Me in the Morning

For mum. Because I know she already misses her mean little debil.

Wuv,

C-town Chicken

NYC Transit Isn't Always a Vomit Inducing Horror Show

I went with mom to LaGuardia this morning. The skycap and mom's attendant were both very professional and helpful. The rest? Well. What can I say? Far too many people working at any of the three major NYC airports can only be described as dillholes. This can be extended to quite a few MTA bus drivers, as well, considering the range of blank dismissiveness building up to open hostility I've experienced over the years. Am happy to report that the Q33 remains consistent with the stony-silence-behind-sunglasses douchebaggery. YAY.

We took a car--this is the best route: it takes 30-40 minutes from my apartment and offers a lovely view of Manhattan island. I kind of guessed my way home, first catching the Q33, which was actually one of the those old-fashioned buses with the pull cord and everything.

Also, here is a nice shot of the obligatory brown juice in the primo seats next to the back doors. Piercing hate lasers at those of you who enjoy leaving your "mark" on public transit.

I caught the E Express at the Jackson Heights/Roosevelt Avenue hub in Queens. The bus ride is plodding (but interesting: lots of great houses to moon over) but the trip into Manhattan is amazingly fast. If I'd been more observant, I'd have jumped onto the D train at 7th avenue, but I was spacing out and missed it, so I decided to just wait it out until West 4th. From West 4th I took the D into Brooklyn, all the way to 36th street, transferred to the R, and made it to Bay Ridge (86th street) with my whole face intact. I took a stroll over to Citibank, decided to get some lunch and that's when I checked the clock: two hours! But I guess you can't beat $2 versus $45 for a car service. Sigh.

I might try it for real the next time I travel, though the screaming meemie that demands all things to be clean would certainly shudder in horror to have to roll my bag through the sticky rivers that track through the subway cars. Gooey!

Who Does This Remind You Of?

I am M-O. M-O is me.

Scene Stealer

I’m not gonna lie. I once coveted fame. To my credit, I figured everyone did. It certainly speaks to that horrible absence within oneself…daddy issues, maybe? Blaaah. Probably, but plenty of silly fools have wanted the same and for so many reasons beyond my pedestrian tragedies.

Even if I’ve given up my childhood dreams, I still will always covet those best and most delicious roles. And if not the roles, certainly the most staggering and permanent scenes. Everyone has their favorites, but here are the roles I wished I had (and, if I’m truth telling, still do):

The Warrior

Sigourney Weaver’s turn as Ellen Ripley in Aliens was the first time I’d ever seen a woman as a true and triumphant warrior. What a wondrous, shocking experience. Being about fourteen, I’d never seen Alien, so this was my first exposure to the Aliens franchise. If you will recall, it wasn’t just Ripley. Let’s never forget Vasquez: her muscles, her swagger, and her unblinking dedication to kicking your ass. Ripley’s bravery began with the desire to get her job back…a career woman, if you will…to attempt to regain her professional status, despite the crushing knowledge that her personal life as she knew it (her friends, family, and life) had already passed. Upon discovering the lone survivor of the alien-savaged colony, Ripley’s deepest passion is tapped: She does whatever she has to do to protect and, ultimately, save the child. She is the Protector Mother, the Ideal Nurturer…unflappable, unrelenting, no regrets. Remind you of anyone?

What a wonderful world would it have been had those raging, shitball assholes decided NOT to make Aliens 3? We will never know. Or if they’d made something different…why not that, shitballs??

There are two scenes I’d love to have as my own: With Newt, surrounded by eggs, making a deal with only my eyes, then breaking that deal with a blowtorch…or, of course, the final battle, growling that ultimate line: “Get away from her, you BITCH.” Yaayyyeee!

Whore!

Gone with the Wind is irritating. All that gushing, wistful talk of the “great Old South” is nothing short of offensive. It is hard not to wince at the stereotypical slave mannerisms, from the mammy, the Uncle Tom, and the deeply horrific Topsy-figure of Prissy. Push it aside, if you can, to consider my second choice: Scarlett O’Hara…the Whore!

She’s a simpering, snively, manipulative, cruel, hateful, gorgeous shrew and I will probably never be bored of watching her antics. The scene I’d love to reenact is easy to guess: After caught in a somewhat inappropriate embrace with her forever beloved (and NOT her husband) Ashley-the-Fey-Pale-Weirdly-British-Guy-Who-Married-His-Own-Cousin, Rhett Butler makes her dress up in her sluttiest dress and shoves her into her beloved’s wife’s party, leaving her to sink or swim on her own. Now, I believe that this whole episode exists solely to further accentuate the angelic qualities of Ashley’s wife (and cousin, lord o lord) Melanie. Her immediate embrace and support of Scarlett, despite all those wagging tongues and damning gazes, only serves to make her more saintly. Scarlett, however, is just a very lucky ho.

Don’t you love her, though? God, how can you not? Her vixen’s eyes narrowing, ready for the blow, the rejection by all, including the otherworldly Melanie. For a sweet and searingly tense moment, Scarlett stands alone, girded only by her boundless ego and hard, cold, callused resolve. And isn’t it funny…of all the costumes, they’ve got this one on a Barbie Doll. The Barbie doll: every American girl’s foundation of inspiration. Consider me schooled.

The Warrior Goddess as Helpless, Heaving-Breasted Muse

Ellen Aim, you ruined my life. (Yes! Another Ellen. Is Greek, means “torch, bright light.”) Streets of Fire is actually a pretty silly movie. Wouldn’t it have to be if someone like Diane Lane ends up with the freaking Key Master over someone as simmering hot as Michael Paré? Ug. However, to an eleven-year-old, the basic story is too much to resist: Too Cool for School Rock Star is kidnapped, Old Boyfriend is hired to rescue her. They end up kissing in the rain. And, as perfect bookmarks to all that cumbersome action, Ellen Aim performs her over-the-top music, clutching the microphone stand like a…well, like a Greek Goddess Warrior. Athena, anyone?

Sure, she’s helpless, but her power is her bald and iconic sex. She clutches onto her man, waiting for salvation, but he’s a bit disposable, isn’t he? She’s in need of saving, all kinds of saving, but she’s got the goods to make the men do whatever it takes to get the job done.

Scene I’d like to steal? The performances, of course…rain kissing ain’t nothing but a thing.

Fabulous Christmas Display

I am extremely lucky to have several antique family heirlooms. These things remind me of my grandparents and the wonderful Christmas's we shared. My grandmother and I would lock horns all year long, but we somehow met at the brain (and the cha-ching charge card heart) at Christmas. During my most hostile years (11-14), she managed to pick out some truly hip sweaters from the most chic store in town (Henry's...think of it as a Midwestern Sacks Fifth Avenue).

My cousins and I would decorate our grandparent's tree (most of the tinsel ended up on each other) and on Christmas morning we'd all have Merck's coffee cake and oranges, snarfing and smacking like piglets since we were in such a big rush to tear into those presents. Best present ever opened at my grandparents house? It was from my mom, and how could I forget: A boom box and four cassettes: the soundtrack to An Officer and a Gentleman, Olivia Newton John's Greatest Hits Vol. 2, John Cougar's American Fool, and Toni Basil's Word of Mouth.

The colorful ornaments are antiques, too, but they are all recent gifts from my sister. She knows me too well. I love me some shiny.

Thanks, Mom, for ONJ's greatest hits especially (!) and prepare yourself to see this fabulous display in person in 10 days and counting!

Pretty

It is such a rare of fantastic thing for me to get my hair did. Look how it turned out:

Going to the salon always takes me back to my first experiences when my grandma would take me along, first just to wait for her, then for my own adventures in hairstyling. Her stylist was Sandy: she adored Sandy and would always buy her a sweater for Christmas. Sandy was a faux red, with a wiry build, long fingers and (most important) long fingernails.

It was a great salon, with all the cool books full of New York styles that no one would ever try (especially in Wichita), the chair hair dryers, and the fantastic marbled mirrors so prevalent back in the high-gloss ‘70s.

I had my first taste of coffee at that salon. It was with cream and a lot of sugar. When I got my first “style” I felt like this:

And looked like this:

I always imagined that one day, when I grew up, I’d get my hair done, put on my glitter dress and heels, and go have drinks in this building:

…while this song played in the background. And this dude:


…made a serious move on me.

I’ll be honest, when the guy washing my hair started doing his head massage thing, I had two thoughts: 1. Ten dollllaaarrrsssss. And 2. I miss Sandy’s long-ass nails. Isn’t that the best part of the whole hairstyling process? It is definitely not the yanking, pulling and wrenching of the blowout process, which blows (and rips).

By the way, a message for Mandy Patinkin: I FINALLY put together that little French village greeting card you gave me back in 2003 or something. Ain’t it an engineering feat?

Wittle Monk

Seriously, will you look at this face?


Ug. I think I screamed for 5 minutes straight. I think I cried a little. I think the top of my head leapt 10 feet in the air. Seriously, is there anything cuter than this little grumpypants?? Omaijesus!

*LOVE*

Thank you, Cute Overload, for posting this.

Prediction

Oh, Jane Seymour.

I just saw your silly billy commercial. It's a lovely sentiment, but I predict that this:


Is going to be turned into some bootybadonk symbol. Because that was the first thing I thought when I saw it.

That, or I'm a perv.