You Are Boyish Sexy

You’re the kind of girl who gets along with all the boys Whether it’s holding your own in a game of touch football… Or kicking some major butt while playing Xbox. You hang with the guys easily, while still keeping your girly sexiness.

Is listening to Coldplay an indicator of aging? If so, the birthday that looms before me, growing closer with each annoying buzz of the a.m. alarm clock, must be for real: I’m veering away from the fun 20s living with the roommates emulating the coffee shop — albeit welfare-state — set vaguely reminiscent of fake TV fare such as Friends and barreling full speed ahead into, well, okay: kinda’ old.

Holy shit, if we’re talking scary ’90s TV, I’m Thirtysomething, only this time’s for real. Argh!

But alas, it’s true, I’m no longer on the young side of my third decade. In fact, in a matter of days I shall be smack dab in the center of my 30s, with youthful escapes — out until all hours partying with friends, flirting with people I don’t know, paying rent instead of a mortgage, caring for nothing more attention-intensive than a house plant (and even those have died … sorry Basil…) — being replaced by…

by…

Oh wait, erm. Okay, well, ah… not being replaced so much as, er, happening with less frequency. Heh.

I have to admit that for me, my birthday seems more like New Year’s than the night last week I’m still trying to fully piece together via eyewitness accounts, various news reports, receipts, flashbacks and strangers coming up to me like they know me…

So, as I do every year, with varying levels of scrutiny, I find myself taking stock and looking to where I’d like to be this time next year, (somehow “Take over the world” is always No. 1, yet annoyingly enough, I’m still not. quite. there.) and where I’ve been.

2006 started out with a backwards glance to a decade earlier, in full-on rose colored glasses mode, with a shot of absence (as in “makes the heart…”) for flavor:

West Coast, 1996, sex, drugs, rock and roll…and mice. Lots of them, rivers of them taking over the Oak Street flat; stepping over the crackheads lounging on the front steps as we’d make our nightly Noc-Noc jaunt; Café Abir, Muddy Waters, The Grind, Jeremiah stamping my card on Tuesday nights for lots of free joe when he wasn’t working at Royal Grounds; graveyard shift at Sparky’s with Phil, Jason (yes, that Jason), Kelly…

I vaguely remember marking the occasion of my 25th by getting my nipples pierced, dancing all night, and inhaling enough methamphetamines to keep me wired long enough to piece together a massive quarter-century manifesto, scrawled throughout the night of the 15th and, I thought, a masterpiece until, in the cruel, cold, sleep-deprived daylight it was revealed to have devolved into repetitive scrawling “fuck you fucking fuck motherfuckers fuck,” eventually deconstructing until it was something akin to, but not nearly as noteworthy as, “All fun and no play makes….”

These days are the same in many ways — my character stays pretty much the same no matter what the year, locale or hair color — but I also feel a bit like I’m standing on a precipice.

Which could be kinda’ cool, if I were a windsurfer or something, but as it stands right now I’m pretty sure I’ll feel better once this coming weekend is over… after the hangover subsides, that is!

In the meantime, in the spirit of the glass being half full and all that gobshite, I offer up the following up-to-date inventory of why, old as I may be, I rock and shall continue, until further notice, to get out of bed on a daily basis (excluding hangovers and avian flu):

Gray hair: none (that I know of). And neither I, nor anyone else, will ever know for sure. In fact, my to-do list includes making a living will so as not to become a tool for the religious right should the next car that runs me down hit a bit harder and I end up in Shiavo-esque drooling state on national TV. Included in said document will be a provision for someone to come to my bedside every six weeks to cover any roots and/or gray, pluck eyebrows, give age-renewing glycolic peel and full makeup should I have smudged it while attempting to revegetate brain in order to beat down Frist-like jackass purporting to diagnose me via video feed.

Wrinkles: none, save for the big, ugly one that appeared across the entire expanse of my forehead in high school. In order to make myself feel better managed to do at-home brainwash that I’d actually been abducted by aliens, and that’s where they put my bigger, far superior brain. Unfortunately, I must have gotten alien intern as superpowers seem to consist of sniffing out closest Starbucks and being wildly attracted to mentally unstable, substance abusing, impoverished, jerk-like men.

Mice: There seems to be — knock on wood — only one at my current residence, and he’s teeny-tiny. At least, he was …

Job: Holy shit, I’m employed! Not only that but I actually like where I work, and the people I work with while, at the same time, am paid enough to live on. And, it doesn’t involve schlepping food, drinks, packages or my soul.

Philly: Not my favorite city, but residing in the City of Brotherly Love has it’s own perks (cheesesteaks notwithstanding…). Oh sure, I work in the ’burbs, which comes with its own irony, but this is home. In fact, in those very ‘burbs the original life plan was hatched with compatriot-in-crime Kristin as we made mud pies by the creek and plotted our next escape. (You’d think being brought home in the back seat of a patrol car after running away again would have made a lasting impression…)

Sadly, we never made it to NYC together, never made our love nest with Baryshnikov (making the final season of Sex and the City that much more painful), never got to live the life we envisioned for ourselves from kindergarten.

At least, not totally, not for me: the old toe shoes from over a decade of ballet hang in my parents’ house, I’m halfway to NYC with the amount of time I spend there, and I’m still holding out for the Baryshnikov to my idealistic, hard-headed Gypsy runaway.

In fact, it’s the last part that makes the cliff I may or may not be standing on seem not so bad: there’s hope.

2005 nearly kicked it and everything else out of me, but somehow it’s still there, and that’s the reason, I think, I’m still doing what I’m doing, living my life, not changing a thing for anyone. (Which, I should add, is vastly different from learning what might be best to stop doing, such as the realization while I may get as wild, crazy and out of control as a rock star when I’ve had a bit too much to drink, I do not, repeat, do not have the fame and fortune to back it up…)

There’s just one thing that worries me: Will it literally come crashing down when I slow down?

Granted, I’ve already established the anti-gravity fund in the form of an old glass milk jug full of change (by the time I need it, it should be full, right?), but, I can’t help but wonder if eventually the real world’s going to catch up to me, and just when I think I’ve beat the odds I’ll wake up to find my ass is at my knees, my boobs and belly have melded into one shapeless mass and my chin is where my alleged cleavage used to be!

As it stands, I can practically feel my eyelids begin to droop and the corners of my mouth purse and stay that way when screaming children are around …

Is it only a matter of time?!!?

To be on the safe side, I’ve stocked my Amazon.com Wish List with plenty of age-defying products and goodies, should anyone feel the need to mark the upcoming anniversary of my birth with material goods.

Yes, it’s a whorish plug for stuff, but damnit, why the hell not? he he!

If you’re alive and have had any exposure to mass media this weekend, you know that tonight is the big, bad premiere of Rollergirls on A&E.

Essentially, it’s a reality show about tattooed and pierced chicks who skate around a rink and beat the living shit out of each other.

Fucking awesome!

So awesome, in fact, I will not be glazed eyed in front of my usual weekly television viewing pastime, Medium (god I fucking hate TV), but rather will be interested to watch the carnage.

And it’s not just for voyeuristic purposes, I should add, as I out one of my secret aspirations: for a few months I’ve been hearing about the Philly Rollergirls, a group of waaaay more tattooed, pierced and badass chicks than the glossy Texas women from tonight’s show.

I soooo want to be a Philly Rollergirl … so, I e-mailed and asked them to let me know when the next tryout date is.

Now, it really does make sense in light of the chronology of my life:

Ages 2—16: ballet
Ages 4—16: gymnastics
Ages 5—teen: rolling around my concrete and asphalt New Jersey ’hood on rollerskates… that’s right, four wheels for all you younguns out there
Ages 7—18: cheerleading (Captain in high school, no less. That’s right fucker, c’mon, give me a smartass response and I’ll pop you one… er… I mean, go team!)
Ages 18—30-something: chronic mosh pit participant
Ages mid- to late-20s: bike messenger (SF. Fueled by nicotine and caffeine.)

And now, seeing as I’m fucking old, why not continue the body-carnage? I mean, getting smashed up thanks to a little endo this fall was par for the course.

I really just want to hurt people, and unfortunately, when I’m trying to navigate the ridiculously hard to maneuver aisles of Trader Joe’s, driving surrounded by oblivious suburban fucks whenever I travel beyond Center City or my West Philly ‘hood, or just attempting to deal with assholes like Aetna health insurance (the single worst company in the history of the entire universe, which should be burned to the ground by angry peasants such as myself for being such motherfucking money grubbing fuckheads who cannot do a single thing right, let alone actually provide any services related to health care, aside from sending out erroneous bills in the hopes that, I’m guessing here, people like me will get so frustrated at their outright lies and utter ineptitude we’ll simply pay up in order to never, ever have to deal with their imbecilic bullshit again. They’re tied for worst “customer service” in the entire universe with Hitler-sled manufacturers Volkswagen as far as I’m concerned. I hate them both. I’d like to get some of the lying assholes they employ in a dark alley some night …. But alas, I digress….)

… anyway, it seems like a good idea….

Of course, if it’s hoity-toity NY Times-level entertainment you’re looking for, you might want to check the listings for Masterpiece Theatre, considering the tone of today’s review by apparent tightwad Alessandra Stanley. In fact, my guess is she’ll be spending this evening attempting to remove the stick that’s jammed so far up her Ivy League ass it probably hurts to sit.

I’m not too upset by the piece, though, considering the fact that she appears to be a moron who makes countless fact errors for a living. (Which, in j-school, gets you an instant F, and in the real world will usually get you fired if you rack up enough, which you’d think she has.)

Of course, considering the fact that we’re pretty much surrounded by idiots at every level of government, I guess stupidity and lazy work is par for the course…

me, drunk, midnight, the blonde center of a snog sandwich….

not too shabby.

WELCOME 2006!

Please god let it be less horrible than 2005, and for chrissakes, would somebody in D.C. clean some fundamentalist dumbass Texas born again coke addict dry drunk house already?!!?!!?

Sheesh!

Oh ho ho ho! Believe me, sugar is so a drug!!!

Oh, the sugar pushers don’t want you to know, don’t want you to realize that the copious amounts of candy canes, chocolate bits of sticky goo and crunchy sweet cookies are slowly sucking the very life from your veins and replacing it with a sickly sweet substance that is forever in need of replenishment…

Don’t believe me? Hit the post-holiday sales, snatch up a bagful of red, green and satanically bad for you tooth decay in a box, and eat just one serving of it…

I dare you.

Before long you’ll find yourself dreaming of it, drooling in your sleep as Johnny Depp takes you on Chocolate Factory-worthy adventures (as opposed to the usual nocturnal adventures starring a certain Mr. Depp, which generally tend to focus on a candy of a, ah, different sort…). It will consume you as you slurp down your staid, healthy breakfast, endure a bland, lowfat lunch of blah, sit in front of the TV downing yet another plateful of ick.

I fucking dare you.

And then you’ll be just like me, twitching like a fleshy tweeker, digging through the artic depths of the fridge hoping for just one bit of freezer-burned sugary badness that got away.

Pacing your room when you should be asleep, mind racing, feverish, arguing with yourself that you just need one more — one more kiss, one more cookie, one goddamn more cane — and you’ll be fine. You can control yourself. You’re fine. You’re good. You just, you know, need a little bump…

Believe me, I know….

I blame Brooklyn.

I used to be able to control my impulses, destroy the box of Pop Tarts and move on, eat some fruit the next day. But the Firklover bar changed all that the day my cousin and I hit one of few remaining vestiges of the once mighty Viking stronghold in Bay Ridge: Nordic Delicacies.

On a holiday mission to acquire one almond-centric traditional ring cake for my old Norse father, we bought chocolate bars the size of our heads, and nearly as heavy, ripping into the first as we descended into the subway, cake in hand.

A week and a half later the full ramifications of my sugar-fueled rampage are on full public view: my vision is blurry from too many sleepless nights fueled by ADHD-aiding sugar and a cocoa high so powerful my heart beats at odd intervals, my fingers are stained from constant, compulsive contact with red and green dye, and my tongue is a permanent shade of maroon from the mixing of the sweets.

I’m a monster!!!

Someone, please save me….

Save me from myself…

SEND FRUIT!!!

It could be the NyQuil talking, but I’m thinking it’s high time me and Irish Kelley put our deviant, devious plan into action, and soon, as the one we’ve been known to lovingly (drunkenly?) call “our baby” has made it to the pages of a major national paper of record — as a subject, not a byline.

 

 

You never know what corner of the earth he’s traversed or what dark, demonic closet lurking deep in the bowels of this country’s government machine he’s uncovered and explained for we mere mortals to take in, understand and get righteously pissed off about.

 

In short, he must be stopped, and we aim to do it, through the use of sheer force, roofies and duct tape, if necessary.

 

Oh, not forever, mind you. “The End of the World Part IV” must be printed, fear not. In the meantime, we’re mostly just looking for a few days … oh, okay, weeks… It’s just that a good looking man who’s also smart as fuck cannot, and should not, be overlooked, especially considering the mindless fuckwit losers who can’t string a sentence that doesn’t include the words titties and beer to save their lives mindnumbingly uninteresting overblown males out there for we lasses to endure.  

 

It’s sort of like Misery, minus the breaking bones. Not that there isn’t a chance there will be bruising, but that sort of thing is just, well, part of a good night…

 

And, again, in full disclaimer mode, I must add the following info, straight from editrix Kelley’s fingers to the electronic masses, regarding the man we, collectively, would most love to reserve our ovaries for (formerly held by Mark Morford, who’s just a bit too oversexed in print and far too forthcoming about his love for his SO and Audi to be anything less than annoying, truth be told):

 

“Be sure to mention he originally wrote for The Moscow Times before joining Moscow’s expat alt-weekly, The Exile. In fact, if you Google "The Exile" there’s a bunch more stories he wrote — without the burden of answering to an American publisher?

 

You want raunchy and ascerbic? You got it, baby. There’s also the wonderful saga of How the Horse-Sperm-filled Pie Ended Up in the Times’ Bureau Chief’s Face. Hee-larious, my dear.

 

For further fodder, check out The Buffalo Beast . He started it, though he’s just a contributor now.

 

Also — one of my faves — google: The Job Offer .”

It has come to my attention recently that I have neglected my blogging duties during my long and dawn out hibernation-beyond-the-ether.

It’s true, and really, I can explain. See, I’ve not been able to tear myself away from my bed, have spent countless hours there, sheets and blankets wrapped hither and yon, breathing heavily, getting hot then cold, then snuggling for a few hours before starting again….

Sadly, this has all happened solo, and under the heavy influence of OTC and prescription meds.

*sigh*

Seems my near-annual asthma-induced bronchitis hit warp speed, and before I even had time to line up the Robi-shots, I was knocked on my ass and out of civilization as we know it, coughing and wheezing with only my trusty pink stuffed pig Gordy for company and strength.

‘Course, that doesn’t mean the world as we know it has stopped turning, and shit continues to hit the proverbial fan across this fair nation and beyond even as I sleep. And, even more important, Christmas (or whatever you’d prefer to call the holiday – makes no diff to me as long as I get a few days off and can eat cookies with gleeful abandon) has continued its consumer-driven charge across the globe, shoving aside any item not emblazoned with the Visa, Mastercard and/or Amex logo.

I, however, have opted to step off that green treadmill, and have dedicated my sick time to creating holiday cards festooned with bits of fluff, from my creative genious to you and yours, or something like that. Although … they’re not actually done yet. Hey, I’ve been sick! Give me a break!

If you have not already provided me with a snail mail addy and would like a 100% GiRL World Domination Enterprises Inc. signed original delivered to your door sometime between now and next Thanksgiving, e-mail me here!

Until then, I bid y’all adieu, I’m hitting the NyQuil (“Big N, little Y, big fucking Q!”).

I know… I know…. I’ve been MIA for weeks now.

 

I hear y’all!

 

Right now I’ll be honest: I’m snuggled up in a pink fuzzy blanket, fleece PJs and hoodie. I’m sick — bird flu, the plague, SARS, whatever — and I’m hardly in writing form.

 

Somebody bring me some veggie soup for chrissakes!

 

Kidding… kidding. I can take care of myself. But, in the meantime, I’ll leave you with some excellent porn, er, video from the subject a forthcoming post…

 

 

So last night I dreamt I’d moved back to San Francisco , and was commenting that the reason I’d never bothered to get a Pennsylvania drivers’ license was because I hated it, and never intended to stay long.

 

Hmmm.

 

First off, that’s total bollocks as I’ve already been toiling in the city of brotherly love for over a year now, second, I just agreed to stick on at my paid gig for the long haul as a permanent employee. (Though I am staunchly attached to my NY documentation.)

 

Yep, it’s true: I’m now very gainfully employed on a permanent basis. Not like I want to spread it around too much, or people will start hitting me up for loans, or spitting on me for selling out for some decent health insurance and a window, but I’ve done it. Damnit.

 

That, of course, doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes really miss the city by the bay, but more than the city I miss the life I had there, which is the polar opposite of the quasi-respectable one I currently inhabit.

 

I miss acting completely irresponsibly, sex drugs and rock and roll, tattoos and piercings, late nights in the studio, awesome burritos, getting wrecked in mosh pits, bad boys (and girls), and the stupidity of unbridled youth.

 

What I do not miss is being too poor to eat, mice everywhere, od’ing on sex, drugs and rock and roll, feeling like there was no future, not being able to go to the doctor when I was sick or injured, and the stupidity of unbridled youth.

 

Are there people out there like me? I can’t help but wonder. So far I’ve met very bad, nice and rather dull, or just so different neither of us can comprehend.

 

I’ve an idea I should listen to Mags and Mike, and just get myself out there more than I already have.

 

Oh, just not to the Green Line Café, at least not the original one on Baltimore: dragged myself and stuff there yesterday a.m., only to be met by hordes of yuppie parents toting children. Christ all fucking mighty – do they not have places to go? Like, Chuck E. Cheese or Disney?!!? We non-breeders would like to drink our coffee and read the sex ads in the back of the City Paper in peace, thank you very much.

 

The Green Line should just fill its fenced in front yard area with brightly colored plastic balls and be done with it…

 

Allegedly if they’re yours (the kids, not the balls) you don’t mind them nearly as much. That’s good to know, in case I someday decide to spawn, I won’t be sitting there going, “Christ, would you shut the fuck up? Where are your parents? Oh, wait, shit, that’s me…”