Vera Vogue on Parade

I'm Alive

2009-07-31T16:53:00.004-04:00

For those of you who still have Vera Vogue hanging around on a reader--I don't think this blog is making a comeback anytime soon. But we'll see! Saved By the Bell just "reunited" (minus Screech) for my favorite magazine, People, so anything is possible.

A lot of really great, exciting things have been happening over the last couple months and I have to funnel my creative energy elsewhere. Because, you know, posting about mascara on this thing? Creatively draining. Really.

But, good news...if are so bored you HAVE TO know what I'm up to (which has been a whole lot of comedy writing/performing and wedding planning), you can check out the following sites:

Alison Bennett Dot Com (if Google ever unlists as an attack site...just ignore the warning)
Twitter
Taxidermy Church (where I post about wedding things)

As of April, I am now a house writer for an Upright Citizens Brigade sketch comedy team (or Maude team), GORILLA GORILLA. Learn more about our shows here.

Thanks, everyone! I'm thinking about posting some videos I wrote on Ye Olde Blog, so stay tuned.

Come see my show!

2009-05-20T13:41:00.003-04:00

Click here for reservations.

I Love Shaq... So Much

2009-02-15T23:10:00.001-05:00

Every day gives me a new reason to love Shaq. I'd love to meet him. Or dance with him. Whatevs.

The Stable Grows!

2009-02-11T15:17:00.003-05:00

Two of my favorite people are featured in Time Out's "Date These New Yorkers":

Frank

DC

Interested? E-mail Time Out NY or crash my wedding.

Goals

2009-02-09T22:46:00.002-05:00

Between Amy Poehler and M.I.A., I'm beginning to think that women who do not rap while nine and a half months pregnant are pussies. If rap still exists in 2049 when I change my mind about these kinds of things and become a Crazy Octuplet Mother, I'll know what to do.

All My Dreams Are Coming True

2009-02-01T16:01:00.003-05:00

I'm on Nick's computer. Google saves past searches for autofill or whatever, which can be helpful.

Or telling.

One of Nick's recent searches:

He "can't remember" the origins of this inquiry, but I'm taking this search as an indication that I am STILL on the road to achieving all my dreams.

Marrying a gay dude? Mindblowingly beneficial to my solo act.

Bicycle Built For... One

2009-01-30T18:00:00.001-05:00

It is a well-documented fact that my favorite activity is eavesdropping, rivaled only by peering into the windows of townhouses in the West Village and eating guacamole (although never simultaneously.) Last night, when exiting the subway, I was stuck behind a slow moving couple, although I hesitate labeling the duo as such because shit obviously wasn’t going well. The woman, who was about seven feet tall and could be described as “handsome,” was telling a very complicated story about the whereabouts of her bicycle to her male companion.

Even for a seasoned eavesdropper, like me, I had a hard time following the tale. In summation, this is the story:

This fall, the woman rode her bicycle to Bedford Avenue to go shopping. She locked it up outside a store.

She walked home.

In the days following, convinced her bicycle was stolen from her apartment’s storage unit, she filed a police report.

Three months later, she passed the store while shopping with her girlfriend. “That’s my bike!” she exclaimed. Her girlfriend, puzzled, asked if it was the one that had been “stolen.” “No! I must have left it here!” The woman then unlocked the bike and rode it home.

(The last bit of the story fascinates me- she kept the key to her missing bike ON HER PERSON for ninety days?)

Not surprisingly, the woman’s date did not enjoy the story. He looked terrified and she was too busy being “charming” to notice. As a person who loses her wallet on an annual basis (if not more), I am sympathetic to the bicyclist, but I know when I’m turning a man off with my blatant irresponsibility. Just weeks ago, I even hesitated telling Nick that I had I lost my wallet (albeit temporarily), until my buddy Caitlin said, “Good, start lying about money before you get married. Grease the wheels. I think you want to live in Mad Men!” I was so horrified by her statement (although, the clothes are tempting), I immediately told Nick about the wallet and tried to think of additional things I could “confess.”

I came up with nothing. But I've never been one to go on a bike ride.

Farewell, Old Friend

2009-01-28T18:30:00.001-05:00

Over the years, I’ve had love affairs with a variety of different magazines—Entertainment Weekly, Time Out NY, New York, Vanity Fair, and much to my surprise, Prevention.

Yes, I am fully aware (now) that Prevention is an old lady magazine.

Last winter, my former co-worker, Aracelis, lent me an issue. (I have no idea why she bought it at the grocery store, considering she is 35.) That specific issue, full of universal health topics, misrepresented the magazine’s target audience (women in their 60s trying to get their shit together after a lifetime of sunbathing and eating carnival food.) But, since I was on a health kick, I blindly subscribed. Two months in, I realized the publication is aimed at women who haven’t seen a tampon in ten years and that it offers only two pieces of advice: 1. Sleep more. 2. Eat better. Regardless, I read every issue cover-to-cover (without changing any of my habits) but I didn’t take the opportunity to renew my subscription this year. I’m not losing sleep over it. (Rimshot!) I do have it penciled in for 2049, though, if paper still exists.

But no magazine (not even People, which I have read religiously for almost sixteen years!) can equal my love for Domino, the home décor mag. I have cradled every issue in my arms LIKE A MEWLING BABY for two years, and, in the words of Malaika, “I even use those freaking stickers they have in there to mark shit I can't afford!” And today, I learned that Domino is shuttering. Forever. And shutting down their awesome Web site. I know that companies everywhere are folding (including Talbots, which upsets my mother), but Domino was my go-to source for awesome apartment ideas. I’m sad that we threw out all my old issues when we moved last year (due to a possible infestation.) At least I got their book!

R.I.P.

When I mentioned this monumental loss to my friend Eugene, he responded, “If it was Prevention that had shuttered its lace curtains, I'd console you.”

Thanks, buddy.

Hold Me Back!

2009-01-27T21:44:00.000-05:00

This article made me so happy, I almost exploded.

Scary Mary (And I'm Loving It)

2009-01-27T04:42:00.002-05:00

Mary hates scary movies. I've conned her into watching a few shows about ghost hunters ("Paranormal State," namely) but her discomfort is always evident. Mary likes to have a plan, and a plan is impossible when a bloodthirsty ghost is squatting in your laundry room.

I want to chalk up her fears to Catholicism, because a few years back, after Frank recited the numerous times his family had been haunted, I asked him why his DNA was continually targeted by ghosts. His very in-depth explanation was, "Alison. I'm Hispanic and I'm Catholic." Nick, who was also raised Catholic, is another person who HATES horror movies. I have only been to a few Catholic church services in my day, but they must play "Mother's Day" (best horror movie ever) during CCD and tell kids, "This shit is real."

Mary's company recently acquired a horror movie network, and as part of her rise to the top, she has to watch scary movies ALL THE TIME. I'm guessing that's what she's doing right now-- that or eating lunch (yes, at 6pm) because her schedule is crazy.

Here, in her own words, is an account of the last few movies Mary watched:

I think the alien monster at the end pulled off the lining of her vagina and ate it
and I barfed
I just had to fast forward to find a shot of someone looking horrified/a monster and my editor kept stopping to watch cause I guess he didn't think we'd find anything if we fastfowarded the whole time, haha
and I watched jolly roger: massacre at cutters cove
this dead pirate comes to this kids partying on a beach
and he cuts off one of their heads
and then this girl comes up to sass him and he puts his sword through her eye
all within 2 minutes
she saw him cut her friend's head off... and then she went to sass the dead pirate, anyways a commitment to sass-itude
haha... so yeah... promotion here I come!!!

Poor queasy Mary. Her situation makes me sad because it's the equivalent of if I got hired to write at a techno radio station. Horrifying!

MSNBC, Drop The Bronzer!

2009-01-13T23:43:00.004-05:00

I love me some Rachel Maddow, but who does the hair and make-up for that show? When she's doing the interview circuit, her hair looks flat (in a good way) and she wears her ultra-hip glasses. (I love those glasses!) On MSNBC, it looks like they are crowning her brilliant mind with half a bottle of Dep gel. Or L.A. Looks. And that eyeshadow! Ack! Just let the lady do what she's doing on Conan! (And that might be nothing at all. Can't a woman be on television without pastels being smeared on her eyelids?)

I know I'm not supposed to be paying attention to these things, but during tonight's episode Bob Herbert was talking about the troops in Afghanistan and all I could think was, "He looks like he's made of wax!" Bob Herbert should not be wearing more foundation than a seventeen-year old draq queen going through the bargain rack at DEB.

MSNBC! Please! I want to get HD Cable in 2009 and I'm afraid to make the switch! Please stop!

(Nick says this post is "very mean." Please let me reiterate that this is not Rachel Maddows' or Bob Herbert's fault. I love you, RM.)

Reading a Newspaper With One Eye

2009-01-12T22:43:00.002-05:00

It's a long running joke that Mary and I always attract weird people on the subway- I can think of at least three instances (off the top of my head!) when we've had to switch train cars because we thought we were in mortal danger. One night, riding home on the PATH, we were convinced that the guy across from us was packing a gun. Because, you know, he had his hand down his pants. And weird teeth.

Tonight, Mary and I decided to meet up and "write together" before we went to Caitlin's sketch show. The Starbucks on 23rd and 8th Avenue was really packed, partially because a woman had her rolling suitcase parked on an unoccupied table. As we moved closer to said table, we got a closer look at the suitcase owner and her posse:

A woman with one-eye
A woman with a thick moustache (but no teeth)
A woman with one leg

They grumpily offered us a table (and chairs) and then for the next hour and a half, we had the delight of listening to the woman with one eye read The Post to her friends. She pressed a large magnifying glass to the paper and read stories about helpful germs and any article that mentioned a dog.

Meanwhile, her buddy scratched her stub.

(You should've seen Mary's face when I pointed it out.)

Other highlights of the conversation:

"I said I'll eat a lobster and t-bone steak, that's all that I'm used to."

"I said how's he gonna get a blessing from Jesus Christ? How does he expect to get a blessing from Jesus Christ?" (This sassy statement really amused her friends. They cackled for a long time.)

"God don't give money to people who don't know what to do with it." (But I know, God! I do!)

Usually we'd encounter these interesting ladies on the subway, but on our way home, after seeing Caitlin's sketches SLAM DUNK... we ran into someone we actually knew on the L train! Mary's college friend Andrew was in our train car, with a Cool Pix full of Tyra Banks, having spent the evening at a America's Next Top Model party.

We, of course, had just learned how to smile with our... eye.

What a weird, weird night.

This Is My Confession

2008-12-19T22:04:00.004-05:00

Guys, I have a confession. Four-ish years ago, I had a baby, and then gave the child away to a family with an ugly-ish couch.

Their couch was so ugly, I told them, "Here. Take this baby, so you can coordinate that shit (the couch, not the baby) with some Disney Princess club chairs and an abandoned sippy cup."

Years later (today), I stumbled upon my spawn dancing to "Single Ladies." My sister brought the YouTube clip to my attention. And even though my ex-baby LOOKS AT THE TELEVISION because she cannot commit the choreography to memory, I have to say... I ain't mad at 'cha, baby. Good moves.

(Okay. I realize I have no moves so this child cannot be mine. THIS IS MARY'S SECRET BABY. But whatevs.)

Perfect Food: PART 2

2008-12-04T22:14:00.006-05:00

Do you remember, way back in August, when Mary "inadvertently" kept me from consuming a GOAT CHEESE and PUMPKIN empanada? (My two favorite foods in A PASTRY?) Let me refresh your memory: it was very sad.

Today, on my way to meet Mary and Caitlin at our usual assembly point, I noticed the bakery had reopened! I rushed in, bought the lusty empanada of choice, and told my sob story to a bemused cashier.

Destiny! Small businesses never reopen in New York after renovations. They become American Apparels and then I buy cute sweatshirts on their grave.

So, was it delicious?

... I haven't eaten it yet. I wanted to show Mary and Caitlin EVIDENCE that miracles can happen. It is now sitting in my fridge and I am planning on eating it tomorrow.

I'm good at waiting. You know.

I wouldn't even tag this photo of me on Facebook but LOOK AT IT! Amazing.
Mary, I forgive you now, even though you made fun of how I said empanada (imp-pinata) all night.
Photo Credit: Caitlin's iPhone (and no, I don't know how to resize pictures on it... bitches)

I Love This Woman

2008-12-02T21:32:00.002-05:00

Somewhere, Tina Fey is procrastinating working on HER 30 Rock episode (you know, the on that will go on TV) by watching a YouTube video of me dancing. And she's watching it over and over again.

Really!

Flashing Lights Lights Lights

2008-11-29T15:33:00.004-05:00

I love my neighborhood for a lot of reasons. Just recently, when I was riding the crowded L-train to work, I had to shift my body to make room for another round of grumpy passengers that were trying to (unsuccessfully) board the train. On mornings like that one, I’m usually shocked if I don’t hear one of two statements:

“It’s like Tokyo today!”

(I highly doubt any of these foolios have been to Tokyo, by the way. If so, 80% of Williamsburg has done extensive traveling in Japan.)

OR

“We’re packed in like sardines!”

For once, I’d love to hear someone shout about the impending MTA budget cuts (less subway service!) and fare hikes instead of the oft-mentioned smelly pizza topping. Yes. We’re packed in like the proverbial sardines. SIGH.

As commuters bludgeoned the left side of my body, I was forced to get extremely close to the person in front of me, who immediately turned around, in case there was a question of paternity nine months down the road.

We locked eyes.

Schultz!

Being pressed into your best friend, who is usually consumed by the “grad school hole,” on the subway? BONUS neighborhood feature.

I also love my neighborhood because my street goes COMPLETELY OVERBOARD on Christmas decorations.

Last year, there wasn’t a need to turn on our porch light the whole month of December because the whole street was lit up like a movie set. All day, I’ve been hearing a lot of radios blaring Christmas music outside (and some staple-gun sounds) so I know that by the time I come home tonight, I’ll be living on Candy Cane Lane East.

Candy Cane Lane is a street in Williamsport, PA, that mandates its residents (in their deeds!) to go ALL OUT for Christmas. Two years ago, Nick saw it, but with the magic of YouTube, you too can be transported:

I love this time of year.

Mostly for my Grandma

2008-11-25T19:07:00.004-05:00

Just a reminder I have been writing even more wedding content for the amazing ladies at Wedding Chicks. Are you gagging yet? I am! Go to www.weddingchicks.com (there's an icon on this blog) and check out the "Real Bridal Blogger" section on the right menu bar. I'm telling funny planning stories there, unlike my dying Tumblr. That's ALL BUSINESS.

Leave lots of comments (please) so I know you are horrified by how often I recycle jokes.

If my WEDDING SHOES don't get you excited to check it out, I don't know what will.

Okay. No more weddings. My head is going to explode.

I wasn't made for this shit.

Smart AND Cool?

2008-11-12T19:11:00.006-05:00

1. I spilled apple cider on my pants this morning and even though I tried to wash it off, do you know what apple cider smells like on cotton? Pee. Oh yeah.

2. For thirty seconds, I sincerely thought Notorious B.I.G. was singing about an "Everyday Snuggle."

I'm the Jennifer Love Hewitt of the Interweb

2008-11-07T13:13:00.003-05:00

I’ve been asked to be a contributing writer for Wedding Chicks. My posts on wedding planning will be featured once a week but you can check out all my posts at www.weddingchicks.com/alison. I’ll get some content (about fake eyelashes) up there soon!

How Can I Make This Happen For Me Without Singing Abilities?

2008-10-19T20:22:00.001-04:00

In other news, I bought a new mascara.

My Future Husband

2008-10-13T18:17:00.003-04:00

Nick: I love you when you're made up and smell good.

I know that was supposed to be a compliment, but WHAT THE HELL.

Smashing Pumpkins- Without Bald Dudes

2008-10-13T12:33:00.003-04:00

When I was a kid, our Halloween pumpkins got smashed almost every year. The sight of our carefully carved pumpkins splayed on the street used to turn my five-year old, 30 lb. sister into The Hulk. Her rage knew no bounds!

Yes, Erin weighed 30 lbs. entering kindergarten. As far as I know, she was not a crack baby. She was in the lowest percentile for both height and weight and many pediatricians told my parents it was unlikely that her height would ever break five feet. She was so small that she was sent to visit mysterious “bone doctors” who measured her growth on a regular basis. I’m not sure if the “bone doctors” made any pro-active moves other than giving our family some time to grapple with the news that a freakishly tiny person was living in our midst. I, on the other hand, was taller and swarthier than the average elementary school girl so in old photographs I look like a Yetti towering over my petite, blonde sister. Of course, Erin is now 5’4”. No one is begging her to play for the Liberty but TLC hasn’t optioned a reality show about her life… just yet.

“Your sister used to go crazy over those smashed pumpkins,” my Dad told me over the phone. “It was bad enough when someone would throw a ball over the fence into our yard. You guys couldn’t get your minds around it. ‘Why would a person do such a thing? Why would they touch MY pumpkin at MY house?’”

One Halloween, on some kind of empowering sugar high, I remember Erin and I decided to sit in the foyer and wait for hooligans to arrive and molest our pumpkins. We lived in an old Victorian house and it took a series of stairs to reach our front porch. Undoubtedly, we would see them coming and…

We obviously didn’t have any kind of plan. In fact, I am sure our parents forced us to go to bed and hooligans don’t smash pumpkins before 8pm. They smash pumpkins late in the night because they are for-real crack babies and their mothers are too busy wearing Sexy Whatever costumes to reign in their children and teach them to respect other people’s property. Pumpkin smashers are sprung from the Devil’s seed, eat baby squirrels like a Push Pop, and end up with face tattoos denoting they are a murderer. At least, that’s the profile of them I created. Fair?

This past week, I had five glorious days off and my formerly short sister came to visit. The day before she arrived, Nick and I spent an afternoon walking around beautiful Brooklyn Heights. Rich people’s fall decorations inspired me to buy two pumpkins (for $10!) to display in our own, less-glamorous neighborhood.

“Nice pumpkins. I hope they don’t end up on the street,” said my landlord.

“I hope so, too.” I didn’t want a perfectly decorated front stoop – I just didn’t want to send my sister into a homicidal rage during her visit.

The next day, ushering Erin in from her long bus ride, I pointed out the decorations on our steps. “Our landlord said sometimes they get smashed.” I raised my eyebrows.

She shrugged. “Your pumpkins look dirty.” She moved them aside with her foot and hauled her suitcase up the stairs with the strength of an average-sized person who doesn’t care about pumpkins.

Oh, how you have changed, Erin June-- how you have grown!

Mystery Team

2008-09-30T00:27:00.003-04:00

One of my new favorite pals, DC, made a movie! DC is a member of Derrick Comedy.

I leaked a “Mad Men” spoiler to him recently, so help me correct the situation by watching this trailer and forwarding it to all your friends. The good karma will be like “My Name Is Earl,” except I got my moustache waxed last week. (Finally!)

... I am so unimpressed with my own blog lately. Moustache jokes!

... But this trailer is funny!

(NSFW- oh, the language offends my dainty ears!)

Spawn

2008-09-26T22:49:00.009-04:00

Mary told me that someone once said that if she had a child with Chad, her longtime beau, the result would be Abigail Breslin's character in "Little Miss Sunshine."

Mary and Chad

Little Miss Sunshine

Cracked.me.up.

Nick and I's "indie" cinema offspring?

Me and Nick

Uzi and Ari Tenenbaum. Obviously.

And before all of you start on some bizarre "Nick and Alison are getting married and she posted about BABIES and ohmyGod Alison loves BABIES" kick... no.

Just no.

Any other cinema babies we can identify from our circle of friends? It's like "If They Mated" from Conan but much, much, much more horrifying!

She Just Gets WORSE!

2008-09-15T23:32:00.007-04:00

At some point tonight, I fell asleep on Nick while we were watching television. When I woke up, someone on MSNBC was discussing how Sarah Palin had a tanning bed installed in the governor's mansion. (!!!)

Oh girl, now you're just messing with me! As a Bristol-type once said at Nikki's high school, "HOLD MY BABY! I'M GOING IN!"

(Talk to my friends and family about my thoughts on tanning/tanning beds.)

Protecting Americans from UV Rays might have been the LAST (and extremely lonely) cause I shared with the McCain/Palin ticket. McCain battled skin cancer in 1993 and 2000 and is known for slapping on SPF 30 every day.

Please watch this clip from "It's Always Sunny" and ponder, "Has the vice presidential candidate had this conversation?"

YES!

Triumph at RNC

2008-09-07T23:59:00.001-04:00

Anderson Cooper passing Triumph a note that says, "I poop on you?" Brilliant.

Better Late Than Never?

2008-09-07T21:00:00.002-04:00

I almost went back for a second round in one night.

Ralph's Famous Italian Ices- the mint chip "creme ice"? It's ruining me!

My Dad Agrees (Maybe)

2008-09-07T20:50:00.003-04:00

Nick and I were deep in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, this afternoon when I noticed an older woman wearing a Knoebel's (PA amusement park) t-shirt.

Me: Hey! Knoebel's!

The woman, totally confused, stares at me and then slowly looks at her chest.

Old Woman: Sorry, I wasn't sure if I was wearing that t-shirt today. I couldn't remember.

Me: Sorry. It's just that I grew up about forty-five minutes from there.

Old Woman: You left Pennsylvania for HERE?

Me: (laughing) Yeah...

Old Woman: YOU IDIOT! I'm hoping to win Lotto just to move there!

Reason #1511 going to Greenpoint is like visiting another country.

Vera Vogue = MSNBC

2008-09-03T20:27:00.003-04:00

I hate to be so political two days in a row (who am I kidding?) BUT...

Dear Michelle Bachmann,

I would appreciate it if you NEVER said "American women" ever again.

"American sausage wallets," howevs, is okay.

If you knew what I wanted, you'd rip off that heinous jacket and put on an Obama t-shirt.

Thank you,

Alison

P.S. Your buddy Palin makes me so scared. So, so, so scared. (AND ANGRY!)

P.P.S. You made me momentarily hate houndstooth! How is that even possible?

JUNO... Alaska?

2008-08-31T19:02:00.006-04:00

Please let this bit of gossip be true. It's very soap opera (former beauty queens!) and I love it.

On a related note, Sarah Palin looks like a bookish drag queen named Lez Lemons, an obvious homage to Liz Lemon (Tina Fey in 30 Rock).

I would definitely hang out with a Lez Lemons but not a Sarah Palin. UGH!

Here are some pictures from Chad's DNC Party:

YES WE CAN.

Goals: Achieved

2008-08-26T21:42:00.004-04:00

Today someone met me and gasped, "Those earrings! Those lashes!"

(I realize I have been neglecting this blog. It's not intentional and I plan on getting my act together soon! However, my wedding Tumblr, Taxidermy Church, is thriving. I even enabled comments yesterday because Schultz needs yet enother forum to contribute her two cents. Join the conversation!)

(Also, please do not take the overwhelming amount of "wedding" content as a sign that I have become a bimbo with a one-track mind. Do not insult my relationship with fat free pudding cups! I think of them often.)

Perfect Food!

2008-08-10T21:48:00.002-04:00

About a month ago, heading to the subway, Mary and I passed a small empanada joint in the West Village. Even though I was covered in chocolate icing from vegan cupcakes and FAR FROM HUNGRY, I stopped and looked in the window. Perched on a shelf was an empanada marked “goat cheese and pumpkin,” glowing in a halo of culinary perfection.

I had never seen my two favorite foods (pumpkin! goat cheese!) doing nastytimes in a pastry before.

Mary and I debated whether or not we should go inside. It was late and the restaurant employees looked like they were in the process of locking up. I was also fairly certain that the empanada/cupcake combo would make me explode all over 8th avenue. BUT HOW COULD I IGNORE THE POTENTIAL DELICIOUSNESS FACTOR? I wondered aloud if I should get one to go -- would it taste all right on day two?

Mary took my arm and gently led me away. “We can get one next time.”

“What if they never have pumpkin and goat cheese empanadas again?”

Mary gave me a look that ensured me that she is going to be a mother someday. “We’ll get one the next time we’re in the neighborhood.”

The whole way back to Brooklyn on the subway, I talked about the pumpkin and goat cheese empanada. Mary listened because she is not the punching-your-best-friend-in-the-face type.

I thought about those suckers for weeks.

Thursday, I was walking to meet Mary and Caitlin at our usual watering hole when I remembered (with a burst of GLORIOUS JOY) I would pass the empanada shop. I called Caitlin and tried to rearrange plans so we could grab some pumpkin and goat cheese goodness before our meeting. I flew down the street to the shop, only to find it was BOARDED UP. THE STORE DIDN’T EVEN EXIST ANYMORE. The whole block was being renovated!

Lessons learned:

1. Eating until you puke like a third-rate Augustus Gloop should be okay, especially if rare snacks are involved.

2. Mary Traina will hamper your dreams.

Look at that face! Of course not! I love you, Mary!

Chocolate and Champagne in the Fridge

2008-08-07T23:18:00.004-04:00

Earlier, Schultz sent me this amazing article from the New York Times, about a 101-year-old woman who lives in Murray Hill. The audio slide show was especially touching.

I just found out that my friend/teacher/mentor's wife was very involved in the project!

Do Not Disturb

2008-08-07T23:01:00.003-04:00

Okay, let's review the specifics of this new workplace comedy:

Jesse Tyler Ferguson, of "Putnam County Spelling Bee" and "The Class" (which was horrible but he was entertaining)
Jerry O'Connell (who had amazing chemistry with Fred Goss in "Carpoolers")
Directed by Jason Bateman
Written by "Arrested Development" and "Reno 911" alum
NIECY NASH AS THE HEAD OF HUMAN RESOURCES!!!

That's all you have to know. Niecy Nash. Human Resources. I am there.

Dear FOX,

I have some expectations.

Love,

Alison

I Kissed A Squirrel

2008-08-06T23:10:00.001-04:00

I hate to link to anything on Perez Hilton... but this song really cracked me up.

There is something seriously wrong with me lately.

Introducing My Wedding Tumblr

2008-08-06T22:31:00.003-04:00

Creating this sucker is like having kids you can't feed and then having more because you like baby clothes.

So Glad I Went Home

2008-08-04T22:18:00.004-04:00

The best thing ever happened last Wednesday while we booked our venue!

(My Dad sent me the paper article which featured even better pictures.)

A Hint About My Upcoming Wedding

2008-07-31T18:28:00.002-04:00

Click here.

Also, Vane's "Brooklyn Bride" site is my best friend. If you are getting married, or just interested in weddings, I'd highly recommend this blog.

When Best Friends Collide: Indie Cup

2008-07-28T17:53:00.002-04:00

Here is a sketch that was written by Caitlin and edited by Todd for UCBComedy.com!

I'm Not Posting This For A Legit Reason

2008-07-28T10:59:00.001-04:00

Ahhh, Don Draper/Jon Hamm.

Mad Men: Season 2 TONIGHT (AMC, 10PM)

2008-07-27T19:33:00.002-04:00

I'm not feeling very well today so here's my very simple plea: This show is amazing. Please watch it. The season one DVDs are inexpensive (and on Netflix.) WATCH THIS SHOW!

Check It Out, Friends!

2008-07-21T21:23:00.004-04:00

One of my best friends, Caitlin, started a Tumblr to keep everyone informed on all her comedy writing and improvisation goodness. Click it!

My Sister, The Genius

2008-07-21T19:57:00.002-04:00

"You know that article about those spinach artichoke Lean Pockets that got recalled?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to eat one right now."

"What?! There's plastic in them!"

"Not in all of them. I read that article and thought, 'Wow. Those look good.'"

Catsup: A Longwinded Update About The Riveting Details of My Life

2008-07-14T00:00:00.012-04:00

There must be at least one person who stalks me via Vera Vogue and I would like to apologize for the lack of fodder for your undying love and/or hatred of me. I’ve been trying to focus on career-related writing this summer (like the content for my porn site) but I need to do a better job updating the blog. Here’s the rundown of my last few weeks:

I discovered I am a bad ass tuber.

I am bound for Cypress Gardens:

I left my corporate law firm job. That “temp” job was supposed to last from July to October of 2006 and I ended up rocking out there for two years. It paid many bills. Although I’m going to miss the people there, I’m excited about starting a new creative position in early August.

This weekend, I have been taking a PhotoShop class at School of Visual Arts for the new gig. It is a twelve-week course condensed into two (very long) days. At the end of today’s class, we were given forty-five minutes to apply our new knowledge and create collages. Throughout the day, I had been craning my neck to check out other students’ screens to ensure I had the glory of being the most NATURALLY GIFTED first-time PhotoShopper. To my dismay, the hipster sitting next to me had created what was essentially a lost Feist album cover. (But my ever-swollen ego demands that you know she was a full-time graphic design student.) I then realized I was the only person in the class using the program to give Mick Jagger a little hat made of sushi and to suspend tiny people out of a woman’s nose and teeth. The next time Chad, Mary and their cohorts have an on-line PhotoShop exchange… watch out, animation stars!

My hair has left the Frodo phase, apparently. Over the 4th of July, I went to my Dad’s lake house that is outside of Corning, NY. I forgot my sunglasses, so my sister (not-so) graciously lent me her wayfarer sunglasses that have the “Coors Light” logo emblazoned on the side. I was already familiar with them, as she had been wearing them in a well-documented night of swimming pool INFLATABLE BEER PONG. Classy broad, that one. After threatening me (“If you lose my sunglasses, you have to drive to Virginia to replace them!”), she changed into one of her nine-gazillion two pieces and we headed for Dad’s new boat. I had brought my standard two bathing suits with me: both are black, both are one-pieces… but only one has straps. (Ooh-la-la.) The strapless number (seen above) also includes- a skirt! I claim it is “1950s,” Erin dubbed it “Grandma.” Regardless, I thought I was pretty sexy until my sister and Nick determined that my windswept hair and iconic sunglasses made me a dead ringer for BOB DYLAN. Apparently, Bob Dylan likes a party boat with R. Kelly thumping on the stereo. Who knew?

Okay. That's scary.

I was really into the idea of wedding planning for about, oh, a month and I haven’t given it ANY THOUGHT SINCE. I did pop into “Wedding Ring Originals” to check out their wedding band selection and the clerk yelled at me because my engagement ring was so dirty (sunscreen.) I let him clean my ring and even though I watched him do it through a doorway, I was then momentarily convinced he switched the stones until my Dad called me a “dork.” And that, my friends, has been pretty much the only wedding-related thing I have done at all. Additionally, our only venue idea simultaneously flooded AND exploded into flames last week. .... Not joking.

Mary turned twenty-four on June 28th (infant!) so Chad, Nick, Caitlin, Eric and I decided to turn it into a fourteen hour party that included: Mexican brunch, Wii bowling, real bowling, pizza, a nap at my apartment (poor Eric had to play cards with Nick), and hours of DANCING with a bunch of bronzed gay dudes. AND THEN WE GOT MEXICAN FOOD AGAIN AT 1AM. Although it is currently being dubbed as “the best day of our lives,” I woke up that Sunday with a severely distended stomach, a la Amy Winehouse but on a person who weighs more than 16 lbs. Why can’t every day be Mary’s birthday? Our “first husbands” can be pretty fun sometimes. Sigh.

Hour 11 with my favorite people

Tuesday, I return to PA to see more of these people (and my parents):

The sibs!

Also, how much do I need this?

Matt and Tasha- LA Bound

2008-07-12T23:56:00.002-04:00

For those of you who haven't heard us sobbing all the way in Brooklyn, our best friends Matt and Tasha are leaving New York for sunnier climes. Next week they begin their Big L.A. Adventure.

I "made" this video of a VERY SMALL sampling of our good times in New York City over the last few years.

I have lived within driving distance of both Matt and Tasha my entire life; we have resided in the same town for all but five years. Although I am excited about crashing on their couch in California (hopefully soon- but can it beat the Syracuse Car Show?), I have to admit I am very, very sad about them moving cross-country. They have been such a positive staple in my life and I will miss having burritos with them on short-notice.

However, I hear the Mexican food is amazing in L.A.

It has been said that one's list of true friends is a short one; I've been absurdly lucky in that regard. Matt and Tasha DEFINE and SET THE BAR for that list. They have taught me so much about friendship and I've never met better people. They really deserve each other, and not in the "Alison and Nick Crazy Bitches Circa 2003" way. Eek.

L.A. is so lucky to have them.

I am so lucky, too.

I love you guys.

Forget My Last Post

2008-06-08T18:37:00.000-04:00

I finally found my dream wedding hairstyle- click here.

I'm A Turn-Of-The Century Film Star! (The Last One, Sadly)

2008-06-07T16:19:00.008-04:00

When I first grew out my short hair, back in 2003, my college roomies were quick to point out that the process had two distinct phases:

1. Frodo from the "Lord of the Rings"

Followed by:

2. Christina Ricci's mullet in "Monster"- which prompted them to play "Don't Stop Believing" around the clock.

Until I pick out my wedding dress, I'm not cutting my hair, just in case I have a vision of having a haircut that is not reminiscent of "Rosemary's Baby" during my nuptials. Frodo commence!

Magic In A Bottle

2008-06-01T12:09:00.003-04:00

Vera Vogue has more product placement than "Iron Man," but I have to share the good news:

My friend Aracelis, deemed the "most glamorous" person Nick has ever met, recently turned me on to an amazing skin care line. It costs just a little more than drug store face wash but the bottles last MUCH, MUCH, MUCH longer. (I still haven't had to reorder!) I am all about her entire product line and it doesn't break the bank, unlike some horrors I have seen at Sephora and elsewhere. My skin has really improved!

From the Paula's Choice website:

For more than 25 years, Paula Begoun has studied, analyzed, tested, and critiqued thousands of skin-care formulations and makeup products to help women around the world understand whether a product was worth the money or could live up to the claims on the label. Paula's exhaustive research and quest for high quality, reasonably priced products led her to develop her own premier product line of skin care and makeup products. Working with a team of cosmetic chemists utilizing her own formulations, Paula launched Paula's Choice in 1995.

Designed using state-of-the-art ingredients and formulary concepts, Paula's Choice skin care products DO NOT contain coloring agents, fragrance, or irritating ingredients that are extraneous or unnecessary.
Paula is dedicated to only using ingredients that have proven benefit for skin. As Paula says "Media-hyped, unproven ingredients may get attention but they don't always help skin."

I Just Cried With Joy!!!

2008-05-23T20:39:00.002-04:00

"I Love Money" is an upcoming show on Vh1 featuring all my STD-ridden best friends from Flavor of Love, I Love New York, and Rock of Love with Bret Michaels. I know I've had an amazing, life-changing month but July is looking EVEN BETTER!

July 13, 2008- party at my house! (I know Frank, Mary, and Caitlin(s) are there!)

fEAR: The Update

2008-05-22T22:51:00.003-04:00

I think we've found the reason behind my disgusting ear:

No, not bats. I just think my ear resembles the above.

Nick just killed an ENGORGED mosquito in our bedroom. (We also found a spider.) Due to an extremely trying three-month period in 2007 that I will only refer to as The Infestation, I've never been happier to see a mosquito (just a mosquito!) full of my blood.

And how cute are these bats with the veiny ears?!

fEAR

2008-05-22T18:44:00.003-04:00

I know I tend to write endlessly about my physical deformities but I actually have a reason to spotlight one of them today.

I have really small ears. One former cast member of mine once told me, “Your small ears stick to the side of your head like a growling dog.” Most likely, my ears haven’t grown since 1986.

This morning, I woke up with one normal-sized ear, except it was red and obviously the product of swelling. All day I have been checking out the adult ear vs. the baby ear and even though I haven’t decided which is my “best side,” I really want the tubby ear to go away. It hurts!

The Wedding Planner, Like J. Lo... Kind Of

2008-05-21T17:38:00.004-04:00

I might as well change the name of this blog to “Vera Vogue: GETS MARRIED!” because my freakish one-track mind is now vacillating between cardigan sweaters and wedding planning. I’ve received a lot of advice from people who have already gone through this seemingly insane process and they have been kind enough to point out that “it’s not about the day, it’s about the marriage.” Although on some (very repressed) level, I am trying to take their advice to heart, I also recognize that I am a person who spent weeks planning a Graceland-theme housewarming party, right down to the Good & Plenty “Qualuude” bowls. I love Nick. I love parties. What’s better than a party that allows us to celebrate being enduringly hot for each other?

I recently asked a friend of mine if she had any wedding planning tips and she told me that she had started planning her wedding three months before her now-husband proposed. “It was a risk but it was worth it!” I immediately began cursing my own stupidity. Nick told me he wanted to marry me on what? Our FIRST DATE? FIVE YEARS AGO?! Why was my initial reaction to his declaration of love to shut down in fear?! I should’ve marched my nineteen-year old self over to Barnes & Noble and purchased some wedding magazines! Instead of debating whether or not he was a serial killer those first few weeks of courtship, we could have a solution to “Decision 2008: Location” by now. Sigh.

When I had my sinus surgery a few months ago, I spent a lot of time watching “Who’s Wedding Is It Anyway?” on the Style Network while I was recovering. I didn’t take notes. I didn’t watch it for a single practical reason other than it was a better painkiller than codeine. (The eye candy!) I was not in good shape and, for the first time in my life, I was completely reliant on Nick. Back in those Mask-days (Cher movie, not Jim Carrey) I realized how lucky I am to have a hot stud in my life willing to clean up my blood-puke (sorry!) and love me and take care of me even when my face looks like it is exploding. That week, I may have been watching wedding shows about the day, but considering the blood-puke (sorry again!), I was working on my marriage.

And that’s about as cheesy as I get on Ye Olde Vera Vogue! DVRing of “My Big Redneck Wedding” commence!

I Only Choose Doctors That Are Unintentionally Funny

2008-05-21T17:23:00.002-04:00

My OBGYN: (in a thick Russian? accent, extremely disgusted) You are the whitest person I have ever seen! In all my years of being a doctor, I've never seen a person as white as you! Have you ever been in the sun? Do you ever expose yourself to the sun? You so whiiiiiiite!

Me: Well, I go in the sun, I just wear sunscreen.

My OBGYN: (unimpressed) Hmmmmmmmmmph.

(Beat)

You so whiiiiiiiiite!

Ladies and gentlemen, I seek medical treatment from a person who doesn't believe in sunscreen.

My life is awesome.

Bette Davis Porn

2008-05-18T20:01:00.000-04:00

Friday, May 9th, 2008

2008-05-15T23:01:00.001-04:00

The weather was miserable Friday. At lunchtime, a few of us at work took our soon-to-be-departed intern to T.G.I. Fridays because we had been informed “Sizzlin’ Chicken and Cheese” is the only thing she eats. I had been to a few Fridays in my youth, mostly in suburban shopping plazas when visiting friends who lived in faraway towns with sizeable populations, but this Midtown Manhattan rendition was a little skuzzy.

When I go out with friends who have grown up in or near New York City, I always regale them with the stories of growing up in a place that had little-to-no chain restaurants (case in point: we got Burger King when I was in 11th grade) and how I used to revel at the glamour of having a place like Olive Garden or Chili’s within driving distance. Hanging out at Friday’s (even though I didn’t order anything because their vegetarian selection is WHACK), I questioned my own fourth-grade Bloomin’ Onion Fever for the thousandth time. Why was I such a hayseed?!

Of course, the consumption of “Sizzlin’ Chicken and Cheese” (and shrimp, eventually) occurred as the storm seemed to be picking up. By the time we headed back to the office, the wind was so strong I could barely walk. We were blasted with freakish sideways rain and out of the four of us I seemed to be struggling the most, which greatly amused my co-workers.

“Alison, Alison! Tell everyone what was the hardest part of your day!”

(With a Shakespearean level of grief): “The wind! Ohhhh, the wind!”

Later, at the intern’s going-away party, we stood at the conference room window and watched parents try to keep their children from being carried away with their umbrellas, Mary Poppins-style. And we laughed. A lot.

Before leaving work, I stopped at my usual position between Norris’s and Aracelis’s office. When Norris returned from Maternity Leave, I realized I could stand at a particular spot between their offices and be seen and heard by both simultaneously. This location has definitely been handy over the last few months as I have 1-3 (okay, 25!) announcements per day for my friends.

“I have Iron Man tickets at 9:30. I don’t even want to go. The weather is horrible. I just want to wear sweatpants.”

“It’s good! Go see it.” Aracelis is obsessed with super hero movies. If a homeless dude told her he had the newest Hulk movie on a handheld DVD player in his skanky van, she’d be there. With popcorn.

“I will. Okay, have a good weekend!”

I fought the elements, cranky train passengers, and the elements all over again (ohhhh, the wind!) before making it into my apartment relatively unscathed.

Nick’s previous employer recently offered him a management position so Nick has had the last two weeks off in-between the big job transition. He has been extremely helpful while he has been “housebound,” accompanying me to trips to Virginia for Erin’s graduation (more on that someday) and meeting me at work with whatever VERY IMPORTANT item I have forgotten to throw in my gargantuan, back problem-inducing bag.

Nick was sitting on the couch. I joined him for a snuggle.

“What did you do today?”

“I went to lunch with my parents.”

“What did you guys talk about?”

“Eh, nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

“Books and movies. Stuff like that.”

Nick was being weird. I didn’t press him because I didn’t want to ruin my intended evening of a Lean Cuisine and “Iron Man.”

Then I noticed the edges of Nick’s face.

“Oh my God, you are peeling SO BADLY!”

I grabbed his ear. At my sister’s graduation in the blazing Virginia sun, while I carefully reapplied SPF 70 for the millionth time, Nick had thrown caution to the wind. I picked at his arm. (YES, GROSS BUT KEEP READING- ACTUALLY WORTH IT.)

“Hey, Alison? I have to ask you a question.”

“Okaaaaaaaaaay.” I continued to examine his skin. Sunburn is broken capillaries! When would he ever learn?!

“Will you marry me?”

And then he pulled a little black box out of his pocket and I nearly died.

You didn’t see that one coming, did you? NEITHER DID I!

I have been informed I said yes. We kissed.

And then I laughed for forty-five minutes.
We called our families; we ate Mexican food.

We never saw “Iron Man.”

Never in a million years did I think I would be at T.G.I.Fridays the day of my marriage proposal- not even in my wildest chain restaurant dreams.

(For those of you who just skimmed this- no, he did not propose at Fridays. He proposed on our couch, and now every time we sit there I ask him, “Am I going to get a diamond again?”)

The Most Horrifying Thing Ever Uttered by a Healthcare Professional At A Post-Op Appt.

2008-05-07T21:09:00.003-04:00

"Alison, if you don't do your Vaseline treatments more regularly, the crusties in your nose will start to smell like dead animals. And people on the street will say, 'What smells like a dead animal?' and it will be your face."

- My Otolaryngologist

(And I have been doing the treatments as prescribed!)

I Love You, Japanese Bruce Springstreen

2008-04-26T19:55:00.001-04:00

Please, please, please watch this rendition of "We Are The World."

(Thanks, Drew!)

Baby Mama: Trailer is Heinous, Movie is GREAT

2008-04-26T10:39:00.006-04:00

A few months ago, this “Baby Mama” trailer put the fear of God in me. Could my personal heroes Tina Fey and Amy Poehler have made a really shitty movie?

They need to fire whoever did the trailer (and whoever chose the 80’s-but-not-in-a-fun-way voice-over artist and muzak) because “Baby Mama” is EXCELLENT. It is really, really funny and despite Tina Fey making fun of her own acting chops in interviews, she made me CRY in multiple scenes. She’s amazing. (I also liked her clothes in the movie. Good job, Renee Ehrlich Kalfus!) I also want to crawl into Amy Poehler’s pretty skin and BE her as she is so ridiculously charming - just be glad that I am expressing that now and not when I see her perform at UCB. Security!

(I just want everyone to know that I often speak of my friends in similar Restraining Order-inducing terms. “Oh Caity, I bought Gucci II so I can sniff myself all day and dream of you. Please move into my home so I can eat candy corn directly out of your hands!” Although I spend a lot of time sounding like my picture is going to be on CNN with the heading “Stalker,” I’ve just got a lot of love.)

“Baby Mama” has heart, Steve Martin plays a hilarious health store guru, and Greg Kinnear, let’s be honest, is hot. I’ve thought he was hot since he played the gay dude in “As Good As It Gets,” but that probably says more about my thirteen-year old taste (gay dudes) than his own attractiveness. Although my “Soup” watching years only includes Skunk Boy, a smattering of Hal Sparks and Aisha Tyler, and my current husband, Joel McHale, I also salute Greg Kinnear as the first host of my now-favorite E! show. (Sorry, True Hollywood Story.)

Please go see “Baby Mama.” I know a lot of aspiring comedy ladies may not be held as credible critics for “Baby Mama” due to the fact a lot of us rushed the newsstands to buy Marie Claire, Entertainment Weekly, Vanity Fair and even PARADE for Tina Fey collage fodder. Let me assure you that my sister, much to my chagrin, does not even regularly watch “30 Rock” and she said that she had never laughed so hard in her life. The movie is not just for fan girls, or girls at all- Nick loved it and called it a “modern classic.” I’m even going to make my Mom and Grandma see it so I can get their review and slap it on here. Yeah, that's right!

Go see it.

Simon Doonan's New Book Is A MUST

2008-04-23T22:59:00.005-04:00

Click here for "Eccentric Glamour" on Amazon.

I spent the majority of Christmas Day devouring Simon Doonan’s books “Wacky Chicks” and “Nasty” (thanks, Mama!) and laughed until my face hurt, although that particular ailment could also be attributed to near-constant noshing on green bean casserole and Chex Mix. (Oh, the holidays!) Imagine my joy when I discovered he had a new book coming out April 8th!

For those of you that aren’t in the know, Simon Doonan is the creative director of Barneys New York. You may have seen him in all his fabulous British-accented glory on shows like “I Love the 80’s.” His husband is brilliant designer Jonathan Adler, and from what I have gathered from the Jonathan Adler collections and Simon Doonan’s books, I am insanely jealous of their Norwich terrier, Liberace. I want to live with them in their West Village home and wear fake eyelashes and eat asparagus guacamole (not gross- delicious!) with them at three o’clock in the morning. Yes, I have these thoughts about total strangers because at the core I am creepy, creepy, creepy.

I received a gift card to Barnes & Noble from a very generous boss this week and I ran over to the closest chain directly after work to purchase “Eccentric Glamour: Creating an Insanely Fabulous More You.”

I could not put it down. I laughed (and loudly!) while reading it on the subway, which is a rare occurrence. I even read “Eccentric Glamour” while walking down the street and almost plowed into an unsuspecting Crest Hardware worker who was trying to transport large quantities of potted geraniums. Oops!

“Eccentric Glamour” is an inspiring read. Lately, I feel like I am coming out of a months-long funk and I think it is time to reintroduce some eccentric glamour back into my own life. While I’m on the road to recovery, I think winning this contest could help:

Three friends accompanying me to lunch with SIMON DOONAN and a $2,500 shopping spree? Could anything be more perfect?!

Keep your fingers crossed that I can unleash all my "creepy" glamour in person. And click here to find all of Simon's books on Amazon.

The Haircut I Got For Devious Reasons (According to EJB)

2008-04-20T23:10:00.007-04:00

Me with my favorite people, Mary and Caitlin... 7th-grader me wants to "BFF" the shit out of this text

Here is a picture of my new haircut, although at this point in the evening it had survived being locked out of my home and many glasses of red wine. (Strangely, the incidents are not related.) Not bad considering how I was rockin' it two weeks ago:

My Sweet Office

2008-04-16T19:46:00.004-04:00

I should be there right now, bucklin' down. Instead, I am debating whether or not to cut my hair short again. (After the "Clean House" post, my topics are steadily getting more serious.)

Team Hair Cut: Tasha, Mary (who has never seen me with short hair), Frank

Team NO, You Look Like a 12 Yr. Old Boy: Nikki, The "Looking EXACTLY Like Your Headshots" Ideal, my immediate family (although they'd never admit it)

Team Why Did I Even Poll People When I Am Going To Go Out And Do It Anyway, Because I'm That Kind of Person, and The Idea of Big Fake Eyelashes and No Hair Is Something I Have Yet to Try, Because I Had Yet to Discover Falsies in 2003, Although At That Point I Had Discovered Nick, Who Honestly Doesn't Care About My Hair, But If He Ever Gave Me A Hair Directive I'd Do the Opposite Anyway: Me

OMG- You totally got a nose job!

2008-04-13T15:22:00.007-04:00

I had surgery on my sinuses and my deviated septum (!) on Tuesday.

I know what you're thinking:

"Deviated Septum"

Or, more recently:

"Deviated Septum"

Having gone to the fine medical school of "People Magazine University," I asked my surgeon if I was going to look any different after the procedure.

"Only if you pay me a lot more money."

Snap!

(In addition, he also told me that if anyone claims to have had sinus surgery surgery and has any external bruising- they [are liars and probably] got a nose job. I can attest to swelling, though. I looked like "Mask" my first twenty-four hours home from the hospital. I made Nick wear a Cher wig so he could comfort me properly.)

My nose looks exactly the same. Examine it the next time we see each other and I'll pretend not to notice, or maybe I'll guide your curious little finger across my "bump." Come on now! Am I a pop sensation with some variation of the name Ashley? Does my hair look like the golden refuse bin in Ken Paves's back alley? Please.

I have had the least productive week of my life. The night before my surgery, I created a work station on the coffee table. I had a dream that I would be mildly uncomfortable but a CREATIVE GENIUS during recovery.

My progress on the "30 Rock" spec script I'm working on?

KENNETH
Glooop gloop gloop.

JACK
Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhh.

There were moments when "Clean House" episodes were above and beyond my level of comprehension.

Fully-Formed Thoughts I've Had This Week

1. Style Network is awesome! for doing a "Clean House" marathon.

2. Nick is so nice, he brings me medicine and food.

3. Niecy Nash is pretty.

4. I want to be Niecy Nash.

5. Some people are so filthy and gross, I don't think they deserve "free" furniture. I AM MAD.

6. When's the next episode of "Clean House"?

7. No, really, when's the next "Clean House"? Do I have to settle for "Who's Wedding Is It Anyway?"

(I am a genius, even in illness!)

I finally ventured outside yesterday for brunch (brunch will awaken the dead) and today I went on a brief excursion to the new Brooklyn Flea in Ft. Greene. The flea market showed promise for its second week ever (I didn't find anything except for a small present for Mary) but the neighborhood is beautiful and we had a delicious lunch at Black Iris, a Middle-Eastern restaurant.

And then I felt really tired and dragged my ass home.

While I'm glad to be entering society again, I have to admit I might miss being a hermit. It's spring, and I'm looking forward to a summer with friends and margaritas and unnecessary re-application of SPF 45 while gazing at a lake... but someday, the Siren of Niecy Nash may call again.

(And yes, if you don't follow the Style Network, Niecy is also our favorite cop Deputy Raineesha Williams on the also-amazing "Reno 911.")

An Amazing Coincidence

2008-03-20T19:18:00.004-04:00

My sweaters have been found and are being returned tomorrow.

Guess whose birthday it is today? I almost cried, seriously- click here.

Mr. Rogers Knew What Was Up

2008-03-19T00:23:00.003-04:00

When I was in college, I dedicated a lot of time to ensuring that I had the appropriate belt for outfits that included articles of clothing like thrift-store Playboy nightshirts from the 70’s (worn as a dress) and cat suits made from acid wash denim. And no, I didn’t go to college in 1982. I was a Salvation Army demon and I would wear anything that struck me as mildly amusing. All of my earrings had to be housed in under-the-bed sweater boxes not because of the sheer volume of my collection, but because I had some hoops (and Virgin Marys dripping with pearls) that would not lie flat in anything that wasn’t at least eight inches across.

You can see my HUGE earrings grazing against Nikki's (to my left) hand. (2003)

For all of you that have been at the Bedford stop on the L and have sneered at someone wearing a bonnet and a muumuu with a camel on it because OH MY GOD SOME PEOPLE WILL DO ANYTHING FOR ATTENTION- let me tell you something. Camel girl will get her comeuppance.

My initial setback in retaining my “look” was when I decided to move to New York and become an actress. (Please read that sentence with all the obnoxious glory of someone who not only thinks they have a “look,” but also wants to be an actress.) First, I had to get headshots, which in theory meant I was never going to change my hair- EVER AGAIN- until I started looking like an old hag and was forced to get new, extremely expensive headshots to document my newfound haggy-ness.

Then, as the final blow to my weekday Bird Belt days, I decided that to supplement my new and exciting career as an ACTRESS, I was going to work in a corporate office. I quickly realized that I had nothing “corporate casual” to wear for five days in a row (Acid Wash Cat Suit Fridays?) and after a few somewhat smelly weeks in those famed Target pants (R.I.P.), my respectable wardrobe grudgingly began to expand.

I wanted to claw my eyes out. I hate collared shirts. I hate dress pants even more. It takes money way beyond my current means to dress with style at a conservative place of work. It takes $2 to dress with style while hanging out with your favorite sausage wallet on the street. Worse yet, my inability to drag my ass out of bed means that most days at work, I’m not even wearing any make-up. (Gasp, feminists, gasp!) Although I’m not someone who keeps herself dolled up 24/7, I like to think I have enough self-respect to routinely cover up my under eye circles generated from any late night debauchery. Instead, I started getting in the habit of showing up to work resembling a boring raccoon. I found myself staring at my reflection at work and asking, “Who is this person? What happened to the annoying hipster that lives in my heart?”

And for all of you that make faces about girls who let their physical appearance affect their moods because OH MY GOD SOME PEOPLE ARE SO SHALLOW- let me tell you something. Raccoon girl will also get her comeuppance.

After some heavy meditation, I finally found a solution to my funk. Cardigans! I love cardigans. I will gladly wear a cardigan every day. They are office appropriate and they look damn cute on the weekend with jeans and alienating earrings. I bought a bunch of cardigans and my self-esteem instantly soared. I started wearing make-up from 9-5 with some regularity again. I got a cute new haircut, and does it match my headshots? NO. But who cares because I WEAR CARDIGANS, OK? I even used a Gap gift card a few weeks ago to buy four new button-up sweaters of GLORY. Carrying that bag bursting with cardigan goodness out onto 8th Avenue, I finally knew what I wanted in life: a uniform to wear every single day, like a superhero (or Doug Funny). I have a deep desire to have a closet full of cardigans! I FINALLY HAVE A GOAL THAT CAN BE ACHIEVED IN A FEW EASY STEPS! Do you know how rare that is for me? Do you know that I have recently switched my career interest from acting to television writing?! Do you realize that simply knowing I can achieve one of my life goals by just BUYING MORE CARDIGANS is LIBERATING and AMAZING?!

I’ve been taking such good care of them too!

We’ve been using Laundry Express, a door-to-door service that picks up your dirty stuff in a van and returns it the next day smelling like heaven. Saturday, I carefully packed up the majority of my cardigans to get washed. I put them in a special bag and attached the usual Laundry Express note with my preferred washing instructions.

Someone at Laundry Express looked at my special cardigan bag and my little note and I bet they didn’t realize that my only form of instant gratification was in that bag. They didn’t look at the crumpled sweaters and feel how I hate looking like a raccoon and how I still grimace every time I put on a pair of dress pants. (Oh, the dramz.) They didn’t know about my dream closet, lined with cardigans in all styles and sizes, and they certainly didn’t know that my wardrobe has been one of the few things I feel I can control, dating back far earlier than five years ago when I stood in front of a mirror and decided to buy a poncho with a tree print on it. If someone at Laundry Express had known these things about me…. THEY WOULDN’T HAVE FORGOTTEN TO PUT MY CARDIGANS IN WITH THE REST OF MY CLOTHING.

I am missing seven cardigans. Maybe more. Laundry Express is on the case. I have hope that the roots of my lone “easy” life goal (having drag queens quote you after your death takes work, people!) will be found. In other news, guess what? You can’t buy happiness. What can you buy? Huge purses, identical to ones you already have, but in a different print:
I told you I wanted a uniform.

And introducing...

2008-03-14T19:41:00.000-04:00

The oft-mentioned Rob's spanking new blog.

The Internet is a Liar

2008-03-14T19:27:00.004-04:00

I recently went to a website that calculates how many people in the United States have your name. I was jealous of Nick (only 2 as opposed to my 79) until I started typing in all our family members' names and got this newsflash about Nick's twin:

Lies!

It just serves as a reminder that no matter how many lady-stuck-on-toilet stories the InterWeb gives me, I can't take everything buzzing in a "New Tab" as fact. However, the Creepy Gnome from South America... that shit is for realz.

Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

2008-03-13T20:57:00.004-04:00

My sister, who is a senior in college, spent this past Spring Break on some Holland America cruise that most likely put her innocent little capillaries in direct contact with my personal enemy, UV Rays. She also did something that I’ve never done before- she.wore.a.bikini.

(I've never worn a two-piece. My bikini aversion is a story for another day. Okay, it's a pretty short story- imagine a pasty Chewbecca with blacker fur and a huge ass. Compliments- in the comments! Now!)

Erin swam with the dolphins and, more importantly, her boat had a twenty-four hour taco bar, realizing two of my lifelong dreams. She probably ate a taco directly off of a dolphin, but I haven’t had much time to get many details as she is currently opening a flurry of acceptance letters to GRADUATE SCHOOL. (Let’s take this time to publicly congratulate her- comments! Now!)

Unfortunately, something unspeakable happened to my baby sister while she was bobbing around the ocean. I know everyone has heard about crime on cruise ships and unsavory boat peole. Please read the rest of this post and consider your sister or your aunt (or the entirety of the Hershey marketing team) in this position…

One of the housekeepers mistook her Butt Uplift jeans for their standard navy blue towels, and spirited them away to the underbelly of the ship… where they were never seen again! Worse yet, the housekeeper was a large male, so the chances of him actually enjoying those magical Lycra hands- next to impossible!

Murderer!

Of course, the management of the cruise was very apologetic and the housekeeper told my sister that he really hadn’t been feeling well at the time of the jeans snatching. Erin and her big, worthless heart probably gave him a hug and some Cold-EEZE. I think Holland America should send my sister and I (and our nice bubbly butts) on vacation for free. I've watched enough of "The Wire" to know justice must be served. After all, why should she be the only one to eat a taco off a dolphin?

(Posting someone else's vacation photos from Facebook? Weird? ... Yes.)

Dear Shaq,

2008-02-21T00:09:00.003-05:00

I love you because you just said "dramaful" on television.

Dramaful is the new "sausage wallet."

But, lovely Shaq (now of the Suns- and old man, did you hustle!)... I may never forgive you for making this video years past. I have watched it at least ten times this weekend. I have been dreaming of you singing this song. It never leaves my head. Oh, big Aristotle. What have you done?

Love,

Alison

(This message has been brought to you by Mary and Alison, who are living in sin with men who also happen to be gay for not only each other, but also Lebron James.)

Thanks, AdTunes.Com!

2008-02-03T13:40:00.000-05:00

It just came to my attention that traffic has been a little higher lately at Ye Old Vera Vogue because AdTunes.com linked to my PMS fest about the Mother's Day JCPenney ad: I'm A Mess. Even though the link was featured in a "Best Ads of 2007" post on Christmas Day, I've been getting a lot of hits the last few days as people scour AdTunes.com, presumably gearing up for Superbowl commercials.

If anyone wanders off my department store fueled sobfest onto the main page, Welcome! And, please, remember- I am not a pussy. Thanks.

"Wonder Why That Skylight Was Covered By A Drop Ceiling?"

2008-02-03T12:15:00.000-05:00

My father is extremely adept at scaring the shit out of people in an extremely nonchalant but psychologically damaging way. He doesn’t do any of that jumping out from behind things and screaming “Boo!” business. My father is the Alfred Hitchcock of parenthood- violins will be screeching, and you’ll swear you’re seeing blood, but it’s only a camera trick.

This winter, I renewed my Pennsylvania driver’s license. I have been a resident of New York City for nearly three years, so the little piece of laminate in my pocket is essentially a lie (and most likely, illegal.) Regardless, I went with my father to my county’s DMV, where an employee wearing the unmistakable perfume of Eau De Urine engaged us in some friendly conversation.

“What are you getting your mother for Christmas?”

“Oh, you know… an airplane, some diamond jewelry.” I grinned.

“Well, well. Would you like to be an organ donor?”

I nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father shaking his head no.

“Don’t mind him. I think I have some pretty great organs. Donate away!”

DMV Dave shot Dad a look. “This one’s got some personality. Where’d you pick her up?”

As I choked back vomit, DMV Dave’s mortified co-worker attempted to smooth it over.

“He picked her up at the hospital. That’s her father.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, she’s a wild one, that girl.”

I got my card and we left. After fully delving into the topic of the pee-pee smell and the embarrassing Dad Date aspect of the conversation, I asked him why he didn’t think I should be an organ donor. His face grew grave.

“Well, what if you’re out-of-state and you’re in a car accident. No one knows you. You’re lying on the table, filled with all these useable parts, and the doctor’s friend’s little girl down the hall is in desperate need of a kidney. You’re just some girl from Pennsylvania. ‘We did the best we could.’ Chop, chop.”

I am definitely paraphrasing; because my father, the wordsmith, has instilled such fear in me that I have considered going to the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation and telling them that I have changed my mind. My organs are NOT great. I do not want to be hacked up somewhere in Indiana, even if I rarely travel out-of-state in a car. Chop, chop.

Dad’s reign of fear extends outside of cautionary tales. Within minutes of moving this fall, I heard that there may or may not be a mentally disabled person who was locked up on the third floor in this particular area of Brooklyn. (Yes, really.) Immediately, I thought of the movie my Dad had referenced my whole childhood- “Bad Ronald.”

According to my father, “Bad Ronald” was a movie he saw in the 70’s about a deranged man who was locked within the walls of his childhood home to escape from being jailed by the police. His whole adult life took place in these secret passages that his mother had built to protect him. Of course, his mother dies, and an innocent family moves into the house and inherits “Bad Ronald.” In my youth, my Dad had a habit of going into great detail about all of the scenes where “Bad Ronald” spies on the new family through holes in the ceiling and the walls.

Over the years, “Bad Ronald” has become somewhat of a family joke. When Dad was helping me paint my apartment, having heard about the neighborhood’s “Bad Ronald” flavor, he pointed out every nook and cranny where the N.Y.C. “Bad Ronald” could potentially be hiding. We laughed about it throughout all of our renovation projects, but when I returned to my old Chelsea apartment that night (Dad was sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the new digs in Brooklyn) I laid awake, terrified. In my head, “Bad Ronald” was the scariest movie ever made and Bad Ronald the history of film’s most horrifying monster. Even having never seen it, I had every shot of the movie imprinted in my brain. Under the mental duress created by our move, I even had a new star and location to imagine in Bad Ronald’s grasp: me, in my freshly painted Brooklyn apartment.

I never told my Dad that our “Bad Ronald” jokes (that I am fairly sure I initiated) had given me a few sleepless nights. I got over my secret torment pretty easily. Moving into our apartment, I had much bigger concerns than hole-spies, like procuring a couch and throwing the greatest Graceland-themed Housewarming party this side of the Mason/Dixon line.

Me, Ms. Taline, Schultz, and Claire- some of my ladies, in Graceland gear. Outfits hole-in-the-wall approved!

Friday night, I was trolling A.V. Club (great website, I highly recommend it), when I saw this question:

This '70s TV show featured an awkward teenager and I'm pretty sure his name was Harold. His mom witnesses Harold accidentally kill a young girl and hides him by walling off a room or rooms within her house. Mom dies and an unsuspecting family moves into the house with a teenage hottie. Harold spies on the hottie behind the walls of the house and eventually lets her into his hidden lair, with a large psychedelic mural of her. This movie laid a heavy trip on me as a kid and I thought it was called Weird Harold, but I can't find anything listed on the Web. Did I dream this film? Thanks ahead for the hookup! -JT

JT- You're a little off with the title, but you nailed the adjective-name sequence and plot. This 1974 made-for-television thriller is called Bad Ronald. Scott Jacoby plays Ronald, a creepy teen who accidentally kills a young girl and is hidden by his equally creepy mother. Left to rot in solitude after his mom's death, he becomes obsessed with the teenage girl who serendipitously moves in and fails to notice that her walls are being eaten away by peepholes. Not only does he paint a psychedelic mural of her, he captures her and psychotically proclaims that he is Prince Normand, leader of Trent. There's a clip reel here. The VHS is available on Amazon, but prices are steep, since it's out of print.

I almost choked on my late night snack. “Bad Ronald” clips? On YouTube? Could I possibly even face my longstanding nightmare?

For your viewing pleasure:

There are a few things that Dad left out when he was telling his great rendition of “Bad Ronald”:

It was a horrible made-for-TV movie. (From what I have gathered, an ABC movie of the week.)
This “film” debuted when he was a senior in high school. If my Dad actually thought that this piece of crap was scary, he was a pussy in high school, and I really hope his basketball stories are a lie and that he got beat up every day. (Yes, I am secretly Judd Nelson’s character in “The Breakfast Club.”)
Alternate theory: Dad found this movie frightening in 1974 because he was mean to nerds.
Dad saw the movie when he was "under in the influence" and then heightened all the suspenseful parts for thirty-odd years because he thought it was amusing to torture his young daughters.

“Bad Ronald” has an active life all over the Internet. It has a Wikipedia page (the book was based on a true story in Spencerport, NY!), the paperback (by Jack Vance) is selling on Amazon for hundreds of dollars, and the VHS tape is going for almost the same amount. At first, it seemed strange to me that I, the Queen Googler, had never even searched for this movie before stumbling upon it on A.V. Club. But then I realized- I didn’t have to look for it. “Bad Ronald” was so fully formed in my head, searching for it on the Internet would be akin to asking Jeeves, “What do fake eyelashes look like?” I didn’t have to see evidence of “Bad Ronald” on the Internet because I had been seeing him out of the corners of my eyes my whole adult life.

Unfortunately, no one (DAD) had guided me that “Bad Ronald” looked like "Can't Buy Me Love" era Patrick Dempsey:

It's a little depressing to me that I could easily take on "Bad Ronald" (the fictional T.V. one, not the real-life one that lives in my neighborhood- I have no evidence of his strength.) The grainy 70's snuff flick from my imagination was actually Lifetime movie fare! Although I have been rid of 90% of my childhood to early-twenties nightmares, I feel like "Bad Ronald" and I have a new life together. As a cineaste (yes, I wear a monocle while blogging), I have to get my hands on that VHS tape, if only for the belly laughs. I might even consider remaking the film on my own because I have the storyboards pretty much ready to go.

(Call me the Michael Bay of ABC Movies- leave "Nightmare on Elm Street" ALONE, Mr. Bay!)

Although YouTube has once again taken a large burden off of my fragile mental state, I'm never going to fully abandon my fear of "Bad Ronald." No, sir. If there is anything I know for sure, moptop nerds from 1974 can grow up to become the Ultimate Fear Masters. Chop, chop.

(They should make all high school yearbook photos public on the Internet. As soon as I get my hands on the LHS yearbook from 1974, I'm going to post a picture of my Dad's senior picture. For a reference, just look at the above picture of Patrick Dempsey and then quickly scroll up to my Graceland picture and look at my face and squint. You'll get the idea.)

Not the Jim Carey Kind

2008-02-02T18:39:00.000-05:00

Today I called Time Warner Cable to ensure we weren't going to be billed for the last six weeks of Style Network withdrawal.

I must have given the customer service guy my cell phone number a little too quickly because he informed me, “Ma’am, you hear your cell phone number all the time, but that’s the first time I ever heard it.”

When I gave him the dates of our outage, he also said, "I can tell when I am being scammed, and rest assured, I know that you are not a scammer. We'll take care of your problem right away."

He's almost up there with the fifth Time Warner technician to visit our apartment, who made me promise three or four times that we didn't have a dog before he entered the door, told me "peanut butter and banana sandwiches- that's my jam" (well, no, that'd be a PBJ), and self-congratulated himself on his handiwork (only for the cable to stop working not even twelve hours after he left.)

Time Warner... providing entertainment, without providing entertainment.

But I'm A Little Bit Rock and Roll!

2008-02-02T18:11:00.000-05:00

I haven’t had cable since December 20th. I probably missed the whole season of “Paranormal State,” and I’ll never know if Bret Michaels reunited the American Public with season one’s famed boner machine.

Rather than watching endless YouTube clips to fill the void, I’ve slowly introduced another form of questionable pop culture into my life: country music.

I whole-heartedly resisted country music in the years I actually lived in the country. I remember going to college and hanging out with girls who had lived in places like Los Angeles, and being SHOCKED they had fully embraced Martina McBride or whomever. To me, country music was the Siren that kept young women chained to Central Pennsylvania. Country music would knock you up by the time you were twenty. Country music would provide you with a toothless husband, who would occasionally let you out of the kitchen only long enough to go to Wal-Mart in his truck, and he would never let you drive, and his gun rack would jostle against the back of your head all along Rt. 15.

Do other regions have similar fears? Did my Angeleno girlfriends plug their ears when “Pour Some Sugar On Me” came on the radio, fearful that within minutes they’d be hooked up to Bret Michaels’ boner machine somewhere on Sunset Blvd.?

Of course not! Even if you are a stripper in L.A., even if you end up being a HAIR METAL GROUPIE- if that’s not 100% “glamorous,” that’s at least interesting. You still get to wear all kinds of body glitter and AquaNet and occasionally get your booty grabbed by some celebrity whose popularity peaked in 1986. You could even become the next spouse of Charlie Sheen! I’d much rather risk all kinds of encounters with Hep C than be stuck gently smoothing deer and Confederate flag decals onto the back window of my husband’s Chevy. “Does this sticker of Calvin peeing on Jeff Gordon’s NASCAR number block your rear view? What about the view of your sawed off shotgun?”

I knew that not all country music fans were hicks. My Grandma Shirley liked “country before country was cool.” (Which used to prompt my eleven-year old self to groan, “Grandma, country isn’t cool.” Couldn’t I have stayed quiet? I was talking to the woman who let me play Weezer’s Blue Album in her car.) My Aunt Shell likes country, but she is also an enthusiast of “The Inferno,” so she’s another story altogether. Nick even introduced me to lots of great Alt. Country when we first met, addling me with the (completely unreasonable) fear that the twanging music meant he might be a secret Republican.

(Strangely enough, Nick has proved to be a secret Republican more than a few times throughout this election. But that’s another blog post.)

Last night, my sister had to fill out some kind of survey for her do-gooder fraternity. In the survey, she was asked who her hero was in the 90’s. Later that night, she told me that she had chosen ME. My initial reaction was to ensure I had carried that honor into this century. Her reply was a little dubious, but I took her laughter as a confirmation.

How did having me as a hero affect Erin’s life? Well, she did everything the exact opposite of me. She went to school in the South, in a program that involved having a heart of gold and wanting to help the less fortunate, and she lived with a bunch of girls who did things like enjoy each other’s company.

And she started listening to country music.

Erin likes country music to the point she has been to a few concerts. Thankfully, the music hasn’t gotten her impregnated or housebound (yet) so I have agreed to listen to a few select songs in her car. A few Christmases ago, she played a song by Racal Flatts for me in the West Coast Video parking lot. I, of course, put up a struggle.

“No, really! It’s good! Listen!”

The song started innocently enough, until I realized it was about a teenage girl with CANCER. Erin, who is fully aware of my ability to cry at ANYTHING, sat quietly until she knew I was going to lose it. Then she handed me a tissue.

If you want to torture yourself, the song is called “Skin.” And yes, it involved... a prom scene.

When Erin told me she had another “really sad” country song (this time- a VIDEO) for me this holiday season, I REALLY put up a fight. I didn’t want to listen to a bunch of guys with frosted hair singing about child death EVER AGAIN. Erin looked her 90’s hero in the face and told me to shut the hell up.

And thus, I watched it:

Weeks later, I found myself buying the whole album on iTunes. Singing the song in the shower, doing all kinds of vocal gymnastics and pumping my fists. Nick and I aren't even having any relationship issues! I don't even have some sort of crazy relationship drama as an excuse. I just geuinely like "Stay." I thought this was just an once-in-a-lifetime affliction until I found myself purchasing Carrie Underwood's single "All American Girl" on iTunes. And then I made a little "playlist" that consisted of "Stay," "All American Girl," and Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" (Personal)... and I would listen to it on the subway and cry.

I admitted my new "soundtrack to sob to" to Mary and Frank on Wednesday.

"Oh, Alison," Mary said. "I think you've finally shared too much."

I realize that this is probably the lowest point of my taste in music, if not the lowest point of my life. If you want to really crawl into that sick area that is my headspace, download those three songs and try to listen to them in the above sequence. "All American Girl" isn't even a sad song! It's a wonderful little ditty about... getting knocked up.

If a pick-up truck comes after me tonight, I asked for it.

What Have I Been Doing?

2008-01-29T12:21:00.001-05:00

I've been in "Graceland."

Updates to follow.

So Fab!

2008-01-06T17:43:00.000-05:00

The night before we moved to Brooklyn, I was doing some last minute cleaning of the furniture that was going on our journey across the river. I was using a highly potent chemical called Sterifab, which is a disinfectant that kills lice, bed bugs, fleas, ticks, dust mites, bacteria, fungus, mold and mildew. Whew! (And it deodorizes!) According to my father, who at least pretends to have vast encyclopedic knowledge, it is used frequently in estate sales and other situations where there is a chance you might be dragging home someone else’s vermin. Basically, this shit is not Windex. It is a cold-blooded killer in a white spray bottle.

I was energetically spraying my 1940’s kitchen table, making a point to get in every crack and crevice, when I started to get a hand cramp. Packing and cleaning is not in my nature as I have a strange medical condition that has warped the tiny bones in my hands, leaving me paralyzed with pain anytime I’m not using my fingers to click through websites about realistic looking dolls and the people that are obsessed with them. (Have you checked out any websites about fans of Reborns or RealDolls?!)

In other words, I’m lazy as hell.

When I returned to my spray bottle, I didn’t notice that the nozzle had been knocked sideways. I crouched down and took aim at a particularly cozy looking corner and sprayed with my usual vim and vigor. The poison (please see above the above list of victims), due to the misaligned nozzle, sprayed at a freakish angle…

and shot directly up into my right nostril.

It wasn’t like one or two drops got up there. There was a STREAM of Sterifab that soared into my nose, aiming for my brain where I hold information like how many raccoons the Beales had in Grey Gardens and some third grade Math that I haven’t forgotten yet.

Almost immediately, I started feeling a little out of it, but I had the wherewithal to call Poison Control. Up until that magic moment, I had never called Poison Control. I had gotten all the stickers from my elementary school- the glow in the dark skulls or whatever to distribute liberally in Uncle Hillbilly’s crystal meth lab- but I had never placed The Call. (You might be wondering what Nick was doing at this point. I’m pretty sure the answer is “methodically packing” but I do remember some concerned puppy dog looks and arm stroking. If I died, his new Brooklyn rent was going to be a bitch!) I was assured that even though my Dad had deemed it the most potent chemical of all only weeks before, I was most likely to survive.

I was too busy putting my whole life in an UHaul to really think about what had transpired: I had shot a pesticide up into my nasal cavity. And I had lived, without any repercussions, unless the damages just joined the ranks of my other irritating personality quirks.

Have you ever seen the “Final Destination” movies? If you haven’t had the pleasure, the basic premise is that these ridiculously attractive teenagers narrowly escape Death (a plane crash, etc.)… but Death hates being stood up! They then die one by one because hey, your time was up MONTHS AGO.

Yesterday, Nick and I decided to finish up the last of our painting projects in the new digs. I was painting the radiator in the office/guest room (yes, we’re that fancy now). Even though it is early January, I wasn’t too concerned about the whole heat issue because my landlord likes keeping the building Zamboni friendly. I was diligently painting the radiator when all of a sudden the heat snapped on to about a billion degrees and I was whacked in the face with fumes that resembled cartoon depictions of a heat wave. Yes, I actually SAW fumes.

I wasn’t too concerned about my body at first because I have tangoed with things like Nerds Rope (what is that even made of?!) and SteriFab in my past. Then, hours later, as the roof of my mouth tasted like Behr High Gloss, I started worrying that all household chemicals are going to come after me until I reach my Final Destination.

Although I was acting a little strangely last night (Schultz can attest to some unsavory cab banter after Taline’s birthday party last night), I did live through the night.

I was a little hesitant Pledging my furniture this afternoon, though.

Thankfully, I'm not as dreamy as Devon Sawa, which definitely puts me into some kind of safety zone. I hope.

514 Words You Didn't Want To Read About My Booty

2008-01-05T19:05:00.000-05:00

I am pleased (?) to announce that I ordered Butt Uplift jeans from Victoria’s Secret this week. I know that there are some people in this world who actually have “beauty secrets” or little tricks, locked cabinets brimming with jars of face cream that contain ingredients like infant foreskin.

(And yes, that horror exists.)

I have no such secrets, if having a mildly amusing but unarguably self-centered blog has not already illuminated an arrow in that direction. If I had some weird peen cream in my possession, I would keep it prominently displayed on my coffee table.

In late 2006, I bought “chicken cutlets.” As a longtime vegetarian that can only mean one thing: fake boob inserts. I decided to debut them at my birthday party, pushed up in a “sophisticated” black lace gown purchased for about $11 at Forever 21. No one wondered about my recent development, as by the end of the night I had slapped Danny Gordon in the face with my chicken cutlets… about fourteen times. One false move and my victims would be on the receiving end of a one-two punch: the sight of my hand jetting to the inside of my bra, my face twisting conspiratorially, and then the sting of sickeningly warm silicone slapping their left cheek.

There’s a lot to be said about that kind of behavior. I think my sister said the majority of it while she was visiting last weekend- lots of Psychology Major terms, and quite sadly, some Special Education Major jargon as well. (Cursed be those who have dually enrolled siblings!) Recounting my chicken cutlet weaponry in a public forum might even be embarrassing if discovered by my place of employment, but I doubt they’d be surprised:

I have alerted the office to the Butt Uplift jean countdown. Everyone is on the lookout for the package.

I’m sure Erin could delve into a textbook or two about my “over sharing,” but I’ll do everyone a favor and admit:

I am scared.

I’m afraid that the heft of my butt will be so uplifted I’ll look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. My ass is my second most commented on part of my body, the first being my freakishly pale skin. The few (permanently scarred) individuals who have seen those attributes simultaneously are stumbling around with a cane at the moment. In fact, the most recent quip on my body was, “You have a pretty big booty for a white girl.” I was ensured it was a compliment.

What exactly has me quaking in my Russian boots? I saw the Butt Uplift jeans on someone who has a notoriously flat ass and thought I had taken the 6 and gotten a rear view of Jenny from the Block.

Seriously, guys!

I’m reaching out to the world and admitting that I am buying Butt Uplift jeans because other than being an attention crazed sausage wallet (and yes, that word will be used ad nauseum in 2008- it was my resolution)… I’m just a frightened little girl frightened about what might happen back there.

We Are Family (Straight from Kellogg's Playlist)

2008-01-01T18:46:00.000-05:00

Schultz made a great New Year's post on her blog (click here) that perfectly describes my current post-holiday energy suck. I AM MISERABLE.

Speaking of Schultz, here is a photo from last night (New Year's Eve) featuring: my sister Erin, my rhinestone studded "parrot" lashes, and a Schultz-like creature feeling a little giggly.

New Years is an opportune time to reflect on one’s choices, and I can’t help but wondering if I made the right decision by moving away from home. Even though the whole job situation would be bleak (working as an entertainer in rural PA = stripper), I have this (secret, shameful and awkward) fantasy where I am on permanent Christmas vacation in Lewisburg. My new life would include: maintaining the Power Lounge position, cable television, and grazing on culinary delights until it is a physical impossibility to remove my newly expanded frame from the couch. P.S.- in this fantasy, my whole family also takes part in the perpetual vacay. We’d just eat and eat and eat and eat until all of our fat melted into each other’s bodies, eventually becoming one giant, blobby mass of togetherness crying at “Intervention.”

YES!

Unfortunately, none of us are that lazy or insane. (Boo!) I’m not even sure if my sister Erin could handle all that closeness, as she about ripped her eyes out of her head when my robe wasn’t properly tied this weekend. And I’m not sure what being in a fatty Rat King with my family would do to my relationship with Nick. And he's pretty nice.

So I guess I made the right decision after all.

(And yes, Family, saying that I want my fat to be intertwined with your fat is my way of saying I miss you. They just don’t make greeting cards that express that kind of raw emotion!)

I had a great time with Erin in New York this weekend. We look more and more alike as we get older, and it really helps our shtick. At one point, one of our fellow partygoers suggested that we were troublemakers. “You’re like Thelma and Louise! But sisters!”

I have this other secret, shameful, and awkward fantasy where Erin and I don't have to work and we actually live together again and just sass it up 24/7. And maybe someone films it for a reality show so we can at least get free swag at parties or something.

(I think this is the most intellectual blog I've ever written.)

I know that I’m jumping into a potential cheese fest here, but Erin’s not just my sister- she’s my best friend. I know that there are a ton of bitches all around the universe making that claim, but would any of them look at you lovingly in the face and notify you that you were starting to look like RuPaul? THAT'S ERIN. THAT’S SISTERHOOD. THAT’S FRIENDSHIP.

Photo taken by the man who was the most entertained/scared by us at Party #1.

I love you, my little Sausage Wallet.

He Called You A What?!

2007-12-31T21:23:00.000-05:00

Last night, I was back in good old Gay Chelsea for the evening.

On the way back to the subway, a man called me a "sausage wallet."

That is all.

See You In 2008!

2007-12-28T18:37:00.000-05:00

I know.

There haven’t been many updates lately to this once-glorious vehicle for discussion about my eyebrows. My apartment’s Internet (and cable! GOD HELP US) mysteriously stopped working shortly before I threw a bunch of make-up in a bag and headed to Pennsylvania for the holidays. Although I have Internet and cable in the L-B-G (albeit a minimal amount of channels… how are the hicks going to evolve without the Style Network?!), I have been working as my sister’s personal assistant since I have arrived home. My holidays have consisted of:

doing Erin’s hair

doing Erin’s make-up

advising Erin on wardrobe choices

begging Erin to indicate which pair of Butt Uplift jeans she has from Victoria’s Secret so I can buy a pair (AMAZING)… apparently, Victoria still maintains confidential information BECAUSE SHE WON’T TELL ME. (“Alison! Listen! Let me have something for myself for once!” –EJB)

Somewhere in there, I turned 24. I was very happy to see another birthday, as last weekend, I narrowly escaped death during a bar fight in our townie bar. (Sadly, I was not a participant.) Moments before the brute in question was pounding another anonymous hillbilly in the face, he upturned a table and sent a bunch of wooden chairs flying… into my legs. (My sister and I were sitting at the adjacent table.) I had sensed trouble earlier when he had stared down April’s boyfriend’s unnaturally hued head and suggested, “Go back to Harrisburg,” our postage-sized capital to the South. If anyone has visited the Big City of Harrisburg, you understand why this threat was especially hilarious. When I was in Harrisburg earlier this week, picking Nick up from the train station, my most “city” experience while there was suffering through the sight of Dress Barn clientele while in search of $12 ballet flats. It’s a real wild place!

(I blame Janine for the near-death experience as I was at the townie bar to watch her sing with that Weasley guy.)

Tomorrow, I’m headed back to Brooklyn with the little sister in tow for New Year’s Eve celebrations. We’re hoping that our cable/Internet situation is remedied quickly, as I am not sure if Erin and I have anything to talk about without a “Paranormal State” marathon playing in the background.

Dear Schultz, Whether You Are Alive Or Dead,

2007-12-06T23:54:00.000-05:00

Don’t tell your friend that you are going to start Internet dating (on one of your Schultzed out whims) and then disappear for almost five days.

(Although I did hear a rumor that you were at my improv show on Sunday.)

I always thought the last exchange in our friendship would go something like this:

“Alison, you have to do it! We're TRAVELING, okay? Live in the moment!”

Or maybe this:

“Get out of my trailer! Go back to your trailer! And tell your good-for-nothing grandson to stop pissing in my rosebush!”

Instead, I got this:

“I’ll call you after the sample sale. Please let me know if you want to go to the Roller Derby party tonight.”

What?! (Or as you would say- “Whhhhhhhat?!”)

Listen. If you’re not dead, you must be:

1. An amnesiac.

2. Mad at me. (Which is fine, because we’ve never had a good screaming match, and I think we'd be mutually impressed.)

3. A bitch who doesn’t answer her phone. Or her Blackberry. Or her Gmail. And I know that makes me sound like a creepy stalker, but YOU TOLD ME YOU MIGHT START INTERNET DATING AND THEN YOU DISAPPEARED.

DON’T DO THAT.

Your friend,

Alison

P.S. I'm busy with work too. Just call me the next time you have to pee. I called my Mom while on the porcelain for three years of college and she just told me the other day SHE MISSES IT.

I'm over yonder!

Would You Hold My Hand... If I Saw You in Heaven

2007-11-17T01:03:00.000-05:00

Last week, my Aunt Shell visited me with a few of her friends. Before she even stepped off the train, we had to wrestle the disappointment of our SNL taping plans being scrapped (WGA Strike) and the uncertainty of our Plan B due to the Stagehands Strike on Broadway. While Aunt Shell hurtled toward New York City in a train from Harrisburg, I considered raising a stage in my living room. Having yet to purchase a couch, I felt I could successfully put on a revival of my 1986 production of “Amusing Niece” in the space. I started printing out programs, highlighting my old hits, such as:

Dancing to Chaka Kahn
Fervent NKOTB Passion
Messing Up Aunt Shell’s Carefully Organized Cassette Tapes

I put some choreography in my back pocket, but I realized that most of Aunt Shell’s friends probably would not be impressed with my routines. I had to give them the New York Experience- after all; they had traveled far from their homes in Hershey, PA and might even have trouble breathing without their chocolate scented air.

A homeless guy beat me to the punch.

When Aunt Shell & Co. got off the train, Crazy Guy approached Steph.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Steph, being a reasonable person, said no. Crazy Guy furrowed his brow.

“When I meet you in heaven, and someday we will, they’re going to shit on you!”

I may be paraphrasing, but five seconds off the train, a New Yorker was threatening to shit on my Aunt and her friends… in heaven. Not just the usual 10th Avenue shit-fling, but under the watchful eye of St. Peter, on a bed of clouds. While Steph was flattered that Crazy Guy thought she was destined to Heaven, rather than Hell (I can’t imagine what they do to you there), she probably could have done without his greeting. “Welcome to New York” would have sufficed.

When I heard the story, I was pleased.

Not only did my Aunt and her friends get to have a New York Experience (I considered making a comment about homeless people never going on strike, but that is in Bad Taste), my Aunt and I have a new threat to whisper to each other at Christmas:

“I’m going to shit on you in heaven.”

It is probably the most indecent thing I have ever heard. I love this town... and I hope Aunt Shell and her friends come back soon.

My Lip Gloss Is Poppin'

2007-11-15T22:43:00.000-05:00

I couldn’t locate my concealer after the move and rather than covering up my under eye circles with the perfect shade of Wite-Out (yes, that is how the corrective fluid is spelled), I went to Sephora. I am a huge fan of Benefit Cosmetics’ “Play Sticks”- a foundation and concealer in one! It is ludicrously expensive ($32) but if I ever decided to develop a Meth habit, “Play Sticks” could keep my addiction a deep and dirty secret for months.

IT IS A LIFE SAVER.

IT. IS. LIKE. PHOTOSHOP. FOR. YOUR. MUG. BUT. ON. SKIN.

Gorbachev could even use it to work a little magic on his head, which would make his Louis Vuitton ads even more appealing- and/or make sense.

“Play Sticks” also lasts forever. I honestly had to LOSE my concealer (in an emotionally charged move) to buy a new one. I would have probably had it for years and years, until I developed some kind of face eating infection, resulting in a very compelling article in Cosmopolitan about the shelf life of make-up… and the fragility and shelf life of human existence.

I am a card carrying “Beauty Insider,” which means nothing at all except Sephora gives me little samples at the check out counter when I impoverish myself in the name of vanity. The free samples usually feature a boring hair product, so I was nearly gleeful to be presented with a lip gloss. As one of my colleagues so eloquently put it this week, "Who the hell doesn't like lip gloss?!"

I pocketed my Too Faced “Lip Injection Extreme” and hightailed it back to the office to glam it up.

The directions said a burning sensation was normal.

Five minutes later, my lips were juicy... and my co-workers were screaming.

In typical fashion, I had gotten the “Lip Injection Extreme” on my hands, and in turn, all over my face. My face plumped in patches all over my cheeks. I started blistering on my chin.

I forced Liz, my partner in crime at work, to take a photo of the horrors.

My face grew increasingly red and blotchy until the whole office unanimously voted that after my Freakfaced Fall (bad anti-wrinkle cream incident, “spider” bites, death by lip plumping), I am not to put anything foreign on my face ever again. Or, I will at least keep it contained to the privacy of my own home, where they will not be forced to fetch me cortisone, supress giggles, or call 911.

There are two schools of thought about this incident:

1. That is what you get for spending $32 on concealer, bitch!
2. Bitch, this is precisely why you spend $32 on concealer.

Updates To Follow!

2007-11-06T23:19:00.000-05:00

A lot has happened in the last few weeks.

We moved. I am now a Brooklynite.

I haven't even located all my underwear yet (yes, I know I moved over a week ago) but I really want to get cracking on this blog. It's been a wild ride, and someone has to read about how Sephora almost ended my short life... so check back soon!

(For those of you who think I was brawling in a trailer park, Sephora is not the name of an airport cocktail waitress, it is the name of a cosmetics store that is HUGE and AMAZING... and, as I have learned this week, EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.)

In the meantime, let's all work on doing this:

Never Shut Your Pie Hole, Love

2007-10-15T01:05:00.000-04:00

I love my friends.

Recently, Schultz and I made a list of all the ridiculous people we know, and the list nearly encompassed my whole social circle. I have a great blend of old and new friends in New York City, and nothing warms my heart like seeing a friend made in NYC eating Doritos out of a bag held by a friend I made in kindergarten. (By the way, I wish all my cheesy joys in life involved Doritos… yes, I am still pursuing a comedy writing career.) Moving here has been a great social experiment. I know that there are some people who have to compartmentalize their friends into their group of origin: hometown, college, the dungeon-like temp job that traumatized everyone to the point of bonding. I can’t do that. I still get excited by the fact I have been lucky enough to find these people, and I have to share my good finds. Mary Traina is like that $10 pink Jackie O. coat I found in Mifflinburg last summer. I just have to rub it in everyone’s faces that I FOUND HER FIRST- but they can borrow her for nights on the town, if they promise to return her stain-free.

Caity is one of my closest friends from college. She was one of my London roommates and she taught me the glory of Sex Hair. She’s also brilliant comedienne, and the only person I have met who used a 12 hr. airport stay to make friends with every clerk that dwelled behind a sunglasses kiosk. I could go on and on about why I love her, but I'll just show you a solitary photograph that could explain it all.

Recently, Caity and her lovely boyfriend, Allen, got into a little bit of a spat.

She then commissioned this fine piece of pastry for him, which I had a chance to taste tonight:

How much do you love this girl?

The Outfit OR My Personal Traumatic Experience

2007-10-13T18:52:00.001-04:00

For a man who usually dresses so well, this outfit almost ended it all:

Canadian tuxedo (jeans and a jean jacket)
Flyers Jersey (Why???)
Lumberjack By Way of Chelsea Scarf

In the five years I have known Nick, this outfit is 1) out of character and 2) quite possibly the biggest betrayal of our relationship.

That is all.

Another Typical Story OR I Am Whack

2007-10-13T17:12:00.000-04:00

It’s been a crazy few months. I’ve been all over the place mentally, leading to an unfortunate incident earlier in the week that resulted in a phone call from Alfonso, my personal fan boy/eternally winking deli worker.

Most days, I bring my laptop to work, and use the free wireless at a local deli over lunch to work on some projects. Since I’m in there so often, I have developed a relationship with the guys behind the counter. This relationship includes being on the receiving end of deli squad sexy talk and getting discounted olive and hummus sandwiches in turn.

Once they realized that unlike most costumers, I stick around to eat, they started offering me a tray for my food. At first, I resisted the trays whole-heartedly. Trays make me nervous. I always think I am going to throw non-trash away. Give me a tray and I go on autopilot. If I would have had a retainer in 7th grade, I would have been that girl- knee-deep in cafeteria rigatoni, crying, “My mom is going to kill me!”

Plus, trays crowd the laptop. However, for whatever reason, I accepted a tray this week.

Readers who know me or have ever read a book that involves “foreshadowing” have an idea where this story is going. In short, I threw my wallet away. I know. Who does that? I wish I were a functional human being. It’s a lifelong goal to be able to look in the mirror and think, “Wow. I’m kind of a person!” Scarily enough, when I looked for my wallet for a mid-afternoon snack, I had enough self-awareness to piece together that tray + mentally disturbed person + writing project = almost comical irresponsibility.

My wallet, available at the QuietDoing Etsy shop.

Of course, my realization occurred during a torrential rain pour, so I arrived back at the deli both panicked and porny wet. I was greeted with a lot of smiles.

“Did any wallets get turned in?”

“No, pretty lady.”

“Gee, I hope I didn’t throw it away!”

“We would never throw a wallet away.”

“No, I hope I didn’t throw it away.”

The deli squad looked like I might be crazy, this American girl with her laptop and click-click-clack typing every day… who throws a wallet away?

I sighed. “Well, if anything comes in…” I scratched my work number on a napkin, and then as every alarm bell in my head said “DON’T DO IT,” I added my cell phone number as well.

Somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, my parents are wondering where they went wrong.

Within minutes, I had gotten a phone call from Alfonso. I was sure he was going to ask me out on a date, but he had gone through six bags of trash and found my wallet, “just for me.” In other words, he was asking me out on a date. When I returned to the deli, he gave an overly dramatic rendition of his trash digging abilities, making it a point to mention that he had done it alone due to the deli squad’s refusal to dumpster dive, and handed me the wallet with such bravado and expectation that I was panged with guilt. I would never make out with him, I would never be his deli wife, and due to the fact that I was now branded as “the muchacha who threw her wallet away,” the chances of me keeping the deli in my daily routine… slim.

Thank you, Bagel Boyfriend, all the same.

Family Ties (But Someone Has To Win)

2007-09-29T00:19:00.000-04:00

My sister, Erin, is taking this psychology/counseling class that seems to resemble group therapy in a lecture hall. The professor delves into everybody’s personal life, which reminds me why I might have like to be a counselor: charging someone an unbelievable amount of money to listen to gossip. I know that at least one person is currently shaking his or her head about my unprofessional motives with my fake career, thinking that I don’t understand the beauty of helping people, blahblahblah… and that’s why I went to drama school. Although, sadly, drama school is paying an unbelievable amount of money just to gossip publicly, and occasionally bring the memories of a 4th grade spanking into a scene that involves snot and crying. And I know that at least one person is currently shaking his or her head about my attitude towards my fledgling career, thinking that I don’t understand the beauty of changing people with theatre, blahblahblah… and that’s why I cry into my (vinyl covered) pillow every night. I’m so misunderstood!

(By the way, I was never spanked. Or else I have totally blocked it out. I’ll ask Erin to retrieve it.)

Erin has this invasive course on Mondays, and every Monday I get a phone call about this class. The professor doesn’t believe in grades. The professor gets way too personal with her comments in a public venue.

The professor created an exercise that involves pitting yourself against your siblings in a RANKING SYSTEM!!!

I love this woman.

In class on Monday, she required the students to “rank” their siblings in order of how much they possess certain qualities, such as “Most Responsible” and “Most Superficial.” Erin, as always, included our stepbrother Steven in the competition. (His Mom is married to our Dad.) Even though he is not blessed with our DNA, he still managed to be a freakishly attractive person and thus we claim him in every “sibling count” that is thrown our way. He raises our stock!

What a horrible picture of me!

I love having Steven as my “brother.” I only use the quotes because there is a particular person in my life who will resort to almost PUBLICLY DENYING Steven’s relation to me.

This person would be my very own father.

When Steven started high school, he switched from the Catholic school of his youth to the high school that Erin and I attended. As Steven has a different last name, none of the students or teachers have made the connection that he is my brother without his assistance. During parent/teacher conferences, I thought that Dad would take that opportunity to mention Erin and I and perhaps brag about our multitude of recent achievements. You know, stir up pride in the hearts of those who helped us along the way!

At the very least, I thought he would clear up Steven’s secret identity: SIBLING OF ALISON AND ERIN.

When I asked my father if he ever mentions me to my old teachers, teachers who have undoubtedly kept my homework over the years as examples of SCHOLASTIC EXCELLENCE, he said no. He told me he makes it a POINT to keep it a secret that I am related to Steven.

A secret! My father keeps me a secret! My father is one step away from building Erin and I a hidden room in the attic! It’s going to be like that book/movie “Flowers in the Attic,” where all the children are hidden from their rich, new stepfather in a secret passage and their mother decides to stop bringing them food! And then they are forced to sexually experiment with each other! (I never understood that development.) And then in all the sequels they have all these incesty babies that keep falling in love with their cousins and other blood relatives! … DAD, what are you trying to do here?

I knew that there must be an explanation for my new attic status. Could it be about setting fair expectations for Steven? If he were expected to share Erin and I’s extracurricular interests in high school, he’d be singing show tunes while editing the yearbook while getting dressed up to go to the video store while spoon feeding the less fortunate. That would be exhausting! Plus, he would have incredible pressure on him to live up to his sisters’ glories!

Then I had a sobering thought: what if my Dad wasn’t trying to hide both of us? What if he was just trying to save Steven from MY reputation? What if he wanted to mention Erin, and her amusing psychology degree anecdotes, but knew that the teachers would have to reflect on four years of my nonsense? Nonsense that included: inappropriate joking, loud friends, strange outfits, taking a bathroom break to stealthily drop a class due to my 4th grade Math abilities, a car thieving incident or two…

Or maybe he just talks about Steven in parent/teacher conferences because that is how that time is usually applied. Plus, who is he kidding? He’s lived in the area for the majority of the last fifty years. When he walks into a room, undoubtedly someone is going to be thinking, “Is that Alison and Erin’s Dad? Wait! That man has too athletic looking calves! Alison and Erin are weak! That must be someone else.”

And that person would be my Dad passing a mirror. (wahhh wahhh wahhhh)

Obviously, considering this tangent, I ranked extremely low on the “Least Likely To Be Self-Obessed” sibling RANK. I made my sister read her psychology class exercise like the Oscar nominations. My sister ranked me as being the least “materialistic” out of the three of us, but also as being one of the least “charming,” which made me a little sad. Obviously, Erin has not lived with me in a long time. Seeing her only a few times scattered throughout the year has completely ruined our relationship, and she doesn’t know me anymore! I am a thousand more times charming than that redheaded sliz! I’d invite her to move in with us just to prove it but we don’t have a couch anymore.

Luckily, we will both be home in Pennsylvania next weekend, and I am going to teach her all about me. I'll let Steven sit in on the lecture because he is obviously not learning about my legacy in school. I am going to present them with the retooled sibling RANK. Then, I am going to follow Erin around the house so she gets to know me really well, because you never know when Dad is going to finish that new wing of the attic.

At least this picture is horrible of both of us ladiezzz.

I Am Not A... Drunk

2007-09-27T00:59:00.000-04:00

Last spring, I got two free tickets to the Broadway show “Frost/Nixon” through my Alma matter. Nick was out of town for the weekend, and so I invited my friend Laura to accompany me to the play. I hate to suggest that Laura wouldn’t have secured an invitation if Nick had been in New York- but let’s face it; the man loves Richard Milhous Nixon.

Laura and I decided to get Mexican food before the show, and being human beings, we decided to wash down our beans and cheese with a little Margarita Action. We had one seemingly reasonable margarita each. The glasses were small. It was a perfectly Rated G meal in a family friendly establishment until we stood up and realized we both had lost control of our legs.

I have never lost it so quickly over a solitary margarita. Even though I didn’t start drinking until well into my freshman year of college, and I am a famous lightweight, I can usually throw back a fruity concoction or two and not worry if I am on the verge of developing an incontinence problem. I was walking down the street in slow motion, but instead of shampoo commercial orchestration, there was a voice in my head that said, “What the hell kind of hussy gets wasted before seeing Briton-produced historical drama?!” Somehow we made it to the theater, where I was devastated to find out that we had seats in the very last row of the balcony.

I knew I was going to fall asleep.

Here’s where I get self-righteous (vom!):

For most of my adult life, I have seen at least one or two plays a month. During both my New York and London semesters, I went to a Broadway or West End show once a week. I have seen plays having had two hours of sleep in three days and I have never dozed during a single performance. This situation can actually be frustrating, as I have seen some horrible, horrible pieces of shit in my day. MINDBLOWINGLY BAD! “Brighton Rock: The Musical!” Graham Greene inspired musical theatre? I would have taken Ambien for that one. I would have risked all the sleep driving and sleep eating and God knows what else for that spectacular!

I do not remember five minutes of “Frost/Nixon.”

I was especially embarrassed because on top of the fact it was supposed to be an amazing play, I do not usually get drunk (on one drink) and take spontaneous naps in very public places. Worse yet, I was surrounded by two rows of Syracuse alumni, who had full views of not only my bobbing head, but also my straight-from-work clothes and straight-from-work hair. Much to my mother’s chagrin, as she thinks I could get discovered as an actress behind the H.R. desk, I usually do not put too much effort into my 9-5 image. My philosophy is: if you can’t wear the bird belt, why even put on mascara?!

Luckily, I was seated near the very beautiful and understanding Rebecca (a fellow S.U. alum), who listened to my margarita woes and pretended not to be appalled by my drunken, pale, somewhat chubby SLEEPING visage.

Last night, I reunited with Laura, my “Frost/Nixon” date. She has returned to New York after a summer of working out of the area, and we decided to catch up at MaryAnn’s, my corner Mexican restaurant. We laughed about our past with margaritas, but then ordered them anyway, because THEY ARE HEAVEN’S NECTAR. I was in the middle of shouting “This margarita is so strong!”- glass in hand- when I turned around and saw a familiar face:

Rebecca, my “Frost/Nixon” neighbor.

Of course, I hadn’t seen her since that night- you know, the SLOBBERING IN $100 SEATS ONE.

(May I remind you, fair readers, that this is Manhattan- land of a million taco joints!)

I assured Rebecca that I am not a margarita lush (I barely drink!) but I doubt that she believed me. She obviously thinks that now that I have befriended Laura, I have become fast and loose.

Even if that is true, I am ashamed. My reputation has been tarnished, like Nixon, and no one is going to remember my foreign policy or snazzy polyester ties. Everyone will only be able to remember a girl backing out of a Mexican restaurant, stumbling, completely oblivious to the salsa on her chin.

(I know salsa chin has little to do with Nixon but if you want to talk politics, go to the Lichtenblog. I'm tired!)

VMA Tears

2007-09-09T23:28:00.000-04:00

When I was in high school, I’d watch MTV’s Video Music awards and wish I looked like Britney Spears, because she had all these abs! and glittery bodysuits! and snakes! and lots of slutacious experience with Justin Timberlake… and Madonna!

Now the V.M.A.s look like a badly produced high school talent show, and I came away from Britney’s opening number feeling really great about my body, my lack of bad weave, the fact that my name isn’t constantly linked to “Cheetoh dust” on any gossip website, my never-photographed lady bits, my always vacant baby bucket, and the fact that if I ever decided to dress like a stripper and dance/lip synch for millions of people, I’d probably do it with a little energy and skip the pre-show crack pipe session/Criss Angel sex/messy divorce/baby tooth whitening. And I’d most likely remember to move my mouth, and not in a gaping, “How did I get on this stage, y’all?” way.

(For video of the performance, go to dlisted.com)

Tonight, I am learning a lesson that I should have learned in high school: self-esteem, even when faced with beautiful, blonde multi-millionaires, is possible. When all else fails, you can feel good about yourself by thinking incredibly NASTY thoughts about the terribly misguided. Right?

… Right?

No.

I always wonder why I never blog about pop culture. At one point in my life, my will to live corresponded with the number of hours I had watched E! on any given day. Lately, I haven’t even had the heart to shell out a $1.99 for a “Life & Style.” I don’t want to read tabloid magazines and feel SAD.

Britney! Lindsay Lohan! I don’t want to feel maternal when I read “US Weekly!” (I don’t want to feel maternal, ever.) I want them to evoke feelings of jealousy! I need to look at pictures of stars and feel insecure about my body, just to get in the gym once a week, and maybe even slap some Frizz Ease on my head! That is the function of celebrities- a catalyst for self-improvement!

Beyond my own selfish reasons, these celebrities are PEOPLE. Their suffering is disturbing, and there are kids involved. And no matter how many times Britney forgets to wear pants, I will continue to stay firm that she is a human being who deserves a chance.

Even though she FORGETS TO WEAR PANTS.

(Link NSFW.)

I need to go take a shower and wash off this vulture slime.

I’m abstaining from gossip websites for a while.

Britney, I've had a bad week too.

Mythic Frogs, Rob, and Pink Tile

2007-09-03T19:10:00.000-04:00

Earlier this weekend, I was trying to make plans with Rob. Getting on Rob’s social calendar can be tricky, as his freakishly long stride (clad in Swedish denim) is usually gliding towards a hipster enclave that is totally off my radar. If Rob had lived in Manhattan during Prohibition, he would have known all the locations (and sassy passwords) for the speakeasies. He would have been high-fiving Faulkner at Chumley’s, while I sat at home in a mis-buttoned Grandma sweater, drawing pictures of Herbert Hoover naked.

I told Rob that Nick and I were going to check out the “Mythic Creatures” exhibition at the Natural History museum. He commented on the Dork Factor of such a trip, but agreed to join. I didn’t even have to whip out the arsenal that we were also planning on catching “Frogs: A Chorus of Colors” while there. Two-hundred species of LIVE FROGS! How could one resist?!

After various traveling and ticketing issues, we arrived at the museum. Surprisingly, the crowds were manageable for a holiday weekend. Rob’s allergies to children only flared up a few times, and the exhibits and air-conditioning led to a (somewhat) peaceful afternoon.

I only have a few suggestions for the Natural History Museum:

Suggestion Number One:

Nick and I have been talking about seeing “Frogs: A Chorus of Colors” for months.

(If this mutual delight about frog gazing has not cemented our nerdiness in your eyes, please refer to the last nine posts about our “Harry Potter” marathon.)

Having spent some time panting in African bullfrog-like anticipation for this exhibit, Nick and I naturally developed some expectations for the “Frogs” experience. I was looking forward to seeing frogs that lived in the rain forest. Nick, on the other hand, fully expected a “frog pit.”

In Nick’s imagination, the Natural History museum was keeping all two hundred species of frogs in one large plexiglass box, where they would “change colors and hop around.” He did not consider the varying home climates of the frogs, or the fact that a “frog pit” would undoubtedly lead to frog brawling and mostly likely, some frog-on-frog dining. When Nick came in and realized that the frog exhibit kept most of the species separated, he was a little disappointed.

Dear curators,

Please disregard that these frogs are endangered and live in delicate ecosystems. Nick wants a gladiator-like trench. Install that frog pit A.S.A.P.!

Thanks!
Alison Bennett

P.S. He would also like to see a “box of glowing frogs.” Make it happen.

Suggestion Number Two:

The majority of the Natural History Museum is not an exploration of ancient cultures and animals, but a time capsule of 1970s mural and font styles.

I love vintage design. My friends Caity and Allen just recently moved into an apartment in Astoria, Queens. The previous tenant had lived there for close to fifty years. Although the new owner of the building has refurbished the floors and done some remodeling (painting, etc.), the apartment maintains a lot of great old details. The mid-century cabinetry, pink and black tiled bathroom, and wood paneled breakfast nook made me unreasonably excited. I almost choked Caity to take over her identity, just to decorate the place, but then I remembered that would also entail making out with Allen and fighting him tooth and nail for a “1950’s beauty parlor” theme in the bathroom. I decided to leave those endeavors to the professional and spared Caity’s life.

Plus, I would look horrible as a blonde.

Caity and I at Jessie's wedding in June

Caity’s apartment is an example of how outdated items work. The Natural History Museum is an example of how vintage items can be used to make people not only uncomfortable, but EXTREMELY AFRAID. If I got trapped in the Natural History museum overnight, much like last year’s family holiday favorite, “A Night at the Museum,” I would hightail it over to the dinosaur section and impale my heart on a dinosaur bone within fifteen minutes. (Please notice I have refrained from making an Owen Wilson suicide joke.)

To make matters worse, curators in the 1970s abhorred properly lighting their exhibits.

“These light bulbs haven’t been changed since the 1970s.” – Rob Smith

Dear curators,

I love the Natural History Museum, and dream of a fantasy wedding reception under the whale.

However, the 1970’s vibe is creepy as hell. Taxidermy is frightening enough on its own, as is Teddy Roosevelt’s molest-ache.

You are only a few creepiness notches down from the extremely disturbing Winston Churchill Museum in London. I still have nightmares about being stuck in rooms with the spinning forty-year old dilapidated mannequins, not to mention the interactive “London Blitz” room. And that’s not even one of the free museums!

Your exhibits are starting to look like a Nine Inch Nails video!!!

Thanks,
Alison Bennett

P.S. Do not disregard my former frog box request.

Suggestion Number Three:

The “Mythic Creatures” exhibit featured all kinds of mythic creatures from around the world, highlighting the similarities in the creatures from East to West, and spotlighted a few lesser-known cultures as well.

And there was a bad-ass unicorn statue.

However, there seemed to be a theme in the exhibit:

HERE ARE SOME MERMAID FACTS… BUT THEY DON’T EXIST.

LOOK AT THIS GIANT EAGLE! WEREN’T PEOPLE CUTE TO BELIEVE IN IT? IT HAS NEVER EXISTED! HAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

NONE OF THESE THINGS ARE REAL! OR WERE REAL! DON’T BE SCARED!

Dear curators,

As a person who firmly believes in Big Foot (and has read “Harry Potter”), I feel that you have a moral responsibility to warn the museum-going public about the possibility that some of these mythic creatures do exist.

Telling young people that Giant Squid are fictional is akin to pumping a bunch of boaters full of alcohol and then sending them out into the seas without life jackets. IRRESPONSIBLE!

Thanks again,
Alison Bennett

P.S. FROG PIT!!!

P.P.S. Why is Rob so bad ass, like a unicorn statue or poison dart frog?!

You-Know-Who and You-Know-What

2007-08-27T22:10:00.000-04:00

Friday, my spider injuries got worse. By one o’clock in the afternoon, the swelling had spread from below my wrist to my elbow. I ended up taking the afternoon off to revisit the doctor, cashing in another half of a Personal Day on an eight-legged piece of shit. If I am going to take time off from work, I want it to involve a chocolate fountain and people saying things like, “I’ll buy that ludicrously expensive bauble for you! Don’t you worry your pretty head!” Instead, I was writhing around with an extremity on fire and wishing my co-worker’s crafty “ice pack bracelet” skills had followed me home.

I recovered in time for my Mom and Grandma to arrive in New York on Saturday, and they pretended not to be horrified to be sitting in the apartment that had served as the home for a rogue Spider Pack. (In all honesty, I only saw the now-dead spider, featured in the last video.) We had a really fun day, eating at great restaurants, walking around the city, and we had amazing seats at the Broadway musical “The Drowsy Chaperone.” Mom actually screamed with delight later that night when we IMDB’d the lead actor and realized that he had played Gilbert in the “Anne of Green Gables” mini-series. (Mom’s a fan of the books and movies.)

Here is a picture of my favorite character, Adolpho, played by Danny Burstein,
who won a well-deserved Tony in the role!

I didn’t tell Mom at the time, but “AofGG” (abbreviations are awesome, or a.a.a) has significantly impacted my adult life. In the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, when PBS was playing the series AROUND THE CLOCK, a little girl in Minnesota became mesmerized by it. This little girl would be… Erin Schultz. In between shoveling snow barefoot and learning how to communicate with birds by clicking her mouth, the little girl was so deeply impressed by the film, she later told her smoking hot then-roommate (yes, me) that “because of Anne of Green Gables, I decided I like my men a little mean.” Apparently, one of the men in the books/films has a moody edge, because I have spent the last three years of my life bemoaning Schultz’s dating choices. Not all of them, of course, but for those of my readers who have young daughters: AofGG movies + impressionable young Vikings = sketchy situations involving text messages. That’s all I’m saying!

Schultz and her Mom/Twin. I stole this from her blog like a THIEF.

After Mom, Grandma and I spent time reminiscing about the movie that would eventually lead to my best friend’s destruction, we dragged our local historian (Nicholas Lichtenberg) to his Motherland: the double decker tour buses that run out of the Times Square area. It was a risky move. None of us were feeling especially confident about our decision to become gaping tourists, but it was awesome. Mom and I physically bonded in a way that has not occurred since I was potty trained when I practically threw myself on her lap while traversing the Manhattan Bridge. I am not a fan of heights, especially not when I’m riding in a 15 ft. tall convertible weighed down by disturbed looking Southerners. Heights and hicks aside, I am now convincing everyone I know that riding around in Tour Buses is not dorky, but informational AND sexy. I’m already roping some friends of mine into the “Uptown Loop.”

I ended my weekend how I began it: in serious pain. I finished the Harry Potter series last night, and I am not ashamed to say that I cried. YES. I CRIED. It has been a little over two weeks since I picked up the “Sorcerer’s Stone,” and I have read all the books and seen all the movies released to date. EXHAUSTING. It was a total immersion and I am still having Harry Potter themed dreams. Sadly, none of them involve making out with any of the Weasleys, not even Percy or that hot slice, Mr. Weasley. (I love the gingers.) Part of me still wonders how I transformed from the asshole in Waldenbooks who shouted, “Harry Potters dies in an orgy with Hermione!” when I went with my sister to pick up her pre-ordered copy of “The Deathly Hollows.” (I would have thrown Ron into the mix too, but I didn’t know his name.) If all the time machine pendants hadn’t been destroyed in the Ministry, I would go back in time and kick my own ass. And I have actually been working out this week, so old-me should be scared. For those of you who haven’t read the books, I am seemingly the most unlikely person to get into H.P. - SO READ IT. Some friends of mine were even shocked that I have embraced the series with such a death grip. Why do you think I avoided it for ten years? I knew I would get obsessed!

I wish I had video of me sobbing in my kitchen about the sentence: "Look at me." I had finished the book hours earlier, and I was shoving my face with dried fruit. Beautiful sight!

Now I am probably only a few brain cells away from writing HP fan fiction and painting the Griffyndor crest on my wall.

Even though I’m probably a Ravenclaw.

Oooh, maybe I should get a Harry Potter tattoo and get Kat from L.A. Ink to do it. Hmmmm...

JOKING.

However, I already suggested to Nick we have a Harry Potter themed Christmas tree: house scarves as garland, a Hogwarts train, a lightning bolt as a star! … He was not amused, even though he is also a fan. (Nick and I actually read the last four books simultaneously, thanks to my friend Aracelis who let him borrow her copies. Our whole relationship has been HP for weeks!)

Hey Nick, wait until I name all of our kids after Snape!!! EVERY SINGLE ONE. All 78 kids!

WHY?

I GOT BIT BY A SPIDER AND LIVED. I AM THE GIRL-WHO-LIVED. I DESERVE IT. EVERYONE BUY ME A BAUBLE.

I guess I just have to wait until the Harry Potter theme park opens in London and I can live where I belong- WITH SURVIVORS.

I’ll bring my Mom and Grandma. We look sexy as tourists.

(Note: Do not reference spoilers in the comments, or I'll beat you with my fat spider arm.)

Hello, Mr. Donaghy!

2007-08-13T19:55:00.000-04:00

Occasionally, I will ride the V train home from work. Although I end up a little farther from my apartment, the air-conditioning on the V is fit for a fat little penguin. And, let’s just face the facts- I’m a fat little penguin at heart. I also like stopping at Rockefeller Center, because I have this ongoing fantasy where Tina Fey gets on my train car and saves me from being a fat little penguin stuck in a cubicle.

“Hey lady, do you want a job?”

Friday, I wasn’t relishing the air-conditioning as much because the temperature had dropped about forty degrees in New York City in less than forty-eight hours. Riding the V was more of a strategic choice, as I wanted to be closer to Books of Wonder and get my Harry Potter fix. (Book 4, baby!)

YES, I AM A DORK.

The train doors opened at Rock Center. Almost immediately, a man in my train car began playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on a sax…. and out of the fog of my usual Tina Fey fantasy, Jack McBrayer (!) sat down. For those of you who are 30 Rock fans, Jack McBrayer plays Kenneth, my favorite character on television. For those of you who don’t watch 30 Rock, Jack is a brilliant comedian… and start watching the show! Damn it!

I immediately began thinking about whether or not I should talk to him. I couldn’t help but remember the David Bowie incident. At least once every two hours, I think, “You could’ve talked to David Bowie!” in a sweat-drenched, Nam-like flashback. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night singing “Lady Stardust” and crying. You know. Could I let that happen again?

… On the other hand, it is scientifically proven that 90% of the people who talk to celebrities in public places are the most ANNOYING PEOPLE ON EARTH.

I was torn.

I reflected on Conan interviewing Jack McBrayer. He had seemed like a really nice guy. Maybe I could trick him into talking to me with my big head and Irish heritage!

I decided that if Jack McBrayer got off at my stop, I would force myself to say hello.

The train screeched to a halt at 14th Street. We both stood up.

Waiting for the train doors to open, I said, “I don’t want to bother you, but… I am a huge fan.”

And then he punched me in the eyeball.

Just kidding.

Thankfully, Jack was an incredibly warm guy. He gave me a little squeeze, shook my hand and formally introduced himself, and didn’t Mace me when I mentioned that I was “really excited for September 4th… when the 30 Rock DVDs come out.”

He made Kenneth proud.

I ran away before I could tell him that I was an aspiring writer and actress, and that he was a professional inspiration, because even writing that sentence makes me want to vom and then wipe it up with my headshots. I didn’t want him to think that I was one of people in the industry who skulk around the city waiting for someone to say, “Hey lady, want a job?”

There's No Place Like My Homes... Except In Tornadoes

2007-08-08T22:58:00.000-04:00

I started writing this entry last night at around eleven o’clock:

Right now, there is the possibility of a tornado hitting my county in Pennsylvania. I’m talking to my sister on-line, who is sitting in the basement with my Mom. Although she is giving me the play-by-play of the intense weather reports on our local stations (“Wake up everyone you know in Union County; this is going to be a serious storm”), I’m having a hard time taking the situation seriously due to the text messages I received from her earlier:

“This is a legit tornado and Ma has no pants on.”

I’m not sure what happened to her over the years, but at some point an emergency weather situation became an excuse to call our father and hiss, “It’s a twister! It’s a twister!”

And now, let us flash forward to the present:

By the time I went to bed last night, Mom had gotten pants on (Erin had gotten her out of bed to coax her into the basement) and the storm was passing through central Pennsylvania… and heading towards New York City. Of course, as I climbed into bed, I didn’t know that Pantless Tornado Combat was going to be a family activity.

I woke up at about 5AM last night convinced that the windows in our apartment had to be breaking. In my twenty-three years (of wisdom and experience), I have never heard a storm that was so incredibly loud. To make matters even more confusing, I was on the wrong side of the bed, smashed in-between Nick and the wall. Even though I had fallen asleep in my usual position, which is on the OUTSIDE, I was now forced to climb over 200 lbs. of Dead Weight/Man Meat to make sure that no water was leaking into our apartment. What the hell was going on?!

(Nick told me later that he had gotten out of bed last night to read, and when he returned I had taken over his spot. Oh. Okay. WHATEVER.)

As soon as I was assured that our home was not dripping with any kind of Violent Ass Storm residue, I tried sleeping again but ended up having variations of my usual tsunami nightmares. For as long as I can remember, I have had scary dreams about running from a massive tidal wave. Considering that 1) I have no fear of water; I am a former swim team slacker and 2) I’m impressively psychic… well, at least I know how the season finale of The Alison Bennett Show ends!

But no nightmare… not even one where screaming people were being sucked into drain-like manholes, would prepare me for this morning’s commute.

For those of you non-New Yorkers who did not catch our smiling faces on the national news, a National Weather Service certified tornado! had touched down in Brooklyn, and the rest of the area was struggling with massive flooding. Considering we have commuter delays when it sprinkles, this did not bode well for mass transit today.

At one point today, nearly all the subway lines were down or barely functional.

Pat, my morning news source/boyfriend on NY1 (New York’s CNN), told us to stay home as long as possible. (The rest of the USA knows Pat as the host from the “World Series of Pop Culture.”) When Pat stays home, I do it… but we had a big training session at work, so I grabbed a bagel and my book and braved the storm.

I won’t get into the gory details, but in summation, my twenty-minute commute took two hours this morning. It was nine million degrees in the subway stations and eight and a half million degrees above ground. When I finally emerged into the sunlight, I was in a sea of bare-chested businessmen carrying their sweaty button down shirts and ties.

EW. BUSINESSMEN, EW!

I could’ve walked those three or so miles in less time. Obviously! But then… could I have read “The Chamber of Secrets” on the way? I think not!

When I first started writing this entry, I thought this would be an amusing anecdote about my sister and my mom hiding from a tornado that, thankfully, never arrived. I wondered why my sister couldn’t take a TORNADO seriously, and then I realized that when I finally arrived at work today, I bounced into the scheduled training sessions pumping my fists and singing “Rocky.”

Only to get an Email from my father damning the “twisters.”

We’re sick people. WHY IS NOTHING SERIOUS?! WE BATTLED TORNADOES! IN OUR SKIVVIES, DAMN IT!

And I Would Name My Owl Ruby!

2007-08-07T19:41:00.000-04:00

I finished the first book.

Joining the Harry Potter cult hasn’t been a difficult process for me, as I tend to have a somewhat obsessive personality. (See: the ten years I only wore red, my seahorse/Ebay fixation, Bette Davis mania, those three weeks in ninth grade when I only had an appetite for Cheez-Its and baby carrots.)

Apparently, orange is a reoccurring theme in my fixations, because after completing “The Sorcerer’s Stone,” I caught myself thinking, “You know, if I went to Hogwarts, I would undoubtedly be dating one of the redheaded Weasley twins.”

And then, IN ALL SERIOUSNESS, without even a twinge! of irony, I thought, “But, you know, dating a twin might be kind of weird.”

I am not sure how I have developed the ability to completely disregard the details of my own life!

Alison, meet your Weasleys:

They're doing a spell! Or something.... God, I love this picture. I will never get enough.

10 Years Too Late? ... But I Look The Same!

2007-08-05T21:51:00.000-04:00

It is somewhat disturbing how little I’ve changed over the years. My friends Mary and Frank recently saw my first grade school picture, and after forcing me to eke out a similar smile, declared that I look “exactly the same, but without bangs!” (My unchanging personal appearance has long been a discussion with my family members, along with the temperature of the night I was born, and how they clapped every time I took a shit for the first few years of my life.)

Nick’s 24th birthday was Friday. I’m not sure about the temperature on 8/3/83, but it has been blazing hot all week in New York. We celebrated at the air-conditioned Harlem Lanes with about fifteen of our friends, and I’m pretty sure my bowling score hasn’t improved much since I was seven. (I think I bowled about a thirty in the initial round.) In the second game, when everyone was inebriated from all the free drinks that were abounding (I love Harlem Lanes!), I made a little bit of a comeback using visualization techniques I picked up from my father’s sporting clays books. I’m not kidding. I love those guns/mental management books, and I love thinking like a champion. Do you?

Other than going on walks, playing Scrabble, and sleeping, Nick and I haven’t done too much this weekend, which has been a welcome change from all the traveling/extensive socialization we’ve done lately. This afternoon, as we were wandering around our neighborhood, I stopped abruptly in front of a large Harry Potter display that was in the window of a children’s bookstore on 18th Street.

I’ve never read a Harry Potter book, or seen a Harry Potter movie; although I am amused by the recent Details cover with Daniel Radcliffe (“From Sissy Sorcerer to Dirty Harry.”) I know Daniel Radcliffe isn’t eighteen yet but… well, I’d probably let him touch my butt once or twice. Probably not the best admission considering I spent a great deal of time hanging around a kids bookstore this afternoon, but whatevs.

Nearly all of my friends are reading the latest Harry Potter book, or living with someone who is reading it. I have to admit that I have felt a little left out. One of our friend’s roommates spent the week reading it OUT LOUD with his girlfriend, doing hours and hours of dramatic interpretation, which is both cute and nauseating. My co-worker bought some sort of deluxe edition that was signed by J.K. Rowling and does not feature text on the cover, and riding the subway with it, she has been continually harassed by strangers. “Why doesn’t your book look like mine?!” I’ve never been one to jump on the bandwagon, but… I was feeling some loss. No one asks me about my mental management books on the 1 Train.

Why the lack of the Boy Wizard in my life?

“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” came out during the summer of 1997. I was going into eighth grade after the worst year of my entire lifetime. I would have read a book about a miserable teenage girl blossoming into a lithe Gwen Stefani look-a-like and getting legal immunity to punch out the girls’ field hockey team, but Harry Potter wasn’t going to fly. (Wait, does he fly? Isn’t that something he does?) I was far too busy sighing and listening to the Pixies and dreaming up outfits involving frightening components such as PLASTIC PANTS to get into Harry Potter. (Squeaky garments undoubtedly display my abundance of ORIGINALITY!) As I wrote in my 7th grade journal (which I performed at “Mortified” in May), “the mainstream is polluted,” and if the whole world was concerned about this Harry Potter book that was originally written on napkins blahblahblah… I was less than interested.

Luckily for J.K. Rowling, who REALLY needs my money, I have long abandoned being such a contrary little piece of shit. Even though I haven’t been interested in these books for the past ten years, I felt compelled to buy the first Harry Potter book today, partially because of the store itself. “Books of Wonder” on 18th Street is a really amazing children’s bookstore. It reminds me of my town’s bookstore in my youth, “The Lexicon,” partially because both stores are/were connected to bakeries. (“The Lexicon” has been out-of-business for a long time.) Walking around the store, I remember how CRAZED I was about reading when I was younger. I still love to read, but I was almost diseased as a child. I read constantly and with a FEROCIOUS HUNGER that has only been matched in my adult life… with my unbridled passion for “Rock of Love.”

Wow, that’s really sad.

I know that a lot of people enjoy the Harry Potter books because it appeals to the imaginative child within their heart (I think I just made myself vom), and hopefully I’ll share a similar experience, aided by the lovely bookstore “Books of Wonder.”

Or maybe I should deal with the fact that I am reading this book because my pop culture exclusion is eating away at my self worth and I am one nagging insecurity away from whipping out the plastic pants again. DRAT. Some things never change!

Then again, maybe Daniel Radcliffe likes plastic pants. Squeeze away, my friend, squeeze away.

Okay... that's just wrong.

Body Language

2007-08-02T00:37:00.000-04:00

I wore a wrap dress to work today. I didn’t wear any form of panty hose because A) I’m a hussy and B) I wasn’t in the mood for catching a case of swamp ass in this ninety-degree weather. After battling the subterranean heat in the subway station, I found a seat on the train and made a modest effort to cross my legs.

The man who was seated across from me on the train was in his mid-to-late thirties, bespectacled, and I immediately noticed the tuft of chest hair that seemed to be creeping up his neck. As a relatively swarthy creature, I pity individuals who are forced to sweat it out with a fatty panda strapped to their pecs. Boo, perma-sweaters in August, boo!

This is a gross exaggeration. A really gross exaggeration.

The rest of his appearance was fairly nondescript: green polo, khakis, and sturdy office shoes.

He was muttering to himself.

I thought, “How cute… we’ve all had a rough day!”

And then I realized he was speaking to my legs… with increasing levels of rage.

Initially, I thought he might just be staring off into space. If he wanted to use my shins as a bright white Drive Thru screen for projecting his innermost thoughts- whatevs! However, as minutes passed, I got the distinct feeling he was talking TO my legs. I wondered if I was the crazy one. I am fairly self-absorbed, but to imagine that a fellow commuter is trying to converse with my gams… that is OUT THERE.

I decided to experiment. I adjusted my right leg. Right on cue, Leg Man FREAKED OUT.

In drama school, when I wasn’t wearing a bald eagle belt or having REALLY! SERIOUS! DISCUSSIONS! about my relationship with Nick/his perma-sweater, I had to spend a lot of time in movement classes. (Yay, drama school!) I am practically accredited in “communicating” with various parts of my body, including hours of voice classes that left me questioning my life decisions whole-heartedly. (And, in other news, I still don’t know why my left knee is “angry.”) For the duration of my ride home, I casually manipulated my legs while desperately trying to keep the rest of my body neutral. It was a monumental effort, but the results were deeply satisfying. And I was using my degree, damn it!

Leg Man HATED my legs. He hated their smug paleness, their five o’clock shadow… the discolored line below my knees from where my Russian boots were chaffing me all winter. He spat and fumed, and if I even flicked my foot, he responded with an intense ONSLAUGHT OF FURY.

I continued this little experiment until Leg Man couldn’t handle it anymore and JUMPED OUT OF HIS SEAT.

I kid you not.

“Well,” I thought. “This is it. You’ve baited a crazy person and now you are going to die on the E train, in a wrap dress that isn’t flattering, and you still owe your sister money. GREAT!”

Leg Man turned his back to me, in defiance, until he twitched/walked down the subway car.

Conversation over.

What was he trying to say? I have noticed that my legs might be the most controversial part of my body: home to freak toes (“Did you get half-off on that pedicure?” –my Dad, July 2007), spray tan resistant, and of course, INCREDIBLY awkward. (“Whattup Pigeon Toe?” = best pickup line ever.)

Admittedly, I have been feeling kind of "blah" lately, so if I can incite visible wrath just by tapping my foot... well, that's a skill.

Gratitude

2007-07-25T21:47:00.001-04:00

Dear Erin,

Thank you for helping me out in the middle of the night so I can take that class. I am so excited to be taking a sitcom writing class from Donald Glover, who is a staff writer on "30 Rock." September 9th, baby! I owe you BIG TIME- yes, financially... but also in a way that means I am required to take a bullet for you. Or sacrifice myself to zombies so you can get away. You are a beautiful, AMAZING sister, and I know I tell you that even when I don't owe you money... so reflect on those times because they seem a lot more genuine than this letter. You're the best. You really don't know how much it means to me when you come through in a pinch... I promise it will only happen every four summers. :)

I made you into a Simpsons character.

These people also thank you:

Nick & Mary, my Sitcom Classmate/Friend

Love,

UCB Sketches By My People

2007-07-23T23:00:00.000-04:00

As some of you know, I was featured in a sketch show at UCB on 7/7. Here are some videos of some of my friends' sketches- sorry about the grainy quality! It's a video of the live performance.

I'm actually in both of these sketches as well... so feast your eyes on the paleness.

"Jackie O." by my boy Frank Hejl

Check out Frank's blog!

"Office Cut-Up" by Mary Traina

(Also check out Mary's blog! Brilliant goodness from an amazing gal!)

I'd post the sketch I wrote but it is definitely Rated R for Language and Defilement of Strippers. (Obviously, there's no nudity... that's going on my $1.99 per minute Website for Pasty Fetishists.) If you think you can handle it, shoot me an Email. (Do it!) It turned out well!

More to come!

I'm A Mess

2007-07-22T23:58:00.000-04:00

This past Mother's Day, the JC Penney's commercial above made me cry on a fairly regular basis. I think it must have played on the Style Network sixteen times an hour.

You know, when I was watching my WEDDING SHOWS and doing on-line comparisons for TAMPONS.

(I may have brass cajones but I'm such a girly girl sometimes!)

I went home this weekend, and my sister informed me that she had found the artist and song name used in said commercial. (Joshua Radin/"Only You".)

Is it pathetic that I spent most of today listening to that song and sobbing hysterically? I MEAN, REALLY! A song from a commercial?! A two-month old commercial?!

(Erin, I win- it is a song by the band Yazoo. It was in "Napoleon Dynamite," the British Office, and "Can't Hardly Wait.")

Update: This song/commercial has taken both Nick and Frank down... who else is with us? I want to hear about your TEARS!

Jennifer Lopez, Vegan Food, and Nasty Arm Fuzz

2007-07-16T23:12:00.000-04:00

Last night, Nick took me on a “Secret Date” to a well-known vegan restaurant on the Upper East Side. We rarely venture to the U.E.S. without museum plans, as the neighborhood’s Old Money vibe does not necessarily cater to people in their early twenties who lack a solid connection to Standard Oil. I was wondering what the Upper East Side vegan restaurant clientele would be like… and my guess was correct. FREAKS.

Apart from the amazing food, the people watching possibilities were endless. The restaurant was packed with rich old women who decided that their newfound “yoga bodies” should be outfitted in short Lycra dresses with their cha-chas hanging out. For an organic restaurant, the abundance of bad plastic surgery made it look like a wax museum. We saw a man that Nick swore was a famous actor but his face was so tight, he was only eerily recognizable. (We still haven’t figured out his name.) Behind us, a table of (dirty) old hippies had their laptops out (!!!). One of them looked like Allen Ginsburg in a filthy tuxedo shirt. Great hummus and tofu steak… crazy old people… I was in “Secret Date” heaven.

At one point, a group of women in their early forties got up to leave, and I saw the most disturbing display of body hair that I have seen since I waxed my unibrow in fourth grade. A completely hairless, blonde woman had four inches of FUR above her elbows. It seriously looked as if she had transplanted patches of Nick’s forearm to her otherwise silken limbs. Had she never looked at the back of her arms? Was she conducting a science experiment back there? What was going on?!

Luckily for me, I had a waxing appointment the next day at the Anastasia brow salon. Seeing that woman's arms made me want to rip all the hair off my body, and FAST. Halfway through my session, my ‘brow stylist casually mentioned that she had been handpicked by Anastasia to do J.Lo’s eyebrows only days prior. Although I was obviously thrilled, I couldn’t help but feel kind of badly for the lady. J. Lo on Thursday, and ME on Sunday? Talk about tip disparity! Not to mention the fact that my eyebrows were done in the back room of the Times Square Sephora, with sweaty tourists gaping on, rather than some sort of fabulous mansion. (Can I admit I kind of love J. Lo? Is that cool?)

Of course, my sister in her INFINITE KINDNESS said, “Same eyebrows… same booty!”

I could obviously be this woman's twin! HELLO!

However, I have already grasped that I have an ample backside… because occasionally, I whip my head around and use the mirror check out what is going on back there. I don’t want to be a rich old lady with elbow hair long enough to plait. You know.

(In other news, when I check myself out, I look/smell pretty awesome because of THE MOST AMAZING MOSITURIZER EVER! CLICK HERE. There's a great deal on a set of this stuff at Sephora. Someday I should just do a whole post on my favorite skin stuff... because I am sick. Someday J.Lo and I will get together and talk product.)

And They Say I'm An Ice Queen

2007-07-16T22:55:00.000-04:00

... not anymore, babies.