For YEARS, Take My Breath Away was my go to song when I had a crush on a boy. This started in 7th grade when I loved Steve. Oh how I wish I could use his full name. He'd probably be so flattered, especially since he peaked in middle school. Ouch. But anyway, Steve was the love of my pre-menstrual life. I wrote a poem about him, passed notes about him, and wrote this in my diary:
2/28/1992
I [heart, heart, heart, heart, heart, heart, heart] Steve aka Joho.* Talk about babeacious. I don't know 'bout his personality, but I do know about his looks. Omigod, he's awesome.
3/5/1992
I [heart] Steve. Yesterday at basketball, his team was practicing before us. I was dying. Cailin kept peeking and said he looked good. Then we went in and he did. He took off his shirt. Omigod, he's awesome. It was some sight.
The point is that Take My Breath Away is the song that made love sick, that me crazy in love, that exacerbated the pain of unrequited love. Needless to say I stole my sister's Top Gun soundtrack cassette tape and listened to the song over and over. When I finally got a dual cassette tape player that summer, I made a mix tape that also included "All through the Night" by Cyndi Lauper and "Never Tear Us Apart" by INXS. I acted as if my heart had been broken or as if I had been brutally dumped, when the truth is Steve spoke to me once the whole year to borrow a calculator. They were beautiful words though.
But it wasn't just Steve who got the "Take My Breath Away" treatment. So did Kris. And Kevin. And Scott. And every other boy who smiled at me at least one time. Hey, it didn't take much. I was the spelling bee champion and a mathlete. I was happy with whatevs attention an XY species would pay me.
So tonight I got home from work and started cooking dinner and opened up my Itunes on shuffle and "Take My Breath Away" came on. And I got really, really emotional. Like, 8th grade emotional. I mean, I started fantasizing about my crush and wondering when he would start talking to me and take me out to dinner and kiss me on the lips and all that stuff.
And what made me sad/confused/pathetic is I don't have one crush now. I mean, yes, there are boys I like but it's not like middle school where you see the same boys every day. Well, I do at work but they're all gay or married so I don't count them.
So then I decided to use my imagination. I have a very fertile one, especially when it comes to fantasizing about boyfriends. In the past (in my mind) I hate dated rock stars (including Pete Yorn), Adrian Grenier, hedge-fund guys, investment bankers (thank God that was just in my mind!), Dylan McKay, Italians, and even atheists who work for Google. None of these men had staying power, however, so there was no wedding (though there was an engagement to Adrian).
Despite all this virtual slutting around, I've always gone back to one man in my life. More like one archetype, but whatevs.
And that would be a firefighter.
Firefighters are just the hottest men ever, even if they have white trash mustaches, even if they are short, even if they are from Staten Island. I know I am not being eloquent in my word choice but who cares I am trying to get my point across. They are strong, brave, and cocky but all of this is okay because they save lives! They're fearless!
Now that I live in New York my fantasty fireman is a member of the FDNY (In the past he has worked for the city of Boston and Brookline). He works in Manhattan near my office, but he lives in Jackson Heights, Queens or perhaps Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. He grew up in Flushing, Queens and went to Catholic school k-12. His dad is a retired cop of Irish descent, his Mom teaches second grade at St. Anne's. She is Italian. My man wears a medal of St. Christopher and likes the Yankees, which is always the big joke when we fall in love and talk about kids. The girls can be Red Sox fans, he says, but the boys will love the Bronx Bombers! I laugh because my man, let's call him Nicholas because every Italian-American family I know has a Nicholas in it, wants children! And lots of them. He pays for everything and watches football at McCann's in Astoria with me. He is definitely NOT metrosexual, but he is tolerant. His favorite movie is Scarface.
So tonight before I go to bed, I will listen to "Take My Breath Away" one last time, and I will dream about Nicholas.
And tomorrow on my way to Weight Watchers I am so walking past the firehouse where a bunch of New York's Bravest work. Woohoo!
*His codename for all of us who were in love with him.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
On double fisting, reading the obits, and Catholic guilt
I am an American.
But . . . I was created from the sperm and eggs of two really cool cultures going many generations back, the Germans and the Irish. Both like to drink, both have a dark side in their history, and both are in Europe. I will say this though--the Germans are pretty much over Hitler. The Irish, however, still are bitching that the English oppressed them for 800 long years. The Irish are scrappy, stubborn and have a chip on their shoulder, which can be fun, because like fat chicks, they try harder in bed.
As a kid, I indentified more with my Irish side, because I always felt guilty about something and I read the obits in the Lawrence Eagle Tribune starting at age 8. I blame my mom (she's the Irish one). My dad's family is German, and they carry around no baggage and don't reminisce about the past unless it's in a really positive manner, like when my late great Grandpa Simons would talk about the time he slept in Edgar Allen Poe's bed in college or when my dad met Michelle Phillips from the Mamas and the Papas. My mother, on the other hand, would regale me with tales about how 3 of my Papa's brothers died before they reached 18. She would also play a game where she would pretend not to know me. When I was 4. And the sad thing is I loved all of this.
Despite my obsession with drama, I was loved and my parents were and are good parents. I have a little bit of baggage, but mostly because my mom let me get a perm in sixth grade but not my sister, so I was stuck with a fro for 12 months while my sister was skinny and bitchy. What a drag. But I do get that I had a great childhood.
Tha said, I also have always had this really bizarre fascination with the macabre. And not so much that I turned Goth or wrote poetry in blood or listened to Nirvana nonstop, but rather that, well . . . .
I took out a really embarrassing book from the library today.
I am not often ashamed of anything I do. But today I decided to get a library card from the Queens Public Library. I was perusing the shelves and what should I come across but a book I didn't even think was published!
"If I Did It" by OJ Simpson!
This to me is like the Holy Grail of books. Also kind of like Mein Kampf in that you don't want anyone to know that you bought it because then you hate Jews or might become a terrorist. But I have been excited about this book since 2006. I even wrote about it in my Xmas letter after I found out its publication was cancelled:
I am so angry they cancelled the book and interview! Now, I know that sounds trashy and it is, but then again I read the Post every day so what do you expect. I was really looking forward to self-righteously watching the interview on Fox, shaking my head the whole time while IM-ing my brother back in MA, typing “I can’t believe he said that! What do u think? Lol!” I wouldn’t have bought the book because the Juice can’t have my money, but I was planning on going to a Barnes and Noble on a Saturday afternoon and reading it in their café while taking up space and not buying anything (I worked there for a year, I earned the right to be a freeloader) while simultaneously shaking my head self-righteously. Now I won’t have the chance to do this.
So now I do have the chance and I am thrilled.
And I realize, I am American.
But I'm also really Irish.
But . . . I was created from the sperm and eggs of two really cool cultures going many generations back, the Germans and the Irish. Both like to drink, both have a dark side in their history, and both are in Europe. I will say this though--the Germans are pretty much over Hitler. The Irish, however, still are bitching that the English oppressed them for 800 long years. The Irish are scrappy, stubborn and have a chip on their shoulder, which can be fun, because like fat chicks, they try harder in bed.
As a kid, I indentified more with my Irish side, because I always felt guilty about something and I read the obits in the Lawrence Eagle Tribune starting at age 8. I blame my mom (she's the Irish one). My dad's family is German, and they carry around no baggage and don't reminisce about the past unless it's in a really positive manner, like when my late great Grandpa Simons would talk about the time he slept in Edgar Allen Poe's bed in college or when my dad met Michelle Phillips from the Mamas and the Papas. My mother, on the other hand, would regale me with tales about how 3 of my Papa's brothers died before they reached 18. She would also play a game where she would pretend not to know me. When I was 4. And the sad thing is I loved all of this.
Despite my obsession with drama, I was loved and my parents were and are good parents. I have a little bit of baggage, but mostly because my mom let me get a perm in sixth grade but not my sister, so I was stuck with a fro for 12 months while my sister was skinny and bitchy. What a drag. But I do get that I had a great childhood.
Tha said, I also have always had this really bizarre fascination with the macabre. And not so much that I turned Goth or wrote poetry in blood or listened to Nirvana nonstop, but rather that, well . . . .
I took out a really embarrassing book from the library today.
I am not often ashamed of anything I do. But today I decided to get a library card from the Queens Public Library. I was perusing the shelves and what should I come across but a book I didn't even think was published!
"If I Did It" by OJ Simpson!
This to me is like the Holy Grail of books. Also kind of like Mein Kampf in that you don't want anyone to know that you bought it because then you hate Jews or might become a terrorist. But I have been excited about this book since 2006. I even wrote about it in my Xmas letter after I found out its publication was cancelled:
I am so angry they cancelled the book and interview! Now, I know that sounds trashy and it is, but then again I read the Post every day so what do you expect. I was really looking forward to self-righteously watching the interview on Fox, shaking my head the whole time while IM-ing my brother back in MA, typing “I can’t believe he said that! What do u think? Lol!” I wouldn’t have bought the book because the Juice can’t have my money, but I was planning on going to a Barnes and Noble on a Saturday afternoon and reading it in their café while taking up space and not buying anything (I worked there for a year, I earned the right to be a freeloader) while simultaneously shaking my head self-righteously. Now I won’t have the chance to do this.
So now I do have the chance and I am thrilled.
And I realize, I am American.
But I'm also really Irish.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
I am so over Kate Moss
Eating disorders are so early '90s. This was the era of Kate Moss and a pre-Ally McBeal Calista Flockhart engaging us in "Secret Life of Mary Margaret: Portrait of a Bulimic." I myself was so bored of the idea of bingeing, purging and eating and that is why I had a big butt and no boyfriends. But whatevs, I got over it.
Flash forward fifteen years, and I'm now a "woman with curves." And by "woman with curves" I mean I have some "junk in my trunk." Still an A cup, people. But again, whatevs, I'm okay with it.
So I thought.
Ugh, today I made the mistake of going to the laundromat which in itself is not bad. You never know what kind of cute boys you are going to see! Although usually I'm wearing an old t-shirt that says "FBI-Fabulous Body Inside" which would be slutty and suggestive if I was not also wearing the one pair of clean plaid pajama pants I had left.
So tonight I go to House of Sudz, throw in a few loads, take them out of the washer, put them in the dryer, and then they are nice and dry so I go to fold them.
Yeah! I'm almost done!
That's when I make the mistake of turning my head to the tv! At first I was excited--it's 10:00 pm Sunday and time for Denise Richards: It's Complicated. Woohoo!
But unfortunately, my laundromat does not get cable and instead I am stuck watching Miss Universe.
Jerry Springer is the host, go figure.
"Miss Venezuela, 19, Maria Ortiz!" (Sexy tan girl walks out in a sexy little bikini)
"Miss Czech Republic, Karolina Kova, 21!"
Another hot girl marches out. And another. And another.
All as I am folding my jeans that are going to be a little tight for the first, oh 10days I wear them! Actually--till I lose the 15 (or more) pounds I've gained since I bought them!
I hate that I care. I hate that I am almost, ugh, 29, and I am hatin' on my body. So cliche!
This whole post is a cry for help!
And then I'm done folding so I leave with my granny cart chock full of clean clothes, tight jeans and baggy t-shirts and my fave black pencil skirt that makes me feel all hot with the way that it showcases the junk in my trunk, and I am thankful for black boys who appreciate this and white boys who are jumping on the (roomy) bandwagon, and I'm okay.
Woohoo! Self Esteem forevs!
Plus I'll make it home on time for "Living Lohan." Life is good.
Flash forward fifteen years, and I'm now a "woman with curves." And by "woman with curves" I mean I have some "junk in my trunk." Still an A cup, people. But again, whatevs, I'm okay with it.
So I thought.
Ugh, today I made the mistake of going to the laundromat which in itself is not bad. You never know what kind of cute boys you are going to see! Although usually I'm wearing an old t-shirt that says "FBI-Fabulous Body Inside" which would be slutty and suggestive if I was not also wearing the one pair of clean plaid pajama pants I had left.
So tonight I go to House of Sudz, throw in a few loads, take them out of the washer, put them in the dryer, and then they are nice and dry so I go to fold them.
Yeah! I'm almost done!
That's when I make the mistake of turning my head to the tv! At first I was excited--it's 10:00 pm Sunday and time for Denise Richards: It's Complicated. Woohoo!
But unfortunately, my laundromat does not get cable and instead I am stuck watching Miss Universe.
Jerry Springer is the host, go figure.
"Miss Venezuela, 19, Maria Ortiz!" (Sexy tan girl walks out in a sexy little bikini)
"Miss Czech Republic, Karolina Kova, 21!"
Another hot girl marches out. And another. And another.
All as I am folding my jeans that are going to be a little tight for the first, oh 10days I wear them! Actually--till I lose the 15 (or more) pounds I've gained since I bought them!
I hate that I care. I hate that I am almost, ugh, 29, and I am hatin' on my body. So cliche!
This whole post is a cry for help!
And then I'm done folding so I leave with my granny cart chock full of clean clothes, tight jeans and baggy t-shirts and my fave black pencil skirt that makes me feel all hot with the way that it showcases the junk in my trunk, and I am thankful for black boys who appreciate this and white boys who are jumping on the (roomy) bandwagon, and I'm okay.
Woohoo! Self Esteem forevs!
Plus I'll make it home on time for "Living Lohan." Life is good.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Spies Like Us!
At age age 12, all I wanted was a Twinkie.
With my curly red hair and insatiable appetite for the above and other Hostess treats, I looked like Little Orphan Annie (though the Annie who ate her dog Sandy for sustenance).
So it was not surprising that Mama Simons skimped out on Ding Dongs and Ho Hos when traipsing through the Merrimack Valley's finest grocery store, Demoulas. Mom bought fruit, carrot sticks, tree bark, you get the picture.
The Jews come of age at 13 with their bar mitzvahs. Haha--this Catholic girl beat them because at 12 I said, Get out of my way Mom! I'm eating what I want!
And that's when I started babysitting.
My generation grew up on the Baby-sitters Club. Remember how Kristy's mom had to make call after call because neither Kristy, Charlie, or Sam could take care of David Michael? And so Kristy had a "great idea" to start a place where her mom could make one phone call--just one!--and hit a bunch of babysitters at once. Ahhh, this warrants its own post. Many many of its own posts! At any rate, in 1991 every prepubescent girl was DYING to babysit. And for semi-altruistic reasons. Yes, we wanted the $3 an hour and to watch a rated R movie "after hours" on HBO (New Jack City was the first one for me, at the Sheas. See ya and I wouldn't want to be ya!). But we also genuinely wanted to stock our Kid Kits and play My Little Pony with the girls and Transformers with the boys and Speak and Spell with the nerds. We really thought our 12-year-old experiences and actions would truly influence the 8 year old minds we were paid slave wages to watch.
These were my intentions when I was first called by Mrs. Travers to babysit her 2 beautiful daughters Cheryl and Caitlin. They had asked my 14-year-old sister first and when she had a TeenCo dance to attend at the Red Barn, they asked me instead.
Mr. Travers picked me up at 6 pm on a Friday night. I brought several Barbie Dolls and a coloring book. We got to the house, the parents kissed the girls goodbye, and then it was just the three of us.
Oh, how I had fun! We played "hairdresser" so they would brush my hair. Candy Land Bingo was next, then Chutes and Ladder, then Good Night Moon, then bed.
Now, the Baby-sitters Club sitters only were allowed to stay out till 10pm. I, on the other hand, had till midnight. This was uncharted territory! What was I to do?
"You're welcome to eat anything!" Mrs. Travers told me before she left.
So at 8:15, the kids were asleep, and that's when I became the Lewis and Clark of 12-year-old babysitters everywhere!
I began snooping!
My first foray into exploration was mild. I mined the cabinets and fridge to see what I could eat.
After devouring 2 bags of microwaved popcorn and 3 packs of cheese and crackers and half of a leftover chicken pot pie, I needed something sweet to cleanse the palette. Unfortunately, the Travers lived as if they were all diabetic--Stacey McGill would've fit right in! The only sugary snacks I could find were Nutella and decorative blue cake frosting in a tube. Now let's get real--no suburban child was cultured enough to eat Nutella because we had no idea what it was. But frosting? That was something else!
I finished all but one drop and put it back where I had found it. I threw away the rest of the evidence, washed my hands, and checked on the kids. They were alive.
I returned to the family room and put on HBO. War of the Roses was on! Even though I had no desire to watch a movie about angry divorcees, it was rated R so it had to be good!
The parents came home at 12:30, paid me $20 for about 7 hours worth of work, and drove me to my house. Apparently they didn't care that I ate half the contents of their kitchen, because they asked me to babysit 2 weeks later. Woohoo!
So my question for you all is--what food did YOU steal when you were babysitting? And what other surprises did you discover while innocently looking through the medicine cabinet to get a Band-Aid for the kids or searching for an extra baseball glove in the hall closet?
Share your discoveries with me!!! Post your comments below!
With my curly red hair and insatiable appetite for the above and other Hostess treats, I looked like Little Orphan Annie (though the Annie who ate her dog Sandy for sustenance).
So it was not surprising that Mama Simons skimped out on Ding Dongs and Ho Hos when traipsing through the Merrimack Valley's finest grocery store, Demoulas. Mom bought fruit, carrot sticks, tree bark, you get the picture.
The Jews come of age at 13 with their bar mitzvahs. Haha--this Catholic girl beat them because at 12 I said, Get out of my way Mom! I'm eating what I want!
And that's when I started babysitting.
My generation grew up on the Baby-sitters Club. Remember how Kristy's mom had to make call after call because neither Kristy, Charlie, or Sam could take care of David Michael? And so Kristy had a "great idea" to start a place where her mom could make one phone call--just one!--and hit a bunch of babysitters at once. Ahhh, this warrants its own post. Many many of its own posts! At any rate, in 1991 every prepubescent girl was DYING to babysit. And for semi-altruistic reasons. Yes, we wanted the $3 an hour and to watch a rated R movie "after hours" on HBO (New Jack City was the first one for me, at the Sheas. See ya and I wouldn't want to be ya!). But we also genuinely wanted to stock our Kid Kits and play My Little Pony with the girls and Transformers with the boys and Speak and Spell with the nerds. We really thought our 12-year-old experiences and actions would truly influence the 8 year old minds we were paid slave wages to watch.
These were my intentions when I was first called by Mrs. Travers to babysit her 2 beautiful daughters Cheryl and Caitlin. They had asked my 14-year-old sister first and when she had a TeenCo dance to attend at the Red Barn, they asked me instead.
Mr. Travers picked me up at 6 pm on a Friday night. I brought several Barbie Dolls and a coloring book. We got to the house, the parents kissed the girls goodbye, and then it was just the three of us.
Oh, how I had fun! We played "hairdresser" so they would brush my hair. Candy Land Bingo was next, then Chutes and Ladder, then Good Night Moon, then bed.
Now, the Baby-sitters Club sitters only were allowed to stay out till 10pm. I, on the other hand, had till midnight. This was uncharted territory! What was I to do?
"You're welcome to eat anything!" Mrs. Travers told me before she left.
So at 8:15, the kids were asleep, and that's when I became the Lewis and Clark of 12-year-old babysitters everywhere!
I began snooping!
My first foray into exploration was mild. I mined the cabinets and fridge to see what I could eat.
After devouring 2 bags of microwaved popcorn and 3 packs of cheese and crackers and half of a leftover chicken pot pie, I needed something sweet to cleanse the palette. Unfortunately, the Travers lived as if they were all diabetic--Stacey McGill would've fit right in! The only sugary snacks I could find were Nutella and decorative blue cake frosting in a tube. Now let's get real--no suburban child was cultured enough to eat Nutella because we had no idea what it was. But frosting? That was something else!
I finished all but one drop and put it back where I had found it. I threw away the rest of the evidence, washed my hands, and checked on the kids. They were alive.
I returned to the family room and put on HBO. War of the Roses was on! Even though I had no desire to watch a movie about angry divorcees, it was rated R so it had to be good!
The parents came home at 12:30, paid me $20 for about 7 hours worth of work, and drove me to my house. Apparently they didn't care that I ate half the contents of their kitchen, because they asked me to babysit 2 weeks later. Woohoo!
So my question for you all is--what food did YOU steal when you were babysitting? And what other surprises did you discover while innocently looking through the medicine cabinet to get a Band-Aid for the kids or searching for an extra baseball glove in the hall closet?
Share your discoveries with me!!! Post your comments below!
Friday, May 30, 2008
Spelling B. Goode!
In 8th grade Nathan R. won $200 off of me winning the schoolwide spelling bee. I received the biggest trophy in the history of my family. Go geeks!
How appropriate that 15 years later, I am sitting alone in my apartment on a Friday night at 9:30pm, drinking wine and eating fish, approaching 30, and watching the 2008Scripps National Spelling Bee on tv! I just need a cat and I'll cement my solitude for the rest of my life!
How appropriate that 15 years later, I am sitting alone in my apartment on a Friday night at 9:30pm, drinking wine and eating fish, approaching 30, and watching the 2008Scripps National Spelling Bee on tv! I just need a cat and I'll cement my solitude for the rest of my life!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Apocalypse Now: On Turning 30 (in a year and 2 months)
One of the things I learned is you actually have to write more than once a year if you want people to read your blog, and it doesn't even need to be that long! So I am going to write something concise, well, concise for me, which is a novella to anyone else.
Shall we begin?
I am turning 30 in one year, 2 months, and 10 days. I am freaking out about this to no end. I have one more Christmas to celebrate in my 20s. One more Super Bowl to watch in my 20s. And not even a good year of being in your 20s. I wish it could go 26, 28, 29, 27, and then 30. But nope, for my final St. Patrick's Day in my third decade, I'll be 29. Eek.
I was talking to one of my engaged male friends who happens to be 26. His fiancee is my age and she's freaking out too about turning 30. Now, this girl has a ring on her finger and she's a doctor. She probably has sex on a regular basis and gets to take cabs everywhere. And she's freaking out???
I felt so much better! See, even people who seemingly have their shat together are losing it too!
That's all for now!
Shall we begin?
I am turning 30 in one year, 2 months, and 10 days. I am freaking out about this to no end. I have one more Christmas to celebrate in my 20s. One more Super Bowl to watch in my 20s. And not even a good year of being in your 20s. I wish it could go 26, 28, 29, 27, and then 30. But nope, for my final St. Patrick's Day in my third decade, I'll be 29. Eek.
I was talking to one of my engaged male friends who happens to be 26. His fiancee is my age and she's freaking out too about turning 30. Now, this girl has a ring on her finger and she's a doctor. She probably has sex on a regular basis and gets to take cabs everywhere. And she's freaking out???
I felt so much better! See, even people who seemingly have their shat together are losing it too!
That's all for now!
Monday, May 26, 2008
Conspiracy Theory: The Sequel
Remember that movie Conspiracy Theory that came out in 1997? A pre-Sugar Tits Mel Gibson played a New York City taxi driver with loose screws who conveniently befriended government employee Julia Roberts. That's all I remember about the flick--well, also that Julia had an annoyingly straight, blown out bob that frustrated me as a curly-haired red-head. But anyway the point is that Big Apple cab drivers=frequently crazy. That is all you need to know.
Tonight I came back from Boston via the Fung Wah. The Russian bus driver flew and we arrived in Chinatown, New York in less than 4 hours. At one point the driver started smoking cigarettes, and a passenger threatened to call the cops, and I was going to sock that passenger. Who cares about second-hand smoke? I got to get home quick because I forgot to set the DVR to record Andromeda Strain on A & E!
Luckily, no cop was called, the Fung Wah parked, and I got out of the bus.
Because I was eager to get home to my television, I decided to live it up and take a cab home. I am usually very cheap and don't do this. But, I had all my stuff and was dying to watch Living Lohan and Denise Richards: It's Complicated. When you have a job as I do, there are limited hours to watch your programs, even if you do have a DVR and no roommates.
I flagged a cab and get one of the mini-van taxis. A moment of excitement flit through my body: Could this be the Cash Cab?
To my disappointment, it was not Ben Bailey--he's the super hot host of the Discovery Channel gem--but instead some other white dude. THIS particular guy had straggly blonde hair and reminded me of Travis in the movie Clueless, except all grown up and still not banging Tai.
Travis asks me destination and I tell him.
Then he starts asking me more questions: Where are you coming from? Boston. What do people do in Boston for fun besides go to pubs? Well, in Cambridge they protest. Are you Irish? Irish and German. What's your sign--Pisces? No, Leo.
Now, you all know me. I'm not exactly Little Miss Bo Peep. I have a tendency to open my mouth and allow words to exit at a very frequent pace. But this guy started getting a little too personal. So this excited me because then I thought, they're bringing back Taxi Cab Confessions!
I got my pen ready to sign the release when Travis inquired:
What do you know about Kabbalah?
Man, that's a weird question to ask on Taxi Cab Confessions. Normally they would ask me when was the last time I paid/was paid for sex!
I told Travis not much, except pre-Madonna I took a class on Magic, Religion and Science my sophomore year in college and there was one lecture on it.
What about Zorostrianism?
At this point I realized I was NOT on Taxi Cab Confessions. Before I had a chance to respond, Travis butt in:
Because I've been reading up, and there are all the connections between the religions, and also the back of a dollar bill.
Really? I am now asking the questions. Tables have turned my friend.
Travis is illuminated. Oh yeah, for sure, he says. There are things on dollar bills, and then if you go look at the ceiling at Grand Central, you'll see all this symbology, and I've been studying it to see how much of the history of the world it explains.
Oh Jesus, I think. I've got one of the crazys.
Travis will not be stopped: And then if you go to the Masonic Temple, and study the freemasons, it kind of makes sense.
I'm quiet at this point. I just want to get home and watch "Miss Rap Supreme."
Travis babbles on, and all I can think is: This man knows where I live. My mom nags me to take cabs more to be safe, but she didn't foresee Mel Gibson Junior to attack me on the benefits of studying the DaVinci Code.
We arrive to my destination. I pay Travis and get the hell out. He drives away. I enter my home.
I'm kind of freaked out and need to cleanse my palate of spooky conspiracies. Thank God I set my DVR to record all episodes of Golden Girls!
I'm off to Miami kids.
Au revoir,
Liz
Tonight I came back from Boston via the Fung Wah. The Russian bus driver flew and we arrived in Chinatown, New York in less than 4 hours. At one point the driver started smoking cigarettes, and a passenger threatened to call the cops, and I was going to sock that passenger. Who cares about second-hand smoke? I got to get home quick because I forgot to set the DVR to record Andromeda Strain on A & E!
Luckily, no cop was called, the Fung Wah parked, and I got out of the bus.
Because I was eager to get home to my television, I decided to live it up and take a cab home. I am usually very cheap and don't do this. But, I had all my stuff and was dying to watch Living Lohan and Denise Richards: It's Complicated. When you have a job as I do, there are limited hours to watch your programs, even if you do have a DVR and no roommates.
I flagged a cab and get one of the mini-van taxis. A moment of excitement flit through my body: Could this be the Cash Cab?
To my disappointment, it was not Ben Bailey--he's the super hot host of the Discovery Channel gem--but instead some other white dude. THIS particular guy had straggly blonde hair and reminded me of Travis in the movie Clueless, except all grown up and still not banging Tai.
Travis asks me destination and I tell him.
Then he starts asking me more questions: Where are you coming from? Boston. What do people do in Boston for fun besides go to pubs? Well, in Cambridge they protest. Are you Irish? Irish and German. What's your sign--Pisces? No, Leo.
Now, you all know me. I'm not exactly Little Miss Bo Peep. I have a tendency to open my mouth and allow words to exit at a very frequent pace. But this guy started getting a little too personal. So this excited me because then I thought, they're bringing back Taxi Cab Confessions!
I got my pen ready to sign the release when Travis inquired:
What do you know about Kabbalah?
Man, that's a weird question to ask on Taxi Cab Confessions. Normally they would ask me when was the last time I paid/was paid for sex!
I told Travis not much, except pre-Madonna I took a class on Magic, Religion and Science my sophomore year in college and there was one lecture on it.
What about Zorostrianism?
At this point I realized I was NOT on Taxi Cab Confessions. Before I had a chance to respond, Travis butt in:
Because I've been reading up, and there are all the connections between the religions, and also the back of a dollar bill.
Really? I am now asking the questions. Tables have turned my friend.
Travis is illuminated. Oh yeah, for sure, he says. There are things on dollar bills, and then if you go look at the ceiling at Grand Central, you'll see all this symbology, and I've been studying it to see how much of the history of the world it explains.
Oh Jesus, I think. I've got one of the crazys.
Travis will not be stopped: And then if you go to the Masonic Temple, and study the freemasons, it kind of makes sense.
I'm quiet at this point. I just want to get home and watch "Miss Rap Supreme."
Travis babbles on, and all I can think is: This man knows where I live. My mom nags me to take cabs more to be safe, but she didn't foresee Mel Gibson Junior to attack me on the benefits of studying the DaVinci Code.
We arrive to my destination. I pay Travis and get the hell out. He drives away. I enter my home.
I'm kind of freaked out and need to cleanse my palate of spooky conspiracies. Thank God I set my DVR to record all episodes of Golden Girls!
I'm off to Miami kids.
Au revoir,
Liz
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