New Year's toast

AhahaaHAHAAAAhahaahaa. HA.

Whooeee, that was fun.

I actually think this picture is much more complex than it appears at first look. At face value, certainly, it's nothing more than two gentlemen - with an inordinate amount of time on their hands and some sort of foodstuff costume budget - who had the terrific idea of dashing through the streets dressed up as bread slices.

Upon closer examination, however, I see things that concern me. I have so. Many. Questions.

Why, for instance, are they holding remote controls? And which Cosby Show costume closet did the one on the left plunder for his sweater? And why is the one on the right not wearing pants? Wherefore the excited expression of the right-hand slice, in comparison with the guilty look of the left? And what is the significance of the fact that the bread is toasted? And that they are travelling together? Are they out to make a sandwich? Is that Cary Elwes?!!

I have to go lie down.

We all liked your article. Oh, no, really. It was great.

I really enjoy the Christmas season. I love how shiny and bright and tinsel-trimmed everything is in the weeks that lead up to December 25th, and I love the week of reprieve between Christmas and New Year’s Eve (which has, for me, consisted largely of sitting around at my work computer and listening to German beer-drinking songs on repeat and doing very little actual work), and I love running around on December 31st wearing a funny hat and drinking champagne and mouth-kissing people I barely know.

And, as we all know, one of the additional joys of the holiday season is the fact that it is a season, and by definition, subject to all sorts of seasonal whims. Which is why we have gingerbread lattes at Starbucks, Christmas specials on television, and horrible awesome applique sweaters at K-Mart.

However, the downside of all this holiday-specific fun is a big one: Seasonal news stories. This problem exists not because there is anything inherently wrong with Christmas-related news stories-- there isn't-- but, rather, because somebody has to write them. And all the good reporters have, apparently, gone on vacation.

My family was sitting around the kitchen table on Saturday morning, sharing the newspaper, a large batch of oatmeal, and a (highly uncharacteristic) stretch of not-talking, when I spotted a weird little headline in the Life/Today section:

A Bright Ribbon of White Lies

It was an article syndicated from the Washington Post. I like the Washington Post a lot, mostly because they employ Carolyn Hax, on whom I have a mean girl crush, but also because the paper maintains a certain standard of reporting while still feeling a bit more intimate than the sprawling, sometimes-inaccessible New York Times. So let’s just say that, settling in to read this article about ribbons and lies, I had certain… expectations. Expectations of entertainment. Expectations of quality. Expectations which, upon reading the article’s lede, dissolved into an irremediable, tangled mess of disappointment and confusion. Witness the first two sentences:

White lies folded like dinner napkins, cut like paper snowflakes, settling like dust on fake Christmas trees. White lies told in the spirit of the season.

Um… ok. I like metaphors a lot, too. But this is pushing it. I mean, dinner napkins? Really.

But. I’m willing to acknowledge that writing a good first sentence is hard work. Playing with words is tricky business, and not for the faint of heart.. A reporter can’t be expected to hit it out of the park every single time, right out of the gate. I mean, seriously-- look how I just got all confused and put two conflicting sports analogies into one sentence, and I’m just a lowly blogger. So I was perfectly ready to forgive and move on to what I was sure would be a very interesting report on the complacent little lies we tell for Christmas, as I took another sip of coffee and read on:

She walked into the party in a red velvet dress. She had no idea that one string of her fake pearls had broken and was dangling down her cleavage.

"You look simply marvelous," someone told her. She knew her shoes did not match her dress, so she smiled. She knew the person was lying.

I would continue, but I’m still trying to wrap my head around this. I am the first to admit that I’m not the world’s most fabulous writer. The difference, however, is that I’m not being paid to write for a prestigious, reputable, nationally-syndicated publication. And although I hesitate to judge so harshly, this shit about the pearls, and the cleavage, I mean… it’s just so… bad. Isn’t it?

The whole article is here, and you’re more than welcome to read it if you feel like flagellating yourself with some seriously awkward sentence structure. I am sorry to have interrupted the holiday season with my insignificant little complaints about the Washington Post, but y’know… sometimes sharing makes the pain go away.

The best title I can think of is "the grinch ate my blog". Is that too dumb? I think it is. I dont' care, I'm using it anyway.

At the beginning of this week, I sat down and thought to myself, I should be blogging more. This week, surely, I will blog more.

I’ve been less-than-successful.

Monday:
Went to Nets game after work. Suffered two-fold behavioral relapse upon entering Continental Airlines Arena as former-Jersey-college-girl persona emerged/ united with former-high-school-cheerleader persona. Whistled at Nets dancers. Seethed with jealous when Nets dancers re-emerged at half-time in gold lame hotpants. Considered last-minute Christmas request for gold lame hotpants. Ate approximately one pound of CrackerJack. Rode bus back to Port Authority chanting, “WE are dyna-MITE I said our TEAM is dyna-MITE and when you MESS with dynaMITE you go tick-tick-tick-tick-BOOM!” until boyfriend threatened violence. Did not blog.

Tuesday:
Spent work day planning press event. Left at 6pm to attend “Bake-off” themed party at co-worker’s apartment. Consumed three glasses of wine, several pounds of cookie dough. Traded “ew, my parents still have sex” stories with co-workers. Spilled red wine on coworker’s white dog. Blamed other co-worker. Did not blog.

Wednesday:
Discovered bake-off remainders in office. Ate approximately three cookies per hour from 10am-6pm. Walked to band practice in attempt to burn off calories from cookies. Raged against slow-moving tourists on sidewalk. Arrived at band practice on unrelenting sugar high, convinced band-mates to eschew actual rehearsal in favor of Bon Jovi cover songs. Sang “Livin’ on a Prayer” and “Always” three times each in spite of not knowing 80% of the words. Did not blog.

Thursday:
Arrived at office; promised self to avoid cookies. Kept promise for record 10 minutes before succumbing to lure of gingerbread. Assembled “Debonaire Man Kit” gift for evening Yankee Swap party, components including: (1) cigar, (1) bottle Johnnie Walker Red, (1) issue of GQ magazine, (1) Barry Manilow CD. Listened to Death Cab for Cutie cover of “Christmas, Baby Please Come Home” 27 times in a row while writing press release. Watched SNL “D**k In a Box” video 10 times. Left work for Yankee Swap party. Watched with devastation as “Debonaire Man Kit” was selected by only other girl at party. Cursed law of averages; Murphy’s Law. Did not blog.

Friday morning:
Wrapped gifts. Labeled gifts. Realized that unrated version of “Y Tu Mama Tambien” is not ideal gift for one’s parents. Unwrapped gift. Remembered who parents are. Re-wrapped gift. Left for work. Spent entire commute summoning willpower to avoid cookies. Found willpower unnecessary as cookies had grown mold overnight.

***

And suddenly, it was Friday afternoon! With mere hours remaining before my Christmas-time pilgrimage to upstate New York, and no real creative inspiration, I’m gonna just post and go. Season's greetings, see you next week.

K-Martyrs

As has been stated here before, I’m from a questionably-monikered little town upstate where people are very into Bud Light, bingo night, and frozen cheesecake on a stick, but less-familiar with uber-worldly concepts such as “fusion food”, and “premium denim”, and “the judicial system”.

But in spite of this, I still love my hometown with fierce, teeth-gnashing loyalty. I do, really. It’s beautiful, it’s safe, nobody ever snottily asks “and what do YOU do”, and you can get a rum-and-coke for about $2 at the bar down by the river. And after you drink it, you can bundle yourself back into a puffer coat and walk home in total blue-black quiet, sans the slightest worry over muggings or rape or even seeing another human being.

*homesick, sigh*

Anyway, sometimes my love-you-for-all-your-faults attitude toward Coxsackie makes things difficult. Such as the time that a visiting (now ex-)boyfriend looked around the somewhat-dingy main street with narrowed eyes and said to me, “I can’t believe you’re from here”, prompting some an unpleasant retort from me (“Well, at least my house isn’t a hideous monument to suburban homogeneity, and also, fuck you”) and our eventual breakup.

(Explaining to those Jersey kids who were reared on 24-hour-strip-mall-accessibility that it is, in fact, possible to become a fully-functioning member of society even if you grew up in a town with only one Chinese restaurant is really effing difficult.)

However, sometimes I have experiences that inspire me, nay, swell me to the brim with pride at my non-cosmopolitan roots.

scene: Office, 10:00am. Urbanista co-workers are engaged in conversation.

Co-worker #1: Does anyone know where I could go to get a standing floor lamp?
Coworker #2: Pottery Barn?
Coworker #3: Gracious Home?
Coworker #1: Yeah, those are ok, but it’s more of a utilitarian thing.
Coworker #2: Bed, Bath & Beyond?
Coworker #1: I tried Bed, Bath & Beyond, but they sucked.
Me: What about K-Mart?

(coworkers look confused)

Coworker #3: Where?
Me: K-Mart!
Coworker #2: Ooooh, I've never been to one of those.
Coworker #1: Where would I find a K-Mart in the city?
Me: Penn Station or Astor Place.
Coworker #1: Are you s—
Me: Yes. I know where all the K-Marts are.

You hear that, elite of NYC? Keep your Dolce & Gabbana boutiques, and your Goldman Sachs bonuses, and your $1,000 dinners at Per Se. I know where your K-Marts are. And I am telling everyone.

The subway is a dangerous place

And it’s not just because the homeless like to leave little gifts around the system, either.

A few nights ago, I found myself semi-lost in the Fulton Street subway station. Somehow, in spite of having been an avid rider of the NYC subway for many years, I had never caught a train there before. (I know that even you cannot stand the shock of such an idea.) But if you’ve been there, you know that it’s one of those stacked-up stations that feature numerous train lines connected by platforms and stairways and long tunnels. It’s tricky navigation—a person trying to make a transfer between, say, the 2/3 and the J/M/Z, could wander that aluminum-railed maze until she was hopelessly lost and driven totally batshit insane by the sound of her heels clicking against the MTA institutional-issue gray tiles without ever finding the damn train.

That didn’t happen to me.

Because, I mean, why get lost when you can get... noticed?

Digression: I love this photo-- Marilyn Monroe, coincidentally standing astride a street vent, as the subway rushes through below and turns her lovely white dress into a billowing, blooming flower of flirty joy. I love how she looks—laughing, sexy, completely carefree.

Oh, Marilyn.

You are so full of shit.

I’m not 100% clear on the laws of physics that explain the ambient winds in the transit system’s subterranean enclaves. I guess, probably, that the trains rushing around are pushing beaucoup air in front of them, and it needs to find somewhere to go. Namely, up your dress. And that, my friends, is not the hysterical bliss that Marilyn would have you believe it to be.

An In-Depth Examination of What Happens When the Mighty Subway Wind Catches a Skirted Girl on a Stairway

T minus zero: Ambient breeze.
T-plus 1 second: Realize that dress is lifting of its own accord.
T-plus 2 seconds: Panic.
T-plus 2.5 seconds: Recall having seen “The Seven-Year Itch” on Turner Classic Movies during late-night bout with insomnia.
T-plus 3 seconds: Make flailing attempt at Marilyn-esque, hands-in-crotch technique to prevent exposure of ladybits.
T-plus 3.2 seconds: Realize that hands-in-crotch technique does nothing to prevent exposure of ass.
T-plus 3.3 seconds: Desperate attempt to remember whether one is wearing underwear with adequate cheek coverage.
T-plus 3.4 seconds: Underwear is tanga-style.
T-plus 3.5 seconds: Panic.
T-plus 3.6 seconds: Abandon hands-in-crotch technique in attempt to hide ass from view.
T-plus 4 seconds: Front hem of dress blows up.
T-plus 4.5 seconds: Shriek of embarrassment draws attention of passing group of Japanese businessmen.
T-plus 4.7 seconds: Drop purse in single-minded focus on preventing exposure of ass and laydbits.
T-plus 4.8 seconds: Attempt to catch purse; dress billows out on all sides causing 360-degree exposure.
T-plus 5 seconds: Purse falls down stairs. Realize there is no hope. Abandon one-hand-on-ass-and-one-in-crotch technique. Attempt to protect identity by covering face.
T-plus 5.5 seconds: Consider throwing self down stairs.
T-plus 5.6 seconds: Wind dies down.
T-plus 5.7 seconds: Remove hands from face.
T-plus 5.8 seconds: Descend stairs.
T-plus 6 seconds: Retrieve purse from hysterically laughing group of Japanese businessmen.
T-plus 6.1 seconds: Flee subway.
T-plus 6.5 seconds: Hail cab.

Pest control and current events

Text messaging between me and my roommate, early morning December 8th:

Emily, 12:30am: vivian’s on a mouse stakeout tonight. will let u know the outcome. might go bring her some coffee and donuts now.

Kat, 12:31am: No! that mouse is unarmed! it’s his bachelor party! AMADOU DIALLO!!!

Emily, 12:33am: that’s what he gets for being a black mouse in a white mouse’s world. it ain’t fair, kid.

Emily, 12:35am: oh, hang on, i think al sharpton just got here.

The road less travelled is stained and tattered.. and stained.

More news on the “how’d you get here?” front: First, very first and foremost, I am pleased to report that Googling “Leigh Lezark” is the primary impetus behind most recent visitors to pink india ink. It is not necessarily the increased traffic that pleases me (although it does), rather, it is the fact that my blog appears on the first page of search results, which means that either

1) I am almost-famous, or

2) Little Miss “Kick me, don’t lick me” Coldstare is not-so-famous as she would have us believe, which is just as good.

A close second is the following (thanks, Sitemeter!) search that brought a new friend my way, allowing me to reinstitute another issue of “Dear Googly”.

Google Search: why don’t girls get track marks in there underwear

Hoo boy.

The internet certainly is a golden utopia for the inquisitive.

Nevertheless, Dear Googly takes her job seriously, and will certainly try to answer this with as much savoir faire as can be expected, given the asker’s unfortunate confusion as to the correct spelling of the word, “their”. Oh, darling, I know that homophones can hurt. But, as to the topic at hand—why don’t girls get track marks in there (sic) underwear? Why, why, why?!

I consulted my female coworkers a panel of experts, and we reached a unanimous verdict about the conspicuous lack of stains on our snow-white undergarments—namely, we wipe.

Conscientious and habitual wiping is the best, nay, the only measure to prevent the accumulation of ass-dirt in one’s panties.

(pause)

No, no, I'm just kidding. But seriously, dude—haven’t you learned by now that girls don’t poop?!

Concern

Last night, my boyfriend called me just after 12am.
“I’m on my way home,” he said. “The Nets game just finished.”
“You sound weird, are you ok?” I said. His voice had that thick tone that, on certain people, means, I’m slow in a Lenny-from-Mice-and-Men kind of way. On Dave, however, it usually means, I’m suppressing vomit.
“I don’t feel very good.”
“Drink too much?”
“No, I just had some chicken.”
“Um,” I said.
“I’ll call you in an hour,” he said, and hung up.

This, I thought to myself, is unlikely to end well.

One hour later, my phone rang again. I flipped it open.
“Hello?”
“UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNGGHHHHHH!”
“Dave?”
“UNNNNNNNNNNNNNGH!!!!!”
“Honey? Oh, Christ… was it… is it the chicken?”
“AAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNGHGHGH… I’m so sick,” he finally said.
“Aw, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can d—“
“UNNNRGGGRRugurglesnnnnRRRGH.”
“Ok,” I said. “I guess I’ll just talk to you tomorrow, then? You’re sure you don’t need me to come over?”
“Yeah. No. It’s fine.”
“Ok.”
“I have to go.” There was some more groaning, and then the chirpy sound of my phone indicating that I was no longer connected.

Well, ok.

But, I have not heard from Dave since. His phone is turned off, which I can only assume means that he’s spent the day sleeping after spending all night spewing the remains of bad chicken from both ends. (Oh, yeah, that’s gross, but if you’ve had food poisoning before, you know that it’s not nearly gross enough. I haven’t even come CLOSE to detailing the special hell of it—namely, lying on the bathroom floor in a cold sweat, groaning, and trying to predict which orifice will be the next to erupt.)

As something of a worrier, I’m doing my best to resist the worst-case scenario that my brain has so kindly supplied-- namely, that the bad chicken has not only incapacitated Dave, but killed him.

We’ll see how well that works out.

One thing for sure, however—If I were you, I’d stay away from the food at Madison Square Garden for the time being. You know… just in case.

This is where I've been

Dear friends,

I'm sure that the three people who read this blog with any regularity are sorely disappointed in my recent lack of posts. It's not that I don't have anything to say, it's just that I haven't had the spare time to write it down in any coherent way.

And I think we can all agree that coherent posts are the best posts.

So, I intend on writing this week (and I just bought a computer that is in my house which means that I can post anytime I want from now on). But, for right now, I'd like to offer an explanation for my recent absence.

The explanation is: I sing in a band. We aren't particularly great, but that doesn't matter, because we make up in liver failure what we lack in musical fortitude. And I have been spending nearly all my spare time with my band, because on Friday night, we had a gig at a lovely little lounge in Brooklyn, for which we have been preparing with singleminded determination in twice-or-thrice-weekly practices, and which was, in the words of Borat, a "great success", and...

Oh, to hell with it. What I'm trying to say is, I've been busy doing more important things:

There. Yes, that's me (with McCarthy-era eyeball censor bar). And that is a beer in my hand, and that is my tongue making an awkward and oddly-timed exit from my mouth. I am about 85% sure that I was singing the chorus to "Brown-Eyed Girl". SHA la la LA la la la LA LA la LA-TEE-DA!

And now that I've had my fun, I'll get back to the business of entertaining YOU. Much love to all.