I've moved!

You can find my new blog (same great flavor, snazzy new layout) at www.dirtyhooker.org. It's a work in progress.

BE AFRAID! -- no, not really

At a friend's house the other day, I learned that children in a school in New Jersey aren't allowed to carry backpacks from class to class anymore, presumably because they're hauling weapons of mass destruction to history class. I know I would.

When I was in high school, I had a bag that could hold about 4,000 pounds of crap. I carried all my morning books in that bag so I wouldn't have to trudge back and forth to my locker. I could fit small freshmen in that bag.

Maybe that's why schools started outlawing backpacks. Good job, me.

What the hell are people so afraid of, and why do they create crap rules that don't keep us any safer?

Cracked explores the problem with its usual brand of ferocious investigative journalism. I always suspected that Amber Alerts and the sex-offender registry were worthless, at best.

Diddling kids sucks, but if it's going to happen, odds are it's going to be creepy Uncle Todd, who REALLY likes giving horsey rides, rather than that dorky loner three blocks down who got nailed once for public urination.

Hell, if anyone had seen me peeing in Mom's backyard, I could be a sex offender now.

Gravity rules

You know what's sad? A little boy falling out of a helium balloon and going splat against the Colorado landscape. You know what's not sad? A helium balloon taking off by itself while a little boy hides in an attic.

Move along, people! There's nothing to see here!

I'm a cold-hearted bastard, though. When Devon told me there was a boy trapped in a balloon and they didn't know how to get him down, my response was, "Pop it."

I was sure I had a maternal instinct laying around here somewhere.

I'm going to be rich!

And by rich, I mean breathtakingly poor.

Today, I discovered that the ads on my site have earned me 0.06 cents.

Whoever you pity clickers are, thank you. All I ask is that when I'm a hobo, please don't let Devon kill me.

Foul ball

My sister and I took Dad to the urologist today for a blood test to see how well his cancer meds are working, and I discovered the rich fantasy life my Dad has. He told his doctor all about the parties with girls, and how he drinks beer all day when he's not eating cake.

The dude does eat a ton of cake, but I'm pretty sure the rest was bullshit.

Dad may need to get shots that will chemically castrate him. Our conversation, for your entertainment:

Dad: Am I getting a flu shot?
Me: No, Dad, a shot in the balls.
Dad: What?
Me: Oh, come on, it's been ages since anyone's touched your balls.

Yeah, I went there.

Crafts for size queens

I don't normally plug products, but this is So. Fucking. Awesome that I had to give it a shout-out.

I mean, I wouldn't buy one, because I don't live in a dorm, but this makes me wish I did so I could decorate my room with giant condom wrappers. But then, if I did live in a dorm, I probably wouldn't have 50 bucks to spend on a pillow. For 50 bucks, this pillow would have to make me pizza and proofread my papers and rub my feet. And the pizza would have to have mushrooms.

I am a sensitive asshole

I was really stoked about the 48 roles of toilet paper in my closet that I bought off of Amazon. Their Subscribe and Save system lets me have ridiculous amounts of toilet paper delivered to my apartment every six months, no shipping costs. I even used a gift certificate, so I spent $17 on 48 rolls of toilet paper.

When I was a kid, I used to fantasize about becoming an astronaut, but this was way cooler than the promise of space flight.

Until Devon seriously harshed on my wow. Seems it wasn't enough to get the 2-ply: He forgot to mention that he wanted quilted toilet paper, because he's a sensitive asshole, too. So our conversation went something like this:

Devon: Next time, can you get the quilted kind? It's way cooler than this lame-ass excuse for toilet paper you painstakingly researched and blew a gift certificate on.
Me: But it's recyclable. It's good for the environment.
Devon: I want the cushy kind or I will make heads roll.
Me: Think of your children! And your children's children!
Devon: Cushy! Cushy!
Me: Why do you hate children?

OK, so maybe that's an exaggeration. But he does want the quilted stuff, so now I have 48 rolls of toilet paper only I can use. Maybe I'll TP a neighbor's house this Halloween.

I am disgusting and frighten off commuters

I have a cold.

I know, this is not unprecedented in human history. It isn't even a bad cold, at least not yet. But my throat is sore and my nose is runny.

A more together woman would have brought tissues on the train, or maybe a nice lace hanky with her monogram in the corner, but I am not one of those women. So I spent the ride sniffling intermittently, which seemed better than letting the snot run down my face and cling to my chin like baby food.

I guess the woman next to me had enough. She said, "Get a tissue! God!" and stormed off to the magical part of the subway car where everyone brings tissues and little plastic bags for proper disposal.

Dear Subway Lady:

I am sorry I was revolting. I did not think to bring a tissue. If it makes you feel any better, I also forgot my lunch bag. I did not mean to have an unplanned-for cold in your presence. A tissue would have been nice. Maybe you could have offered me one, if you had one. That would have been nice, too.

Life in New York City must be very hard for someone with your delicate sensibilities. You are too good for this world.

Love, Tissue-less Ground Squirrel

Romeo and Juliet, and cell phones

It's been said before that Romeo and Juliet would have resolved much more happily had T-Mobile been around in Shakespeare's time. Juliet could have sent her beloved a text: "Hey, Romeo, luv u 4evah, don't kill urself." And Romeo could have replied: "U wanna hook up? C U in the crypt."

It would have been awesome, and the Montagues and Capulets could have had a good, long laugh about their little rapscallions' behavior.

Which led me to think how even more awesome it would be if they had IM.

CapChick: O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo. Deny thy father, 'cause his shit is whack.
LoverBoy: No worries. He's watchin' porn on his laptop. LOL.
CapChick: Can u come over 2nite? I Netflixed "Othello."
LoverBoy: Talk about whack. Those dudes make me wanna kill myself. Depressing shit. BRB.
...
LoverBoy: OK, back.
CapChick: Where'd u go?
LoverBoy: Had to pee. Sorry.
CapChick: So, r u coming over? I miss u.
LoverBoy: Waitin' 4 Dad 2 pass out in his beer. OK, BITCH.
CapChick: Did u just call me a bitch?
LoverBoy: No, BITCH. Means Basically in the Clear, Homey.
CapChick: Does not. U just made that up.
LoverBoy: No, really, I got it off of netlingo.com.
CapChick: U r sooooooooo lame. But I love u anyway, pookie.
LoverBoy: U know I would die 4 u. B there soon.

Actually, now that I think about it, we're all better off that they killed themselves.

My dad is deaf, so I roar

Having my dad sleep over our apartment is a weird experience -- partly because we don't have a bed set up for him yet, so I end up sleeping with dad and Devon takes the couch.

Dad wakes up, like, every hour on the hour to take a leak. Seriously. His bladder must be the size of a shot glass. I'm so happy I declined the prostate option at conception.

Every hour or so, Dad ambles out of bed and looks for the bathroom, because he forgets where it is every. single. time. The bathroom is 3 feet from the bed. He would see it if he simply turned around. I try to tell him where it is, but he can't hear me, because his hearing aids are in the change bowl in the living room, so it ends with me gesturing wildly and screaming, "IT'S OVER THERE! THE BATHROOM'S OVER THERE!"

In the semi-darkness, I might as well be a giant mute octopus.

My main concern is that Dad will pee the bed, which is not outside the realm of possibility. That's why I sleep on Devon's side and Dad sleeps on my side.

The things I do for love.

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.

Shit happens

If anyone wants one, there's a kitty carrier lined with cat shit on my balcony, free just for you.

I'd been planning to take the Fatass with me since before Mom died, but our moving plans derailed that temporarily. Didn't want three animals freaking out about the new place at once.

So this weekend, I finally brought the Fatass home.

It took a little coaxing with the end of a rolling pin to get her out from under my father's bed. Ten minutes later, we were on the road. That was when we noticed the smell. A lot of Queens smells like shit. I mean, the Mets play there, so I assumed the smell was coming from somewhere nearby. But the smell followed us to Brooklyn, then to the front door of our apartment. No doubt the Fatass had been eating burritos for lunch. Even opening all four windows didn't help.

We stopped for a beer before bringing the cat upstairs, not looking forward to braving the odor. The beer was good. The ambiance was OK. The right side of the bar was exposed brick and fancy booze. The left side looked like somebody's angry girlfriend tore all the pictures off the wall and left the stupid poster of the bull with the ring in its nose.

Thirty minutes later, we were hauling the cat and her stench into the elevator, and I battled between laughing so hard I couldn't stop crying and suppressing my gag reflex. Her shit is foul, y'all.

When we finally got her onto the balcony, the problem was clear: The Fatass had shit smeared all over her back paws, and the inside of the carrier looked like another cat had exploded out of her ass.

Once we cleaned her off, she scurried under the bed, and then we remembered: We hadn't introduced her to the kitty litter box yet. Devon broke out the mop, and the Fatass' internal monologue went something like this: "Oh, hell! Blue foamy thing! Back! Back! Damnit, my claw's stuck in the blue foamy thing! Sons of bitches! Run for the closet!"

The only one who seemed happy with the situation from beginning to end was Fitz. Her internal monologue was more like: "Something's going on! It's going on over there! What's going on? Can I see? Oh boy, it's still going on! Yay!"

I'm pretty sure the Fatass is gonna kill us in our sleep.

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.

1 Senate + 1 House of Representatives = Fun for the whole family

I had to watch the presidential address, because, as a liberal, feminist, socialist, communist, fascist, Nazi, politically confused elitist, when my Messiah speaks, I listen. Also, because if I didn't, my entire office would be talking about it today, and I would be outed as the clueless plebe who blew the night watching the "Cake Boss" marathon.

I was rewarded with Joe Wilson of South Carolina calling Barack Obama a liar from the safety of his padded seat. It's like he forgot for a moment that he wasn't on an episode of Dr. Phil. That happens to me sometimes.

Back in the day, Obama could have gone all Aaron Burr on his ass, or even Dick Cheney. That would have been sweet. But then we'd have all those people "thinking of the children" and everything, and we probably wouldn't even get to see it on TV. Americans are a bunch of weenies these days.

BTW: No one in my office even mentioned the speech. They were all probably watching the "Cake Boss" marathon.

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.

Do you have a friend in Jesus?

With the help of some wine and a bit of a mean streak, Devon and I have decided to quit our jobs to sell Rapture insurance.

Yes, if you are certain you are going to be taken by our good Lord Jesus Christ at the end times, you can shield the selfish, lazy heathens in your family from poverty and starvation with our help. Your life insurance won't do Jack, since you won't be dead. You'll need another way to keep your teenage daughter from whoring herself in front of Home Depot and your husband from performing late-term abortions for spare change.

Don't let your family suffer in sin when you are given your eternal reward.

Enroll in Rapture insurance NOW!

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.

'Every once in awhile, they stick a finger up your ass'

I took my dad to to the urologist yesterday to find out why his PSA level is so high, and he screamed like I've never heard a dude scream before.

When we were done and waiting for the cab, Dad said: "He stuck a finger up my ass. It reminds me of the Army. Every once in awhile, they stick a finger up your ass. Every once in awhile."

Dad's PSA level is 87, and his doctor says they're not going to do a biopsy, since the only possible explanation is prostate cancer. So Dad has to go for a bone scan and a CAT scan to see whether it has spread, and, if so, how far.

Despite this diagnosis coming so close on the heels of mom's death, I'm not too worried. Dad's tough, and prostate cancer is slow. Plus, the treatment is merely pills and an injection once every four months, so we won't be putting him through the horror that is chemo.

Still, I kind of wish every major medical consultation didn't end with "You have cancer."

This blog looks like ass

These ads sure do uglify my blog. It's like a Yo Momma joke gone horribly awry. I promise, I will attempt to ease the ugly as I figure out what the hell I'm doing.

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.