Leave my soul alone

Pet peeve of the day: Massage-therapy ads that promise to relax my soul.

Leave my soul alone. If you are touching my soul, you are standing way too close. Back up before I bite you.

This has been a public-service announcement from someone who wants you to back your shit away from her soul slowly and with your hands in the air.

My Engrish is gooder than your Engrish

Posted inside the Teriyaki Boy on 9th Ave. and 57th Street. It's like people WANT me to blog about them.

Coffee: The gift that keeps on giving

Somewhere, in the mess of boxes I carted to our new apartment, I have a 5-pound container of Maxwell House coffee.

I never wanted a 5-pound container of Maxwell House coffee.

When I moved into my apartment in Dyker Heights right after my divorce, Mom took me to BJs and bought me enough food to feed a circus of nomadic acrobats. Of that stash, I still have the coffee and the restaurant-size box of Splenda.

As I told Mom at the time, I don't really make coffee for myself. Even now, Devon and I make our own coffee only on the weekend. When I was living alone, I would grab some at the local bodega or drink the free, deadly coffee at work. Now, I have a 5-pound container of coffee that is almost five years old and not getting better with age. I don't even use Splenda anymore, since I switched to cofffee without sugar. I am screwed.

This coffee has become like the Gideon Bible. I can't throw it away, because Mom will strike me down. I can't use it, because it's gross. There's only so much I can use to absorb smells in the fridge.

This coffee will haunt me until I die. Thanks, Mom.

Can we call the exterminator?

My new apartment comes with its very own 4-year-old girl. I wish I'd known that before I signed the lease.

As we were unpacking our boxes yesterday, Fitz made herself a new friend. The kind who never leaves. The kind who wants to play with our swords. She and her mom finally left, for the second time, and Devon laughed when I put the chain on. Can't be too safe. A 4-year-old is notoriously hard to shake off when you wave a tiny dog in her face.

We celebrated the move out of squalor with the traditional move-in feast: frozen pizza and beer. After a lunch of frozen burritos and Vitamin Water. After a breakfast of Dunkin' Donuts sandwiches and coffee.

I am well-preserved.

My hands are gross

Today begins my epic quest to stop biting my nails. Mavala STOP promises to break a three-decades-old coping mechanism with the power of really foul-tasting nail polish.

Problem is, I'm pretty sure biting my nails was the only thing keeping me from killing you all.

Devon has hinted that my hands are disgusting creatures of the night that should be hidden for the sake of human decency. Or maybe I just interpreted it that way. He was pretty careful to phrase it in terms of fear of infection, but we both know he keeps pepper spray under his pillow, just in case.

I wonder what it'll be like when I can't see my nail bed anymore.

I'm going to be a hermit when I grow up

I'm going to live in a cave. My cave will be equipped with electricity and plumping and things for Devon to do, because I want him in my cave. Everyone else can visit my dark, dank hole in the earth, except for people who suck. I have a list of people who suck, and those people will be pitched into the pit of fire, where they will keep my s'mores fire burning strong and bright.

If you are reading this, you probably don't suck, so I will keep an extra marshmallow over the fire for you. You bring the chocolate.

Gonna quit my day job...probably not

I made the Most Awesome Mac and Cheese in the World, and Dad. Devon and I were sitting around the table talking about nonsense when I was struck with brilliance: When I grow out of the noob zone in my crocheting, I'm going to open an Etsy store called the Dirty Hooker. It'll sell crocheted goods and other crafts, and it'll be totally awesome because hooker refers to both prostitution and crochet hooks, which are used to shape yarn into patterns, get it?

If any of you wankers steals my idea, I will cut you. No lie.

My dad is breakin' the law, breakin' the law

And busting up the neighbor's car.

Dad snuck out of the house and smashed into the car in front of him trying to get out of his spot. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to have to deal with this until I had a 17-year-old kid, but my dad's a rebel and he's never ever been any good.

We have definitely taken his keys now. And at least he crashed right in front of the house instead of three blocks away, where he would have been totally lost.

Bad dad. Bad, bad dad. No TV for you.

It's so not peanut butter jelly time

Sometimes, life is a huge fucking disappointment. Like today, at the hospital, when I was waiting for mom to get out of surgery and decided to ingest calories for the sake of nourishment. The cafeteria tempted me with peanut-butter-and-jelly lolly pops. I thought to myself, "Self, this is the most amazing thing you have ever seen. You must make it your own."

So I bought it. Turns out the only thing vaguely PB&J about it was the color scheme, which was caramel-colored on the bottom and red on the top and had a generic sugar coating all around. After about 30 minutes of sucking time, the top fell off the stick and I had to toss it or risk choking to death.

I realize that last sentence is hilarious if you're 12.

The Second Ave. subway is a lie

A dirty, filthy lie that should never kiss its mother with that mouth. One day, when I am old and gray and relaying stories of my life to a trite soundtrack and spreading my arms wide at the edge of a boat, I will tell my granddaughter of the era when a whole city was duped into believing in the infrastructure fairy. What a bunch of suckers we were, back in the day.

Trying not to be a great big girl

I stepped on a dead mouse at Austin's Cafe in Manhattan yesterday. I think I did a pretty good job of staying calm, at least on the outside. As I type this, I try not to think about how squishy its dead little body felt beneath my boot as I sat down for lunch with a friend. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Is that what I think it is?
Saul: No, it's just trash.
Me: I really don't think so.
(silence)
Saul: Yeah, that's what you think it is.

Then he loudly informed the cashier there was a dead mouse under the table, because if we have to be skeeved out, we're taking everyone down with us.

I still ate the $6 sandwich I'd just bought, though. Six bucks is six bucks.

I need your help, ya'll

This is a test of the emergency comments system. This is only a test. One of you (you know who you are!) noted that she couldn't leave comments, so I'm asking that, if you have a moment, leave a message to this post (or another) so I can see whether it's a Blogspot problem or something else. If you've left a message and it hasn't posted, please let me know.

So tell me about you day. Write angsty poetry. Record the nutrition data of your lunch. Whatever. I'd appreciate it.

I promise, this is not just a desperate cry for attention.

You are free to return to your lives.

I'm here to pump -- me up!

With my 31st birthday a little over a week away, I've decided to try to arrest the march of time by getting myself a gym membership. Today, I bask in new-gym euphoria. I'm going to go five days a week! I'm going to do yoga and take belly-dancing classes! I'm going to learn kickboxing! I'm going to look svelte and strong and totally fucking awesome by June! Right after I finish this beer!

I had to do something. Moving in with Devon, I packed on 10 pounds. Since August. Because he ties me to a chair and force-feeds me lard and vegetable oil-infused vodka. I've lost 6 of those pounds, but if I want to eat his tasty omelets, I need to get moving.

I'm writing all this here in the hopes that public shame will motivate me. If I don't do these things, you all get to point and laugh and mock me for being a lazy-ass.

Let it be known I did it all for the omelets.