Daddy drinks because you cry

Well, baby cries because she drinks champagne cocktails at an alarming rate. I am going to have to admit to being middle aged. I have reached the point in my life when a hangover is now a two day affair. What happens to the body? Is it less resilient, does my liver really know it is almost 40 years old? EVEN if I tricked it and didn't really enjoy going to the local boozeteria until well into my 20's? The only good to come out of my wasted Saturday was ample time to feel sorry for myself AND the opportunity to watch the first season of The Royle Family.

I will always marvel at the number of fantastic programs the BBC has churned out. In this particular show, nothing happens. The viewer is sucked into the mediocrity of a family of northerners who do nothing but smoke, watch tv, and eat the occasional bacon butty. Yet somehow, it is hilarious and endearing and enlightening all in one go. Unfortunately, it was short lived because of some sort of studio turmoil and the private lives of the cast and writers. The strangest thing is that I find the show somewhat inspiring. I guess a lesson on how NOT to live ones life.

Oh, Caroline Aherne, come to the U.S. and we will make it alright.

Morning Snippet

I hate it when someone gets into the elevator at the last minute. This a.m. it happened not once, but twice. First, a giant man wedged his body between the doors at the last minute. Shortly thereafter, a small mousy being with earmuffs and a coat 3 times her size zipped in before the doors slammed shut. The following conversation took place:

Doors shut, Mouse looks up at Large and says
"Helloooo", her voice is whiny and mocking and I snort a bit at her comedic approach to mornings at the office.

Large mumbles something with an 'H' in it.

Mouse gazes up at the informative Captivate screen, which notes that people from Denmark rate to be the happiest in the world.

Mouse: pointing at the screen, "Now, why do we need to know that?"

It is at this point that I realize that the comedic sound IS her real voice.
Large emits grunt.

The next news tidbit of the day grants the viewer with a list of the highest rated stocks.

Mouse: "And why do we need to know that?"

Large is doing a great job of avoiding Mouse's imploring gaze.
A newsflash about the Bush check incentives flashes across the screen. Mouse fidgets with excitement. The elevator stops. The doors start to open.

Mouse: "Hey, if they send me a check in the mail, I'll take it. Who wouldn't?"

Mouse scurries behind Large as he takes long steps, presumably to keep her from getting underfoot.

This snippet was a fantastic example of what is wrong with this society. The "who gives a fuck about that, oooh, can I have that?" culture. All immediacy, without a thought about the big picture. I hope Mouse spends her check wisely. She will probably plonk down a down payment on a Jennifer Sofabed or perhaps a singles cruise to DR.

I am going to sell all my stocks and move to Denmark.

Swiffer Train

I don't care if you ever take the Shuttle. I don't care if you are the type to not leave your hovel in the far reaches of Bay Ridge or Greenpoint. No matter what you do, you must take your hipper than thou self and get on the Swiffer Train. The interior is made to look like hardwood floors---floor, walls and ceiling, all shiny woodgrain. For some reason, it is very pleasing to the senses. Unless, of course, you have my luck and manage to get on the one car with the hobo. But only then does the campaign lose its appeal. I am going to go home and Swiffer the fuck out of my neighborhood.

In Deep, In Bruges

Yes, connoisseurs of the pan flute will note that I quoted Yanni.

I just returned from a testosterone laden evening, which started with a viewing of the latest McDonagh film, In Bruges, starring Colin Ferrell's expressive eyebrows. The man has gone from touting his sexy wares with a lift of a brow, to befuddling audiences with the knitting of his hair cigars in a look of permanent confusion. Regardless, I still liked the film, though there were a few pat wrapping up of mysteries and some of the twists seemed a bit obvious. One scene that struck me favorably, however, was that of Ken (Gleason) watching Ray (Ferrell) prepare himself for a date. It was a man moment rarely witnessed; tender, charming, and fleeting and it was devoid of the sap one would normally see.
Everyone was up to snuff. Even Ralph Fiennes as Ben Kingsley, the new tough guy (see Sexy Beast), did the role justice.

Best supporting role goes to Belgian ale, which was quaffed copiously.

In retrospect, I find it amusing that the fellas I was with chose to repair to the local brew pub to get Stella and snails. Tough guys are all the same.

Marry Me

It is gorgeous out. Sunny and bright and crisp and cool, and I look forward to exploring the cheese caves at Murray's http://www.murrayscheese.com/prodinfo.asp?number=CAVE021608. Après le fromage, I may take the edge off with a glass boot of ale, but first I have to take care of a little matter.

Who is it? Who are you, you genius that invented the Fleur de Sel caramel? And who is your evil, lovable twin who put it in ice cream?

I ask because I think I love you.

Intermacgooglewebular

Through the powers of the World Wide Web, an old college chum has found me. Naturally, it is not rare these days. People are found, re-discovered, romances re-kindled, hates re-formed daily. Hourly. But is it really wise? Back in the day, you graduate from a mediocre college and when you are gone, you are gone. One could rely on the powers of just bumping into someone on the corner of Haight and Ashbury (ok, this happened to me once and it was horrifying. I was running and errand, I swear!!!). Looking someone up is one thing, but now when you find someone you see quite a large part of their current lives. Or, as much as someone wishes to share, which is often too much, in my opinion.

I am not alone in thinking that perhaps this "tell it all" culture is a bit odd. What I find more troubling is that I walk past hundreds of people on the street that wouldn't give me a second glance on the sidewalk, yet once they are behind closed doors would have no qualms with telling me about their alcoholic step-dad and their propensity for bondage. I fear that the more exposure one allows themselves in one forum, another realm will suffer, namely, face to face. Such divulging of secrets may tap out the reserves, so then what does a person met "in the wild" have left?

It takes about 10 minutes of online dating to realize that the beauty of the internet is creating a new persona. Imperfections and quirks welcome, because gee, don't they sound great and funny in print? Sure! Given the right context, a hypochondriac who collects Pez dispensers and lives with 10 guys in a warehouse is de rigeur. I can fool myself, I can fool you--for months, friends, because I will believe my own new life. That is, until you get to know me and things fall apart.

That is why I sometimes think that online dating is like cloning. Both make a certain sense, but they are ultimately unnatural. It all seems fine in the beginning, but who knows how things will progress down the line, how things will age and warp in the future when the truer elements start to take over. I want to meet the animated version of my beau FIRST. A great photo is alluring, but what about the gleam in the eye, the little crows feet that form when he laughs, or the quirky hand gesture when relaying a story? That to me is all more important than having them tell me how they had to add pages to a passport to accommodate all those stamps at the border. (By the way, the world traveler thing is passé at this point. Everyone likes to travel, even if it is just to Montauk. This Paris to Positano bullshit must end.)

The point is, I am going to see someone I haven't seen in over a decade. I cringe at the thought that I knew this person as a young adult. Does that make me a pre-middle aged adult? He found me. Threw me an e-wave. So, of course I will go. I just hope he doesn't think my online self is my self.

My Funky Valentimes

I really don't have any true feelings of malice towards the creator of this holiday (and I use that term loosely, Hallmark). However, I find it mildly amusing and somewhat irritating that people spend millions of dollars on absolute rubbish. Running to the train this a.m., I spied a table full of cellophane-wrapped plush bears, each with his tiny poorly sewn paws clutching desperately at a faux rose. They looked uncomfortable in their clear tombs, and their collective expression was not unlike that of the man who fails to plan an evening out for his beloved. Gents: For the future, note that anxiety ridden bears make great gifts.

As a single gal about town, I could find comfort in watching badgered looking men walk arm in arm with their scantily clad, well shod mates du jour. The women tend to carry an expression of forced happiness, flashing the pearlies, or they appear spoiled and petulant. It is not an endearing scene and certainly not one that makes me long for another.

When I recall times past when I was involved in some sort of quasi-relationship, my focus leaned towards the absurd. One year I made my one true love a card out of various clippings from nature magazines. I taped a picture of his head on top of a mountain range and quoted the chorus from that detestable John Mayer hit. Another year, I created a heartwarming funeral wreath out of fake black roses. In return, he would go to the nearby bodega and find the naffest card imaginable, or make a gift of a bag of dried cuttlefish. The heart warms just thinking about it.

masseusical

After becoming a female Herman Munster due to extreme neck pain, I finally relented and went to the local Tui Na massage parlor near the work place. I asked for the lunch special (3o minutes of rub for 20 bones...not bad, right?) but almost as soon as my face hit the paper towel/face hole, i passed out. Minutes or an hour later I awoke to find that not only was a small Asian woman on my back grinding her elbow into my upper trapezius, I was crying and could hear the tears hit the industrial low pile carpet. I think she hit my sad bone.