SELFABSORBED.ME

2004 was the first time I had ever lost a music player. I remember changing near the edge of the 76^th Street New York Sports club bench. Leaning over pulling my street shoes on, trying to avoid the massive amount of bush that was passing inches from my face. And in my head all I could think about was getting home in time to catch American Dreams.

I was about two blocks down Second Avenue when I remembered I had left my CD walkman sitting on the bench. I ran all the way back , booked it into the women's locker room and sure enough.. it was gone. Never to be seen again. It was a hot CD Walkman too, a red Sony one.

You never forget your first love...

Now it wasn’t so much the walkman that I was upset about, but more the embarrassment of the CD within it. It wasn’t just any old CD, it was a mixed CD. And the mixed CD has a nice spandex arrangement of Britney Spears, ‘Lucky’, and Backstreet Boys 'All Because Of You'.

Now I know what you’re thinking, and frankly, I don’t friggin care.

I had the double tape mixer, so I could make re-mixes...one word for that...HOT

I had more mixed tapes then Wal-Mart had high-waisted underwear. And to be fair, I considered my mixes to be ‘eccentric’…ranging from Billy Joel’s, We Didn’t Start The Fire, to Elton’s John’s, ‘The Circle of Life’.

Regardless, that was some good shit. And occasionally I would add my own little voice overs to the mix tapes, where I apparently felt the need to say things like, “Hey, this is Kimmy, and I get this party ROLLIN on the AM DIAL…..” (I don’t know, I had heard it someone once and it sounded cool).

Sometimes life doesn't get any sweeter than this...

Now let us flashfoward to 2008, when standing on the subway train I noticed some little 13 year old boy, carrying, yes, a CD Walkman. Now upon first glance I didn’t even know what the contraption was, I assumed IPod had made it’s newest model even larger then before… Zack-Morris style Ipod-ing perhaps. But alas, it was an actually CD Walkman, complete with hand-running grip on the side.

I felt so fucking bad for this kid, not because I assumed he was poor, because I didn’t, but more because I assumed he had the kind of parents, like mine, who don’t give two shits about what is in style. The kind of parents we shared would say things like , “What’s wrong? You got something that plays music don’t ya?! Quit complaining and go help your mom set the table for dinner!”

If I was 13 in this day and age, man I would have suffered. My parents don’t know and don’t care about having the coolest music player on the block. Staring at that kid I knew that his parents too did not care how many kids probably made fun of his Walkman...which may I add was complete with large CD carrying case stuffed in his backpack ...they did not care that he would have to listen to actual ENTIRE CDS, which nowadays is considered torture in at least 9 countries alone. My parents would never have bought me one of those (and I quote them) “New age things…what do those things do anyway? Play music? Well I gotta cassette player that does just as good of a job and the rewind button is pretty fast too!”

I remember when I packed for college and my dad wouldn’t buy me a new hairdryer because he insisted on giving me the ‘fold away travel one’ instead. (insert me collapsing onto our oriental rug into a ball of tears here).

Instead I would have been that kid, hanging out on the subway with my huge Walkman, listening to Elton’s John’s Greatest Hits.

And frankly, I still miss that red Sony and all I can say, is somewhere, someone on 77^th street, has a pretty great Britney Spears mix CD, complements of DJ Kim.

_____________________________

I have a problem. A problem that follows me everywhere I go. To subways and malls, bars and movie theaters. It’s called, ‘Tall Girl’. Now I am not sure how she does it exactly, like some sort of friggin David Copperfield in heels, but Tall Girl always knows my whereabouts. She insists on standing next to me everywhere, I look over my shoulder at the bars and of course there is Tall Girl... I turn to my left on the Subway and there she is again... Damnit Tall Girl, stay away from me! You’re friggin makin me look bad!

I would be able wear some flats and revel in shoes that don’t cause me to walk around looking like a drunk rabbit if it wasn’t for Tall Girl. For the love of SWEET JESUS Tall Girl, why do you make me feel so incomplete? Why do you insist on standing next to me making me look like a 12 year old who just figured out how to button her training bra? Or worse yet when you wear your heels why do I get to look like a midget about to be rejected from the Duck Tales Roller Coaster Ride at Six Flags?

So here is the story of how I was almost hit by a bus. It’s a pretty exciting story if I must say so myself.

The story begins, I was leaving a bar one night. I walked into the middle of the street.

And a bus almost hit me.

No joke, it skimmed the side of my face. And almost hit me.

Now the best part about this entire story is how often my friends like to retell it.

It always starts off the same:

Some Asshole Friend- “Hey, do you guys remember when Kim almost got hit by a bus?”

Me- “Umm, can we not tell this story again?”

And there is always at least one douche in the group who hasn’t heard the story yet and insists on hearing it. And conversation will always inevitably start and end in the Exact. Same. Fashion.

“Wait, what happened?!”

“She walked out in the street…and a bus almost hit her.”

“Oh . Wow. (long pause) So ..should we get lunch at the falafel place or the place with the smelly olives?”

mmmm, smelly balls

Because I have become convinced over time that Jon LaJoie and I should get married and I believe we should start a ‘NYCPonderings Chick + Jon LaJoie = Marriage' petition. …although I don’t think I enjoy his last name so much and I would not want to take it over if/when married. However, maybe we could also petition him to change it to something cooler like ‘Balboa’…or ‘Schwarzenegger’ or … maybe just '"ShmaShmortzenegger".

Jon LaJoie "Sunday Afternoon"

mmmm, now this looks satisfying

When did the restaurant business decide to give me the option of clean water? Now in every restaurant across the 11 continents clean water is available everywhere! You can now order bottled, purified water to drink. I don’t want to drink clean water, in fact I don’t even want the option of clean water. Where is the tap water? That’s what I want. I want the tap water, maybe some water from an outside puddle? Maybe even a collection of water growing in a nearby mud pond?

The waitress always looks so smug when she asks you, “Would you like BOTTLED water..?”
and I normally reply , “No, actually I would like the outside rain water if you can go collect some for me. Is that the water that is free? I like free water. It tastes so much better. So if the only free water you have is from the toilet seat or bathroom faucet they rowdy it on up and bring it out here! Mmm toilet water, is it free? If it’s free it tastes good to me!”

you question the conspiracy no one will give you a straight answer.


Why do people complain about getting served fresh water? We used to be apes scratching
the dirt to eat bugs and hunting down dinosaurs, or at least that’s what my grandma
tells me. Either way we consumed prehistoric bird poop covered in mucus and called that
bottled water. Ok, well maybe we didn’t call it bottled water, maybe we didn’t have words

DATING WITH DEVIN: A few steps to remember

Devin Kunysz, Editorial Adviser

It's strange, but dating is one of the few games that are less satisfying after you win. A victory in dating is the moment you know someone's hooked. It's the night you realize that you could show up for your next date drunk in your boxers and she'd happily pull you inside and cook you dinner.

Don't give it up Sex is one of the few activities that you're less excited about once you finish. No one finishes building a fence and decides they're tired of the fence. People don't win a hand of poker and decide they don't want to see that deck of cards for at least a week. But in the one game that we spend the most effort playing, victory is boring. The best part of any hookup is the prelude, the mental anguish of "will this be the night?" Once the answer is yes, guys start to worry about losing their grazing rights. I have one friend who could teach courses on how to be a player. There hasn't been a night we've hung out that he hasn't left the bar with a phone number - or, more typically, a woman. The one girl he's hooked up with who I've seen again is the one who wouldn't let him get more than a kiss. The simple rule is this: If you want a second date, don't let me round second.

------------------------------------------

SHEKNOWS.COM answer mysteries to life's most important questions:

Shanie, I would like to personally answer this one.

Dear- Whomever is lonely enough to write in to SheKnows.com …

Why is it so hard to find a date? I know what is running through your head and yes, the obvious choice does seem to be, answer #1- (small child raises hand) "Because Miss Ponderings ...I am not whoring myself out enough?"

Now I am sure you assume that to be the most obvious choice sweet child, however we all know children, 'assuming' only makes an Ass out of You and Me (class of children burst out laughing at the hil-ar-ious joke I make and smile at their incredibly attractive and all-knowing teacher) Now children, Miss Ponderings will tell you it is MOST LIKELY the answer you haven't thought of...answer #C- (small girl raises hand again) "ummmm... because I am annoying as shit?"

DING DING DING!

In fact I am sure all the above qualities are quite true about yourself and even more, you probably do charity work and appeal to the goodness of God and all things holy and maybe even deer and small animals run up to you on the street to sing some sort of melody with you…but when the rest of us look at you, or worse HEAR you talking to your friend on the subway, at say 7am when all I am trying to do is listen to my morning Ace Base I Saw the Sign to get pumped up for work, but instead all I can hear is your voice I do not wonder for two moments why you are single....and as I notice my earlobes starting to bleed from your high pitched tone, I want to rip those Prada sunglasses right off your face and scream, “Damnit woman! You don’t need sunglasses indoors. YOU. JUST. DON’T.”

My friends have been nice enough to scour Craigslist personals to find me a new apartment …and am I ever grateful…

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/roo/595467916.html

100 female roomate wanted cheap rent
Reply to: mailto:hous-595467916@craigslist.org?subject=$100%20female%20roomate%20wanted%20cheap%20rent%20

Date: 2008-03-04, 3:27PM
I'm a 25 year old medical school student. I spend most of my time in the library or in class. I love my school work however I spend alot of time in the school and unfortunately don't have the time that I would like to socialize or meet new people. My life is also a little boring and I have recently been looking for ways to spice it up/ I recently inherited a massive two bedroom apartment from my family at 65th and 3rd Ave and haven't had anyone to share it with for a few months now. What I am proposing might appear odd to some and I understand that but I would appreciate it if yo keep an open mind. As I own the place, I have no real need for any rent and so I am willing to rent out the second spacious bedroom for only $100 a month. I am looking for a young female roommate from 23 - 29 who would be willing to move in; the only requirement that I have is she wouldn't mind occasionally walking in her underwear around the apartment while doing mundane things such as cooking, laundry etc. I do not want nor expect any sexual favours, nor will i ask for any nudity or videotaping of any kind. As I said my life and job can be slightly boring and I would like to spice things up somewhat. If you are interested please e-mail me along with a picture, again the picture does not have to be pornographic in anyway just want an idea. I have also attached a picture of myself below for anyone who is interested. I'm on the right





Now for starters all I can say is…how could I possibly resist this kind of offer? I mean, let’s be real, I walk around naked in my apartment as is.. just waiting , hoping, praying some boy is watching through the windows afar…until of course I realize the only view from my windows is a fake outdoor patio that houses many pigeons…but I really think the pigeons are into it and I know some of the male pigeons over there would be more then willing to give me cheap housing for naked carousing.

I am also glad he specified that he was the one, "On the Right"...otherwise I NEVER would have responded to the ad.

My friends would like me to respond that I am a 300 lb girl from Queens who wears nothing but G Strings and a smile...although I have to disagree and say I would prefer to be 310 lbs and from Staten Island and wear nothing but undies made out of Hemp...but hey, that's just me.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

No I will say that APPARENTLY this article was written in 2007 and not in 2008 as I originally thought...but this article would make much more sense if it was written in 1907...and I don't even know if people knew how to write in 1907 or even if they knew what the word 'writing' was ..,.or even if there was the English language by then or if people just walked around making sounds like a monkey they presumed to be language...but I do know one thing....this article really FROSTED MY COOKIES:

http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2007/01/hitchens200701



Why Women Aren't Funny

What makes the female so much deadlier than the male? With assists from Fran Lebowitz, Nora Ephron, and a recent Stanford-medical-school study, the author investigates the reasons for the humor gap.
by Christopher Hitchens January 2007

From the John Springer Collection/Corbis.
Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: "He's really quite cute, and he's kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he's so funny … " (If you yourself are a guy, and you know the man in question, you will often have said to yourself, "Funny? He wouldn't know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce béarnaise.") However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: "She's a real honey, has a life of her own … [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] … and, man, does she ever make 'em laugh."
Now, why is this? Why is it the case?, I mean. Why are women, who have the whole male world at their mercy, not funny? Please do not pretend not to know what I am talking about.
All right—try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid). Why are men, taken on average and as a whole, funnier than women? Well, for one thing, they had damn well better be. The chief task in life that a man has to perform is that of impressing the opposite sex, and Mother Nature (as we laughingly call her) is not so kind to men. In fact, she equips many fellows with very little armament for the struggle. An average man has just one, outside chance: he had better be able to make the lady laugh. Making them laugh has been one of the crucial preoccupations of my life. If you can stimulate her to laughter—I am talking about that real, out-loud, head-back, mouth-open-to-expose-the-full-horseshoe-of-lovely-teeth, involuntary, full, and deep-throated mirth; the kind that is accompanied by a shocked surprise and a slight (no, make that a loud) peal of delight—well, then, you have at least caused her to loosen up and to change her expression. I shall not elaborate further.
Women have no corresponding need to appeal to men in this way. They already appeal to men, if you catch my drift. Indeed, we now have all the joy of a scientific study, which illuminates the difference. At the Stanford University School of Medicine (a place, as it happens, where I once underwent an absolutely hilarious procedure with a sigmoidoscope), the grim-faced researchers showed 10 men and 10 women a sample of 70 black-and-white cartoons and got them to rate the gags on a "funniness scale." To annex for a moment the fall-about language of the report as it was summarized in Biotech Week:
This is not to say that women are humorless, or cannot make great wits and comedians. And if they did not operate on the humor wavelength, there would be scant point in half killing oneself in the attempt to make them writhe and scream (uproariously). Wit, after all, is the unfailing symptom of intelligence. Men will laugh at almost anything...
--------------------------------
And, oh yes, the article only gets worse...

Look at these liars right here, all bullshitters disguised as long division

For as long as I can remember I have had a problem with numbers. The problem of course being that they are too “exact”. I don’t like to live in a world of exactness; I like to live in a world of grayness. I like to think some things look like they have semi- a lot of calories, or might possibly be too expensive, or are somewhat over budget. I don’t like to live in the world where 80 cents under at Bank of America is known to me as a 35 dollar charge. That world is bullshit.

Some of the scariest numbers of all being; my bank account statement… the scale… and of course the cost of living. (*cough* the amount of people you’ve slept with *cough*)

For starters, I don’t believe what numbers tell me. I choose to believe instead that the numbers are lying and in fact have gotten themselves mixed up along the way. I don’t think I have ever jumped on my scale before without weighing something else first just to PROVE that my scale is wrong. I will stare at it, take a Vogue magazine and throw it on top... 3lbs it read! Now I know Vogue has been looking a little hefty these days, but 3lbs, that is horseshit! So then, I deem my scale to be an outright liar and move the calibration at the bottom so it is about 20lbs under the 0lb mark...that way I figure it may actually give an accurate reading. See how I am tricking the numbers to actually do their job correctly? You want to know how much I weigh? Somewhere between 100lbs and 200lbs. You want to know how many people I’ve slept with? Somewhere between 3 and 300 people. Is that exact enough for you? Because that is the world I live in sista sally and it is a vast sprawling land of GRAY.

This goes the same for my bank statement. You know how some people get real jittery and have to throw up before they go out on stage? Well that’s exactly what happens to me right before I read my bank statement. And even then, I normally assume it to be lying to me. Every time I check my account balance I go in with the knowledge that it is probably wrong and someone, somewhere along the lines has way overcharged me for something! I will sit and scrutinize every charge, every cent, every time my card was swiped for 85 cent Trident winterfresh. And damnit if they charged me for two Tridents I will find out!

Much in the way most women consider all men to be liars, I consider all numbers to be liars. In fact, if it was up to me, I would do away with all numbers all together. Let’s start putting price tags on things that say, “Way Over Your Budget”, or “Not Unless You Marry Rich”…THEN I would be able to understand the costs much better. Or when I hop on the scale I don’t want a digital reading, what I want is for my scale to shout out, “YOU ARE A HANDFUL OF M&M'S AND ONE MORE LAZY DAY AWAY FROM THE GYM, FROM BEING A FAT ASS!” Then, I would finally understand my scale.

Even regarding time I do not enjoy numbers. I hate saying I will be there RIGHT at 9:00pm, because let’s be honest, who arrives at places right at 9:00pm? Well, except for maybe my dad and a few Navy Seals? Instead I like to say, “around this time”, or “close to this time”, or “if you’re lucky you will see me before the night is over and I am being wheel-barrowed down the street drunk in a turban” kinda time.

I don’t like giving out a number figure, too exact, too much pressure. And according to whose watch? And what clock? Which brings me all the back to the entire, Numbers Are Liars, theory which I have been promoting for YEARS.

Me and numbers, we are breaking up. It’s been coming for a long time now, and I think I am finally ready. I am just done with his games, his excuses, his “exactness”. It’s too much for me, I need something new. And I know it’s going to be hard, but numbers will survive without me, I think numbers even deserves better then me! It’s not numbers.. it’s me! But if that lying sac of divisions ever comes back again, I am going to tell his little numeric ass which Pythagorean theorem to shove it in.