I can't stop. I now understand they are all inside of each other. Oh. Oh my.

I'm speechless. Introducing the turducken. Bring on the wenches and the mead! Slather yourself with meats! I don't think they could stuff anything else in there. Ill.

Pardon the slip with yesterday's entry: I try not to let petty crap muddy this blog. I'm still sickened, but who cares, I'm heading home for a long holiday to see my family and wee new neicey who's made it through another scary hospital visit, to watch geese fly over the water and have a merry Thanksgiving. This particular world of weak 'execs' and pointy-fingers will be far, far away. Soon for good, too. That's wonderful.

Moving on! In Pat Freestone's campaign to continue smoking, he's compiled a remarkably accurate list:

NINE TAXES THAT I'D LIKE TO SEE

9. Wall Street Dickhead Tax
8. Fat People's Extra-Large Poop Surcharge
7. Post-Menopausal Heavy Perfume Toll
6. Bringing Infant to Movie Theater Tariff
5. Crashing Giant Oil Tanker Charge
4. Silent But Deadly Fart Penalty
3. Unnecessary New Flavor of Ice Tea Fee
2. Insulting to Intelligence Advertisement Tax
1. Twice I Said Please No Fucking Mayonnaise Rebate

I'm not so naive to be unaware of the existance of corporate warfare. I just didn't think it would happen to me.

It astounds me to recently come to find that after years and years of dedication, hard work and optimistic attitude, I've been undermined by some people. Right under my nose, apparently, many months ago, and no one had the guts to tell me about it. I can't imagine being so "scared" that I'd have to point fingers deliberately at someone who doesn't deserve it. Unfair.

I'm sickened. I don't belong here.

Wow. A friend has been complaining about a chum of hers. Chum is middle aged, very overweight and loves to drink, and mainly talk about herself. A lot. Increasingly, my friend is finding it harder to go out with her, as she has started resenting my friend because the men gravitiate to her, a pretty and sweet girl, and not to the chum. Tears, long discussions outside of restaurants and bars, hysterical rants are over and over again forced upon my friend. And basically insulting her at the same time, as if its very hard to believe that men would prefer her at all. But, being a good friend to her chum, she's remained on the cheer-up squad and continues to be her go-out partner.

Last night things escalated. She became loud and belligerant, and picked a fight with a male friend they had with them. Attempts to quell her repeatedly: I will not discuss this with you in this state. In a dramatic climax, she grabbed her things and stormed off. My friend and the fellow were quick to follow her out. She was walking towards her car, and clearly they were concerned. They caught up to her and at that moment, the chum lost control and wiped out, and took my friend down with her. She actually fell on top of her. My friend explained to me that not only was it painful, but she woke up this morning to a scraped face, scraped palms and a slight black eye!

I'm floored. That could be the deal-breaker.

Wooed by poetic menu copy, we decided to give the nearby Buddhist joint a whirl. In dreamy cursive fonts, it boasted clean, vegetarian foods, pure and never coming in contact with dairy or meats. The bag of healthy goodness arrived, we tore it open and 3 very different menus spilled out, all from the same address. Greasy, meaty chinese food we all have ordered often and know it to be vile, some sort of sushi "Samurai" place and then the Buddah-zen joint. All in the same kitchen.

Defeated, we dug in anyway, talking lightly and exaustedly about work. Opening our fortune cookies proved equally as mundane, until Jolene opened hers, and slowly read to us out loud: You do have the energy to start over.

Perfect.

Nude hose. I don't know if there anything more discusting a woman could wear.

This morning I threw on a skirt. As no one would really see my legs, I grabbed a more "neutral" pair of stockings I had in my drawer. It matched my rig better anyway. All day they have been creeping me out. Sitting in meetings, if I cross my legs I look down to a too-smooth, too-rubber looking kneecap. Like I was made out of eraser. Spooky.

At lunch I had to scoot over to my tailor, with some new pants I bought that currently look hilarious and need major work done. The legs flair out so far, it looks like my body is propped up on two pryamids. Nonetheless, the tailor led me to the familiar dingy little room, a little behind the register, to change into the pants. He forgot to mention the overhead lightbulb had burned out. In order to see what I was doing, I had to leave the door open just a wee bit as I wiggled in & out my clothes. Seeing as the room was small, and the jeans were tight, it wasn't long before I kicked the door open to expose myself, standing there in my nude hose glory. A wierd kind of real-life barbie with no genitalia.

This, on the other hand, made my day. Via Mighty Girl.

At everyone's feet here at work, there are metal garbage cans. Industrial, I'd guess. There is just enought room under the desk for your feet, a bag, and the can. That's about it. On a painted, sterile, concrete floor. Every time someone has to get up suddenly, which happens with irritating frequency, the metal can gets kicked, and traverses scrapingly along the floor: kkkrkrkrrrrrrhhhhhhhhttt, then spins on its cylindrical base for a while and wobbles back into position. Its loud and jarring. Not to mention the suddenly-up person nearly trips over it. Every time.

I am here to tell you that this is one of the many things that irk me today. I may do away with mine altogether and assemble my garbage in a pile on the floor. I think that would bug me less.

Irksome item 2. I like my gym. Nobody goes there, its un-hip and empty. Today a middle aged woman came barrelling in with her tummy-bearing top on (tummy needed non-bearing) and workout pants. She hobnobbed with the trainer mens, then set herself up on a machine near me. She had her choice of just about any machine in the space, but set up shop close to me. And on a machine that was faulty, everytime her foot would complete an elliptical rotation it would make an unbearable clunking sound. Clank, clank, clank. I turned to look at her in disbelief, and realized she was working out in shades and shiny earrings. Shades! Clank! She loved it. She wanted people to look. Hideous.

Here is a how-to guide to Brooklyn thrift shopping in Williamsburg:

# 1. Never look anyone in the eye. Ever.
# 2. Walk briskly through the dark, crowded space, to and fro, and to and fro, and be sure to not comprimise your space for anyone else's. If someone is in your path, keep your elbows akimbo, don't reposition your bag or coat, grazing is acceptable. Hard brushing and pushing is encouraged, at which time it is of supreme importance to remember point # 1. Do not back down.
# 3. Talk loudly to your friend or whoever you arrived with, especially about relationships and intimate things. Don't forget to remind your friends that everybody wants to sleep with you, but you just don't "feel it".
#4. Be very, very skinny.
# 5. If you want to try something on: wait for a sales person to finish her conversation or lunch, do not ask for anything, even if your arms are about to rip out of the sockets from holding the clothes. Wait, your turn will come.


-

The peony just lost all of its petals from the most beautiful flower arrangement I've ever received. I think I grew attached to it, it was so dear. Sad.

As much as I boasted in a prior post about hating tradition, I don't. Not all of it.

I walked by Kmart today and displayed in the window was a big holiday BIN, I'm sure filled with the various flavored popcorns. Regardless, it was designed all festive-style with snowmen and candles and holiday scenes. And it made me smile. I'm lucky that I get to return to the same family holiday scene every year, replete with the quirky traditions we've culled over the years, the same meals, rituals. We sit in the same places when exchanging gifts, we always go to Aunt Ronnies Christmas party where we stand in front of the buffet table and drink nog and stuff our faces with these mini-croissant-wing-wangs. Which have become an integral part of the whole tradition. "Your'e wing-wanging it this year, right?" It would never be the same without the wing-wangs.

I guess there are places when sameness is a good thing.

I love words and songs that describe drama. The souped up, the end-of-the-world, cataclysmic kind.

This morning I woke up and was just feeling all upside down about, well, lots. Work, living, where, why, how, when. On my way down the street, that insane 60's song popped into my head: She's come undone. And the best part its the climactic end, I mean, you really picture a completely unravelled woman with frayed hair, wild eyes, costume-like clothes, spinning in circles: She's... come.... un-DOOOOOOOONE! (Ba-da-da-da-badda-dat-dat-dat-dat-da!)

Similarly, Stuart had a cat that would run away once in a while. I'd hear her frantically calling him in the backyard, out front, and eventually down the street with increased panic. She returned once, empty-handed, and plopped down next to me and started singing Wildfire. That is so perfect, I love the imagery, Stuart running through the foggy streets of San Francisco, calling her cat, crazy with desperation: She ran calling Wiiiiild-fire!

The term "mania" kind of gets me, too. There was this restaurant in the Mission that was called Pizza MANIA! It was on a street I walked nearly every day, en route to the Killowatt or whatever. Every day it was empty, no matter what time it was. But, heck. its mania! Run! Freak out! Stuff your face! Its a pizza mania!

Oh yes. Thank you, sir, for writing this.

Namely the Coors Light rundown; I've spent the past 3 to 4 Sundays trying to figure out what the insipid lyrics really were. Walking down my street or through my apartment singing something about "pom-poms and short skirts". And why the Twins? And the Tweeeeeins! What? Girls in bikinis rolling in the snow with rumps poised real high the air? And the most haneous of all is that loser in a wooly cap who in the final cut looks directly at the camera with this obvious & execrable look of bewilderment and arrival. Shudder.

Yesterday I managed to slip out of the office with only three people knowing that it was my birthday. Which, to me, is a small victory. Carmudgeonous, I know. But the fanfare with cakes and songs and all that just don't suit me, its so sweet but it makes me squirm. So I ducked out of work and had a yummy celebration of a small sort, replete with lobster and wine and some sinful potato fried cheese bomb. Now the cold I was fighting is in full force. My head feels like a cast iron balloon.

When Rachael's puppy gets near Velveeta, he turns into a monster. He is a cute, fuzzy and playful puppy, bouncing happily along in his Grammercy Park life. Except if there is Velveeta cheese within close range. He loves it so, so much that he cannot be distracted from it, or threatened by anyone perhaps taking any of it away from him. Snarls, attacks, bites, ears back-- all with the rage of a rabid beast: Wrorororhghghghghh! Its the funniest thing.

I felt the same way today. I ate 1 Pringle. I dove back into work and felt it hit me: they had to be mine. All mine. Nobody elses. What do they put in those things? Holy mother. I was like a whirling dervish of can, salt, potato, repeat, chomp, chomp until there were far too many missing. They weren't mine or even on my desk. I sit here now a little embarrassed with crumbs on my chest. And real thirsty.

Also, this cracked me right up. From Czeltic girl, via Leptard.

Why do I care? Ridiculous.

I sat on the subway this morning with no reading material. A hepkat guy was sitting next to me reading an interesting rag I'd never seen before, I couldn't help but read over his shoulder a little bit. It was a cool article! At Prince Street, a large woman stood up and got off, leaving a huge gap to his left and in one mean motion, he sort of looked my way with a snotty sneer-- but not at me, mind you, because he detested me so very much at that moment -- and with his right arm pushed himself down as far as he could go away from me. He crossed his legs and hunched over his special, secret paper far from my leering eyeball. I'd broken subway code without even realizing it.

But what disturbed me more is how mortified I was. I didn't know where to look, so I stared intently either at the 800-IMMIGRANT poster in front of me or just down on the dingy subway floor. Felt real small. OK, truly, who cares? Stupid. I wish I could see him know and take his dumb paper, snatch it from his trendy clutch and wad it up real teensy and maybe sit on it, then hand it back to him. Dum.

OK. I know. I am a subway hypocrit.

A friend was just supremely irked by a sort of ditzy coworker. Ditzy Coworker stopped my friend three times to ask her who this very important client was that was calling them. And she kept flipping the name, last name then first. Mind you, this is after lots of painful similar mishaps and work blunders of a most obvious nature. Later she referred to a woman as a "he". This triggered the following exchange:

Friend: Who is this Bush George person?
Me: Whats up with Lo J thing?
- Have you heard of that McDonald Ronald character?
- Whats all the hubbub about hussein saddam?
- So I guess people can go on vacation in this place called Rico Puerto? What's the story there?
- What's that lunch treat everyone's talking about? newton fig?
- FYI, Suzanne called, he sends his love.

Fig. I think I just like that word sitting at the end of a sentence. Figgy. Fig.

OK, so I work in advertising. Not exactly the most spiritually enriching environ, but boy is it amusing.

I've been a little stuck in the doldrums. (Did I just say doldrums? My). Its dark at 4:30. I ate a Milky Way. I sent a few emails. I got in trouble for saying I'd do something, and didn't. Neat.

But all in the last hour: Marci and Jolene were behind me looking at something. Suddenly Marci shreiked, and in a flurry they instantly dropped something and ran around the corner. I watched the end of a gripping foozball game. Mark sings whatever song I put in his head, all day.

Going to the movies has become like a trip to Vegas, apparently.

Late Saturday we got cancelled on by our two friends. The guy-friend called Scott directly and explained that they couldn't make our plans that night, as his wife had been in a crappy mood all day. A real brat. OK, on one hand, I love that kind of honesty, there is no made-up outrageous excuse about being so sick or there was a massive flood or something. Refreshing. On the other, I think I would hate to have everyone picturing me kicking stuff over, being irrational and breathing fire. Nope. I am a rose.

Nonetheless, we were kind of happy to have our night free, and decided to go see a movie. We jumped online and found a theater showing Comedian, and arranged to hit the next show. The theater was unkown to us and was kinda far. There we were, on Saturday night driving wayyyy the hell out in the middle of nowhere to see a flick. Out of the pitch black, off a highway, we saw like this blue hue in the sky off to our right. We got closer and there it was: Egypt. We came to a sudden halt with backed up traffic, and ahead of us we could only see miles and miles of parked cars and then in the distance these huge "ruin" looking pillars lit up like the sun. This place was insane!

We realized that in order to park, we would have to valet the car. Yes, everyone was backed up waiting for men in red coats to actually take their keys and park their car. Wait, weren't we just going to a movie? Huh? Things got a little competitive, I nearly cussed out a pack of teenagers lollygagging in front of us, but we parked ourselves. 5 scillion miles away.

There were statues of Cleopatra-type figures, tuts and figures with urns. Monolithic. We were dwarfed in contrast. Once we entered the inside of the enormous centerPLEX, there were more pillars, murals on the walls and were were surrounded by neon restaurants: Mexican dining either indoor or "outdoor", replete with rickety "windows" sorta Tijuana-style separating the two. Muy autentico!And fresco dining in Italy, if you'd like. The best of all was some place called DuClaws (?) where there is a TV in each booth. No one has to converse. Ever! Couples and families sat facing platters of fried cheese, staring at the small TV with practically drool coming from their mouths.

After finally figuring out how to buy our tickets, we entered the concession area. I'd earned a box of Dots or Duds. We made our way closer to the counter, and the couple in matching turtlenecks in front of us seemed even more overwhelmed than we did, and he placed his order from the following choices: shrimp, chicken, fried foods and other assorted non-movie type treats. After they paid and ordered, they were directed over to another line to wait for their food to be delivered. I thought the turtleneck guy was going to cry. This place was insane, I tell you. Maybe all theaters are like this now? Good gawd, I've turned into the unfrozen caveman lawyer.

The film, however, was very good. Orny drives me nuts, but the rest of the film is really great. Put to great music, as well.