Archives For New York

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I am not a calm person.

I suck in a crisis. When my kid is sick, I put on a fake calm facade, smiling bravely while I dial the pediatrician, all the while internally chanting “OMG he’s gonna die, OMG he’s gonna die…”

I barely survived September 11. Was I calm? NOT EVEN A TINY BIT. I cried, lost my shit and just generally acted like it was my last day on earth. Which I thought it was.

Calm? I wish I’d gotten my hands on a Colt M16 assault rifle. I would have gone all “Say hello to my little friend” on those motherfuckers who were trampling me to death while we tried to evacuate a building in midtown Manhattan.

Hurricane Sandy was yet another opportunity to be so NOT calm. To my credit, I started out calm – after all, I have a kid, But by the third day of no power, people began ripping off the little generators that everyone had humming on their front lawns. Now I had to buy an industrial sized chain to secure my generator to the house, that pathetic generator I could barely heat up soup with.

I lost my shit and screamed like a lunatic, “This IS SOME FUCKING GHETTO BULLSHIT! I DID NOT MOVE TO THE SUBURBS FOR PEOPLE TO LOOT MY MOTHERFUCKING LAWN! I HAVE A SICK CHILD! IF YOU COME NEAR MY GENERATOR I WILL KILL YOU!”

 

I’ve just started playing guitar again, for the first time in years, and my fingertips are getting torn up. One of my bestest blogging buddies, who shall go unnamed, although *cough cough* she’s from England and her name rhymes with “frizzy,” suggested I put superglue on them.

Does she not KNOW me? This sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.

I have a meditating frog yoga statue thingey in my back yard, and its toe had cracked off. I decided I would be all DIY and repair that, in addition to fortifying my fingertips, since purchasing a tube of Loctite 495 made me a superglue expert.

But I left the glue out without the cap on overnight, and a hard glue booger had ossified at the top. I had to pry that sucker  off with a safety-pin, and when I did, a glue geyser came spurting out like the money shot in a porno flick. Glue went everywhere. I had a frog’s toe glued to my fingertips, some of which got glued together, and I was VERY NOT CALM ABOUT THIS.

It’s really hard to Google “how do you remove superglue” with your nipples. FYI.

 

I’ve had a couple of online friends tell me they didn’t like the way I talk to them.

I’M FROM NEW YORK. Saying “fuck you, motherfucker!” is like saying “hello!” I type “mot” into my phone, and it auto fills in “motherfucker.” Not even “mother.” It goes right to the “fucker.”

When I’m upset, excited, happy, angry, when I’m just about ANYTHING, I go BIG. I don’t know if that’s simply my innate temperament, or a byproduct of growing up in New York. And I’m never just upset. I’m DEVASTATED. I’m not hungry, I’m STARVING. I don’t have a headache, it’s A BRAIN TUMOR AND I’M GOING TO DIE.

People know that about me. Most people are just used to it. In many situations, it can be a fabulous thing. For example, when we were on the birthday party circuit, that parade from hell that never ends, I was a welcome guest. Because I never sat on the sidelines with the other moms. I dove into those ball pits and bouncy castles with the kids. Have you ever read in the news about elementary school children murdering one another in a bouncy castle in New Jersey? Exactly. Your welcome. 

My kid is not even embarrassed anymore. He’s just so used to my exuberance he doesn’t even flinch at karate competitions when I scream “KICK HIS ASS!” He actually asked me to volunteer every year at his school’s field day, because I screamed and hollered until I was hoarse, cheering on all the kids. By name. Especially the ones whose parents weren’t there.

I have a big personality. This is sometimes used as code for “is annoying as fuck,” “freaks out if she isn’t the center of attention,” “has big tits.”

I may fall into the first two categories, but certainly not intentionally. I just tend to experience things very strongly, and express my feelings. I’m passionate about the things I love, the things I hate, and most things in between. I’ll stop the car to throw my kid out if he’s rude, but I’m just as likely to stop and pull over for us to look at a beautiful sunset.

 

My BIG personality does not translate well electronically. If I’m disagreeing with someone via text or messenger, “Fuck you, you’re an asshole! I hate you!” does not bode well with the person on the other end. Those words come off much more aggressively when typed.

In real life, I’ve used the exact same words. But the person can tell, by my body language, my tone, my intonation, that what I’m saying is, “This is getting us nowhere! Can we just agree to disagree? Now let’s go take a shower together. If you’re nice to me, I’ll blow you.”

 

That’s another thing. Do you want a nice calm blowjob,the kind that’s so relaxed I fall asleep doing it? I’ll bet not. And I wonder – do those really calm women, the ones who are so quiet and even tempered and unemotional (wait, are there any women like that?), do they flip a switch and go wild in bed? THAT’S a nice little fantasy. Now just make her a mute with a degree in cooking from Le Cordon Bleu Culinary Institute while we’re at it. Knock out a few of those pesky teeth that get in the way, and voila! The perfect woman.

 

So DON’T tell me to calm down. I don’t WANT to be calm. As much as I wish for that kind of chill demeanor when to have it would be beneficial, I’d rather be the expressive, passionate, exuberant person I am.

I can always dial myself down a little. But those calm, low-key people with the energy level of potted plants – they’re gonna have a hell of a time trying to dial it UP.

You might think I’m too much. Maybe, you’re not enough?

 

Do you know people who are naturally calm? Are they on something? Is my personality super annoying? Be honest.
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

lovewill

There are quite a few list posts going around.

So here are is a list of 21 Things I Irrationally Love.

I try to explain them. Which is paradoxical, because, by definition, they are irrational.

 

1. Patti Smith. She melded poetry with kick ass rock and roll, helping to define the punk/underground rock scene. My brother put her debut record, a 45-rpm single, “Hey Joe” with “Piss Factory” on the B side, in my hand when I was 11. This is why I am the way I am

2. Advanced Math. Give me ridiculously hard math problems and my brain lights up like a pinball machine. Numbers make sense in a way that life does not.

3. Movie Previews. If I’m at the movies with Little Dude, we have this thing we do where we rate them. Loudly. I love the stuff he’ll say. “A Must-See!” “Coming to a Cable Box near you!” “Emotionally manipulative!”

4. Yoga. We start chanting at the beginning of a class and I feel like I’m in a cult. Next they’re going to ask me to leave all my worldly possessions at the door. And the teachers say crazy shit. “Trust issues are stored in the hips.” The most irrational thing is loving Hot Yoga. It’s like playing Twister in a sauna. I feel like I’m being punked. Did I really pay to lay in a crumpled heap of my own sweat? Yes.

5. Rock Tee shirts. Especially concert ones. My collection is irrationally important to me. The CBGB’s shirt I’m wearing in my Twitter profile pic is 25 years old. I’ll die before I stop wearing that. As a matter of fact, I’d like to be buried in that.

6. CBGBs. I mourn its passing like a dead relative. It had, hands down, the BEST sound system on the New York club scene. It was a dive bar with cheap drinks, and my all-time favorite club. And I loved Hilly Krystal (the owner). I don’t give a flying fuck what everyone thought of him, because:

A. That club was the birthplace of New York punk rock and
B. That man covered my passed-out ass with a blanket on more than one occasion. So have some respect, yo.

7. Dancing. If there’s no excuse to do it, like being at a club or a wedding, I’ll make one up. At parties even when no one else is. Store aisles if a really good song comes on. My kid goes bonkers with embarrassment. Too bad. Payback for all those times he did embarrassing shit in stores when he was a toddler.

8. Fender Guitars. The sexiest guitars ever made. The Guitar of Rock Stars (okay, argue with me, Les Paul fans!) Whispering “Stratocaster,” “Telecaster,” in my ear practically constitutes foreplay. Looking at pictures of Fender guitars online is almost as good as porn. I said almost.

9. Teenagers. I’m a teenager locked inside a grown woman’s body. It’s High School Revisionist History. Because now I’m so cool, they all want to be/dress/act like me. I’m finally at the cool lunch table. I’m the fucking QUEEN of the cool lunch table.

10. Louis C.K. Not just his stand up. I adored his first show – “Lucky Louie.” It ran on HBO about 8 years ago and was cancelled after one season. But that was a great mistake, like Columbus getting lost and accidentally discovering America. Because after that, he went back on tour, and from there he had his ascendancy to stardom.

11. Black leather clothing. The standard fare – jackets, vests, pants. But I have a black leather hat that my friends call my “gay man’s hat.” And – black leather shorts. Don’t judge. The last time I wore them, my son told me I looked like a “bad Girl Scout.” He has no idea what that even connotes. Out of the mouths of babes.

12. New York City. I’m a die-hard New Yorker. It’s my identity regardless of my zip code. My 10-year-old already knows the NYC subway system. He believes himself to be a New Yorker, although I’m not sure if this can be genetically passed on?

13. My son. Little Dude. This kind of love is so irrational, it’s hard to articulate.
He’s hilarious. Weird. So smart. Feisty. Lovable.

He’s multi-talented. He can play the recorder worse than anyone you EVER heard. He also drinks soda with his eyes.

Oh, shit. He’s sitting here, kicking my ass at Jeopardy, and just saw the part about the recorder. He wants me to change it, and is now demanding $1.00 from me. He made me sign a contract which stipulates that every time I mention him on my blog, I have to pay him $1.00.

14. Baked goods. All kinds. Cookies, cupcakes, doughnuts. I could go into a diabetic coma from eating an entire cake. One cookie is like a gateway drug to the whole box.

15. The Misery Index at the gym. This is my nickname for how miserable you can make yourself while working out. Ever do a leg workout that made you want to yak? That’s a High Misery Index. I love pushing myself to where I feel like I might actually vomit. It’s a Thing.

16. Very muscular arms with ink. This has led me to do other irrational things.

17. Seasons changing. It’s a symbol to me that all things change, all the time. That I am capable of change.

18. The feel of a book. I just don’t enjoy holding a Kindle or a Nook. They lack the visceral sensation of holding the real thing in your hand.

It’s like – a dildo will do the job. But it’s not the same as a penis. You feel me?

19. The sound M&Ms make in a dish. I’ll pick them up in a bowl, and let them fall back down, just to hear that sound that they make. It’s like the foreplay leading up to eating them.

20. Indian Food. Specifically, on 6th street in NYC. The whole street is one long block of Indian restaurants. You walk down the street and smell cardamom and hear sitars. And you’re not even high.

21. The movie “The Graduate.” A great movie. An incredibly well written script. Some really amazing camera angles and shots. Phenomenal acting.

The back story is inspiring. The main character is a handsome blonde jock, like a Robert Redford type. And against all odds, Dustin Hoffman is cast in his first movie role. Totally against type. And he rocks that shit.
After the premiere, an older woman sees him in the lobby and tells him, “Young man, your life will never be the same again.” And it wasn’t.

I had trouble stopping at 21 things. I wanted to add a whole bunch of your names, too.

What are some of the things you love irrationally?
Talk to me. I’m listening.

This is Patti’s cover of “Hey Joe.” She melds her interpretation of what she believes kidnapped heiress Patty Hearst went through, with the rock classic, “Hey Joe.” Un-fucking-believable.

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