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.

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.

we all have these…

days where it’s in everyone’s best interest to stay the hell away from me.

Yea, I said it.  I’m in a mood today.  And I don’t want you to try and cheer me up – I’m not sad, I’m crabby.  I didn’t stay up late or go out much this weekend, or really any of that.  Quite the contrary, I did a lot of working out, cooking and cleaning (women’s work) so I was quite relaxed this morning.  Until I got on the train and the woman next to me spilt her coffee all over the place.

Really, lady?  You’re pushing 45, you still need a sippy cup?  And are the vulgarities necessary?

As she is cursing, I turn to her, press my finger to my lips and belt out a good ole “SHHHHHHH!”, then wipe whatever coffee that had touched me on her jacket and tried to settle in for my train nap. 

Which, I would have easily been able to get back into, if it weren’t for the two morons sitting behind me.  They each had an open seat in their row, but chose to yell across the aisle at each other, recapping their weekend of booze, broads and, most likely, venereal diseases.

They caught the death look and a “if ya’ll don’t pipe down, someone’s going to jail this morning”.

The rest of my ride was pleasant, but I guess I forgot that people in NY on Monday mornings don’t know how to walk.  I mowed down about four or five people before I even got out of Penn station.

The first man who asks me if “it’s that time of the month” is going to get brained.

potato/poTAto

Is that spelt with an “E”? I can’t remember. Maybe Dan Quayle knows.

Anyway. “That girl knows how to work a room” is something I overheard someone say about me.

Offensive/not offensive? Good question. I suppose there are two ways to look at it:

1. From the perspective that I actually AM trying to work a room. Which, would probably be offensive. Also, I must not be very good at it cause I clearly haven’t mastered the “snow job” of hooking some rich twit to pay my bills.

2. From the ideal that it just looks that way cause I have a damn good time where ever I am. Unless my company blows.

Its not my fault I’m so charming.

“Occupy My Balls Street”

Just when I think my ex boyfriend WON’T say something to make me laugh or surprise me…..”Occupy My Balls Street” comes out of his mouth.

So this OWS nonsense is coming to head in NYC with the protesters getting restless. I’m the first to say that I don’t follow the news, politics, anything but it gets my feathers ruffled when people bad mouth the NYPD.

I have a lot of friends that are cops. I know that to the core, NYPD is a strong group of good men and women. Are there bad eggs? Yes. But there are bad eggs in my office, doesn’t mean my whole company is corrupt.

Facebook is essentially an electronic soapbox. And I like to argue. 98% of the time I’m just arguing to argue but once you start bashing NYPD I actually have a position and a passion about what I’m saying.

Involved in a pretty solid back and forth on a friends “status” about OWS with complete strangers, the police were brought up…as if on cue, my old boyfriend texts me something silly, like a picture of his foot or car or candy bar.

Me: not now, I’m caught up in a back and forth on occupy wall street and the NYPD (he’s a cop)

Ex: Occupy My Balls Street.

Ha you jerk. Since you put it that way, let’s all watch the JETs game. OWS will be there tomorrow.

Apparently I’m Helpless

I guess its my own doing – admittedly I’m a little flaky, a little scatterbrained, and I write things down in 15 different places and still forget what I’m supposed to be doing, but…

I’ve slowly been putting my apartment together. It’s a lot of work! I can’t even imagine what owning a full blown house would be like. If I ever buy anything, now I’m leaning towards a condo. Or something with maintenance. Or, living with someone extremely handy (I’m partially Misogynistic, not in the whole “I hate women sense” – cause I’m a chic – but I think that we tend to have gender specific skills – with exceptions, of course. I’ll get into it later, you might hate me after reading what I think. My friends don’t see eye to eye on that point of view all the time, but we’re entitled to our opinions. I make a mean lasagna, but have no desire to put up shelves, that’s a mans job).

ANYWAY. So we all know I’m not good with a screwdriver. I’ll get the job done at the end of the day, but it’ll take all day. Literally. It took me 8 hours to put up blinds (they’re straight though!), another 8 for my curtains (they’re straight too!). I’m not talking, like 25 windows, I’m talking 5 sets of blinds, 2 sets of curtains.

I’m proud of myself though! My FF friend came over the other day, and started poking around, looking at my accomplishments. “YOU did all this? By yourself! They’re straight! And they’re even the right size!”

I can’t tell if he was being a d!ck and mocking my lack of handiness, or if he was seriously that surprised I’m not entirely handicapped.

And thinking about it, I really don’t know which is worse.

moving moving moving

Some people HATE moving.  Me, I kinda like it.  Its almost like a fresh start – and each time I move I say to myself, “Self, you are going to pack your stuff up nicely this time, you’re going to label it, and you’re not going to leave it in boxes for 6 months after you move in”. 

Of course, that hasn’t happened – last time I moved I took two days off work to “pack” and I essentially sat on the couch, watching television and drinking beer.  When my mom and sister showed up to help, I had moved all of my belongings into the middle of the living room next to a stack of bags.  The U-Haul was a friggin disaster, when we opened it in front of my new place, bags came careening out of the back, smashing some of my beloved pint glasses.

In any event, THIS time will be different.  I’m even getting boxes – real boxes – from the store.  And I have a marker, and tape, and I’m going to start this ish tonight. 

Why tonight? Because the new land lord has a creepy crush on me and is letting me move in early (apparently I “brighten his day” over the phone.  And he texts me.  Texts me!  WTH).  I’m going to start boxing things up and sneaking them into my car tonight, tomorrow night, etc. in the hopes that I won’t have to spend too much time talking to my current-soon-to-be-ex-a$$hole-landlord.

She’s literally insane, and I might kill her.  I told her I was moving to a completely different boro, not across town, so if I ever run into her, I’m just going to pretend I’m my twin, Regina.  I don’t have a twin, but maybe she won’t know that.

This weekend will be…interesting.  At the very least, I might have some stories to share when it’s all done.

I Can Never Take a Compliment

 

So I dated this guy YEARS ago, and when we broke up…well, let’s just say that it was “messy”.

In any event, I’ve gotten past it, and I’m pretty sure he has too, so I would like to think that we’ve become friends.  He was in Gotham yesterday, getting fitted for whatever he’s wearing as an extra in a movie he’s in, so I agreed to meet him for a few beers.

After the initial nonsense, he says “well, you look really good. Thin, you look nice”

My response? You’d think it was “thanks!”  Nope.  “Um, what, was I fat and ugly before?”

Broads are crazy.

The Cheesecake Trials

We’ll delve into my own personal, single life later – and ya’ll won’t be disappointed.  As surprising as it is to believe, I AM single and I DO have a potpourri of personalities from boyfriends/dates/stalkers past.

But this, this story is not me.  I only had the pleasure of hearing it second-hand from a friend of mine, killing time on the train the other day.

**Preface: when I’m on the train, I am as unapproachable as possible.  I’m talking, fake sleeping, fake reading, fake listening to the iPod.  It’s not that I don’t like talking to people, I just don’t want to get stuck in a conversation with someone lasting an hour (or more, if there are delays) when I know we’re going to run out of things to talk about after about 5 minutes**

Moving right along.  My buddy spots me on the train and slides in next to me with: You know women are crazy, right?  As his opener.  Jackpot, I can listen to this.  I bite, and say “Oh, I’m sure you had a hand in whatever happened, but tell me why you think that”

Turns out he met a chic at the grocery store (now, I always hear rumors that the grocery store and the coffee shops are a hot spot to meet people, but I never believe it.  I always think about when I’m at the grocery store – messy, disheveled, coupons flying everywhere, not in control of my shopping cart – but I guess I’m wrong) and they started talking.  He said she seemed nice enough, so they made plans to hang out that Sunday afternoon at a chain restaurant not too far from where we live (think: step up from Applebees, step down from a real restaurant).

They meet, and the first thing he notices is her blackened, dead tooth: “C’mon.  Its 2011.  You’d think she’d get that sh-t fixed by now”.  And her jacked up feet: “First time I met her she had on sneakers, now she’s in flip-flops.  It was awful.  Just awful.”

Ha, now I know here’s where I’m supposed to say “Don’t be so superficial”, but I can’t, because I agree with him.  Keep your jacked up feet in check, ladies, no one likes nasty toes.  The tooth – idk, maybe she just doesn’t have dental.  But when you’re dating, you’re essentially marketing yourself, and if you can’t keep the corns to a minimum…no ones buying, kid.

Apparently it was clear relatively quickly into the date that there wasn’t going to be a second one.  No animosity (fingers crossed he didn’t comment on her toes), they just weren’t feeling it.  They power through dinner and ask for the check.

At the beginning of the afternoon, she had mentioned that she ordered a cake before they got there (hint: this place is most likely known for their desserts) for a friend’s birthday, and asked the waiter to bring it out with the bill.  After watching the bored expressions on their faces and their constant phone checking during the meal, the waiter must have assumed they were a couple, so he brought everything in a combined check. 

Dinner: 50 beans, Cake: 65.

My friend isn’t cheap, but he’s also not a sucker.  He isn’t going to pay for a cake, for some broad, who’s having a party he wasn’t invited to, so he asks the waiter to put dinner on his bill and give this chic a separate check. You can guess what happens here – the waiter mistakenly charged him for the entire bill and asked them to work it out so he didn’t have to get a manager involved.

I’m not always the most reasonable person, but even I would get the money for this dude – even if I had to hit an ATM.  This broad tosses him some attitude and finally says “fine.  Follow me, I have money in my car.”  They get up to leave, head towards the door when…

she falls out in a dead on sprint, cake in hand, cuts off a family at the door and bolts to her car.  You can re-read that if you want, cause I had to ask him to repeat it. 

“Shut UP.  What did you do!” (my buddy is a big dude – all ripped up.  Not the sprinter type though, but I was secretly hoping he ran after her, tripped her, and sat on her back eating the cake with his giant, meat hook hands)

“I just stood there, in shock”.  Weak Sauce.

Here’s the kicker – the next morning she sent him a text “You’re a really nice guy, but I don’t think that we should date.  I didn’t really feel like we had much there”