that I'm getting svelte. And and AND because... there are endless ridiculous music videos to watch.

That's right. I recently joined Crunch and, while at first I was mad that they don't have endless cable channels like my old YMCA, I have slowly become obsessed with their heavily curated music video channels. The top one by far is the "'80s Pop" channel. I can't tell you how many times "Nasty," "Forever Your Girl," and "The Metro" have powered me through a tough incline run. But then - oh wow - I saw the gem of them all yesterday: Sting's "We'll Be Together".

Oh crap, I don't know how to embed a video, but please please follow that link. It's amazing. Here's a screen capture teaser:

(PS: Kurt Cobain totally stole this look about 4 years later.)

The highlights:
- Sting wears a gigantic sweater with a picture of Olive Oyl on it.
- He plays a charmingly scruffy artist and faces off with a douchier version of himself for the affections of a lady who looks vaguely like Cate Blanchett.
- There are some amazing Paula Abdul-esque dance moves, including drunken-fight dancing. And chair dancing. And push-ups dancing. And chicken dancing. WIN.

WOW I need a social life. But don't you feel like having a dance-off now? I do. But I should probably try out this "sleep" thing instead.

**This just in: the more cultured and observant Andrea noticed that Sting's sweater does not have a picture of Olive Oyl, but TinTin. Either way... wish I had those knitting skills. Or any. I guess Drea wins a sticker or something. (4/2)

Aw shucks

Watch out internets: my friend Andrea has joined the blogosphere.

I'm sure I've mentioned her before - she's also known as Drea Drea, Dreaface, and Fancy Miss Sexypants (um... she doesn't know about that last one). I'm guessing fancymisssexypants.blogspot.com was taken, so you'll have to go to ohlordrun.blogspot.com instead. Go! Do it! I'm even adding her to my sidebar, that's how special she is.

I was going to announce her blog by jealously pointing out how often she writes (sometimes THREE times a DAY, people) and making up excuses for why I don't update often enough (I update Twitter instead! I'm working too much! I'm doing really important stuff!), but then I read this. She totally wrote precious compliments about my anti-social behavior! Awww, it feels so justified now!

Well, in return, Dreaface: I get totally baffled about all the people you know. You always have the perfect companion no matter what you're doing: brunching, biking, shopping, dancing, library-ing, sailing. Yeah, sure, sailing - you could even find an awesome sailor pal.

Yeah, sometimes it's great to do things by myself, but sometimes it's just as great when someone else is there to hang with you. I hestitate to invite people on my escapades because I often feel like my activities are too mundane or dorky. (Does someone want to come see a Czech movie and then go to Bed Bath & Beyond with me tomorrow? No? Really? You sure?)

So in summary: you're MY hero, Drea. Not only because of your vast social circle, but also because you know how to cut my bangs perfectly and you save all my drunken voicemails. If you ever do get a cat though, you better believe I will hide it in a coffee table.

Now: let's blog the shit out of this internet.

Organic cures

This weekend has been a bust. After months of getting a gross cold roughly every three weeks, I got the mother of all of them this past Thursday. Chills, headache, nausea - the whole shebang. It's getting to the point where I think I may be having a relapse of mono, which would suck a lot. If anything, my immune system seems to be pretty destroyed. I have no idea why my body can't just pick itself up and behave.

Of course all of this got dumped on my body the weekend I finally had plans and was going to be a hip, social person. I was supposed to go to an improv show Friday, an improv practice Saturday, a party and a P&N/Thermals show Saturday night, and a Superbowl party today. Instead, I got to stay in bed.

The kicker was when I woke up this morning to find a text saying not only did P&N have an awesome show, but MICHEL GONDRY and PAUL SIMON showed up!! What the HELL? Is every part of the world against me right now?? Yes, my life is turning into garfield minus garfield.

So what does any depressed weirdo like me do? Impulse buy organic groceries. I'm pretty broke, having just wrote the rent check, but I justified it by telling myself I needed to get outside and clearly I need some vitamins in me. I spent far too much money, but it was actually a perfect outing. I came away with soymilk, agave, baked tortilla chips (so healthy, I am), arugula, a perfectly ripe avocado, an onion, raspberry Soy Delicious, strawberry Silk yogurt, a big bunch of bok choy, and oatmeal body lotion... all for roughly $37. Oops. Luckily as I passed all the discount stores on the way home I had melting ice cream with me and couldn't stop for tupperware and Japanese erasers.

So all this is going to cure my immune system, right? I'm hoping so... I'm getting at the end of my rope. I'm starting to forget what it's like to feel rested and healthy. I'm blaming January for now.

The best part of my outing was getting to actually see the sun. By the time I got back to my place it was 51 degrees. Amazing! I actually creaked open my window, cranked the Destroyer, and sat on my fire escape. Um... and maybe I blew some bubbles. Come on, wouldn't you??


I'm thinking February is going to be okay.

Puttin' on my Ebert glasses

Last night was pretty eventful: I drank a great T&T, watched pieces of Blazing Saddles and Starksy & Hutch (cable! I have cable!), and ate rice cakes. Tuesday nights are wild when you're broke. So continuing in the recession fashion, I re-discovered another cost-free pastime: watching movie trailers!! (I'm a dork!!)

After some intense watching and thinking, I can now save you from having to arrive at the cinema on time and offer you my brief summaries of the upcoming film season. Well... the season based on the trailers I felt like watching.

Let Them Chirp Awhile: Hipster New Yorkers write plays and walk dogs and sleep with one another and stop cutting their hair. I predict Of Montreal makes a soundtrack appearance.

Fired Up: OMG! These boys are, like, totally going to cheerleading camp so they can touch lots of girls' butts! They are soooo going to learn a heartwarming lesson about how camp is wicked hard and girls are super smart.

New In Town: Baby Boom minus... babies. Sort of. Also, Frances Conroy, what are you doing?? Step away from Renee Zellweger and get yourself back in a legit dramedy where you belong!

Confessions of a Shopaholic: AKA Legally Redhead (zing!). A Carrie-Bradshaw-wannabe spends tons of money all the time every day but then gets a job and shows people that she can have smart moments and falls in love with... some normal guy... and... shops... less..... zzzzzz.

12: It's 12 Angry Men set in modern Russia! Morality arguments in a freezing cold auditorium!

Let the Right One In: A 12-year-old vampire befriends her neighbor! Bloody murder in the freezing Swedish suburbs!

The Pink Panther 2: "Huuut dahhg. Hoot derg. Herf donng." Okay, I couldn't even bring myself to watch this preview, but you can imagine.

Now aren't you happy to have that extra popcorn-buying time? I thought so.

OMG! I haz a blogger!

Hey, so I had this crazy dream that I had a long-neglected blog and what do you know, it was TRUE! Whoa. Luckily the dream about me having to re-take my PSATs pants-less was not true. Whew.

Sorry friends, I'm in the midst of moving from Brooklyn to Queens (yeah, for reals) and hurriedly constructing holiday presents and it's sucking up all my brain power. I'll be back by January with something wittier than this, I swear. Maybe I'll make some naively optimistic New Year's resolution about it.

In the meantime, dry your tears and look for me here or here. Or maybe here. Hah, just kidding on that last one. We both know I don't own a flatiron.

HAPPY HOLIDAAAZZZZE!

Alive

Two years ago on this day at this time I was lying in a bed surrounded by lots of people and being pumped full of morphine. Not as awesome as it sounds, since I was broken in nine places and burned in others and completely in shock. Actually, around this exact time of night I think I was getting my face stitched up by a hottie plastic surgeon, so things were getting a little better.

It was only TWO years ago that I got smashed up by two large vehicles, and yet it seems soooo far away that sometimes I almost forget it really happened. Seriously. If it weren't for the scar on my leg that looks like a map of Asia and a part-titanium arm that predicts the weather, I would have to pull out my medical records to prove it. Sometimes I'm just so shocked that I'm still standing. And still jumping, running, eating, dancing, laughing, and brushing my teeth. Holy shit.

I'm still a typical girl in that I rarely look in the mirror and love everything I see; I probably criticize myself far too often. But every now and then I think "whoa, I just walked up all those stairs" and "damn, I just put my hair in a ponytail" and remember when those things seemed impossible. And then I think "thank you, knees, for bending properly" and "thank you, arm, for stretching so high." Thank you knees. Thank you arm. Thank you shoulders and teeth and lungs and fingers. Thank you EMTs and nurses and surgeons and physical therapists and person who donated the B positive blood that got transfused into me (weeeeird). Thank you brain for being functional enough to let me write this.

And - at the risk of getting all motivational-speaker and Chicken-Soup-for-the-Soul on you - I think you should do the same thing. Look in the mirror and say "thank you feet and hands and spine and brains and hips and teeth." For just one second, appreciate how insanely awesome it is that your body works because you never know when it might not for awhile. Or forever.

Now go be alive. Do it.

October is also boring

These past five weeks have apparently been so monotone and event-less that I couldn't even update my blog. Or maybe I've just been lazy. That could be it.

*Sigh*, OK, here are some things that happened, in brief:
- Mono went away... mostly
- Went to an awesome picnic with some PPK folks and stuffed myself with veggies and baked goods
- Saw Hair for the second time and Equus for the first time - lots of naked
- Continued the quest for a new apartment... still looking
- Made a sweet Fall music playlist to help me survive the cold (really, I'm excited about it)
- Turned 25 and freaked out a little about the idea that I have reached a quarter century and have no idea what I'm doing with my life
- Hung out with my sibs and sis-in-law in Ithaca where highlights included yelling at the presidential debate, seeing real live nature foliage, and eating the best apple crisp ever

And now: I'm sick with a cold, procrastinating doing real work, and thinking about how cluttered my room is with un-folded laundry and books.

Happy Wednesday!

I promise to have a real post about something interesting... soon. I promise.

Mono is boring

That Citrus Smirnoff in my freezer is getting awfully iced-over and lonely.

(I know... Smirnoff... I'm poor, OK?)

Alright, liver and spleen, listen up: I have spent roughly 17 days sitting in bed being bored (with the occasional outing to the supermarket or the dollar store - yahoo) and I'm ready to move on to more thrilling and grand activities. I would even settle for going to the gym so I could watch cable on the treadmill.

Last night - a lovely, cool, end-of-August Friday - I celebrated by eating ice cream, watching all the rest of the "Upright Citizens Brigade" I had from Netflix, and reading three-quarters of a Calvin & Hobbes compilation. Wild.

And today, instead of going to the beach and a sweet birthday party, I will probably make my bed, re-arrange my iTunes playlists, and watch the last disc of "Six Feet Under" - Season 4. Maybe also make a bunch of cupcakes and eat them all while pouting at the wall.

Get it liver & spleen? Calm down, stop threatening to explode, and let me return back to society in the very near future. OK? OK??

At least I can finally stomach coffee again.

Shameless self and not-self promotion

Someone call Elite. I'm starting my look book:

I'm on an album cover! Looking really excited! Because I am!

If you have not yet experienced the joy that is Pretty & Nice, drop everything you are doing and listen to their tunes. Right NOW. Their new album, Get Young, comes out this fall and it's going to rock your face off with it's falsetto-singing, drum-banging, guitar-wailing power.

Yeah, I kind of suck at reviewing albums and music and such. I am much better at describing music by describing the activity I would most like to do while listening to it. For example, Belle & Sebastian = making breakfast; Queen = putting on makeup and drinking gin; Joy Division = crying. See what I mean? So in that vein, Pretty & Nice =
- pretending to do gymnastics
- running and then sliding down the length of a polished wood floor
- eating frosting out of the can while bopping my head
- dancing around throwing paint on things a la jazzy Jackson Pollock
- jumping around barefoot (as you can see)

These all involve motion because you cannot stand still when you listen to Pretty & Nice. Or at least I can't. But they can, for some reason:

They are so oblivious. Even when I multiply myself. Hmm.

The boys are on tour through the beginning of September so check out the dates here and then go to a show and dance around. You won't be sorry. And if you go to a NYC show, you will likely see me looking much like these photos. Minus the romper and hat. Maybe.

(PS: the awesome album artwork is by Andrea Morales and Kelly Assaf and the press photos are by Brian Tamborello. Check them out too!)

Another $20 and 6 days later...

I knew this "virus" was more exciting than it appeared to be... I have MONONUCLEOSIS! Also known by it's hip street name, "mono," - or, if you're thirteen, "the kissing disease" - it's characterized by an intense need for sleep and... more sleep. And then some sleeping.

While maybe perhaps I have been partaking in some spit-swapping, I think my body is actually paying me back for packing my schedule full of every possible event and then marinating it in vodka. And trying to do it all on five or six hours of sleep per night. But my liver says NO.

Yes, my liver is Russian and looks like that guy. I'm not eating those crazy mushrooms, though... sorry liver.

I'm a little bit lucky because I haven't been experiencing the extreme, swollen sore throat that seems to be common with the virus, but it still sucks. These are the last sweet, beautiful days of summer! I should be running around in the parks eating Mr. Softees and drinking mimosas! I suppose that's kind of what got me here though. Instead, I am lying in bed reading cheesy magazines and watching old "Jim Henson Hour" clips on YouTube because going to the grocery store down the street is the biggest excursion I can handle.

Happy early vacation to me! Yay.

Good things about being really sick

According to my doctors I have a "really bad virus," although I'm not convinced it's that simple. When I shell out a $20 co-pay, I want to be told that my headache/fever/vomiting/frighteningly large glands are the result of something with a much better name than "really bad virus." And require better meds than Tylenol.

Alas. It looks like even after a week of fighting, my body is being left to fend for itself. While the battle of the insides rages on, I figured it couldn't hurt to think positively. Here's what I've been enjoying for the past few days:

- Getting to sleep with multiple blankets - even in the middle of August!
- Eating like a picky four-year-old. The staples of my diet are primarily saltines, popsicles, white rice, applesauce, and animal crackers. Actually, I was also able to stomach some carrots, green beans, and avocado today. Gold star!
- The realization that nausea might finally help me drop those last 5 pounds!
- Floating through work and having no idea how I finished those projects or where the time went (so... kind of like every day).
- The best dreams EVER. Including (1) the one where I am in the middle of tech for some show and I'm all pissed off because Miley Cyrus stole my sequined gown for the saloon scene and I realize it's because her dad is the director, even though everyone calls him Paul and he looks suspiciously like Adam McKay AND (2) the one where I "wake up" in a small room within an Australian airport to discover that some guy has taken my blood samples and possibly some of my organs to sell and that's why I'm so sick. YEAH. (That second one was so great and dramatic because I kept yelling "Look how sick I am! What have you done??" and the guy was crouched on the floor crying and yelling "I cahn't tell yuuuu" in an Aussie accent.)

So yeah, fun times all around. I guess while my face keeps sweating profusely and my glands continue to freak me out I can at least hope for some more awesome dreams. And since I probably can't truly blame some Aussie organ harvester, I'll go the usual route and blame the cats:


Damn you, flu cat! I said GET OUT!

Don't worry, no one else wants it

Sometimes, when I am feeling extra bratty, I don't like to eat really good candy in front of other people because then I will have to share. It's inevitable that in the rare moments I unveil a gleaming bag of Jelly Bellys or M&Ms at my desk, my co-workers will have smelled it from their desk in the next room and will magically appear over my shoulder with puppy-dog eyes. But I think I've found the solution: ugly candy. Specifically, this candy:

That's right, the humble Chick-O-Stick, which I re-discovered during a recent morning excursion to Economy Candy.

Yeah, bad news: I learned that Economy Candy is just a quick stop off the F train, meaning I can stop there on my way to work and only add about 15 minutes of commute time. The good news: I can stop there on my way to work and only add about 15 minutes of commute time!!

But really, look at that thing. It looks like an old carrot chewed on by a rabid dog and left under a haystack. And even if someone was brave and asked for a piece anyway, all attempts to break off "just a small bite" leave a pile a crumbs. But luckily no one asked me for one. In reality, this stick of ugly is the best thing ever. It's like the inside of a Butterfinger compressed into stick form and spiked with coconut. I don't even like coconut that much and I think it's genius. And - for those who care - it's even vegan. Here's what Wikipedia has to say:

The Chick-O-Stick is the Atkinson Candy Co.'s most well-known candy, having been manufactured since the Great Depression. It is made primarily from peanut butter, granulated sugar, corn syrup, and toasted coconut, with colorings and preservatives added, and contains no trans fats.

Do you hear that? No trans fats! It's practically organic!! Um... minus the "colorings and preservatives." *Sigh,* I'm in love. But, damn it, just when I was starting to eat healthily again, the Atkinsons drop in to guarantee a future wardrobe of elastic waistbands.

24/7/365

Oh my god, you guys, take a look to the left. Yep, right there. Yep, I added Twitter. Since I can't seem to get my ass in gear often enough to post something longer than a paragraph, why not just limit myself to 140 characters? Plus, now I have a whole new way to obsess about myself and then share it with the world.

You can continue to check it out here on my sidebar or you can also get the action straight from my spanking new Twitter site. I spent all day working on it. *Ahemaherrm*, I mean, in between taking very important phone calls and filing very important papers. Let me tell you, it is SO hard to find that perfect shade of yellow for your sidebar when people are talking to you about, like, money and stuff. Gahhhhd.

Enjoy! (Oooh, and subscribe!)

Recipe for an illusion of total health

I have discovered the key to reviving myself on a Monday morning when I'm cranky and fighting the end of a bad cold:

1 part soy cappuccino (home brewed, extra strong)
1 part generic brand Dayquil
1 part Emergen-C packet

Blend well with stomach acids. Try really hard to not to jump up and down and sing showtunes for the next 5 hours.

Bonus points: add a "fun size" packet of Sweet Tarts that you totally forgot you had in your bag.

Note: it's probably best to not ingest all of this at once. I had all of that over a period of roughly 3 hours and I'm still bouncing off the walls. Which means that I will either crash and burn in another couple hours or you'll be getting another post from me at 2am when I'm wide awake and cursing my methods.

Musics!

I totally cleaned up at this amazing music sale today. If you are reading this post right as I am posting it (um... why?) then you have roughly 17 hours to get yourself down to the ARChive of Contemporary Music and go crazy. It will blow your mind. Seriously, I spent $23 in roughly 20 minutes and had to pull myself out of there before I convinced myself that rent money was expendable. The spoils:

Vinyl:
- A compilation called The British Invasion: History of British Rock, Vol. 2 (highlights include Donovan and The Zombies *that link is to the CD version, which has more than what's on the vinyl, poo)
- The Who - Live at Leeds (yesssss)
- The original soundtrack to an amazing-looking movie featuring Danny Kaye and Louis Armstrong (I am surrendering this to my dad for Father's Day)

Sadly, I can't listen to any of this for awhile because I don't actually own a turntable, yet I keep compulsively buying vinyl for that magic day when I finally buy myself a sweet stereo setup. Donations accepted!

CDs:
- Lady Sovereign - Public Warning (you know it)
- Junior Senior - D-D-Don't Stop the Beat (WHAT)

OK, if Junior Senior hadn't been $3 I probably would have passed over it, but it's way more exciting than I thought it was going to be. If you have no recollection of Junior Senior, perhaps this little ditty will jog your mind back to 2003. WOW, right? Insane flashbacks abound.

But for serious, the rest of the album is a complete crazy-pants dance party. It's like Nosebleed Island meets Calvin Harris meets a glitter-filled pinata. It's totally going to be one of those albums that I turn on at 9am on a Tuesday morning to get me motivated enough to get on the subway. Where I will then lead everyone in a giant conga line and I'll be wearing gold hot pants and Skittles will burst out of the clouds. YEAH!

Ahh, social networking

So The Boss is my newest Facebook friend (no, not Bruce Springsteen, the other The Boss). Along with his boss, also known as The Big Boss. Which means they are now each one degree away from this blog.

Uh... hi bosses! Don't read the archives!

Just kidding!

Maybe!

Just to warn you...

I stink.

Not in a gross-body-odor kind of way, but in an oh-shit-I-spilled-perfume-on-myself kind of way. Because that's exactly what it is.

I have this perfume I got in Florida, which is supposed to smell like the orange fields. It's a little bit tacky and, while it does smell a lot like oranges, it also has a subtle scent of old lady soap. BUT it came in a bottle shaped like an orange! AND it makes me think of my elderly aunt in Florida! AND AND I already dress like I'm guest-starring on the Golden Girls, so why not go all the way and smell like it too!?! Sure.

But that's a problem when I'm tired and hungover and spill it all over myself. Because now instead of oranges and floral soap I smell like ORANGE PEELS AND OLD LADIES ALL UP IN YOUR FACE. Well, all up in my face, really. And it's definitely not helping the hangover headache.

Bottom line: if you're going to be hanging out with me within the next 24 hours, you may want to keep a safe distance. Unless you have a Bea Arthur obsession or something. In which case, stay away from my plastic beads and slip-on shoes too.

Must. Not. Roll. Eyes.

I was in Starbucks yesterday, in line for a FREE coffee when I was unexpectedly shocked out of my morning stupor.

(Sidetrack: I got a card from The Boss - that I think actually came from the NY Times but he tried to pass off as a thoughtful gift - for a FREE coffee on Wednesdays at Starbucks AND it's REUSABLE every Wednesday through May!! I LOVE FREE. AND CAPS LOCK.)

If you haven't been to a Starbucks in awhile (look at you, pretentious-non-consumer-face), you've been missing out on their crazily expanding music business. Not only do they play hit tunes in their cafes, but the name and album is displayed on a hot flat screen TV. AND if you have an iPhone or some such nonsense, you can download the song right there. And, oh my god, there is this thing called "e-mail" where you can send people letters without paper.

ANYWAY: my line-waiting-mood was lifted as the magic screen was playing "Que Onda Guero" by Beck - great morning song, in my opinion. The girl in line behind me asked what was playing, but the barista didn't know and the screen was blocked so I said "it's Beck, 'Que Onda Guero,' from Guero."

And she responded with a blank stare "Um... Beck? Is he, like, from the U.K. or something?"

I am sure my nostrils flared about six inches and steam came out of my ears, but I took a deep breath and said "Uh, no, he's very much American." There were so many other snarky words trying to get out, but I was very lady-like in containing them. This girl was my age; not 15, not 85, but clearly living in a cave of bad musical influences.

We re-convened by the milk and sugar station and she said, "Wow, thanks, I'm going to have to look for this guy!"

I said "Yeah, you should really go get every single album he's made." Although I should have said "YOU'RE WELCOME for saving you from the cave of bad music and years of awkward silences at hipster parties!"

Another day saved by Molly, musically opinionated sassbasket.

PS: doesn't Beck have the creepiest website ever? Damn.

The post where I get all girly

I'm pretty sure that it's a bad idea to "accidentally" wander into the clearance area of DSW...



... but I'm also pretty sure that if these shoes could play music, they would play the entire Summer of Sam soundtrack.

Thanks, IRS!

I just got my tax refund yesterday and already I have spent nearly half on the following:

- Fancy mascara and lipgloss
- Improv classes
- A bottle of Tanqueray, some tonic, some limes
AND
- A bunch of groceries at Whole Foods

In other words, I bought me:

- Some pretty
- Some funny
- Some liver damage
AND
- Hopefully a small percentage of healthiness

I also intend to buy some new running shoes to redeem the rest of my soul.

THANKS AMERICA!

Finally catching up with the club kids

OK, I know I'm way late in jumping on the Kala train, but I just noticed that M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" completely rips the main riff from The Clash's "Straight to Hell." You're probably all yelling "DUH" at your computer screens right now (all three of you), but you would think I'd just discovered that eggs come from chickens, given my amazement.

I still give props to M.I.A. for turning it into a hypnotizing song with a gunshot chorus - and if you're going to sample, you might as well do it from a worthy band - but The Clash wins points for that one super-serious bass note, "It ain't Coca-Cola - it's rice." It makes me giggle (sorry Joe and Mick, probably not what you intended).


I'm going to have to keep playing the first 20 seconds of each song over and over until the novelty wears off.

Easter candy ingested thus far:

Malted milk Robin's Eggs: 8
Marshmallow peeps: 6
Lemon cookies: 2
Giant chocolate-covered s'mores thing from Economy Candy: 1

Prognosis: Diabetes

They're the people that you meet/When you're walking down the street...

In one of those rare but beautiful moments that makes me feel like all of New York City is my own tiny neighborhood, I saw the same pair of people twice on the train today. It was a young-ish mother and her young son, who was probably about 5, and this woman blew my mind a little. Apart from the fact that she had some amazingly huge false eyelashes, she also made child-rearing look as simple as making pancakes.

When I saw them this morning, they sat across from me and I got sucked into watching the mom trying to get her son to eat a banana. She peeled it for him - even carefully peeling off the icky strands of quasi-peel - and broke it into manageable pieces. Which her son promptly dropped onto the floor. Well, all but one piece that his mom rescued while he looked hopelessly at her. She just sighed and picked up the pieces and held on to them. She didn't even shoot him a dirty look.

And THEN, when I got on the train tonight (after the gym, which included 30 minutes of the let's-kill-your-abs class, thank you very much) I saw them AGAIN. Crazy. They got on right after me and the moment they entered the little boy started crying about something. When his mom asked him what was wrong, he of course just kept bawling for no reason. She just sighed again and let him cry against her coat. Wow.

I am still in awe of this woman's patience. Usually when I hear screaming children on the subway, I fantasize about them disappearing to somewhere really cold, but this woman just took it all in. Which is why I've practically got the boarding pass for the train to Hell and this woman will get a walk-in closet in her Heaven suite. Seriously though, it was a magically sappy moment.

In other news: I can't guarantee more sappiness, but I'm guaranteeing more posting. Because I suck at it lately. Did you hear the one about the doll people and the alligator? No? Good, because I'm going to tell you. As soon as I do my taxes...

More lessons

Last night I learned that if I eat turmeric, the almost-oh-so-subtle clear elastics on my braces will be permanently dyed a lovely shade of electric piss. That's the price I pay for obeying my compulsive need to make authentic curry vegetables at roughly 10:00 at night. This is how interesting my life has become.

I don't think anyone really stares that closely at my teeth anyway, but if they do I'll just tell them that I glow in the dark.

And in lesson part 1.5, completely unrelated, I learned today that I should not have waited so f-ing long to buy M.I.A's Kala. Of course, it helps that I got it for only $10 today at a Virgin sale, but DAMN, I am roughly 9 months behind the rest of the world. I had heard the major singles, but who knew there was a mashed up cover of the Pixies in there?? DAMN again.

M.I.A. just may help me pick up the mess that was January and give a glimmer of hope for February.

January = doom

I was going to write a cute, snappy intro to take the load off this entry, but screw it. It's late and I'm a bit of a wreck so I'm getting right to the point: first Brad Renfro and now Heath Ledger?? What the hell is going on?? I can't say I was ever completely infatuated with either of them; I never had lip-gloss-kiss-covered posters of them or anything, but... damn. I suddenly feel like pieces of my youth are being torn away. And I was just starting to gain some respect for Heath Ledger. Maybe this just hits me so hard because I worked another shitty, 10+ hour day and didn't sleep well again. But... still.

The Boss threw out the foreboding warning that these things happen in threes and someone was bound to be next. And then I got home and found out Bill, my old Lighting professor from college, died last night. He had cancer and we all saw it coming, but that doesn't make it any better. Maybe he doesn't complete the celebrity triumvirate The Boss was darkly predicting, but he's a celebrity to anyone who went through his fundies class at UVM. He scared the crap out of you on the first day, but by the end of the semester you were asking him to please please let you hang from the ceiling to focus that Leko.

OK, I'm going to attempt to rescue this post from the pit of depression it's sliding into. Let's remember the people who are still living and still get along and love spending time with one another:


Wait... what? I think this was taken in a parallel universe where January = happy happy fun time. (Thanks, NY Times. Look at me, crediting your image)

Here's hoping that tomorrow brings happier news...

At least I'm not punching someone's teeth out...

When I have one of those shitty, 10-hour, nonstop days, sometime I think about that group therapy scene in Fight Club. You know, the one where Ed Norton is at one of those sad groups where people are dying and they're all doing guided meditation and that lady is telling everyone to "go to your caaaaavvvvve." And then Ed disappears into a silent icy world with a giggling penguin as his "power animal." Awww. So I that's exactly what I did after my shitty day today.

That is, if by "going to my cave" we mean cooking a massive batch of blondies AND ginger cookies, drinking gin and orange juice (with my mind on my money and my money on my mind), and catching up on old podcasts of All Songs Considered. Yeeeeeah.

So... maybe not a cave at all, but I'm still holding out for Helena Bonham Carter to show up.

"Le vrai Moleskine n'est plus"

I finally, finally got my 2008 Moleskine last Friday and I swear I am a much better person now. My heart rate has slowed, my cholesterol is lower, and I can speak Czech again. It's amazing.

I've learned my lesson for sure, though, that I cannot wait until after the start of the new year to buy one next time. Being the cheapskate I am, I thought that this would ensure me scoring one at half price, especially with the abundance of them in a large city like New York. Riiiight? Nope. Instead it ensured a NEAR EXTINCTION of them which led to ensuing panic that I would not be able to organize my life on one full page per day for all of 2008. OK, by "NEAR EXTINCTION" I mean impossible to find at major bookstores and many art stores between Houston and 70th St of Manhattan. It doesn't take much to make me panic.

ANYWAY. After calls to multiple Barnes & Nobles and a wild goose chase on foot to multiple locations, I finally found it at Lee's Art Shop on 57th after some divine intervention from a woman at Borders who directed me there. I snatched it up with a gasp as soon as I saw it, afraid that someone else might take it first. Although there were about 10 others on display. And clearly no one cared about them but me.

And so, Lee's Art Shop, thank you for selling Moleskine planners, thank you for putting up with my exhausted ramblings of joy, and thank you for being YOU. Everyone: go shop there.

Shall I continue my ramblings? Sure. In going through the process of transferring the many important dates from the old planner to the new, I came across some words I scrawled across the page of Sunday, May 27 . I often use the Moleskine as a journal/diary/whatever when I really need to get something out of my brain and onto paper. I have no idea what the circumstances were here, probably 365-related, but I appreciate them in retrospect:

Why do I have this sudden rush of cocky euphoria? A confidence to do everything and be awesome and say fuck you to everyone in my way? But I'm happy about it too, whatever "it" is. Even though half my electricity's out and I just ate about 18 cookies and 3 glasses of wine and I've spent half the day on the subway, I still feel generally euphoric. It's like, I'm going to be amazing at life. HA.

I don't know if the "HA" is meant to be self-doubting or an "in-your-FACE" kind of thing, but I wish I felt generally euphoric like this more often. And had cookies and wine so close at hand. Good thing I got a larger-sized Moleskine this year - more room for random scrawlings. Get ready.

Happy 2008 (minus a few days).

The best part of Christmas

I'm actually a sucker for Christmas spirit. I like pulling out the Perry Como album, the ornaments I made in preschool, and - of course - eating the frosting off of all the gingerbread men. But there is also the best Christmas movie ever:

I took a shower washing every body part with actual soap; including all my major crevices; including in between my toes and in my belly button which I never did before but sort of enjoyed. I washed my hair with adult formula shampoo and used cream rinse for that just-washed shine. I can't seem to find my toothbrush, so I'll pick one up when I go out today. Other than that, I'm in good shape.

Someday I'm going to use that as my "contemporary" monologue at an audition and blow everyone away. If you don't know what movie that's from, I'm a little bit concerned for you and maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore. But Happy Holidays anyway.

Lessons

I learned an important lesson about myself last night: if you give me a juice-glass sized cup of wine, I will chug that shit like it's Minute Maid.

Do that three times and it is not improbable to find myself at a random rich person's 40th birthday party with a Stella and a Heineken in my bag, dancing with a 10-year-old in front of a video screen.

I need to stop being a lush. Or maybe I need to start crashing more open bar parties. I haven't decided yet.

what now?

I know it's sickeningly cliche, but I'm having that quarter-life crisis (assuming my life span will be 96 - and yes, I just had to use a calculator to figure that out). Sure, I like theatre and film and all that stuff I got an actual degree in, but that was back when I lived in the pretentious bubble of college life. Two and half years later those career titles that were so easily blurted out are sounding less tangible and interesting.

What about the other skills and/or interests I have that don't really fit on a resume? For example:
- I love magazines, all kinds and everything about them. I like the pictures, the fonts, the glossy pages, and usually the actual articles too.
- I often have an anal-retentive urge to organize things by size.
- I can make pretty kickass playlists and I tend to hijack the music at parties.
- I eat way to much sugar and would live off of cupcakes and ice cream if they magically didn't make me fat.
- I am a wanderer, both in the sense that I like to take ridiculously long walks and that I'm never going to be done traveling around the world.

So where does all that get me? A gig as a DJ at a well-organized bakery on an airplane with built-in newsstands? With some acting/directing/filmmaking/writing thrown in there somewhere? As awesome as that sounds, I doubt I'll find it on Craigslist, or on any kind of classifieds page. How do I turn this mish-mash of stuff in my head (yes, mish-mash) into something I want to do every day?

And this, my friends, is what I think about at 1:30 on a Friday night/Saturday morning. Maybe I should concentrate on getting a social life first. Or at least some sleep.

Wow, this post got all serious and boring. I'll leave you with a picture:

See? Even at graduation I knew this whole "real life" thing was not going to be as cool as everyone made it sound.

Now you see me, now... I'm coffee in a can!

Here it is folks, the moment you've been waiting for!

From the land that brought you human Tetris, bad English, and, yes, canned coffee... IT'S A VENDING MACHINE DRESS!


It's meant to be a defense against getting mugged on the streets, a quick hiding place of sorts, but really I think it's just another genius move in the Japanese world of fashion. People will totally be wearing these at every junior high in Tokyo! You just wait.

Read the original article here and watch the accompanying slide show; it's amazing.

Now I want some canned coffee. But the real kind, not the fabric kind.

"You want Cream Wheat or Rice Creepy?"

When I was in the hospital last year one of the food service people actually said this to me. She was completely serious, she just had a heavy accent and had no idea what she was saying. It was one of the few times I was able to have a good laugh in the midst of my pain-and-morphine-induced dreamworld.

And now... someone has made it reality! Well, a drawing anyway:


Mmmmm, toasted lice. Here's a link to the whole site of "terrorfying" breakfast cereals (thanks to Pete).

You know you're poor when...

...you get excited about people giving away hair products on Craigslist

"Shampure" is unopened. I used the conditioner once. I use other stuff now but hate to throw this out. Want someone to take it.

You also know it's time to go to bed when you seriously consider emailing them.

hide your bling

I'm starting to worry about myself. I'm becoming a kleptomaniac.

Although, to be fair, it's not so much maniacal obsession that's driving me as it is poverty. I just bought this shiny new MacBook, so it's kind of my own fault, but still... I'm going to have my pity party and sulk about it.

It started with the hospital gown this morning. I had my (hopefully) last arm x-ray and had to wear this wrap-style gown and I thought "hmmm, this is pretty trendy for the radiologist's... maybe I could make something cooler out of it." And into my bag it went.

And then I started thinking about all the other things I've kind of stolen lately too: two pairs of pants from the lost and found at work, various magazines, cereal and jam from that cabin place in Vermont, and even some quarters from the change jar at work to finance the coffee addiction.

Yep. I'm in so much trouble. OK, work people, if you read this, I will totally pay you back someday when I'm a rich and famous writer/actor/director/collage maker/ice cream flavor creator (<-- how fucking cool would that be??). I will.

And now I want ice cream.

Because I'm paid by the hour

I have been at work since 10am, it is now nearly 5pm, and I have probably done at most 1 hour of real, actual work.

These are the work-related things I did:
-Typed up staff meeting minutes.
-Called some guy about some paycheck problem.
-Shredded a bunch of papers.
-Deposited 3 checks at the bank.
-Opened the mail, then sorted all the mail piles into neat stacks according to size.

These are the non-work-related things I did (notice how nearly all of them are on the internet):
-Dreamed about pizza with roboppy.
-Laughed at bad celebrity fashion.
-Found my new dream friends/social activity.
-Read the latest culture news from the NY Times (but didn't read the real news).
-Browsed Craiglist for free/cheap furniture, cheap bikes, writing opportunities, pictures of apartments I wish I could afford, and "Missed Connections" headlines to laugh at.
-Bought two wee heads of garlic and a vegan cinnamon roll from the Union Square markets.
-Further considered the merits of veganism, or at least considered some vegan cooking.
-Peed FIVE times (I guess I drink a lot... or have a bladder the size of a golf ball)
-Evaluated my checking account and current expenditures and questioned if I can afford to run back to Europe. I can't.
-Chewed THREE pieces of gum... gonna get TMJ.

This is what happens when The Boss is gone for two weeks and I run out of Things to Do on my "Things to Do" list. At least right now when people walk by the office they hear the pitter-patter of typing and think I'm being productive. Hopefully The Boss won't read this. If he someday is... well... Boss, you were in BRAZIL. No pity.

*Sigh*, 46 minutes to go until I can consider jetting out of here. Unless I try to "work" some overtime. That might be pushing it.

"East Village, Circa Midnight" (a true story adapted for the stage)

SETTING: A sidewalk, some scaffolding

AT RISE: A dirty-looking, drunken GUY is standing by the scaffolding. MOLLY enters, carrying two large bags and a large posterboard.


GUY: Spare a penny for the Church of Malt Liquor?

(MOLLY smirks, but continues to walk past him.)

GUY: What does your sign say?

(MOLLY stops and turns the sign around to face him.)

GUY (reading): "The sound of wind or whales." I don't get it.

MOLLY: Neither do I.

GUY: Did you find it?

MOLLY: No, I made it.

GUY (smiling): Even better.

(MOLLY gives him a thumbs up and exits.)


BLACKOUT

Nutrition for the SOUL

When I got up today, I told myself I could NOT spend ANY money, because I am POOR. That's right, POOR WITH THE CAPS LOCK. I have been rationing myself a set amount of spending money every week and it usually works out fine, but due to a lot of mindless spending and a lot of wine when my friend was visiting last weekend, I am in debt to myself. Meaning the current rationed amount is in the negative numbers.

So I went into work to pick up the new Harry Potter, because I had Amazon deliver it there, thinking that would satiate me for the day. But no. The resulting glee of having that giant book in my hot little hands made me buy a skirt with pockets from American Apparel (pockets!!), a couple of butterfly cookies from the amazingly cheap Bangladeshi bakery (is it Bangladeshi? god, I'm ignorant), and a six pack of Long Trail Blackbeary Wheat. That's right, I found BLACKBEARY WHEAT at the Foodtown. Fucking. Amazing.

And then I scrounged up the $1.62 to buy three tomatoes and an apple. Hmm, where are my priorities? With premium beer and the Weasleys, my friend.

Because I'm mean

Yesterday morning was an unusually packed one on the Manhattan-bound F train. I can almost always get a seat right when I get on, but this time I had to stand. I was not happy. So when a bunch of people got off at Jay St, I instantly grabbed the closest seat.

Then I noticed a woman standing right in front of me with a little boy in a stroller. I thought, "Oh crap, I should really give her my seat. That would be the polite thing to do." So I sipped my coffee and thought about whether or not I felt like being polite.

And while I sipped my coffee, the little boy kicked all the legs around him with his mini-Croc-covered feet, made a variety of loud beeping noises, kicked the Crocs off, and stuck his bare big toe up his nose.

And I thought, "Yeah... my feet hurt anyway." So I put on my sunglasses, closed my eyes, and turned up my iPod.

I CANT HELP THE MOOD IM IN, BUT RIGHT NOW IM THINKING THAT THE NARCISSISM OF THEATRE PISSES ME OFF

I just ate eleven mini donuts from the amazing Japanese store. They were fatty and sugary and wonderful.
Fatty fat fat.
Sugar.
Eleven.
ELEVEN.
Mmmmhmmm.

(Now I'm going to wander to a nondescript location where I'll do nondescript things like brush my teeth, twirl in circles, ride the bus, watch the news, protest the oppression of women, etc, etc, on and on whatever who cares.)

(No, I'm not drunk.)

I was all sunshine and giggles until...

I was so happy to finally be home at a reasonable hour tonight because I could finally DO THE LAUNDRY! YAAAAY! It's cooler than a roller coaster! OK, maybe not, but I was excited to wash things because this means I don't have to keep wearing the same pants over and over.

I decided to use the machines in the basement of my building, which I don't often do because there are no change machines and there's no where to sit and hang out, meaning I have to walk the four flights of stairs multiple times. I suppose I could hang out, but it's a little scary down there and I'm always afraid that the cat-sized rat and the Blair Witch are hanging out the dank corners. BUT I did the laundry there anyway because I had the exact amount of needed quarters and the laundromat was closed anyway. Little did I know everything was going to suck.

I washed a giant load (only $1.50!), transferred it to the dryer, started that up (only $1.00!!), and went on my merry way back to my apartment to wait it out. But, oh man, when I returned to fetch my fresh and warm clothes, they were STILL WET. What the crap?? I know it definitely started because I put the money in and watched it go. And it said the cycle was finished so it must have run the full time... right?? I had no choice but to take them out because I had no more quarters.

My only conclusion is that the rat or the witch decided to be extra sinister and opened the dryer door and closed it again just to mess everything up. And then they watched in their respective corners and laughed their extra sinister laughs when I came to get my stuff and yelled in shock and anger. So now my apartment is draped (rather creatively, I might add) with wet articles of clothing. Good thing I currently live alone because there is underwear on every doorknob.

So my moral is: don't do laundry in the basement. I should know by now that the laundromat is far cooler anyway because they play Spanish soap operas on the telly and have a cushy couch for waiting for dry clothes in comfort.

Fuck you, laundry basement monsters.

Just like this - only bigger and better!

Yesterday I was going to start a week-long series called "Crazies on the Subway" featuring the craziest people I see on the subway each day. But both yesterday AND today there were no crazies. Yep, you read that right: no crazies. I must have been asleep.

So I'm going to instead take this opportunity to express my love for the mini chocolate meringues from Trader Joe's. They are the best bite-size pieces of amazing-ness and I don't care that my party guests thought they tasted like cocoa cardboard because now I get to eat the WHOLE TUB. It helps that they are pretty much made of pure sugar. And heaven. *Sigh*. Farewell Nutella; enter meringues.

Um... so... coming soon, "Crazies on the Subway."

asscat

Dear Cat,

We seem to be having some communication problems. This is going to be harsh, but I'm going to be completely honest. I think I would like you more if:
-you didn't chew on every plastic bag that catches your eye and make me think you're going to die from choking.
-your hair wasn't on every piece of clothing I own.
-you didn't push your head into my face like you think you're all cute or something.
-you didn't poop, ever.
-you didn't bite my socks or scratch my yoga mat.

I especially would like it if when - in a moment of brief and naive happiness - I decided to cuddle with you on my lap, you didn't decide it would be awesome to climb on my shoulder and claw holes in my really cool t-shirt.

I think I would like it best if you were a goldfish.

Maybe we should just be friends... or better yet, distant acquaintances. Meaning you get to live in the coffee table with the doors on it while I live everywhere else. OK?

Kisses,
MOLLY

Nutella is the new pink frosting

Kids: crack is whack (you were right Whitney). But you know what's whacker?? NUTELLA.

Nutella has suddenly replaced the pink frosting as the every-hour-of-day craving, the item that is ending up on everything: graham crackers, rice cakes, tortillas, sweatshirts. Notice how all of these items are relatively healthy until spread a thick layer of hazelnut/chocolate love on them? Well, except sweatshirts, but those are healthy for cold arms. And cold souls. The point is that Nutella so fabulously transforms an everyday snack into something CHOCOLATE and FATTENING.

So if you're looking to get fat the chocolate way, kids, Nutella is the way to go. If you're looking for hard drugs, I have nothing to say. Except this:


It's not even worth a crazy reality show with your husband, OK?

There goes the neighborhood

Hey kids! I'm back in NYC! So those damn rogue vehicles better look out. I'm TITANIUM, bitches. And now that I'm back, I'm of course spending way to much time wandering around stores and looking at stuff that I should not be buying.

Which brings me to the subject of H&M. Usually, I love H&M. Everything is pretty cheap and they currently have a poofy purple skirt that I'm obsessed with. But sometimes I just feel too old for it, as if I've stepped into a giant junior high girls locker room. No, H&M people, I actually don't want want to listen to Panic Unecessary Exclamation Point At The Disco while I step over piles of leggings that have been dropped everywhere. I feel like I'm 45 already and telling people that in my day music had words and not just eyeliner and we respected our accessories. REALLY, H&M, let's establish special shopping hours for those under 17 or something. And don't let Madonna design "fashion" ever again.

On a completely separate side note, my best housewarming gift so far? A big container of neon pink frosting. Hell. Yes. Totally not helping my back fat problem.

With a Z

Holy crap, it's Liza Minelli's birthday! And I didn't know until THIS MOMENT. I totally would have had a Liza Minelli party! With lots of sequins and fake eyelashes and vodka! Um, if I didn't live with my parents right now. Wow, I can't believe she's 61. Well, actually I kinda can ... I thought she'd be, like, 73 by now.

And in other news, I am a middle-aged gay man trapped in a young woman's body.

exclamation point

I hate how the moment I follow a link to Myspace from my email, their page greets me with "You have to be logged in to do that!" - complete with the explanation point. Why so hostile, Myspace? I just got to your page, I wasn't trying anything illegal, I wasn't looking for child pornography or heroin dealers, so calm down.

On a completely separate note, I learned from my weekly Topshop email that they now make harem pants. Or, ahem, a harem pant, so as not to be confused with pants, which is what the crazy Brits call their skivvies. Anyway, it looks to me like someone in Shaghai got confused with Hammer pants. Or maybe these are for overgrown toddlers. Either way, I don't understand. Topshop is amazing 95% of the time, but this is obviously from that 5% that makes you go "Wait. What?"

You have to be a crazy Brit to wear the harem pant!

I'm so full...

...of cheese.

It's true.

Ugh.

truffle shuffle

I am turning into a big blob. Today I told myself:
"I will eat healthy food"
"I will eat three healthy meals composed of real things, not just baked goods and breakfast cereal"
"I will not stand idly in the kitchen opening all the cabinets and wondering how I got Hershey's syrup all over the place"

Well. Some of this came true. I did eat two healthy-like meals so far (because, for some reason, I naturally got up at 7:40am and decided to stay up). But in between my healthy-like meals, almost unconciously, I ate:
-Two handfuls of imitation Honey Bunches of Oats
-Four tea biscuit things
-A Japanese lollipop
-A chocolate pizelle cookie
-A handful of Trader Joe's trail mix
This is all completely compulsive; I don't even realize it until the crumbs are all over me. It's like those people who claimed they gained weight from taking Ambien because they would wake up and eat in their sleep. Except I'm not taking Ambien. And it's daytime.

I suppose I should just enjoy my fatness now that I have this "vacation" from the outside world for a while. The only person that has to see me in a bathing suit anyway is my physical therapist.

*sigh*

Please pass the Hershey's syrup.

HAIR

I got a haircut last weekend and, as I was feeling dangerous, gave in to the suggestion that my mom pick out the style. Plus, she paid for it so I figured it was fair.

I've decided that I either look like Karen O:

Or Fabienne in Pulp Fiction:


Or maybe just a mid-18th-century boy who wears britches (no picture for that ... you can imagine it).

Hair is such a difficult thing. Especially now that I have allllll this time to obsess about it.

Come on down!!!

Now that I am stuck home whilst waiting for my bones to heal, I'm back to watching bad daytime TV. My parents only get seven channels, so there aren't even that many channel surfing options. My two hours of late-morning physical therapy exercises are now accompanied by me flipping between Rachael Ray (the talk show, not the food show... although I guess there is food still involved) and Martha Stewart, then The View and The Price Is Right.

Which is how I came to my latest revelation today that The Price Is Right is stuck in a weird time warp that combines the mid 1970s with the early 1990s. Seriously, the decor is all orange and purple with glitter trim while the models wear stuff that I think my sister wore to her junior prom in 1993. Today, when the magic walls parted to reveal a new set of skis, the model was wearing this giant parka with three big navy, teal, and magenta stripes. And I think that was all she was wearing. Yep, just a parka and heels. But the point is, I swear my best friend in fourth grade had the same exact one, funnel neck and all. These women may as well start flipping up their bangs with huge amounts of Rave.

The only change on The Price Is Right - one that makes me a little sad - is that Bob Barker no longer has the microphone that looks like an over-sized lollipop on an extra long stick. The top is now a bit more streamlined and is almost the same shape as a normal, modern-day microphone. It still has the extra long stick though. Maybe while the decor stays in the '70s and the models stay in the '90s, the microphone is stuck somewhere in between. But I'm not sure I mean the '80s.

I spend way too much time indoors.

i'm actually alive

Just wanted to say a few things:

-Yes, I'm still here, I did not desert my beloved [nonexistent] fans. I just got hit by a van, that's all. Just a minor thing, really.
-No, I'm not going to write a lot right now because I can only type with my left hand and right index finger. O pity me.
-And maybe it was a bad idea to drink that big delicious mug of tea because now I'm going to go to bed and as soon as I get in my PJs, brush my teeth, and get all cozy in bed with a magazine, I'll have to get up and pee. Damn you, liquids.

PS: I love commas.

,,,,,,,,,,

whew

In my moment of panic last Friday, I actually wrote Jelly Belly:

Your Question :Does the bacon flavor contain real meat extracts? Because
that's scary when you're a vegetarian and you're eating an assortment in the
dark.

They wrote back today:

Our Solution :
Thank you for visiting our site. We hope the following information
answers your question.
Thank you for your e-mail.
Bertie Bott's does not
contain real bacon; however, our sardine Bertie Bott's jelly beans are
flavored with cod liver oil.

OK, I feel a little better. But, ew, don't eat the sardine flavor.

oh my god bacon. or garlic.

OK, since I decided I couldn't sleep without really discovering the truth, I had to check out the official Jelly Belly website.

And, holy crap, Jelly Belly is the manufacturer of those psycho crazy Harry Potter-esque Bertie Bott's and they have a BACON FLAVOR!! Oh god I need to bleach out my mouth.

BUT, I figure that Economy Candy would not be that mean and mix the Bertie Bott's beans in with the standard Jelly Belly assortment. Right??? Because in that case, it very well may be one of their "rookie" flavors, Roasted Garlic. But still, WHO WOULD WANT A GARLIC JELLYBEAN? Probably just the same stupid ten-year-old that wants a bacon-flavored one. The fact is, neither should be a jellybean.

So, yeah, no idea if I ate a Bacon one or a Roasted Garlic one (or three), but either way I will never eat Jelly Bellys in a darkened movie theatre again. And I need a lot of Listerine right now.

For Dreaface

I'm finally writing again because I have something to write about. OK, maybe two things. OK, actually two and a half.

1) I have a JOB, people. A real job. OK, kind of a real job but at least a real job in the sense that it's not an internship. I'm going to be a front desk assistant at CAP21, a cool studio/conservatory/performance space that I am too lazy to explain right now. That's why I take the time to post LINKS. Yay. Yeah, the pay and hours aren't ideal to start with, but it's a good starting point for NYC and it helps that it's full of crazy artist/theatre people just like me. Plus, as I was leaving my interview they were all really excited to show me their new coffeemaker and shelving units. I know it doesn't sound that exciting, but trust me, these are my people.

2) I saw The Science of Sleep today, which was pretty f-ing amazing. Michel Gondry is my hero. But I can't even begin to describe the film without sounding like I'm high. Go see it! Oh, and...

2.5) While watching I ate way too many Jelly Bellys and three times I swear I chomped on a bacon-flavored one. WHAT?? This can't be happening.

sick

I feel like a five-year-old.

Due to the plague that has invaded my body I have been subsisting on primarily the following: saltines, Cheerios, applesauce, soup, juice, and popsicles. Ignore the fact that I wash it all down with green tea and I could be back in preschool. At least in preschool it's completely accepted to fall down on the floor and take a nap.

Luckily I have the Sudafed-induced heart palpitations to keep me alert.

Thank you, Byrne Dairy

Today I bought ten ice cream sandwiches for only $1.99! That's right folks, TEN melty, sugary, dairy confections for only TWO bucks. And THEN I found out that today (ok, yesterday, since it's now after midnight) is National Ice Cream Sandwich Day! It was meant to be. AND they even got whisked to a freezer without serious meltage en route. Now I need to just not eat them all by myself.

Sadly, I think that's the most exciting thing that's happened to me all week.