Denied

Last night while I was lounging around, watching tv, I smelled a cinnamon donut. I'm pretty sure there isn't even any cinnamon in my apartment, let alone a cinnamon donut, and yet I'm positive I smelled it. Since that moment my craving for one has grown considerably, but I haven't been able to purchase said ring-shaped cake fried in fat and covered with light yellowish brown spice due to time constraints and/or forgetfulness. It's no longer about want. It's about need. Pure, fundamental need.
What must have I done in a past life to warrant such punishment? Or perhaps it's for the martini glass?

The Jamie Encounters

I have never met a female named Jamie who could pass for nice. I’m not quite sure what it means in the larger scheme of things or even if it means anything at all, but at the moment it’s just a fact. That's not to say nice female Jamies don't exist, it's just that I haven't met any.

Neighborhood Jamie – Blonde. I was younger than four so I don’t remember much, but my mother tells me she was mean. Obviously it was chemical.

Kindergarten Jamie – Brunette. She and Jenny would play ‘kittens’ during recess and when I asked if could play too, I was denied as if I was just not cool enough to be seen playing with her. Jenny always just looked at me wide-eyed.

Grammar School Jamie – Red head. Though we didn’t really know each other, I always found her giving me weird looks when passing or from the other side of a large room.

High School Jamie – Blonde. Alleged friend, until I realized I always felt like crap around her for a reason. She was mean-spirited and manipulative in order to compensate for her extreme insecurities.

College Jamie – Brunette. Freshman year roommate who wasn’t so much mean as she was just completely oblivious to living with a whole other person in a 10x10 room. Personal hygiene was not high on her list of priorities, nor was blaring music or having boys over to do her class work at a normal hour.

So…if you are female and your name is Jamie, and if our paths are destined to cross at some point, please forgive me for being wary. Your namesake track record isn’t exactly stellar.

Mom's "Gateway" Mantra

Once One, Always One?

Is being a thief like being an alcoholic?

“Even when they’re dry as my lips for years. Even when they’re stranded on a small desert island with no place within 2000 miles to buy beer.” –Ani D.


I have stolen exactly two things in my entire life. The first was a little rubber ball from a gumball type quarter machine when I was ten. It didn’t occur to me that I had committed a crime until I showed my mother and she asked if I had paid for it. I shook my head no and she said, “Well then you stole it.” I spent the next ten minutes guiltily trying to shove the ball back up into the machine.

The second was a martini glass from a bar I went to a few years ago on a day that I was angry. I was just so angry. The decision to wipe the glass dry and slip it into my purse was intentional and clear headed. The drink was overpriced anyway so I figured we were even, me and bar. I feel no guilt over this one.

According to Merriam-Webster Online a thief is: one that steals especially stealthily or secretly; also: one who commits theft or larceny.

I choose to use the former definition as it is in present tense and therefore no longer applies to me. I’ll sleep better.

Public Nuisances

People who spit anywhere other than their bathroom sink should be fined, especially if it happens near the vicinity of me, 100 bucks to anyone who witnessed and was disgusted by it.

People who cut their nails anywhere other than their bathroom should be dragged out into the street and hung by those nails, provided they are caught before they have been clipped. Especially if caught doing it on public transportation.

People who stop in the middle of the sidewalk and effectively become a wall I must wait to find a way around while the line of people who got to the wall a split second before me passes by, should be jailed for obstructing a major artery of transportation.

People who cut in front of me while walking on the sidewalk and go at a pace ten times slower than mine should be forced to do 300 hours of community service for generally pissing me off.

People named Tom Cruise should be ordered to get back on his medication, come to his senses and award me punitive damages in the amount of one million dollars for my mental distress. Every day I suffer being inundated with pictures, stories and sound bites of his miserable existence. It has to stop.

Truly Outrageous

Like most children I sought answers about the world from my parents and never once questioned their explanations. Why is the sky blue? How come Danny is so mean to me? Where do babies come from?

The answer to one of my questions in particular has stuck with me. The phenomenon of rain was explained with the following:

“The Angels in heaven have ducks, and every time it rains they make their ducks cry.”

My Mother’s selective memory refuses to acknowledge certain details of my and my brothers' youths, and she fiercely denies telling me this. But I know that despite my expansive imagination and blossoming creativity, I was not good enough to come up with something like that.

There is a possibility that when I asked how the Angels cried she answered with tear ducts. To a six year old that clearly meant ducks with tears. Either way, it's her fault I'm weird.


To this day the sight of rain brings back childhood imagery that if printed in a book would get me placed in some kind of institution. The Angels are lined up like an army, shoulder to shoulder with medium sized wings way too small to carry their actual weight, wearing shapeless white robes. Each holds before him or her a huge yellow duck. To create the rain, the Angel must pull a small tuft of feathers on the ducks head so that it will cry.

I also believed all I saw on television, namely that Jem! truly was outrageous. If only my world could be divided between The Holograms and The Misfits (whose songs are better, they are the misfits, and they're gonna get her).

Open Letter to Mr. Colbert

Dear Stephen:

I could go on and on, but I'll keep it short. Here are the top three reasons I offer as to why you should employ me as your Yes (Wo)man:

I think you are brilliant and will say so after every brilliant remark you make.

I think you are hilarious and will laugh at every funny joke you tell.

I’ll make you dinner every night as long as you promise to make a speech.

Colbert for president!

All my love,
#53141

Dumbassery Abounds

You will not believe where I ended up last night.

Somehow I found myself standing outside Mr. Needy’s drowned alive nonsense. I know. It would seem to completely negate the validity of my last post, but I did not find myself standing there of my own volition.

I went out to dinner with the girls on the UWS and our walk home took us down past Lincoln center. Angel and Snix just had to see what all the buzz was about and effectively pushed me past the outer gathering of tourists and, cough, Blaine fans, into the fray.

To be honest, the human size fish bowl he sat in was cool, but I would rather have seen a couple gold fish rather than his dumb sleeping ass. People waited in line to circle the bowl just to see his dumb sleeping ass up close. Amazing.

I thought about setting my hair on fire just to make a bigger dumb spectacle to draw attention away from him. But then I realized I like my hair and it wasn’t worth sacrificing just to one up Mr. Needy.

Best observance of the absurdity was Snix’s comment on the brightly colored bead wearing crowd.

"Hell-OH, it’s called Cinco de Mayo not Mardi Gras, dumbasses."

Open Letter To Mr. Blaine

David:

I think George Michael was right:

Maybe your mama gave you up boy
Maybe your daddy didn't love you enough

We all know you need attention and your funds are low, but why can't you just get a real job and suffer internally about being alone like the rest of us?

Drowned alive? As oppposed to what, drowned dead?

If you like peeing into a tube so much, get a visiting nurse to set you up with something. The rest of us don't need to deal with your shit.

Sincerely,
"Tired of having to put up with your acting out for attention in NYC"
Hapabukbuk

Satan's Rules of Use

For whatever reason, Satan just does not want me in his rest room. He is trying to drive me out by implementing these rules about how and when I can use each facility, and reprimanding me when I fail to follow them.

The sink can only be used after high noon and the cold water must run first or the deal’s off. Before that time or if hot water is used first, the water smells like death and should probably not touch bare human skin nor be ingested.

The toilet can only be used whenever he feels like letting me use it. There is no set time, therefore I always get it wrong. In payment, it leaks. Constantly.

The shower has the least amount of restrictions, but I am fearfully awaiting the day that changes. Lately the pipes have been rattling when the shower is turned on.

Using the shower as a bathtub however, has the most irritating rules, which I am sure he created while bored and in need of entertainment. When the tub is filled, it is perfectly acceptable to sit in it. However, if you try to lean back in order to make yourself comfortable and not leave your arms and shoulders exposed to the freezing cold bathroom air, the tub begins to drain. Sit back up and it stops draining. The plug never moves. It’s just Satan’s little joke. Funny man. Real funny.

How do I exorcise my bathroom??