Never Met a Bigger Bitch Than Sandy

and I’m not talking about my old Landlord – but she was IN the running, fo’sho.

A little over a year ago my quaint little beach town was attacked by Super Storm Sandy.  Life on Long Island is pretty tame, and we don’t generally have these knock arounds by nature (sure, we have a nor’easter every so often or we lose power once in a while, but nothing of a massive proportion).  Once we got hit by the storm, though, things changed.

Cars went burning, buildings got flooded, people lost everything.  Driving through my town was like driving through Beruit – we had to navigate burnt out cars and houses and dodge the National Guard.

The weeks following Hurricane Sandy, two things that became adamantly clear:

  1. Never underestimate people – they can surprise you with their generosity
  2. They can also surprise you with their overwhelming selfishness

My friends and I did a lot of work around our island – people I hadn’t spoken to in years came from the weeds to donate time, goods, money – whatever they could – to the families that lost everything.  It truly was a sight to see.

Other people, however, were awful little fuckers.  And I have the memory of an elephant.  So I tucked some of those memories away for a later date…which will come. 

One of the best things that I got out of the storm, though, was my Beefcake.  We had started seeing each other about two months before Sandy hit, and quite honestly, if he hadn’t been around during the storm I most likely would have cussed out a lot more people than I did.  He picked me up and took me to assess the damage at my apartment, he helped my friends with their homes – he helped complete strangers with their homes -, he let me take his sweatshirts and when I needed to be mad at someone, he let me be mad at him.  He took me to dinner (dirty, exhausted, sore, and in the only pair of clothes I took with me when we evacuated…in purple crocs) and told me I looked pretty…and two months later when he mentioned moving in together….well, we haven’t looked back since.

And he doesn’t know how to use the interwebs so he’ll never know I was gushing.  BAM.

I’m BACK bisches

I’m BACK bisches.

I’m BACK bisches


And what better time to start blogging than the days following a rowdy JET fan (male) punching a rowdy Patriot fan (female) in the kisser after a whirlwind win by my beloved Gang Green!

So, I’m not an advocate for male on female violence.  I find any man who needs to make himself feel like a man by hitting a chic is a poor excuse for a man  But I also find anyone that feels the need to make themselves feel better about themselves by picking on someone weaker than they are is pathetic.  I’m a big advocate of “pick on someone your own size…or come pick on me” and have most definitely gotten into arguments that legitimately have nothing to do with me simply because I felt the need to protect a party in the disagreement.

Anywayzzzz I’ve been listening to both opinions about this little spat at Giants Stadium this Sunday; and both hold good points.  A man should never, ever hit a woman, right?  Yea sure, of course.  Under no circumstances, right?  I can’t think of any.  And then you watch this video.

This girl gets ALL UP in this guys face, yelling and hitting him.  He takes it, and then finally just clocks her right in the mouth, and people are losing their minds about it.  Hey, I’m a chic, I don’t want a guy to hit me in the face!  It’d hurt!  however…

you don’t get to insert yourself into a fight and assume since you are a female, you aren’t going to get hit.  If you hit someone, they can hit you back.  Plain and simple.  Especially if you, the female, are the aggressor.  Now, if she was just sitting there, maybe yelling about how the Jets suck and all that, and the guy up and decks her, sure…I can see the spark for outrage, but she wasn’t – she certainly wasn’t the victim. 

Neither was he, though.  A grown ass man lets some chic get him so riled up that he has to punch her to resolve the situation?  Maybe you need anger management classes, pal.  Actually, maybe you both do.  ACTUALLY maybe we can have a rematch on pay per view!

My money’s on the patriot fan, they’re scrappy.

My SUPER Super.

Let me start out by saying that my Super is genuinely a nice person. And I feel a little bit guilty about the post I’m about to write, and then I think back to how annoying he is, and I’m over it.

So I’m a pretty private person, in a lot of different aspects.  I mean, I REALLY value my privacy.  And there are a lot of things that I really don’t like – for example, I don’t like that I have to make small talk with the same person every single day even though we have absolutely nothing in common and nothing to talk about.  Literally, nothing at all to talk about.  I don’t like repeating myself over and over – if I tell you you’re allowed to use my BBQ – I mean it.  I don’t need you to ask me every single day if its okay, just fire that bad boy up and make yourself a hot dog.  If I am carrying a basket with 15 pounds of laundry in it, I don’t want to discuss the weather, I want to get inside and fold my clothes.

My super, like I said, is very nice – almost, overly nice.  He does things for me that I haven’t asked him to do, and while I appreciate it, I almost feel like I have to be nice to him because he’s constantly cleaning my grill and my windows.  And table.  And putting potted plants in front of my apartment.

My God I’m a jerk.  All those things sound great, right?  Well how about 5 o’clock this morning and I have to roll out of bed and walk my dog.  Guess what?  I don’t want to chit-chat, I want to walk my dog and go back to bed.  Or over the weekend, my friends came by and we had a BBQ – I’m not a TOTAL jerk, I invited him to come by if he wanted to join us, I had plenty of food and beer and everything…it just spiraled into a barrage of texts offering to go to the store and buy beer and food and all sorts of stuff for us.

No, Super, I simply want to give you a burger, have a few beers with you, and enjoy my friends.  I don’t want 85 different texts asking me nonsensical questions.  And, how are you getting to the store?  Not in my car, that’s for sure.

i’m a little bit country…

….and about 33% White Trash.

That’s the beauty of being me – I have a diverse enough background to allow me to make fun of just about any group of people (all in jest) without offending anyone.  White Trash?  Sure, I got some of that in my family.  Boricua?  Yea, I’m a little Puerto Rican.  We have con artists, connoisseurs, bikers, business men…the whole lot in my clan.  So I have a free range to say whatever the heck I want.

I’ve been having an internal battle the past few days trying to decide what my 70th post should be about.  Something funny?  Something serious?  Something about doing good for others?  A family story?  Work?  nahhhhhh lets talk about some history….

A few years ago, my old roommate and I decided to go to a party in Pennsylvania.  It was thrown by a friend of hers who wanted to create a new tradition.  Enter the First Annual “White Trash Bash”. 

We slapped on our most redneck comparable gear, loaded my mongrel into her black, three door Saturn and began our journey.  When we got to the party, it was pretty much exactly what we expected – loads of people drinking cheap beer in lawn chairs wearing cut off jeans and wife beaters, with a pig on a spit.  The host had activities planned (egg toss, nail-in-the-log, flip cup, beer pong, keg toss, blowing stuff up), and we settled right in, tying my dog to a tree and playing games.

*note* my old roommate was kick ass at the nail in the log game – which I hated – I won the female division of the keg toss (and immediately called my mother to tell her – boy was she proud), and we joined forces in Flip Cup, winning several heated games and the overall tournament until the other patrons kindly asked us to stop playing. 

As the night went on, we grew more and more tired.  I decided to retire to the car and take a nap – with my dog.  I should probably mention that it had rained, and we were both pretty dirty.  PeeWee and I meandered down the block to where my old roommate had parked the car, climbed in the back, pulled the Navaho blanket (wait, where did that come from?) over us, and settled in for a nap.

We were drifting off into a sweet, blissful slumber…when my phone started ringing.  “Brown Eyed Girl“, the song I used as  my old roommates ring.  “What the hell does she want?” I grumbled to myself, ignoring the call.

And she called again.

And again.

And again.

Finally I answer and ask her what she wants.  “Where are you?” She asks.

“I’m asleep in your car. What do you mean?”

“No you’re not”

“yes I am”

that banter continues for a few minutes, when I open the door to show her that I’m IN her car…and she starts laughing.  “oh man.  Get out of that car!”

So apparently at some time during the evening, my old roommate moved her car to the other side of the street.  And I was sleeping, with a dirty dog, in a complete strangers car.  Here’s the kicker – it was the same make and model as my old roommates car.  The only differences were the color (it was a dark red, hers was black, but it was night out and there were no street lights) and there were antlers and that bizarre blanket I had curled up in.

Needless to say, neither of us has gone back to the White Trash Bash.  We did host our own the following summer – but it wasn’t quite the same.

what happens in Vegas….

…stays in Vegas. 

I hate that saying.  I really, really do – because its not true.  In fact, its silly.  If you go to Vegas with the intention of misbehaving or acting like a dipstick, chances are whatever you do there will follow you home.  Pictures?  Yea, people can take pictures with friggin PENS and load them to facebook, tag your wife, and send it out to the entire INTERWEB thanks to Al Gore faster than you can put your shirt back on.  Herpes?  I’m pretty sure they don’t stay on the Strip after you’ve had a tryst with a hooker, and I know for a FACT that if you get married in Vegas, when you go home, you’re still married!

Ain’t that a kick in the pants.  They’re valid across state lines!

Anyway, every so often I like to increase the balance in my Karma bank by doing good stuff, specifically with charity.  In fact, I would have a lot more money in the bank if I wasn’t addicted to giving it away to different fundraisers – or, at the very least, I’d have a few more tattoos.  But hey, I like to share.  This season I’m doing another century ride with Team in Training called “the Ride to Montauk”  ( and I’ve raised about 1200 dollars (so far – my goal is 1600) for the LLS.  I like to limit myself to one event a season, mainly because the training occurs on Sundays and that seriously affects my social life in the summer (hey, I live in a beach town, and I like to drink PBRs on the beach with my friends without having to worry about being dehydrated on a bicycle in the middle of a 75 mi bike ride in 98 degree weather).

That being said, the team is going to Vegas for the fall season.  That’s right, Vegas. They’re going to do a 118 mile bike ride, through the desert, in Vegas.  And they think I’m going to go with them!  The minimum is really low, which makes it really inviting, but I’ve never been to Las Vegas before.  I don’t really have much of a desire to go there, cause I don’t really like the suffocating heat and I don’t really like being hung over, and being hung over in the suffocating heat sounds like the 7th circle of Hell for me.  I also don’t gamble, but if the opportunity presented itself, and I DID happen to go to Vegas, you can bet your Lilly white behind it wouldn’t be to ride a bike.

In fact, I’d probably come home married to transvestite sailor named Bubba.  With a new tattoo.  And a lot of pictures documenting the whole, beautiful ceremony.

Now what to write about for my 70th post!  How exciting.  I’ll try to make it a good-un.

sneaky sneaky pants

Fact: When people meet me, they think I’m a bitch

Fact: I am okay with that

Fact: I’m not really that much of a bitch…if I like you.  In fact, some might argue I’m quite the friend.

Case in Point:

My old housemate and bestie has her birthday every year on Memorial Day weekend.  When we were living together, we would kind of do a “Summer Kick Off” Memorial Day weekend, and celebrate her birthday – and then close out the summer with mine, which falls on Labor Day weekend.  We like to mash it in with the holiday because neither of us really are into the whole “big birthday celebrations”

Anyways, this heifer got sick of me referring to her as my “wife” and moved back to the Dirty Dirty just in time for her 30th birthday.  A few months ago I asked her “wife, even though you’re estranged, we can still do something for your birthday, did you have anything in mind?”  I got back an emphatic “I DONT WANT TO DO ANYTHING FOR MY BIRTHDAY AND I’M SERIOUS, IF YOU TRY AND SURPRISE ME I WILL BE SO MAD AT YOU”.

yea, okay.

kick-start: Operations Rae-Rae Turns Dirty-Dirty Thirty in the Dirty-Dirty J.

We planned, and planned, and planned.  We even got some feedback from some family members warning us against surprising her.  Did we listen?  Hellmuthafuckinno! 

I am not a good secret keeper when it comes to good stuff, but the best part about the party planning?  15 of us flanking her while she napped on the beach, and the look of shock when all was said and done.  Who doesn’t like a surprise party!

Communists, thats who.


“Every time you call “SantaCON” a bar-crawl…an elf dies”

I’ve never gone to SantaCon - I don’ t really have anything against it, I think the idea is pretty funny (everyone dresses up as some sort of Holiday character – elf, santa, Mrs. Claus, the Grinch, etc.) and follows a giant crawl through the city to predetermined bars – but I don’t think you know the next bar until you get to the meeting point, and so on/so forth.

A few of my friends have gone the past few years and had a blast.  Two years ago, I was in the city doing some shopping with a friend, during SantaCon – so I was literally surrounded by Holiday Cheer on my ride home.

Now, it wasn’t late in the evening, I think it was around 6PM, but I also think that the SantaCon started around 10 in the morning – so every elf, Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, what have you, on my train was wasted.  And singing.  And cheering.  Me, I was minding my business sifting through my purchases when I heard a f-cking COMMOTION coming from the back of the train.  Obviously, I peek around, and I see two elves going at it. 

Hard – like beating the balls off each other.  Which, if you’re not involved and don’t know anyone, is hilarious.  The train pulls into Jamaica station, and MTA PD enter the car on each side, surrounding the elves and bringing them outside to arrest them.  BAM!  One of the MTA cops gets blasted right in the face by a pissed off elf…and arm-bars the guy against the platform, cuffing him.

to my delight.  And the delight of the people around me – minus the person yelling “Police Brutality!” videoing the scene on her phone.

sit down, idiot, and don’t punch cops.  Even I know that.

don’t turn your back on the Irish…

and this applies to EVERY DAY of the year.  The Irish are like the ocean.  They sneak up when you’re not looking and BOOM, next thing you know, you’re drinking green beer chasing leprechaun’s in your bikini, wearing a giant hat.

Every year, some friends and I have a long-standing tradition of pretending we’re Irish on St Patrick’s day and terrorizing the city.  To be more specific, I pretend I’m Irish, but the majority of my company on St Patrick’s day are, in fact, Irish – so I guess they’re not pretending.  Whatever, semantics.

This past year, St Patrick’s day happened to fall on a Saturday, and it was absolutely beautiful outside.  Perfect parade weather…if you watch the parade, of course.  Which I don’t, I was holed up in various bars from noon till like 10PM.  In any event, a lot of my friends are FDNY or NYPD and either marched or worked, and they said the weather was nice.

One of the girls I hang out with (on days other than St Patrick’s day, too, of course, that’s just one of our bigger days of the year – the others being Memorial day weekend, Labor Day weekend and the Annual NYCTBC), emailed me this morning because the LIRR is doing a test run of banning alcoholic beverages from 5AM Saturday morning through Sunday, in the train station, on the trains, etc.

For the most part, I don’t find this to be a very big deal.  Mainly because I’m not 17 anymore, and I don’t need to drink on the train (with the exception of St Patrick’s day and NYCTBC).  In fact, I do everything in my power to avoid those trains at night – labelled “the drunk train” out of Penn Station.  I think its like 1:35AM, 2:35 AM, and if you miss that, a 3:50 AM or something insane. 

When I say “insane”, I mean just that.  There are fights on the train, people throwing up, crying, yelling, dropping pizza, spilling beer and soda and God knows what.  And they’re all kidlets, I’d put each one under the age of 25.  You’re just as likely to catch hepatitis on this train as you are to get thrown up on.  I could count the number of times I’ve actually BEEN on the drunk train in the past couple of years, and they all have to do with one of the aforementioned events.

I’m thinking that by banning booze around these times, you’re most likely just going to prompt these kids to get even drunker before getting on the train, and instead of having the loud, rambunctious drunk kids, you’re going to have the kids well into the dizzy, vomiting stage of the drunk-edness.  I’m pretty sure NON of the conductors or MTA PD want that.  We’ll see.

Besides, these rules don’t apply to me.  I don’t think I’ve ever actually listened to a rule about not drinking on the train – but I don’t drink like a jerk on the train.  My beer is usually in a to-go cup, and I’m focusing on the beer, not the idiot stepping on my foot.  In fact, I had no idea you weren’t supposed to drink beers at the Jamaica train station.  A friend and I were there a few months ago, having a cocktail on our way to Astoria when a couple of MTA cops calles us over:

MTA PD: “excuse me, ladies?”

Me: “yessssssssssssssssssssssss. officers?” (cops like when you talk to them like that)

MTA PD: “you know you’re not supposed to be drinking here, right?’

Well, no, we didn’ tknow.  So we finished our beers and threw them out.  Some dude walks up next to us and whispers “must be nice to be girls.  I would’ve gotten a ticket”



that’s me! 

I just got home from a quick business trip to Memphis.  I go every year, and I can honestly say that it feels more like a vacation then work – mainly because I LOVE Memphis, and the people there are the nicest group of people ever.  Even the panhandlers are nice.  And it’s incredibly cheap.  And they cook everything in chicken grease.  And I love grits.  And this year, I met the LA Clippers (don’t know them from a hole in the wall, but they’re all like 8 feet tall so it was easy to see who was a basketball player and who wasn’t).

That’s all besides the point.  Where I really am a menace is in the airport. 

I am one of the most relaxed travelers you’ll ever meet.  Literally.  I mosey around, I don’t rush, I’m always at the airport with plenty of time to spare and I like to drink some cocoa before getting on the plane for an in-air nap.  Planes make me sleepy, and its the best sleep I’ve ever had, each time. 

I’m also relatively unassuming – blonde haired/green-eyed chic. Wearing yoga pants.

Every single time I go through the Memphis airport (now, mind you, this is a SMALL airport, and not terribly busy) I get randomly selected for additional screening.  One year, they went through my bag (which is funny, because I accidentally packed a bottle of hot sauce into a shoe and they had to toss it – bummy), the next year, I had to go through the blowey-scanny thing, and this most recent time they wiped my hands looking for explosives, patted me down AND made me get X Ray Scanned.  The guy looks at me and says “I feel like I’ve met you before…”

Buddy, I’m not famous yet, you guys just ping me every year.  Its okay though, I like the attention.


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