HAPPY NEW YEAR *\o/*

2005 Was A Great Year Because...

1. I met Superfly in February
2. I got together with old friends and made some new ones, courtesy JDate
3. Peace finally was brokered between myself and my ex-husband
4. Treatment for my illness became no big whoop
5. My stalker in Colorado found a new person to admire
6. I came to terms with many issues and learned to move the hell on
7. My karaoke singing reached spectacular heights
8. I learned how to paddle an outrigger canoe
9. My little kids started writing me cards and letters
10. Trouble Jr. is on the honor roll and otherwise totally got herself together, causing me to actually beam with pride.
11. My relationship with my parents improved greatly once I imagined them at my age, struggling and mostly clueless, like me.
12. I started a blog that allows me to vent like a motherfucking volcano, bitch. :)
13. I wrote a childrens book, and an outline and several chapters of a caper.
14. Superfly and I have a karaoke company. We have, like, 700+ songs! And our first gig!
15. LB just kept on being fabulous, all year long.
16. The Rack got a new car, kicked ass in school, and now has a boyfriend. Woot!
17. The Marty show went to England
18. Twatwaffle Jones and I had a falling-out, but she is and always will be the damn funniest JDate chatter of all time.
19. Superfly got an awesome new job.
20. I got Ferrero Rocher for Chanukah, bitches.

Happy Chanukah

Here's to miracles.

Coulrophobia

CAN'T SLEEP, CLOWNS WILL EAT ME
CAN'T SLEEP, CLOWNS WILL EAT ME

I hate clowns. Even looking at the word skeeves me out.

There was no circus trauma early in my life. In fact, my mother reports my fear of clowns from toddlerhood. I was a teenager when "Stephen King's It" came out, but when I watched the beginning of that TV movie, I thought I was going to die: My heart beat crazily, my hair stood on end, I cried, I froze.

Theories abound as to why 8-10% of people are frightened of clowns, and a whole side business opened up in therapy to treat this phobia. I think I'll just continue to avoid them, keep a low profile. I don't want them knowing where I sleep!

It's not stealing, it's...uh, borrowing!

This is the cutest blog accessory. I got here where the blogger chose a 'lil pink piggy to stand in for his ex. Theirs was a vicious blog-battle that's really none of anybody's business, I suppose. I love this hedgehog, don't you?

More!

Giddyness from a promised end to the transit strike (I know, I know, I don't work, so why do I care? I need to go to the Hello Kitty store in Times Square, ok? Plus, Superfly has to schlep to the UWS, poor darling) and even more elation from two straight nights of sleep has me in a pleasant mood. Quick, get the smelling salts!

I'm going on back to the "Things you Don't Know" thingy, a straight-up ripoff of my lovely friend LB.

More Random Things About Me I'll Share on My Blog:

1. I know football better than Bo.

2. There's nothing I don't absolutely love about Disco.

3. I'm a super good skier, but can't snowboard to save my damn life.

4. Drinking coffee every morning since 8th grade.

5. I dig porn.

6. I am addicted to online Mah Jong Solitaire.

7. I am inclined to use cartoon voices in normal conversation.

8. Only my father can beat me at Jeopardy! or Scrabble, so bring it on.

9. I am OCD about stuff like clothes hangers and bedding. Otherwise, I can be an alarming slob. However, when I clean something, it gets clean within an inch of its life.

10. When I actually have money to buy them, I buy the BEST Chanukah gifts. For instance, my 7-year old mini-Trouble got a mini Les Paul electric guitar with amp and all the other crap. It's freaking awesome. I wish I could be there to see her face! Thank you, Superfly.

Perchance to sleep

So, while I weathered a full week of insomnia (see: side effects post), I stared at the ceiling and listened to such 3:00 sounds as the subway rumbling deep underground and the click of the streetlights changing color, and wondered about other people sleeping. Do most people pull up the covers, shut their eyes, and just do to sleep? Do other folks have a ritual, like I do?

I also had extended lotto fantasies, but that's another blog. I have knock-out drops now, so I finally slept through the night. What I want to know from you is, do you have a sleep ritual? Care to share? What do you do when sleep won't come?

Dear Mr. Bush

If eavesdropping and otherwise spying on American citizens "saved lives", praytell whose lives were saved, exactly?

If it's a matter of "national security", would you mind terribly proving it?

Just a friendly reminder, a previous President was impeached after only wiretapping his political rivals. When you admit authorizing the decision to spy on private citizens--well, how is that ok?

Did we become a totalitarian government while I was napping? CIA changed its acronym to KGB? Mr. Bush, echoing Mr. Stalin, dispatching the enemies he saw all around him, instilling in his country an unprecedented level of fear and hopelessness?

If the CIA is involved in clever covert operations, wouldn't it better serve national security and save more lives if it was directed at, say, pesky foreign governments? One sharpshooter can accomplish a lot.

Lastly, you're a lame duck president with an awful legacy. Nothing you do now will change this fact, and the sooner you accept it, the better. You look desperate on TV, (admittedly, an improvement over your usual short-bus appearances) not like a confident world leader. It's all backpedalling, diversion tactics, and finger-pointing in the wrong direction.

My advice: Think less about your approval rating, your nutjob pals on the right fringe, and your legacy, instead focus your attention and efforts on what you can do for your country. For all Americans, not just those who blindly support you.

Friends Hitting the Big Time

Have you experienced this? Maybe not even a close friend, but an acquaintance, or someone who went to your high school, maybe?

Many of my friends, acquaintances, and high school alumnae have gone on to greatness. There's the old (think: jr. high) boyfriend who is a rock star; another old boyfriend who is a big shot at the Extreme Games, yet another boyfriend who is now at the forefront of nanotechnology, and many who just went on to become successful accountants, lawyers, doctors, what have you.

In my own nano-fame period, when I published a chick 'zine in Denver, CO, I ran in to many of the above-mentioned folk around town. Often, it was while I was bartending. That's how I raised money for my magazine. Anyway, they'd come in to the bar and either be cool or be white-suburbanites-drinking-tee-many-martoonis. They'd ask for my number, saying, "We should totally go out sometime! You're cool!"

These guys would often come in, always as shitfaced as a human can be without actually expiring on the spot. They started a 'zine, too. It's what you did in the '90s, don't you know. The pulpy covers, the hysterical story ideas and sure-to-offend guides to drunkness were and are a big hit with the hipsters and barhounds of Denver. We considered doing a Hootchie-Mama/Modern Drunkard edition (with accompanying co-ed bar-crawling event), but it never came to fruition. Pity.

Here it is 2006, almost, and here is old Frank Rich, married and successfully published, joking around with Tucker Carlson.

"Skeletor" Begs for Attention

Although my personal politics (though not my voting) tend more towards the conservative side, I find each and every right-wing/neocon blabbermouth (politicians, spinners, newsfolk) beyond the pale.

Example: Who, exactly, is Ann "Skeletor" Coulter trying to gain attention from in this latest barf-fest of an article?

It isn't the voters, that's for damn sure. As far as I can tell, this republiwhore aims to tickle a few belly laughs out of the roly-poly right-wing/neocon movers-and-shakers she spreads for. Good for you, Skelly.

I'll bet a lot of Americans agree with me: when the choice is between repugnant and dangerous Republicans, and pathetic, neutered Democrats, the answer is, who cares? In the next Presidential election, I sure hope the Demmies win. It's definitely time to clean house in D.C.

Karl Rove- gotta go
Dick Cheney- gotta go
Condi Rice-- gotta go
All Bush -- gotta go
All NeoCons--deprogrammed and rehabilitated

Ah! That felt good!

Why I am Crazy (No, Really)

Following are the combined side effects reported for the three medications I must take every day:

Discomfort, Abdominal Pain, Tremor, Nausea, Agitation, Nervousness, Vertigo, Anxiety, Irritability, Muscle weakness, Constipation, Headache, Fine hand tremor, Diarrhea, Insomnia, Fatigue, Dizziness, Thirst, Dry Mouth, Loss of Appetite, Polyuria, Heart Palpitations, Leg cramps, Confusion,Increased Urination, Menstrual irregularities, Disorientation,Insomnia, Fever, Muscle twitches, Muscle Soreness, Sweating, Hyper-reflexia, Nausea, Heat sensitivity, Nystagmus, Rash/Acne, Weight Loss, Weight Gain, Seizures, Ear Ringing,Sore Throat, Vomiting, Sweating, Coma, Death

This is what I risk every day. It's like pharmacological Russian Roulette.

*spin* Oh, just a headache, bring it on!

*spin* Acne? Big whoop. One word: Proactiv.

*spin* 15 stubborn excess pounds? Now that hurts. Ok, enough!

*spin* Insomnia? But I already missed three nights sleep! Stop!

When it's all of the above at once, I really have to talk myself into believing I'm better off on medication than off.

And people wonder why I am such a queenhell bitch? Be me for a day, smartass.

This is where I praise and adore Superfly for not only putting up with me, but being caring and supportive and, best of all, aware. Living with someone who is bipolar can be nerve-wracking and it takes a strong person to do it. He is a rock. I'm so very lucky--just know I fell in love with him for him, long before the "Hi, I'm crazy!" confession took place.

Anyway, just in a sharing mood.

Wacky President of Iran

Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, like Mel Gibson's Pop, believes the Holocaust is a myth. Mahmoud further suggests Israel either be moved to Europe, where this myth originated and is perpetuated, or be "blown off the map".

According to the story, Europe responded with appropriate gasping and a theatrical grabbing of one's chest. Germany and France issued statements hinting this might maybe possibly create a problem for Iran in the UN's ongoing discussions of Iran's request for uranium and bomb parts.

I'm really irritated with this Mahmoud guy, too. He totally stole my idea of having the enormous Arab nations surrounding Israel absorb the unhappy Israeli Arabs, instead of perpetuating this myth of "Palestine".

Where is a friggin sniper when you need one? Where did they all go? I wish, and hope, and pray for snipers, but none ever appear. Well, that deranged DC sniper. What an idiot! He's a skilled sniper living near DC, and he shoots regular people? I give up.

Spielberg has a movie coming out, "Munich". Already the world press is complaining about "inaccuracies" and a general making-Palestinians-look-bad feeling to the movie. I'm a big fan of Mossad. Those piece of shit Arabs murdered Israeli athletes at the Olympics. Damn straight you hunt them down and kill them.

We assume the rest of the world ought to understand and appreciate our legal system as The Way Things Ought to Be, but 3/4ths of the world don't and won't. Terrorist organizations know and exploit the weakness in our system with comic regularity. No trial, no jail, the answer to what to do with terrorists is kill them.

Starting with Hussein, quickly followed by Ahmadinejad. Any Arab standing around with a gun, or strapped with explosives, should be put on notice. Make my Day.

I still do not support the war, or our own retarded President; I'm just a fan of snipers and other covert assassinations.

Which side do you think Mel Gibson is going to come out on?

NYE 05 Edition

What are your plans?

In previous years, I've volunteered to work NYE, because it's a bartender's dream. This year, Superfly and I are semi-working NYE: we're doing potluck, champagne, and karaoke at some friends' house.

Why? Drunken amateurs. Sobriety checkpoints. Great unwashed masses. NY's Rockin' Eve on TV. That stupid Auld Lang Syne song. The joy of choosing who you spend NYE with, most of all.

You can't make me care about Christmas, and Chanukah is for the kids, so I'm wishing you lovely and talented readers of my dumb blog a damn joyous New Year, ok?

What's the most fun you had on NYE?

For me, it was the Millenium, but not because I went to some glitzy shindig. No, Mother Trouble was 8 1/2 months pregnant on December 31, 1999. Damn near had a Millenium Baby (my son has lifetime LeapFrog presents and lifetime Harlem Globetrotters tickets for being born in Jan. 2000!)

What was fun about it was everyone around us stocking up on generators, bottled water, and freeze-dried bananas for the impending disaster. Women would gasp at me in the grocery store or wherever (I did resemble an olive on a toothpick, but that's another story)and make the sign of the cross on their chests. Poor woman! Having a baby right as the world is going to end!

Our next door neighbors even pulled all their money out of bank accounts and bought a gun to protect themselves from the roaming gangs that would surely bypass the surrounding wealthy neighborhoods to hit their house on our blue collar block.

Absurdity really amuses me. So much so that my mind was momentarily relieved from hating my husband and from lotto fantasies. I celebrated that New Year's Eve with a kung fu fetus, a bottle of Perrier, the cat asleep on my ginormous belly, the dog asleep across my feet, and a good book. The hated husband in question was in the basement, playing his online computer game and the other children were blissfully asleep.

Right before midnight he came upstairs, asked if anything interesting was happening, and then flipped on the TV. I think even the newscasters and Dick Clark were a teensy bit worried about being out in humanity as the minutes ticked off towards doomsday. The ball fell, the people cheered, and all the clocks on eletrical devices in our home (picture a Best Buy store in a living room)clicked over to 12:01.

He cackled and turned the TV to Cartoon Network. I waddled off to bed, smugly looking forward to all the back-pedalling and aw-shucks from all the lunatics I knew.

Another Reason Not to Date a Celebrity

"Matt Damon weds ex-bartender in NYC"
"Matt Damon knocks up, marries ex-bartender"


Not "Matt Damon weds long-time girlfriend Luciana Barroso (sp. varies in reports)in a civil ceremony in New York City."

This girl deserves better. Isn't Matt Damon an ex-struggling nobody actor?

By this morning, the same internet news outlets that posted the above changed their heds to "Matt Damon weds girlfriend". Better, but she still deserves to have her name in there somewhere, instead of a generic title or, worse, a snark about some job she used to have.

I was a bartender for six long years. I was a single mom. I have a lot more respect and admiration for Luciana than I do for Harvard boy and phenomenally lucky person Matt Damon.

The same is true for Nicolas Cage's new wife. "Former Waitress" is always somewhere near her name, Alice. I don't know much about Alice, but I do know that waitressing is a Hell of a lot harder than jumping from Beverly Hills High into an acting career, Mr. Coppola.

But these women will still be asked, "Hey, you, can I get one of him by himself?" at red carpet events by the vomitous papparazzi. Her role is to be the nobody date.

Clearly, I don't know, but I'm guessing some celebs like to date and marry nobodies to stay "grounded". I hope the money and allure of star-fucking is worth it for those nobody women, who are probably lots more interesting than their mates.

Let's say you're dating a celebrity. Which of your former crap jobs will the press leech onto in defining you?

I have a lot, but I'll go with: "Joaquin Phoenix and his older, ex-Jazzercise instructor girlfriend"

What a picture.

In Other News...

It appears that The Erudite Bouncer removed his blog from the blogosphere. A shame, really, his was a unique perspective and I enjoyed his writing.

I doubt he ever checks into the World of Trouble, but on the off-chance you do: I wish you the best in writing your book and taking on the publishing world. Don't let the turkeys get you down. Just look at them and think of Thanksgiving.

Snow Blows

...and I ain't talking about Kate Moss!

Nice blizzard we've got here. Poor Superfly had no choice but to schlep out in this gunk. He can expect to freeze half-to-death walking to the subway, endure elbow-to-asshole crowds on the train and delays as long as 20 minutes, and wet shoes and hems.

Not me. In the words of BTO:

If you find yourself annoyed
Look at me, I'm self-employed
I like to work at nothing all day
And I'll be taking care of business...

TCB, baby, TCB.

You know, I've despised snow since my earliest memories of being dragged out to Colorado as a child. No amount of fun skiing or playing snow football can possibly match the grinch-like hatred I have for stupid snowflakes.

Today's rant is brought to you by last night and this morning's incredibly terrifying nightmares. Good day to you.

Nyquil and Kleenex and Tea, oh my!

I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

(cough! cough!)

When you're in bed with the covers drawn up, watching "Judge Alex" and making a wadded-up tissue mountain on the floor, what cheers you up?

(sniff)

For me, today, it's Superfly, USWeekly, online Mah Jongg solitaire, and Ferrero Rocher.

My Trip to the Deli and Xenophobia

White running a few errands today, bundled up and sniffly, I walked past a deli and got a sudden hankering for a real-deal deli sammich. I went in and looked around at the people staring at me. The Mamma (I could tell she was the Mamma because she wore a flowered dress and an apron--just like on TV) asked me, "Whaddya want?" I told her, in between sniffles, I wanted a sammich. She leaned on the deli case and extolled the virtues of the various meat logs on display. Despite some strong-arming on her part towards buffalo spicy turkey and jalapeno Jack cheese, I settled on an ordinary turkey and Provolone on Rye, and yes, put everything on it.

Mamma popped her son, who was minding his own business of sammich-eating at a table, upside the head to go and make my sammich already. Gave him a weak smile and wandered off to the corner. No choice but to eavesdrop on the heavyset lady holding court in the center of the deli.

She's talking about how you can't tell what type a person is just by looking at them anymore. Using herself as an example, she asks no one in particular to guess her heritage. I say nothing, but think: Irish. She's got that look about her. Since no one guesses, she reveals that she is of Norweigan and Italian descent, with a little French-Canadian and Irish (ha!) thrown in.

A young guy peeps, "I'm Turkish and Ecuadorian!" And people murmur about that not being surprising, since there's a lot of Turks in the neighborhood. The guy quickly points out Turks aren't that kind of Arab. The guy making my sammich can't believe his friend is part Turkish--so is he, only Turkish/Italian. His Mamma, who I wager is the Italian part of this equation, speaks halting Spanish to a young woman who's come in with her three little kids, looking for a job.

The young guy tells the heavyset woman he thought she was Jewish, on account of her big nose. She looks sidelong at me, decides the coast is clear, and asserts to the guy with a pointed finger that there's no Jews in her family tree.

I wince, but decline comment. This isn't Williamsburg, after all, this is Bay Ridge. We Heebs make up a very small portion of the populace. There are still plenty of Italians in Tony Manero's old stomping ground, but times changed and lots of Arab people moved in. I've seen so many women walking around in full Burkha that it doesn't faze me anymore. They usually give ME the hairy eyeball, as if I'm the weird one walking down a Brooklyn Avenue.

Now, I will admit to being rather xenophobic, but galdarnit, I'm trying. The fat lady at the deli is calling herself, and everyone else in the deli but me, a "mutt". I grab my sammich and take my Irish-French-Jewish-Native American-Scottish self out of there.

Isn't that what it means to be American? What are the ingredients in your family melting pot? Do you look like you oughta?

Blogger is Eating My Posts

Please visit again later. Thank you! --The Management

Wile E. Trouble, Super Genius, Part Deux

In my efforts to raise awareness of, and promote healthy beginnings for, the scary rail-thin women of America who suffer cocaine/speed addiction and eating disorders in order to pull off the human hat rack/balloon look, I propose a t-shirt. All proceeds will benefit the sad victims of this wrongheaded ailment (in the form of a double-double and a shake). This brilliant Tshirt shall read:

"FEED THE SKELETARTS"

Celebrity

Thinking about the last post got me wandering off on a tangent about the idea of celebrity.

Look around: Are you sure you want to be rich and famous?

Don't you roll your eyes at famous people who complain about the photographers and other media preventing them from having a "normal" life?

Granted, most of the time the people criticizing said celebrities are gagging to be in their very Manolos. People that become famous for gossiping about famous people, for example. Think they don't wet themselves when a photog screams out their name? Think they don't pitch a hissyfit to get a good table? Think they don't go to the hot clubs and A-list parties in their fervent efforts towards boldfacedom? Then do they not turn around and mock wannabe celebs for doing the exact same things?

Curious and absurd. What is everyone really looking for? Is it an affliction, and are there antibiotics available for treatment?

It may be worse in the publishing world, I fear. Everyone is a writer whose work is destined for greatness, don'tcha know. Agents and publishing houses are the twin heads of Cerberus and must be met and defeated (or tamed, if you are a Flavor of the Week--already famous for some dumb shit you pulled and got away with) before descending into the underworld of book publishing. If you are so lucky to be published and book tour'd and talk show'd and rich, the jealous set on you like a pack of hyaenas. Senseless literary career tragedies abound, but we march our lemming selves off the cliff just the same.

Cannot explain Paris Hilton, still. I mean, she's just a rich kid. I despise and also feel sorry for rich kids. Haven't met one yet that wasn't a complete waste of carbon.

Your own musings on the concepts of celebrity, fame, fortune, and Starbucks Gingerbread lattes are appreciated!

Paris Hilton Rant

Am I the only person looking at this girl and thinking: take away the money, the spray-tan, and the couture, and you've got yourself one butt-ugly, lazy-eyed slut?

She's dumber than a box of hair and twice as mean. Void of talent, she's known for appearing on red carpets and posing for pictures. Lots of "projects" on the way from the barest heiress, not counting adopting weird pets like that kinkajou and Kimberly Stewart.

I just want to know why. Why is she? Everyone else at her level of fame has actually done something worthwhile. She isn't beautiful, her body resembles a hatrack, she's stupid, and she does absolutely nothing all day, every day. Even her scandals are boring, because she didn't have an image to mar. I don't thing she should be allowed to get away with this anymore.

Aside: I cannot wait for the backlash against the scary-thin women fad. I'm popping Ferrero Rochers in anticipation and solidarity with non-skeletal woman everywhere.

Disclaimer: I binge celeb gossip every morning. Page Six! US Weekly! Eonline! Gawker! Defamer! Woo!