Thursday, November 20, 2008


Well's about that I said before, change is in the air.

And yes, change can be scary...even good change can be scary...but sometimes you have to just close your eyes..plug your nose...and jump right into that ocean water and just hope you can swim...

So Ponderings is about to change.

I have been asked by a great blogger to become apart of a new site formatted along the idea of Gawker or Jezebel, a site where women post their blogs on the same page, so that you can not only read me..but other funny women as well....all on living, dating, and surviving as women in our 20's.

As of next week, when you go to log in to NYCPonderings you will AUTOMATICALLY BE FORWARDED TO THE NEW SITE!

Will I still be writing the same stuff?

Will you still be able to read JUST NYCPonderings Chick's writings?

How often will I post?
Three times a week.

What is the benefit to this?
For my readers to view other female writers and for the other writer's readers to be able to read my stuff...essentially if we all had 500 readers, we might now have put in simplified terms.

Look for the label 'NYCPonderings Chick'..on the new site to read all my stuff...and I promise to post just as often if not more..and for it to be just as hilarious as always...and most important, I still plan on staying ridiculously good looking...

There is a plausible new idea out there ....the idea that women are funny...yes, women, funny...can you believe it? ...And this new site is going to prove that. Because it is the year of the female comedian. So I am going to go put my clown suit on and I plan to see you all next week, same time, same place, just different site....hope you all enjoy!

For any questions feel free to email me anytime at

-Kim (NYCPonderings Chick)

Monday, November 17, 2008


Some people have nightmares about the boggieman..or about falling off a ledge…or even someone chasing them around with an ax.

Want to know what my nightmare is?

That I wake up one morning and I am living in the middle of a suburb… nowhere near any city… married to a man who wears pleated khaki pants …and we have a gray minivan.


I get the chills just thinking about it.

It is like everything I ever didn’t want my life to turn into.

And that I would become one of those suburban housewives who go to Cosco to buy Cheese Doodles in bulk… and I eat them on the way home in my minivan… and spill orange crumbs onto the front of my stretched-out button up.

Wait, I am sorry, I have to go take a tranquilizer before I finish this story so I don’t get myself too excited.

…Ok, I am ok now.

And now add on top of that my weekends are filled with things like “making draperies” out of purple-pinkish flower fabric and measuring my “window size”… and having debates over which kitty litter smells the least.

Wait, I need three more glasses of wine before I finish this.

…Ok, I am back.

And during the middle of the week I have arguments with my khaki-panted husband about things like “shingle siding”. What?! Ugh, I just want to vomit right in my bed thinking about it.

And instead of working as a writer and editor I work as an assistant at some telemarketing company, where they have a big gray building in the middle of a nowhere-technology-park. And I pull-up, going a reasonable 29 miles per hour in my gray minivan… with child throw up all over the back seat.

...oh and we own some mutt-ass dog named "Fluffalupagus"... and three smelly fish who shit all day in the tank.

However, lucky for me, this is always just a nightmare...because I wake up, every morning and look around....and then I thank God that I live alone..laying in my expensive pajamas... have nothing but vodka and bottled water in my fridge.... and some boy whose name I have yet to learn sleeping in my bed…and I breathe a sigh of relief...ahhh, now that’s much better…

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Growing Up or Something Like That

2am and I stand in the back of some guy’s apartment surrounded by drunk girls playing beer pong on a half rotting wooden table. I have a warm beer in one hand a half lit cigarette in the other. One girl in shorts smaller then underwear passes by me, spilling her Corona on my shoes, “chusse know someshum here?” she asks, leaning against me.

I nod my head. I did actually. The owner of the place. And when I round the corner to the bedroom, there he is, encircled in a cloud of smoke, and I could barely open the door when I noticed some guy behind blocking it. He looks through the opening at me.

“Password?” He says.

“Jeff don’t be an asshole”. I say, and push my way inside. But being inside was like pushing through another door because I couldn’t see beyond my fingertips. Cody Chesnut and the Roots 3.0 are blasting in the background and I search around to see Chris’ face. And then suddenly it was like he was on top of me.

“Kim!” Chris says. An odd element of surprise in his voice. “You enjoying the party?”

“Of course she is!” Jeff chimes in. “Look at her! But no Baby look at ME…did you see my t-shirt babe it has an Olson twin on it...” Chris eye’s Jeff as he starts to giggle like a little girl.

I just smile and move over closer to the bed. But the more I breath in the more confused I get as to where I am going.. or who I am here to see again ..and more convinced that I need a burrito than anything else.

“Kim did you bring this dog here?” Someone says from outside the room, carrying in the tiny Yorkie.

“Yeah, but I am just puppy sitting, it’s not actually mine.”

“Well I think the dog is high…just look at him, eating all the pretzels off the floor.”

“Ah, well I am pretty sure he would do that regardless….but fuck, I don’t know if a dog can get high but more importantly how am I supposed to get him home?”

“How did you get him here anyway…in the puppy express van?”

“No, I snuck him onto the bus.”

“Well then you can sneak him back on.”

The dog just looks back at me. His small hair matted in the front from beer spillage and his tiny paws covered in cigarette ash. He apparently didn’t know he was going to be partying this weekend.

I pick up the small dog and put him in my arms. Step outside the smoky room and into the hallway. I make my way up the backstairs to the roof. As I open the door, the shot of cold air, taking away my breath for a second. And I step out onto the patio, letting the wind break against my cheek. The dog hovers into the side of my sweater, until his face if fully covered by purple wool. The city lights are high in the sky and I carefully move each heel beneath the platform so as not to drop myself and pup off the ledge.

And we just sit there. On a broken patio chair. Me and the Yorkie. Looking out over the skyline. I take another drag from my cigarette.

Sometimes we are supposed to be grownups in our 20’s. And sometimes we can barely take care of someone else’s dog for 2 days. I keep staring at the Yorkie, making sure he is breathing. “Just keep him alive for 1 more day.” I think. I feel the tiny mouse of a dog shivering into the armpit of my sweater.

And I can’t wrap my mind around the idea of people my age having children.

And I can't think about being married, or having a mortgage, or even paying my credit cards off in full.

And I can’t even end relationships peacefully and maturely.

And one day I will learn to stop crank calling the pizza delivery guy and asking him to send ten Large Pepperonis to 69 Yourmama Street.

One day. But not tonight.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Texting for Sluts

So I have this friend..let us call him “Pohn” so as to not confuse you with his ‘real name’. So Pohn and I used to work together many years ago. It was during a time when he wore braided belts and I had highlights the color of warm urine. It was not a good time for all to say the least. We always stayed very friendly even after we left the company though and would do the occasional "mass email", but that was as close to intimate as it got.

Well I was on my way to 7-11 two weeks ago because I like the price of their Diet Coke as well as their neon lights burning my retina…when I ran right into Pohn. Well one thing leads to another and I get the whole “I got a new phone and I don’t think I still have your number..” excuse (I mean really, is ANYONE besides ALF buying that one these days?) So I give him my number, he says I look great, I tell him he looks great too (I want to punch myself in the mouth just for saying it) and we go on our separate ways.

Fast forward to three days later. I get a text message from Pohn.

“Hey Kim, you really looked good yesterday, what are you up to tonight?”

Now being that it is 11:00pm on a Tuesday night and I am in a facemask and teeth whitening retainers, I figured now was not the time to be inviting any guests over.

So I responded, “ Thanks...I am heading to bed…I will call you tomorrow though.”

I then received a text back, “What are you wearing to bed?”


I look down at my grey sweatpants and t-shirt that says ‘Smokey the Bear Says Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires’..and I consider what it is I am supposed to write back to that.

Do I lie and tell him I am naked?

Do I tell him the truth and let him know that with the right amount of tube socks I might be able to be on a Full House episode?

Do I just not respond at all?

Do I ask him what HE is wearing?

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

And if I DID answer with a sexy response, was this going to continue on through the night? Was this some sort of sexual texting that I am unaware of, a texting ‘porn’ if you will…where two people sit at home alone but have wild fantasies through Verizon T9?

I didn’t want to set a bad tone for this new relationship and make him think I was some kind of texting slut. And then once you give it up once on texting, you could be expected to give it up everytime.

And furthermore, I didn’t know where this new relationship with Pohn was going anyway…what if we end up getting married one day and my kids ask me about the first time daddy and I fell in love and I have to tell her it was through my free night and weekend minutes and some one-handed quick fingers?

So I decided to play it safe and write back in the words of Marky Mark, “Say hi to your mother for me.”

Friday, November 7, 2008

Living with Oscar

So it’s true. I officially live with a dude.

Yup, he has black hair, green eyes and a high pitched meow. His name is Oscar and he is a Maine Coon Cat. I also refer to him as Oscalicious. He has gorgeous hair and sparkling eyes…so I tell him he looks just like his Mama.
Ever since Oscar moved in last month I can’t help but feel the overwhelming weight of living with a boy. He is dirty, he leaves stuff everywhere, doesn’t put things away... all he wants me to do is feed him... and when we watch TV together, he farts.

Seriously. I live with a dude. When I come home he rubs against me and is always trying to lay his head on my boobs, but the minute I start to get dressed to go out with friends he wants nothing to do with me. He will stare at the length of my skirt and at my wine glass, as if to say, "Are you getting drunk AGAIN you ho?!"

Last night I actually forgot about him for a moment and kicked him off the bed by accident. I rolled into the middle and pushed him off the side with my leg. I woke up to two green eyes staring intently at me from the floor. You could tell he was not happy...I hadn’t feed him or given him any love last night and seriously I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t rip up all my bras this afternoon while I am at work ...or hack into my facebook page.

Yesterday I found him sitting in my bathroom staring at a magazine with a half naked girl on the cover. I swear if I come home one night to find him reading a playboy while watching Sports Center I will not be fucking surprised.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008


Oh how a change is in the air. It might be the election. Or the seasons. Or simply Nick Nolte’s hairpiece. But there is certainly and change and a spark going on in the universe right now.

And it seems as though everyone else around me is changing as well. People I know are divorcing… getting into new relationships…being fired...quitting...being hired...running away to the circus. You name it, I know someone going through it right now.

So what is all this big change, and what is your big change? Maybe we should all change something. Even if it is something small, maybe that one butterfly effect will cause some sort of tsunami in China…or something like that.


Change your hair color

Change your boyfriend

Change your status on facebook just to watch everyone freak out
Change your accent at work just to watch everyone freak out
Change your birth control method
Change the way you talk to your mom
Change your underwear

Change the channel
Change your sports team
Change the way you love someone
Change the way you hate someone

Change your political stance

Change your body
Change what you read
Change how you drive to work
Change how you walk to work
Change your subway line

Change your nephew’s diaper
Change someone’s flat tire
Change your dollars into change
Change the way you treat your friends
Change the way you look at your life
Change the way you look at someone you love
Change the way you look at someone you hate
Change the gas for water in your ex lover’s car
Change your style of fucking

Change your socks
Change your stupid cell phone ringtone
Change my mind
Change the way I look at you

....Don’t change what blogs you read.


Wednesday, October 29, 2008


Monday, October 27, 2008

Conversation With My Mother

Mom- "Kimberly, I am sorry to bother you at work, but I have a very important question to ask you."

Me- "What Mom?"

Mom- "How do I check my voicemail?"

Me- "Mom, you have had a cell phone for two years now, what do you mean you dont know how to check your voicemail?"

Mom-"Are you typing right now? I hear you typing, can you stop and pay attention? I need you to explain it to me again."

Me- (loud sigh, thoughts of zanax) "Alright Mom, first you dial *86"


Me-"No Mom, not right now, dont do this right now, wait until I hang up."

Mom-" Oh ok, ok, keep going hunny, well wait, let me get a pen, let me find a CRAIG! CRAIG WHERE DID YOU PUT MY PENS, I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE MY..oh, ok, here we go, I have one now."

Me-" So dial *86 and when you hear the recording start enter in your password."

Mom-"What's my password?"

Me- "What do you mean what's your password, you created it!"

Mom-"Can't you just tell me what it is?"

Me- "Mom, I dont know what your password is, YOU are the one who created it.."

Mom" Ok, oh dear, oh well hmm..I think it is 1111...can you check and see if that is right?"

Me-"No Mom, I can't check, you will have to enter it in and hit pound and then all your messages should come up."

Mom-"Ok hunny, I will go try it, thank you for all your help, I know you know this technology whoha."

Hang up.

Five minutes later, phone rings.

Mom- "Hi Honey!"

Me- "Mom, why are you calling me again?"

Mom-"Because I just got your message! You called and left a message for me to call you back!"

Me- "Mom I left that message three months ago...ok I am getting off the phone now..."

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

In One Week I Need Your Vote

So in exactly one week something big is going to happen. Bigger then big actually. Something that may change the universe forever.

“Hello, My Name is Kimberly, and I do not want a Birthday party”.

“Hello Kimberly.”

So there you have it. In one week I will be 27. Yes. I am officially old. And for the past 27 years I have been parting like it’s 1981. But this year, I can’t say exactly what, but something feels different. As you can imagine, having a birthday that falls on Halloween weekend has always been the challenge…I have had Cowgirl themed parties, 80’s themed parties, Scuba-Steve parties... Last year I got ten party goers across a red rope, one who randomly walked in drunk, I made the bouncer give me a piggy-back ride, fell on the dancefloor, and ripped my dress…essentially exactly what a birthday should be about.

This year though, I am having the Old Person Blues. Yes, 27 is still young, but it’s fairly close to having to “accomplish” things…or “figure things out”…or “give up your coke habit”.

I mean I don’t know, this whole getting older thing is very confusing. Should I be married by now? Should I be having kids? Should I run for governor of Alaska?

In lieu of a normal party this year, I feel like something different and non-fun. I want a good ol’ non-fun birthday. So here are some of my ideas:

- Sit at home alone and watch “Steel Magnolias”, and cry.

-Sit at home wrapped up in a wool blanket, eat cookies and cry.

-Knit an entire sweater out of corduroy

- Watch re-runs of Full House and mutter to myself about the ‘good old days’.

-Go to 4pm early bird dinner special wearing some sort of heavy rubber soled shoe

- Speed-walk around the mall at 8am, then go home and complain about my arthritis

I would like it if you could all vote on what I should do....

Tuesday, October 14, 2008



Ok we are over, I am sorry. I tried. I really did. And in the beginning I really liked you too. You were funny and dirty and quick ...and sometimes you were all I could think about. I would rush home at night after work just to get ready to see you. Take a shower first. Put on my cutest little shorts. And I even remember the first time tried to let you go. The next week you came back to me even better than before. And I really thought maybe we would make it. But I have to say, seeing you not, all out and about, well, it is just sad. I think it's time you just moved on with your life, and hanging out with your loser friends all day isn’t going to interest people anymore. I mean, get over yourself.


Wow, I thought we would never see each other again. Really, I didn’t. I thought it was over for good. And I cried and cried and cried until I didn't have it in me anymore to cry. When I heard rumors of you coming back, I thought, it can't be, no way no how. I mean we were dead for so long. Not anything, not a call or a glimpse or anything. And to see you again feels so good. You can’t even imagine. Its like going right back to home. And I can tell I am smiling by the time I even get home. It feels so good to have you back in my life. And sure you still seem a bit juvenile, but you know what, it brings out the kid in me and I hope we continue on like this.


You know, all I have to say is, I am trying. I really am. I really want to make this work. But it’s like every time I think I finally understand you and what you are trying to tell me, you say something that completely throws me off and I am lost in the dark again. I just wish you would speak my language more. I WANT to like you. No, I want to LOVE YOU. Oh man, I really do. I would give anything if I could just feel that way about you that so many others have before me. I know I care about you and I need you in my life. I just don’t know how much I can commit. I don’t know if I can give you everything you are looking for. I can only be there some of the time. And I wish I was the kind of girl that could put in that commitment. But I can't give you what you are looking for. And I am sorry for that.

Saturday Night Live:
Ok. I will give it to you. You have been TRYING really hard to get me back recently. And I totally support you for that. I even told all my friends about you. But sure enough they were rolling their eyes by the time I even finished saying your name. Everyone keeps telling me to just move on. That I shouldn’t be wasting my Saturday nights with you. And it’s so true. Look what you have put me through in the past! I mean I can’t take it anymore. Stop showing up at my door. It just isn’t there anymore. And I wish you the best of luck with your life, but you need to just forget me. I cant be there for you anymore. Even my parents think you are a waste of my time. And I am starting to think they are right.

Sex and the City:

Ok, I don’t understand what I need to do to get you back. I mean everyone told me it’s over, but I just cant believe it. We had it so good for so long. Why did you just leave me like that? I can’t even call? Or say hello? I just know I need you back in my life someone. But I don’t know how. Everyone says it’s a pipe dream, but I cant stop believing. You left this mark on my heart and everywhere I turn I think of you. Every Museum I visit. Every restaurant. I want to say all your funny jokes. Reminisce about something witty you said, or that time that you made me think twice about writing that book. God, you just are so special to me. I don’t know how I will ever get over you leaving me. Even at my own wedding I will be thinking about you. If you could just make an appearance sometime, even if its only for 5 minutes, I know I would love to see you. If I can do something to bring you back, I would.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

The Rules: For Men

The problem with all these relationship books out there is that they are all directed towards women. Most of my guy friends call me all the time with questions about girls. So why is there no book out there for them? I have decided to construct The Rules book for guys on how to get any girl in the world.

And I guarantee this advice 60 percent of the time, works everytime.

The Rules: For Men

#1- Lie. Lie as much as possible. Lie all the time. Continue to lie. Do I look good in these acid wash jeans with tiger emblems? The answer is YES. Did you mind that I don’t know how to cook? NO. Or clean? NO. Or give a good blow job? NO. Lie to me. The more lies the better. This is key in any functional relationship.

#2- For the love of Jesus I don’t want to see the Ballet either! I can’t sit through that shit. Please take me to your kind of events. I want to see your friend Joey get his face smashed between a keg and Martin’s asshole. That to me is much more exciting. Take me to a strip club, and then shove my blouse full of dollar bills so that the stripper has to eat them out one by one while your buddy Javier chants incoherent dirty Spanish phrases in the background.

#C – STOP GUIDING MY HEAD. When you are lucky enough to actually be getting head, stop holding mine! I don’t want you to touch my head. Touch my hair. Nothing. Stop guiding me into it. I don’t want your guidance. You get what you get. And that’s it. I am not here taking a blowing class from you, so stop acting like you are teaching me skills by shoving it down my throat. I get it. You want it deeper, guess what? I have a gag reflex and it’s about 2.2 seconds away from throwing up all over your balls. In fact some of my friends will stop the job all together if you even begin to touch their head. So keep your hands the fuck off my head unless you want to forfeit all BJ’s for the rest of the year.

#4B- When I call your phone. You answer it. That’s it. That’s all there is. I don’t care if you are in a shark tank being shot at by a Navy Seal while three Miami drug lords are trying to shove cocaine up your ass. You answer the damn phone! I don’t want to hear that you were “working” or “in a meeting” or “in the hospital”. Blah blah blah. You better explain to those doctors during your appendectomy that I may need to call to ask you a question and you may need to answer the phone for it, organs or no organs.

#5 – I am embarrassed that you know how to dance. I mean let’s face it. The first couple times when I was drunk I thought it was funny. Now that we are standing with all my friends during happy hour and you were dead sober dancing to OAR’s “It Was a Crazy Game of Poker”, I didn’t find it so hilarious. In fact I found it even less so hilarious, when you actually broke out in the middle of the dance floor to do some kind of Usher-meets-Justin Timberlake impression, or was it Michael Jackson? God help me if I know, all I know is that is when I started to drink. Heavily. I don’t find your dancing to be a turn on. Watching you dance is more like watching those men from the Belleview Mental Hospital try and play flag-football. It looks about the same.

#11F- You shouldn’t know how to dress. And that is fine. In fact I prefer guys who don’t know what they are doing in the clothes department. But at least admit to it. Admitting you have is a problem is the first step. Then you can get help from there. I enjoy when guys I date show up for dinner in some kind of basketball jersey and jeans they bought in ‘98 from a homeless dude’s garage sale. I like it that way. Because what else would be my purpose to you? I can’t fix engines, make you pancakes, organize for shit…at least let me impart my words of the Christian Dior kingdom upon your land.

#G- My friends are not your friends.... Plain and simple.
Your friends are my friends though.
My family is not your family.
Your family is my family however.
I need more allies then you do, so that’s just how it works. And when you break up with me, your family, your friends, my family and my friends... they will all turn on you.

#(9 ²)- Under no circumstance shall you ever make a comment about my body, unless it has to do with ummm, … perfection? When I ask you if I should go workout, you should always answer, “sure if you want to ..even though you clearly don’t need to”. Listen, I don’t care if my ass balloons up to the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade character. I don’t care if you have to strap me up to a gurney simply to have cowgirl style sex with me. You better pretend like I am light as a fucking feather. I don’t care if you go to pick me up and end up throwing out your back in the process, you better lie on the ground and tell me it was an old injury from "the war" that just sparked up and that it has nothing to do with my fat ass.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008


For starters. He is short. But he has a ridiculous body. Want to know why? Because he is short. What the fuck else is he supposed to do? So he goes to the gym and lifts and lifts and lifts until you think that vein above his left eyelid is going to explode on the chest press. But then he lifts some more. And as for his penis, who knows you might get lucky, but I doubt it and he knows all those biceps are only going to be covering up for one very important (very tiny) thing….he probably works at gym, eats at a gym, and sleeps in a Gold’s Gym t-shirt. He is fucking fabulous.

He makes money. He says he lives somewhere ‘trendy’..he means ‘Hoboken’. He has a bedroom that has one of this brick walls in it. He drives some sort of car that has leather in it and smells like a briefcase. He thinks he is pretty smart and doesn’t laugh and your corny little jokes…unless of course he is trying to get into your pants and then he laughs and laughs and laughs like his life depended on it. He has a watch that is more expensive than your entire apartment. He drinks stuff ‘on the rocks’ and will be bald by 31.

You ask, “Kim, how is this different from the tall wall street dude?” Well this guy is worse. Always ordering people around, telling them to get him “shit” and drinks and cars. He goes to Ulysses on a a Thursday night bragging to the other SWSD’s that he is going to eat some pussy tonight. Umm, yeah, he will, and her name will be Lucy from accounting who has acne and an overweight cat name Fluffernutter. (Trust me, I’ve seen it happen). He wears expensive cuff links and has his name embroidered on his shirt (hey MT, you’re a jackass). He own an apartment in Manhattan with a view and has a maid named Lucita whom he makes wash his shorts.

You show up for a date with this dude and his jeans are tighter than yours. They are also about 200 dollars more expensive. You tell him you like project runway and surprise surprise, it is his favorite show AS WELL. He can’t comprehend the zebra print pillows you own and makes reference to colors in your apartment as being “opaque”. When you talk to him about prior dates he seems to say that it didn’t work out (because your gay?) and that the last few women were not his style ( because your gay?) and that he doesn’t like to jump into something overly sexual right away (because your gay?) The funny thing is, some girl out there is going to marry him and not even question his interest in Craigslist Causal Encounters. God Bless her.

Now this is my favorite. If you had to pick from any of the following, this would be my pick. But unfortunately the dude’s dude is not normally found in urbane habitats. You normally must explore vast exotic lands, such as “Montana” to find this creature. The dude’s dude, if he does live in a city, lives with about 4 other dude’s dudes (where they can co-habit together) and normally has keggers on weekend nights held in his bathtub that has about 4 inches full of grim. He watches sports, sports center, sports highlights....he finds humor in Family Guy, he burps, farts, scratches his ass and owns two shoes, black ones and brown ones. But owns a hundred sneakers, all with different purposes. The last time he watched Project Runway was because he accidentally passed it on the way to SportsCenter and he caught a model walking runway with half her tit exposed and he paused for like 2.2 seconds to watch…until one of the dude’s dudes caught him and asked him to take the dick out of his ass and turn the channel. The dude’s dude tends to not date a lot of girls, but when he does, it’s all long term relationships, because deep down in every stiletto heeled princess is the need to find a guy who actually enjoys fixing her leaky pipes (and you know what I mean). He has a big dick and doesn’t know it or care about it, unless he is drunk and whips it out at the Freto-lay table at the Christmas Party.
Damn, I love these guys.

Yeah he is from a bor'ugh. Wanna fight about it? Yeah he talks like a lip cancer victim after fight night at the local hospital…wanna fight about it? Yeah he went to 2 years of high school and dropped out to work at the local garage and start a gym in his basement…wanna fight about it? He owns a motorcycle and grunts and farts at the gym and every shirt deserves to be cut off right at the shoulder and ripped. He has a MySpace page where the first picture is a local chick stripping and the second picture is of some shitty car he has a pet name for…wanna fight about it? Girls that date him are named Gina, have 3 inch long nails and 4 babies all from separate daddies. And her kids all wanna fight you.

Oh man, here we go…it’s time to decide whether you want to go get chicken parm at the local Italian place or see Red Die Valley In Flames perform at the local basement gig. When he talks…he THINKS. He is a thinker, an overthinker, a deep thinker, a sympathetic thinker, a dysfunctional thinker. But let it be known. This dude thinks. And not just about his songs, or his art, or his soon to be’s like awww man one day, just one day when he becomes famous it is all going to be worth it. All the late nights, all the torture. Yeah, it’s torture, you got it, and its more painful then your relationship, because his has to focus on his “craft”, his “art”..Damnit woman he has things to THINK ABOUT. Lots of thinking to do! Yeah he doesn’t have time for you tonight, because of his audition, but he wont have time for you the night before either because he will have to spend his time “thinking” about his audition. (WTF?) Yeah , I don’t’ get it either. But he is deep. And if you don’t know that, then just go see his play/musical/band/whatever perform..and maybe you can ‘see’ what he is ‘feeling’…wait…what the fuck is he talking about?

Yeah he's cute. Yeah he has a good job. Yeah he owns an apartment. Yeah he wear khaki’s from LLBean. But umm..wait, did he just make a joke? Was that a joke? Was he trying to be funny? Did he have outward emotion? Umm..probably not, you probably mistook a pepper in his salad for actual emotion. He thinks nothing and feels nothing. He is dead weight. He is all great on paper. Every mom’s dream. And he smiles a lot and probably even has close friends from college…and of course he does, because he is fucking dead weight! All outgoing dudes have dead weight friends…it’s to make them look even MORE interesting! He is good looking enough to bring out with them to the bars and will attract girls..but he is enough of a shy idiot to not get anywhere with anyone and leave all the hooking up to his buddies. The best part about dead weight, is he will marry miss dead weight. She will have brown hair and a degree in accounting and will eat things like “balanced meals” and they will sit and talk about lawnmowers…while the rest of want to shoot ourselves in the fucking mouth.

He is 40-something, thinks he is 20-something. He wears too much cologne and date about 3 different girls. You wonder how he ever got a girl in the first place. He opens the first few buttons of his shirt. And you are always thinking, “Put it away granddaddy!”. He is the dude who will sit next to you at the bar and want to immediately ask you if you are wearing a to which you want to immediately ask him if he signed up for AARP anytime recently. He sweats a lot too. No one knows exactly why, but he does. The odd thing is, half of the girls will actually sleep with him, while the other half will be filing restraining orders and sexual assault cases. I would bet any money that he has overly sweaty balls…just sayin.

Probably Irish. Probably drunk right now. Maybe Italian, maybe half as drunk. But damnit he is a good-time McRonney. He is always the first to hit the bars at 6pm after work and doesn’t leave until last call. He knows every song. What song? EVERY SONG! Oh and he sings them too. He grabs a hold of you, swings you around in the bar and tries to get you to sing them as well. Instead you try and peel yourself off his half-opened shirt, where he has buffalo wing stains and move to another area. But drunk guy is always there, following you around the fucking bar, screaming your name “Karen! KAREN! OUR SONG KAREN!” even though explicitly told him five times your name is Kimberly.

Everytime, yes everytime, you hear it, before dinner, after lunch, before you fuck, after you fuck, at the alter...everywhere. "Well when my mom left me FOR DRUGS and then I started selling ..." Oh for the love of Sweet Jesus when does it end? Dude, WE GET IT, you hated your childhood and it forced you into drugs. You keep mentioning the last time you got high...I am pretty sure it was with some Sesame Street characters. You blame your parents who were 'crack-smoking-hoes-who tried to sell your diapers for drug money' and never cared that you were the lead in the school play, in soccer, you have to bring it up everytime? We get it, half of your siblings are in jail, your dad still asks your for money, your mom still asks you for condoms....We go to purchase angel hair pasta and the store is out you look over at us in your knitted hat, frayed jeans and doc martin shoes and say something like, "Well you know my mom made pasta with left-over crack boxes once...." Oh good sweet sally Christ, here we go again.. go find Grover or Cookie monster and light one up and let me know how it goes.

Dude, did you see that play? Did you hear about that team? Did you get the seats? Who did you buy the seats from? What was the score? What was last week's score? Who can I email today at work about the score? What chick can I make fun of for mispronouncing the catcher's last name? How come girls don't want to suck my penis?

He is normally surrounded by a bunch of other dude's (see also Dude's Dude and Dead Weight Dude)...they are all laughing at the Asshole's joke. He is picking up women at the bar, slapping them on the ass...but it's ok, it's not harassment, I mean, can't you take A JOKE?! His buddies love him because he gets his pregnant wife a body pillow and then complains that she wont let him rest his balls on it...HIL-AR-IOUS .

See above, minus the hilarious part. And instead of his friends wanting to buy him drinks, they want to punch him in the fucking face. but they still stay friends with him...why? who knows. Girls date him. Why? Who knows. You only know one thing for sure, he is angry and he isn't going to take it anymore....wait, take what? Who knows.

So he reads GQ, he reads Details, he thinks he is Men's Health. He organizes his apartment, buys the new cologne in the ads. Uses the new types of shavers, talks to girls from paragraphs he reads, basis his workout on a fitness pull-out. Drinks health shakes. Tries cannoning, hiking, manicures/pedicures..whatever...did you see it in GQ? He's done it. He wants to be tough. Yet sensitive. Yet manly. Yet emotional. He actually knows what jeans are in style. AND he knows that team won last week's playoffs. He volunteers at children's hospitals (seriously?). He has the new gray sweater from Banana or Gucci, or who cares. but he has it. He smiles on the train, holds doors and goes spear fishing. Not because he wants to...but because Men's Vogue told him to! For the love of Christ can't you see how close he is to being perfect! So close that if you look extra hard that gray-nicely-worn-sweater has tear stains on it. Big ones. And soon enough he will be smoking crack with a woman named 'Honeyfied' telling her about water-polo.

(I feel like I am going to bu updating this all day because I keep thinkin of more dudes I date....sad? Maybe.)

Hey babe, I think it's so great that you decided to come crash on my futon that still has old sex stains on it and I mean I will definitely change out of these corduroys pretty soon but I was thinking that....mmmm burrito..have you ever had one of Harry's Burritos with that red stuff, that chunky stuff, it's kinda spicy...salsa? yeah, salsa babe...but...wait, what are we talkin about? ....I forget babe, but seriously I have to fly to LA to meet my friend Goose...he is going to let me write a play for him..or mow his lawn or something, I'm not sure..but babe how do you think I could get high before I get on the plane? I don't know...yeah babe I did my laundry...last month, whatever....come, let's just lay down for a bit on the futon...just lay right here next to me....and we should really...ummm...mmm babe lay right here.....and we, um, we, um......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

He cried. Three times already in front of you. It has been four months and you haven't even cried once. There is a picture of his mom on his nightstand, his work desk, on the fridge. Every sentence starts with, "Well my Mom was saying that..." Dude, we get it, you love your mom. You want to marry your mom and frankly she comes over every weekend to iron your bedsheets and bring you homemade lasagna, it would be a sweet deal for anyone! Well these nancy-boys have a hard fucking time having relationships with girls. Wanna know why? Because we aren't your mama. And most of us aren't about to cook you string bean casserole and light your damn potpourri on fire. Mama's boys live alone and their apartment is spotless...not because they know how to clean, but because ol' Mama McGee is on her way over right now to shampoo their rugs.He tends to not be overly sexual or good in could he be with Mama McGee's high-waisted denim flashing through his mind every two seconds? And as you sit down to dinner with him all you can think is, "If you bring up your mom one more damn time..."

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

An Open Letter to the Dude

An Open Letter to the Dude Who Yelled at the Old Lady in Rite Aid:

Dear Dude,

I could see it coming from a mile away. As I stood there, foot cream and Tampax in hand, you raced your way in front of me just to make sure you were in line to purchase your full-calorie grape soda (people still buy that shit?) and Hallmark card. There was an old lady who happened to wander over your way and suddenly it was like watching Britney at the VMAs, where you just kept hoping some serious shit was about to go down, drugs or no drugs...Federline or no Federline, white trash was about to rear its ugly head.

And she just sort of wobbled over with her brown cane and took her spot, conveniently right in front of you with her thick plastic wedge shoes. And I stood there, tapping the Tampax box against my right leg, wishing I had popcorn and fucking 3D glasses for this show. You began yelling at the 107 year old woman, that she was "cutting the line", while she tried to comprehend your screaming and spitting. The old lady probably was having fucking flashbacks to the Civil War.... as you berated her in front of four other drug store attendees.

Now granted, you did have a point, as she cut about five waiting people, but you know what, for all we know this may be her last drug store visit…ever…so why can't she go pay for her FiberOne ten minutes before the rest of us? She is about to meet Jesus in eleven minutes! And I need all the good-press I can get!

What is your hurry to pay for you items for anyway? Is there some big Grape Soda Convention you are rushing off to?

And even better was when she started to argue back with you, mentioning something about being in line first, you kept yelling at her to get to the end of the line. Wow, I have never met such a chivalrous man such as yourself. How the women behind me didn’t faint upon the briskness of your voice is beyond me. All I could think looking at your left hand was…single?! Sweet Pumpernickel and Rye that just CAN’T BE! A man of your strength? It takes a lot to yell at a 4 ft 2 woman in brown shoes, but round of applause you did it man.

Friday, September 19, 2008


Kim esta incapacitada de escribir dado por ser una tia cualquiera. A ella le gustaria entretener a vosotros con sus escrituras divertidas, pero desafortundamente esta muy liada. Liada con cosas comunes, gastando la pasta que no tiene, llorando en una copa de vino, y ofrenciendo darle un frances a cualquier tio que se le cruze en su camino.

Sin importar lo que vuestras opiniones tengan que decir, os dire una cosa... regresara

el proximo lunes como es de costumbre para daros otra columna y esperemos que para ese entonces ya Kim este un poco mas tranquilizada.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

But you are

Sometimes being a writer is not so galmourous…the late nights alone on a laptop... the spilling of Doritos crumbs on a keyboard…the prostitution...

But sometimes, being a writer can be fabulous…such as seeing people in magazine stores reading your column…getting invited to celebrity events…. prostitution...

Monday happened to be one of those fabulous days, a day wherein a picture was taken of me for my column. And the picture was taken by a real photographer... with a real camera ...and a set and a little person who got them water. It was all very futuristic.

But I realized, that beyond my 5ft 2 demeanor…there are actually other reasons why I could and would not ever be a model.

Now I know what you are thinking, “But Kim…models get free coke!”…and dear sweet children, I know I know. In fact when the photographer asked me about photoshopping after I asked if he could get rid of my track marks. He seemed to laugh…slightly..but maybe it was more of a nervous laugh. Although I figured he must be used to getting rid of track marks all the time.

Let me get into the grit; the problem with modeling. The problem with modeling is that people tell you you are beautiful, even when you are not.

It aint all Tyra Banks screaming in your face , "I said, smile with your eyes...with YOUR EYES!..."

I was standing there, water in hand, the makeup artist staring at me. “You like, yes?” she said.

I stared at my face in the mirror, close to naked. “Umm..maybe I need a bit more shadow? I don’t really have on a lot of makeup…”

Makeup Girl- “No no, you are beautiful, you look great, you don’t need anymore, you are beautiful.”

Me – “Um ok…Well, maybe my hair should be a bit more straightened in the back and not parted directly across my face.”

Hair Girl- “No no, you look great, you look beautiful. Leave your hair as is!”

Me- “Umm ok…well maybe I shouldn’t be posing next to this 15 foot reptile covered in peanut butter ...”

Photographer -“No no you are beautiful, just stand there in the lizard’s mouth and smile…”

Well ok, so maybe there wasn't EXACTLY a lizard in the shoot…but seriously, when did people ignoring my concerns become ok as long as I was complimented?

It doesn’t work like this in reality!

Me- “Well maybe my we should double check that lump in my breast because I think that…”

Doc –“No no, you are beautiful! Who needs tests? You look great!”

This must be the problem with all models and actors. They are being lied to on a consistent basis. I enjoy being lied to as much as the next woman, but this was a little much, sometimes when I need more damn eyeshadow all I am really asking for…is more damn eyeshadow.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Manly Bike for Sale

Manly Bike for Sale
Reply to:
Date: 2008-07-22, 10:18AM

Bike for sale

What kind of bike? I don't know, I'm not a bike scientist. What I am though is a manly guy looking to sell his bike. This bike is made out of metal and kick ass spokes. The back reflector was taken off, but if you think that deters me from riding at night, you're way wrong. I practiced ninja training in Japan's mount Fuji for 5 years and the first rule they teach about ninja biking is that back reflectors let the enemy know where you are. Not having a rear reflector is like saying "FUCK YOU CAR, JUST TRY AND FIND ME".

The bike says Giant on the side because it's referring to my junk, but rest assured even if you have tiny junk that Giant advertisement is going to remain right where it is. I bought this bike for 300 dollars from a retired mercenary that fought in both World War 1 and World War 2 and had his right arm bitten off by a shark in the Phillipines while stationed there as a shark handler. When he sold it to me I had to arm wrestle him for the honor to buy it. I broke his arm in 7 places when I did.

He was so impressed with me he offered me to be his son but I thought that was sissy shit so I said no way.

The bike has some rusted screws, but that just shows how much of a bad ass you are. Everyone knows rusted screws on a bike means that you probably drove it underwater and that's bad ass in itself.

Those screws can be replaced with shiny new ones, but if you're going to go to that trouble why not just punch yourself in the balls since you're probably a dickless lizard who doesn't like to look intimidating.

The bike is for men because the seat is flat or some shit and not shaped like a dildo. If you like flat seated bikes you're going to love this thing because it doesn't try to penetrate your ass or anything.

I've topped out at 75 miles per hour on this uphill but if you're just a regular man you'll probably top it out at 10 miles per hour. This thing is listed as a street bike which is man-code for bike tank. The bike has 7 speeds in total:

Gear 1 - Sissy Gear
Gear 2 - Less Sissy Gear
Gear 3 - Least Sissy Gear
Gear 4 - Boy Gear
Gear 5 - Pre-teen Boy Gear
Gear 6 - Manly Gear
Gear 7 - Big Muscles Gear

I only like gear 6 and 7 to be honest.

Additionally, this tool of all immense men comes with a gigantic lock to keep it secure. The lock is the size of a bull's testicles and tells people you don't fuck around with locking up your bike tank. It tells would-be-thieves "Hey asshole, touch this bike and I'll appear from the bushes ready to club you with a two-by-four".

Bike is for 150 OBO (and don't give me no panzy prices)

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial

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Monday, September 8, 2008

Baby Mama Drama

There was a time, not too long ago, before Jamie Lynn Spears, before Massachusetts High Schools and before Miss Palin’s baby mama drama, when kids having kids was reserved for what many considered to be, the less fortunate. There was a time when a 16 year got pregnant that she either went to “boarding school” for nine months and came back childless with huge tits… or came back from another place childless …and I will not refer to this place by name, except to say that it might rhyme with “shmashmorshion”.

But in 2008 it seems as though we have either become devout sinless Christians, or unable to afford shmashmorshions. And in both Jamie Lynn’s and Miss Palin’s case, one would have to question both. (I mean when you name your kid Jamie Lynn, what else do you expect?)

The first time I ever assumed I was pregnant I called my friend Jay I could panic of course. I reasoned calling a guy would be better as I had enough estrogen coursing through me to steer a train right into Ovary-Ville, and the less estrogen-induced advice, the better.

I remember asking him what I would do, if I could have a child, if I could even afford a child. And of course, this is when Jay suggested the A-word. “Are girls still doing that?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He said. “It’s like cocaine. Everyone is doing it, but no one is talking about it.”

And it’s the truth. I couldn’t name a single friend of mine who had one. But maybe they have had one and I simply do not know about it? Maybe there is some secret society for these women and they are going to underground meetings where they discuss these kind of issues all the time and then watch The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants afterword, while chomping Midol. I could picture them all, sitting around in some basement, the walls covered in Anne Geddes posters and yaffa blocks.

When did pregnancy or the lack thereof become a non-discussable topic? Was Jay right? Was everyone having them, but no one was talking about it?

I did not end up pregnant that year. Nor have I ever ended up pregnant. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t scoured CVS before searching for the every kind of pregnancy test imaginable. The Red test. The Blue test. The ‘Are You Having the Next Jesus Christ’ test. Believe me, I have peed on them all. But I have never had to make that decision.

The hardest decision I normally have to make is whether or not to get whipped cream on my iced coffee in the mornings...because then all the Starbucks people look at you like your crazy for wanting whipped cream on an iced coffee , as well as the people behind you, clearly all now judging you and staring at your ass and thinking to themselves how your ass certainly could do without the whipped cream and then when they yell out your drink order they always forget it on top and you have to try and discreetly them AGAIN for whipped cream, as to which this time they turn to the other fucking Starbucks employees and have some kind of ‘SBucks’ fight wherein there is a whipped cream discussion all directed at me, all the while the other customers waiting for drinks are cursing out me and my stupid un-needed fat assed whip cream request…

But I digress.

Having never had to make that decision, I am not sure where the coin would fall for me. I am not sure any of us could say what we would do if put in a position like that because as they say, you don't know about the hen hole until you are directly in the hen hole...or whatever the fuck that saying is.

Unless of course you happen to be really really attractive... then I say - have the kid and give it to Janice Dickson so she can model the shit outta that baby and turn it into the first ever baby-supermodel complete with implants and tummy tuck.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

When I Grow Up

Saturday night I am sitting at one of those tables where you are not sure if you have a waitress or not to get you drinks, or if you have to go up to the bar to get your own drinks, or if you go to the bar to get your own drinks if the waitress will finally come by and scold you for having gone to the bar when clearly she is right there…it is one of my top dilemmas in life, the kind of quandary only some great Buddha sitting in a pile of leaves could possibly provide the answer to.

I choose the safest bet for getting my alcohol on time and decided to hit the bar. The blonde haired bartender stared at me from across the way. Was she going to take my drink order or what? What am I part of the 8 legged circus right now? Let’s get on it Miss Vodka Maker, go make me some vodka! But she was just standing there, staring. She finally walked over and said definitively, “I know you.”

Me: “Ah, you do?”

Starey McStare: “Yes I do.”

Me: “Ummm, I’m sorry?”

Starey McStare : “No no, you went to camp right? Camp Huckins?”

Me: "Ohh yes! Why yes I did, ahh some good memories…but what division were you? I don’t recognize you..”

Starey McStare: “Oh , I was your division… but you didn’t hang out with me.”

I just sorted nodded. Figures. All I want to get is some friggen vodka sodas and I couldn’t be bothered to hang out with McStare over here. I was probably 8 and more fascinated by how tampons worked.

She just smiled though and took my order.

One year ago prior, I had a similar experience. I was in midtown when some 5ft 11 blonde chic stopped me on the street wearing this red checkered bustier top.

Checkers: “Hey, I know you!”

Me: “No, I am not Ginger Spice from the Spice Girls…now if you will excuse me...”

Checkers: “No no no… you went to Camp Huckins right?”

Me: “Oh, um, yes, yes I did.”

Checkers: “You were a CIT when I was there.”

Me: “Oh well it was nice seeing you, I have to go get back to...”

Checkers: "Boy was I scared of you…”

Now I was the one stopping and staring.

Me: “Excuse me.. scared of me?”

Checkers: “Oh yeah…you were always the lead in every lip sync!”

The. Lead. In. Every. Lip. Sync.

Was I really hearing this correctly?

Me: “Oh, um, I was? I guess, maybe I don’t remember.”

Checkers: “Oh yeah, and you used to be in the middle of the circle in every dance party!”

The Middle. Of the Circle. In Every. Dance Party.

It was as though someone had just punched me right in my 10 year old stomach.

I tried to swallow back the vomit that was creeping up the back of my throat.

It was just getting worse and worse. In my head I was begging for Checkers to stop.

Checkers: “Oh yeah and in windsailing you used to jump off the boat to try and hit on guys on the neighboring island…”

Oh sweet chutney Lord in Heaven. Make it stop. Just make it stop.

Me: "Ok ok, you are going to have to stop… I didn’t know that I made anyone , um, scared of me, per say. I don’t remember being that way, but um, I don’t sing in leads anymore and um, I wouldn’t be scared of me now, that is for sure..”

Checkers just stood there, all 5ft 11 of her, her perfect body and bouncy blonde hair, staring at all 5ft 2 of me. I had nothing on this girl. Nor do I think I ever did. But apparently, in her mind, I was 6ft 9.

In your childhood, how do you remember if you were mean? If you were nice? If you were the lead circle dancing girl?

Do you grow up to be the exact same person you were? If you played Sandy in Grease once, will you forever be Sandy? Will you ever just get to be some lousy back-up singer, or Stage Dancer#3?

I am going to come to accept my days at Camp Huckins as days when I apparently used my formable personality to bully over girls who would later on turn into models. Funny how life works, huh? If Checkers and I had seen each other in some bar, her and her beautiful leggy blondeness would be my biggest fear.

But apparently, even after all those years, I was hers.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Judgy Wudgy Was A Bear

“He is a party-boy.” She said, staring at me from across the couch, running her blonde hair through her fingers.

“How do you know that?” I asked. “You just met him last night… he seemed fairly normal at the bar.”

Blondie: “Because I facebook’d him. I saw his pictures.”

Me: “Why did you have to do that, it just ruins it.”

Blondie: “I know, but when I saw the pictures, he was just drunk in every one of them.”

But isn’t that what Facebook photos are all about? If not to make people think we have better lives then we actually do, then what?

I was hoping that this “fake online life” craze had ended when MySpace started to go downhill. As one of my good friends put it, not switching to Facebook and staying with MySpace was like, “being the last one at that late night bar, where you are mid-dancing with your drink up in the air and suddenly you look around and realize that everyone has left.”

I know that whatever you put in your online Facebook or MySpace profile, is not the real you, but more an exaggerated, better looking version of you. If we all judged each other based on our online profiles you would think most of us had taken up residence at some Cancun foam party.

It is not as though Facebook or MySpace captures the “real” moments of my life. Moments when I am sitting at home reading- “Single Women Who Cry Every Night” -while clipping my snaggle-toe nail.

In fact I am fairly certain this boy’s drunken photos are simply a cover up for some kind of childhood abuse (I like to think positively). ..Or, as I assertively told her, to make up for, “his small penis”.

She claimed she hadn’t seen to yet to judge. That is rubbish.

Drunk frat photos are code for an alcoholic mother.

Similarly, drunk sorority photos imply abusive daddy issues.

I told her not to judge a book by its cover. And I meant it too, because this kid is hot, and who needs personality when your cover looks like Dean McDermott? No one. Not one damn person.

If she could eliminate boys now based on facebook, what is next? People eliminating each other based on some type of online “dating” site where they are forced to post pictures, bio information and whether they're single or divorced or what not? …. That sounds like crazy year 3000 talk. We are not that advanced here.

I myself, don’t go for all that online stuff. I like to judge people the old fashioned way. …by how much money they have.



Tuesday, August 26, 2008


So I woke up this morning, the sun was shining, birds were chirping, two homeless men were passed out underneath my fire escape…essentially all was right with the world. I started feeling good...really good, I haven't felt this good in awhile. And I got to thinking a lot about the things I want to ‘accomplish” not just today, but in my life. And I have realized that passing outside a dumpster at Brother Jimmies, although highly notable, may not be all I have yet to do in this world.

I have heard from many friends about ‘The List’, a topic done on The Jesus’ Hour Show, also known as “The Oprah Winfry Show’. The List includes writing down everything thing it is you want out of life, and upon seeing it on paper you will then start to accomplish these wishes.

I would like to present my readers, with my version of The List. And I would like you to all do the same and send your Lists over to me…and by “send them over to me”, I mean, “Don’t fucking send them to me unless you want to clog up my fucking email box you ungrateful…” wait..what? What are we talking about? Oh yes, Jesus…Oprah…Oprah Jesus…regardless, here goes nothing.

My list will include things I want to do/accomplish/forenscificate

by the year 2010:

1. Stop harassing the guy at Tasty Delight about getting Raspberry Fudge and throwing sprinkles in his face when I’m angry.

2. Learn how to play Phantom of the Opera on a Recorder.

3. Stop professing deep hatred for every man who doesn’t want to date me/sleep with me/ marry me. (Even though they clearly should be hated on.)

4. Realize that there are some people who are funnier than me in this world.

5. Realize I never listen to the number 4.

6. Wake up every morning with a smile on my face…..because I got laid.

7. Learn how to boil water.

8. Only date men who do two things every single day: compliment me and fuck me.

9. Stop talking so much and start listening…really listening. Like actual “paying attention” kind of listening.

10. Tell my Dad how much I love him and appreciate him.

11. Tell my Mom how much I love her and thank her for giving me a great rack.

12. Stop complaining about work… and realize everyone’s work sucks.

13. Teach small children how to do the Electric Slide.

14. Teach my one year old nephew how to say, “Dirty Martini Straight Up”.

15. Realize that no matter how beautiful I am….ummm, actually, that is the end of that sentence.

16. Stop being jealous of other people’s lives…she may be a Broadway star dating my Ex Boyfriend…but after she gets pegged in the leg by Jorge’s scooter, she won’t be.

17. Get a dog.

18. Learn how to keep a dog alive.

19. Order a round of drinks for everyone sitting at the bar.

20. Go to bars where the only people sitting there are my two best friends.

21. Stop thinking about how great college was and start thinking about how great it is to not have to have sex under a blanket in a bunk bed.

22. Telephone all my Ex’s and tell them I wish them luck with their lives.

23. Start taking xanax before I make any telephone calls.

24. Become thin enough to call other thin people ‘fat’.

25. Worry less...and drink more.

26. Stop smoking simply because I am having a bad day …and start smoking because it makes me look cool.

27. Realize the past wasn’t all that great, we just only remember bits and pieces.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

In Other News...Articles I Did Not Write, But Wish I Had

Guest Blogger:...Drum Roll Please...NYMagazine.

Ummm..because they are NY?...And a magazine? ...And they have pictures and not a lot of words ...and that makes me happy?

Meet Winter Raymond, Overachiever

ElleWomen's magazines often make women feel inadequate. That's, like, what they do. But seldom do they make us feel quite so inadequate as September's Elle, which features a woman called Winter Raymond:

When 27-year-old Winter Raymond isn't slogging through her third year of law school in Boston, she's in Seoul, Korea, juggling a law firm internship, a fledgling company (Seoulplay, a concierge service for business travelers she launched last year) and burgeoning TV stardom on the Korean answer to The Dating Game, in which she hits the town with famous comedians.

Really? How is that even possible? It's like she's one of those characters from Heroes.

Also she apparently does all this wearing $1,500 Jimmy Choo sandals and carrying a $2,595 Gucci bag. We, on the other hand, can't even put on earrings in the morning (the effort makes us nauseated).

We totally hated her immediately.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008


On a one week Hiatus until next Monday.

If you would like to guest-blog for me this week, please email me something funny ( I will be the judge of what is funny in Jesus' book) and it may or may not get posted. And I may or may not have the bubonic plague, but hey, anything is worth a shot.

Email me to guest blog at

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Wednesday's Deep Thoughts

As we look upon the Olympics to restore our sense of pride and nationalism

I look at the waving flags, team unity,

proud athletes

and smiling faces in the crowd...and all I can think is...

Damn, I would have to hit every keg on the block to ever

fuck Michael Phelps without him putting some kind of paper bag over that face.

My eyes! Somebody burn my eyes!

Monday, August 11, 2008

Work Attire Shmashmire

“So” She said on the phone to me after a particularly late night at work. “I went to Bloomingdale's to pick out a new outfit for work…and I had to make the forever daunting decision…of whether to look like a mom or a hooker.”

Just thinking about “work clothes” I could feel the bile building up in the back of my throat. I, myself have had one too many encounters with ‘work appropriate attire’ that I will deem sole responsibility on being a young woman in my 20’s. I can’t seem to win no matter which route I choose. I always see commercials for young people going to “work” in hip little corduroy blazers and ripped denim, carrying large architecture cases. Who are these people? Because, let me tell you something it more or less looks like Corduroy McGee's so called “work” is the unemployment line.

Even if you do happen to work in a ‘casual’ work environment, women still have the ever mysterious task of looking ‘nice’, but not ‘sexy’. But sometimes how can you be nice looking and not appear sexy? Or sexy, but nice? Or nice, but in a nonsexual kind of way? Or not nice and overtly sexual? Or how much wood would a Wood Chuck chuck if a Wood Chuck could chuck wood?

The lines become even more blurred when you are blessed by the Greek Gods with things I would like to refer to as, “boobs”. These so called “boobs" may seem fine in everyday life, but in the workplace they are utterly shunned upon. These alleged boobs must disappear completely come 9am, and must magically reappear after the hour of 5pm. However, if they are a decent size, even a basic v-neck sweater suddenly makes your work outfit look more like a Cheetah Club after-hours audition.

Oh and sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph may you be struck down dead if you have one of those dresses with spaghetti straps. You want to show a shoulder?! Who are you?! Naked Nancy?! Put that shoulder away, dammit, can you not see how you are arousing the men of the world and no one can concentrate on the work at hand with you showing that damn shoulder of yours! Men wont be able to “email” or “fax" or even have a basic phone conversation if they get one whiff of that Clavicle bone of yours!

The sexiest bone EVER

Have you not received the memo? Men will not respect you if they think you have a (whisper voices please) “body”. Yes, that is right, let no man think you have boobs, or shoulders or anything else for that matter. “Look at Mary, look at her and those BOOBS. Right there in her high necked-turtleneck! I can see the OUTLINE of those things! Distracting everyone! Get rid of her! She is a menace to the community! You better send that child home right now before she disgraces us in front of the men-folk! Now please, will someone go to the kitchen and churn some butter..."

Now if you don’t want to go the hooker route to work, you next best option, is the mom uniform. Oh yes, let me tell you, Peggy in accounting has this one down very well. Peggy is about 25 going on 83.

Peggy, how DO you get all the men?

She strolls in everyday in her pleated front khakis, heart-patterned turtleneck and a blazer that’s big enough to fit the small population of Asia underneath it. But you know what, people like Peggy for her MIND, and because you can’t see any of those distracting things like “boobs”…or even that Peggy has an actual vagina. Thank God!

God forbid people found out she has an actual vagina, she may not get promoted at all.

I prefer to go to work with my entire body covered. Mostly in sheets, with a ski mask and possibly some goggles. I find I am much less distracting that way. And more people can concentrate on their work when they are not being demonized by my body or by my outrageous good looks.

This is what I call , "Worker Chic"

And if Banana Republic could please stop advertising some kind of ultra good looking architect staff wearing high waist jeans and wife beaters, I might be able to actually be able to figure out what is work appropriate.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Friday ReWrites

I woke up this morning and didn't feel so well... and not just physically, but mentally as well.

So I get into work and I open my laptop and you know what I do? That's right, I download Huey Lewis and The News' 'The Power of Love'. And not even because I like it all that much, because I don't like it much at all, but I heard the song after watching a College Humor skit and it has now been etched in my brain as the next song I needed to get in my Itunes. So I download the song and I play it and play it. Over and over. And everyone that walks by my desk all I can think of is how I am listening to Huey Lewis. So I listen to that damn song maybe 6 or 7, possibly 12 times in a matter of an hour. And I am quite sure by this time I can even tell you the chord progression and possibly the bridge.

But I still don't feel better.

So I get up from my desk and head downstairs. And as any bad-movie-goer knows what comes next, I get in the wrong elevator by accident. I meant to go down but everyone is going up and I walked in aimlessly and all the passengers gave me that sorry helpless look that I had been caught in their upward bound elevator ride. So I stand and mumble numerous F words under my breath and everyone in their pleated-front-khakis is staring at me. I finally get downstairs and head to the front of the cement steps. Now I am not what most people might call a 'smoker'. I am a smoker-wanna-be. I hang out with all the smoker-cool-kids at parties and outside lounges, because sometimes when I am wearing ripped jeans and a vest and some kind of cheesy hat from Urban Outfitters I am quite sure the one thing to complete my outfit would be a cigarette... I think Vests and cancer happen to go well together, yes. But in truth no matter how many times I have smoked it still burns the back of my throat pretty bad and upsets my stomach just enough to make me feel like I need to go take a shit.

But this morning I smoked two cigarettes. Two. It took me a bit to figure out how to light the first one in the middle of the wind storm. And I could tell the other "seasoned' smokers were staring. But I actually walked outside of work to do it so it was going to be done. And I stood there trying to light a cigarette with the rest of the smokers as though I belonged...but they kept eyeing me, clearly noting I was not part of the normal smoking community that congregates outside of my building's steps. And I had on no makeup, some old corduroy pants and a t-shirt and I wonder if people were thinking if I even looked old enough to smoke.

After I smoked my second cigarette...which essentially was just for effects and maybe to prove something to the other smokers. I breathed in the last end of ash so deep I almost threw up. But I stood there. Waiting for the nicotine to hit me a bit.

But I didn't feel any better.

So I walked back inside. Thankfully got on the right elevator this time and headed back to my desk. I sat down and started to try and eat my sandwich. Eating can be seemingly difficult though when not all is well.

I remember this girl Libby from my 8th grade class having just broke up with her boyfriend named Josh and after the final student came over to make the 'Just Joshin Ya! " joke to her (dont ask) she pretty much lost it at the cafeteria table and the site of Libby trying to eat some sandwich while she cried over Josh was almost too much for my 13 year old mind to bear. Every tear drop and deep-cry-inhale she tried to take a bite, and it was truly a painful site. It will be forever imprinted on me, like some horrible childhood memory.

So the more I tried to eat my sandwich, the more I started pulling the chicken out of it, and then the lettuce and tomato...until eventually all I had in my hand was bread and mayo. So I consumed that and sat there. Reached into my drawer and pulled out my kids chewable vitamins and ate 4 purple dinosaurs. I figured the dinosaurs would make up for the mayo and bread I had consumed as my only meal of the day.

And I sat and waited to feel better.

But I didn't feel any better.

And then I sat and wrote this blog. And wrote and rewrote and tried to make it funnier. Or wittier. Or catchy-ier. And I rewrote it again. And I tried to think of what my friends would think is funny, or what maybe even my dad thinks is funny . And I rewrote again.

But I didn't feel any better.

I am thinking I will now go download some more Huey Lewis and see how that goes...