Hmm, perhaps I am a sick freak

"I know, right? What kind of a sick mind would think that a chain of butcher shops inspired by Ed Gein was a good idea?"

Actually, maybe the question should be, "What kind of a sick mind even thought to allude to Ed Gein as a caption for this contest?"

For those of you who aren't familiar, the above is the cartoon from this week's New Yorker caption contest. Every week on the last page of their issue, The New Yorker publishes a cartoon without a caption, and invites the readers to submit their own. The hundreds (dozens?) of contenders are competing for, well I don't really know, but I'm betting the prize The New Yorker awards to the winner pales in comparison to the fact that winners get to brag about their caption being chosen. I mean c'mon - if my caption were to ever be chosen (not that I've ever sent mine in...their all humorless bastards anyways...don't know a good caption when they see it! Their content to just let captions that people put their sweat and tears into flounder in the pile! Um, ahem), I'd totally eschew the year's supply of Rice-a-Roni to just carry around the issue my caption was published in and shove it in every passerby's face, declaring, "Look! The New Yorker, one of the most intelligent and intellectual magazines written today, deems ME as witty and clever!" (Rightfully, the passerby would then pummel me with his/her issue of Cat Fancy)

And I can't even be honored for being the first to think of writing an anti-caption. Seinfeld made fun of New Yorker cartoons back in 1998, and every week, Daniel Radosh features his own anti-caption contest on his blog.

But I was a bit taken aback when, as I first laid eyes on this week's New Yorker contest cartoon, I thought of alluding to Ed Gein. What kind of a sick freak am I? One of my first posts on this blog was about how The Aristocrats joke could serve as a Rorschach test, and now I'm thinking the same holds true for the New Yorker caption contest.

Then again, the cartoon takes place at a butcher shop, there appears to be dancing Rockettes sitting in the meat counter, and weirdly, there is a hacksaw hanging in the background. An allusion to Ed Gein - or any other demented serial killer - seems inevitable. Maybe a Patrick Bateman reference is more current?

So obviously I can't send my Ed Gein caption into The New Yorker - how about this one?

"Using the meat counter as advertising space brings in WAY more money than the ground chuck ever did."

Sigh. I'm never gonna win that caption contest.

I want to be a nude model

As some of you know, I recently started a new job. This past week was my first with the new company, and HO.LY. SHIT. The amount of information I have absorbed, and the fast-pace of this work environment, has me seriously contemplating if I have gotten in over my head.

Just to indicate how dire the situation is - I don't even know what this company does. Are you computing that? I was hired to help them compete in their industry and keep the company functioning at peak performance, and I don't even know what they do!!!! I'm learning the ropes, the terminology and jargon is slightly less greek to me than it was five days ago, but after waking up at 6:30 am, working for 12 hours straight, then stumbling back home around 9 pm, I'm barely able to digest and organize all the information that was thrown at me.

And it's even more than not thinking I can do the job - I don't know as if I want to do the job. Or any job that requires me to stay on top of 20 things at once, work 60+ hours a week, then feel like a zombie when I finally plop my ass on my couch.

This is why nude modeling has all of a sudden become an ideal profession to me.

My body isn't bad. I don't think it's Playboy ready, but I have the goods so that if I wanted to pose for Playboy, all I'd need to do is work out and tone up for a few months, and then Mr. Hefner might seriously consider putting me in his magazine. My boobs are already Playboy ready, not to sound like a raging narcissist, but every guy or girl who ever had the privilege of laying eyes on them has confessed that my breasts are beautiful. And on top of how gorgeous they are, they're natural. The genes I inherited made me struggle with acne (which has cleared up fairly well, BTW), but hey, I got a nice rack. Genes are very give and take.

Nude modeling - or any profession that required one to use their body as an object - always seemed below me. I eschewed the premise of not using my mind to earn a living because being intelligent and knowledgeable is the highest achievement anyone could pursue. Not to mention, intelligence is sustainable, whereas looks are not. It takes a lot of plastic surgery to nude model when you're 40.

But now I feel like a massive moron for not using what God gave me to bank some buck when my body was at the zenith of its suppleness. I have finally come to the conclusion that nude models are the most intelligent people in the world - they are hot AND they are geniuses. They realize that money means the difference between a good life and a bad life, and if you want a good life, why be proud? Why spout off about the integrity of intelligence and the goodness in bettering your mind, why bother to be an intellectual when it doesn't matter AT ALL how smart you are if you're living under an overpass and eating out of dumpsters?

And even beyond being smart - why force yourself to work 60+ hours a week for the good life when all you need do is take your clothes off and earn the same amount?

Well, most nude models probably don't make the same amount of money as say my boss, but they can earn enough to at least live comfortably - and all they have to do is stretch out on crushed velor blankets while naked! Jesus, I'd love to lay naked on crushed velor, but I can't afford crushed velor, and I don't have the time to lay naked on crushed velor! So to imagine doing so while getting paid for it - now that is the good life.

I used to think nude models, porn stars, and strippers were deluded and sad when they'd say things like, "I LOVE what I do for a living. It's the best job in the world!" But now I can see that I always thought like that so I could feel better about the path I chose, the path to be an intellectual instead of an object.

There's gotta be some downsides to earning a living as a sex symbol - I better see some in the comments before I decide to move to Cali and get a job as Maggie Gyllenhaal's titty double.

UPDATE: It is Sunday, and I have spent the past 7.5 hours working on this huge proposal my company has due tomorrow afternoon. And it's my first week. KILL ME PLEASE.

It's gettin, it's gettin, it's gettin kinda hectic

Thank you Jebus for making November 4th right around the corner, because I think when I say that I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS FUCKING ELECTION, I echo the sentiments of many. The Obama vs. McCain epic has soaked up everyone's energy, and the 2008 presidential election has been on most liberals minds ever since Bush got reelected in 2004. That's four years - four years of speculating, debating and praying that Americans be given the right candidate to fix all of Bush's fuck-ups.

Last week I became embroiled in a fairly volatile email exchange with some friends from back home (Ohio). Maybe I shouldn't have demonstrated my disgust for a mass anti-Obama email a pal sent out by cc'ing everyone on the list (many of whom I didn't know) and stating that McCain was a crazy old man and that everyone who voted for Bush in the last two elections owe Americans and the rest of the world big time for his fuck-ups. But if you're going to send out a political email one week before the election, particularly one that was full of inaccuracies as this anti-Obama email, then you have to be prepared for the backlash.

So I cc'd everyone on the list, and two receivers (of whom I attended high school with) decided to respond to me by accusing me of being an ignorant lazy socialist, and one of them (who used to babysit me, actually) went so far as to accuse me of being anti-American and suggested I move to another country.

I won't go into the details on how I layed the verbal smackdown on these two idiots, but just to demonstrate how badly the McCain campaign has it right now, I will say that one of them used a doctored photo to prove her point. Like, come on - this is what McCain supporters are forced to rely on to defend their candidate?

But the fact is, I got into a bitter argument with people I grew up with, and it went beyond the political - there were some harsh, personal attacks thrown back and forth, and I'll never be able to look at these girls the same again, as I'm sure they view me. Political debate should never get that dirty amongst friends, but it is especially inevitable in this election - there is so much on the line, and so much passion for those who really believe

So I am ready to bid you adieu, presidential election 2008. It was a fun, bumpy ride, one full of intrigue, disappointment, disbelief, rebelief and tears (yeah, I might have cried a few times, don't judge). But my mind has been sapped, and my energy is not infinite. The last bit I have left will be spent on Tuesday, when I'll be wringing my hands and checking the polls and grasping for every piece of political news and expert opinion I can. How it all ends will dictate my next big move - either streaking through the streets on a champagne-induced drunk, or starting the next American revolution.

Life update: Everything has changed!

ONCE AGAIN, I have been severely delinquent on my blogging. In the almost two weeks since my last post, a lot has changed, and my time has been monopolized with composing the new life on which I'm about to embark.

Previously I lamented the fact that my employer was going to cut back my hours to part-time, and since I could not survive working part-time, I had to find a new job. I was scared, folks, and worried out of my fucking skull. Given today's job market, and the fact that thousands in the NYC metro area are getting laid off (or about to be laid off), it seemed that finding other means of employment would be nil for a girl with less than two years of professional experience under her belt. And without a trust fund to fall back on, a month of no work would prove to be disastrous.

But I found a job, and though it's a corporate gig (therefore Satan incarnate, or so I've been told), it pays way better than my previous employer ever could have, plus I get health benefits, and the option to partake in the company's profit-sharing. How I found the job and procured it is amazing, because it really does have a lot to do with time and place and circumstance (and NOTHING to do with who I knew). In his essay Here is New York, E.B White confides to the reader that New York can be a dubious place to live and that "no one should come to New York to live unless they are willing to be lucky." That line resonates much more now after analyzing the way in which I found my new employer.

That's not to say that it was all dependent on luck; I had to go on three separate interviews for this gig! It is was gut-wrenching waiting to hear back from them, and every day without an answer was making me sick.

But now that weight is off - whew!

When I wasn't tearing my hair out and puking from anxiety, I was in the midst of moving into a new apartment! The bf and I found a great space with a backyard and jacuzzi bathtub, and it's actually cheaper than the apartment that I just moved out of. I'm not completely moved in yet, but it's getting there. Can I get the readers' opinions on this wallpaper sample - it might be a little too retro for the funk I'm going for in the living room (it'll go on just one wall, mind you!)

SO that is the life update - I now promise to get back to blogging about weird, over-sharey and inappropriate things on a regular basis.

Mrs. P, stop keeping me awake at night!

I have a fairly reliable long-term memory. In fact, one of my earliest memories is from when I was in diapers (and no, I'm not talking about that crazy time with the football team, the goat, and the box of Depends). It is brief, but I can conjure an image of myself in our living room with big white furniture, donning red footie pajamas and a fresh set of Huggies.

My excellent long-term memory is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, when a debate arises about something that happened years ago, I deftly settle the score and get the record straight by recalling the incident with detailed accuracy. This pisses my mother off on a regular basis. She will bring up a story from my childhood, and even though I love her, she has no right to retell certain events so that she comes out of it looking like the paradigm of superb child-raising - so I call her out. One day a year or so ago, she was telling a friend how understanding and open she was when it came to my sister and I going to college. "I always told them, no they didn't have to go to college for all four years, but they had to give it at least one year to see if it was meant for them. They had to at least give it a chance."

When I overheard my mother say this, I interrupted, as rude as it might have been. "No you didn't!" I cried. "You never gave us that choice - we were going to graduate from college, and that was final in your book."

"Oh no, I distinctly told you and your sister that you only had to go for one year -"

"Na-uhhhhh!" And this is where I broke into a tiresome diatribe concerning all the minute aspects of every conversation she'd ever had with me about college.

Aside from the inane minutia about the past I like to throw up in people's faces, there are other negative symptoms incurred by my elephantitus brain. The injustices suffered at the hands of my ego-maniacal elementary school teachers constantly haunt me, ghosts from the past that probably most people forget, but I replay in my mind when it has nothing to do but think. So I am starting a recurring column where I expound a crime committed against me by one of my teachers. This, I think, will serve as a bit of therapy for me (though the readers might find it hard to relate to...oh well, one of the perks of writing a blog is that you can be as self-indulgent and boring as you want!) Conversely, feel free to use to comment section to bitch about that waddle-necked bitch you had in primary school who always found a way to make your life miserable.

The Perp: Mrs. P, my second-grade teacher

The Crime: Being a screechy bitch-vulture who taught bad penmanship

My second-grade classmates and I were learning cursive, and the letter of the day was T. As customary for primary school, we were working on wide-ruled, triple-lined paper, where the middle line bifurcates the space between the top and bottom lines with a level dash. This effectively makes the writing area vertically symmetrical.

As we all know, lower-case cursive t's are not only shorter than their upper-case counterparts, but the two lines that make-up the character are perpendicular like a cross, not a plus sign. Because Mrs. P was a bizzaro penmanship nazi, she insisted that we write our lower-case cursive t's so that they touched the top line, AND she wanted the middle line of the t to meet the middle dashed line (are you people following this? Even I'm starting to get cross-eyed from this description). Essentially, she demanded that we make them look like the retarded bastard cousin of what a real lower-case cursive t should look like.

We knew she was wrong. We ignorant second-graders knew this woman was giving into the demands of our wide-ruled baby paper, and we weren't having it. Several of us approached her desk. "But that's not what it looks like," we told her. "Look at what it looks like in our primer books." (Of course we didn't say "primer books," we were seven for chrissakes, but bear with me here)

"No!" she squawked. "Your writing has to match the paper! Do it the way I say!" (What gets me the most, with every complaint I have about my elementary school teachers, is that they felt totally entitled to scream, yell, bark, snarl and gnash at us kids, even when we approached them with subdued temperament. And yes, THAT is how it always went down - the calm children-Davids against the crazy frothing teacher-Goliaths. Remember, my long-term memory is magical and all-knowing, so OF COURSE these stories are being described to you with unfailing accuracy)

Despite the massive evidence we had against her theory - didn't she realize it was just lines on paper, not to mention a format of writing paper that we would never use again after the second grade? - we complied with her batshit penmanship demands. To this day, I lie awake at night wishing I'd known just the right words to say to lay the smack down on Mrs. P for this indiscretion. Though I eventually learned how to write a cursive t properly, I'll always feel the pain from the injustice I and my classmates were dealt that fateful day in second grade.

Why I've been MIA

In case you were all too busy mourning at the feet of the Pieta in light of the massive downturn our economy has taken, let me inform you that I haven't blogged for a week. A week!!!! That's kind of unlike me. Oddly, I feel some sense of duty to the handful of friends, acquaintances and strangers who read this blog, and a week of absence is like a tender promise being broken. I have failed you sorely.

Oh but then again, I found out last week that my hours are being cut back, and it sent me into a job-searching frenzy. So I guess I had the right to not give a shit about this blog OR the pseudo promise I was breaking. The readers are on the low end of the totem pole when it comes to my priorities (unless you can get me a job, and in that case, when can I start blowing you or painting your garage?)

With regards to the job front: It's not ALL that bad. Yet. My hours are only being cutback, so it's not like I'm going to be destitute. I've got a job interview on Tuesday, and I have a couple good leads, one of which I will be eating dinner with on Wednesday night. Also, there's the boyfriend, and the boyfriend knows I don't like to have sex when I'm hungry. So be assured that I'll stay well-fed.

But these are tough times, and it's an especially tough time to find a job in New York. Too easily this job hunt could turn into a futile, aggravating journey, a journey where the only thing I discover about myself is that I hate everyone and everything and have a penchant for drinking cheap whiskey from a brown paper bag while standing next to a burning oil drum.

Or maybe I'll find a SWEET job, one that pays better than my current employer ever did, and I'll make more money than I ever imagined, AND THEN this employer will open the door to the industry that I really want to work in, and because I didn't have any money in the stock market, I'll end up coming out better from this economic disaster than anyone else. Do you think? Could it be? Believe it and be it, believe it and be it! Ok, I believe; in order to prove to myself how much I believe, I'm going to rack up my credit card with a bunch of debt since surely I'll be a rich woman in 3 months time.

Sidenote: I realize that once before on this blog, I spelled Valium (as in the pills) like volume, as in how loud or soft you play your music. I just wanted to clarify that I am not a full-on idiot, I just have spurts of retardation where I misspell simple, everyday words. Don't even get me started on how often I misspell the word suttle.

It's starting to look a lot like Christmas because retailers are trying to sell us shit

I am not a doll designer...nor would I want to insult anyone who put their heart and soul into sculpting this little baby's face...but this thing looks like it is in the middle of taking a huge baby dump into it's cloth baby diaper. Cute?

Too bad the scan didn't come out sharper, because it doesn't quite capture the exquisite pain etched into this doll's face. I scanned it from an insert that fell out of my neighbor's Fingerhut catalog. As I was rifling through the mail it dropped onto the floor at my feet. Like any apathetic New Yorker, I was going to leave it there for someone else to clean up (hey! It didn't fall out of my catalog), but something about the baby's face caught my eye...it looked way too much like Damien, in fact that little green cap is probably hiding a 666 emblem. Thus, I had to share it with my readers. Hope you don't get nightmares!

The Heavenly Handfuls web site offers 4 different babies to choose from, and get this - they're only six inches long! That must be good because the web site is so proud to tell us that fact - only six inches long! Only $29.99 for six inches of plastic!!!!! WHEEEEEEEE!

Maybe my sarcastic enthusiasm is a bit overkill, but let us all note what it says on the baby's cap: "I Melt for No One." Well fuck you too, tiny baby dressed in green. Let's both sit on a radiator and see who melts quicker.