10 Pounds of Sausage?

Well, I like sausage – who doesn’t!  But that’s not what we’re talking about here. 

Yesterday my friend posted her facebook status as “Ladies & Gentlemen if when you put on a shirt & raise your hands over your head the shirt does not cover your stomach You should not be wearing it, least of all to Work.”

Hilarious.  Immediately I thought of those girls that wear the shirts that are too tight around their midsection, and they have that adorable little roll of muffin top spilling out over their jeans.  Or the girls who insist on wearing leggings, even though they’ve stretched out the material SO FAR they’re just about translucent – ten pounds of sausage in a five-pound bag.

Now I realize that we’re not all in perfect shape – I know I’m not – but I do think that some people really need a reality check before they walk out the door in some of these outfits.  You expect it from the People of Walmart, but not in NY

I’m only glad that I have friends, real friends, who will honestly tell me to change if I’m wearing something that makes me look like a beach ball.

Oh – tomorrow there’s a demonstration planned for the city to “shut down the corporations”.  I’m already firing up my stun gun and cannot WAIT for my commute.  Fingers crossed something funny happens!


oh, Cupid.

As evident by all the decorations since New Years Eve, Valentine’s day is rapidly approaching.

watch out for those stray arrows!

I like listening to all the different views on Valentine’s day.  We have the couples in their newly wed phase, who can’t wait for their date night, (complete with candy and roses).  We have the couples that have been together for a long time, that judge the newly weds for their blissful anticipation, yet secretly yearn for the days their husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/wife used to romance them, and we have the couples like my folks, who have been married for-friggin-ever, and still celebrate like they’re newlyweds…

…and then we have the single folk.  And they’re further separated into the “bitter” single, the “desperate” single, and the “oh, well” single folks.  I have friends in all these different categories, and the weeks headed up to Valentine’s day provides money for much, much writing material.

One of my very best friends is going through a rough patch in her life.  She’s hitting a landmark birthday, she recently realized the fella she was dating is a d-ckhead (I’m allowed to say that, cause he didn’t like me – go figure), and she’s coming up to Valentine’s day.  She’s kinda bummed about it because she really doesn’t like being single – and this reminds me of a very special Valentine’s day I spent with her years ago.

I often joke that she’s my wife.  One year, neither of us had plans on Valentine’s day, so I figured I’d be the best wife ever and take her to Olive Garden.  Yep – Olive Garden, her favorite restaurant.  We went, we had fun (we ate, drank and were merry.  I think I bought her a rose), and when I was paying, struck up a conversation with the old man sitting next to me.

“I think its great you two are spending Valentine’s Day together’

“aw, thanks <old man>.  Gotta keep those women happy”

The waiter comes with the bill, I grab it, view the cost, and mutter “Women.  Can’t live with em, can’t kill em”

Exit: Old Man.

I digress.

I’ve spent my share of Valentine’s day with my various boyfriends through out my dating career.  We have the Queens Boy, who would constantly buy me tacky jewelry.  Granted, there was plenty about THAT relationship I could make fun of, but his attempt at gift-giving wasn’t one of them.  While it did display a complete lack of understand towards my personal taste, he did try to do something nice.

Or there’s the cop I dated for a while.  We went out to dinner for, I believe, our second Valentine’s day together.  He leaned over the table, squinted at me and said “wait a minute.  Your eyes are green?”

yes, asshole.  They’re the same green eyes that give you dirty looks when you show up to dinner four hours late because your friend needed help changing a tire (cop code for “drinking beer after tour”).

Or there’s my first “long-term boyfriend”.  On our first Valentine’s day together (mind, you, I stayed with him for two more years after this), said to me “get my belt out of the closet before I beat you with it”.  Astonished, (maybe a little intrigued) by the statement, I open the closet to a vase of roses.

And then I paid for dinner.

Finally, we have last year’s boyfriend who got stuck at work (Ladies, don’t date Firemen unless you are okay with knowing the “Fire House Comes First” – for every single one of them.  Every single one, regardless of what he says) but surprised me by having roses sent to my apartment while I was at work.  Sweet, yes.  My style?  Not even a bit.

I truly do not care about Valentine’s day.  And I’m not just saying that, I really, really don’t.  Sure, I’ve had the whole “romantic, get dressed up and go out to dinner” Valentine’s day.  I’ve also had the Valentine’s day where I’ve come home to an apartment that’s flooded because my friend clogged the toilet before going to work and didn’t check to make sure the water had stopped running.

This year could have gone one of two ways.  I could have chosen to go out with the fella that most likely would have swept me off my feet for Valentine’s day.  He undoubtedly would have done something sweet and romantic – or I could have chosen to stick with my charming FF – a cat I’ve been seeing for a little while now, that most likely will forget the day even exists.  Or not forget, and pretend to because he doesn’t want to deal with it.

I choose option two.  When it comes down to it – flowers die, chocolate plunges me into food guilt, and I don’t like sparkly cards in my house, glitter takes forever to get out of my damn carpet.


It’s no secret (clearly) that I attract a lot of weird/crazy/fabulously strange/inherently awful people to me.  I consider it a blessing, almost, occasionally in disguise.  I wouldn’t trade my friends or family for another, ever – nor my “enemies”.  I mean, everyone has to have a bit of conflict in their life, and mine typically presents itself in the form of people who are generally lacking in self-worth.

My Dog Walker, on the other hand, is the opposite.  She’s wonderfully weird, and she always cracks me up – not to mention she absolutely adores my dog – I get it, cause my dog is a trip – but Puppy does have the tendency to over power people or be a little intimidating if you don’t know how to handle her.

Similar to me.

So I found my Dog Walker by accident.  I was interviewing people, and one woman who my vet recommended didn’t want to travel to where my old apartment was, and recommended my current Dog Walker (not for nothing, my town is literally 7 miles from end to end, you must be pretty lazy not to get across town.  Or, there was another reason that she didn’t want to convey).

Since then, my Dog Walker has been incredibly reliable.  She comes every day I ask her to, if I text her and I’m going to be late, she walks and feeds my dog, she rubs her belly, sends me random videos of them gallivanting about town, brings me presents to decorate my apartment (that she helped me find to keep me from moving to a different boro).

Yesterday, she texts me in the morning, apologizing because she lost my key.  No big deal, I’ll just leave her a new one the following morning (she lost it because she was playing with balloons for a baby and her keys fell into a gutter).

Later, I get a video of her and my poochie wandering around my complex.  Curious how she got inside, I listened to the narration of her video.  She cracked the window open and my dog leapt out the window.

Yep, leapt out the window.  And when she finished, she picked up my 60 pound pit bull and put her back through the window.

She felt so bad that my dog would go 8 hours without a walk that she broke into my apartment.

I admire the dedication in the woman…but my super literally lives next door to me and has a spare, so she didn’t technically need to break into my apartment.  And what the hell kind of guard dog do I have that leaps out a window to greet her thief?

News Editor says Tattoos are Classless and Worthless

I wasn’t going to re-post this, but I was reading it again and found it a little funny.  Specifically the parts that say women are classless if they have tattoos, but should determine their worth via their physical appearance from the gym, getting their nails done, and high heels.

So, if I counter my tattoos with high heels and muted nail polish, does that reverse the “classless” nature of body art?  What happens if I belch in your ear – does that put me back down to negative points?  And, does it mean my values and morals are in disarray BECAUSE I have tattoos?  What about those cats without tattoos that kill their babies, shoot pharmacists for drugs, whore it up at the local bar – since they do NOT have tattoos, do they have more class then me? 

I suppose so.  Enjoy!

(PS – you’d think this chic would take her own advice and take care of her temple.  And by “take care of” I mean “clear up the acne” and by “temple” I mean “her f*cking forehead”)

It’s always people who don’t have tattoos and that don’t understand the lifestyle who have the strongest opinions. There is nothing wrong with saying that you don’t like tattoos, that’s fine. The problem arises when you cast judgement on people who you don’t know and tell them what they are doing is wrong without having any justification. This article was reposted in it’s entirety from The Spectrum, the independent publication for the University of Buffalo.

Article by Lisa Khoury

I get it. It’s the 21st century. You’re cool, you’re rebellious, you’re cutting edge, you have a point to prove, and you’re a woman. Awesome.

Ladies, I know you’re at least at the legal age of making your own decisions, but before you decide to get a tattoo, allow me to let you in on a little secret. A secret you may have not fully realized yet thus far in your life. What you must understand is, as women, we are – naturally – beautiful creatures.

Seriously, though. Your body literally has the ability to turn heads. Guys drool over us. We hold some serious power in our hands, because – as corny as this sounds – we hold the world’s beauty.

But something girls seem to forget nowadays, or maybe have not been taught, is that women hold the world’s class and elegance in their hands, as well. So what’s more attractive than a girl with a nice body? I’ll tell you what: a girl with class. Looks may not last, but class does. And so do tattoos.

An elegant woman does not vandalize the temple she has been blessed with as her body. She appreciates it. She flaunts it. She’s not happy with it? She goes to the gym. She dresses it up in lavish, fun, trendy clothes, enjoying trips to the mall with her girlfriends. She accentuates her legs with high heels. She gets her nails done. She enjoys the finer things in life, all with the body she was blessed with.

But marking it up with ink? That’s just not necessary.

I’m not here to say a girl should walk around flaunting her body like it’s her job – that’s just degrading. Instead of getting a tattoo, a more productive use of your time would be improving and appreciating the body you have been given, not permanently engraving it.

Can you get meaning out of a tattoo? Arguably. If you want to insert ink into your skin as a symbol for something greater than yourself, then maybe you are proving a point to yourself or the rest of the world.

But at the end of the day, are you really a happier person? Has this tattoo, for instance, caused you to learn something new about yourself? Has it challenged you? Has it led you to self-growth? Nothing comes out of getting a tattoo. You get a tattoo, and that’s it. You do something productive, though, and you see results. That’s a genuine, satisfying change in life. Not ink.

Invest your time, money, and effort into a gym membership, or yoga classes, or new clothes, or experimenting with different hairstyles if you’re craving something new with your body, not a tattoo.

I promise, it will be a much more rewarding experience, and you won’t find yourself in a rut when your future grandkids ask you what’s up with the angel wings on your upper back as you’re in the middle of giving them a life lesson on the importance of values and morals.

God knows the last thing this world needs is another generation of kids questioning their basic values and morals.

Email: lisa.khoury@ubspectrum.com

“Hide The Crazy”

Sometimes I don’t think people realize just how insane they appear to other people.

Example: I’m on the train this morning.  I took a different train than usual, so there was a whole new group of weirdos to observe.  I had to swap trains at the hub to get to my destination, and the rest of the ride was short – 15 minutes or so – I opted to stand in the vestibule.

Across from a woman who was having a full on conversation with herself.  Out loud.  And I could hear her arguing with herself over the sound of my iPod.

I talk to myself ALL the time, and I talk to my animals all the time, the television, my phone, computer, the wall, whatever I think is listening…but I generally do so in private. 

Last night, I’m on the train home – its chock full of drunk jerkoffs coming back from the parade, so I’m keeping to myself, and I see one of my gym buddies, so we start chatting.  Cut to the inebriated old man staring at me, who blurts out “DO I KNOW YOU?” 

I turn from my conversation, look at him, and say “…I don’t think so?” and continue talking to my friend.

Don’t Lie To Me.”

Mind you – I’m chatting with a dude who looks like he can crush cars with his biceps and I’m twirling an open pen knife in between my pointer and thumb finger.  You really want to yell at me, old man?  Cause I will drop you where you stand.

I’m such a creep

I know this.

The other day, I was in the elevator.  Some dude gets on and presses 14.

Me: I used to be on that floor (running her finger on the button)

Stranger: what’s that now? Well, how come you moved?

Me: well, we consolidated our real estate. Anyway, do you know that you’re actually on the 13th floor?

Stranger: oh, that doesn’t bother me

::door opens, I start to exit, turn and say “sppppoooooooooky”::

I bet I brightened that kids day.

Sports in the Big City

It’s no secret that New Yorker‘s are a passionate group of people.  Toss in any kind of event where they’re encouraged to yell, cheer and egg on their team – as well as harass opposing teams, and its nearly a perfect storm.

When one of our teams wins a title – all hell breaks loose.

Me? I could care less about this year’s Super Bowl.  I cannot stand the Patriots, and the football team I follow is the JETS – who were a walking disaster this year.  The only part of the game I actually paid attention to were the score changes, because once again, I bought boxes.  I haven’t won a box in years.  At least 8 or 9 years.  Luckily, the all-hated Patriots and the GMEN were able to hold down some numbers for the kid, winning me 375 beans.

Cha-Ching!  Morning Beers on me, kids! 

So, we have the parade in Gotham today. 

People are losing their minds all over the city.  Everywhere.  Starting on the very train I take in the morning.  There isn’t anything that quite compares to seeing someone drink a tall boy at 8:03 in the morning, decked out from head to toe in football gear.  I can dig it.  When I got into the station, however, my tune changed juuuuuust a little. 

It’s safe to say its a good thing I didn’t have my stun gun on me this morning.  I had to drop some serious elbows to get through the crowd.  One woman actually considered squaring off with me.  She walked into me, I bump her back, and I believe she began to say “are you SERIOUS…” – cut to me, staring the heifer down and getting my coffee.

Getting through the subway area was another nightmare.  Now, some people in the city who commute every day would find this frustrating.  Maddening, even – enough to ruin their whole day.  Me? I think they’re just jealous.  I know there was a part of me wishing it were my team being hoisted down Broadway.  Cause if it were, I’d be wearing my green shirt, with a green hat, drinking a green beer and laughing at all the commuters shuffling to work.  With a valid day off of work, of course.

Rude….or mentally challenged?

So here’s a touchy subject.

I hopped my train home today – and its a known annoyance on veteran commuters that its horrendously annoying to listen to other people on their cell phones. I’m guilty of both talking on my cell phone too much, and threatening to throw people onto the 3rd rail for talking too much (in my defense, I was a chatty rider before I commuted, so I didn’t know the rules).

Today, there was a fella talking extraordinarily loud on his phone. Like, I can tell you where he’ll be when he gets to town (the fat guy in the middle of the boardwalk – his words, not mine), and that he’s going to the outback on Valentines day.

Several people started to get ornery and comment in a passive aggressive attempt to shut him up.

From where I was sitting, I could see that he was in a wheelchair. I’m keeping my mouth shut, mind you, I had already seen two people get arrested earlier in the day, I didn’t want to be in the middle of a riot.

He wasn’t in a wheelchair because of a disability, though, he was seated because he was morbidly obese and his legs couldn’t keep him upright, but he was in a wheelchair nonetheless.

The cat behind me in turn yells at all the hens clucking about how rude they are, finishing with a bravado “he’s in a WHEELCHAIR”

Now, I’m all for taking care of and helping those in need or that are looking for assistance, but this fella isn’t mentally retarded, or physically challenged, he’s fat and rude. That doesn’t give him a pass to do whatever he wants because he’s past the point of mobility, does it?

The hens shouldn’t have been so passive aggressive though, either. They should take my route “shut the hell up, you’re annoying everyone”.

Kudos, 5pm commute. Kudos on the crusader, sticking up for the handicapped, and kudos to the hefty guy capitalizing on his invasive weight, and kudos to all the biddys clucking in annoyance.