fupafighter

Blogworthy

Since I'm a big advocate of guilty voyeurism, whenever I get the chance to pass along a new blog that one can sinfully devour, by all means I do. My friend Chad has embarked wading the waters of textual trash, and seeing as I may not be faggy enough for some of my readership, if you need an extra helping of drama aside from my nonsensical truisms, then please, give his sight a looksy.

You can find it on Friendster.com, and if you're one of my 'friends' (and if you exhibit an iota of humor or coolness then you probably are), and look him up. It might be difficult to find amongst the many names, seeing as my humility has garnered popularity of mythic proportions, but don't be daunted, I promise it's worth a try.

Good luck out there in the cyber world, my friend, amongst the stalkers, procrastinators, and loonies...basically, people like me.

Has Anyone Seen...

...my thesis? If so, please report to me via email. Otherwise, please feel free to shove me with fervent gusto into oncoming traffic. Trust me, my misery will be exponentially less than imagined. As it stands now, I tread every waking minute of my days in a basketcase.

Surgery Surprise

Yesterday evening, as I was casually chatting with my mother, she proceeded to inform me in a rather nonchalant and disinterested tone that she had an appointment at the hospital today for a hysterectomy. My first instinct prompted me to ask if she was joking; when clearly she wasn't, I asked if she was getting her hair and nails done simultaneously during the procedure, since I've witnessed more emotion from her when speaking about salon appointments. I told her that it was going to be okay--I mean, I'm going in for a quick bypass this afternoon anyway.

So even as I type now, doctors in South Florida are gutting the first home I ever had, my true pied-a-terre. Though it is a 'routine' procedure (if anyone can call the horrific thought of getting your nether-regions sliced and diced infomercial style a routine), there is always the worry that surgery is surgery, and well, you never know about unforeseen complications, or if the doctor will accidentally drop a sponge, or suture, or flask of vodka into the cavernous area that once used to signify your womanhood.

This then brings up the question: since I'm so fond of taking precious moments in my life, tying a pink bow around them, and putting them into my uterus, what's a girl to do when she doesn't have one?

I'm Turning Nepalese, I Really Think So

I spent the good part of last night and early this morning trying to reach my contacts for fact-checking in Nepal and China. I'll tell you this people, if you want to take a sabbatical and lose contact from all in the Western world, please, pack your Immodium and llama spray and visit Kathmandu. If I never dial another international phone number for the rest of my inevitably miserable existence, I will then pass a happy woman. Basically by the end of my marathon phone dialing, there was smoke coming off of my key pad. When I arose at dawn and dialed in vain to reach my "expert" resource and couldn't get through, there was smoke coming from various of my crevices as well. And I shudder to think what my father will say when he realizes I was using the family long distance service to place these calls--"What, Dad? Those numbers? I was just having phone sex with my Nepalese boyfriend." Actually, that might go over better than intended.

A Touch Of Class

This is what I bring to everyday situations. For instance, Friday night I had dinner at a wonderful, and shall I say fairly more elegant than I'm accustomed to, venue in Tribeca called Pace. Though I was sportin' heeled, chocolate-brown, fuck-me-now boots, and my dinner companion's trendy T displayed tasteful outlines of a variety of fish and swirling pools, I must admit that we were the ones slightly out of water.

Due to our joint retardation, we couldn't make up our minds on an appetizer to split; therefore my friend and our waiter, Aaron, halted the ongoing brain fart by bringing out a sampling platter compliments of the chef. Between gorging ourselves on the appetizer selection and waiting for our entrees to come, my friend discreetly applied her Burt's Bees Chapstick. Me, being the product whore that I am (or as C calls me "every marketers wet dream"), I became all uppity and started producing a virtual cornucopia of lip balms, glosses, and hair product from the depths of my messenger bag, spreading them out meticulously in the center of our table as a surgeon would his tools on a tray. And for the grand finale, I reached for my newly bought L'Occitane hand cream in what I thought would be the crowning moment of my unnecessary display. What I didn't expect as I whipped out the cream was the purple-packaged panty liner stuck to the tube, open and flailing in plain site. I tried shoving the indiscretion back inside my bag, but alas, it was too late--my friend just laughed and said, "Yeah, I guess a panty liner is good too."

Case and point: You really can't take me anywhere.

My New Most Embarrassing Moment

And trust me people, I've had plenty of these moments, but I thought this one was fairly typical and emblematic of the debacle that is my life these days. Flash back to two nights ago, post Natalie's shift at Barrage, and of course, a few cocktails surging through my system. I take a seven dollar cab ride home, and carelessly take the wad of change the cabbie hands me without even giving it a thought. I count three dollars as the driver peels away, and realize that I've been jipped out of a ten spot. Instead of just counting my losses like a normal person would over ten bucks, I decide to sprint down the street after the cab at 3 in the morning, messenger bag flailing and coattails a-flyin'. I believe it to be a munificent sign of fate when the cab is halted by a red light at the end of my block, and with rock-steady fist, frighten the driver into opening his passenger side window.

Me: (Politely) Umm, excuse me, but I think you forgot to give me a ten back also.
Cabbie: Oh sorry Miss, but you gave me ten dollah.
Me: (Pausing, thinking): Oh yeah, you're right, sorry about that.

I slinked out of his window pretty certain that I was the biggest asshole on the Upper West Side at that point. However, this assumption usually doesn't change on a daily basis.