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.


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.


My friend’s often joke that I am a magnet for weird f-cking people.  And they’re right – I have no idea why, or how it happens, but where ever you put me, if there is a jerk or a creep there, they will ultimately wind up talking to me, sitting next to me, or getting on my nerves.

Yesterday I stopped by the grocery store on my way home from work – I needed lettuce and Klondike bars (can’t resist a sale).  For some reason, the supermarket was MOBBED.  I go there before 6, and it wasn’t Senior Citizen day, so I don’t know where all these people came from, but it was packed.

I opt for self check out because I’m not ringing up anything that’s complicated (40 cans of cat food, weird vegetables, ethnic food), I simply have Klondike bars, a couple of bags of lettuce, salad dressing and a steak.  The chic in front of me had a lot of stuff, so I waited for her to finish and bag the majority of her items before I started scanning.

Of course, the scanner jammed on everything I swiped.  And each time, the check-out-helper had to come scan her card so I could continue.  I turned around and apologized to the fella behind me, who gave me a sympathetic look and said “I don’t think you want to be here any more than I do, its okay.  I just started shopping for myself anyway, so this is interesting.”

BOOM – enter the witch behind him – who peers over his shoulder and loudly says “I hope YOU don’t make as many mistakes as SHE did when you ring up” – sneering at me.

I simply shake my head and say to him “You’ll find that grocery shopping brings out the best in people.  Good luck!”


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?


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.

stop ringing my goddamn doorbell

I was going to post this yesterday, but I didn’t think it was a great follow-up to the whole “NYers aren’t rude” discussion we had.

I live in an apartment building that has one of those intercom things, that allow me to buzz people into the building.

There is a way around that, for my particular apartment.  Actually, its pretty annoying when people buzz me, so I know that if someone is buzzing my friggin apartment, it’s either someone I don’t know well, someone who hasn’t been to my apartment yet (so I would be expecting them) or the delivery guy.

note: I have a mental list of people I’m cool with dropping by unannounced.  With the exception of a handful of people what have not been by my new place yet, if I get a knock on my door and I haven’t made plans with someone, I can assume its either my ‘rents, my homeys, or my buddy.

So I’m home, staring at my dog (we have a staring contest every night when I get home.  I cheat so I can win) when the buzzer goes off.  I ignore it.  It goes off again.  I ignore it again.  Goes off again.

and it is LOUD.  Who is this persistent bastard?  I give it a few minutes, and they buzz again so I hit the intercom and say “what?”.

the response is something inaudible, so I say “What!” again.  Inaudible.  Clearly annoyed, I grab my pit bull and go outside to see who it is (I’m not going to randomly buzz someone into my building, I’d rather square off with them head to head).

It’s this little asian man.  I didn’t order any food.  So, I tell him “Hey, I didn’t order any food, why are you buzzing my door?”

well, he has a certified letter.  For my neighbor.

“Buddy, that’s not me”

“yes it is”

“NO, it’s not”

While this was a lot of fun, I had to end it.  I could just picture myself in a never-ending circle, like when I was little and I’d play the “I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I” game to aggravate my sister…so I took the high road and showed him exactly which apartment he was looking for.

And how to get there without using the buzzer.  Hope that doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass one day.  I hope I didn’t smithe the Lord by not ordering chinese food, I wonder if that was a sign from above.  We shall see.

I think my crotch is sticking out

…that’s an actual quote.  Not mine, that’s for damn sure. 

Everyone has heard of the Jersey Shore, of course.  This morning, a friend of mine sent me this video:

I’ll wait while you watch that.

…are you done?  Okay, great.

That is an actual compilation of “quotes” from one of the “stars” of the Jersey Shore, molded into a brilliant melody.

Now, I watch that show religiously, for the same reason I watch Toddlers and Tiaras: I like laughing at other people (it’s not mean, its true).  Toddlers and Tiaras, I don’t always laugh at them, unless the kids do something really funny (like when Mackenzie told her mom she was driving her crazy, or the little red-headed girl was riding her wagon and her mom let go, and the kid went careening down a hill – money).  I wind up being more disgusted than anything else with that particular gem because I also watch a lot of Law and Order (yea, so I like TV, mind your beeswax) and it just seems like a segway to pedophilia.

I digress.  The Jersey Shore show makes me laugh because these people are literally famous, and millionaires, for no reason at all.  And they act like animals.  On TV.  And they. Are. Stupid.

I’m pretty sure that if I had a strange affinity for pickles, and I blacked out every night while dancing on bars with no under-roos on, displaying my cooter for all the land to view, my folks would check me into rehab.  After giving me a shot to the head.  And when I got my act together, I’d profusely thank them for saving me from cirrhosis and a guaranteed slew of STDs.

If I was doing all the above, and actually being FILMED?  I don’t think all the money in the world would be able to compensate for the level of humiliation my family would be subjected to.  Sure, I can buy you a Beamer – but your boss is still gonna look at you and say “I saw your daughter “dance her panties” off at the bar last night on MTV.  Kudos on the parenting!  Now, where’s that TPS report?”

And what happens if we fast forward a few years to, oh, I don’t know, the tender age of 31.  My fame as being a slut-bag has dissipated, I clearly drank through all of my money (or maybe graduated to something like drugs), and I didn’t have a clear enough head during my 5 minutes to invest in other business ventures (like some of the other cats on this cast are doing – I actually like JWOWW.  Not her name, of course, but I think she’s a smart chic).  What now?  Well, I can star on another family favorite, Intervention.  Maybe one of those C-list television shows (like the one where Mini Me rode around some house buck naked in his cute little car, then pee-ed in the corner) will want to cast me.  Or I can ::GASP:: get a job.

Lets picture this interview, shall we?  I took off my poof, toned down the smokey eye, and wedged myself into panty hose.  I’m set for my interview at this nice company in Gotham.  The building even has a door man!  I’m chatting up the interviewer, and its going well.  I’m explaining why my degree is from University of Phoenix, and how my life experience has helped mold me into the brilliant young go-getter when the interviewer has that moment of realization of WHY I look so familiar.  Well, I’m the girl who sat in a refrigerator eating pickles and drinking wine because my rear end was hot from a strange reaction to self tanner.

What do you mean, you don’t want to hire me?

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

What Fresh Hell is This?

Oh. Thanksgiving Week.

First of all, let me just start off by saying that I don’t need a holiday to remind me how lucky I am.  Good family, good job, my sheer brilliance and extraordinary good looks, my humility, great tolerance for the ole sauce, ya know (blah blah blah). 

I DO, however, need a federal holiday to get the day off, so I’ll take it.

As usual, though, the week before Thanksgiving, the shakes start to set in. 

Not the “yay-I-can’t-wait-to-see-my-family-eat-a-lot-of-turkey-and-have-a-great-time” shakes or the “man-i-was-out-late-last-night-and-need-a-bloody-mary” shakes, but the “Jesus-H-Christ-Thanksgiving-is-already-here-I-haven’t-had-a-chance-to-get-a-therapist-up-to-date-of-the-bag-of-crazy-my-family-is” shakes.

Aside from the Gates of Hell opening and Lucifer‘s dog snapping at my heels, another tell tale sign the holidays are approaching is the litttttttle extra touch of neurosis in the conversations I have with my dear Mother, and the littttttttttttle extra grin on my friends face’s when they ask me what I’m doing for the holiday.

Please, don’t get me wrong – I love my family.  And I love spending time with them, but there’s a limit.  There’s only so long I can smile at my extended family before it starts to crack.  In the recent years, there has been some tension between a few family members.  You’d almost think my family was Protestant the way they avoid conflict, so its simply been festering.

This year, is different though.  I’m mandated to go to Second Thanksgiving (yes, I’m being forced, against my will, to eat a second meal, and nope, we’re not Greek, just annoying), but I got the green light from Poppa Bear to behave as I see fit.  I quote:

As far as expressing ourselves and saying what we feel, I see no reason not to espouse your feelings when given the opportunity.


So if you feel the need to tell them, please do, whether you filter it or not is up to you.  I personally believe it would not be a bad thing to do, especially  if you feel it would “clear some things up”

And if I don’t follow this advice, he told me to:

lighten up a little – Or Not, Soak a Tampon in Vodka, Insert and Enjoy

(honest to God, this is an excerpt from an actual email my pops sent me this morning. including that last bit)

The way I’m interpreting that is “say whatever you want, you’ll put on a show for us”

Let the games begin!  Perhaps this holiday season will be fun after all.  I mean, I wasn’t planning on boozing this week, but I kind of feel like it is in order.  If anyone would like to volunteer to DD for me, so I can REALLY put it out there, HMU.

By the way, this was my response to my dad:

If the opportunity arises, you can rest assure I’ll be able to convey my feelings towards them and the situation they’ve created as coherently and intelligently as possible, and I’ll try not to use the 25 cent words so they can all follow along as best they can.

Told you I was brilliant.

My day is ruined.

Scratch that.  My WEEK is ruined.

Ever since Gwyneth Paltrow became British and turned into a f-cking snob, dissin on my U-S-of-A the Brits have pissed me off.

Sure, the accent is cute.  Sure, Pierce Brosnan is f-cking hot.  Sure, every time I think of British people I picture a little red phone booth and rain, which is kind of cool, but the past few years the Brits we’ve come across have been a touch entitled.

You lost the war – move on.  Get your Earl Grey tea and your flat Boddingtons beer and stop whining. 

Now I hear the fella in Walking Dead is a Brit FAKING an American accent.  Great, my whole week is ruined.










say it with me people.