100 Things. Re: Moi. Part VII: Right Now I Think It'll Be About Music, But You Can Never Tell.

61. The first solo I ever sang in front of a lot of people was the song, "Let's Go Fly A Kite," which, I believe, is from Mary Poppins. People in my hometown still come up to me and sing it. Nineteen years, people. Let it go.

62. I think the first three minutes of Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring are so beautiful they're almost hard to bear.

63. My karaoke song is "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." But it should be "Pour Some Sugar On Me."

64. In college I was in a show with special guest star Debbie Gibson. Ready for some irony? She sang, "I Am The Greatest Star" from Funny Girl and forgot the words. Five times. At one point she got so frustrated she kicked off her shoes and started to try the song again. And forgot the words again. Finally someone screamed "Do the 'Electric Youth' Dance!". Ms. Gibson ("Deborah" now, in her theatrical career) stormed off the stage.

65. This boy I dated at leadership camp one year made me a mix tape. On the outside of the tape, on Side A, it said, "This is only the beginning" and then you flipped it over and Side B said, "Hopefully we'll never see the end."

66. I got myself cheap tickets to The New York Philharmonic this year which was one of the best things I've ever done for myself. They played all the Beethoven Symphonies this season and at one of the concerts there was a blind man with a seeing-eye dog. I was up at the very top of the hall, looking down at this black dog, sprawled out in the aisle on the orchestra-level. Funny, strange thing. To see a dog at the symphony.

67. I think "There'll be icicles, and birthday clothes and sometimes there'll be sorrow" is about the most concise summation of--well, pretty much everything that life is. I heart Joni Mitchell.

68. I own one Britney Spears CD. Oops.

69. When my roommate isn't home I blast "Dancing With Myself." Billy. Idol.

70. My first professional role was as a talking dog in a children's musical based on the tv show "Reading Rainbow". I toured the US for six months and sang the "Reading Rainbow" theme song in front of more than 250,000 children. For those who know what Reading Rainbow is, I'm going to do a pre-emptive strike here and tell you that Lavar Burton toured with us in spirit only.

So.... *she says looking down at her lap and scuffing her feet*

...There's this party...

...in March. On the 2nd...

And it's for a good cause--to benefit this charter school in Brooklyn...or Queens...or somewhere...

...and I think it might be really fun, so...

...Should I go?

Oh. And there's a 99.9% chance that M will be there.

In Which I Finally Get To Use The Word "Vomitous"

Well, here it is. Valentine's Day. blech.

For those of you in relationships, have fun calling each other using your special Verizon V-Day romantic ringtones. Because nothing says "I care" like electronic beeping to the tune of Mya's "My Love is Like Whoa."

That Mya.

For those of you who, like me, may have spent the wee hours of Valentine's Day crouched in front of your toilet throwing up--whether from stomach flu or just general malaise--I would like to offer the following observations about relationships, love, and Valentine's Day.

So, without further ado, I bring you:

Relationships, Love and Valentine's Day As Seen From the Cool Porcelain Base of A Toilet While Throwing-Up Half-Digested Tortellini At Three AM

First of all, everyone who lives with me in Manhattan and is female and single gets a Super-Special Outstanding-Genius Princess of The Universe Forever Gold-Star Sticker because not only have we survived Valentine's Day (so far), but we have also survived FASHION WEEK. And--to those of you who live outside of Manhattan--let me tell you, it is one thing to have V-Day come upon you when you're single and lonely, but it is another thing entirely to have V-Day come upon you when you're single and lonely and on the subway surrounded by eighteen-year-old models casually toting handbags that cost as much as mid-size off-road vehicles.

Sure, some of you kind male readers may interject at this point and say, "Whatever. Guys don't like models. They're too skinny and their hipbones jut out so far that it hurts to make out with them. Yo."

Boys, I hate it when you lie.

Each day this week, I have seen the way men react to these gaggles of young women in their size zero designer jeans and their fresh four-hundred dollar messy-look haircuts. Old, young, homeless--down to a MAN, you would file the jutting-hip-bone-pain under the heading, "Hurts So Good."

**

Last year for Valentine's Day, M gave me a Whitman's Chocolate Sampler. The kind you get at the drug store. He didn't even get the largest sized box. Nor did he get the kind of Whitman's Sampler that comes in the heart-shaped box. Because he waited so long to get me anything that by the time he got to the drug store the heart-shaped ones were sold out.

Anyone saying, "But it's the thought that counts" has just missed the point entirely.

He also gave me a card with an elephant on the front of it. The elephant (huge. purple.) was asking, "What kind of Valentine are you?"

Hmmm.

There is nothing less wonderful than receiving a Valentine's Day card that--even for the briefest of moments--makes you think that your lover is suggesting that the answer to the question "What kind of Valentine are you?" is: Huge and Purple. Like this elephant.

On the inside the card actually said, "Too cute." (Relief.)

He signed it, "Happy V-Day." For anyone who thought he was going to sign it "Love," your optimism is annoying. Go eat some glue.

**

Last night, as I was laying in bed feeling nauseous and disgusting and all hollowed-out, I thought, "Thank God I am single. There is no one in the world, save my mother and my old pediatrician Dr. Ed, who I would want to see right now. Also thank God I am single because now I get to sprawl out on my bed and moan a lot whenever I flop over, and kick around the covers as much as I want. And I can continue to do so even when I'm starting to feel better. Harumph."

Today, though, I wish I wasn't single--or at least that I had a hot date tonight--because having the stomach flu has temporarily made me super skinny, and I would like to show off.

**

This is a list of things that make a better gift than a medium-sized Whitman's Sampler in a square-shaped box:

A large-sized Whitman's Sampler in a heart-shaped box.
Roses.
Live blooms of any sort.
Even geraniums.
A McDonald's Happy Meal.
Socks.

**

A boy who I have kissed before, cornered me on a stairwell in a bar two nights ago and kissed me again. Yay!

Then he said, "How 'bout you touch my chest right now and I'll touch yours."

...

?

?

...

I thought I'd give it a moment and see if the right words would come.

Haven't.

**

But, nevertheless, I do think He's out there. My Guy. Who will Get me. And who won't treat me like a bar wench (see above.) Wait--do over. He won't treat me like a bar wench unless we're alone and feeling fiesty.
...

...

I'm going to go eat some glue.

Stomach flu.

Happy Fucking Valentine's Day.

100 Things. Re: Moi. Part VI: More College, Because...Why Not?

51) My dorm room freshman year had a soporific effect on all who entered. It was known as "The Womb" partly for this reason, and partly because we had deep red curtains.

52) My First-Year Seminar Professor somehow made wearing one long parrot earring seem very hip. Her peculiar accessory choice was one of the first things that made me understand that in New York City--unlike in Wisconsin--there would be more to shopping than just The Gap.

53) Junior Year I kissed a boy just to get him out of my room. He was a math major and a distant relative of both Ulysses S. Grant and Daniel Boone. He kissed like a math major. Algebraic. Points and Angles.

54) I went dancing by myself. Not often, but more than once.

55) The Drunkest I've Ever Been: Junior Year. I locked myself INTO my room (by leaving the key jammed into the lock on the outside of the door). Because I was the Resident Advisor I couldn't call campus security. So I scribbled "Help" on a piece of paper and slid it underneath the door when I heard people coming down the hallway. I also called all of my friends and left them drunken "Send Help" phone messages that I think they recorded and will probably end up playing at my wedding.

56) I had a love/hate relationship with a homeless woman who lived near campus. She would say, "Do you have any change?" I would say, "Not today, sorry." She would say, in all seriousness, "I'll take a check," and then hand me a pen.

57) My favorite thing to do on Saturdays was wake up and have an egg and cheese sandwich with my best friend, Emily. The bagel place down the street stopped serving egg and cheese sandwiches on weekends at 4 PM. Senior year I went a lot of weekends without getting up in time for an egg and cheese sandwich.

58) I couldn't have picked my "Groups and Symmetry" Professor out in a line-up, even while I was "taking" the class. It was the class I chose to fulfill my math requirement. Number of times I went? < 5. Or is it > 5 ? Whatever. If I'd gone more than five times, I guess I'd know.

59) I spent entire afternoons crafting single paragraphs of my Senior Thesis on Oscar Wilde's Salome. My advisor stopped me on the street after I'd handed it in to say it was the best thesis she'd ever received. I suck at anything that might actually make me a decent living, but I'm a fuckin' demon when it comes to writing long-winded papers on abstract, dramatic texts.

60) You know that nightmare you have where you haven't been to class all semester, and you've not done any of the reading, and the final is tomorrow so you had planned to stay up all night studying, but then you accidentally fall asleep, and wake up fifteen minutes before the exam starts? Happened.

100 Things. Re: Moi. Part V: The College Years. Finally.

41) The day I moved into my college dorm was the first day I had ever set foot on its campus. I had been to New York City only once before my first day at college--for a weekend-long high school choir field trip where we performed at Bellevue and I saw a crazy man's penis and sang for an amputee ward. In that order. It says something about me that this bizarre experience did not deter me from moving to NYC for school. I'm not sure what it says, but it definitely says something.

42) I had applied almost exclusively to schools with both prestigious music programs and strong academics. I got into exactly none of those schools, and was devastated. I ended up at Barnard as a last choice, thinking that going there meant that I would never become an opera singer.

43) I met the guy I'd lose my virginity to, Gustavo, on my second day at school. We slept together for the first time about four days before my 18th birthday. He was an extremely charming person, and an incredibly effective compulsive liar who went to elaborate lengths to construct a certain level of believability around every lie he told. It took me and my friends and family about nine months to get to the bottom of all of his varied stories. Among his most amazing stunts: Calling me from an airplane phone at home in Wisconsin over Christmas vacation, using a stolen credit card. Stealing a labtop computer from a girl on my floor. Giving me a bracelet packaged in a Tiffany's box and jewelry case...that was not from Tiffany's. Stalking me for almost two years after we broke up.

44) Unlike other times in my life when I may or may not have appreciated my own good fortune, I feel 100% positive that I appreciated how fantastic college was every single day. I found it bewildering (in a good way) that my single responsiblity was to read about complicated, vastly interesting things and then write and/or talk about them with (mostly) smart people.

45) My first voice teacher in New York talked about her nipples all of the time. She had sung at The Met when she was about 19 years old. She had an enormous potrait of herself in her living room and a slightly nutty son who accompanied all of her students in his boxer shorts. She had probably had a fabulous voice at one time, but she--like many voice teachers--had no idea what made her voice fabulous and therefore made a not-so-great teacher.

46) She took me with her to sing at an opera festival in Germany the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore years. The former-East German city we lived in brought to mind two words: concrete hive. I left the city often, taking long train rides to Amsterdam with a girl named Serina who told me that her boyfriend had had a leather dominatrix outfit made for her.

47) When I got back from Germany, I auditioned for a new voice teacher at Juilliard whose student had heard me sing that summer. She accepted me into her studio and so I ended up studying there for the remainder of college. "Take that!" all you lesser-known conservatory programs that rejected me in high school. *she does small, brief victory dance*

48) Junior Year it was my New Year's Resolution to see a boy named Luis naked.

49) New Year's Resolution achieved by mid-February.

50) Seeing Luis naked pretty much defined the latter half of my college experience. He listened to Edith Piaf on Saturday mornings. For two years we had drama and great sex and 3:00 in the morning on his rooftop. When asked once, while sitting at our favorite bar, why he kept doing a funny (sexy) thing with his lower lip, he smiled and said, "I'm diverting my kisses." He was a heartbreaker and a man-child who looked great in white t-shirts. Even when it was terrible, it was wonderful.* College.

*Rose-colored glasses? On.

100 Things. Re: Moi. Part IV: Highschool

31) For the first time, a boy who I liked, liked me. We will attribute this miracle to contact lenses. His name was Matt Tiettemahn. On my fourteenth birthday he came strolling down the hallway toward my locker carrying a single rose. Lame now, but--at the time--crushingly romantic.

32) Later that same night our dear Matt came to my house to surprise me...with a dozen roses. My mom and dad and I are sitting in the living room, watching tv. A knock at the door, and there he is, bouquet in hand like something out of a Molly Ringwald movie. Only, a key romance-factor in those movies is that the parents are never home when the hot boy shows up at the door. Having the parents be at home sitting with you on your couch, while Matt Tiettemahn fawns all over you, makes the whole situation very awkward. And when Matt tries to get you to sit on his lap, it gets worse still. And then, when someone (your mom, maybe?) suggests that you take Matt upstairs to show him the den (?), you feel relief but also an impending sense of dread. Because to go from never having any boy even notice your existence, to having a cool, popular boy in your den holding birthday-surprise roses...well, it's a lot to handle.

33) First kiss: Matt's house to watch movies. Unlike my parents who checked on us about every five seconds after sending us to the upstairs den, HIS parents sent us to the basement to "watch tv" and then promptly went on vacation to Florida. Matt played "More Than Words" by Extreme and read me a poem about footprints and sand. Then he licked my face. I remember standing there, and thinking, "That was it?" And it was.

34) I also got my first and--I think, only--hickey that night. I wore a forest-green turtleneck to school on Monday and showed my hickey to a few of my closest friends*. I felt like The Luckiest, Coolest Girl Ever.

*Everyone.

35) I broke up with Matt after two weeks.

36) I went to Prom four times. First time: fuchsia dress that looked like something I stole from the dressing room at a ballroom dancing competition. Also, of course, fuchsia dyeables. Second time: strappy black dress with slits on both sides. Sparkly beaded jacket. Not bad. Third time: A red dress that I thought looked like the one Julia Roberts wears in Pretty Woman. Didn't. Fourth time: Mono + Long black dress + Pale white skin + Circles under eyes= Walking Death.

37) Singing competitions, voice lessons, performances, all the time.

38) Got drunk for the first time as a Freshman. Alicia Bartline, whose father had money because he invented a machine that killed chickens, kept small bottles of airplane liquor in her closet. Being friends with Alicia made me feel Bad.

39) At fifteen I went to a national speech and debate competition where I met a boy named Aron. After sitting with him for one night at dinner, I said, "I could spend the rest of my life locked in a room with that person and be completely happy." I meant it. We wrote letters and visited each other for nine years after we met. Now we don't talk, and I'll never tell you why.

40) What teenage story would be complete without food issues. In study hall my friend Amy and I chewed donuts and then spit them out, so as to get the taste but not the calories. I also would go home after school and mix up batches and batches of cookie dough and then--without sampling even so much as one spoonful--I would take the batter outside and dump it in the bushes before my mom came home. Then it made me feel powerful. Now it makes me feel sick.

100 Things. Re: Moi. Part III: ....Middle School. God.

21) During most of middle school my bangs were curled up into a very high, very hairspray-crusted shape that resembled a tsunami.

22) During most of middle school I wore enormous dark blue glasses, which I purchased because the woman at the glasses store said they made me look like I was wearing make-up.

23) Gullible.

24) Terrible at every sport. Really--all of 'em.

25) I spent many a sleepover freezing the bra of one, Maggie Bogenreef.

26) Andrew Morter, who you may remember from a previous entry, was my "Secret Santa" in eighth grade. I spent weeks shopping for the exact right Grateful Dead t-shirt to give him. I finally found it. On the day when I brought in my beautifully wrapped, perfect gift to give to Andrew, he had forgotten to bring something for me. At lunchtime his mom came in and dropped off a gift. Ponytail holders.

27) I experienced coolness for the first time at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp. Nicole LeGrande, my 17 year-old counselor with infinitely awesome permed hair, did my make-up for the camp dance and let me borrow her flourescent green shorts.

28) It was in gym class in seventh grade that I realized that Roman Ab Machines give me orgasms. It is a medical mystery. Any doctors reading this can feel free to speculate.

29) Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp also gave me the amazing experience of going to Europe to spend my summer singing. At eleven. And again at fourteen. Without parents. Both times.

30) When I was running for Secretary of Webster Transitional School's Student Council in 8th grade, I won the (coveted) position by performing the following rap to Axel-F:

My name is Kate and I'm coming to you
'Cause I need your vote, plain and true
I said, Brothers and Sisters, c'mon and see
I'll be the best Secretary that'll ever be.
Me, I'm responsible, tried and true,
Creative and kind, thru and thru.
I know my way around the Senate floor.
I've been on a year, a half and more.
Other qualities that I possess
Include neat, caring and happiness.
So you know it's covered when it's with me,
And covered it will always be.
So Yo! Vote Kate! Uh-huh! Groovy.
(The majority of this still holds true. The part about being "neat," however is not true. I was never neat. That was just something I said so that I'd win.)

100 Things. Re: Moi. Part II: Girlhood

11) My mom used to cut my bangs by putting masking tape across them to make sure they were straight. They were.

12) When I was six and had just started at a new elementary school, I asked the librarian, Mr. Simpson, if I could go to the bathroom. He said, "No." Being, as I was, unfamiliar with sarcasm, I promptly went to the back of the library and wet my pants.

13) Mr. Simpson ended up feeling very badly about this and let me hold his elephant booger (which may have been a real elephant booger, but was more likely a large ball of dried rubber cement).

14) Set up a "veterinary clinic" with my friend, Lori. Our first patient was a (probably already dead) moth that we kept in a small jewelry box.

15) Used to bury things I found at the end of my driveway so that archaeologists could find them and learn about our society.

16) I had a lot of outdoor, barn cats, many of which died outdoor cat deaths (run over). I still have nightmares about sick cats.

17) One of these outdoor cats gave me ringworm.

18) Lied a lot. Might still.

19) I'm not baptized.

20) Actually said, about Mark Hamill when I found out he was married, "All the good men are taken." Age? Seven.

100 Things. re: Moi. Part I: Childhood (Except for #2)

1) When I was born on October 21, my parents say they almost named me Annabella Drizella because it rhymes with my last name.

2) I have already been stalked twice since moving to NYC. So good luck convincing me to tell you my last name.

3) I grew up on a farm in Wisconsin, but we never actually farmed anything.

4) We had a goat named Long John Silver; he hung himself.

5) I got to name the two sheep we had. I named them Daisy One and Daisy Two. My creativity, I guess, kicked in post-sheep.

6) When I would get tired, but would want to keep playing something, I would put my underwear on over my clothes and pretend to be Princess Leah in that scene from Return of the Jedi when she's chained to Jaba the Hut.

7) My imaginary best friends were named Shawna, Fauna, and Rabies.

8) When my mom used to drive my brother and I around, she'd be The Driving Droid and sometimes we could program her to take us wherever we wanted to go.

9) Despite this, I spent a lot of time waiting for my real mother to come and get me.

10) My real mother, of course, was Princess Di.

Thank you, Boys, for your kind thoughts re: the denim.

The verdict is in:

If a little squishy-soft puppy with floppy, silly ears, put on a bunny costume with a fuzzy, poofey, teeny-tail, and skipped around wiggling his soft puff of a puppy-bunny, fluffy tail-bottom...

...he would STILL not look as cute as I do in my new jeans.

The Meanest Thing Ever Said

M's best friend just called me.

RAGE.

My skin may begin peeling back at any moment, falling to my office floor in scorched pieces. Think: that scene where all the Nazi's die in _Raiders of the Lost Arc_. You know the one I mean. And if you don't, go stand over there with the rest of the slow children. I have no time for you now.

I am too FURIOUS.

We will call M's friend "Idiot" because he is one. My relationship with him, while I was dating M, could be described as follows: I was nice to him because he was M's friend. My relationship with him, Post M: I used him for information. Clear?

Since M and I broke up, Idiot has called often. He is the kind of person who stays with you on the phone so long that your ear gets hot and you start worrying about brain cancer. During the first two months after I found about M's cheating, I spoke on the phone with Idiot occasionally because I missed M.

Idiot reminded me of M.

I tried not to talk to Idiot about M.

Sometimes that worked. But rarely.

As I gradually came out of my post-break-up stupor, I started to come to my senses and stopped
returning Idiot's calls. Idiot is totally without tact, which made talking to him very painful. Idiot is clueless when it comes to women, so his queries about the female condition are repetitive and remedial. Idiot may or may not have a crush on me, which makes me uncomfortable and totally uninterested in continuing to speak with him. Lastly, Idiot KNEW THAT M WAS FUCKING KAREN, THE UNHOLY SLUTWHORE FROM HELL, AND DIDN'T TELL ME. Though my anger regarding this last was late in coming to the party in my brain, when it arrived it was salivating and hairy-knuckled and it ate all of the other guests and then went on to tear the heads off of kittens and babies.

In other words, there are many things I want for Idiot. Most of them have already been catalogued in great detail by The Marquis de Sade. None of them include, "To be his bestest friend."

When he called in November, I did not pick up. When he emailed, I did not respond. Ditto: December. Along comes January, and you would think that the guy would get the picture already and leave me fucking ALONE.

You would also think that my reasons for ceasing to have contact with him would be rather apparent. Those reasons being: I dated his best friend for eleven months. I had no basis for being friends with Idiot other than that I was dating his best friend. His best friend lied to me for a good part of that eleven month period and fucked a woman named Karen (known on these pages previously only as The Unholy Slutwhore From Hell). Idiot knew this and didn't tell me.

You! Sam! Michael! Guys! First of all: Do I look fat in these jeans? Second of all: What about this situation is so mysterious to Idiot?

Well, if you're going to give me advice now, and if that advice is going to be something along the lines of, "Be straight with him. Next time he calls, pick up the phone and tell him that you don't want him in your life. Yo." I did that.

Around the beginning of January, when I returned from Christmas to find multiple messages on my answering machine from Idiot, and when--that same afternoon--he called again. Twice. I finally picked up the phone to have a talk with him.

"Idiot," I said on that fateful afternoon, "I don't think I can be your friend. It is too hard. I am tempted to talk to you about M and that is not fair to you, and that is not fair to me. And I think it is better if we don't talk anymore."

So Idiot responds, "You know M has a new girlfriend. Or should I not tell you that?"

AR..un..ghh...I...rmm...trying...resist...re..si..st....

To my credit, I don't break out my poodle skirt and start twisting my phone cord around my finger while singing, "Tell me more. Tell me more. Was it love at first sight?"

Nor do I go all Sylvia Plath and start scraping a kitchen knife over my wrists. (Yet. I wasn't coordinated enough to hold the phone and scrape at the same time.)

But, we all know that I don't stop him.

"She's sweet," he begins.

Of course she is.

"He's--you know--a little rough around the edges and she has a really great way of handling that. But, if it makes you feel any better, he went home for two weeks at Christmas and was worried because he didn't miss her. So he's not sure that she's the one. What do you think? Do you think if he didn't miss her she's not 'It'?"

I stutter, "I don't think he can miss people."

Here it comes. Wait for it. Wait. He's about to say The Meanest Thing Ever Said.

"Sure he does. He missed Karen."

...

...

He missed Karen.

Wow.

I still can't believe the Idiot would actually tell me that my ex-boyfriend. Who I loved. Missed. MISSED. The woman he fucked behind my back.

...

...

It dazzles the mind.

...

...

WELL, anyway, even I am not that sick and self-sacrificing.

"Look, Idiot," I respond, "That is exactly the type of thing that makes me not able to talk to you. I don't want to know about M. I don't. I want to be happy and move on with my life and forget I ever knew him or you. Good-bye."

And I hung up.

Since then, you have all been witness to my M detoxification. I have, in effect, been blogging that man right out of my hair.

I've blogged out my concerns about M's New Girlfriend until, frankly, I've more or less stopped thinking about her. And, I'm making progress with M as well. I didn't, for example, respond to his pathetic "Thinking of you" text message in December (which he sent *she notes with a satisfied grin* while he was dating this new girl).

I have not called him. Even while drunk in taxis late at night. You should be impressed about this. It's amazing. It is, I believe, a testament to my strength and ageless wisdom. At least, that's what Nelson Mandella said when he wrote to congratulate me on the achievement.

So, WHY would Idiot call me--after ALL OF THAT--just weeks later--to tell me that...

...he met Deryl Hannah.

And he thinks I look like her.

RAGE. On so many levels. Daryl Fucking Hannah? RAGE.

Putin's Putang Vs. America's Favorite Bush

The woman who gives me bikini waxes is trying to lead me into a seedy life of petty crime.

Her name is Bella. She comes from The Old Country, where women look like men and family pets get eaten when times are hard.

Our relationship is very complicated.

It used to be that I would just lay back on her crinkly, paper-covered table. She would then smile her gap-toothed grin at me and say, Slavik-ly, "Tek ov yooerr oondahvar."

Having no idea what she had just said, with my upper lip already sweating in anticipation of the pain, I would typically reply with something like, "I know. I wish it would stop raining."

Since Bella already thinks I am a sex-hungry American girl with a thing for pain and an odd distaste for body-hair, it was pretty much fine with me if she also thought I was stupid. Besides, you don't know "awkward" until you've tried to make small talk while a Russian woman with a moustache looms over you and covers your genitals with hot wax.

Generally, then, our total inability to communicate suited me just fine.

Lately, however, Bella has had a hankering to reach out across the great international divide and establish better relations between our two nations. It is possible--communications from The Old Country being what they are--that she learned only recently that the Cold War had ended. In any case, in her special way, she has decided to send out an olive branch.

So now, we have the following conversation each time I see her.

"Yooo haf beoyfrent?"

"What? Oh. No, no I don't have a boyfriend."

She is persistent.

"No mehn?"

I can only assume she hopes that I am putting myself through this hot-wax skin-ripping torture because there is a large, gold-chain-wearing man somewhere who will only wife me if I have the vagina of a ten year-old girl.

I imagine that if I replied--after struggling for some few minutes to understand what the hell she had just said, "Yes, Bella, I do have a boyfriend"--she would be just tickled pink.

(I have to interrupt myself here to say that I am laughing my ass off at the thought of Bella being tickled pink. If you knew Bella you would understand this. Bella has never been tickled. Ever. Tickling Bella pink would be like tickling Mikhail Gorbachev pink. It would be a fucking laugh riot.)

Anyway, if Bella was familiar with the expression, "newfangled" I'm sure she would apply it to my relationship with this imagined beefy boyfriend. As long as he put bread on the table and washed his hands after milking the goats, vat vood eet mahter zsat he laik hees vomen to bee laik leetle gurl?

Indeed, Bella. What would it matter.

However, since whenever Bella inquires after the current state of my lovelife, I respond, "Nope. No boyfriend," she is utterly perplexed.

"Ow auld, you?" she will ask me next.

"Huh?" I will say, wincing in anticipation of the pain.

RIP.

"Ow -auld- you?"

RIP. rip.

"Ohhh," I bite back a scream, "Same age as last month, Bella. Twenty-five."

"Put hant heeyer. Pooel skeen."

I comply.

RIP.

"Yooer husbant, he die? He leef yoo vit behbie?"

RIP. rip. rip. rip.

"Ahhh. Wooh. That was a doozy. Um, no, never married, Bella."

This answer displeases her.

"Ald oon von meynute," she'll say.

Then--though I am presently laying on a table in a flourescently-lit room with my knees by my ears and my legs spread akimbo--she will open the door W I D E (and by "wide" I mean, ALL THE WAY) and step out. I will raise my head and smile dimly at the faces of the people in the hallway who have just seen my bare ass. For a brief moment I will be thankful for the searing pain in my loins that has sent my brain into shock and dulled the humiliation I would otherwise surely feel.

Bella usually comes back a second later carrying something innocuous like towels. This act doesn't fool me for a second; we both know that she's just taken a few nips at the old wodka bottle. My singlehood drives Bella to drink.

It is somewhere around this time that Bella decides that I am probably a hooker.

I don't blame her. My dutiful waxing is insane. Even more insane, in fact, than Bella even realizes. For, while she thinks that I wax my nether-regions because I am the recipient of a lot of manly love-action, I know that tearing the hairs out of the most sensitive region of my body with continuous, violent, ripping motions, is really more of a wishful-thinking kind of ritual for me.

I am sometimes even tempted to explain to Bella my true reason for undergoing this tortuous hair-removal process. I am, after all, not without some small knowledge of the Russian language. In my opera days I sang some doleful Rachmoninoff arias and, were I to dig through my memory hard enough, I am sure I could recall the Russian words for "deep yearning for a man." In my fantasy, I reveal my pain and loneliness to Bella in perfect Russian, and she sobs, gives me the waxing for free and then we go out for a night on the town with her red-faced husband Vlad.

However, it is far more likely that I would just fuck up my pronunciation or my translation and end up accidentally hitting on Bella, which--given the, erm, circumstances (Naked. Akimbo.)--would be easily the most awkard situation to happen since, well, ever.

Not exactly a fool-proof plan.

So, having decided that I am possibly a prostitute and definitely a twisted mother-fucker who gets off on genital mutilation (Being from The Old Country, Bella is not afraid to judge.) Bella decides to pull out all the stops and make herself an extra buck or two.

Bella closes the door behind her. The mood in the room changes perceptibly. I am afraid that Bella is about to try to sell me crack.

She bends down to my ear and whispers conspiratorially, "Yoo vant stoomache wayx?"

Pause.

"Cohst extrah. Yoo peh Beylla."

I am bewildered. First of all, why all the whispering? Second of all, do I actually have hair on my stomach? Eeew. I raise my head to see. She interprets this as a nod.

"Owkeh," she mouths, pointing at the door and the ceiling.

I begin to panic. What? Is the room bugged? Are we being--oh God. Is this on tape? Am I on a grainy video being broadcast throughout the former Soviet Union with my legs spread wide open for any fat man with a million rubles to see?

I am, apparently, entering The Bikini-Waxing Black Market. I wonder briefly if Bella will ask me to follow her into a back alley where she will try to sell me counterfeit Nair.

Bella, apparently, has done this before.

She continues in an even softer voice, "Beylla vill ehsk, 'Yoo vant wayx stoomache?' Yoo seh, 'No Beylla.'"

This last is accompanied by a series of shh-gestures and pointing towards the ceiling, the door, me, her, my stomach, etc.

I am truly terrified now. As I follow Bella's pointing finger, it is becoming obvious that there must be cameras everywhere. The Soviet Eye of The Bikini-Waxing Black Market is all over this room. Possibly even in my belly-button.

"Yoo vant wayx stoomache?" Bella asks in an artificially loud voice, which she projects toward the air vent in the corner.

The plan, I guess, is in motion.

I imagine KGB officers sitting just behind what I realize now must be a two-way mirror.

"No, Bella!" I say. My voice is overly bright and forced. It is not my best work. I'm nervous.

"Goood gehrl," mouths Bella.

She then proceeds to wax my stomach, all the while winking at me and saying softly, "Cohst extrah. Yoo peh Beylla."

When my (I guess totally hair-covered?) stomach is finished, Bella bends in again.

"Peh joost Beylla. Beylla du laig? Du thighe?" she offers.

What am I, a Yeti?

I begin to sit up.

"No, Bella--"

She makes frantic shh-gestures with her finger.

"no, bella," I lower my voice. "i am not that hairy. i can just shave my legs. i feel kind of bad about this. i'll just pay the salon. it's no big deal. thank you, though."

"Beylla du laig. Vill be moore behyuutivul. Yoo no see hayer. Foor yoo onlee leetle beet extrah," she mouths, beginning to adjust my leg and giving the back of my thigh a meaningful look.

I am not that hairy. I will not let her make me feel insecure. I will not believe that on the back of my thighs there is some sort of gorrilla-fur that I have conveniently blocked out through a strange and rare psychological combination of denial and astigmatism, but which Bella's eyes alone can see....

"No, Bella. I don't want it. I will do it myself. Thank you," I force my leg back from her grasp.

"Beylla du laig." Another meaningful glance at my leg. She reaches for my thigh.

Hmm. Invisible gorrila-fur. Stranger things have happened. I waiver.

She senses that victory is near.

But then, I remember that I only have a twenty. I rebound.

"No! No, Bella! You! Will! Not! Win!"

She reaches for a body part with wax dripping from her terrible popsicle-stick waxing tool. I dodge and twist, praying that I leave this room with both my eyebrows. It becomes a veritable wrestling match. I imagine somewhere in the ceiling the cameras are on "Record" now, with the KGB officers hidden in back already printing out labels that read, "Putin's Pootang vs. America's Favorite Bush."

In the end, however, her meaningful glances are no match for my poverty.

I roll off the table and grab for my oondahvar.

"Maybe next time, Bella. Thanks a lot, though."

I pay her a few dollars extra for my black-market stomach wax. I feel dirty.

But that will end soon enough.

I'm seeing her again next week Thursday and will be sure to bring along extra cash so she can take care of every last bit of the invisible gorrilla-fur.

Hey, during a sexual dry-spell a girl can't afford to take any chances. I mean, come on.

One of the (ten-thousand-million-gazillion) good things about SNOW DAYS is that they allow you to go through all of your old diary entries and remember the bliss that is...

CLOSURE:

(Brief backstory: D was The Boyfriend Before M. I was: fresh out of college and just coming off of six months of touring with a show. He was: 30, a hot-shot in the classical music industry, and prone to going on two-week long bed and breakfast vacations with his mother. Who he referred to as his "soulmate." His father was still married to his mother, but was not invited on these trips. Which made two of us.)

*** August 6, 2002

It happened today. I took back the last pieces of my wardrobe. Less than one year later, and our entire relationship is pared down to fifteen awkward minutes in your apartment and one black Betsey Johnson dress.

When I asked if you were home, your doorman said, "They usually come in at night." I jumped quickly to correct him, "He's single, so it wouldn't be 'they.'"

I was wrong, as the picture in front of your desk (in direct sightline so that you can see her at any moment during your day. You must be so in love.) clearly told me. Her name is Erin, and she's gorgeous.

But, so am I.

I'm going to stop this now, because it's taking me in the wrong direction. The picture of your new girlfriend did not make me sad. You've moved on; I've moved on. And I guess I know a little about the shape of your love. I know that your mom still--always--comes first. That your dog, your friends, your job, are all priorities. That your words are always sweet and poignant, but, when it comes down to the moment when you're truly needed--the moment when my frightened phone call interrupts your meeting--all of your sweet words will become just so much noise.

I cried today not because I want to be back in your life, though admittedly, in that apartment, part of me admired the illusion of your new self. Your two new buzz words are "casual" and "simple": You quit your job. Became a bartender. Bought a bike. Shaved off your hair. The New You; The Look of Less Responsiblity. All of it so cool and colorful.

But the rest of me sees the cracks in the walls, the clumsy paint in the bedroom. God, and those silly stars you've put on your ceiling. There's something posed about all of it; a kid clomping around in his father's grown-up shoes. You're no more ready for the responsibilities that come with love now than you were six months ago.

I don't miss you.

I cried today because of what it means to have stood in your apartment, having no more to say to you than an awkward salesperson. It is the most horrible moment in the world, and it ran over me like water. The memories and the familiarity. The closeness. All of it tumbling into the terrific, uncomfortable gap between us. Piece by piece it crumbled and left only the knowledge that we (I had you inside of me. I tasted your tears.) don't know each other at all.

As I got into the elevator (I stood there willing it to come and take me far away and quickly) I was teasing you about your age. You replied, "To me you're always gonna be twenty-two."

Maybe the comfort is there. That, somewhere, frozen and packed away like ice-cubes, is the best part of our six months--a little time-line drawn on a wall far back in a corner of the universe, documenting just 'hello' and an afternoon or two in your white summer bed. Not at all part of any present. Just a fresh line in a corner, stringing together some few happy words.

All the rest should be left out.

I got out of the subway and stepped out onto Canal Street this afternoon after seeing you. The sun was bright and the street was bursting with foreign noises and paper fans. Tiny turtles swam in their plastic cases, held in the grubby fingers of children who were sure to kill them soon. Brilliant clusters of fake Prada bags. Shiny toys and noises. The hiccups of people jumbling together.

How can you be where you were? And how did you find the way--with your mind your only measure?

This is a strange place to me still. My new job in this new neighborhood, just like my new home in Brooklyn, has nothing to do with you. I find them both a bit strange and scary, a bit exotic and thrilling.

I stand in the street--on this day that has come (finally) After You--in a present that is mine to stumble into. Mine to own.

***

I am sick of:

1) Paying to meet people to date.
2) BOOM. pause. BOOM. pause. BOOM. Again today. All day. Again.
3) Not being famous.
4) All of my clothes. Especially the ones on my floor. Ditto: shoes.
5) The deli downstairs which is the only place I ever go for lunch because I'm lazy.
6) My laziness.
7) My height.
8) Spring pastels.
9) The phone that sits on my desk, taunting me all day with its maddening ring. There it goes again.
10) The holiday coming up that shall remain nameless because it is God forsaken and cruel, taunting me and my loneliness with it's fucking yummy fucking heart-shaped fucking candies in every drugstore fucking window.
11) Paris Hilton.
12) Missing Sunday brunch because I work weekends.
14) People telling me I am good at my job. Don't they understand that being good at this parrots-could-do-it-well job makes me want to slit my wrists the right way?
15) The subway.
16) January.
17) The homeless woman on my street who won't ever take (fresh) food but will always ask for money.
18) My mess.
19) Diet Coke instead of regular.
20) Searching The New York Times Sunday Styles section to see if any of my ex-boyfriends* are getting married.

*M

I am NOT sick of:

1) Um...

fuck it.

bedtime.

Soundbytes

Soho. In a trendy boutique desperately seeking the Yeti of the winter-fashion season--the top that is both ravishingly sexy but also long enough to cover the long underwear I'm wearing underneath my low-rise jeans.

She says: "Honey, God, I love, love, LOVE this skirt."

He offers hopefully: "Yeah, it'd look great with some--um--really high boots."

She says: "Right?"

As they leave she adds: "And we'll totally have to think about that cute sweater from before."

I try to imagine what it would be like to be part of a couple who thinks about sweaters.

***

Also Soho.
A perfectly lovely normal-sized girl emerges from a dressing room wearing a short skirt and top: "What d'ya think?"

Her boyfriend: "I don't know. It doesn't look like that on the mannequin."

The size 0 mannequin. With HUGE breasts, a metal rod up its ass, and no head.

***

My acting class.

An Actor: "Yeah, I rocked my audition this week. It was great. I totally brought it. I mean, I could see the energy. And I was open and in the moment and feeling it. My mantra and the character's mantra just melded into this one single mantra, which was just, "It's my turn." It's my fucking turn. And after that it was just about The Work. I mean that's what it's about for me. The Work."

An Actress: "Yeah. Totally. The Work was great tonight."

Another Actress: "What got me into The Work tonight--and it may sound silly?--but it was just, like, that I started to think of all of the emotions in the scene as colors? And, like, anger was purple? And love was, like, peach? And every time I felt my energy closing, I was like, Amber, go toward the peach. I just said that over and over. Like, Amber, go toward the peach."

Another Actor: "The Work brought up a lot for me today. And, frankly, I'm still caught up in our Christmas Message from last month. About affirming the Self and Positivity. There are really some things I'm looking at from my childhood, and I think The Work's going to really grow because of it."

***

Boy at bar trying to pick me up and doing a good job of it until: "So this girl and I just buy a bag of blow and go back to my place. And obviously I can't get hard when I'm that fucked up, so we just take off all of our clothes and keep snorting the shit. And then she finds this lipstick that she doesn't like in her purse, and we just start going crazy and writing all over each other with it. And we're naked and the shit was like everywhere. We showered it off later and when I woke up the next day my bathroom was just covered in red shit. I mean it looked like someone had been murdered in there or something."


(Female readers, of course, will find this story doubly disturbing because they will realize that no one keeps a lipstick they don't like in their purse. Lipsticks that one doesn't like are kept in plastic containers under the bathroom sink, or in the upstairs bathroom of your parent's house. Meaning that this particular cracked-out young woman spent the night writing on a naked stranger with what was undoubtedly her favorite lipstick. So sad.)

***

And finally, a group of teenage tourists that I passed on my way to the N/R Downtown train at 23rd Street.

Boy Tourist in hushed whisper: "Guys, Look! Cameron Diaz!"

I would like to buy this boy an airplane.

Re: Jury Duty.

My faithful and brilliant reader Sam had requested in his comment last Wednesday that I try to get picked for a murder trial. I gave it my all, Sam. Just for you. But, in the end, the nearest I could get was a stabbing involving two drug dealers and no witnesses. Good enough? We're talking attempted murder, crack cocaine, word against word, deception, revenge, punishment--the whole shebang. This was high stakes, Ladies and Gentlemen. And I took my civic duty very seriously. Very seriously, just as the video with Jane Pauley and the cast of 60 Minutes had instructed me to do. All day I looked deep into the heart of my belief system, trying to come to terms with the qestion I was faced with in that sacred hall where Truth reigns supreme:

Was the defense attorney wearing a wig?

Frankly, Guys, I still don't know.

Having now witnessed the American Justice System in action, I have come to some major conclusions. Those of you studying law would be well advised to print these next lines and refer to them often:

1) The American Justice System could use a new instructional video; 1970 was a bad, bad year for Jane Pauley.

2) The American Justice System's new instructional video should, however, keep the scene where the medieval extras tie up an accused thief and throw him into the lake to see if he floats (guilty) or sinks to his death (innocent). It's funny.

3) The American Justice System has yet to incorporate either of the following two concepts: "good lighting," "joie de vivre."

4) The American Justice System vs. A Barrel of Monkeys? Monkey Barrel. No contest.

My last observation regarding The AJS is of a more personal nature. My day as a juror proved to me--beyond any reasonable doubt--that I have no shame left and can cry about M absolutely anywhere.

Awesome.

FUCK.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

FUCK.

JURY DUTY.

If any of you reading this happen to be responsible for operating a very large piece of machinery in the vicinity of E. 8th St, whose purpose--as near as I can tell--is to POUND LOUDLY ALL DAY, thank you. You are responsible for my new game:

Hell

"Hell" (copyright pending) is a game in which you ask yourself the question, "What would be worse than this?" It should be played whenever things are going really badly. If, for example, there is a DEAFENING BOOMING NOISE emanating from a machine that is located about SIX INCHES FROM YOUR OFFICE WINDOW, you should play "Hell." It will make you feel better.

All of you good, God-fearing people out there, may be tempted to play "Hell" in the following way:

Today is a bad day. I'm going to play that new game, "Hell." Let's see. How could this day be worse? Hmmmm. This day could be worse if it was -raining-. This day could be worse if I was -poor-. And so on.

If these were your answers, you suck at "Hell." Stop playing. We don't want your kind here.

"Hell" is not politically correct. It is mean-spirited. It is nasty. "Hell" is about digging deep into yourself to find out what makes you squirm and kick and want to vomit, and then bringing those things to the surface and staring directly into their beady, pink-eye infested eyes. The result?

Suddenly your whole world will seem a little more tolerable.

My Hells--as of about 4:30 EST--are:

* Note: Each "Hell" scenario should be considered eternal unless otherwise noted.*

1) Being forced to walk through the (disgusting, litter-filled) underground part of the Times Square subway station during the height of rush-hour on the hottest, most humid day of the summer. In this Hell, I would be naked except for a short fur coat that made me pour sweat but still left my lower-half totally exposed to all of the thousands of dirty strangers pushing past me in the stifling heat.

2) Being forced to give Golem a blow-job. If Golem has no genitals, then I guess being forced to let him go down on me would be just as bad. Maybe worse.

There. See? This infernal pounding seems like nothing now.

Toodles.

Finding My....Um...Nemo

A few things keep me up at night. Among these are:

* My pure and silent hatred for the person responsible for the front-page headlines of The New York Post. For example, a recent article on property value assessment, "TAXMAN GIVES HOMES A KICK IN THE ASSESS." Such terrible punning has not been seen since 1984 when seven-year-old Joey Zileski discovered Knock-Knock Jokes and went around asking anyone who would listen, "Orange you glad I'm not a banana?".

* The fact that I had a crush on Joey Zileski and used to think--each time he asked this stupid, stupid question--"Yes, Joey. Yes! I am glad you're not a banana. If you were a banana, who would there be for me to love?

* This. And again. Everybody now!

The last and most recent addition to this list (MOM, STOP READING HERE) is this:

* The fact that I had my only non-self-induced orgasm with a guy who I met on an on-line dating website.

God, I know. And I didn't even like him.

All those years in college with soft-lipped, golden-tongued lads who spent hours trying to work out the complexities of their womb-envy issues with their heads entrenched firmly between my thighs. All those dear, dear ex-boyfriends (except for M. He's sexually inhibited.) armed with honeyed words. And actual honey. Prepared to dig in and last until I came, or lose their lives tr--well, hold on a second. I mean we musn't get too overdramatic about their sacrifice. Blow jobs, after all, can be an awful pain. These boys just gave their tongue a little workout is all. And their egos got a tad deflated.

But anyway, what I'm trying to get at is that much time and man-power (and even a bit of girl-power that one semester) has been put into trying to make me come. And what did we all get for our efforts?

We know that honey is still both sticky and sweet.

Yep.

Both.

Still.

Even after all this time.

Meanwhile, after seven years of trying. After some hundred-odd nights or so of me ooohing and ahhhing and moaning, squealing, sighing and (after yoga once) quietly concentrating on the image of a single candle burning brightly in my mind's eye. After making out with boys I lusted after and idolized and loved and hated and envied and just generally felt a whole smorgasbord of feelings about. After. All. That.

Along comes this guy who uses "LOL" a lot.

And he makes me come on the first try.

Five times.






....So. ANYway. Back to what I know is on all of our minds.

Uh-huh. He uses "LOL" all the time. Right? I know. I hate it too.

And curiously, as it turns out, my hatred for his use of "LOL" is pretty much the strongest emotion I will have about him all together. Because he's...I don't know. Fine. Normal. Very nice. Rides a motorcycle, so that's cool. He takes me out to dinner several times and is a gentleman (no posing, no car accident photos).

But he also has the following strikes against him:

Strike 1: He is a professional gambler. For real. He plays poker until like eight in the morning at this secret location on the Upper Westside. Kind of sexy/mysterious in a Robert De Niro in Casino way, right? You might think so. In the beginning I totally did. I was psyched and shopping for a red sexual-lady-killer dress to wear as I stood behind him at the card table massaging his shoulders and waiting for him to give me the signal that Shorty was in position out back and we could go ahead with our plan to steal the diamond.

Strike 1 Con't: But then when I actually saw him go to the secret location once, it was a real let-down. Let's put it this way: he certainly doesn't have to get hand-printed or retinally-scanned before they let him into the smallish, crappy-ish regular-old apartment building where he goes to play cards with fat men from Jersey. The sexual-lady-killer dress has been returned to the store from whence it came.

Strike 2: He loves Andrew Lloyd Webber. Really.

Strike 3: He and his last girlfriend used to get up in the early morning on Saturdays and do things like, say, bike to Pennsylvania. He once used the word "triathalon," in the same sentence as my name. It made me belly-laugh.

So, anyway, I wasn't, like, scribbling teeny hearts around his name on all my notebooks or anything. No, Sir. I was definitely keeping the whole thing in perspective. And by our third date I was pretty much ready to call it quits. So when he invited me back to his apartment to play Scrabble, I thought, "How perfect. After all, nothing says 'Let's Just Be Buddies' like a board game."

Incidentally, after arriving at his apartment I was able to add a "Strike 4" to the List:

Strike 4: The majority of his decorations seemed to have been stolen from the kind of hotels that are frequented by truckers.

Our game of Scrabble goes well, but I am so busy trying to get rid of my "Q" that I decide to forgo the "Friend Speech" for now.

After Scrabble, a movie. Which is fine, I think, because I make him watch Finding Nemo and the only thing that says "Let's Just Be Buddies" more than a board game is a movie about a funny cartoon fish.

But this is where my "Friend Boundaries" get a little hazy.

When he tries to hold my hand during the movie, I am firm. Friends do not hold hands. We're clear on that.

When he tries to kiss me, I am firm. Friends do not French kiss. Clear.

But then he gets down on his knees and says, "I just want to taste you."


Um...

...

...

Ladies and Gentlemen, I ask you, "What is a friend?"

Friends borrow and lend things. They share things--secrets, sweaters perhaps. Gum. If we were at the movies I would let my new friend have some of my Junior Mints or a sip of my Coke. (As long as he didn't have a cold.) I see no problem, then, with his request.

He is simply asking, as a friend, for a taste of my--

He wants me to share a bit of my--

Oh, FUCK THE FRIENDSHIP BOUNDARIES. The guy wants to lick me like I'm ice-cream in August and that's fucking fine with me.

So he whips off my pants and just starts going to town.

And, this next part you may find hard to believe, but I'm pretty pococurante about the whole thing. (Honestly. I am.) I'm not overcome by the throws of passion (like I've been before). His technique is strong, but not extraordinary (like I've had before). It's all just...fine. And since none of the extraordinary, passionate encounters I've had before have done the trick, it seems logical that this totally...nice...encounter will fall flat as well. So I just figure he'll go down on me for a little while, I'll sit here and watch some Nemo (those sharks are so funny) and eventually he'll get frustrated and fall asleep.

After I've rewound the shark scene a couple of times, though, I'm starting to be distracted. I mean, he's still down there, trying to figure how many licks it's gonna take to get to my tootsie roll center. Figuratively speaking, of course.

But where is this going? I mean, I'm not gonna fake it. And I don't want him to feel like I owe him something for his troubles because I'm not gonna sleep with him. Frankly, I don't want to do anything to him at all really. I'd just like to lie here, watch Finding Nemo and have him lick away for a while. (Hey, at least I'm honest.)

I decide I should warn him. Just let him down gently so the ol' ego doesn't get too bruised.

This first part I deliver in my breathy phone-sex voice just so he can feel good:

"Ummm. That feels so good. Really, really...oooh. Really good."

This second part I deliver in my teacher voice because after awhile my phone-sex voice makes me cough:

"But, just so you know. I can't come. I'm broken or something. No biggie. No one's ever been able to do it but me. Just wanted to give you the heads up."

(Last parentheses, I swear. This one's important. Ladies. If you wanna get your man to hustle, My Number One Secret Sex Tip is this. Tell him that no man has ever made you come before. Though in my case it was actually true, whether or not you've had a partner make you come, just tell 'em all you haven't. It's unbelievable how much they want to be the first. Silly men. We wuv you so much, you wittle silly willy guys. Seriously, though I don't mean to make fun. It's really cute. They just try and try. And even if they don't actually get you there a good time will be had by all. So don't say I never did anything for you. Bitches.)

Well. Just as I am finishing my last sentence....WHAM!

Just like that. Out of nowhere. After seven years.

Seven.

Years.

I lie perfectly still while he continues on his merry way, unaware of the miracle that has just occurred.

Wait. Oh my God. Stop. Stop. Oh my God! I just CAME. You made me come!--




Now I just don't get it. I just don't. Though the number of people I've had actual intercourse with is not so high, the number of people I've let go down on me is...kind of up there. And there have been, (as the old Armour Hot Dog jingle used to say) some fat--well, we'll call them well-fed--men, some skinny men, some men who may have, indeed, climbed on rocks. Some tough men. One sissy man that one time in Italy ('nother story, 'nother time). And, as of yet no men with chicken pox, but you'll never hear me sayin' never. (I've already had chicken pox. So, you know. Anything for a sick friend.)

Then, WHAT THE FUCK? Since it obviously couldn't have been this guy, what was it? Something I ate? Or didn't eat? Was it an astorlog--an asterol--was it in the stars? Or was it...the movie?

Wow. That'd be weird. I'd be so weird.

Turned on by cartoon sea life. That Calypso-singing lobster from The Little Mermaid desperately clinging to my nipple as I moaned "Find me, Nemo. Yes! OH, Yes! FIND! ME!".

God, I'd be more weird than those people who like to get dressed up in those huge, ridiculous looking animal-costumes and have sex. What are they called? Furbies or something. Only they at least have clubs and web-sites and things for the furbies. 'Cause let's be honest, ok. Let's not fool ourselves, here. I'd be dealing with a rather limited dating pool. The only other cartoon fish I can really even think of is that goldfish that that black-and-white cat in Pinocchio (?) is always trying to get out of its bowl. And he's probably from a petshop or something, not the sea--so who knows if he'd even do the trick? So I would just be alone in my room watching two fucking Disney movies over and over and over again. And what kind of a life is that? And once I'd gone through all the cartoon sealife in those movies. What then? I mean, really. What next, huh? WHO WOULD FUCK ME THEN? I WANNA KNOW! WHAT CARTOON FISH AM I GONNA FIND THAT'S GONNA ***Bleeeeeeeeeeeeep***



MOM, START READING AGAIN HERE:

...And, my friends, that is the story of how Jingle The Dancing Panda and her puppy, Button, brought new joy to Cupcake Town.