Be my Danny Glover

With the World Cup going on, my classic-American-girl attraction to white guys with British/Irish/Aussie accents becomes even more apparent; I know I am far, far from alone in this, but having slept with more men than I care to estimate based solely on their accent, or what I've drunkenly deemed to be their accent (in the past, merely slurring the word "schedule" has been enough), I'd like to think that I'm one of the more devoted Anglo/Hiberno/Oz -ophile. A guy in a Jersey is enough to get most girls in a bother, but when I walk past a man in a bright orange wig and blue face paint, smoking the wrong end of a wet cigarette and picking out splinters of the chair he just broke at one in the afternoon, I practically need to change.

Someday, my love.

Now I know in the Darwinian sense of things, things would be easier for me if I was automatically attracted to a rarer subset of the population-I once lived with a girl who had a Canadian fetish, and she positively cleaned up- but you've got to go with what nature gives you. I'm not hideous or anything, and my fetish has been reinforced (ahem) enough to keep me coming back for more. Unfortunately, hooligans are an often-preoccupied bunch, whether they be busy with other bustier women or punching their mates in the face, and there's not as much of a mutual attraction as I'd like.

However, having lived in major cities for the past five years of my life, I have discovered a couple of groups that do feel the earthly pull towards my translucent skin and moppy curls. You see, giant black homeless men and 5 foot Latino guys love me. They follow me down darkened sidewalks, they stop in crosswalks, they they go out of their way to tell me what they'll do to me, presumably if I were to let them/they found me unconscious. They tell me "Very, very nice" and offer to take me places. Hell, I've been masturbated in front of twice, and I'm proud to say, within arm's reach.

They, I've surmised, must have a incredibly pale smallish white girl fetish, which I'm guessing goes as unfulfilled as my own want for hooligans. If only we could change our hearts' directions, so that I desired nothing more than a drug addled hobo, and so that they longed for whoever it is that fetishizes drug-addled hobos (Slovakians? Nederlanders?), then there'd be a lot less heartbreak in the world.

Mwah.

The morning after

That icky feeling you have, the second you wake up. It pervades your body, and as you hurriedly shower to try and wash the dirty feeling off your body, you can't stop thinking about it. Flashbacks pop into your mind as you rub the soap all over your body and exfoliate for extra measure. The dinner, the wine, they were all factors, and now, now you're not going to be able to forget this for another year. Things seemed fine when you spoke on the phone, almost like nothing had happened, but you know that's not the case...

It's the morning after your parents' anniversary. You know they've had sex, and they've had it more recently than you.

Solidarity, brother nerd.

Has anyone ever noticed that there are lot of dorks that look exactly alike? Not in an 80s movie way, where they just stuck a skinny kid in thick, black-rimmed glasses and a pocket protector, but more like this:

Sadly, I found this picture on Google Images just by searching for "Josh Weinstein", which is what I imagine all nerds' names to be. I assume this kid'll be suing me within the week.

I don't know if it's sociological or evolutionary or what, but it's kind of comforting- I think one day when they take over the world, it'll definitely help the cause.

Only idiots call it the idiot box.

Heading to Staten Island for a worthy event this weekend, I had a conversation with my friend Andrea.

Me: I've never been to Staten Island before.
A: I have, once, but I don't really remember it.
Me: The only thing I remember about Staten Island is from that one episode of Sex and the City where Carrie judges the hot firemen contest there.
A: The only memory you have and it's not even yours?
Me: Well, I remember watching the episode.

Like any of your lives are more exciting than TV. Still, it would be nice to refer to actual, non-imaginary people in conversation once in awhile.

Don't pick scabs

On my way home from work last night, I saw a group of men striking outside the Orpheum Theatre, the permanent home of Stomp, that troupe of urban percussionists who bang on makeshift drums made out of weird materials like Tide bottles and ice blocks to create "music". And I thought, man, I bet the Stomp picket line is AWESOME.

It turned out it was just waste management workers, but still. I would definitely underpay to see Stomp on strike.

Dairy Queen

A man just hit on me in the downstairs kitchen when I got some coffee. As I put the milk back in the fridge and he pulled it out, he said "Ahh, milk, it does a body good." I was the only one there, and we were like, touching at the counter and I thought it would be rude to pretend he wasn't there, so I was like 'Yep, agreed". And then he asked "So what's your favorite? Skim?" , which is flattering, because the new tank top I'm wearing unexpectedly turned out to be about 3 microns thick and I think look lumpy, like one of those stress dolls you used to buy at Spencer's Gifts.

Anyway, I said "2%" and then we made love.

Mahbles.

On Friday, following a semi-cultural afternoon at the Met, my friends Jason, Shirley and I decided to get a drink at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central. After a rather daunting trek to get the hell out of the Upper East Side/White Collar Purgatory after the trains broke down, we settled on a bottle of their finest (night have been cheapest) wine and some calamari. Finishing up, I make my usual run to the bathroom, and as I'm coming back, I spot a celebrity near and dear to my heart.

Me: Oh my God. I think that's Kobayashi, the World Hot Dog Eating Champion.
Shirley: Where?
Me: Over there, eating like 17 pounds of lobster.

Shirley, is just as excited by this prospect as I am, and Jason, having an Asian fetish, musters up some excitement. After a few seemingly logical inferences ("He's wearing a bib!""It's near July 4th!""He's with other Asians!") Shirley takes a run to the bathroom and agrees that it looks like him, and demands that I ask him to confirm. I mention that if I'm wrong, this would mean that I basically saw an Asian dude eating, then assumed he was the World Hot Dog Eating Champion, and if someone saw me eating and out of the blue asked me if I was the World Eating Champion of something, it might dampen my appetite for the rest of the meal. But this doesn't matter, as we're two crazed bitches on a Racist Mission®.

As with every other important aspect of my life, the matter of who would ask is settled with a best 2-out-of-3 Rock Paper Scissors. I lost (damn you, rock), and we planned an escape route, a dingy back staircase that led to places unknown, where we both agreed to live out our days in hiding. I put on my sweetest face, we approach, and I mumble something about an odd question and the World Hot Dog Eating Champion, to which one of the men looks at me and says, very slowly and deliberately, like he's an 80s Movie Foriegn Exchange Student, "Hot....Dog?"

And then we ran up the mystery staircase (ends at a Brookstone, not a twisted alter dimension, thankfully) and giggled like the embarassed little white girls we were.* And then we drowned our guilt in whiskey, which we probably would have been doing anyway.

*Shirley, incidentally, is Chinese, but I seem less loathsome if I refer to all racist activities using "we".

Final exit

I ran into the grocery store yesterday to pick up a couple of things I needed, namely Draino and beer. As I checked out, I realized that for all intents and purposes, it looked like I was heading home to kill myself.

The lady working the Met Foods didn't seem overly concerned, though.

Hint

I’m a little disturbed by how many people have forwarded me this link, on how drinking coffee cuts back on liver damage from alcohol. It’s not like my caffeine addiction is secret- I’ve introduced more than a few people to Vivarin by pressing a tab into their hand and claiming that it’s a “nice, mellow buzz, totally amazing, dude”- and my propensity for drinking isn’t exactly Hoffa’s grave, but why is this the link that unites all of my friends in their perception of me? Where are the New Yorker articles and analyses of nonfiction and cryptic literary anagrams? Why this? It’s like that one Thanksgiving during college that my grandmother slipped a Dear Abby article into my cousin and mine’s suitcases, the one that claimed that men “won’t buy the cow if they can get the milk for free”.*

*Cliché, yes, but not when spoken by Dear Abby or your grandmother or a combination of the two, because when old ladies that say old lady things, it’s just right. Also, my cousin and I compared notes and then assaulted her with forward questions about sex, driving the whole family into a quaint New England moratorium on anyone ever admitting they had had sex, ever.

Fifi

Do you ever look at those women carrying little dogs dressed in designer gear, and think that even the dog is a little scared by the amount of projection happening?

Now, why is a whole different question.

I'm trying out for "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" tonight, because I love that show so much it hurts. Not just the format, or the fact that cheating is encouraged (ask the audience? Phone a friend? Why can't we just write the answers on the bottom of your sneakers, Growing Pains style?), but because the title is so rhetorical. Shows like Deal or No Deal, deciding the title is the hardest part of the whole show.. But this one, it's like, well, I do.

$$$

I don't like the idea that there are estates that earn more than I do per year, like James Dean's estate earning $5 million a year, 50 years after his death. There are imaginary things that make more money than me. If that doesn't make one feel a tad worthless, I don't know what does.