I Hate You and Your Dog.

I was walking down the street, well up a hill, when I saw a full-grown Vizsla dog (google it) peering out at me and my pup Oscar in a neighbor's backyard.  I was hoping the dog was on a leash because a) there is a leash law b) I was walking on the opposite sidewalk c) my dog weighs 7 pounds.  The Vizsla, I'll name Asturd, didn't bark or run it just stared, so I kept on walking.

I reached two houses down when I heard a faint jingling of metal.  I turned around to see freaking Asturd in a full sprint running across the street at us.  I instantly picked up Oscar and Asturd slowed and circled around me.  It wasn't snarling or growling, so I wasn't totally afraid, but then it started jumping on my back.  It's front turdy paws were touching the top of my shoulders when it jumped.  It was trying to reach Oscar but I just kept spinning away from him.

Well apparently Asturd's real name is Roscoe because I finally heard his owner yelling his name.  Roscoe did not respond but insisted on pawing my tank top.  I started walking towards the owner and I said, "I'll walk him towards you."  The owner just kept calling his name.  Roscoe (obviously not as cool as his name) finally responded and ran to his owner.  I stood waiting for an apology from the owner, but he just turned his back and walked into his yard without saying anything.  For real Fuck-face?  What started out as an annoying event could have been laughed about over a simple "sorry".  I envisioned us laughing about what cute dogs we have and discussing other neighborly niceties.  Nope Roscoe's owner, Fuck-face, just walked back into his yard without even glancing back at me.

That is why I hate you and your dog.  Seriously why do dog owners have to do the following:

1) Do not obey the leash law, as exhibited above.  You are not special.  Your dog is not special.  No one cares if your dog aced doggie training hour at Petsmart.  If I'm not on your land, I do not want your dog near me.  I'm not into being chased by a dog when I'm running.  I didn't even like it when I played Paperboy on Nintendo.  Why would I like it now with exposed Achilles Tendons?  Dudes...no...one...likes...your...dog...but...you.

2) Do not pick up their dog's shit.  I don't want it.  I'm pretty sure even crazy people don't want it.  And last I knew Dung beetles were not hanging out in my neighborhood waiting for your dog to drop one.

3) If your dog's name is Killer, and he acts like one, why do you let him hang out in the front room where he can bust through a screen and eat my ass?  Dogs bust through windows never mind screens.  Your gigantic mutant dog, who is foaming at the mouth with only a screen between us, just made me and my dog just pee ourselves.  Thanks so much.

4) If a sidewalk is 6 feet wide and your dog's leash is 6 feet long, are you expecting me to play Red Rover to continue walking?  Because I think your Chorkweenieshipoodle designer dog is about to feel my wrath.  Don't you watch the Dog Whisperer?  It's not cute that your dog wants to walk 6 feet away from you.  He may hate you as much as I do.

5) Your 180 pound dog should not be hanging out with my 7 pound dog.  Why?  Because of the following equation: my dog + your dog = my dog's death.  And if you tell me your Rotweiler/Bulldog/Pitbull likes little dogs then I'm really not going to believe you.  I bet your dog doesn't bite either (except for that one time).  I don't feel like socializing and neither do you, so why are you trying to force my dog to socialize with yours?

I'm not a tattletale and have never called the dog officer on a neighbor.  But Fuck-face made me so enraged that I did.  I think next time I'll bring some pepper spray and instead of spraying Roscoe I'll spray Fuck-face right in his eyeballs.

Wookin' Pa Nub

I am a hopeless romantic.  Love is something I have given freely my whole life to those who deserve it (or sometimes don't).  Chris was my first crush.  He was in my kindergarten class.   His house was down the street from mine.  I can remember playing a game of "hug tag" in the schoolyard at recess.  Chris, Paul, and I created the rules.

Yaya: "Ok so you catch them by hugging them."
Paul: "Yes, you have to hug them for 3 seconds."
Chris: "And then they're 'it'?"
Yaya: "Yes."  I batted my eyelashes at Chris letting him know he would be my target and he should feel free to make me his.

Paul was first being "it" and he ran straight for me.  I ran as fast as I could away from him.  But he was faster than me.  When he caught me and hugged me I yelled "I don't want you to catch me, I want Chris to."  When I ran after Chris and hugged him, he was underwhelmed.  My 5-year-old brain could not comprehend that my "love" for this 5-year-old boy was not being returned.  We were meant to be together.  Hug tag had set it in motion.  I should've learned my lesson in love that day.

My love life has been pretty eventful since I was a teenager.  And I'm not talking about "the nasty".  In fact I was pretty much a prude in high school.  What I'm really talking about is being in relationships.  I have lived with 2 boyfriends, been in love 3 times (or 7 depending on what day you ask me), and am convinced my true love story will be epic.  What I mean by true love story, is the story of me and the man I spend the rest of my life with.  Why epic?  I have always loved to read, write and hear love stories.  And I don't mean dumb ass Nicolas Sparks "The Notebook" bullshit.  Okay maybe I do, sans Dementia.    Some of my real life love stories are pretty great and I still enjoy telling them.  It's the endings that suck.

My entire love life, like most other's, has been based on a series of coincidences.  Now don't write me off because I understand that coincidences are what make you miss 8 hours of traffic or prevent you from sitting on bird shit on a park bench.   Love Coincidences deserve their own celestial category.  Why?  Because I'm the writer. I can't tell you how many times I've said, "Oh it's meant to be."  "This must be fate." And thought "How can this NOT work out."  I've had men reenter my life after years of separation and we gave it a "go".  Childhood crushes became adult love connections.  Unfortunately, or fortunately, I'm still single.  I wonder if it's possible to use up all of your "it's fate"-ness? Like can you run out of it from saying it too much?  Do I even believe in fate?  It kind of makes a better story now doesn't it?

I was truly convinced after watching The Bachelorette this evening that Ali would not choose Roberto.  Why?  Because I believe he was meant for me.  I would bump into him in an airport and we would lock eyes at gate B24.  He would then salsa his way over to me repeating "Te amo".  He would be carrying around the diamond ring waiting for his next love.  I don't care if that diamond was meant for Ali.  It's mine now Schm-Ali.  And there I would be, coincidentally dressed in white.

But seriously what the fuck?  How many times do I have to think that "this time is gonna be it" only to have the dude underwhelm me or I underwhelm them.  If one more person tells me to stop "looking for love", I'm gonna love (AKA punch) their bo jangles.  Let's be clear I'm not looking for love, I'm just still boy crazy.  I love being in love.  And while perfectly content living my life alone I also want to read, write, and tell my true love story.  I suppose the most exciting thing about reading a story is you do not know the ending.  Unless it's about Juliet.  We all know how that ended.

And in case you live in a van down by the river, "Wookin' Pa Nub" was Eddie Murphy's rendition of Buckwheat singing "Looking For Love".  Classic.

Junk in the Trunk

Well hello.  Sorry I haven't written in awhile.  I actually thought that no one really read this until I  started receiving hate mail for taking a "time out".   I guess my mom and dad aren't the only ones reading this...

Junk in The Trunk

After living in NYC for 1 year and 3 months, I am back in the 'burbs.  Why?  Because I'd had enough  with my mega-mouthed neighbors waking me up at 3AM, 4AM, 5AM, 6AM, 6:15AM 6:22AM, 6:31AM...until noon.  I also hated my job and didn't feel like doing sales again.  So I returned to the comforts and quiet of mommy and daddy's.  And yes, I have my binky and blankey back.  

Moving home with mom and dad has its rewards.  I’m living rent-free, they have HBO, and I have access to an amazing washer/drier (to take care of my high-end clothes from Forever 21).  Here's the challenge I ran into last week...My mom is a super minimalist and loves everything clean and just-so.  I had a couple of boxes that sat in my old bedroom for years.  I've gone through them but still manage to hold on to more than my mom would like.  In the boxes there is old shit consisting of photo albums, diaries, and letters with Teen Beat magazine's New Kids On The Block clippings.  She thinks I'm absolutely retarded for having 10 photo albums and said "maybe it's time to throw some out."  My response was "Yeah, no."  They are not to be treated like National Geographic magazines from 1977-present.  It is not crazy to have photos of family and friends dating back to grade school.  Those National Geographic hoarders are full-on psychos.  But during my sifting I found some stuff that makes me question if I harbor hoarding tendencies.  Here's the list:  

-1987 New England Patriots’ Official Team Picture signed by Trevor Matich.  Who?  Exactly.  I got this at a Pop Warner banquet when I was a cheerleader for a hot second. Why do I still have this?  Did I think it would be worth something someday?  Because circling his face in green highlighter and writing his name in pink pen surely upped the pawn value.  Sorry Trevor, it's 2010, and there are hotter players now.

-May 1989 Adoption Certificate for “Patches” a Humpback Whale.   I apparently was really proud to have been a part of this even though it was all of my teacher's doing.  What did I do?  I was just in her class eating crayons and glue in the back row.  I wonder what Patches is up to these days?

-My February 14, 1990, D.A.R.E. Certificate of Achievement.  Was this to remind me that I was Straight Edge at 12 years old?  That would last another 3 years.   Also from February 1990 I have my Student of The Month Certificate.  This February of 1990 was apparently the month to set my bar high, only to light it on fire and be an ashen rain for years to come.  *Open beer, Poor grammar to follow*

-2 Field Day First Place blue ribbons and 1 yellow ribbon.  Not sure for what event(s) or even what year but gooooooo me!  Don’t be jealous.  You too can be a blue ribbon winner.  Go to iParty and buy yourself some.  Write ‘100-meter-dash’, ‘Dance-Off’, or ‘Flat Ass’ on the back.  Display them proudly. 

-National & Presidential Physical Fitness Awards and patch.  Who the hell made up these standards?  I missed the Presidential Award in the 5^th grade because I could do only 2 of 3 pull-ups.  You know what I said to myself?  “Fuck you arms.”  I trained a year by bench-pressing everyday and doing push-ups in between math homework.  I drank Muscle Milk and ate only egg whites. In the 6^th grade I was jacked and able.  That last pull-up took me 45 minutes to complete but I did it.  Now look at me.  I am in stellar physical shape.  **That was the awesome t.v. version with "You're The Best! Around!" as my theme music. 

-My diary dating back to age 11.  Entry on November 20, 1989: “Today is Monday.  I don’t have a lot of homework.  I am so tired today.  My hair is a mess, and I have a headache.  I have to go to bed before my head spins!  Bye!”  I don’t remember having headaches but I do remember caring a lot about my hair.  It was the 80’s...  December 14, 1989:  “Jennifer came over today and we played Truth or Dare.  Jennifer had to taste lemon juice Yuk!  Tired.  Bye!”  How scandalous…lemon juice!  At one point I asked my diary to “hold on” while I tried on an outfit and then reported that… “it fit great!  Bye!”  I clearly was a cerebral child.  Oh and yes, I believed that my diary was judging me.  Logical.  Therefore to make sure the diary was on my side I always said “Bye!” to it.  I finally stopped doing that after writing this. 

After sifting through the awesomeness that was my grammar school life I realized how freaking weird kids are...ok I was....am.

Ninja Attack

Today, thanks to Groupon, I got a diamond peel facial and a mani/pedi for a super low price. I was oh so excited to get there but when I left it got me thinking. Why do Asians love to kick my ass during beauty treatments?

When Josephine was taking the diamond wand to my face I don't think she got the memo that I have nerves there. And the plastic wand, when meeting my ocular bones at a force, hurts. I mean it was like a tiny nunchuck was suctioning and beating my face. After the "diamonding" of my face she told me she was going to massage my face. "Okay," I said excited for some relaxation time. Nope Josephine started out all nicey-nicey but then began slapping my jowels and cheeks. I mean it was totally bizarre and it was hard enough to make loud slapping noises that carried down the hall. For me a massage is the slight pressure-rubbing of my muscles not slappin' a ho.

Then she began to massage my neck and shoulders. I couldn't believe how much strength this lil 70 pound chick had. She had straight-up chimpanzee strength. It seriously felt like a chimpanzee high on pixie sticks had been unleashed on me.  I think she may even have used her feet at some point. Then she cradled my head and whipped me into the seated position. Chimpanzee strength.

Then I got my pedicure. Sammy did my pedicure and she was pretty gentle with me until she pushed up my pant leg and began literally punching my calf. Ummm. What does this have to do with a beauty treatment? I started to think they only reserved this treatment for me. I mean wailing on my leg was not exactly the relaxation move I was looking for. I think I could find anyone to kick the crap out of me for free. And here I am the sucker paying people to get out their aggression on me. Yes my face and nails came out very nice but what the hell kind of torture are these people into? And what is the training like? "Yes and now punch her in her face. Real hard. She likes it, I promise.  She pays big money for it." I suffered less physical harm being near a mosh pit last night than I did today at the "spa". Spa my ass. More like fight club. Maybe that's the missing piece. I am supposed to fight back. Hi-ya.

The Song

Guys/boys/men you will not appreciate this story…I warned you.

Music is a really big part of my life.  I am pretty sure I spend more time listening to music than I do anything else, even sleeping.  I believe that is why I envision meeting the man of my dreams while walking down the street listening to my iPod.  Why walking down the street rather than a show?  I haven’t quite figured out why.   Perhaps my brain thinks it’s more romantic to be approached on the street.  

Anyway I imagine this handsome man to walk up to me while I’m looking rather cute.  By cute I mean I have on an outfit that falls in the middle of my wardrobe.  Nothing too fancy as he would’ve seen the best of me and expect that every time.  But I also do not want to be wearing sweatpants.  No one wants the ultimate romantic scene to occur looking like Rosanne Barr.  Okay back to the scene…He would say “Excuse me, what are you listening to?”

I would then answer “Song ‘X’ by band ‘Y’”.  And this is where I am immediately faced with a problem.  I could answer what I am actually listening to.  My fear is that I could be listening to “Roni” by Bobby Brown.  Don’t get me wrong “Roni” is an amazing song but I don’t see it as “The Song” when I meet Mr. Totally Radical.  So then, if I do happen to be listening to “Roni”, do I lie?  If I do, what song do I pretend to be listening to?  It has to be cool without trying.  Dylan?  Drummer?  Yeasayer?  I haven’t decided but it happened to me today.  

Finally a guy asked me what I was listening to.  I froze.  I was really listening “Gone, Gone Gone” off the Crazy Heart Soundtrack by Colin Farrell.  Which is a pretty great soundtrack but it wasn’t “The Song”.  I decided that since he was just a teenage Starbucks’ Barrista making my soy latte that it didn’t really matter what I answered.  So I told the truth, and he said “Cool”. 

Ultimately the guy of my dreams wouldn’t really be approaching me about music anyway.  He just wouldn’t be able to resist me.  When he invites me out to coffee we discover we have tons in common, or not, and we fall madly in love. 

-Deep Thoughts by Yaya

My New Obsession

After traveling to Vegas I decided that I have a new obsession.  The iPad.  Along with everyone else, I laughed about it's ridiculous name and the fact that it should have probably been released before the iPod.  But after packing and traveling across the country I decided I need one immediately, if not sooner. 

I had four flights to plan for with and hour and a half between each flight.  When I was packing I considered that at any point in time I could get bored.   I'm not a good bored person.  So I had to think about when boredom set in what would I need? 

-Reading material: a book (Gods and Generals) and a variety of magazines (People, Scientific American, In Style, and Discover to be exact).
-Writing material: my Moleskine notebook, a few good pens, and my computer (sometimes I like to hand write, sometimes I like to type)
-Viewing material: My Netbook, DVD player, and several DVDs (I never know what I'm in the mood for). 
Listening material:  iPod and noise-canceling headphones.

All of these materials added about 15+ pounds onto my body weight.  The bag took up the majority of my legroom.  And when it came down to it I couldn't find anything in the bag because I had crammed too much into it.  To top it all off, after my first flight, I left Gods and Generals on the plane.  I was a disaster.  When I came home a friend said "do you really need all that stuff?" To which I answered "Ummm yeah of course I do." 

So here's the thing.  If I had an iPad I would have iBook in which several books would be contained.  Magazines I could instantly read online.  If I felt some inspiration I could open up Microsoft Word and type away.  And iTunes would allow me to access to movies and music without having to potentially break a nail thanks to a stupid DVD case. And it weighs next to nothing.

So Santa, if you're listening, I would like the second generation iPad for Xmas.  Oh and that wine key you never gave me.

Thanks,

xoxo

Yaya

When it's Time to Change

I recently reconnected with a very important person from my past and it has got me thinking about how much I have changed in the past 6+ years since I have seen them. While I feel like a completely different person I am often told “same ole Yaya” by people who know me from childhood. Hearing that, makes me instantly cringe and secretly proud.  Cringe because we should change, "grow-up".  Secretly proud because I don’t think I was known as a mean or bad person. And if I was, then my lack of memory has served me well (see ‘Blame it on the Booze’ Aug. 2009). Of course everyone changes due to experiences they have had but I’m not really sure exactly what has changed in me. So times like this make think…hmmm who was the old Yaya and who is the new Yaya?

1) I was a total hormonal freak show. I mean I would cry at the drop of…a fork. “Oh my god my fork fell on the ground! Waaah!” Someone didn’t say exactly what I expected to hear: “Um maybe a different sweater with that?” Waaah. If I didn’t reach my hug quota for the day…Waaaah. Ok maybe I still do this.

2) I was meek and didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted. I would call my technique to get what I wanted “passive aggressive hinting”. For example if we were planning a night out and I wanted to see a movie, instead of saying “I want to see the movie ‘Awesometime’" (why that isn’t a title yet beats me), I would say “Ummm so I’m really craving popcorn.” And then the person would suggest Jiffy Pop and I would cry. “You just don’t get me.”

3) I was convinced that everyone had ESP and when they pretended otherwise I would stomp, pout, slam doors (my fave) and, of course, cry. I’m not proud of this behavior but I was fully convinced that they knew exactly why I was upset and were choosing to withhold what I wanted. Again, if I wanted a hug I would stand there willing a hug upon myself but if I didn't get one I would pout. Why? Because they knew I wanted a hug but chose to walk by me instead. How rude.

4) If I was in a super-sunny-smiley-time mood and the person I was with was in a bad mood it would ruin my day. I would literally morph into whatever doom-and-gloom they were feeling. It sucked. I couldn’t just allow them to own their crankiness and continue on my rainbow-licious day. I would literally turn into Debbie Downer and be mad at them for ruining my day. Not anymore. You can keep your crank to yourself. Unless we’re referring to drugs, then please sir may I have some more? Just kidding mom & dad. Drugs kill.

5) Speaking of morphing I have been: the hippie chick, the preppy chick, the fashionista chick, the ska/reggae-dub chick, the rock n’ roll chick, the extreme athlete (bike, run, & surf or snowboard & snowshoe all-in-one-day) chick, you name it (minus goth) and I was “it” at some point. I was molded by whomever I dated. There was a bit of myself in there but since I’m easily adaptable I changed more colors than a chameleon on a kaleidoscope.  I still love to learn new things but if I’m exhausted from 6 hours of snowboarding, have fun snowshoeing on your own at midnight dude.  I'll be here with a stout in-hand.  Another example is that I would watch Sports Center (or more properly called 'Sports Shouting' by 30 Rock) feigning interest while my ears bled and I was on the verge of a panic attack from all the yelling about stats and who's the best whatever.  I didn't give a shit and now would prefer a monkey throwing its poo at me to listening to Sports Center for one more second of my life.  

6) I’ve become a lot more selfish. Just as I morphed into whatever the other person wanted I would do whatever they wanted. They want BBQ I want Mexican. They win. They want to go boozing while I want to go to the park. They win. They want to go to the strip joint and I want to go to the symphony, they win and I get boobs in my face for their $5. I never put up a fight. Why? This leads to my next one…

7) Little self-confidence and fear of rejection. Everyone has gone through this especially women in their teens/early 20’s. Today I have a love me or leave me attitude. Life is hard enough by yourself never mind a partner that is going to make it harder. I can’t morph into whatever they want without being resentful and bitter. And I can’t expect that my partner is going be exactly what I want either. If I did my partner would be my butler, my housekeeper, my life coach, my chef, my yoga instructor, my laundry-doer, my personal assistant and my piggy bank. Although all of that sounds nice. 

There are the negatives that come along with aging but I’m thankful I’m not the out-of-control hot mess I was in my teens and early 20’s.

When I'm a Rock Star/Comedian

Work is dumb.  So instead I like to daydream about what my gigantic dressing room would be like as a rock star/comedian.  I envision all my outlandish requests and my “so what” attitude as they are fulfilled. 

In no particular order:

-My room would be able to hold 550 people. 

- Lay-Z-Boys, Papsans,  and any other form of comfy seating for 50 people.

-The only bit of lighting I want are Jo Malone grapefruit candles and soft up lighting.

- Decorations to be navy blue and peach.

-A tazer.
-Whiffle bat and ball for home run derby.

-25 handicapped, brightly-colored, scooters to play Bumper Scooters or race.

-Organic:  chicken parm, filet mignon, brie, prosciutto, French bread, Godiva dark chocolate ganache, 5 Star granola dark chocolate.  No paper or plastic ware.

-An in-house bartender with a full bar and plenty of liquid cocaine AKA Red Bull and recycling bins for the cans.

-Veuve Cliquot and LOTS of it.  Strawberries?  Yes please.

-Beer, beer, beer.  Lots of it.  Lots of varities including Guinness and Magic Hat #9.

- Macallen 18 yr. with 2 cubes when I ask for one.

-12 hula hoops.

-A fire blower.

-Capuchin monkeys (the young ones, not the old-man lookin’ ones).

-The game Apples to Apples.

-The dancing/humping Ewoks that were on the Today Show.

-Keyboard Cat and OMG Cat.

-Personal D.J. who will play anything on request.

-A unicorn with a rainbow over its head and an elf jockey.

-Bob Saget.

-A hot, male masseuse I will call by the name Chico.

-25 fire extinguishers, for the “fire extinguishing” after-party.

-Fake props to break.  Like chairs, bottles, guitars.  Stuff that when breaks does not actually hurt anyone.  All real stuff will be removed and replaced with the fake stuff.

-A donkey because they still make me laugh.  I will call it Donkey-Hotey.

-A nerf football.

-A red telephone that I will use to call (or shout at) an assistant to get whatever I need, like tropical skittles.

-An adult bouncy room.

-A fun lil pup for my dog Oscar Gomez to play with.

-3, 50” plasma televisions with all US stations.

Now what would you want?

One of These Things is Not Like the Others...

**Taken outside of the Whitney Museum

Erin Go Hats

Saint Patty's Day.  The parade here in New York was as expected:

**All my own camera phone photos and video (not looking for praise just keepin' it real)

 crowded

smokey

 

and whiskey barrel full of zany accessories like...

HATS!

HATS!

HATS!

HATS!

AND...Hats and Bags (pipes that is)

Hats and bags.

 Hats and Bags!

Hats and Bags!

 

HATS...AND...BAGS!

HATS AND BAAAAAGS!

FRANKS AND BEANS!

uh I mean wigs and bags.

And the whack-a-doo award goes to:

Mr. & Mrs. Gangrene

And then I encountered this on the subway (cut and paste if it won't play)...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xwz3sb4Z8Eo

AHHHhhh  I loves me some holidays.

Typical Saturday Night

-wine, cheese, and dinner @ Otto=$65
-3 hours of beer & karaoke including sibling duet of 'One' by Metallica=$67
-meeting 18 year olds who chant "Katie! Katie! Katie!" while they sing 'Party in the USA'=PRICELESS

That Martha Stewart is a Liar

 

I started cooking last night.  No I don't mean just dinner I mean I am going on a 'Julie and Julia' type quest to find my inner chef.  Except instead it's less 'Julie and Julia' and more 'Yaya and The Swedish Chef' (from the Muppets).  I've never really been into cooking.  The only thing I ever liked to make were from-the-box-brownies and then eating them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  The most ridiculous part of this is that I have top-of-the-line appliances.  See that Kitchen Aid mixer pictured above?  It is sitting in my kitchen windowsill being used as a privacy "curtain" from my neighbors.  When the bowl is in it, I get extra privacy.  I have had it for 4 years and maybe, maaaaybe used it 3 times.  But I've decided, I'm 31, I should learn how to make my own food rather than simply clicking on it and having it delivered 30 minutes later.   Nothing easier than that.  Thank you "series of tubes" but I wanna know what's in my food and not pay so damn much. 

Anyway I started with a recipe deemed "healthy" by Fitness magazine called coconut curry chicken.  As far as I know Corn Flakes, coconut flakes and coconut milk are not healthy but the picture convinced me that this would be one of the best meals I would ever eat.  Yum, yum, yummy.  Well I couldn't find curry paste at D'A-gross-tino's, I mean D'Agostino's, so I decided coconut chicken sans curry would still be delish.  Then I couldn't find unsweetened coconut flakes so got the sweetened ones because I secretly wanted them anyway.  Well this was just a total train wreck.  I literally looked like the Swedish Chef http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TR2WMN1qYJctossing raw chicken, cornflakes, and spatulas around until I finally threw them all together thinking "this is gonna be Nom-a-licious".  I waited 3 times the suggested cooking time for my coconut chicken to get "golden brown" but the chicken literally went from raw to burnt.  I watched it.  I watched it with the anticipation and protection of a mother penguin hovering over her egg in sub-zero weather.  I waited 40 minutes for that damn chicken to get golden brown.  When I pulled it out of the oven and spatula-ed the chicken onto a plate, the bottom layer of Corn Flakes and coconut stuck to the pan.  My ONE pan that now had an inch of burnt Corn Flakes adhered to it like super glue.  I looked from the picture to my chicken and decided that the picture was fake.  It was play-doh made to look like crispy "golden brown" chicken.  But I ate like I was on the show Fear Factor because I made it and couldn't bear throwing it away.  

Then I thought it would be a good idea to make cookies for the troops.  I have a friend in Iraq and had collected money to buy toys to send.  The troops give toys to the little kids who tell them where IEDs are located.  I finally got all the toys in and I decided that the guys would probably love some cookies as well.  Mind you, my kitchen is what my mom calls a "closet kitchen".  But your closet is probably larger than my kitchen.  So after this Corn Flake mess I had to take a chain saw to clean the one pan I have, wash all the dishes, put them away and make cookies.  And who better to get the recipe from?  Yup Martha Stewart.  I almost bit into the magazine page displaying the beautiful cookies.  Well that Martha Stewart is a liar.  Martha, your cookies sucked.  They were hard (I didn't burn these, I swear) and they didn't taste good.  So you know what I did today?  I tossed out those shitty cookies and made the dependable Nestle Toll House cookies from the back of the chip bag and voila.  Delicious chocolate chip cookies.  Curtsy.  I bought some frozen entrees from Trader Joe's today.  I think I'm hanging up my apron for a few days.

Bipolar City

Ahhhh New York.  So I am finally understanding the "if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere" saying.  I've lived in Costa Rica, Cape Cod, Denver, and now in Manhattan.  I can officially say that this is the most difficult, but amazing place I have ever lived.  Costa Rica, Cape Cod, and Denver all have beauty but they also lack what brings and keeps people in New York.  It has a life and energy that makes you want to jump out of bed on an early Sunday morning to explore or stay out of bed until 4AM.  You can't understand how bipolar this place is until you live here.  So to sum it up for those who don't, here are the lists that make New York amazing while also making life...challenging.

1) Pro: There are 3 grocery stores within one block of my apartment. Con: They all suck and charge waaay too much for wilted, soggy lettuce.  Pro: There is a Trader Joe's in Union Square that has $2 beautiful organic lettuce.  Con: The other 8 million New Yorkers shop there too.  While you shop you must weave around a line longer than the-last-Springsteen-show-ticket-campers at Giant's Stadium...and then wait in that line.

2) Pro: There are also 3 laundromats within one block that will take my laundry in the morning, wash it, fold it, and have it ready for 3PM.  One place will even send a sherpa to carry it for me.  Con: My white sheets and towels 8/10 times are blue when I get them back.  "Really? Again?"  I say each time.  "All you have to do is separate the jeans.  That's all, not tough, and I paid $2 for you to wash them separately.  I want my two dollars!"

3) Pro: There are tons of sports teams, social events, museums, landmarks, bands, etc.  Con: You want to do all of them all the time.  It's exhausting.  I was invited to an Oscars' party last night but after this weekend of playing with friends and my free writer's workshop I stayed for about 30 minutes then left.  And I don't even have that many friends that live here.  I would be a mess if I was a socialite (why are you laughing?).

4) Pro: You never have to drive anywhere.  There are the subway trains, buses, and taxis.  Con: You do not control these modes of transportation.  The subways can be so packed that just looking at the platform can put me in a claustrophobia panic attack.  The bus is inconsistent and you can wait upwards of 20 minutes when it would take you 15 minutes to walk.  And taxis?  Holy Jabeeb.  You have no idea what you are getting for a driver.  He could be the road rage maniac, the right-foot-brake/left-foot-gas-guy, the "I have no idea where I'm going guy", or the "I know where I'm going but I'm gonna take you the long way" guy.  It costs $3 just to get into the cab but I have jumped out of cabs because the guy was a having roid rage/made me wanna vomit/gave me whiplash/thought he was going to take me home and hack me into pieces.

5) Pro: There are about 4 million men to date in Manhattan alone, never mind the boroughs.  Con:  There are 4 million women for the men to date in Manhattan alone.  Therefore it is like speed dating on crack cocaine.  It's like taking tickets at a deli counter.  I now understand the genius of Seinfeld's dating hang-ups.  You can have them because there will always be more people to date.  No chemistry?  Next.  Weird left eye?  Next.  One giant hand?  Next.  Makes this joke on first date: "Know what the best part about kids is?...Making them."  Ummm NEXT. 

6) Pro: There are always people around.  Con: There are always people around.  Pro: Neighbors watch out for each other and I know a good number of people on my block.  I feel a lot safer in the city than I thought I would, especially living at street level.  Con: We all live very, very close to one another.  At midnight the guy above me rolls around in his rolly chair, doing god knows what, while Sally-the-slam-pig gets railed to my right.  I could at any point get cornered by upstairs Irene who wants me to help her in her crusade to bring down our building's management.  "Yes Irene I complained and they fixed it. No I don't feel the need to call 311 because like I said, it's fixed.  I'm sorry your hot water is inconsistent. Ok really, I gotta go. Yup. Yup. Yup. Ok. Ok. Ok. Bye."  Sweet god lord in heaven, let a sistah alone. 

7) Pro: This is the most expensive city in the US.  Why pro?  Because more people would live here if it was less expensive.  There are plenty of people here with more moving in all the time.  Con: I am one of the douches paying the high rent.  Granted I got my apartment at the right time and pay $1275/month,  (Taking about rent $$$ in NYC is like talking about the weather) it's still $1275/month.  But would I want to be paying $1275/month, as a single girl in the burbs, for a house?  No.  And I'm not knocking those that do, it's just not for me, right now. 

8) Pro: Central Park is an oasis out of the noise, stink, and filth of the city.  There are always races and events happening.  Looking for solitude?  You can find a quiet little niche in there somewhere.  Con: Nada.  There is no con to the park.  So when #s 1-7 drive me to consider leaving, I simply walk in the park and remember why I am here.

**I decided to stop ripping off photographers on the internet and take my own pics to post.  So from here on out you will only see my own photo skills (or lack there of).  

Shows That Make Us Hate our Lives

I know I made you feel pretty good about yourself on the last posting regarding shows that make us love our lives.  I feel the need to be well balanced and make you and I wish we had never been born.  Why? Because of the following:

1) The 2010 Winter Olympics.  Wow I really have done nothing with my life.  Yeah I graduated college and lived in some cool places like Costa Rica but the Olympics?!  And at least when I was younger there was always the chance that I could become an Olympian.  I mean if you get into the Olympics, what else do you have to do with your life?  My resume would simply have the Olympic rings and my name.  And I would yell "BAAAM" when I slammed it on the table.  Scratch that because I wouldn't even need a resume.  I would sell my Olympic gear to support myself.  Shit I went to buy the Ralph Lauren hat that Lindsey Vonn wore on the podium for her gold medal...it's selling for 500 bucks now.  Imagine how much she'd get for her medal winning underware?!  Creepy?  Fuck creepy, that'd be sick money. 

2) Platinum Weddings.  Because they're married?  HELL NO.  Because they spent $200,000 on FLOWERS.  Ummm...F-L-O-W-E-R-S?  And they don't even bat an eyelash.  The only thing I'm not jealous about is their lack of taste.  The most frequent request is for "bling", but all they really get are white decorations with crystal.  ZZzzz.  If I had 1.4 million to blow on a wedding you better be sure Kings of Leon will be pouring my champagne, making my guests dance, and making-out with me in shifts (sorry future hubby it's true).  I would have Jim James fly in just to sing the 'first dance' song and Lady Gaga spray fake blood all over my guests (I would buy them all new clothes).  I would also have Chelsea Handler run around heckling my guests while Alec Baldwin gives the first toast.  Jay Z and Diddy would beg to be invited.  None of this 1.4 million wasted on friggin' flowers and 'up lighting' bullshit.  Cirque du Soliel contortionists would be my centerpieces.  These rich people need a little imagination.  But I don't have $10 to put towards a wedding right now.  So for that I hate my life thanks to Platinum Weddings.

3) Rob Dyrdec's Fantasy Factory.  I can't believe I would ever want to leave his factory once I got in it.  Foam pits, the Big Cat Jazzy, an indoor zip line, Compagna T Rex racing, trampolines, skateboarding park, skateboarding dogs, and basketball nets 20+ feet up.  I keep saying there need to be giant adult playgrounds and Rob did it.  There may not be a whole lot more fun in the world than hanging out there with Rob.  In fact I may make it my mission to marry him.  Polygamy Rob?  Whatever.  As long as I can hang out and never work that's fine with me.  Shit, if the Girls Next Door can do it with a man who smells like formaldehyde, so can I.  At least Rob isn't the walking dead.  But for now he's not mine and I hate it.

4) Jersey Shore 2.  I know it's not on yet but they are now going to get paid.  You heard me.  They are getting paid to act like complete drunken a-holes.  I, on the other hand, would pay to be a part of that show.  How is it that I have had ski houses, shore houses, acted way more belligerent, and they get paid for it.  I guess 'Killington Slopes' or 'Nantucket Shore' is not as alluring.  I would start fights and make-out with the cotton candy vendor on the strip.  Pump my fist?  Beat the beat?  I'll beat the beat and every chick in the place for some $$$.  You would too, but we can't so I hate life.

5) Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations.  This dude gets to eat amazing food from all over the world and get hammered while doing it.  I know he has eaten and participated in some whacky shiz but he gets to see the world with a slight buzz.  Not a bad way to make a living.  Therefore I hate my life thanks to him.  Bastard who makes my life so hateable.

Shows That Make Us Love our Lives

The creation of reality t.v. has taken over America and probably the rest of the world.  These shows are designed to make us either love or hate our lives in comparison.  I've been realizing that after I watch some shows I want to take a disinfecting shower.  While other shows make me look at my shoe box of an apartment, fantasize about burning it down, robbing a bank or marrying a Park Ave. 90-year-old.  So in 2 postings I will share with you the shows that make me either LOOOOVE or HATE my life.

1) Bad Girls Club:  I just love watching this show.  Why?  Because I want to run to my parents and thank them for raising me to NOT: a) become a stripper or porn star b) do crack-cocaine c) punch bitches on a regular basis d) get punched by bitches on a regular basis e) buying my casual clothes at Frederick's of Hollywood e) be a STD incubator and distributor f) put my drugged, lesioned ass on t.v. for everyone to see. 

2) 19 Kids And Counting: I think that's pretty self explanatory.

3) Tool Academy: Now granted even though many of these shows are fake I can't help but think they are real.  It boggles my mind that a chick would write to the show begging that her boyfriend attend Tool Academy.  If that isn't a red flag the size of Texas then I'm clearly old fashioned.  I imagine the letter to look like this:

Dearest Tool Academy People That Run The Showses,

My boyfriend is needed to go on your show.  He does not respect me and he is sometimes mean and throws stuff.  Last night he threw my mom across the trailer and then my kitchen table out our only door.  He drinks a lot and stays out late at night with his friends and if I ask him why he stayed out so late then he gives me this look like I'm asking him something stupid or something and tells me to "shut -up dummy slut" so then I tell him to sleep on the couch but I really let him sleep with me then he puts his cigarette out on my dog and doesn't even say sorry to Princess.  He slept with my sister but they say they only spooned and i think they kissed or something because he had a hickey on his nuts.  He has not had a job in 3 years and i pay for everything and he asks me for money and I can't say no because where is he gunna go ya know? He only has a scooter and he can't get to a job.  so i think you guys could help him so we can get married and have babies because i love him.

Thanks,
Tammy Train Wreck

4) Rock of Love/For the Love of Ray J/Real Chance of Love/Frank The Entertainer:  Thanks VH1 for isolating this cesspool of STDs.  Bret Michaels is a balding, face-lifted, has-been who continues to woo porn stars and Dr. Seuss characters (who all have FF silicone buoys) with his 1988 hit "Every Rose".  Most of these chicks weren't even born then but still desire fame at the expense of kissing those puffy, pouty collagen infected injected lips.  It shouldn't be a reality dating show it should be a Guiness Book sex-a-thon.  "Brett just 355 more chicks to go before sundown!"  And oooh Ray J.  He has a sex tape out with Kim Kardashian and he's Brandy's brother so he must be Quali-T.  Yes Ray J please give me a nickname describing what a hot mess I am.  How about "Daddy Issues", "Low Self Worth", or "Wide Open 24/7"?  I can't even get into Real and Chance.  What in the hell do they have to offer?  Do people even watch this? After watching this video I may start watching it because Animals ARE Awesome...http://www.vh1.com/video/shows/real-chance-of-love-2/438994/we-are-the-animals.jhtml#id=1621967
Frank the Entertainer.  VH1 you went too too far this time.  He lives in his "parents' basement" and hoses dates a bunch of chicks who have never outgrown the toddler motto "bad attention is still attention".  I mean must you continue to create the same show over and over?  I wonder what your meetings are like?  "How about Shit-For-Brains should we give him a show?  Why not? Let's put him in a poorly decorated mansion and have him date a bunch of Macaques and Bonobos. Yes, Bonobos."

5) Get ready for this.  I did some research for you.  In chronological order: Road Rules All Stars/RWRR Challenge/RWRR Challenge 2000/RWRR Extreme Challenge/Battle of the Sexes/The Gauntlet/The Inferno/Battle of The Sexes/The Inferno II/The Gaunlet 2/Fresh Meat/The Duel/The Inferno 3/The Gauntlet III/The Island/The Duel 2/The Ruins.
Yuuuup 17 of them.  Derrick, Katie, Tonya, and Veronica have been in 8 of them.  Why do I love my life thanks to this show?  Because a) my resume does not have "MTV drunken whore" all over it b) I have lived my blundering, mistake-ridden life off video camera  c) I thought I was an alcoholic until I watched this d) I am not Tonya.

The shows that make us hate our lives is up next...

P.S.

Don't worry I'll be getting back into my funny.  Just trying out some new stuff.

The Rescue

"What is that crawling up your arm?" Polly said looking at me while trying to keep her eyes on the road.
"Ew it's like red lice or something," I said squashing it with my thumb.
"Oh my god are you gonna have lice now?"
"I have no idea," killing another one. 
"I can't believe we're rescuing this thing right now you are nuts," Polly replied when the light turned green.
"I thought it was a good idea until this moment." 
We were only 5 minutes into a 25 minute drive.  I looked down at the creature which appeared to be reading a small book very quickly.  I felt badly for it but was also feeling pretty badly for myself considering I had lice moving at a feverish pace up my arm.  I had limited access to my digits being that I needed both hands to cradle the feathered animal.
"You should have just let it die on the side of the road."
"I was just thinking the same thing."

We stood on her porch talking when it happened.  A white pick-up truck screeched to a halt.  Then drove-off.  A second later we heard some rustling.  We looked at each other then I said "I think a bird just got hit."
"I hate birds," said Polly.
"You hate birds?"
"Yeah totally freak me out."
"Well, I'll go over and check it out."
I walked the 30 feet to the noise slowly.  I was not sure what I was about to encounter.  Pondering what state the bird may be in.  Worst case scenarios popped into my head.  If it was bad I may have to kill it.  Up to this point the only living things I have ever killed have been mosquitoes, spiders, and plants.  Oh and a rabbit, accidentally, a story for another time.  Was I going to have to ring the bird's neck?  Hit it with a shovel?  Curb it?  I looked around at the other Denver row houses hoping a brawn man would come to my rescue.  No one was around.  I stepped around the parked car blocking my view and saw it flailing in a circle.  
"It's not bloody," I yelled to Polly.
"Well that's good."
"But it's in the middle of the road and could get run over."
She didn't reply.
"Do you have an old towel?"  I asked secretly hoping for a no.
"Yeah.  Why?  What are you going to do?"
"Ring it's neck."
"What?!"
"Kidding.  I want to get it out of the road."
"And do what with it?"
"I dunno, let it get its bearings."
"It's bearings? Oookay."
She ran into the house and grabbed a towel.  She walked briskly down the street to me and extended her arm out as far as she could while leaning back and looking away.
"You're gonna pick it up?"
"I guess. "
Polly screeched a little and shuttered.  I threw the towel over it and slowly tucked the wings back in.  It was trying still to fly but was putting up less of a fight than I thought it would.  We walked back to her front steps and she said "What do we do now?"
"I have no idea."
"Is there a wildlife number?"
"I have no idea."
"But it's a pigeon.  No one cares about pigeons."
"I know."
"I'll call our veterinary clinic, maybe they know?"
"Great idea."
She asked if they accepted pigeons then shut her phone.  "Yuuup.  I guess we're going to Littleton."
"Huh I guess people do care about pigeons."

When we got there we both expected the Vet Tech to look at us like we were nuts.  Instead she took the pigeon out of my hands and asked if we wanted the towel back.  "Ummm nooo thanks," Polly responded.
"So what are you going to do with the lil guy?" I asked.
"Well we'll examine him and decide what to do then."
"Ok can we call and check on him tomorrow?"
"No we don't really do that because it's wild."
"Oh ok.  Oh by the way..."
"Yes?"
"Am I gonna have lice now?"
"No they only like birds.  But you should wash your hands and arms. The bathroom is right there."

As we walked out to the car Polly asked "You think they're gonna kill it?"
"I don't know.  Probably.  Bet that's why we couldn't call tomorrow."
"But he looked better," Polly cheered.
"I know.  Those are some picky red lice hunh?"
"Yeah you'd think they'd get a meal where they could." 
"I probably shouldn't take it personally, huh?"

True Story.

Pride? What Pride?

There is something totally awkward and uncomfortable about self promotion.  Something I have to do right now to get feedback on my writing.  One's writing is only as good as how many people read it (monetarily at least).  I can love my writing as much as I want but if I'm the only one loving it, I may as well journal.  So now I have to promote my website hoping to lure more people in so I get a sense of what people like, and what they could do without.  My attempt at fiction won over the ladies but they guys didn't give a shit.  Why?  It was a goddamn love story.  Not shit guys weren't into it.  But this is exactly what I need to figure out. 

At first I told only a few close friends and family members that I was writing. They all gave positive feedback (their job) so I decided to share my site on FaceBook.  I definitely freaked out a little because then I started getting so many hits per day I was totally embarrassed. What the hell do I do now?  Do I really want THAT many people reading my writing?  People I haven't talked to in years started commenting about my writing.  But all of it was positive (thanks for holding back any negative comments haha).  So I got comfortable in my exposure and started to have fun with it.  When all of a sudden, FaceBook changed its format.  I couldn't see everyone's posts nor could they see mine.  Now I'm getting a quarter of the viewership because my FB posts are not seen by all.  It was then I created a fan site.  Ugh FAN SITE.  I did not create the FB language.  But I feel like I'm asking people to BE MY FAN.  Really?  I feel like I'm begging for votes to become prom queen.  "Vote for me! *tap dance* Oh you're voting for Jane, ok."  It's like taking your pride and stuffing it into a sleeping bag compression sack or putting Spanx on it.  It's a humbling experience but a learning experience nonetheless. 

For all of you who read my ridiculous stories, I thank you.  I appreciate your feedback and your shared laughs.  Let's take the heartache, pain, and loneliness of life, put it where we all can see it and dress it up like Ziggy Stardust.

Suck It Winter.

Hey Old Man Winter, GO FUCK YOURSELF.  You are the grumpiest bastard I have ever met.  I mean I get it you're cold, heartless, and moody but do you have to take us down with you?  My life is pretty happy 9 months out of the year until you come into town stomping out every little bit of joy I have.  Wanna go for a run?  NOPE.  Winter is gonna give my nose frostbite.  Take my dog for a walk?  NOPE.  The Old Man is gonna try to turn my 7 pound lil Mexican into a pupsicle.  Dress-up and put on make-up?  WHY BOTHER.  The Frigid, Sterile Man's Wind is gonna make my eyes water so badly that I look like I'd just been to a funeral.  The only time I enjoy winter is when I'm renting a mansion in the mountains with friends, there is a foot of powder for snowboarding, it's 30 degrees out, there's an outdoor hot tub, a fridge full of beer, and a fire in the fireplace. 

Don't get me wrong I love the Northeast.  My family and friends are here and that's ultimately what matters.  I do not want to live anywhere else right now.   I love the cities, the close proximity to mountains/ocean and I can relate to the the people.  Yes, we can be harsh but we're to-the-point, crass (just my humor type), and for the most part, not fake.  I mean maybe it's Old Man Winter that makes us this way.  He's a cold-hearted snake.  He doesn't give a shit about you.  You forgot a glove, too bad you get frostbite bitch.  There has got to be an easier way to survive this cold and, even worse, greyness.  No sun, no flowers, no leaves, just a grey dirty city.  I actually forgot why I moved here in the first place until Saturday.  It was a sunny, 45 degree day so pup and I walked around Central Park.  And I remembered that there's nothing I love more than a sunny day in Central Park.  So much life and activity and beauty.  I guess I should be thanking that crummy, ass-wad of an Old Man for one beautiful day to remind me why I love this city, and the 3 other seasons. 

6 Train Takedown

I was on the 6 train two days ago when I witnessed maybe one of the funniest things I have ever seen.  It was so funny that as I laid down to sleep, and thought about it, I wound up in a giggle fit.  I could barely get the story out to tell my cousin the next day.  I hope my written words can express just how funny/amazing/stunning this was.

I got on the train and moved towards the opposite door to stand away from all the other germ carriers.  Two stops later a 350 pound man in a wheelchair was pushing himself backwards with his feet trying to get his back wheels to jump the 3 inch high gap between the train and the platform.  The angle was off, so only one tire was making contact. He was so aggressive with his pushing, people were afraid to help him (and he was dirty).  He simply had no regard for anything behind him.  Finally one person was brave enough to turn him just enough so he could to hoist himself onto the train just before the doors shut.  The man that helped him was in his 60's and wore a calf-length Alpaca, light green, winter coat.  He stood about 6 feet tall and was well groomed. We'll call him Greenman.  The man in the wheelchair also appeared to be in his 60's (so he was probably 25) and I would classify him to be a few eggs short of a dozen.  Let's call him Burt.  He could move backwards well enough but certainly was not a normally functioning human.  He had big fat tongue that he used to push out his big fat lips and had a big fat, round face.  He had beady eyes, wore glasses and had on a winter hat.  A very worn, dirty canvas bag hung from the back of the wheelchair and a plastic bag full of god knows what hanging off the left armrest.  I made mental pictures of all of this while looking at the back of the chair, as he stared at the train doors he almost didn't make it through.  A few stops later was when the mayhem ensued.

The train doors opened up to Greenman's exit.  As he tried to squeeze by the door-blocking-Burt, Burt decided it was a good idea to floor his wheelchair gas pedal forward off the train to get out of Greenman's way.  I have never seen a wheelchair launch off a train and move so fast in my life.  Maybe Burt is a genius and figured out a way to put Nitros in his chair?  Anyway the problem for Greenman was, when Burt launched forward, the left wheelchair armrest entered Greenman's right coat pocket and dragged him off the train.  As Greenman struggled to keep his balance Burt just kept his wheelchair's petal to the metal.  Greenman was trying to prevent his feet from getting run over while simultaneously trying to figure out what the hell was going on.  He was in shock, like getting attacked by a Great White Shark.  He writhed in the chair's grip but the chair just kept speeding ahead.  Finally about 5 inches from the platform wall Burt stopped.  And just as soon as he stopped he thrusted his chair backwards and was jumping his chair onto the train again.  Greenman stood stunned on the platform, patted down his fine coat, and walked out the subway exit. Burt wasn't phased even a little.  He made no eye contact and did not say a word.  Just a regular day for Burt. 

It was then that I realized my mouth was agape.  What just happened?  Did I just witness one of the most amazing moments in history?  I literally said "oh my god did that just happen?" out loud to my fellow passengers.  They just looked at me and shook their heads.  I mean I wish I could interview them.  Maybe invite them to the White House for beers to reconcile.  Would Greenman tell this story to his grand kids?  I wanted to shake Burt's hand (with a latex glove on) and thank him for one of the best things I have ever seen.  I wanted this on tape.  So much so that I would have sacrificed the taping of my first born's first-steps to have the Burt and Greenman video.  Without hesitation.

The Bachelor: On The Wings of Gayness

See the man pictured above?  He is a very hot, lame, cry-baby, TOOL.  This show is actually called 'The Bachelor: On The Wings of Love' and yes, the theme song is "On The Wings of Love" BECAUSE HE IS A PILOT.  Wow ABC how long did it take you to come up with that one?  I hope less than 8 seconds.  DONE.  And the song has a different elevator version each episode.  Make out with a chick.."oooon the wiiings of loooove", look at the ocean "oooon the wiiings of loooove",  awkwardly run "oooon the wiiings of loooove".  And I know I'm choosing to watch the show.  But it's like when you sit in traffic only to find that the traffic is from rubberneckers checking out the accident in the break-down lane.  And you swear at these 10-mph drivers telling them "to stop looking at the freaking accident and driiive!"  But as you approach the scene you think "hmmm that blue car rear-ended the red one...and oh God I see a stretcher...body bag?...blood?...you see blood?...oooh there must have been a fire..." like a detective until you realize YOU are now holding up traffic.  So YES I am the donkey watching this garbage but it's everything that's wrong with our society beginning with Jake THE PILOT "oooon the wiiings of loooove" SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP Jeffrey Osborne.  Here's some of the blood and guts of this accident:

1) Jake you cry ALL the time.  You know you're a cry-baby when Regis is making fun of you. "He cries all.. the.. time!" (in my best Regis Philbin accent) Send a chick home...cry.  A chick hooks-up with someone who works for the show (he knew her 2 days)...cry.  A coconut hits the ground...waaaaahhh.  Choose one PILOT: you are... a) a total wein-dog who has more estrogen than all the girls on your show combined or b) turning your back on the camera and pinching your scrotum, making yourself cry to seem multi-layered and sensitive.  In either case no one wants to date a Sally.  Please make your balls descend out of your abdomen and back into your bruised scrotum, and return to manhood. 

2) The host had to pull Roslyn aside because she had "inappropriate relations with someone from the t.v. crew".  That part was actually amazing.   The wreckage was when all the girls were crying with Jake over the incident.  Really?  You feel that bad for him?  There are like 15 of you left.  Don't worry mamas, he'll be juuuust fine.

3) Ali, one of the last 4 bitches, was destined to be in the final 3.  Jake said it, she was in.  But then her work rang her up and said she had to come back to work or she was fired.  So she, being a smarter-than-the-average-bachelor-play-thing, went back to work.  But her senses were short lived because she called Jake and begged to be taken back.  He said no.  Pinched his scrotum and cried.  And Ali regrets leaving.  Really Ali?  You should be pissed he pretty much forgot your name in a week.

4) Tenley, one of the last 2 chicks, has only slept with one man in her life.  This man was her husband and cheated on her.  So she, being a mess over it, decided it was a good idea to go on THE BACHELOR?  Ummm...so it wasn't enough that you got cheated on by your virgin hungry husband but now you're gonna put yourself on a show where the main guy makes out with every set of lips he can land?  Then, accept an over-night with him knowing 2 other girls jumped his bones as well?  I don't know much 'bout psychology Tenley, but somethin' smells like masochism. P.U.

5) Jake has told the camera that he is "falling in love" with every chick.  "I just feel so connected to them."  "I just can't believe how much I am into them." "Can I marry your daughter?" (He asked 4 parents this same question).  Oh ABC how dare you pull at my heartstrings.  This poor, poor guy is torn by 4 hot chicks who will spread their legs knowing full well that he's about to hit, and quit, you AND the 3 others.  How can you go on Jake with such tough punan choices? 

6) Because I am writing about it.  I hate you Bachelor and your "wiiiings of looooove".  Next season can you at least put on some serious crazies?!  I wanna see some bitches throw down.  Word to your moms.

Magnum, P.I.

Recently one character just keeps popping into my twisted brain: Magnum, P.I.  The dude lived and drove around Hawaii in a Ferrari.  Jello?  Yes please.  I seriously think it would be so fun to follow people all day long and take notes on their every move.  I mean I love gossip so wouldn't I love spying?  I could buy all sorts of wigs and cute outfits.  I think my specialty would be catching cheaters.  I would film their every move and then show the victim what their significant other was banging on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and paying for on Sunday mornings.  Then they would exclaim "That's why I have Chlamydia?!" and I would say "yes" handing them tissues and ask they want to confront the cheater.

I imagine the scorned a heavy-set woman, named Bess, with self-bleached hair, wearing a faded leopard-print tank top smacking her gum.  I would show her footage of her boyfriend, Dick, who has a 6 inch rat-tail heading into a rent-by-the-hour motel with ChaCha who serves him Bud-heavies at the bowling alley.  I would park my Ferrari just out of sight and set-up my bionic ear (a device not my actual ear) and high zoom/resolution camera.  And just as things heated up I would have my bouncer kick open the door (for drama) and let Bess have her way with the two of them.  Now I know that there is a show called Cheaters but here's where my P.I. work would differ... Instead of breaking up the fight between Bess, Dick and ChaCha I would turn it into a televised Gladiator event.  Bess, being the victim, would get a bean bag gun, Dick would get African tranquilizer blow darts, and ChaCha would get a whiffle ball bat with thumb tacks sticking out of it (sorry ChaCha that's what man-stealin' hoes get).

I would put them in Giants stadium and let 'em at it.  I may even throw in a hungry komodo dragon, some little people dressed as superheros with paintball guns, and 10 trained chimpanzees with chinese stars.  I can't imagine that people wouldn't want to see this so I would sell tickets and televise it on Pay Per View. 

Normal aspirations.