7 Things of Christmas.

1. Best. Present. Ever.
I don’t mean to pit my friends and family against each other, or upset anyone who was kind enough to buy me a much appreciated Christmas present this year… but if I’m being honest, there was one gift that stood miles above the rest. My boyfriend (the best boyfriend ever– yes, I have to say that now) bought us tickets to see the one-night-only, star-studded concert reading of A Little Night Music at the Roundabout. It’s in my Top 3 of favorite Sondheim musicals (right next to Merrily and Company), and it’s the only one I’ve never seen on stage. I’m already getting goosebumps just thinking about it!

2. Worst. Present. Ever.
The chicken enchilada that was served to me when I clearly ordered the cheese. I had my first bite of poultry in over a year. Thank god for the giant margarita sitting next to me. The alcohol burned the taste of chicken right off of my taste buds!

3. A Crown Heights Christmas!
Last week Lady R. came over to the ghetto the heights to help Jeannie, A.Rod and myself make cookies. Results below…
Pre-frosting:

A woman’s work is never done:

The model-esque Lady R. (now parting her hair to the right):

Lady R’s gluten-free cookie mush:

Jeannie and the Xmas Tree:

The finished product:

All photos courtesy of A.Rod:

4. Air Un-Fair.
Part of my dad’s Xmas present was supposed to be a bottle of red wine, made locally in Long Island. While packing, I thought I was being smart by putting the wine in my carry-on. I wanted to be sure that my dad would be able to enjoy the wine, instead of having it break, and therefore staining all of the clothes in my suitcase. As if I haven’t flown on an airplane a dozen time since 9/11. As soon as my man-purse came out the other end of the x-ray machine, I was pulled aside an told that my “bottle of liquid” would have to be checked in or confiscated. Not wanting to buy a new suitcase on top of paying the additional fee for checking two bags… I said goodbye to the bottle of wine and shot the airport employee a dirty look. So as my dad enjoyed the much cheaper replacement wine bought at “Chet’s Liquor Store” off of Highway 13, I’m sure some employee of the LaGuardia Airport was enjoying his bottle. Happy Holidays, indeed.

5. Grandmothers Say the Darndest Things, Part I.
God bless grandmothers. Mine are finally becoming the crazy old biddies that all elderly people have the right to turn into once they reach a certain age. My mom’s mom (G.P.) is in the stage where she’ll just sit there any ask you the same questions over and over, oblivious to the fact that you gave her the answer not two seconds ago. This Christmas, her top three inquires were: 1.) What are you doing out in New York? 2.) When do you leave? And 3.) Who’s stocking is that hanging on the end of the mantle? And as if I didn’t hate repeating over and over again, “Yes, I’m still working at the pharmacy…” G.P. would also throw in the occasional “Why don’t you just get your degree in that?” Bah-humbug.

6. Grandmothers Say the Darndest Things, Part II.
While G.P. belittled me repeatedly, G.K. (my dad’s mom) slept soundly in her chair. Thinking it was safe, I sat next to her for awhile…. which worked out just fine, until she woke and gave me the play-by-play of how my grandfather died. Way to kill my steady holiday beer buzz grandma. My wish was granted when she finally changed the subject, however, the relief was short lived. G.K. then went into a 20 minute diatribe about her days as a working girl (not that kind!) It’s not that I don’t enjoy hearing about the history and hardships of my grandparents. But when grandma is still half asleep and talking in a whisper, it makes the story a little less enthralling.

7. Seven Pounds.
No, I am not referring to Will Smith’s latest Crap-fest. I’m talking about the amount of weight I’ve put on in the past week thanks to all of the cookies I’ve consumed. Okay, cookies and beer. Seriously, I’m going to need to start the new year out at a detox center. Preferably one that doesn’t resemble this:

No 7 Things.

No “7 Things” post this week.

Here’s why:

Dive Bar Birthday Party!!!

This is me contemplating turning 29.

Unlike my wise, water-drinking friend Adam, I spent the whole night with at least one and a half beers in my hands.

And afterward, I was foolish enough to invite some of my co-workers up for an after party that involved a little too much vodka.

So do hangovers. I spent most of Saturday switching back and forth between the bed and the couch. (Fear not, by Sunday I had recovered enough to go on a shopping spree thanks to some b’day giftcards.)

Now if my liver was fully recovered and as clean as the day it was before I turned 19 21.

7 Things (8/17-8/23). [Part II]

5. Triple Date.
This week, in order to inspire me to get back to work on my own One Woman Show, I saw two very funny ladies perform their shows at the UCB. Instead of going by myself and drinking alone in the back row, I decided to try and make an event of it and invite some friends. As it turns out, none of my single friends could make it so I turned into Couples Night. I dragged along MD-BF and two of my very best hags (Jeannie and Beta) who brought their BFs (Adam1 and Adam2.) After the show we all went over to the Trailer Park Lounge for margaritas, tater tots and sweet potato fries. Beta, MD-BF and I entered Swingtown by having a threesome over a Lover’s Concerto. (Imagine a small fountain filled with slushy strawberry margarita heaven, and add three straws.)

6. My Upcoming B’Day.
I’ve decided against having a split Housewarming/B’Day party this year, as 1.) Jeannie, Adam and I have been dragging our asses and have yet to decorate the Living Room. (We haven’t even made time to sit down and discuss what the phrase “too much kitsch” means to everyone.) And 2.) I don’t want to ask people to trek all the way out to the ghetto of Brooklyn. (My neighborhood isn’t actually that bad. But when it’s 3am and you’re the only white person walking back to the subway and you’re drunk out of your mind… you might start to think otherwise.)

I’ve also ruled out a birthday dinner. I hate asking all of my friends to pick up my portion of the tab (where the amount each person owes is almost as high as my age), especially since in every circle of friends there’s always that one person who never forks over enough money. It happens at every birthday dinner I’ve ever been too… do all my friends have the same cheap friend? Or are we all being collectively cheap?

This year, in order to save that one kind friend who always ends up having to pony up the extra cash, I’ve decided to just hang out at a bar for a few hours this year. That way there’s no tab, and not everyone has to spend money on me. Unless of course only five people show up. If that’s the case, you’re all buying me a drink. I’ve decided 5 drinks is the minimum one should have on their birthday. 5 should probably also be the maximum. Unless the bartender is making weak drinks. If the drinks are weak, it’s okay to double your maximum number.

Now that the rules are all set… it’s time to pick a suitable bar for me to turn 29 at. Last night MD-BF and I researched two. Both are by his apartment, which is ideal because after 10 weak drinks, I would rather try and walk the alcohol off for a few blocks then endure a bumpy cab ride back to Brooklyn.

Bar #1 (Disiac) had a lovely backyard patio with pillows all over the floor, which will be helpful in case I get fall-over-drunk. However, the vibe was a little shi-shi, and I don’t want to ask my poor friends to nurse one drink all night long. Bar #2 (Bar 9) definitely gave off that dive bar feel (which is a plus in my book.) They had a jute box and couches in the back, which is nice, but the couches are under a roof. I guess I just have to decide what’s more important to me: Fresh air and higher prices? Or stale air and lower prices?

7. Project Runway.

Best. Episode. Ever?

My only disappointment was that my beloved Terri was robbed of winning the challenge yet again.

Fierce.

Like We Needed An Excuse To Get Wasted On A Wednesday Night…

HAPPY 30TH JOS!

Vacay in Hell’s K.

This Fourth of July I took a vacation. I said good-bye to my beloved Brooklyn, and went up north all the way to 59th Street!

Okay, so I was only staying at my b-friend’s apt. for the holiday. But after moving last weekend, and a hellish 4 days at work, it definitely felt like a real vacation.

Thursday night the Good Doctor took me to see Alan Cumming in The Bacchae at Lincoln Center. In The Bacchae, Mr. Cumming plays Dionysus, the Greek god of wine. At least, that’s what I remembered Dionysus being when I did a report on him in 6th grade. My report-partner and I did a skit where I played Dionysus as a waiter at a fancy restaurant, explaining to the patron what wine was.

What I didn’t learn in 6th grade, was that Dionysus was totally bi and “the inspirer of ritual madness and ecstasy.” Learning Greek Mythology could have been so much more fun if it wasn’t in a Catholic school setting…

The play began with Mr. Cummings being lowered from the ceiling, hanging upside down by his feet. Did I mention that he was only wearing a gold lame kilt? You could see his buttocks in all their firm glory.

The play ended, as all good Greek tragedies should, with everyone being stark-raving mad and covered in blood.

The Good D. and I ended our night stark-raving drunk. After a late dinner of Chinese, we decided to go out for a night cap. It ended up being more like a night body bag…

We went to Therapy, a ridiculously fruo-fruo gay bar that neither of us would normally be caught dead in. After our second round I went to the powder room, thinking that we’d head home after I had finished my business. When I got back to the bar, I was surprised to find a fresh, crisp G&T waiting to parch my thirst. And in the interest of keeping our bar tabs even, I was forced to buy us a forth round.

The Good D. always laughs at me when I tell him I’m going out for “a drink or two” with friends. I think he thinks I’m trying to mask my alcoholic tendencies by rounding down. Waking up Friday morning without a hint of a hangover did not help my case that I’m no stranger to having alcohol pulsing through my veins.

And while I didn’t really have a hangover, my body definitely wasn’t in tip-top form. I went for a 40 minute run in Central Park Friday morning. And if I hadn’t already sweat all of the previous night’s gin and morning Starbucks out of my body during the run, I probably would have thrown it up afterwards. During my cool down walk I was seriously worried that I was A.) Going to vomit, B.) Going to pass out, C.) Going to pass out in my own vomit. Not that any of those options would have looked out of place in Central Park.

Friday afternoon, the actual day of our independence, the Good D. and I went to some lesbian couple’s apartment in Harlem for a rainy BBQ. To celebrate Independence Day, the couple had recently adopted a baby! Luckily, the Good D. warned the lesbians ahead of time that I was not a baby person… so I was not forced to hold it or talk about how cute it was. Although, thanks to the baby, that night I did have a dream that I had a baby of my own and I named it Toast. (Take that Apple Paltrow!)

But before my baby nightmare, the Good D. and I had another show to see Friday evening: Arias with a Twist. For those of you who aren’t familiar with drag performer Joey Arias, get thee to You Tube:

It was a truly amazing show. A larger than life drag queen that sings a spot on Billie Holiday, and a stage full of strange puppets? What more could you ask for in a show?

Also, as fate would have it, who should be standing next to me in the lobby of Friday night’s show, but the star of Thursday night’s show: Mr. Cumming himself!

Saturday morning I took a little break from my vacay to update my resume. I hate updating my resume. The combination of coffee shops and pharmacies is a hard sell… especially when you’re trying to get a new job that doesn’t fall into either category. But at least it’s over and done with now… and hopefully going to land me a new job very soon.

Thankfully, it was a three day weekend. So while it felt like a Sunday, and that sense of dread that you get about having to go back to work the next day was just starting to set in… I got to remind myself that it was only Saturday and I still had another full day of eating and drinking ahead of me!

Saturday’s BBQ took place at a Mansion in Jersey. And while I normally don’t do Jersey, we had a free ride over and I was told that the tequila flows like a river over on the other side of the actual river.

But it wasn’t just the tequila that was flowing. Because I’m a lady, I started off with red wine at dinner. For dessert, we all went downstairs to the bar to start the Tequila Boom Boom shots. (Pour tequila and Sprite into a shot glass, cover the shot glass, bang the shot glass on the bar twice, and drink before it foams over and spills on you!) In between shots we drank margaritas and I may have had one or two vodka shots to cleanse the palate.

The funniest thing about the Mansion party is that the host’s kids and their kid’s friends were present. Some of the kids were old enough to drink (or at least their parents were cool enough to let them drink.) But to my surprise, by the end of the night it was the young adults who were most sober and in control, while the old adults were drunker than a sophomore at prom.

Age wise, I of course fall somewhere in the middle… but I was definitely not one of the more sober ones. Once the kids left we closed out the night by playing drunken speed pool and doing a paint by numbers that was too complex to follow even while sober.

Unfortunately, our free ride left early, so the Good D., his Hag and & I had no option but to catch a bus back the NYC. After waiting 45 minutes for the bus, I was certain that I was going to be sleeping on a park bench in Nowhere, Jersey for the night.

Luckily, the bus finally did come and the Good D. was sober enough to stay awake while Haggy and I tried to sleep it off a bit. As soon as we got out of Penn Station, we were greeted by a bunch of Taxi drivers who were offering to drive us back to Jersey. At that point, I had already vowed never to return to Jersey. Plus, I found it a little insulting that they thought we looked like we could live there.

Now this morning, I am of course starting to feel the dread of having to go back to work tomorrow. But before that happens, I have to pack my bags up and head back to Brooklyn… to unpack… boxes. Vacation time is over.

Updates IV: Boring Running Updates.

After failing my N.M.P. (New Monthly Project) for April (finishing my one man show) I was determined to kick some ass on May’s N.M.P. (running 3x per week.)

I came so close…

By the end of the first 3 weeks I had a total of 10 runs.  That’s three times a week, plus one extra run thrown in for good measure.  No pussy runs either.  A light run was 4-5 miles.  Heavy runs, 6-7 miles.  (It sorta sounds like I’m talking about diarrhea, right?  You’re welcome.)

For the end of the 3rd week, I had taken the weekend off, as it was Memorial Day Weekend and my entire 4 days were spent drunk on Fire Island, drunk in Hells Kitchen, and drunk in my backyard in Bed-Stuy.  

Because I knew I was taking the weekend off, at the beginning of the 3rd week I had to really push it.  I went for 4 runs in a span of 5 days.  Not a good idea.  Especially since one of those runs was my 7+ mile run around Prospect Park.  

As a result, my right knee had swollen.  But because I spent my entire weekend intoxicated, I hadn’t really noticed that one knee was twice the size of the other.  Come Tuesday morning, however, once I had sobered up… it was painfully obvious.  

On top of my swollen right knee, my right ankle was cut to shreds thanks to our drunken walk through the bramble patch on Fire Island.  I had been wearing flip flops all weekend long, so once again, it wasn’t until I was forced to put shoes on Tuesday morning that I really noticed how much it hurt.

Long story short… my entire right leg was out of commission for the last week of the month.  Which means that I’ve now had two failed N.M.P.’s in a row.

However, on the bright side, I haven’t given up on running.  My running sched for the rest of the summer is to go twice a week… unless it’s too flipping hot out.  

Mission accomplished for last week.   So far for this week, I’ve only gone once.. but what a glorious run it was.  I had a sleepover at the Good D’s on Tuesday night.  So Wednesday (my day off) I decided to go for my first run ever(!) through Central Park.

I didn’t think I was going to go that far, so I started off at a rather brisk pace.  I should have known better.  5 minutes into my run and I had already made up my mind that I was going to run around the entire park.  But of course being a glutton for pain and punishment, I decided to try and maintain the fast(er) pace that I had already set for myself.

The run felt good (I had a lot of stress to burn off…) But I did almost end up dying.  Stupidly, I waited until the middle of the day (1pm) to start my run.  Right when the sun was at it’s highest and most cancer-giving.  I also hadn’t had anything to drink all morning except coffee.  Hydration is overrated while running in the hot, hot sun.  

By the time I had made it to my cool down power walk, I was seeing stars.  But the thing that really almost made me faint, was when I checked the time on my iPod.  I had ran the entire park (just short of 6 miles) in 50 minutes!  That means I was doing close to 8 minutes miles!  If my grade school self could see me now…

Oh… and as you may or may not have noticed, I did not come up with a N.M.P. for June.  In my head I told myself that finding a new apartment was going to be my N.M.P. for this month.  However, considering how the last two months went… it’s not my official N.M.P.  Just to be safe.

Updates, Part I: Memorial Day Weekend.

Since my camera was in Robert’s pocket when he was unsuspectingly pushed into a pool out on Fire Island, I have no photographic evidence of what took place Memorial Day Weekend. And even though I know my Boo feels bad, I could honestly care less about my camera. The entire weekend seemed like a fairytale that was too good to be true anyhow. It’s more poetic this way.

In the interest of time (and the blurriness of my vodka-jagger-brewskie-soaked memory) I’ll give you the abridged version of my weekend:

To get the party started off right, Lady R. rented a stretch hummer limo to drive us Lil’ Kim style from Bushwick to the Sayville Ferry. Between the 10 of us, we split 5 bottle of champagne. With full bladders, we asked the limo driver to make a pit stop. He pulled over to a rest area where we assumed there’d be a bathroom. There wasn’t. Instead there was a hole in the fence for people to climb through if they needed a little privacy from the freeway. Thankfully, my bladder could wait. Those with smaller bladders paid the price. My F.I.B.F. Tom stepped in human shit. (I’m not gonna tell you what that acronym stands for. You’ll just have to guess…)

Once on the ferry (fairy?) we moved on to a bottle of Jagger that we passed around and took shots out of for pretty much the entire 20 minute ride. This being my first time to Fire Island, I didn’t know what to expect. I knew that it was an entire island of fags (flamers = fire, get it?) But what I didn’t know about these fags was that the majority of them would be semi-wealthy Chelsea Queens in their early to mid-thirties. It was pretty obvious that we were going to be the younger, white-trash fags that would cause some raised eyebrows (and not in a good way) all weekend long. This was a fact that 1.) Came true and 2.) I was loving.

Our house was a mile down from Fag Central (the Pines) in a secluded area of the beach. It was if we had the entire island to ourselves. I took us a good 45 minutes to get there, as we were drunk and walking down the beach with our luggage. Lady R. tried to give me a piggyback ride, but I fell off of him because I thought he was going to drop me in the ocean.

Once we finally arrived at the house we celebrated by sitting up on the roof and drinking more. It was hot out, and we all knew how important it was to stay well hydrated. I had only known them for a few hours, but all of Robert’s best friends now seemed like my best friends.

After a few hours of chillaxing with my new besties, we decided to head down to the opposite side of the island (Cherry Grove) to eat at some restaurant that an old co-worker of theirs worked at. It was a long, long walk. Not everyone made it to the end.

Full up on booze, everyone ordered appetizers instead of entrees. And of course, more drinks. As we moved in from the patio to the bar, things got crazy and they never stopped. When I try and recall everything exactly as it happened, my brain starts to feel drunk again. Instead of being chronological or linear, it plays out like a series of muddled flashbacks or a crazy-ass montage. Kinda like this, minus the hard drugs. (P.S. Robert, you’re totally the Ellen Burstyn.)

What I do recall happening is this: Robert and the girls got naked at the bar, (especially funny since people we eating at tables not 10 feet away.) We got kicked out of one bar after Renee pushed Robert into the pool and Robert returned the favor. Sarah bum-rushed the karaoke stage and busted up her knee. F.I.B.F. and I engaged in a little too much PDA. After Sarah and Renee pretended to be lesbians, a real life dyke started stalking them. We all got lost trying to get back and we walked through a patch of brambles. We ran into some woman who was sitting on the boardwalk in her motorized wheelchair, not moving, because her battery had died.

After a crazy Friday, we decided to tone it down a notch on Saturday. There was beach time, rooftop time and boardwalk time. We decided to stay on our side of the island for the night, having a BBQ and drinks at the house. Around 11pm F.I.B.F., Renee and I all decided to lay down “for a few minutes.” I woke up at 2:30am. All three of us were sleeping the short way on a bed full of sand.

Sunday morning F.I.B.F and I woke up early to head back the big island. Except for a helicopter or plane, we took just about every mode of transportation there was to get back: ferry, van, train, subway. F.I.B.F. and I parted ways and told each other we’d always have the island…

Usually when I get back from such a wonderful vacation I immediately become depressed. But such was not the case this time, for I knew that my weekend was only half over. Sunday night I had a dinner date/sleepover with the Good Doctor and Monday Jeffrey and I were having our first (and last) Bed-Stuy Backyard BBQ.

I promised myself not to blog about the Good Doctor, and I’m now running late for work (natch) so I don’t have time to blog about our BBQ. For those details, you’ll have to visit Jeffrey’s Blog.

Next update: My new iPod!

DAY 237: Cake x 2.

Here’s a little tip for you: If you are meeting a date for drinks at 8pm, be sure to have supper beforehand.

Here’s a bigger tip for you: If you’re (more than) slightly intoxicated after having a liquid dinner on said date, do not try and bake a cake when you get home.

For Jeannie’s B’day party tonight, I wanted to make a cake. Knowing that I had to work today, I thought it would be in my best interest to bake the cake the night before.

After getting back from my date last night, I was a little sloppy thanks to two tanquerays with just a splash of tonic and no food in my belly. I should have known better than to try and bake a three-layered cake, but I thought I was a pretty functioning alcoholic. Turns out, I’m not. After making too much batter, there was a fourth layer to my cake… all over the bottom of my shitty, lopsided oven.

The batter that actually stayed in the pans did not-a-pretty-cake make. Because our entire kitchen is on a slant, the cake was uneven: burnt on one side and too spongy on the other. I saved all three layers, hoping that the following day (in a more sober state) I could salvage the cake into something edible. I couldn’t. A burnt cake is a burnt cake is a burnt cake.

After getting home from work today, I dove right into making Cake V2.0. This time I only took on two layers, and while each layer was still a bit uneven, I discovered that enough frosting can solve anything.

At the party, that cake was a hit. But I think that’s mainly because the majority of the cake-eaters were stoned. But hey, I’ll take what I can get.

AND NOW, I’D LIKE TO TAKE A MOMENT TO SAY…

Happy Birthday Jeannie!!! After being apart for so many years, I never thought that my west-coast-loving BFF would be living a mile away from me in Brooklyn. I’m so lucky to have you back

DAY 172: T.S.F.P. Recap.

Here’s a quick recap of my T.S.F.P. (Top Secret February Project)

Number of Dates: 15

Number of Guys: 12

Number of Drinks: 17
(9 Gin & Tonics, 4 Beers, 2 Mojitos, 1 Red Wine, 1 Lychee Martini)

Number of Dollars Spent: $211
($286 if you count the $75 I spent signing up for Match.com)

Number of Guys I Am Still Seeing: 0

Yup. And I’m actually not bitter about it. By forcing myself to go on a bunch of dates, I discovered what I’ve always suspected: I’m not really into dating.

So is this still The Year of the Boyfriend? Sure. But I’m just hoping that he’ll magically find me. Cuz I’m tired of looking.

DAY 157: Cuddle Bear.

No date for tonight. I could have had a very last minute Crazy Blind Date, but by the time they contacted me with all the info, I had already made up my mind that I was going straight home after work. I had an improv show tonight, and I knew if I didn’t go home and rest a bit in between, I would probably be a zombie on stage.

Although I’m feeling better, I’m still not back to my same ol’ self. Case in point: I also didn’t want to go on the date tonight because I knew that it would involve drinking, and seeing as I was meeting my improv group for a drink before the show, one social drinking event was going to be quite enough for me(!) Tonight I had my first drink in a week. I can’t remember the last time I stayed sober for that long. (Actually, I can, it was during The Master Cleanse Mindfuck of ‘07.)

Even with resting in between work and my show, I was still sort of a zombie on stage, but at least I didn’t pass out or fall over. After the show I went out with Beta and her posse to the Burp Castle, a bizarre monastery-themed bar in the EV that plays no music and if you talk above a whisper you get shushed by the bartender. At the B.C. I was almost hate crimed by a group of frat boy rapists who were not digging the whole “no talking above a whisper” theme.

By the time I got back home it was 2am, which was far too late for this little sickie to stay out and play. As I was in our front hall I noticed a small Fed Ex package sitting on the floor. “Oooh, I wonder if that’s for me?” I thought to myself, as I picked it up. Much to my surprise, it was! However, my delight soon turned to fear as I saw the name of the company it was shipped from: “Get Well Cuddles.” WTF?

I brought the package back to my room and stared at it for a minute. I was afraid that it was going to be like The Ark of the Covenant, and blind me with a radiant white light once I opened it. What was to be found inside was slightly less terrifying, but only slightly. The contents of the box were: Gourmet cookies, hard candies, cammomile tea, and a teddy bear that was wearing a “Get Well Soon” sweater. Bernard, my V-day date who is rehearsing at the Jersey Rep. for the next 5 weeks sent it to me. Once my initial fear subsided, I was able to appreciate the gift a bit more. I was maybe even touched by it. Maybe.

For a minute I consider letting the bear sleep in bed with me. But then I had a vision of him coming alive in the middle of the night, a la Chucky. So now he lives safely tucked away in my closet. I hope.