HAPPY BIRTHDAY MADDOG!!!

My favorite little girl in the world, MadDog, turns the big 4 today, so a happy birthday shout-out to her! She is currently preparing for a princess puppet party (Beauty & the Beast theme) with a princess castle-shaped pinata. I am jealous and plan on arriving after all the dozen or more kids leave and I can eat my cake in peace. Plus, then I can play with the Barbie Totally Real House I got her without having to fend off several 4 year old girls.

Top on MadDog's birthday wishlist was a boy doll. We had a hard time deciding which one to get her. Eerily reflecting reality, there appears to be so many more women than men in Barbie's world. Is Prince Ken in his tights better than surfer Blaine who doesn't come with any clothes (or a job)? I wanted to get Bride Groom Ken, because at least he's ready to commit and he's got a nice suit on. (As my friend aptly put it, we don't want any broken families moving into the new house.) However, the options at the store came down to Beauty & the Beast Prince or Surfer Blaine. MadDog preferred B&B Ken even though he had a bad ponytail and a Beast mask. Barbie could totally kick his ass. But at least he's not a beach bum.

So what's it like to be four years-old? She faces quandries such as these: how to deal with days of the week princess panties. First off, she can't read, so she has to ask her mom which Princess she's supposed to wear that day. But then it gets complicated. If you take a bath on a Saturday night, do you wear the Saturday panties? It will soon be Sunday, so would those be more practical? I'm more than 25 years her senior and I don't have an answer to this. This is another reason why I shower in the mornings...

Royal flush

I went to see X-Men3 recently and afterwards, there was a super long line for the ladies' room. Not unexpected. Except I noticed that the handicapped restroom was empty. I realize that there is some social protocol (and the American Disabilities Act) that requires those who are able-bodied to not use those stalls and if we do, to feel really guilty and try to pee as quickly as possible in case there is an irate person in a wheelchair waiting (and I have heard of this happening. No joke.) I feel this is fair. However, this is what I want to know: if there is a 20-person line for the bathroom, does a handicapped person have to wait in line or can she roll by and make a beeline for the handicapped stall?

On another note on bathrooms, I find myself constantly perplexed by the bathrooms at work. The kind of toilet paper that is offered changes EVERY day. In fact, I noticed today that the extra roll in my stall was completely different in texture and ply (one roll was two-ply, the other single-ply.) How can this be?! You would think that a large institution would consistently order the same kind of toilet paper. This boggles my mind.

By the way, my little nephew's new nickname is E-Money. Between him and MadDog, my sister has herself a little gang in her home.

buffalo wings, waffle fries and celery, oh my!

Apologies for the incommunicado. I wasn't trying to break up with you in some passive-aggressive fashion or anything. For real. The past two weeks have been a little hectic with visitors and way too many birthdays to count, culminating in tonight's mandatory Team Cookie meeting to celebrate Little Cookie's birthday. This celebration consisted of eating far too many buffalo wings and waffle fries and an attempt to counteract that all with half a plate of celery with blue cheese dressing.

Hey, at least I wasn't drinking also. But I'm having a fat week and this isn't helping. Perhaps that was an overshare...

Sooooo, let me do a bulletpoint highlight of what has occurred over the past two weeks:

1. I got a promotion! BLING BLING. Okay, not really, but the raise should cover my Wednesday night happy hour habit and a few choice wardrobe additions.

2. We returned to BFF Bartender last Wednesday night and he came through for us in full force (even the hater of the group, ahem, you know who you are Mr. EastSideGangSignThrower, warmed up to him when served his beer of choice without even having to tell BFF). I missed it, but the Regulars decided it was time for some eastside action and cheated this week. No word yet on how successful they were at getting free drinks elsewhere.

3. I am currently in a training to learn how to "Present with Confidence." I am the best presenter in the class and I learned that I actually don't gesticulate quite as wildly while I talk as I had thought. Whew. I had been concerned that I might take out someone's eye one of these days.

4. Baby E.T. has gained about a pound in his less than three weeks of life. He's getting chubby. But only in the belly and face. He still has skinny old-man legs. MadDog is dealing well with having a little brother and is very quick to hold his hand when he cries. On the other hand, she is also quick to ditch the family when the opportunity to go do something fun arises (Bronx Zoo, cherry lime rickies, etc).

5. I went to a party and my friend's brother had on penny loafers with pennies stuck in them. Um, and no, he wasn't five years old. More like 35. You'd think someone would tell him that that was so 1992, right?

That's about all I can think of right now. I guess that it's been busy, but I can't remember all of the usual inane fodder to post about...

My (brief) life as a single mother

Happy Mother's Day! And a very special shout out to all of the single mothers out there, my own mom included.

Okay, I have spent the last 48 hours as a single mom of a 4 year-old, so bear with me.

My sister went into labor Friday afternoon. I missed seeing my nephew born by approximately 15 minutes. But just in time for the afterbirth. Yay! Baby and mom are all well. We'll call him ET, and he is a cutie. Mom, Dad and baby had to stay in the hospital for 2 nights, so that meant Auntie Fortune was taking care of MadDog for the weekend.

It was a lot of work taking care of a kid. Lots of attention (I didn't want her getting hurt on MY watch) and activity, including a 4 year-old birthday party. Picture about 20 little kids dressed up as pirates and princesses running around for 2.5 hours. Especially after a huge piece of birthday cake, ice cream and candy from a pinata. It couldn't have been more insane if they were handing out speed. Although MadDog is a good girl and I adore her, I was most relieved when her parents walked through the door this afternoon. Nearly as happy as MadDog was, if not more.

People, I'm exhausted. I can only imagine what a full-time mom feels like. This is why moms totally ROCK!

Um, could I get a little mojito with my sugar?

Happy hour was rather uneventful last night. We went back to the sangria place in El Barrio. Live music came on. Good music, but so loud I think I now know what a dog feels like when someone blows one of those whistles that no human can hear. Terrible, I say. We had to move onto another bar down the street. After a very inconspicious "walk-by" to make sure we wouldn't totally get our asses kicked if we went in there. The waitress was quite nice and gave us our third round free. (For the record, I didn't have a third round.)

Now, for those of you who know me, I have no problem traveling around the city to meet up. South Williamsburg for Cinco de Mayo? Si. Beer garden in Astoria for Dirty's Thirty? For real. South Bronx for a bbq? Yo. LES for a white russian? Need you ask?

El Barrio for sangria? Hell yeah...Although, actually, perhaps not.

I have developed a beef with East Harlem: for one of the least gentrified 'hoods in Manhattan, why the hell are the drinks so freakin' expensive!? I mean, $8 for a mojito is a lot for E.116th and First Avenue. And there was so much sugar in that baby, I woke up this morning with a stomach ache. Seriously. Am I paying for the street cred or something? Because, quite frankly, I am perfectly happy being a West Side girl who drinks practically free walking distance from home.

"We're friends. I like you. Now go away."

Little MadDog is growing up fast. At parent-teacher conferences this week, MadDog's teachers told them she was doing very well in school and got along well with all the kids. She is the most popular girl in her class. Apparently when she walks in to class, everyone gets up and yells "MadDog's here!!!" That's my girl.

There is one boy in particular, Alex, who loves MadDog more than a 4 year-old boy should. He gets in her face a lot and cries when they walk home together and it's time for them to go their separate ways. Her teachers said that during one of these instances, MadDog told him "Alex, we're friends. I like you. Now go away." Ah, the delicacy of a diplomat.

This kid is going to rule the world, I tell you.

I am feeling cranky and under the weather this week, so I am nursing my bad mood with some milk and cookies. I have been on a bit of a social sabbatical the past few days, so I don't have any good stories to tell. Perhaps Thursday will bring new blog fodder, as it usually does...

Your friends and neighbors

I have a knack for forming personal relationships with the people around me. My gynecologist is really great. Anne knows me even though I only see her once a year and is always happy to see me. She's nice to the friends I refer to her. We talk a lot about public health and such. She tells me that she wishes we could hang out longer, but she has like 5 patients who have been waiting for hours to see her. She also hugs and kisses me on the cheek goodbye. Some find this weird, but let's think about this: if someone is spending time with my privates, I should be getting a kiss good-bye rather than just a note (or prescription, in this case) slipped under the door, right?

Maybe that was an overshare.

I also have a relationship with my hair stylist, Stacie. We are the same age and turned 30 a few months apart. That was a strong bond between us. Plus, she gives me good haircuts. I brought her back a small birthday present from Prague. She also hugs and kisses me goodbye. Granted, I also tip her well, but we have a connection.

And then there is BFF Bartender, but you've already heard about him previously. Ditto on the kiss goodbye. (I have a special way with bartenders in general and am known for getting free drinks frequently. I just wish I had this special way with bakery or Haagen Daaz employees instead. Or even donut cart people.)

So, I think I have made progress in forming a relationship with my ConEd man. Wait, let me preface this with the fact that he is a nice, attractive, young man. Not some old creepy dude. Anyway, it's been a much longer process developing a relationship. The man reads my gas meter every month. (Although it's been more of an every other month schedule.) This takes about 2 minutes. Nothing so involved as poking around my privates annually, cutting my hair every 3-4 months, or serving me numerous drinks every Wednesday night. But we chat, and say "I haven't seen you in a while. Where've you been? How's it going?" and he'll tell me he was on vacation, but working his second job. Or I'll tell him that I was on vacation (but without mentioning I was on my Eastern European Trifecta tour, because that sounds so bourgeois). We'll discuss the weather and things like that. And that's it. But this morning, I got a handshake goodbye. I was touched. Now, I don't need a hug and kiss goodbye from the ConEd man. That would be weird. But I like to think that I am one of his favorite meters to read in the building. And no euphemisms there, kids.

Eightball in the pocket

I try not to participate in height inflation. The measuring stick tells me I am 5'7", but other women my height say they are 5'8''. Which means that in man-height, I am about 5'10''. Last night I went out with some Brooklyn girls, and for the first time ever, I was the shortest one. It was definitely weird, and I can't say I liked it one bit.

The lovely ladies: Murphy (pool name: Jackhammer), Wick (pool name: Petri Dish), Zube (pool name: Wall. Or was it Flower?), and myself (pool name: Flower. Or maybe Wall. I can't remember).

We had a few drinks and went to play some pool. (Note: I do not play pool, but am always a willing observer. Dirty will back me up here.) We came across two gentlemen to play pool with. Both were from Indiana. Both were essentially married. Both seemed psyched to hang out with four lovely birds that weren't their wives. The first guy, Married (pool name: The Anvil, partner: Jackhammer) seriously had the weirdest twang. Definitely not how anyone I know from Indiana talked. Almost like that big rooster in those Looney Toons cartoons (Foghorn Leghorn). He also had the most ridiculous chuckle. Egads. He laughed a lot. He also wore pleated khakis.

The other dude, Almost Married (pool name: Bacteria, partner: Petri Dish), loved Wisconsin (Zube was from there) and would not stop talking about how great people from Wisconsin were. Now, that's all fine and dandy, but Wisconsin is also my home state's rival. Crikey, it's not THAT great of a state (Cheeseheads, please don't hate). At least MN has Prince, bless his purple-loving soul.

All in all, pool was played, the reigning pool sharks were usurped (props to Bacteria & Petri Dish), stories were told, and bedtime was late. Good times.

nervey nerve birds

dirty cookie here, fortune's partner in crime. she has been kind enough to share her space o' blog with moi bc i have absolutely no interest in having my own blog. none. zilch. zip. nada. but i like guest appearances. a lot.

pan fried dumplings are delicious. it has been my new favorite dinner as of late. fry up a couple a bad boys, steam up the rice, break out the seaweed. excellent meal. quick, cheap, and makes me feel like my own private chinatown.

pan frying dumplings while severely intoxicated is not a good idea. last night i got home and decided i would have a few beers (4) before cooking dinner. needless to say, today, my forearms are lacking in the hair dept. and i have several small splotchy red burns all over my face. something like a nouveau freckle. luckily most of my stuffed animal collection survived the small blaze.

sigh.

anyways, my whole point on writing this initial entry was to cut and slander the women of nerve who apparently have an absolute oligarchy (is there any other kind?) which has obviously decreed a moratorium on contacting me. sweet innocent little me!

well here i was, last night, the smell of singed hair, bottles of beer and fried dumpling gently wafting through my les bachelor pad! the smoke detector had finally succumb to my curses and life was looking better. which of course led me to try and find something to get pissed about.

(the pigeons have left and the squirrels havent figured out how to get in again)

it was during my 5th beer (completelyfuckingshitfacedhere) that i remembered my recent strike outs with nerve, (many messages written, no replies back) (its FREE ladies) and i thought it would be a "fun" thing to post about these girls and why i think, they wont go out with me! (really, actually, probably a bad thing to do)

enter the yahoo.

i was on the cusp (justrightnowiswear) of posting about the first girl, here (we shall call her soilent green) when yahoo popped up and said "you have one new message from "****** ** *** *****". she will have to remain anonymous, of course, until i see how things have panned out.

can it be? a rogue? a girl willing to strike about against the oppressive nervey bird-ness? my own personal *female* Henry David Thoreau? (reading civil disobedience, sorry). i am so excited.

and of course i will report back.














over and out - dirty

Personality disorder

Dirty was telling me about this guy last night who is one of those people who is obviously "not in control of his life". Someone who carries like five bags around at one time with stuff falling out of them, disheveled, fly open, toilet paper sticking to their shoe (note: mothers with small children and homeless people do not apply). You know the type. Thankfully, I am not this kind of person. Nor is anyone I am friends with this kind of person. But since I don't know any of these people, I am curious as to what type of person they are and why they can't just get their shit together?

I love personality tests. There is something satisfying about answering a few questions and being placed in a discrete category of person. I know some people don't like them because they think it's a bunch of bullshit ("What's the color of your aura?"), or they don't want to be categorized ("Jung's extrovert/introvert (EI), sensing/intuitive (SN), feeling/thinking (FT) and judging/perceiving (JP)"), or maybe they are scared of the results because sometimes they hit close to home--I remember when a boyfriend of mine took an EQ (emotional quotient) test and he had an extremely low score. He was a little outraged that they told him he wasn't emotionally healthy or something like that. I laughed it off (it's hard to notice those glaring red flags with flashing lights when you are in love). Needless to say, the test was RIGHT ON THE MONEY. Oops. Needless to say, that one didn't work out well. I still have a high EQ though.

On a brief side note, we revisited our usual BFF Bartender last night to celebrate Carina's birthday. She has this ingenious way of reminding us of her birthday, which is 4/26: 4+2=6. Because of this little bit of mathematics, I have never forgotten her birthday in all the years I've known her. BFF Bartender was sporting a terrible faux-mohawk/mullet combination. He had some technical difficulties with some flaming shots and essentially just set all of the glasses and part of the bar on fire. But all was forgiven when I went to close out my tab. He looks at me and says, "You don't have a tab." Um...gosh...okay...thanks. THIS is why he is BFF Bartender.

I bet he has a high EQ.

Because all you can drink sangria does not mean you have to drink all you can

I was hoping to avoid this for a while, but let's get personal. Wine is not my friend. It is evil, just plain evil. I had my usual Wednesday night happy hour, but at a different location. (I have to admit, I felt like I was cheating on our regular BFF bartender or something, but shoot, he took last Wednesday off to go to some concert so we had to pay regular price for our drinks. Hmph.) So we're up in El Barrio at ladies' night: all you can drink sangria for $10. Not a bad deal, right? And the sangria was GOOD--the bartender was good to us and kept our glasses full. I am not sure how many I had, but I am positive it was a number between 5 and 10 (definitely not 10, though). No need for an intervention or anything--the glasses were very small.

I was tucked in by midnight.

Then I woke up an hour before my alarm with a splitting headache. I don't normally get headaches from drinking. This is why wine is evil (sulfites=poison). This is why vodka is my friend and clear, colorless drinks are the way to go. I have learned my lesson.

However, I think all of the pain was worth it: that night I managed to successfully co-mingle two groups of friends. The co-mingling of friends is always an unpredictable social experiment. You always think that because you like all of these people, how could they not like each other, right? Wrong. You connect with people at different levels and for different reasons and they don't always mesh with each other. I've been guilty of greatly disliking the friends of my friends too. But the planets were aligned for this interaction. One group we'll call the Regulars, since we have a standing Wednesday night happy hour date, and the others I will call the Spillers, because they managed to spill 3 glasses of sangria that night (including in my shoe) and there was also the incident when I took them to my usual watering hole, and they spilled a flaming shot and almost burned the place down. Enough said. When we all sat at the table it was like a United Colors of Bennetton ad. Except for alcohol. I felt like I was the UN ambassador for sangria drinkers.

The bottom line is that a good time was had by all, everyone can just get along, and I hope I am not the only one with a headache.

Childhood ideals crushed

I have recently had another one of those moments when I found out that something I believed since childhood was a lie. I'm not talking about something so dramatic as finding out your older sister was right and you were actually adopted or that your puppy didn't actually get sent away to the farm and was sent to the Elmer's glue factory instead--just kidding, that's where they send ponies, not puppies. This is more along the lines of how crushed I was when I found out two years ago that the wedding cake guests get served is a sheetcake in back and not the pretty three-tiered one the bride and groom cut from. (I'm still recovering from that one, thanks.)

My almost-four year old niece MadDog has learned to play cards. No, no, nothing like Three Card Monte or anything. Although she's smart and sly enough to hustle a little--she plays a mean game of CandyLand. Currently her favorite game is Go Fish, also a favorite of mine since I never learned to play poker and I always forget how to play rummy. But I guess my sister and I grew up playing some sort of ghetto Taiwanese version or something because we played it where you only ask one person for one rank with the goal of getting a pair. The person who gets rid of all their cards first wins. Isn't this how everyone played it? Apparently not.

Here are the official rules:

1. Five cards are dealt to each player, or seven if there are only two players.
2. The player whose turn it is to play asks another player for his/her cards of a particular rank. For example, "Jill, give me your fours." (note: I would recommend asking Jill a little more politely than that) A player may only ask for a rank of which he/she already holds at least one card. The recipient of the request must then hand over all cards of that rank. If the call was successful, the same player has another turn. If the player who was asked has no cards of that rank, he/she says "Go fish" (or simply "Fish"), and the asking player draws the top card from the pack. The turn then passes to the player who was asked.
3. When one player has all four cards of a given rank, they form a book, and the cards are placed face up on the table.
4. The game ends when all thirteen books are formed, and the player who won the most books wins.
5. If the player whose turn it is has no cards left in hand, the game is not over, but he/she simply draws the top card from the pack and the turn passes.

So now I know I have been playing it wrong all these years. It's a bit of a blow, but I think I'll survive. The problem is, MadDog plays our simplified version now too. and so it has become a vicious cycle. Just wait until she learns how to play mahjong...

In the beginning...

Upon insistence from a particular friend of mine, um, let's call him Dirty, I have created a blog. I have some hesitation, since as much as I enjoy telling stories to my friends, this is one more step through the door of oversharing. Plus, I've read other blogs and sometimes I'm just embarrassed for them or I end up really liking them but upon seeing their myspace profiles, realizing they are total tools.

Perhaps I'm just a hater. I suppose this will unfold as time goes on.

Today is Good Friday. I am a born and raised heathen so this has very little significance to me except that i get to leave work at 3pm today and Christians may give me dirty looks if I eat steak tonight. Good Friday also reminds me that Easter candy will be on sale Monday morning. (aside: I turned down a mini-cadbury egg offered by my sister the other day and she looked at me as if I had just told her i was going to sell her soon-to-be-born baby to the asian slave trade. Actually, I think she was more appalled than if I had said that...)

Also, for the second year in a row, I have missed the boat for buying a Peeps Easter basket for my niece, Mad Dog. I guess it is the most popular Easter basket because I can never find one except immediately after Christmas when stores start putting out Easter stuff. Contrary to popular belief, it is not made of Peeps, but rather, is of the fuzzy, stuffed variety. SO CUTE. However, if I were to ever find this holy grail of an Easter basket, I would not fill it with Peeps.

Why, you ask? Aside from the fact that there is much better candy out there to be consumed, of course.

Per Harper's Index:
Estimated number of Marshmallow Peeps that will be consumed around Easter this month: 800,000,000

Estimated number of pigs who died to make them: 125,000

Holy crap, that is gross (and totally not kosher). I really didn't need to know that, but this just adds to the many other reasons why I do not eat Peeps. Too bad they are just so damn cute and happy. Well, they aren't necessarily happy, since they are essentially made out of pig product, but they make me happy when I look at them.

Lesson learned: Peeps are for looking at, not eating.