Wicked Shtick

If Not Careful You Could End Up Knee-Deep In Shtick

Urgh! BUSY. Sorry it’s been awhile since I’ve posted. The Oscars are next weekend and we’re just slammed at work. Chaotic. I did have a fun-filled weekend that I’m happy to report did not end with me in jail, with me in a dumpster with Cincinnati stamped on my forehead or me fishing through my wallet trying to piece together the prior evenings events based on my receipts. To sum up: it was almost a totally chill weekend.

By almost I mean Saturday could have turned out much worse because I drank pretty much the entire day, but it went off with only a few notable exceptions. First, I met a really cute guy (or at least if I wasn’t sporting the booze-goggles he was cute) and we really seemed to hit it off. Now, granted, I may have thought the conversation was incredibly interesting and entertaining and if asked he would say that the only coherent word I uttered was “vodka,” but this is my blog and no one is asking him, so let’s just tie on our jogging shoes and run with the idea that we really hit it off – except for a couple of minor hiccups.

At one point in the conversation I decided it would be fun if we all told our favorite pick-up lines, mine now being: “Can I buy you a drink, or would you rather I give you the 10 dollars.” That night it was: “Did you invite all of these people? Because I was really hoping it was going to just be the two of us.” They’re both good really, but from what I can recall, Mr. Cutie had a few great ones. I can’t remember how they went but I do remember laughing my ass off, and at one point, just before he dropped the punch line to one of his favorite pick-up lines, my boot got caught on the buckle of my other boot and I dropped faster than Mike Tyson in pretty much any of his matches since 1995. We all laughed (I mean it was hilarious) but who knows what ran through his mind seeing me eat shit with no provocation, or at least none that he was aware of as I decided further explanation would only make me look like I was trying to cover up the fact that I had been drinking, so instead I just got up and brushed it off.

The other potentially damning moment came as Mr. Cutie went to leave and, after having plugged my number into his phone, I said, “goodbye Dave.” Now normally this would not have been a problem but in this case, his name is Chris. So, needless to say, I have not heard from him (if I even gave him the correct number) and I’m not exactly holding my breath either. Oh well. Easy come, easy go. At least he has quite the story to tell the guys at his next squash game.

My Heart Is Lighter Than Shtick

Tomorrow is my first Valentine’s Day in years and years that I haven’t celebrated with someone (or at least had someone in my life). They haven’t all been good but they’ve been filled with more action than what I’m about to do tomorrow which, I suspect, will include something to the effect of sitting on a corner somewhere drinking some sort of malt beverage from a paper bag and making fun of the happy people.

My sister made it safely home from her 9-day stint staying with me having had and recovering from surgery. I was surprised we didn’t manage to kill each other; we did have a few close calls, but nothing to write home about (or write on this blog about). I pilfered about as much money from her wallet as I could and she even got me my first round of Botox injections EVAR as a thank you. This is very exciting (read: weird). I have yet to use them but I will make sure that I post about it if anything funky happens, like say, I contract botulism or turn into Joan Rivers.

I’m as big of a proponent of plastic surgery as anyone but I’m on the fence with this whole injecting plastic into my face thing. I’m turning 30 in October and I do want to stave off any signs of aging (and hire someone to make me a fake ID and alter my birth certificate to say I’m 25), but this is a slippery slope. If, say, I do this, and I like the results, what’s to stop me from taking it one step further? You see this happen to celebrities all of the time. They might dabble in a little chemical peel here, or a rejuvenating light therapy session there, but then they end up on the cover of US Weekly looking like they got fish-hooked coming down Rodeo Drive and are racing to the ER.

A Shtick-y Situation

So it’s quite possible that having my sister come stay with me for 9 days was not such a good idea. In fact it would go on that list right under sliding down a banister made of razorblades, but just before drinking the tap water while on vacation in Southeast Asia. We had a good stretch, we really didn’t fight at all, but this weekend might just turn out to be more quality time than either one of us can handle. I mean really, we barely make it through holidays when staying with my parents and they live in a pretty large house. We are jammed in my tiny little one bedroom downtown. Though there are plenty of things down here I can do to keep me out of the house, I really just want my peace and quiet back in my own place. She did however just take off to a movie so I have a few hours at least. (Which is ironic because I got pissed at her for pathetically pouting on the couch because she wanted me to pick her medicine up from the pharmacy I’m assuming at a pace rivaling that of Spider-Man but I wanted to download a song to my ipod before I left and this upset her. So, she went to the movies when I got back to avoid our getting in a fight and the pharmacy is maybe a block away.)

I decided I wanted to make a hot Italian sausage for lunch. These actually come out perfect if you broil them in the oven but I got distracted because I was surfing itunes for some more music to download. I was about to buy the song “So Here We Are” by Bloc Party when I turned and saw that the oven was on fire. Apparently I got so wrapped up in the springy Joy Division-y lyrics that I almost didn’t notice I was two seconds from setting my kitchen ablaze.

I jumped up (obviously right quick) and got the small combustion out with little to no consequence. I’m not 100% sure because I’m scared to open the oven door in case it’s completely fucked up in there now. I did however set off my fire alarm so I had to stand at my door and fan it for a few minutes to push the smoke out so that it would stop shrieking at me. While I did this I heard someone upstairs yell “SHUT UP,” which baffled me because a person wasn’t making the noise, it was the fire alarm. I have often found that people tend to prove how completely idiotic at the oddest of times and this definitely qualified.

Shtick In A Bottle

I’ve been a bit MIA as my sister is visiting and I’ve been busy with her. She had surgery and I’ve been taking care of her and what have you: feeding her, making sure she’s getting her meds on time, stealing money from her wallet.

I was thinking the other day that I’ve never been the subject of a missed connection and it saddens me. With as often as I go out I have yet to go to Craigslist and see a post that reads something like this: “I was the tall, dark and very wealthy man who was wearing the Armani suit who was almost brought to tears when you left without giving me your number. You were witty. Fun. Well read and informed. I was so impressed I damn near moved to Seattle because see, I live in New York in a classic six on the Upper West Side and I’m just so lonely. You made me want to be a better person and I know we don’t know each other well but I would love to take you to my house in Bali and spend some time just talking and really getting to know one another.” Obviously this is me being silly but honestly, sometimes after a night out and about I’ll look to see if anyone has posted a connection listing one of the bars I went to that evening. Sometimes there are posts listing spots I was at but nary a shout out with me as the subject. I guess most of the time men aren’t impressed with a girl who walks around the bar chugging champagne straight from the bottle.

What Shtick Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas

With all of the upheaval in the lives of friends, co-workers and family, I’m thinking a trip to Vegas might just be what the doctor ordered. I love Vegas like many love their offspring, and since I have no offspring I feel I would be very much in the right to start embracing said city as if I bore it from my very own womb – the logistics would be complicated, sure, but I do believe the sentiment is right on. Vegas is just so much fun. It’s one of the last places where you can smoke indoors, moreover I believe one could blow smoke directly into the faces of babes and still avoid persecution. Plus you can literally do just about anything your little heart desires at any time with ease. Bloody Mary’s with breakfast is almost mandatory and if you’re in before 2am you best be sick, over 75, or damn near dying because that shit ain’t right.

Does This Shtick Seem Funky To You?

Often I find myself brandishing my fists in the air, directing them to the 90 percent, or so, of people who live on this earth out of severe, sometimes almost debilitating frustration. In this percentage I include those who I have had a problem with, had words with or decided I hated based on principle, or plan on taking issue with because they look stupid or I just feel like it; this should come at no surprise to the 4 people who actually read this blog, [actually I’m impressed at how quickly my readership came back and I would like to take this moment to thank you for the emails] but it seems as though I’m not the only one ruing a majority of the earth’s inhabitants. And by majority I mean “major,” as in great in number, size, or extent, and “ity” as in I bet they all have an “ity” one, because my dear readers, I’m referring to men. (I also like this definition of majority: requiring great attention or concern; very serious, because I do feel this is getting serious and should, at the very least, cause some of us to take a step back and reconsider giving out our digits the next time some guy goes fishing out on the dance floor and catches us, hook, line and sinker -- only the ultra cool will actually be imagining the dance move whereby one is caught by miming the act of fishing).

Four (and counting) girls at work have either called off an engagement, called off the potentiality of an engagement or moved out and away from the men in their lives. This is not a big company (and by company I mean the people I work directly with; my little subsection of the bigger giant) and these are all women of vastly different ages and all in very different stages in their respective relationships who have all chosen to cease-and-desist carrying their man-baggage.

Add that to my recent boy trauma and I believe the National Guard will soon be called to the PNW. Something may have leaked into our water supply. Or, possibly, a rare but singularly focused insect has emerged from the mating of two unlikely species that only bites women who are days from divorcing themselves from unhappiness and infects only those who are on the fence, spreading the man-dropping virus similarly to malaria, or Parvo.

It’s Cold As Shtick Around Here

Forgive me if I rambled. The last couple of days have been so crazy I might have posted the exact same thing had I just smashed my head on my keyboard.

There are a lot of things that I would like to change if I could. I’d probably go back and choose to stay in college instead of moving away after high school. And I do wish I’d attended a lot of the classes I missed after I did finally move back home because I was either a) out drinking b) in sleeping or c) out drinking. If I could build a time machine and go back and forego attending the party on that fateful day I met my ex I think I might. Not because he’s a bad person or because I wish I’d never met him, but because a lot of decisions I made in that relationship still affect me to this day. Generally I like to leave a relationship behind after it ends instead of having that daily/weekly reminder of how much I was unbelievably deficient in the foresight to predict disaster, like a bad haircut that can never be grown out, or that show Cashmere Mafia (it really is as bad as everyone says it is).

 

Of course I realize that I ultimately made those decisions. I know that I had to free will to choose to do things like, say, hypothetically, date a guy in high school who picked strawberries in the fields of Watsonville and had serious mental problems -- in and out of rehab and therapy — who dated me to feel closer to someone who was normal and “good” believing proximity to normalcy meant he too would become normal until he was committed -- again— to the loony bin in Aptos. Or, for arguments sake, say, I chose to stumble through a dark cobblestone alley in heels fracturing my second metatarsal rendering heels an impossibility to this very day. I would take absolute responsibility for such things.

I also chose to move to Seattle and now I’m stuck here. I’m relegated to this extremely cold and rainy climate, which is hopelessly devoid of decent men, and surrounded by things I could really do without (e.g. mountains, sports arenas, the homeless). I liked it at first and even took comfort in the darkness of the days as it made me feel like I wasn’t missing out on anything better because I was stuck at work. But, now, I’m whiter than anyone ever thought could be possible and I’m cold. I’m cold and it never gets warm. EVER. You might think I was exaggerating but you would be wrong. I think the hottest it ever got in 2007 hovered somewhere around 80 degrees. This happened on only a few scattered days and the rest of the time it was cold.

I crave warmth, and not the kind I feel because I’m perched atop a heater vent with a blanket over me, but the kind found only in real sunlight.

I am not happy. 

Heath Ledger Died And Shtick!

That’s all sorts of crazy. Our office exploded with a resounding “WHAT” when the news broke. One girl screamed “but he’s so cute.” Like attractiveness is factored into the mix when the Grim Reaper’s walking around picking his victims; I really don’t think death is reserved for the ugly (or esthetically challenged, to be PC about it). Otherwise Noam Chomsky and Brad Garrett might have had to kick their marathon training into high gear to avoid that swinging sickle.

Other than the loss of one of the hottest men in Hollywood today has been fairly uneventful. I haven’t showered in two and a half days and I’m dangerously close to offending the whole of my office (I haven’t heard complaints but the looks are worth a thousand words). Save for some extra deodorant and a healthy dose of Pink Sugar perfume, I am getting a bit ripe. I just can’t motivate to do anything good for me right now. Showering? Not right now. Eating? I could hold off. Moving from the Deanna-shaped hallow that has formed in my couch cushions? I’m good right here.

However, if you need a drinking buddy or someone to dance around the living room with while you practice air guitar (I’m always the air drummer) for an air rock band [I’m still kicking around names but I’m pretty fond of AIRythmics. Or Earth, AIR and Fire. Air Supply would be perfect but it’s already taken], I’m so your guy. Right now my song of choice is “Your Love” by The Outfield. There are some choice downbeats in that one.

Shtick That Goes Boom In The Night

Things WERE quiet but not anymore. I shouldn’t complain about the blah blah blah, because that seems to truly be the calm before the storm. 2008 has not only been unkind to me but to my good friends as well. I cannot tell you how many phone calls I’ve had from friends who, unfortunately, do have it worse than me. I do get wrapped up in my own shit a lot and forget that the world does indeed house more than my frets; my woes; my blues.

I have given myself until tomorrow at midnight to feel sorry for myself and then enough. No more. I am allowing myself, however, to continue secretly loathing people who are happy without just cause.

Segue: I love my sister. We spoke tonight and it was really good. I hate that she feels like I hate her sometimes because as mad as she can make me, I could never actually hate her. In fact, I admire her. She’s done so much for herself because she wanted more for herself when she could have easily settled for the status quo. We are our biggest supporters, our biggest critics, our most loathed enemies. We are the sisters from tales of Greek Mythology. We are yin and yang. I think we will find that common road eventually. But, for now, we make one another nuts. But that’s okay, we have an understanding now.

Segue #2: Who doesn’t love The Outfield’s song Your Love? If you don’t you need to go play in traffic.

Blah, Blah, Blah, Shtick, Blah

I had an appointment yesterday after work with my friend Masae (my hair looks fabulous BTW), and then we went to PF Chang’s for some soup and carb -goodness. The server kind of busted on Masae when she asked if they had Red Bull by replying, “No, and we don’t have Jagermeister either.” Ouch. That was a burn. Masae was just tired and wanted some Red Bull; she wasn’t going to do a Jagerbomb in the restaurant (at least I don’t think she was planning to). I also didn’t think she looked like she was 19 and at a keg party at her friend Chuck’s house because his parent;s had to go visit his porr old Aunt Ruth, but apparently she did. I should have followed up by asking if they had jello shots or Boone’s Farm. I was particular to Strawberry Hill even though I ‘m fairly certain if I had some now I wouldn’t be so partial to the stuff.

Not a whole lot going on up here in the PNW. It rains. I work. It rains some more. I drink. It rains, and then every so often I eat some soup. Pretty boring.

We have a long weekend coming up which is lovely. It might NOT rain the entire weekend which, again, makes me warm in my cold, unfeeling heart. Maybe I’ll eat some soup.

I generally get excited about this time during the week. It’s Hump Day (yeah, I went there) and that means the week is more than half over. I think Susie and I will hang out. Masae will most likely make an appearance (though she failed to do so last weekend because she got an electric piano. Whatever, if she wants to enlighten herself musically I can’t help her), and I think I may go see that movie 2,43874683745687345 Dresses, or some shit. I don’t really like Katherine Heigl but the movie seems entertaining enough, and seeing as how I’m sliding into that age where I might collect a bridesmaid’s dress or two, I might laugh, crack a smile, or cry into the glass of wine I generally smuggle into theaters – Seriously, those individual sized bottles of wine fit quite nicely in one’s purse. Just make sure you ask for a cup of water (not a bottle) and throw the water out on your way into the movie. It’s BRILL I know.