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.