begin harmless innocuous post guaranteed to illicit elicit pity and cease quarrelling… NOW.
i’m sick. i never get sick. i don’t like getting sick.
at present: my nose is stuffed up, my head hurts, my eyeballs hurt, my neck hurts, my throat hurts and my soul is in torture. this last one has nothing to do with my sinus infection.
things i want: a backrub. my mommy. ginger lemon tea. a clean room. someone to give me a bathtub bath. a nice fluffy clean white robe. some warm soup. someone to read a book to me. altogether less snot.
instead, i’m talking online to two of my favorite people. and because i am Independent Woman of Substance, i will not wait for someone to give me a bath, make me soup, and put to bed, and get my act together, drag self to grocery store, and buy miracle tea ingredients like this sweetie is commanding me to do.
but not before i sniffle a little and bemoan my loneliness.
*sniffle*
right next to “gullible” in the dictionary
someone explain to me the point of “joke” blogs. i don’t get this. like this blog? and its corresponding blog, written by her “adoring model boyfriend”? i mean, i get that it’s fake. i do. but that doesn’t make it interesting to read. so she’s mocking a style of human being, right, the self-absorbed ditz? by writing a blog just like a self-absorbed ditz? i don’t understand how this is really any kind of humor: wit, satire, commentary, or irony … it’s a one-trick joke.
and then you’ll come across the blogs, like this one, that almost seem too have to much material invested in them to be fake. i mean, why would anyone go through so much trouble to write an entire fake blog, and a fake 100 things, to mock the classic southern redneck who’s got a dixie flag on his ‘vette and who says things like ‘squirrel covers’ for underwear and wants women to ‘ride my ‘stache’? i don’t think that character would be all that funny in real life. much less on a blog.
the question becomes, where does the revealing journal-style of the blog end, and the fantasy world of blog-creation begin? is it a joke if the author never reveals the punchline – namely, ‘ha ha, i’m kidding!’? is it a joke if you’re cariacaturing real-life personalities that perhaps aren’t as one-sided as ‘vette-driving, ‘stache-wearin’ southern boys or self-absorbed princesses?
i don’t know. i don’t mean to insult these bloggers, or imply that they don’t deserve to have weblogs. by all means, create as many fake blogs as you want. but for my two cents, the joke only lasts until you get it. and then it gets old.
Lighting a cigarette from the Easter candle?!?!? How dare you! Show some respect, literally, for Heaven’s sake! Who do you think you are? An ignorant, immature little girl it sounds like, who wasn’t reprimanded nearly enough growing up. Had I been there I would have plucked that cigarette right out of your mouth and thrown out the door. Who the hell smokes at Church?!? If you find Mass so bloody amusing, stop going before you offend other parishioners. Church is not a game- it’s a place for those who are adamant and serious about practicing their faith. If you’re there to just screw around without any intention to worship The Lord, leave His house until you can be mature enough to attend Church.
“appalled” no email address was noted, or this editorial reply would have gone directly to our fire-and-brimstone righteously indignant reader.
editorial reply: a little appalled myself
appalled, there are many sins in the book of sins, but not having a sense of humor is certainly among the worst. let me tell you a little something about me, appalled -
i’m not religious. i don’t believe one sees god in a church any more than one sees god in the faces of loved ones, in the heroism of humanity, in the curl of a leaf, in the swirl of a galaxy. i believe, too, that we see god in sin – we see god in the betrayal of trust, we see god in greed and vice, we see god in negligence and abuse. if there is a god, my friend, it has created everything around you.
including me. just. as. i. am.
i go to church, you self-important wanker, because i pay my respects to the deities i cherish – love and friendship and respect. the greek church means a lot to my father. he has lost most of his family and the greek orthodox church is his last connection to his childhood and his country. i go, every year, at easter. my father does not pretend that i go to seek salvation from god. he himself does not go to seek salvation. he goes to pay tribute to his ancestry, to say a silent ‘i miss you’ to his mother, and his father, and his brother. he goes to honor tradition. and he knows that i go with him, to honor him.
and his judgement, his understanding, is what matters to me. the judgement of those who matter to me is the only judgement that has an effect on me. not the church. not a thousand-year-old holy book written by gifted men who had an agenda, albeit an honorable one, of bringing morals and principles into the world through the tenets of religion. not even jesus, whom i regard as a right stand-up bloke with a good head on his shoulders and some very good principles…. and certainly not your judgement, my cowardly stranger friend.
so, yes, i lit a cigarette with an easter candle. in truth, i wasn’t paying attention and automatically did it, only realizing later with a laugh what i’d done. but you know what, you sodding windbag? it’s a candle. it’s not my Light of God. and it’s not your place to judge, or chastise, or despise me for my actions.
but you know what? we’ll all hold hands and forgive you, my appalled close-minded reader, because you know not what you do. how’s that for blasphemy?
spot the cardinal sins:
1. scoping the chapel for hotties.
2. realizing the priest looks a lot like sir ian mackellan and the pretending he’s gandalf and you’re an elven princess.
3. reading the liturgy book and marking your place when you stand up, because it was at the juicy bit about virgins.
4. telling your dad you need to use the bathroom, then popping outside for a quick smoke.
5. making faces at the chubby little greek girl in front of you because she keeps turning around to gape.
6. taking two pieces of communion bread because it’s two in the morning and you’re hungry.
7. once outside, lighting your cigarette from the ceremonial candle you’re supposed to carry all the way home, and then blowing it out, forgetting it’s not a match.
what can i say. there’s something about the void of irony in all religious ceremonies that brings out the snarky heretic in me.
bringing it out on the playground, y’all.
here’s the thing. i’m looking for a roomie. starting june 1st. and craigslist is just not getting my rocks off. so i’m turning to you, blogworld. you’re all fabulous, except for the ones who are scary freaks and i’m sure none of those people are my readers. i’m looking for a roomie and i’ve posted the ad over here, complete with pictures of my fab flat and the room you’d occupy. you already know i’m fun, and cool, and other positive adjectives. i don’t have to sell myself to you. so if you’re a workin’ girl here in manhattan and you’re looking for a place to live come june 1st, send me an email or leave a comment after the beep.
bring it on, kids. let’s find me a roommate, blogger-style.
UPDATE: clearly, i need to be more specific. you have to follow the link to the ad. then you have to read it. after you’ve read it, you need to assess whether or not you fit any of the criteria. and n.b. guys, it’s going to take a very special boy for me to pick a boy over a girl. you think you’re that boy, alright, but i’m picky about living with guys. then you leave a comment with your contact info and any questions you have. seriously, folks, please don’t just leave comments saying you want info just to be cute, yar?
thanks!
friday five
i was going to write about oral sex. but in 24 hours i will be sitting in a greek church, for midnight easter mass. there will be a lot of chanting, that will sound like this: “ahhhblahblahblah BLAH blah” to my ears. there will be a lot of standing up and sitting down, and there will be the blood of the savior*. it seems a little scandalous to write about cunnilingus on the anniversary of JC’s untimely crucifixion. on his birthday, sure, i mean that was a pretty happy day. but to honor the brutal whacking of a stand-up bloke, i think i’ll steer clear of the sex talk for today.
*depending on your side of the transubstantiation fence, that is.
instead, five things about five friends:
erin. erin has an annoying habit of picking at her split ends when she’s nervous or bored, and don’t even mention to her how small her hands are, but the best things about erin are: she’ll drive me to magnolia’s when we’re stoned, she’ll expertly parse clueless-guy-speak with me for hours over the phone, and she is still friends with me even though she knew me in eighth grade.
raychul. raychul is the most graceful lunatic i’ve ever met. she can talk you through an existential crisis as smoothly as helping you pick nail polish. i witnessed her ravenously inhaling two burritos ten minutes before her wedding. she’s probably seen every simpsons episode ever, and her and her hubby like to prank call their friends on weeknights.
seastreet. if sea were an animal, he’d be a porcupine and i mean that in the most affectionate way possible. he has an incredibly infectious laugh and a habit of saying “nevermind” like a five year old when he gets frustrated. he carries a ratty black backpack with him everywhere and is capable of convincing me to do almost anything, including drive 10 miles to get food at three o’clock in the morning.
fulminous. ful is the biggest rock star i know without actually having any musical aspirations at all. he will call you from outside a mexican restaurant to chat about nothing for twenty minutes and he will let you stay on his couch and watch movies if you’re feeling lonely. he looks suprisingly like mark-paul gosselaar with black hair and he leaves the funniest voice mail messages ever, most of which start with: “oh. my. god. so. okay…”
my mom. my mother rarely calls me by my name, usually resorting to pumpkin ["paamkeen"], zuzuca, or lovey-dovey [laahvey-daahvey]. her style and flair could kick martha stewart’s ass into the ground and then turn the remains into a pleasing flower bed. she goes shopping for me and brings back stuff i’d never find, and gives me shoes all the time. she also gives out her best advice at two a.m. in the kitchen, chain-smoking with me and drinking tea. she’s the strongest woman i’ve ever met.
what are five things you love about a friend?
crawling back under the Stupid Rock from whence i came.
i know you think my life is all pretty handbags and witty soirees and torrid love affairs and tra la la.
you’re right. it is.
but then every now and then, little elves come in the middle of the night and beat me over the head with the idiot stick. and i do something really dumb. so, to make you feel better that you rarely partake in my witty soirees [except you, ful, because you are my witty soiree.] … i will regale you with stories of all the stupid things i’ve done while under the curse of elfin idiot magic:
when i was one, i was tottering around my aunt’s house, buck nekkid except for a diaper. i happened upon some mosquito-warding device that consisted of hot citronella paste in some sort of little electric pot. the details are hazy. suffice it to say, i stuck my curious little finger in it. it was predictably, very hot. so what did baby christina do? she wiped the steamy bad hotness on her bare little chest, of course. the little burn scar remains, under my right breast. no, i won’t show it to you.
once, i made a pot of coffee. only, i didn’t put in the filter. so, really, i made a pot of mud. it was all kinds of foul.
up until i was sixteen, i thought you made pasta by putting the pasta in a pot of cold water and setting it to boil. keep in mind, i had maids growing up. but still. no wonder my mac’n'cheese was always soggy.
in high school, erin and raychul once made a joke about someone named “phil ashio”. i didn’t get it. until much, much later. around the same time, a british tv sketch comedy show did a “rock song” called “kinda lingers”. didn’t get that one, either.
erin and raychul again, 1996, in the car, singing along to the police’s ‘don’t stand so close to me’. krissa: “what book by nabakov?” yeah. i was naive. which necessarily leads to the fact that i didn’t know why they called amy fisher “the long island lolita”. i know now, okay?
i used to pronounce feng shui, well, like it looks. then some pompous asshole told me it was fun shway. i stopped discussing the matter all together and have never said the word outloud since then.
most of my boyfriends. yeah. they count. specifically, the one who drunkenly carved my name in his arm with a pen knife but spelt it wrong. oh, and spending two years with a parrothead.
putting my foot into my docs in the nairobi national park without checking for siafu – fire ants. and then lacing them all the way up before realizing it.
fracturing my pelvis. shut up, you pervies, not like that. worse – doing the jump splits on a hardwood floor in socks without warming up.
that’s about it. well, no – erin, raychul, and sea could probably regale you with more idiotic things i’ve said or done. and no doubt, they will. with friends like that, honestly …
what’s your catalogue of idiocy?
the revolution will not be rent-controlled.
let me tell you something about something. let me tell you something about the revolution. it starts with this, my friends. and here is how events will unfold.
the upper-crust, the creme-de-la-creme, they are going to lose their doormen. poor little rich people, you say. poor little rich people indeed! do you know what will happen? can you see it?
these poor little rich people! pity them. they do not kill their own scampering cockroaches. they do not sort through yards of junk mail. they do not jimmyrig toilet handles. they do not take out their own trash, oh no. in fact, they don’t even know where to take the trash. they do not hail their own taxis. they do not jiggle their own fuse boxes. no, no. they don’t do any of these things. their doormen do.
do you know what will happen to the streets of manhattan gentle readers? oh yes. the change will be subtle at first. a gentleman in an armani suit with a banana peel stuck to his heel. a woman wearing manolos, standing in a hardware store, asking what in the sam hell a wrench does. whole cocktail parties of swanky folk, standing in the darkness of an upper east side loft while two or three “men” discuss the mythology of the location of the mysterious fuse box. women getting sprayed by rainwater as they pathetically hail their own taxis, dainty limp wrists dangling desperately.
for, of course, this breed of beautiful people – porcelain, bejeweled people with haunty, uniformed doormen – they are not like us savvy street people. oh no. they do not know to jump back from a rainy curb when your coveted taxi cab screeches up to you! they are the glamorous, the flawless, the wads of cold green cash sashaying down fifth avenue. but this is their little secret, isn’t it – they cannot find their fuse box. they do not know the proper double-bagging technique that will save them the ignomy of trash breaking over their feet like an army of infection storming a beach. they do not know, these beautiful people, what to do in that horrible moment when the toilet will not flush. why? because of the doormen, of course!
and then the change will be noticeable, on the streets. who will be sashaying down the bowery with a sense of style? who will own manhattan? why, the stylishly downtrodden masses, of course! the savvy street people who have long taken out their own trash. and jimmied our own toilets. the wired peons, who have always trudged ten blocks through five feet of snow to get to the subway because hailing a cab is reserved for drunken nights and mad hospital dashes. we will saunter past their cafes on the west side, where they sit. and instead of discussing whether or not Geoffrey Zackarian’s new restaurant is as delish as his old one … they will be discussing toilets! and trash! and sorting your mail from your vicious neighbors! and taking in your own dry cleaning!
and the savvy masses, on our way to grey’s papaya, we will chuckle a little at their rumpled demeanor and their shocked, rude awakenings. we will say to each other, “well, i’ve always known where my fuse box is.”
and we will have won a tiny, tiny victory in the revolution that is new york.
this should be taken lightly. if you have a doorman and you’re outraged at either me, or your doorman, you’re not paying attention.
Becoming Responsible Woman of Iron Will, or Similar
this morning, i accomplished the following:
1. Made appointment for dentist, thus relieving Father-Worrier of daily irritating phone calls on subject of Teeth Repair/Maintenance.
2. Made appointment for obgyn, reasons obvious.*
3. Refunded Father-Bank for trip to brasil, also cheering him up considerably.
4. Filled out Complicated-Looking Flexible-Spending-Account** Withdrawal Request to pay for Also-V.-Responsible purchase of new contact lenses***.
5. Paid both phone bills. v.v.good, as actually paid this month before long-overdue.
6. Paid off a third of Nagging Credit Card Debt.
In Addition, complete transformation into Responsible Creature of Adult Substance will necessitate the following minor changes, effective immediately:
1. No more than one hour of Soul Sucking Television a night.
2. Will power-walk around neighborhood [with hand-weights to smack Insolent-Attackers on head with] in order to shed few pounds and live up to friends’ effusive compliments concerning self’s loveliness.
3. Same goes for dieting. Will resist ordering Domino’s. This will be easier, as will no longer be spending Hours On Deadly End sitting on couch in front of Soul Sucking Television. Ergo, less Fatty Pizza****.
4. Save money by bringing lunches from home more often.
which will require:
5. Waking up at 7am more often and eating hearty whole-wheat toast breakfast and anti-oxidizing teas, dressing with leisure and preparing lunch as well as taking-out-of-garbage and dish-washing.*****
*must keep equipment in smoothly running condition for future happiness and Mini-Hiboux-Production someday.
**Account whose concept i have yet to fully comprehend but was told to use by Father-CPA.
***in order to keep eyes in relatively working condition so as to be able to actually see future mini-hiboux.
****will complementarily stop fooling self that Thin Crust Pizza is, in any way, less fattening.
*****This method will be infinitely preferable to waking up at 8:30, throwing back a cup of ulcer-giving coffee, smoking cigarette while getting ready and running out the door with panty-hose on backwards.
hurrah! in order to celebrate New-Found Responsible Inner Goddess, i think i’ll have … cheesy potato skins for lunch.
shut up, Inner Goddess!
much thanks to bridget jones for being funny enough and fictional enough that i can unabashedly rip off her style for this entry.
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