mobile08/23/08 01:55 - 81ºF - ID#45422
Thanks
So thanks to everyone for their kinda words. Once I feel like I can go blog about what happened you can bet I surely will! It was really hard not being about to share everything (the good and the bad) via my blog. I feel like this is such an outlet for me.
Until then I'm so thankful for my friends here in the city. As always they have banded together and are making me feel so much better (booze and cupcakes heal everything).
Until then I'm so thankful for my friends here in the city. As always they have banded together and are making me feel so much better (booze and cupcakes heal everything).
Permalink: Thanks.html
Words: 84
Location: Jersey City, NJ
08/20/08 03:06 - 73ºF - ID#45377 
My Manga
Permalink: My_Manga.html
Words: 2
Location: Jersey City, NJ
Category: shoes
08/14/08 03:44 - 77ºF - ID#45328
If you're a girl
You'll want these shoes:
The are $24 from wet seal. I'm totes in love.
The are $24 from wet seal. I'm totes in love.
- Also the blackout on blogging on my personal life continues. It makes me sad because I really like blogging about the dirty details of life, but out of respect for those involved in my life the blackout is in place. Let's just say I'm so happy and he's fantastic!!
Permalink: If_you_re_a_girl.html
Words: 64
Location: Jersey City, NJ
08/06/08 04:38 - 79ºF - ID#45254
This is news?
I was taking my normal break (read goofing off) and reading the NYT. I came across the article below. Really that's news? I'm kinda speechless.
Slingshot wrong way to get girlfriend's attention
By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
Published: August 6, 2008
Filed at 3:48 p.m. ET
SOUTH OGDEN, Utah (AP) -- An 11-year-old boy who wanted to get his girlfriend's attention without waking her parents got a lesson in the strength of a window pane. A pebble fired from a slingshot has more velocity than a pebble tossed by hand.
''We were just trying to get her attention,'' said Joe Brunton, who is now doing odd jobs around his neighborhood to raise the money he needs to replace the window.
Joe and a friend were trying to see the girl early one morning a few weeks ago. At first, they threw wood chips at the window, but that wasn't enough, so the boys went home for heavier artillery. The slingshot worked in getting the girl's attention, but it also cracked the window.
The boys immediately owned up to the broken window and promised the girl's parents that they would replace it.
Joe went to his mother, who covered the $160 replacement cost but said the boy was going to have to do extra chores. Joe's friend Justice Kane decided that was going to take too long, so they have been going door to door and asking neighbors if they need any household chores done.
They also explained why they are raising the money.
''It was kind of embarrassing,'' Joe said.
Slingshot wrong way to get girlfriend's attention
By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
Published: August 6, 2008
Filed at 3:48 p.m. ET
SOUTH OGDEN, Utah (AP) -- An 11-year-old boy who wanted to get his girlfriend's attention without waking her parents got a lesson in the strength of a window pane. A pebble fired from a slingshot has more velocity than a pebble tossed by hand.
''We were just trying to get her attention,'' said Joe Brunton, who is now doing odd jobs around his neighborhood to raise the money he needs to replace the window.
Joe and a friend were trying to see the girl early one morning a few weeks ago. At first, they threw wood chips at the window, but that wasn't enough, so the boys went home for heavier artillery. The slingshot worked in getting the girl's attention, but it also cracked the window.
The boys immediately owned up to the broken window and promised the girl's parents that they would replace it.
Joe went to his mother, who covered the $160 replacement cost but said the boy was going to have to do extra chores. Joe's friend Justice Kane decided that was going to take too long, so they have been going door to door and asking neighbors if they need any household chores done.
They also explained why they are raising the money.
''It was kind of embarrassing,'' Joe said.
Permalink: This_is_news_.html
Words: 260
Location: Jersey City, NJ
08/05/08 05:22 - 79ºF - ID#45246
Ruthless Warmonger
That's what the dude I'm dating (my boyfriend? I'm not sure really how to refer to him) said I was last night.
It was insulting and awesome all at the same time.
Exactly what I like in a man.
It was insulting and awesome all at the same time.
Exactly what I like in a man.
Permalink: Ruthless_Warmonger.html
Words: 39
Location: Jersey City, NJ
07/29/08 09:19 - 72ºF - ID#45180
Marriage
All the gays are tying the knot. Marc Jacobs just got hitched. I'm happy for him but sad that he'll no longer be a swinging single dude. He always used to be in the tabloids for dating escorts and having threesomes. He even had an obsessed ex.
Now that he's spoke for will the scandals end? For my sake I hope not.
Now that he's spoke for will the scandals end? For my sake I hope not.
Permalink: Marriage.html
Words: 64
Location: Jersey City, NJ
07/24/08 01:04 - 63ºF - ID#45124
Say it ain't so
Fitflops are all the rage now in NYC. I've know about them for a while because they advertise them in the Bliss catalogue and I'm always like "Really for $115 does anyone think these flip flops will really get them in shape? What happened to a stairmaster?"
Then I saw these advertised on the subway and I threw up in my mouth a little thinking "For the love of god- No."
And then I saw this picture and a little piece of me died. Why Julianne? Why? I know you starve yourself and live off of granola bars (http://perezhilton.com/2008-01-29-juliane-moore-starving-herself). But now this?
Then I saw these advertised on the subway and I threw up in my mouth a little thinking "For the love of god- No."
And then I saw this picture and a little piece of me died. Why Julianne? Why? I know you starve yourself and live off of granola bars (http://perezhilton.com/2008-01-29-juliane-moore-starving-herself). But now this?
Permalink: Say_it_ain_t_so.html
Words: 110
Location: Jersey City, NJ
07/23/08 04:31 - 67ºF - ID#45113
Holy effing gay
So I just read in Gawker www.gawker.com that Simon Doonan and Jonathan Adler are getting married!!! It's like the two gayest designers are now joining forces to be one fierce uber designer. Wow. I totes want to go to that wedding.
Jonathan Adler does home furnishings and sculpture. I have one of his orginal pieces (it's really ugly). Oh, he was also on Bravo as a Judge for some show and you know I'm a sucker for crap like that.
- For those not in the know:
Jonathan Adler does home furnishings and sculpture. I have one of his orginal pieces (it's really ugly). Oh, he was also on Bravo as a Judge for some show and you know I'm a sucker for crap like that.
Permalink: Holy_effing_gay.html
Words: 103
Location: Jersey City, NJ
06/10/08 12:44 - 77ºF - ID#44606
Time
Randomly I decided to go over my past blog entries. I am so much happier now than I was like 3 years ago. Moving to NYC was really hard apparently. I guess at the time I didn't realize how hard it actually was. I like my job so much more now, and love my amazing friends. I'm even quite fond of my little studio apartment. What a difference a few years makes..
Permalink: Time.html
Words: 71
Location: Jersey City, NJ
06/04/08 03:01 - 74ºF - ID#44544
Texting
It's suppossed to be busy at work today. It's not. So instead of internet stalking people (we all know what that path leads to) I decided to post something for once.
I was reading a article in Salon (www.salon.com) the other day and I felt like I could have written it.
Read below (it's basically exactly how I feel about texting and dudes and phones):
U still up?
Text-messaging has made the late-night drunken hookup insanely easy. 2 EZ?
By Sarah Hepola
Jun. 01, 2008 | I was seeing this guy who would send me text messages in the middle of the night. This might indicate a few other things about him, his love of booze and booty calls chief among them. It got so that when I heard that little double beep at midnight on a Tuesday, or 3 a.m. on a Saturday, I didn't even check to see who it was. I'd wake up the next morning to find these drunken dispatches from him, a last-call Hail Mary. "Whatcha doin?" "U still up?" All of which were variations on one crucial question: "Can I sleep with you?" I guess I'm old-fashioned; I like a guy to e-mail first.
I came late to text-messaging, and part of me never fully bought the hype. I don't have a BlackBerry, or a Treo, or an iPhone; my cellphone is so old they don't even make replacement parts, and typing out a message can feel a bit like chiseling it in stone. A while ago, I was sloooowly etching out a question to a friend at a bar -- clink, clink, clink -- when someone leaned over my shoulder. "Aww," he said, "did you just learn to do that?"
Part of the problem is that I'm an annoying grammar snoot who refuses to abbreviate. I find it offensive to collapse the English language into emoticons and acronyms. I think text messaging has indulged everyone's worst impulses to ignore spelling and disregard punctuation. I'm a former English teacher; I've had throwdowns about the serial comma, and I used to 86 a guy if he misspelled "a lot." What am I supposed to do with "l8er" and "sez"?
I admit, text messaging has its uses: "5 min. late," "I'm here," "Address again?" -- these are the dispatches that befit such tone-deaf technology. But things have gotten out of control. A few months ago, a 31-year-old friend of mine told me a long story about a guy she was dating, and I swear the only verb she used was "text." Lately, when I'm out to dinner with single girlfriends, many of whom are also in their early 30s, there comes a point in the evening when I am staring at the parts in their hair while they click away on their keypads. By the time dessert is served, they all have dates for later that night.
Sure, it's kind of amazing that you can send flirty messages back and forth from the dinner table without your pork tenderloin going cold. And it's kind of amazing that someone's trousers are buzzing the moment you hit send. It's so easy, so incredibly easy to hook up with someone -- no advance warning necessary, not a single word spoken. Of course, that's the part that bothers me, too. Like, what happened to a date? What happened to calling? To planning in advance? I realize this will open me to ridicule. I realize this is my Andy Rooney moment. Back in my day, you had to walk a mile in Doc Martens to send a fax!
Which doesn't mean I don't text-message men. That takes me back to the guy I was telling you about earlier. Let's call him Scott. About three months ago, I ran into Scott, who is charming and adorable and something of a scoundrel. We chatted and exchanged numbers, whatever, blah-blah. Later that week, I was five pints into an evening with friends and feeling the impatient, irrational call to action of someone who overstayed her welcome on the bar stool. Here's an idea, I thought: I should call Scott! But I was too shy, or too slurry, to actually make a phone call. What I could easily do -- well, what I could do with one eye squinted a bit -- was to type out a note to him and toss it to the satellites. I like to think what I wrote was clever and funny. I suspect it was, "Whatcha doin?"
He was there in less than 30 minutes. Like a pizza.
It was brilliant. So fast! So simple! If only everything in life could be so complication-free. I have always been the girl who wants to keep the party going, who doesn't want to go home when the bar lights cruelly flicker on. I would never dream of calling someone at 2 a.m. -- OK, I would, and I have, and I'm sorry -- but suddenly, with text messaging, I could just send an unobtrusive "You still out?" to the call list and voilà : instant after-party.
A few days later, Scott texted me at 2 a.m., and I redirected my taxi to his place.
So here's the problem: There's a reason why drunk-dialing someone at 2 a.m. invokes shame and embarrassment. It's because we probably shouldn't be doing it. What we should be doing is taking our asses home, drinking half a bottle of Gatorade and crashing into bed. My drunk self really doesn't need new and improved ways to stay out later, to get into more trouble, to do things I will ultimately regret. Maybe it shouldn't be so easy to get into someone's bedroom at 2 a.m.
For weeks after our late-night rendezvous, Scott would text me in the middle of the night. It didn't matter if I never responded; I would still wake up at least twice a week to find some note from him, shot off at 3 a.m. I vacillated between marveling at his persistence and feeling annoyed by it. After a few weeks of this, it began to dawn on me that these texts were not the personalized messages I had once imagined. (Perhaps you figured this out a while ago. Where were you last month, smarty-pants?) They were probably sent out to a rotating cast of women who were drunk enough, or bored enough, to actually respond. Who were these girls? And was the answer really (really?): Sometimes me?
The other day I asked my friend why she liked to text-message so much. She told me she felt nervous and tongue-tied on the phone, and she liked the way text messages allowed her to be quick and flirty and sly. I asked a male friend the same question, and he told me a story about sending a "perfect text." (It involved a sexual double entendre on the Playstation 3.) The text message is all about the zinger, the crack of the quip, which has its own appeal. Sure, maybe my friends hated the emoticon, maybe they learned to dismiss the bad grammar and the crunched, vowel-less nouns, but none of that was the point, really. What they said about text messaging was no different than what I have always said about e-mail, what my mother might have said about the long missives she once sent to my father: It allowed them to be their better selves, the clever/unflappable/devastating people we all want to be in the calamitous first throes of love.
Still, it would be nice if they could do that in proper English.
Recently, I met a guy I really like. He happens to live in another city, so I don't see him much. We've e-mailed. We've text-messaged. We've talked on the phone. I like all of it, frankly, because when you're fond of someone, any word from them makes you smile. But I did something unusual the other day, just for the hell of it. It was something I hadn't done in years. And because I hadn't done it in so long, it felt new and weird and exciting.
I sat down with my legal pad, and I wrote him a letter.
I was reading a article in Salon (www.salon.com) the other day and I felt like I could have written it.
Read below (it's basically exactly how I feel about texting and dudes and phones):
U still up?
Text-messaging has made the late-night drunken hookup insanely easy. 2 EZ?
By Sarah Hepola
Jun. 01, 2008 | I was seeing this guy who would send me text messages in the middle of the night. This might indicate a few other things about him, his love of booze and booty calls chief among them. It got so that when I heard that little double beep at midnight on a Tuesday, or 3 a.m. on a Saturday, I didn't even check to see who it was. I'd wake up the next morning to find these drunken dispatches from him, a last-call Hail Mary. "Whatcha doin?" "U still up?" All of which were variations on one crucial question: "Can I sleep with you?" I guess I'm old-fashioned; I like a guy to e-mail first.
I came late to text-messaging, and part of me never fully bought the hype. I don't have a BlackBerry, or a Treo, or an iPhone; my cellphone is so old they don't even make replacement parts, and typing out a message can feel a bit like chiseling it in stone. A while ago, I was sloooowly etching out a question to a friend at a bar -- clink, clink, clink -- when someone leaned over my shoulder. "Aww," he said, "did you just learn to do that?"
Part of the problem is that I'm an annoying grammar snoot who refuses to abbreviate. I find it offensive to collapse the English language into emoticons and acronyms. I think text messaging has indulged everyone's worst impulses to ignore spelling and disregard punctuation. I'm a former English teacher; I've had throwdowns about the serial comma, and I used to 86 a guy if he misspelled "a lot." What am I supposed to do with "l8er" and "sez"?
I admit, text messaging has its uses: "5 min. late," "I'm here," "Address again?" -- these are the dispatches that befit such tone-deaf technology. But things have gotten out of control. A few months ago, a 31-year-old friend of mine told me a long story about a guy she was dating, and I swear the only verb she used was "text." Lately, when I'm out to dinner with single girlfriends, many of whom are also in their early 30s, there comes a point in the evening when I am staring at the parts in their hair while they click away on their keypads. By the time dessert is served, they all have dates for later that night.
Sure, it's kind of amazing that you can send flirty messages back and forth from the dinner table without your pork tenderloin going cold. And it's kind of amazing that someone's trousers are buzzing the moment you hit send. It's so easy, so incredibly easy to hook up with someone -- no advance warning necessary, not a single word spoken. Of course, that's the part that bothers me, too. Like, what happened to a date? What happened to calling? To planning in advance? I realize this will open me to ridicule. I realize this is my Andy Rooney moment. Back in my day, you had to walk a mile in Doc Martens to send a fax!
Which doesn't mean I don't text-message men. That takes me back to the guy I was telling you about earlier. Let's call him Scott. About three months ago, I ran into Scott, who is charming and adorable and something of a scoundrel. We chatted and exchanged numbers, whatever, blah-blah. Later that week, I was five pints into an evening with friends and feeling the impatient, irrational call to action of someone who overstayed her welcome on the bar stool. Here's an idea, I thought: I should call Scott! But I was too shy, or too slurry, to actually make a phone call. What I could easily do -- well, what I could do with one eye squinted a bit -- was to type out a note to him and toss it to the satellites. I like to think what I wrote was clever and funny. I suspect it was, "Whatcha doin?"
He was there in less than 30 minutes. Like a pizza.
It was brilliant. So fast! So simple! If only everything in life could be so complication-free. I have always been the girl who wants to keep the party going, who doesn't want to go home when the bar lights cruelly flicker on. I would never dream of calling someone at 2 a.m. -- OK, I would, and I have, and I'm sorry -- but suddenly, with text messaging, I could just send an unobtrusive "You still out?" to the call list and voilà : instant after-party.
A few days later, Scott texted me at 2 a.m., and I redirected my taxi to his place.
So here's the problem: There's a reason why drunk-dialing someone at 2 a.m. invokes shame and embarrassment. It's because we probably shouldn't be doing it. What we should be doing is taking our asses home, drinking half a bottle of Gatorade and crashing into bed. My drunk self really doesn't need new and improved ways to stay out later, to get into more trouble, to do things I will ultimately regret. Maybe it shouldn't be so easy to get into someone's bedroom at 2 a.m.
For weeks after our late-night rendezvous, Scott would text me in the middle of the night. It didn't matter if I never responded; I would still wake up at least twice a week to find some note from him, shot off at 3 a.m. I vacillated between marveling at his persistence and feeling annoyed by it. After a few weeks of this, it began to dawn on me that these texts were not the personalized messages I had once imagined. (Perhaps you figured this out a while ago. Where were you last month, smarty-pants?) They were probably sent out to a rotating cast of women who were drunk enough, or bored enough, to actually respond. Who were these girls? And was the answer really (really?): Sometimes me?
The other day I asked my friend why she liked to text-message so much. She told me she felt nervous and tongue-tied on the phone, and she liked the way text messages allowed her to be quick and flirty and sly. I asked a male friend the same question, and he told me a story about sending a "perfect text." (It involved a sexual double entendre on the Playstation 3.) The text message is all about the zinger, the crack of the quip, which has its own appeal. Sure, maybe my friends hated the emoticon, maybe they learned to dismiss the bad grammar and the crunched, vowel-less nouns, but none of that was the point, really. What they said about text messaging was no different than what I have always said about e-mail, what my mother might have said about the long missives she once sent to my father: It allowed them to be their better selves, the clever/unflappable/devastating people we all want to be in the calamitous first throes of love.
Still, it would be nice if they could do that in proper English.
Recently, I met a guy I really like. He happens to live in another city, so I don't see him much. We've e-mailed. We've text-messaged. We've talked on the phone. I like all of it, frankly, because when you're fond of someone, any word from them makes you smile. But I did something unusual the other day, just for the hell of it. It was something I hadn't done in years. And because I hadn't done it in so long, it felt new and weird and exciting.
I sat down with my legal pad, and I wrote him a letter.
Permalink: Texting.html
Words: 1358
Location: Jersey City, NJ
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