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.


“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”



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?

We’re Rude?! No way!

…is the title of today’s AM New York.

Now, I only read AM New York because the guy that hands them out in Penn station tells me I’m pretty, and I’m a sucker for a compliment, but today’s headline is pretty funny.

“NYers scoff at survey saying Big Apple is least friendly city”

I scoff at that too!  Ruder then Boston?  Tell me that after walking through Kenmore square wearing a Yankee hat.  I don’t even LIKE the Yankees and I’ll wear their gear in Boston simply for the reaction.

A pitcher of Sangria makes the Yankee hat easier to wear

Ruder then Washington, DC?  I don’t know.  Well, maybe.  I mean NYers aren’t known for sugar-coating things, like politicians are, so maybe its rude to not give you a reach around whilst stabbing you in the back.

NYers are not rude people.  Sure there are rude people here, but they’re everywhere.  And when you cram a little over 8 million people in about 305 square miles, you’re bound to catch at least one person having a bad day, but on a whole, we’re actually pretty nice.  Ask me for directions, you’ll see.  I won’t even laugh when you ask me where 6th Avenue is.  Not even if you’re standing on it.

We’re assertive, sure.  We get frustrated when tourists take complete control of where we need to go for work, and walk so slow, you almost think they’re moving goddamn backwards.  We aren’t afraid to speak our minds, but we’re not rude.

Its rare you’ll find a NYer that won’t hold the door for you.  The difference is, if you DO close a door in my face, you can bet your ass I’m going to call you out on it.  I won’t just shrug it off as poor manners.  You should thank me, I’m helping you become a better person.  And when you cough your outbreak monkey germs for an hour on my train ride, I’m going to tell you that you should cover your mouth, or stay home when you’re sick (helpful advice).

NYers have displayed multiple times in the past 11 years their pride and love for the city they live in/work in/visit; and are more often than not found sticking up for our Metropolis.  Being the target of hateful crimes has merely brought a feeling of serious pride in where we live, so when people say we’re rude, we tend to get our fur up and tell them the f-ck off.

I’ve done a bit of traveling, and when I tell people where I’m from, they automatically ask me if I have a gun (well, a stun gun, but I don’t have a carry permit for the pistol), if I’ve ever been mugged, and why I don’t have an accent.  That seems a touch ignorant, no?  Granted, NYC is the most widely known part of NY, but it’s not the entire state.  That’s like me asking someone from Maine if they’ve ever caught a lobster.

I also get riddled with questions about NYC, how to find my way around it (it’s a friggin grid, even I can’t get lost here), if there really are giant rats in the subway (yep, and they like pizza), do Mole people really live in the tunnels (goddamn right they do, my old housemate is an expert in them), how to hail a cab (show em some leg), does anyone speak English (sure, along with 799 other languages), have I ever seen a hooker (every time I look in the mirror, JUST KIDDING), do bums take my money (not unless I give it to them), do I know any crackheads (no), drug dealers (just the pharmacist), cops (um, yes), firemen (uh…yes) or movie stars (just me).

We’ve got a city full of culture, food, celebrities, music.  Our Police Department and Fire Department are not only the Bravest/Finest men around, they’re also the best trained, and travel to OTHER states/cities to teach ya’ll how to handle your citizens.  We’re known for our pizza, our Bagels, our accents and our tough skin – and there’s no place else I’d rather be.

not even New Jersey.

If you don't like it here, then stay home

Music to My Ears…

…are the words “calorie deficit”

I hate running.  Hate it.  But regardless of how I feel about the act, its one of the best ways to burn a butt load of calories in a relatively short amount of time.  Generally I stick to HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training), where you do short bursts of strenuous cardio activity in intervals (example: 30 seconds of a flat out sprint, 30 seconds recovery; 8 reps – or something like that), I mess around with the time and the type of interval I’m doing – really high incline, fast work, 30/15 second intervals, etc. to keep it interesting.

That being said, I think the longest run I’ve done in the past, oh, I don’t know, 3 years has been a 5K. 

So, one of my problems is, I have a big mouth.  My friend asked me if I wanted to do a 10 mile “Run to the Brewery” (for CHARITY…and beer) on the 28th.  She asked me on the 15th.  And I’m thinking (internally) “Self, do you really think you’ll be able to put down 10 miles in two weeks?  You’ve been a little lazy lately”. Externally, however, I’m like “yea!  Of course I want to do that.”

This chic is a runner.  She did the Goofy marathon a few weeks ago, which is a half marathon on Saturday, then a full marathon on Sunday.  That is like the equivalent of being water-boarded for me.  Needless to say, my big ole mouth agreed.

My other problem is I’m incredibly competitive.  Even if the other people aren’t competing against me, I still want to win. 

Result?  I’m logging miles, fool.  Two runs this week, I’m up to an average of 6.25 miles a run at a pace of 10.20.  Not bad, right?  Nope.  Not fast enough.

My legs are pissed at me.  But, after these runs I like to eat ice cream and mac and cheese.  Ya know, carb loading and recovery.  Boom!


what the hell is going on with this internet censorship crap?  I tried to Wikipedia something this morning and its just a blank effn screen.  Those brits are seriously cramping my style in all aspects of my life.

I digress.  Hello!  Been a while.  The holidays, as I’m sure you’re all curious about, were actually quite successful.  Thank you, Ketel One. 

The other thing I learned about myself is, I’ll do just about anything for charity.  Including a “case race”.  What’s a case race, you ask?  WELL you get a team of four together, and you have to finish a case of beer faster then everyone else.  The stipulation is, you have to have one girl on the team.

I feel like thats just rude, so I went in with a point to prove.  And prove it, we did.  We demolished the other teams, winning by a clear margin and finishing our case in under 7 minutes – even with simply sipping our last beer.  Aside from being able to decide what charity the proceeds went to, the rest of the day people were congratulating me, telling us we’re champions, saying how impressed they were with us…

Ya’ll may not know this but I LOVE ATTENTION.  So I basked in the glow of Victory.

This weekend?  Perhaps a flip cup tournament for charity.  That’s a whole nother beast, my team better be up for the challenge, or just don’t show up, cause I’m in-it-to-win-it.  Next weekend?  10 mile run for charity.

If anyone is feeling charitable, themselves, feel free to donate to my other fundraising endeavor (insert shameless plug here)



grandpa’s getting a goodie this year


The other day I had to get a tooth fixed, so on my way back I swung by my Grandpa’s to visit for a while.

After commiserating about the usual stuff, we started chatting and he mentioned he loves tomatoes.  That’s about all that stuck from the conversation (other than I noticed he was writing his Christmas cards out – which is great, my Grandpa always sends out the funniest cards.  Unintentionally, but they’re absolutely hilarious).

On my way home I stopped by the store to pick up some tape and I saw these little tomato savers.  They LOOK like tomatoes, but you take your tomato, and put it in the little holder, and they don’t get bruised or busted and they stay fresher, longer.

Now, I wasn’t going to get gifts for anyone outside my immediately family but this is just too good to pass up.  Grand daughter of the year, right here bitches.

subway? Not the store

I cycle whenever I can – distance cycling, not mountain biking, and I do it with a group of people who look to raise money for a charity.

These people are great, and I’ve made some wonderful friends through the organization that I probably would never have met otherwise.

So aside from the team cycling we do, occasionally we would sign up for different rides and get a group together for fun, not sponsored.

One of the rides I wanted to do was the NYC century. 100 miles (there are shorter versions, but eff that, we’re bad asses) that starts in Central Park and goes through the 5 different boros.
Oh! I lied. We signed up for 75 because a friend who had done the ride previously said “the Bronx was hilly and boring, you should skip that part”.

My friend offered to pick me up the morning of the ride and drive us both into the city. I, in turn, offered to pick up bagels and coffee for the morning ride from my favorite bagel spot in town.

So we all meet up and start riding and are immediately disappointed the roads weren’t fully closed like they are for the MS 5 boro ride. But hey, getting honked at and yelled at by NYC cabbies at 7am is a kind of fun way to start a Sunday off. Also gave us a chance to hone our “Staying Alive Skills”.

We get through Manhattan and cross into Brooklyn when it starts to rain. My dear friend VO had gotten about 4 flat tires already, and my bike shorts were full of grit (side note: riding over the Brooklyn Bridge and through prospect park was a tremendous experience I won’t likely soon forget).

We’re cruisin through Bay Ridge at a SLOW pace. I’m talking rain, mud, head wind, all sorts of crap and we get to Coney Island when I start to get queasy.

What’s this now? Yes. Queasy. I chalked it up, at first, to it being a result of one of the most miserable bike rides of my life, thus far, but it started to get worse.

My other friend, AndyPants and Suebee were equally miserable, so when we got to Nathans we all kind of looked at each other and said “Subway?”

In sheer confusion, VO says “eh? There’s a Nathans over there!”

No, officer, not THAT Subway.

In any event, we hop the subway and start our ride back to the city.

And it gets worse. My queasy-ness is developing into full blown nausea. We get to one of the hubs to swap trains, and picture this, if you can:

6 people in soggy bike shorts with helmets, bike shoes, carrying road bikes.

A bum walks up to me and starts asking me about our shoes, bikes, etc. Little does he know, I’m about to blow. Not able to speak, I rush past the bum, drop my bike and beeline for a garbage can, vomiting a straight stream of cream cheese. Like soft serve ice cream, Andypants later told me.

Horrified, the bum takes off. Andypants and VO check in on me, out of concern, which later turns to laughter.

I was sick for two days and couldn’t eat ice cream or cream cheese for about 6 months.

NYC ING Marathon


What an exhausting day, at the marathon.

Oh, no, I didn’t run it.  I watched.  And I was beat before the race ended – between getting up before noon to take the train in, drinking my first beer whilst watching my friend make her signs, and walking all the way to the 6 train, yowza! That’s a lotta movement for a Sunday.

Tack on standing around watching people run; by the time it was 2:30 I needed a snack and a nap.

Mexican food?  Well, stick a fork in me, I’m done.

In all seriousness though, congrats to everyone that ran the marathon.  I didn’t get to see a single person I went into the city to cheer on, and got home at 6:00 exhausted, sore and starving, but it was a great day.

Is it weird to complain about back pain after watching someone else exercise?  I think it was sympathy pain, and I want to eat a bucket of fried chicken as sympathy recovery meal.