Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Freshman Year, Steak, and A Model Who Ruined My Life

The first day I met Shawn I was sitting on an Extra Long twin bed. And I had on some sort of denim jacket. The window outside out my building was facing two trees leading up to this empty hill on the outskirts of the Bronx.

And I remember hearing the knock as I sat hands deep in a box of picture albums. It was so soft I almost didn’t hear it at first, until I had that undeniable sensation that someone was standing at my doorway. And I stood up, tiptoed barefoot around the moving boxes until I reached the large metal front door and opened it up.

He stood there like a great big piece of steak. Arms large enough to not touch the sides of his body, dangling them around as though they were painful to hold up. I wondered how those arms could even reach his penis to take a piss or if he just had to shoot and hope it aimed right.

Steak stared right at me, “You’re coming to the meeting, right Kim?”

So not only did this piece of steak know what my name was, he also knew about some alleged meeting that I was not going to be in attendance for.

Me, “I’m sorry?”

Him, “Kim, I am Shawn, your resident assistant. We have a meeting in ten minutes. You will be coming, right?”

I thought for a minute. No actually I am going to be heading to Time Square with two unknown other freshman to try and find fake ID’s in the village shops that also sell bong…yes?

But I just stared at his big arms and tanned face.

Me, “Yeah. I was planning on going.”

Steak, “Good, I will see you there.”

I attended the resident meeting that evening.
I also attended everyone after for the next eight months.

It was about four months into flirting that I first became to realize that Shawn was crazy. . And I should have noticed it a lot sooner, as he started to do odd things, like call me up at work and tell me he was in the hospital and was going to have a leg amputated due to a car accident. (He has two legs to this day) but that is a whole other Shawn story.

I walked into his bedroom one night with another residence, Molly, who although earring from the backwoods of Connecticut, was Irish enough to have been a drunk sailor with four beers and two clover condoms in her pocket. And we walked lazily into his room one night when we spotted pictures of this woman skewed across the front of his desk.

Molly, “Who is that Shawn? Your girlfriend?”

I tried not to get too close to the pictures. Having already decided in my head that I would lose my virginity to Shawn I figured it was it was bad luck of some sort to get too close too close to any woman that he had had more then a friendly encounter with. Molly kept moving in closer to view this alleged “girlfriend” as I drew farther away, just barely skimming the photos with the tips of my fingers, I wanted to get close enough to the pictures to run my fingers along them and rip them into shreds.

Unfortunately the woman from the photos was too beautiful to pass up as I drew closer to the last one on the desk which appeared to be directly out of a catalogue I had seen before.

“Is this from a catalogue?” I asked. Not trying to sound interested and especially not impressed, more like factual information, such as “Does she have five fingers?”

But instead he answered with the most horrible answer of all that prevent me from eating ay kind of substantial meal for about three straight weeks in the cafeteria, “Yes…she is a model.”

I remember feeling the vomit right then and there. Some MODEL was dating my future virginity card owner. How could that be? Did she not know who I WAS?

Molly seemingly now ever more impressed stumbled over to the final photo like the typical drunken sailor and squinted her eyes to look closer. I tried to push her out of the way a bit, trying to block the beauty of this beauty.

Molly, “Wow Shawn, she is gorgeous.”

Me, “Ok, Ok, let’s get going, we have things to do…I have to get a new bathmat, I mean really, we don’t have time for this.”

I remember grabbing Molly and getting her the hell out of that room of torture. It was worse then that hacked movie where the Swedish girls drug two boys and then send them to a place to be chopped up to death by a man named Oscar in leather doctor’s coat.

For one whole month I could barely look at him during the residence meetings. Dating a MODEL, mother fucker, while I sat around trying to become vainly interested in protein shakes and Kashi. And suddenly, everywhere I walked, MODELS! Models were everywhere, I couldn’t fucking throw a meth bag in the park without it knocking one over.

And one month later to be precise I sat on the bed of my friend Elaine, a New Jersey girl with long hair, blue eyes and face beautiful enough to seriously intimidate me into doing whatever she said. If she had told me to Intern at the 99 cent store, I probably would have. I sat looking through her Vogues, when I flipped open some magazine cover and there she was! Model! Model just sat there on the inside of her cover, so seemingly confident she might as well have been looking directly at me, giving me the bird.

Me, “There she is! Model! She is single handily destroying my life and delaying my virginity!”

Elaine, “What on earth are you talking about woman?”

Me, “Here!” I threw the magazine at her. “Shawn’s girlfriend!’.

Elaine pulled the magazine up to her face before eliciting a look of sheer confusion.

Elaine, “Kim...this is a model.”

Me, “No Elaine this is THE Model.”

Elaine, “Kim, do you know who this is?”

Me, “The Model who is single handily ruing my sexual desire and delaying the loss of my virginity and essentially livelihood on this earth?”

Elaine, “Um, no, Kim this is Gisele Bundchen.”

Me, “I am sorry? No no, this is Model, Shawn’s girlfriend. Shawn is dating this girl, he has pictures of her in his room everywhere.”

Elaine, “Are they cutouts from a magazine?”

Now as the wheels turn I know what you are probably thinking, which is, why did I not think of this before, but can I just say one thing here? I spent the first 18 years of my life living in NH going to a theater called the IOKA where one movie a week played.

Elaine, “Kim, this is Gisele, she is the TOP SUPERMODEL IN THE WORLD…and she is dating Leonardo DiCaprio…not Shawn the resident assistant.”

Fuck me.

Now if this is the moment wherein you think I just a “good laugh” or a chuckle ‘or I put on my fucking happy pants and went and did a dance in the hallway, you would be wrong. I was so mad, I ran to her computer and googled this alleged ‘Gisele’. I then sat for about two hours printing out pictures of her, trying to get a photo with her name underneath, some cover where it was clearly printed that she was indeed, the top supermodel of the world, and not as I had believed the Resident Assistant’s girlfriend. I grabbed these photos off the printer and threw open Elaine’s doorway, heading right for Shawn’s room.

I could hear Elaine trying to follow behind me. And when I got to his room I did one of those door bangs that says something along the lines of “I am in a hurry” and “Please open the door because I have a bomb.”

The door swung open , but instead of Shawn, his drunk roommate Randy answered instead. Randy was about 5 ft 3 and hyped on so much creatine and steroids he made Barry Bonds look like Tiny McGee. He stood in white underwear and Elvis sunglass.

Randy, “May I help you mam?”
Me, “Yes where is Shawn right now?”

Randy, “Shawn is indisposed at the moment.”

I turn to walk away, when he appeared. Half cocked and in some sort of white tank top that I believe, as Jesus as my witness, was made for women.

Shawn, “What’s going on with you tonight Miss Kimberly?” He hovered underneath the hallway’s florescent light.

Me, “Oh I will tell you what is going on with Miss Kimberly you mother fucker!”
And already I could feel myself throwing my virginity card right down the proverbial trash barrel.

I threw one of the pictures up in the air, right into the over processed oxygen and it floated to the ground in front of his feet. He leaned over to pick it up off the ground, and a group of girls began to emerge from the room.

His face reddened and this huge smile appeared.

Shawn, “What is this…pictures of my girlfriend you found?”

Me, “No. Shawn. Not pictures of Model, Because as we can see here from these photos…” I begin to start waving more of the printed pictures around, “This in fact is not your girlfriend at all…this is in fact Gisele Bundchen, the top SUPERMODEL OF THE WORLD. “

I can tell Elaine is now peering out from behind the corner of the hallway. Witnessing the massacre that is about to begin.

He smiled this big open grin.

Shawn, “Well…I just can’t believe you actually believed me..”

I stared into his face, my own burning hot with embarrassment and anger.


I swing around to the other corner of the couch.

Shawn, “Kim…come here…hand me the photos…”

Me, “No, I will not hand you the photos you asshole..” I begin to throw them around like a crazy person. Have you ever seen the woman who yells at cats in the 79th street Duane Reade? Well I was starting to look a bit like her.

I would fold the pictures half over to give them just enough angle to point directly and shoot at his face.

He started to follow me around the side of the hallway couch. “Come here, and give those photos to me Kim, it was just a little joke Kim and it went too far…and you were just gullible enough to believe it, that’s all. “

Me, “FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM FROM NEW HAMPSHIRE YOU ASSHOLE!” I begin throwing more pieces of paper at him, as he tried to circle the couch and I keep heading away from him in a clockwise direction.,


By now I am staring to notice in between circling the couch and aiming the photos right for his eyes, that a number of people have started to poke their heads out of their rooms and a small crowd is forming.


The couch circling has now turned into a small jog.



Ok, this is what we call, game over.

This is when the running and couch circling and paper throwing, all halted. And I stopped, stared at the crowd of people, now staring at me. About 20 people standing in the hallway. Just staring. Photos of Gisele now littered all across the floor. And it is completely silent.

And I drop the papers. Just like that. Drop them on the floor. And walk away. The papers fall everywhere, 20 or 30 of them sliding along the tiled ground.

I start this long tedious walk back to my own room. With everyone just standing there, watching me walk back.

I head halfway down the hall, open my bedroom door. Walk inside and slam it shut.

My roommate was sitting on the edge of her bed, watching me as I walked in.

Roommate, “What the hell is going on out there?”

Me, “Umm, I am not losing my virginity now.”

She nodded her head and went back to her report.

Friday, June 13, 2008

Save Lauren's Heart . Com

So as you all know, I am normally not the sweetest gal when it comes things like "nature" , "animals" or "children". Normally I despise sappy moments and even shy away from being a "do gooder". But sometimes ...just sometimes...if yo get close enough to NYCPonderings Chick's hit a vein...and then it explodes...and there is blood everywhere and it needs to be mopped up or something...with a mop called "LOVE"...but enough about me for a change (did I really just say that?) ...and let us focus on someone else today.

Her name is Lauren.
She is 26 years old.
Went to NYU.
Worked at MTV.
Was just like you and me...up until now....she is suffering from a heart condition and has mixed connective tissue that causes her to be unable to complete normal tasks and is in danger of needing a heart transplant at the moment.

This is Lauren

No normal things like Manicures for this girl...

She has to fly back and forth to Cleveland for some treat meant..this is just one bill of many

From her website- Any contribution would help Lauren and her family on their journey of healing. Trips to follow-up at Cleveland Clinic alone are thousands of dollars out of pocket per visit. She will be going in July for her six-month follow up on her pacemaker procedure and continues to take many expensive medications. Lauren often spends her days dodging "800" calls to her cell phone from medical institutions asking for their money; she simply does not have it.

I personally will donate 25 dollars from every paycheck I get towards Lauren's fund.
Even if you could donate just ON NIGHT worth of beer/wine money that would really help.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Turn the Lights Down

So let’s turn down the lights a bit. Get some candles going. Set the mood. Close your eyes…but wait, no keep them open and keep reading…so move your body around a bit. You hear some Usher starting to play softly in the background…You want to, “Make love in this club (what?!) ..In this club (Who?!) …In this club (where?! ).. In this club…”

Ok yeah, so you are standing there and he enters the room, wearing nothing but a…well..ok a Speedo, but still, hey I am not saying anything…because he is damn Michael Phelps and he just got done winning the Gold Medal in the Backstroke for you! All for you damnit!

So he walks over to you and you cant help but stare at his legs,

...his thighs…his umm “other Phelps”…those hip bones…those pelvic bones…that stomach…that belly button…that ribcage…those hands..those arms….damn his shoulders...his collar bone…his Adam's apple…his….. ..HOLY CHRIST JESUS SWEET LORD..WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?! …his face? Sweet Jesus say that is not his face! That cant be that just can’t be…ok calm down, breathe, breathe, just keep breathing and look at his stomach move down to his stomach again…

Ok good, good, relax, look at those pelvic bones…nice..oookay nice…doing well, oh yeah…that waist..that tight smooth skin..

and you just want to grab his arms and wrap them around his body and pull him down to you…until his body is next to yours and you look up and notice his SWEET HONEY BEARS IN VEGAS WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH HIS FACE…I DON’T UNDERSTAND…HOW COULD THAT POSSIBLY BE..HOW COULD A GOOD GOD BE SO CRUEL…..OK EYES DOWNWARD... EYES. DOWN. WARD…LOOK . DOWN. LOOK DOWN NOW!

Ok ok, wait until the vomit subsides…ok, swallow back the vomit and stare at those legs…ok , you ok? Are we ok now? Ok good...Staring at the legs again? Ok , yes let the nausea pass…ok good, look at those calves, and those hamstring…yum? Ok good, now…oh don’t look up…

Thursday, June 5, 2008

TPMusings..Is A-musing Me...Dear God I Need An Award

So normally, as you all know, there is only one person I find truly funny in this world…and that of course, is myself. I have a friend however whom is now trying to rival me on the Blog Avenue. ..and let me tell you his cross streets and intersections are something to be taking a closer look at...and what does that mean exactly? ..I have no fucking idea.

So being "a friend", I figured I should debut his new blog,

Now I know what you all must be thinking…"Kim, you must be sleeping with this dude to even want to put any of his stuff up here.." And truthfully…no, we have actually not. But it is a question that even baffles Jesus sometimes.

I decided to do a “clips” version of his blog. Some “snippets” of his "blogism" if you will , a bit of “tomfoolery” …damn , where is my writing award? I entered my blog into the educational ratings last week and it came up as “elementary school”. Sweet, I always loved 8th grade.

TP does use the word "Belicheck" in his blog, which as you all know, will be the first time that name/word/sound has ever been mentioned on a site like mine.

But I digress:

Please find below some clips from and then go check it out for your damn self!

“The next guy is the VIP Club Bouncer......we all hate this guy, hes big, he has a shaved head, a goatee, and a guest list. If you re not on the guest list be prepared to wait to get in. Nothing is more of a downer than trying to have a good time on a Saturday night in the city until you run into this guy....This guy just has way too much power(which is a whole column I'm thinking up) and he wields it with the best of them, there is nothing more frustrating than your Saturday night being ruined by this guy......Fuck him, I don't even want to talk to him ......”


“Sex and the City fever has hit the female population of NYC this week, I keep reading articles everyday about woman from all around the globe spending thousands to celebrate the Grand opening of this event, cosmos, fancy hotels, and shoe shopping, right now this is the female super bowl weekend in Vegas, we go to strip clubs and gamble , they go get brunch, sip on 15$ mimosas and hit up Jimmy Choo later on. Now granted most guys look at this and feel emasculated by the amount of hormones in the air, they would never take a moment to watch this show because us men are a proud gender who would never submit themselves to watch a show about 4 women shopping and talking about guys, I mean the premise alone is enough to most men squeamish. I happen to be different in the sense that I happen to embrace the "horror" and in the following few paragraphs ill explain why it makes sense for all men to see this movie or at least watch the show............I first started really catching this show late night on TBS or WPIX, it was late, nothing else was on so I decided what the hell......and a funny thing happened, I actually began to enjoy it, it had its moments where i felt like my feminine side had gone way too far out on a limb, but it had its moments... the big thing is as I continued watching it, the more I realized it was cheating for men, and the more I watched the show from that angle, the more I realized this fact, I felt like Bill Belicheck before a Superbowl I knew the other teams playbook inside and out, I began to understand how females ticked….”

"The final guy on this list of people who just need a hug is your office IT guy, SNL used to have a great skit on it back in the day.....nothing and I repeat nothing is more frustrating interrupting these guys from a game of dungeons and dragons because your computer doesn't work and you hear the famous words did you restart your computer? Nothing makes my blood boil more than hearing that. After further review though, I do have some sympathy with the tech geek, not because I'm writing this column but because if I had to type in code all day which looks something like this 010101010111001010101, I think I would want a pat on the back and need maybe a hug, these people deal with the most tedious frustrating things and are on the verge of just shooting up the office at any moment. So before they do that maybe I can talk to them, come to some sort of understanding between I.T. and the rest of the office, so we can be one page........."

Tuesday, June 3, 2008


So as I laid awake last night, thinking about life, money, taxes, death, if those protesters for Barnum and Baileys really do give a damn about the elephants…I also wondered, “why am I laying here awake? Why can my body not realize it is finally time to rest? How come during those 3pm hours at work when I want to pass out with my highlighter and a post-it glued to my ass cannot I not recall that feeling right at this moment?”

A good friend of mine recently paid full price for a non-healthcare-covered sleep medication so she could finally spend some time with her pillow instead of with her eyes wide open. Another friend of mine had to finally get her boyfriend on sleep medication after he had missed the third happy hour party at McFaddens to get in a good five hour nap, since he was not sleeping at night.

I don’t know many things in life, but I do know one thing… if you are missing DRINKING, so you can sleep, then you need to go see some kind of medical person who carries thermometers immediately.

Why are none of us sleeping? Should our bodies not be programmed to sleep? Did not the Cavemen sleep? Were there restless cavemen in the days of Yore, or the time of Yesteryear? After lifting boulders all day, do you think Caveman #1 would lay awake at night thinking, “What if I can’t pay my dinosaur fees? What if I cannot afford to buy that new dinosaur? Will my Boulder credit go bad? “

Another friend of mine (yes, I know, I make up these “friend” people, really they are just random drunks I find on the street to answer my survey questions) actually takes time to get out of bed and take notes in a journal, which helps him fall back asleep afterwards.

Writing in a journal is the last thing I would do as mine would be more ill-consuming then the friggin Diary of Anne Frank…mainly consisting of scribbling about my Ex Boyfriend’s third nipple and how I am going to get out of my dental bill through magician trickery.

Is there anyone out there actually sleeping? Who is even getting a full eight hours? I hear when you have kids the first year you are lucky if you get four hours straight. Four hours?! Jesus Christ I got four hours under the bar stool last Saturday…what will I do then? I will have to Zoloft my baby up.

My baby’s first two words will be, “Xanax” and “Don’t wake Mommy when she is fucking sleeping”.