You don't know me, you don't know where I live... Marie Claire...

I have never purchased a copy of Marie Claire in my life- until yesterday. I bought it specifically because I had read two articles online about a piece in this month's issue. The article in question is called "Where The Guys Are" and apparently is suggesting that you pack all your shit up and move to a city where you have like, a better chance of finding a boyfriend/husband whathave you. You know, because you have a vagina, and this is what's important to you (not like, your job, your friends or your life or anything). They also tell you how you should adjust yourself accordingly so that men in that area will find you palatable. You know, like if you're in Seattle (number one on the list!), you should wear flannel. Because it's still 1994 there, I suppose.

Chicago is number 15... and they suggest that to find yourself a man here, you don an embellished pencil skirt and a pastel blouse. Gross. I am all for pencil skirts- pencil skirts are hot. But pastel blouses? So wrong. If I wear pastel anything I look like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I would rather be single forever, and die alone, not being found until three weeks later, half eaten by my cats than wear a fucking pastel blouse. Unless I am starring in the Broadway production of 9-5. Then, and only then.

Apparently you are supposed to wear this because Midwesterners value the classics and are low key. Whatever. Last night I wore a gold lame skirt and a black wifebeater and everyone thought I looked fabulous. Then again, I was in a gay bar. But the stripper, who was quite the heterosexual, was all about it. Actually, I think I got him in trouble. This is another story. For later.

Oh, also, according to Marie Claire, dudes here are "wholesome-but-urbane Big Ten alums prowling for The One-- a Cubbies cap-wearing, God-fearing good girl with a shoe tree full of strappy heels" Which totally makes you want to kill yourself, right? Don't worry, Marie Claire also assures you that "the Art Institute churns out off-beat alterna-boys for whom a romantic date is dining alfresco at the Kebab Shack and all-you-can-drink Schlitz!"

I don't know anyone who goes to the Kebab Shack. I don't know any of these people, period. I never do. (Although, then you could be the most beautiful girl he has ever seen with a Kebab...)

The weird part are the nods to The Skylark and Rose's as possible husband finding grounds. Huh. The last time I was there it was just me, Rose, a dude I used to date that I was hanging out with again for a minute, and a Mariachi band. Talk about your options!

Oh, also, one of "his" other "haunts" (as they say) is apparently "the cooking demos at Green City Market." Really? I would bet you that's not true.

Your "prep," also, for finding a dude here involves "spending hundreds of dollars at the Lancome counter to acheive the Reese Witherspoon I-woke-up-looking-this-good effect. Rock a dewy face, score a second date."

Huh. I always heard you should wait until the third date to rock a dewy face.

On an upswing, at least we're not Columbus- because as they describe that place, it is in fact the 7th level of hell:

"Where corn-fed frat boys go to spawn. With biceps as firm as their Midwestern values, these gosh-darn-it good guys spend Saturday nights bouncing from bar to bar, plastic cups foaming with Bud, scouting for a low-key beauty with whom to make little Buckeyes fans (The average age for getting hitched in this town: 25). Forget brunch dates: His Sundays are reserved for God and football"

I think my vadge just threw up. You think that's not possible? That paragraph made it possible.

The moral of this story, I think, is that if you are willing to move to a different city and change everything about yourself to please a man, you will probably find one. More than likely, you'll both be terrible people, but you'll be terrible people together. And isn't that what's really important?

In Which I Start Off Talking About The Marx Brothers and End Up Going on Some Rant About Feminist Linguistics.

I am feeling much better today, after having spent a week or so feeling especially persnickity. Maybe because it's my day off and I have no plans to do anything whatsoever. Unless I go see Duck Soup in the park tonight. I do love me some Marx Brothers...

Totally unsurprising fact about me- I own every Marx Brothers movie in existence. I also firmly believe that if one were to combine all of the Marx Brothers into one man, and have him not be dead, that I would totally marry him. At the very least, I would let him hit it.

Surprising fact- I can play "Lydia the Tattooed Lady" and "Everyone Says I Love You" on the ukulele.



This little clip actually brings up something I've been wondering about lately. In all these old movies, people say things like "Are you making love to me?" when CLEARLY no intercourse is taking place- and really, if it was, one would assume that that the lady would be aware of what's going on. Maybe it was one of those Hayes Code things? So now I'm curious as to how the phrase underwent the transition from apparently meaning "flirting", and then to mean "fucking" and then to become an insanely creepy, horrifying and ladybonerkilling way of saying 'fucking'.

I think it's one of those phrases/words that tends to be 87,000 times more shudder inducing to women than it is to men. Like the word "moist." Moist is a terrible word because it is most commonly used to refer to either baked goods or vaginas (or towelettes, but they don't count in this scheme)- baked goods make you think of yeast, and then you bring the ladyparts into it and what do you get? Yeast infection. Bad times for everyone. Mystery solved.

There are a few good reasons for why "making love" is similarly terrible, I think:

1) When you get "the talk" from your parents, this term tends to pop up a lot. At this point in your life, you're probably a little "ew, boy germs" about the whole thing (at least you are if you're 8 and you're me.). Then it's the sort of sex you associate with your parents- which, duh, even if you're the most liberated person ever, you don't so much want to think about it- and thus, also the sort of sex you associate with the baby making process. Which I totally try to avoid, for the sake of all humanity. It's "when a man and a woman love eachother very much and want to have a baby" sex, and that is just too much pressure for any lady to handle.

2) I don't think women are so much comfortable with the idea of two separate kinds of shtupping. Like, it's a good, dirty, fun time if you don't like the person all that much (fucking), and then if you love them it's supposed to be totally boring and involve candles and rosepetals and such (making love). I am so not into rosepetals, and should not be allowed near an open flame for any reason. For me, it evokes that whole scene in The Godfather where Connie's husband is out getting blowjobs from bimbos or something, and then won't let her do it because she's the mother of his children and is thus supposed to be a saint or something.

3) For me, anyway, it's something that elicits a red alert when used by a dude I don't know too well. You know, because either he's trying to pull the old boyfriend fake-out, or he's a genuine creep who thinks he's your soulmate 10 seconds after meeting you.

4) It sounds censored, and one gets the feeling that if you have to use a priggish, Haye's code sounding euphemism like that for sex, you're not all that comfortable with it. Thus, you are probably not all that good of a time. Blah.

Dry mouth

Oh god.

How to explain this weekend. Let's go backwards, shall we? I came home about an hour ago, and have eaten cherries, and I've drank water, and juice, and right now I'm sucking on a freaking lifesaver, and still, I have the most horrid dry mouth I've ever had in my whole life. Nothing works. I think maybe I've been smoking too much.

Before I came home, I was at the Bottom Lounge, but I had a ridiculous panic attack and left. See, I didn't have a wristband with which to get in and out of the show- because the owner had walked me in through the back, which was awesome because I didn't have to pay... HOWEVER- crowded room with no windows? Not something I'm so into. I had planned to meet friends there, and I couldn't find them. So I was just standing there, thinking about how I was in a crowded, hot room, with no windows, and how technically I couldn't get out if I wanted to get back in... and I went over to the bouncer and asked if I could in fact get back in, because really, I just needed to prove to myself that the outside still existed, and he yelled at me for no good reason, so I just walked off in a huff. Seriously, a huff. I swear to god, I couldn't even see straight. I just wanted to leave.

Before that, I was at Pitchfork- I volunteered for half the day. My first job was standing in front of the ticket lines and saying "There's a shorter line over there!" 87,000 times over the course of three hours. It was thrilling. My second job was as the guardian of the sacred port-a-potty, which, oddly, was a much better time. For the most part, anyway.

INTERMISSION: A question. Why does Zach Braff have to narrate every commercial on earth? Inquiring minds want to know.

After my volunteer shift, I could not locate my people, but I ran into a friend, and this other dude he was with who just so happened to be the most terrible person ever. He told us that his girlfriend was one of the girls on stage with The Flaming Lips, dressed as a bunny, and that they had totally begged her to do it, because she was so "cute and tiny." He said the phrase cute and tiny like, 40 different times whilst telling this story, with a healthy dose of "well, you know, she's a Suicide Girl" spliced in.

"Neat." I said. I am really grateful that no one can use any of these words to describe me repeatedly to strangers. I don't know how people would describe me to strangers. I can't imagine that they would bother. I like to think I speak for myself.

He told me he was in a band, and that he worked for and was on this record label. I must have heard of this record label that he is on because Captain Fudgesicle Dinasaurpants! or whatever is also on that label, and of course I've heard of them, right?

"Nope," I said, "But thats a spicy meat-a-ball!"

"What?" says the guy with the Suicide Girlfriend.

"I thought we were talking in stereotypes. Sorry."

Fact. In all the time I have been around the hipsters and the especially pretentious such, no one has EVER actually said that to me. This was my first time. I was very excited. I decided later that the dude was so braggy due to the fact that he was rather short and trying to compensate. You know, for something.

ANYWAY.... let me tell you about something that happened last night. So, we were at the Flatiron, and I ran into this dude that I had gone out with a few times when I first moved here. It ended weirdly. Really weirdly. I won't say how weirdly, but trust me- I have a running list of the pricelessly bizarre things dudes have said to me, and the thing that he said ranks higher than both "Don't you want to give me a graduation present? It might be your last chance!" and "I just like, didn't call you, because you are SO AMAZING that if we hung out, I'd have to be in a relationship with you, and I'm just not in a place right now in my life where I can be in a relationship"- all of these things were said with a straight face, and all of them BROKE MY MIND. But this, this thing that this dude said that one time, it totally topped both of them.

So anyway, I'm talking to the dude and he's all "So, do you like, think there's like, a chance you and I could like, be something again?"

Be something? Again? We went on two horrid dates four years ago! That was not something, that was nothing, and that was awkward. He kept saying that I looked AWESOME (I did not, trust me. When I went to the bathroom later I realized that some of my red lipstick had actually smeared around my face causing me to look not entirely unlike Ronald McDonald.) and persisted in touching my face and telling me that my skin was really great or something. I do have good skin, however, these sort of comments freak me out because I have a secret fear that someone will cut my skin off and wear it around the house.

He then points out two rather homely looking girls to me, sitting over at a table and informs me of the fact that these ladies want to go home with him. But, you know, if I am interested, it could be me that goes home with him.

WOW. That happened.

Rewind further back, Thursday night, Roommate told me that she was going to move out on Sept. 1st because she feels like she needs to live on her own again, and now I have to find a roommate. Rewind further to that afternoon, and I got my hair cut and now have bangs again. Strange fact. I have lived with Roommate for three years, which is the same amount of time that I have been generally bang free.

Sigh. I am tired, and feel like death. I am going to sleep now.

No Reason To Live (Short People, I Mean. Not Me. I Am Awesome.)

I have a very sore upper arm right now, and tomorrow I will surely have a bruise- and not because I did anything fun.

My arm hurts, because it was repeatedly accosted on the bus this morning by the brim of a hat.

Is it so much to ask that people more than a head shorter than I am not wear brimmed hats? On the bus? While standing next to me? Especially if said person is apparently unable to steady themselves whenever the bus pulls to a stop?

OW. OW. OW. OW.

Good luck with your forehead zits, lady. Because that is exactly what brimmed hats give you. Zits on your forehead. Especially in the summer, because you sweat, and your skin can't breathe and it clogs your pores. Also, they totally cut you off and make you look even more height deficient than you are to begin with. SO THERE.

Today, I Am 15 Years Old, and My Heart is Broken

When I was 15 years old, my family moved from Massachusetts to Rochester, NY. Even though I was basically loathed by nearly the entire town from whence we came, moving was still difficult for me- because I did have a few good friends, because I would miss my house, and because it was too strange being so far away from our whole family (even though most of them weren't too fond of us either). On the day we moved, I hid in my beloved closet with the slanted ceiling- the same place I hid my diaries, the same place I'd sit when I'd talk on the phone with my friends when I didn't want my sister spying on me- and I tried to stay. Obviously, it didn't work. As we left, I tried so hard to burn every detail of our house into my memory. The grey stone tile in the foyer, the green carpet, the island table in the kitchen where I talked for an hour with my mom after school every day, the strange random window in between the dining room and the living room- my room, with it's pink carpet and it's slanted ceilings- the reason why I could never have the fancy canopy bed of my dreams- and the giant rock in the backyard where I'd go whenever I pretended to run away.

I have a tendency towards sentimentality.

When we first started looking at houses in Rochester, my father and my sister had their hearts set on a new McMansion in Pittsford- and my mom and I wanted to live in one of the old, neat looking houses in Brighton. My mom and I won that battle, after we looked at yet another McMansion and she layed down in the driveway to protest even walking into it. We'd just stopped by the McDonald's there, and there were, as she said "too many women with blonde ponytails." After that, we looked at a variety of houses in Brighton- one of which even had an indoor swimming pool- but when we saw the house that we eventually moved into... it was love at first sight. Especially for me- especially for one reason. It had an amazing treehouse. A glorious treehouse- so big that my father, at 6'2" could stand up in it- with a patio, and buttery yellow shutters that matched the house. It was true love!

The first, and best friends I made in Rochester had referred to my house for some time before I moved there as "The Sacred House" due to the bright security lights that went on each evening at sundown. It was an immediate sort of friendship- the kind you only form when you're 15 or so- where within a week someone can become your best friend for life. We'd hang out in my treehouse and smoke cigarettes and pot after school, talk some shit, make up some schemes to seduce some unsuspecting dreamboat... and when I got the giant trampoline for Christmas that year? Well, my backyard was the fuckin' balls.

I loved that treehouse. I wrote a shit ton of crappy, angst ridden poems in it. I'd go there to be alone after I'd had a stupid fight with my parents, when I wanted to write something super personal in my diary. It was the site of so many first kisses, games of truth or dare, near deaths of boys who thought jumping from it and onto the trampoline was the best idea ever, broken hearts... and of course, one of the main highlights of any party I ever threw. In some ways, it was almost more of a home than my actual house. Because it was mine.

Yesterday, I talked to my Dad on the phone, and he told me that the tree had gotten too big. That the treehouse had become dangerous, and was likely to fall. It was going to be torn down.

I begged like I have never begged for anything in my whole life- and even while I was talking, I realized how ridiculous I probably sounded. "PLEASE get an estimate on fixing it! It has to be fixed! I will raise the money! I will pay for it! We'll hold a benefit concert! I'll collect donations! Do you even know how many people have a sentimental attachment to that treehouse? We will all band together and save it!" I even considered trying to get landmark status for my treehouse.
But when I called this morning to try again to change their minds, they told me it had already been torn down. They were glad to see it go, they said.

I can honestly tell you that I haven't cried like this since- well, since I was 20 and the worst thing ever happened. We don't cry in my family, you know. We're from New England. My mother's rule is that you're only allowed to be upset about something for 10 minutes, and then you must go on about your business. If you'll believe it, I'm actually the most emotional person in my immediate family- and shit, I'm practically made of stone.

I called again to ask them to save the shutters for me- the buttery yellow shutters that matched the shutters on our house. Everything was already gone, they said, but they'd try and find them. If you ask my parents, I am being simply ridiculous. They're cracking up. In fact, until I lost my phone in a cab because I was so frenzied and upset, they thought I was joking. Maybe because last night I said "But where am I going to go now to write crappy poems and smoke pot and seduce teenage boys!"

"We're going to turn it into a Zen garden. You can go there," she said.

Thanks, mom.

Maybe I'm overreacting because I'm far away from home, and you know how things are- when you go home you want things to be the same, even though they never are. I have the worst time letting go of things, and I always have. It's why I'll carry a vendetta with me until the day I die, and why I've never been good at throwing things away. My mother is very good at throwing things away and has no attachment to material objects. I, however, still bitter about the time she threw my awesome lime green plaid bellbottoms out because she hated them- and that was sophomore year of highschool. I am so not Zen, I know.

I came home, and I broke down in tears, because I lost my phone, because my damned yarn kept falling out of my bag, and because I couldn't accept the official end of an era that cognitively I realize ended almost ten years ago. Maybe I'm nuts. I felt better though, afterwards.

I'll never have a treehouse again-I'll never be 15, 16, or 17 again. That's probably a good thing, I realize, judging by the content of my diaries. But I do have a pretty neat balcony, and I'll have a new phone tomorrow or Thursday.

I still hope they find the shutters.

Really, Greenpeace?

I have pretty much the worst time ever saying no to canvassers- at least as long as I generally agree with them. I did NYPIRG for like a week, so I've got a lot of empathy (worst time ever. I love you Ralph Nader, but my my feet did not)- plus, I like talking to people who are really dedicated to some sort of non-jesus related world saving cause. Too many people talk about nothing. So, anyway, amongst other things, I am a member of Greenpeace. Not a fancy member. They just take 15 dollars out of my account every month, and send me updates. Well, not updates so much as vaguely threatening sounding emails.

Let me illuminate you:

"Traitor Joe's: Your One Stop Shop for Ocean Destruction"
"Carting Away The Ocean: How Do YOU Rate?"
"Is Amazon Destruction At Your feet?"
"Poison Gas: Can YOU Escape?"
"Are You In Danger?"
"36 Days Left to Save The Polar Bear!"
"URGENT: 1 Week Left To Save The Planet!"
"IL: Run For Your Life!"
"Are Pirates in YOUR Supermarket?"

Is that really necessary, Greenpeace? Honestly, no.

Notions Counter

I am staying in this evening, as evidenced by the fact that I am writing this right now instead of going out. I must confess, I am not the biggest fan of fireworks. In fact, the noise from them is driving the cats and I insane at the moment. Anyway, I went out last night, and am still in recovery mode.

In case you were wondering what my midyear resolution that I made yesterday was... WELL- It was to move more slowly in order to avoid faceplanting so often, and also to stop dating boys I know full well are terrible just because I think it will make a good story. This may result in my being significantly less interesting, but I feel it is for the best. However, I've already failed. Why? Because last night, after we went to the Burlington, I thought it would be a swell idea to stop by Flatiron. Because going to a four am is always a good idea, right?

Long story short, my friend did not see, but I did in fact have a minor crash. I toppled off my heels and right into some hideous couple that decided that right in front of the ladies room was an ideal spot for the making out. Boy, were they wrong. The funny thing is this: they probably thought I should have been embarassed by the fact that I fell, but shit, I'm so used to it at this point that it just doesn't even phase me anymore; I felt that they should be embarassed for making out in a bar, you know, because it's a rather tacky thing to do, but they probably were not embarassed by this as they were drunk, and probably tacky to begin with. How O. Henry of us all.

I realized this morning that if I had been clever enough to use this tactic on the couple who had confused my locker with a Lover's Lane back in high school, that I might not have been late for class so often. It certainly would have been more effective than muttering snarky things under my breath. By the way, the guy in this pair bore an uncanny resemblence to Beavis. Not that this has anything to do with anything, I just thought you might like to know.

The fireworks are still happening. Oy. Even when I was a kid I was never fond of them. Fireworks belong in the same category as acid trips and laser light shows. They all lack a plot line. I don't have the patience to sit and look at something for an hour if it doesn't have a plotline. Especially if it's making loud, headache inducing noises at me.

It's hot, and I considered getting ice cream, but the last time I went to Dominick's on a Saturday night to get ice cream, the Muzak actually started playing Celine Dion's "All By Myself" and, well, that's just embarassing. We can't have that sort of thing happening again. That's cold, Dominick's. You don't know me. Stop judging. Just because a lady prefers to stay home and have some ice cream on one Saturday night, it does not make her Cathy... Honestly!