The Vile Moods

Bandwagon

2012-01-18T14:41:00.001-05:00

Dear Reader,

I like you. You like me. Let's continue this friendship.

If you're not already familiar with SOPA (Stop Online Piracy Act) and PIPA (Protect IP Act), then please take a moment to educate yourself. The vague language of these two bills could allow the government to regulate and even shut down your favorite websites including The Vile Moods, and we wouldn't want that.

PROTECT IP / SOPA Breaks The Internet from Fight for the Future on Vimeo.

If these bills pass, you and I may resort to becoming pen pals. Oh, but I forgot, the United States Postal Service is going bankrupt. Telepathy, then?

I wouldn't want these guys regulating a cheese omelet, nevermind my internet. Please contact your elected officials and tell them you oppose SOPA and PIPA and we can keep hanging out on a semi-regular basis.

Love,

Sarah

My Good Friend, Kevin Bacon

2012-01-11T13:45:00.000-05:00

I signed onto LinkedIn.com this morning to attempt networking or stalking, whichever you prefer, and in my browsing I came upon the "People You May Know" list. Most of the time the People I May Know are generally People I'd Like To Forget; ex-boyfriends and undesirable bosses have a way of worming into these lists. However, LinkedIn reminded me today about my good friend Kevin Bacon. I had forgotten we were so close... three degrees, to be exact.

How could I forget the man who taught me how to lead a team of wolves across Alaska, hijack a river raft, fight off underground creatures, conduct a lunar module landing, sodomize minors, commit a murder, prosecute a murderer, seduce Jennifer Aniston, serve in the military, solve a murder, solve another murder, scientifically develop invisibility, commit another murder, contact an unsettled ghost, rebel against my father through dancing, and play guitar with my brother in a part-folk, part-soul, part-rock, part-country band?

Shame on me. Kev is awesome.

2012-01-04T09:50:00.001-05:00

Dear Age 30,

I wanted to drop you a quick note to let you know how much I'm digging the sudden on-set sciatica, the weird shoulder pain, and the overnight deterioration in my far-sightedness. I can tell this is going to be a fun decade! Have you considered reintroducing the crippling lower back pain Early-20's so graciously put on the map? Think about it.

Thanks for keeping it interesting!

Yours Very Sincerely,

Sarah Sweeney

Resolutions

2012-01-04T08:20:00.001-05:00

In my efforts to drink less coffee this New Year, I'm sipping from a much smaller coffee cup.

Today, I've only had 9 tiny cups of coffee.

Baby Talk: Fall of Rome?

2012-01-03T22:52:00.002-05:00

“Whenever you're around your kids, talk wrong.” Steve Martin

It occurs to me that most mothers of recent generations are deliberately breeding morons. I should mention this is of course conjecture since mommies are the most uptight species available for creating uncomfortable situations and social anxieties. Despite the 14 children born into my circle of friends in recent months--yes, help me, months--I don’t interact much with anyone who can’t yet vote. There’s only one kid I see once in a while who I can level with. We discuss organic vs. store-bought milk and the challenges of rug burn when learning to crawl. We bond. And then she goes in for her nap because she’s 8 months old. She’s cool because I’m almost positive her mother never talks as though she didn't complete the fourth grade.

Even if the mommies hold back their bizarre child-speak amid their childless friends, I’m certain behind closed doors the unnecessary drivel spews out; that cutsie jargon that would never fly in a boardroom or conversational exchange with say, a gas station attendant. In the same vein, I’ve also got it figured that mothers speak to their toddlers as they would foreigners, exercising the theory that the louder they project the more the pint-sized folk will comprehend. This is most apparent in enclosed spaces such as public transportation, movie theaters, or restaurants; really any space where it’s inappropriate to shout-coddle.

I’m currently seated on a south-bound Amtrak train from Providence to New York listening to a woman in her 30’s speak to her toddler in a way that reads straight out of Flowers for Algernon. It’s nagging at me to explain to her if she keeps up this behavior her sweet little boy may grow into a man still referring to his 2% as “Moo Juice” and anything dirty as “Ucky Wucky”. In short, I want to punch her. As she speaks to him as loud as she would her illegal gardener, I wonder if she can fathom the grammatical damage she’s done. So many of them are the same; nauseating aural ambiance hijackers.

It’s my understanding from everyone I know with kids that parenthood is extremely difficult. But is it so difficult that you lose your ability to form grammatically-sound proper sentences with words that actually exist?

Is This Seat Taken?

2011-12-28T23:13:00.003-05:00

"I’ve cracked the code in avoiding a seatmate! Buy a hot dog just before hitting a major stop. People will board, think it’s gross, and continue on.”

“Brilliant!”replied my mother.

Unless you’re vacationing in Europe or some far away land where people are actually interesting, no one wants a stranger’s rump plopped next to them on a bus/train/airplane.

I know you’re with me on this, Reader. If you settle into your space on semi-full airplane with an empty seat by your side, undoubtedly you’ll spend the entire time before the gate closes wishing and hoping that seat remains vacant. Passengers will file in behind you, glance at their ticket and search for their 2’X 2' real estate while you pray to the Patron Saint of Leg Room that they’ll pass you by. You want your coat to live on that seat and your book to reside there, too. You want to abolish that apology smile and awkward pointing towards the bathroom when you need to go. You're not in kindergarten, you don't have to ask permission if that aisle is empty! If the prick in front of you elects to recline far enough to French braid his hair or perform dentistry, that empty seat is your back-up, your in-flight savior.

Buses and trains with their general seating involve sheer fate. With every station stop, I avoid eye-contact with oncoming passengers so as not to appear friendly and eager. And eye contact truly is the kiss of death. People are panicked to find a place to settle and begin their journey that if the vessel is already crowded, any hint of availability will seal the reluctant deal. Not unlike mall kiosks employees: If you can avert your gaze without tripping over a rogue toddler, then the likelihood of a cease and desist while sold a premium home security system is next to nil.

I don't condemn friendliness, yet the insurgence of weirdos and general inconsiderations like obnoxious prolonged cell phone use is a dime a dozen; quiet roomy space comes at a premium. Yet, while appearing bulky and fidgety (puffy coat, computer equipment) is a fair strategy of deterrent, placing your crap on that empty seat is an inconsiderate dirty trick. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I hate those people. As if to say their jacket belongs to someone else and they’ll be right back. I know your scam, you cheap seat-terrorist.

Years ago, I would take the Peter Pan Bus Lines to visit my hometown in Rhode Island. Mainstream commercial bus travel* endures too many variables: accidents, traffic jams, once getting lost and once Connecticut state police boarding to arrest three convicts on the run. Sure, it’s entertaining but that noise was time consuming and if you’re trapped against a greasy window listening to someone’s life story while mentally calculating how much time you have to live before your bladder explodes, well, tedium.

So, as I sit on the New York bound Amtrak train hunched over a hot dog trying to appear sloppy and ungraceful while balancing this computer on my tray, I pray to the Leg Room Saint my aisle seat remains clear until New York Penn Station.

*As opposed to "budget" bus lines which are strangely vacant. More on that later

----------------------------ADDENDUM------------------------------------
My good friend Craig H. suggested the scent of a tuna sandwich is far more offensive and therefore more effective than the aforementioned hot dog. I concur as I would sooner donate my left femur before eating a mayo-drowned lunch. Food for thought, pun annoyingly intended.

2011-12-28T22:44:00.000-05:00

My seaonal cold has kicked in. I blame my seasonal excessive drinking.

Afrin makes me feel cool like a recreational drug user without the repercussions of being an actual drug user.

Defying Human Nature

2011-12-16T13:04:00.000-05:00

I receive a healthy dose of spam emails each day and I'mstarting to get upset with one of the biggest offenders. It's not the standard"increase your penis size" or "lose 30 pounds in 30 days"crap. It's something I've signed up for and subsequently unsubscribed from. Oncethe bond of trust is broken and one receives over a dozen emails from a single delinquent,it causes them to utter words never spoken in the English language ever before,"Fuck off, Oprah."

Oprah’s online “Life Class” seemed like a smart subscriptiona few months back when I was dealing with my bi-annual “What the Fuck Am IDoing With My Life?” crisis. However it seems the best way to improve yourlife, according to Queen Winfrey, is to bake. Eff that. I need Oprah to explainwhy I only make .44 cents a month on my IRA. I need Oprah to remind me that threevodka & soda cocktails are OK, but five are not. I need Oprah to sit medown and tell me what color to paint my kitchen. I need Oprah to teach me howto communicate with my family without first considering suicide.

I do not, however, need Oprah to send me her pumpkin cupcakerecipe. Nor do I need Oprah to tell me to take a bath with lavender scentedoils. I’m allergic to lavender and Oprah should know that. I may be the solecitizen on this green earth who has been failed by Oprah, so I'll say once morefor the second time in history: Fuck off, Oprah.

One Balloon. Three Decades. One Catchphrase

2011-12-09T13:35:00.001-05:00

Today, Reader, is my 30^th birthday.Please, hold your applause.

I celebrated the last night of my 20’s eatingchain-restaurant Mexican food and sipping margaritas off the happy hour menuwith a friend in Times Square. That might sound like a pathetic way to end adecade, the peak of my youth, the final years of excused irresponsibility; butnevertheless, fun was had all thanks to good company and one shimmering mylarballoon.

The check came and we said our goodbyes and Imarched to the nearest subway station, birthday balloon in hand.

It’s a wonder how one seemingly insignificant propcan attract the attention of strangers near and far. I received a smattering of birthday wishes from pedestrians and for New York an uncanny dose of smiles. I boarded the uptown Atrain taking the first available seat… next to a drunken man with a comicallylarge cane. It could have been Donatello’s bo staff with a hook attached. Heswayed with the movement of the train car and once he perked up laying eyes uponmy shimmering balloon, I knew amusement with a dash mortal concern would ensue.

“Welllllllll,lookie there!” he howled, violently poking a sleeping man with the cane, his companion.

The man awoke with a grunt.

“Eustace!” (yes, his name was Eustace) “this little lady’s havin her ma’fuckin’ birthday!”

Eustace did not care and returned to his snooze.

When a stranger opens a conversation including thephrase “ma’fuckin’”, you know danger is lurking near. Maybe it was stupidity or laziness or perhaps myoverwhelming need to be dangerously amused among strangers, but I neverconsidered moving my seat. The threat of his cane pummeling me over the headwas apparent, but I wanted to stay for more. More ma’fuckin’ entertainment!

Bum Wine focused his blurred gaze upon me. In asimulated sweet tone he asked, “how’s that birthday comin’ along, little lady?”

“Well, it’s not quite my birthday yet so-- ”

“You can’t get what you ma’fuckin’ want!” wavinghis cane dangerously overhead.

Whoa! Whoa!I didn’t ask for anything, not even a pony!

“It’s actually tomorr--”

“But if you try, you’ll get what you ma’fuckin’need!”

Okay, Mick.I get it.

He became quiet and I assumed the show was over,until….

“You a ma’fuckin’ baby. Not like me, I’m old asshit...”

Suddenlythis was becoming a very long train ride.

“Smoke on the ma’fuckin’ water!”

“I don’t know what that means?” Dangerous reply, Ishould have had Deep Purple bruises at this point but thankfully the trainreached my stop.

I rose to exit politely allowing those before mefile out first just as Bum Wine surprisingly began to follow. Crap. Thankfullyhe pushed in front of me and my balloon muttering a series of incoherent rants with the occasional “ma’fuckin’ birthday” sprinkled on top. He moved so slowly that thedoors began to close.

Ma’fucker, Ithought, if I have to walk home from thenext station stop I will kill you.

Just then he shoved his cane through the closingdouble doors attempting to pry them apart. Aggressively yanking the cane back and forth,other passengers and I backed away as his face turned red and his tone,infuriated, “What the fuck is wrong with you! Open the ma’fuckin’ doors, youma’fuckin asshole!” At the front most car the conductor’s "cockpit" lies merefeet from where we stood. He shoved his hand through the sliver available, hisskin decayed. His long fingernails now visible as he wrenched the doors openscreaming the whole way.

The doors finally releasedand we were free. He walked ahead of me and I watched him approach the conductor's window tapping the cane against the plexiglass, "Why don't you let me out the ma'fuckin' train!?!" As I neared the stairs passing his massive body, he abruptly stopped shouting at the moving train and turned to face me on the platform. Leaning infrighteningly close to my face, so quickly I didn’t see it coming…

“Happy birthday, little lady," and he hobbled away.

*I'm now considering perpetually roaming the underground holding a balloon as an experiment. Science is Fun.

The Artist Formerly Known As

2011-12-07T23:48:00.001-05:00

I got married over a year ago and it seems to besticking, so I figure at this point I might as well change my name. My marriedname would be the length of an Arab cab driver’s so I’ve been putting it offseeing as “Sweeney” has such a nice ring to it. If you say it slowly, it soundsexactly the way the Irish intended: slurred intoxication. The new name howevermirrors that of a popular pre-historic cartoon family surname… in German. So, that’s somewhat of a plus.

Days after returning to work from the wedding, anupper management suit, who I liked to call “Gun Hands” asked what my new name would be as he passedme in the hall. His delicately tactful response, “Blech! Keep Sweeney,”as he continued on. With that level of encouragement pouring in, it’s a wonderI hadn’t gotten to this sooner.

Uprooting and eliminating your identity in orderto prove and confirm marital bliss takes research, so I rolled up my bathrobesleeves this afternoon and got to work.

One site stated it takes the average gal no lessthan 13 hours of filling out and submitting paperwork to transition into a Mrs.Thank god I’m unemployed. Asking friends proved fruitless; either they kepttheir name claiming a modern woman stance (while stock piling high-end goods ontheir fella’s dime) or they rolledtheir eyes and said, “what a pain in the ass” giving no further information. Amore affluent friend replied, “I have no idea, our lawyer dealt with that.” Naturally,I punched her with my Cubic Zirconia fist.

Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.

I found my way to the Social SecurityAdministration site. Pain in the ass, indeed; navigating the endless menus ledto dead ends and worse… the truth about our United States government. Theconspiracy theory we swept under the rug… just before putting in a load oflaundry and basting the roast while adding two cubes to the rocksglass moments before our darling husbands came home from their complicated manjobs: the gobment wishes to keep the ladies from using that squiggly stuffbetwixt her ears.

Eleanor Roosevelt would have been disappointed inher husband’s Social Security web designer. When I finally located the name changing page, I stared down the emptiness of this:

Thanks a lot, America. I can take a hint. Now if you'll kindly hand me my purse and shawl, I'll be leaving... to bake a quiche.

2011-12-05T09:45:00.001-05:00

This old broad is turning 30 on Friday. Celebrate by mailing me your life savings.

With love,

Sarah

Check & Mate: A Contractor's Guide To Murder

2011-12-01T13:35:00.001-05:00

I’m having the kind of morning that makes a gal wonder where the nearest cliff is located.

Last week I had the esteemed luck to avoid a Phillip’s head to the trachea while a group of strange men entered my home and proceeded to replace the window frames. Midway through the final day, one gentleman casually mentioned they “forgot” to bring paint to complete the job. They’re contractors, I get it. They’re supposed to make me question the existence of God, so I did what any other co-op owner would do: rolled my eyes and came to terms with the fact that I’d never see these men again.

The raw unfinished wood encircling the windows glared at me with its dull eyes. It would be no use contacting the management company since from my perspective I can safely assume they spend their days diddling themselves in a pool of their own vomit. So, finally, I picked up a quart of semi-gloss and began finishing the job myself.

Three days into my reluctant project, completion grew near. I could smell it. Literally. As the latex fumes worked their way into my cerebellum deadening neurons as they passed, I became giddy with the prospect of completion-- that unfamiliar sense of accomplishment – until I peeled away the blue painter’s tape. Despite careful priming and waiting the allotted drying time, the wall paint peeled away with it. Suddenly their plan became clear: Drive me to commit my own murder.

Touché, Craftsmen of Death. Touché.

Cheating Death: One Home Improvement at a Time

2011-11-19T15:20:00.001-05:00

It’s only taken four months but I’ve finally convinced my building’s management company to replace the window frames in my apartment. Not all of them, I’m not greedy, but the three opium den-looking water damaged, peeling paint messes that make my livingroom look like the set of a Chernobyl movie.

Unlike the floor installation which relegated me to one small hidey hole, I can safely spend the day in my office fiddling around on the Internets while portions of my home are torn apart.

I can’t make sense of the process, mainly because I don’t know how to say “wood” or “glass” in Spanish, but one dude has been hacking away at the sills for hours. We’ve communicated in broken Spanish on my part and broken English on his all day. His thin mustache that tells me he’s played a villain in a Spanish novella in his youth and his gold front tooth that indicates he’s handy with a hacksaw. He inquired of my marital status and followed it up with my mother-in-law’s favorite question, “¿Por qué usted no tiene un bebé?” Por qué? Because this apartment is too small for a walking financial suck and I’m too young to have a baby. Ask again when I’m 40. He replied in English, “I maybe have two or three babies from the women.” Oh. Okay, then.

Progress chugged along just fine, rotten slabs of wood liberated from the structure and measurement noted abound… until he invited two friends over. They arrived with weapons disguised as saws and tools to “help” brandishing their cheap Craftsman tools menacingly. Soon all three worked diligently to cover my entire livingroom in plastic. Shit. They’re smarter than the hardwood floor installers. They know the unmistakable scent of death would rise from the floor boards, so they plan to kill me in a nice tidy fashion. I know what this is about! I’ve seen Dexter!

My fella conveniently had to “work” today. I guess all that work is paying off… paying off enough to afford a complicated plot to “take care” of your wife! That bastard. I should have seen it coming.

They’re all giving me that warm friendly smile that says, “Don’t worry, we’ll make this quick and we won’t even stain your rug!” The soothing sounds of their romance language doesn’t fool me, I know they’re drawing straws to win the chance to crack my neck. I guess this is goodbye, Reader… until my bathroom gets remodeled.

Signed Sealed Delivered: Justice

2011-11-17T23:33:00.000-05:00

This morning, while sipping a so-so cup of coffee,I could hear shrill screaming from a woman outside. Lately, my street has beena hot bed of people making obscene phone calls, physical cat fights, and riffraff in general. My inner Gladys Kravitz rushed to the window expecting, nay, hoping to see an entertaining shovingmatch from the safety of my apartment.

I used all my might to lift the window of my fire trapdomicile, poked my head out to look below and was aghast at the sight!!

A hundred feet below was a female cop pressed upagainst the friendly neighborhood UPS delivery man. Bizarrely enough, noweapons were drawn, but instead the two of them were grinding in dance againsteach other with only the sweet melodic piercing sound of her repetitive, “Hayyy! Haaay!”

One can only assume they joined forces to apprehend anassailant thieving hundreds of dollars’ worth of Amazon packagesand broke into the Dance of Justice to celebrate. I watched for a moment as she gavehim one final booty bump and they returned to their respective vehicles, giggling undeniably over a job well done.

Only in New York can the love of justice blossom between a UPS man and a NYPD traffic cop woman through pilfering and petty larceny.

P.You.

2011-11-17T12:15:00.000-05:00

A man in a bar once told me, "to be a true New Yorker is to know when to hold your breath." This kind of Confucius comment really struck a chord in me and I'm reminded of this man, who ironically smelled of lager and cigarettes, every time I mistakenly breathe when I shouldn't.

But how can a gal such as myself transform from a slack-jawed small town mouth-breather into a true and sophisticated New Yorker if men insist on marinating themselves in nostril scorching scents like Polo or Cool Water? Biologically speaking, if I practiced this preaching, I would have been dead twenty minutes after the gent uttered it.

Perhaps my nose is overly sensitive, but it seems when forced into small shared spaces -- office cubicles, bus shelters, ATM vestibules, cabs, elevators -- I'm more often than not, held aromatically hostage by the over powering snout rapist who douses himself in his eau de toilette. And products emerging like American Idol's cologne spray hardly help the situation! Grown men reeking of the musky shame and citrus disappointment only a network reality talent cologne can provide.

Worse yet, body sprays cropping up through every drug store caters to the man who wishes not to shower but simply overpower their sweat stench with the contents of an aerosol can boasting the distinctive scent of a date rape and a general equivalency diploma.

Aquaman by Rochas, which retails for $12.95, boasts "a fresh marine scent, masculine and sporty." I gather this description alludes to the smell of an aquarium or militarily speaking, machismo republicanism and blood shed. But, I could be wrong.

The intrusion of these overpowering smells almost make me embrace the scent of good old fashioned B.O. But alas, there is light at the end of the schnoz. Jacob Beach, an unscented man of New York City proclaims, "I prefer the scent of clean skin and soap!" Why aren't there more men who wake up in the morning, shower, and leave it at that? I promise, a few spritzes of Acqua Di Gio will only hurt man's Operation: Get Laid. Because sometimes, there really is nothing like the smell of... nothing. Until then, I guess I'll just hold my breath.

The Brief Navy

2011-11-16T11:25:00.001-05:00

Every few months I get an ad in the mail for a “free panty” (to be pronounced with faux British lilt, PAHN-tee) from Victoria’s Secret. They aim to move their base model brief with the strategy that you’ll impulse buy your way through their over-scented mine field of spritzes and underwires. I appreciate a freebie just as much as the next guy, but the act of passing the threshold of your standard Victoria’s gives me hives and not just from the Vanilla Lace body mist.

I can’t be sure of their clientele but invariably a statuesque bouncer-type stands stone-faced at the door. The mind reels to think a swarm of 16-year olds rush the racks for petty larceny, but it must happen enough for a special ops sniper looking like Michael Clark Duncan to man the fort. He’s the easy part -- I’d have a beer with that guy -- it’s the Phony Army that lurks in the shadows folding lace doilies that put my guard up; their faces smeared in bronzer and a hardened layer of make-up with every available inch of skin spritzed with something called Pink or Vixen or Cheap Trick.

Since the lay of the land is ever changing, I feel it necessary to approach a Glitter Sergeant for the fastest route to the free PAHN-tee display and subsequently the fastest route out of there. Their training is rigorous and their voices are all the same: irregularly high pitched with a style of speech ironically native only to the girls of my high school and the employees of this nationwide retailer. They pronounce words like “thanks” thinksss and describe everything from a lip gloss gift set to the Bay of Pigs as “cute” . Bizarre. Each of them is also equipped with air of condescension almost as if to say, “my Very Sexy demi-cup push-up with Gel-Curve technology is better than yours.” And that’s all fine since they're handing over a square foot of fabric to cover my ass.

But this time the prize was new, a product called a "Cheekini". I suspected a bait and switch but was willing to take it off their hands.

It didn't look good. I had to get out of there fast. After hastily making my selection, coupon in hand, I approached the registers where Private Sparkles and Lieutenant Shimmers manned the tills. I slid my one free item across the counter and Operation: Panty Waste ensued.

As a novice environmentalist I commenced my pre-emptive strike and prepared for battle, “No need for a bag, I can just put it in my purse!”

Pt. Sparkles lowered her eyes non-verbally communicating, “ewww-wah”. She could sense the mutiny and forcefully struck back, “I’ll wrap it in some tissue (pronounced tish-yow)”

“Really, no thank you, I’ll just tuck it into my purse.” I desperately wanted to explain the waste of paper of this whole operation and how the item will be laundered before it touches my bits, but I knew we didn't speak the same dialect and my words would disintegrate as they bounced off the keratin-straightened hair covering her ears.

"Are you sure," she glared, tapping her acrylic nails searching for my bluff, "it's so much nicer in paper."

"Really. It's just underwear."

We stared at each other for a moment, the final battle. Fruitlessly darting her eyes towards Private Dazzleshine for back-up, she was forced to surrender. She waved the white flag of my receipt as I balled my new article up and threw it into my purse retreating for the door. Saluting the Color Guard on my way out, I took a breath, relived the conflict had ended... until direct mail marketing strikes again.

Could You Point Me To The Nearest...

2011-11-13T15:34:00.001-05:00

...ATM machine? I'm having trouble locating it.

I See Your Tin Cup & Raise You Bolshoi

2011-11-11T10:04:00.001-05:00

New York's panhandlers kick your city's panhandlers in the rump shaker.

I had drinks last night with friends who all commute on the same subway line as me. We spoke about the panhandlers and performers who troll the underground for money hustling their sad story or their outstanding (or sub-par) breakdancing. In New York, there’s a significant group of young men who will enter a train, four or five at a time, and shout the same war cry, “What time is it?!” And another will reply, “Showtime!” And the leader will repeat, “What time is it?” And the others in unison reply, “SHOWTIME!” whereupon their tinny 1990’s boom box flips on full blast to the hip hop song of their choosing and they each take turns breakdancing in the small entry way of the subway car. There is always one guy who can do some form of back-flip on the moving train where during the trick he will covertly slam his hand on the ceiling of the car making every tourist gasp and think, “Oh lord, he’s cracked his head!” No, no he has not Mr. Tom, Dick, and/or Harry. He’s funning you and you just dropped a dollar or two into his worn Yankee’s hat thinking you’ve contributed to his subsequent hospital visit. It’s impressive, really.

But, aside from the garden variety breakdancers and the kids who sell what appears to be a bulk purchase of Fruit Roll-Ups to raise money for their “basketball team”, New York offers amazing talent for the price of a $2.25 fare. I’ve witnessed some serious performances in the underground. I’m talking shit that that does not belong on the Bronx-bound 1 train: Alvin Ailey students, American Ballet Theater girls displaying modern interpretive dance and pirouettes, respectively.

But, few and far between gain the attention of the entire jaded New Yorker-filled car. Take this guy for example:

He boarded the train as a lone performer responding “Showtime!” to his own “What time is it?” The passengers collectively sighed with annoyance… until he began to dance. He turned up the music on the boom box and proceeded to perform the most spot on Michael Jackson impersonation I’ve ever seen. From 125th Street express down to 59th St, this kid killed it. He had the entire car awake, clapping to the beat, and some even singing Thriller along with him. Phones were out with the little cameras rolling as he Moon Walked down the length of the car. He high-fived the kids as he collected donations and his crotch-grabbing was only moderately off-putting. But what impressed me the most was when the music stopped… the people cheered. I’ve never witness such unanimous happiness during rush hour.

Hurry Up & Wait...

2011-11-09T15:03:00.002-05:00

Q: What do Contractors, Europeans, and Self-Involved Jerks all have in common?
A: A blatant disregard for the progression of time and punctuality on the whole.

I’m not that important so it pains me if others have waited on my tardiness. It makes me mad as shit to loiter outside a movie theater or restaurant for others, so I do my damnedest to be on time. Last weekend my college roommate had a baby shower for the ever growing ball of gelatin in her middle and the invitation requested a 3pm start time, so I arrived at 3pm. She and her people are not from this land, originally, and upon ascending the stairs to her apartment I heard a bellowing, “Ay, chica, I knew you’d be on time! My gringa!” I was the first and only guest for nearly an hour. This is what I refer to as an “Ain’t No Thing” scenario since the knocked-up company was a delight and my enjoyment did not depend upon her guest’s arrival. Also, wine was available.

In contrast, contractors make me want to tear my face off. They have the power to tether you to the darkened enclosed confines of your home and blindfold you to the arrival window only they can see through.

The installation of the Hardwood Floors/Murder Plot debacle ensured an hour each morning would be spent wondering if the contractors would return to finish the job, flooring or the single gunshot to my temple.

Today is no different. My apartment sustained some rather unattractive Hurricane-related water damage and the men hired to replace the window sills delivered a magnificent promise of grand proportions: "We'll be there at 9." In retrospect, I should have asked AM or PM. Perhaps I should prepare for additional dinner guests and purchase a second pork tenderloin?

Actual Day of Work Schedule, I picture them telepathically aiming to convey the following: "Just kidding about that 9 o'clock arrival. We know you got up earlier than normal so you could move furniture and prepare your livingroom for the work we claimed to do. And yea, we'll force you to sit tight and wait an excessive amount of time for our arrival. Oh sure, we have your number, but we wouldn't think of interrupting your nervous impatience. Feels like Christmas, huh? You're welcome."

And after waiting and waiting and waiting and... let me be honest, at this point, really needing a moment in the loo, I convinced myself into the belief that surely there’s enough time to take care of business since already I had waited this long. Once seated upon the throne, I crossed my fingers the tardy contractors will be just 5 minutes more tardy... but lo, "ding dong!"

Two and a half hours late yet somehow amazingly in tune with my small intestine. Mother fuckers.

Twit Face Plus Buzz Book

2011-11-07T15:55:00.000-05:00

Do we have to belong to Google+ now, too? There was a point when I juggled Friendster, Myspace and Facebook simultaneously, but that was in my early twenties. Currently, Facebook consumes a good one to… nine hours of my day. If the Earth began slowing its’ rotation thus lengthening daylight hours, then I’m all for it, but honestly I don’t have the patience or mental capacity to learn a new social medium.

My friend Dina is the most socially networked people I know. I’m not quite sure how she handles all the apps that live on her phone much less the Facebook/Twitter/LinkedIn/Google+ combo meal she digests each day. Nevertheless, I look to her for advice on subjects such as the “limited profile view” option, ::cough::upper-management::cough:: and budding social sites. It was a relief to gain verbal permission from the Binary Mistress that at the very least, Google Buzz, is just a waste of time.

Outside of gmail, how do you even log onto Google+? Typing in www.google+.com only delivers:

Once I finally figured out The + (oh yea, I’m calling it that now), it appeared to be a minimalist vehicle of status updates, but isn’t that why we have Twitter? Twitter, a social network I only use to follow the musings of Alec Baldwin and funny local newscasters. Delving further, I selected to “Share” a project I voiced called "Nightmare City." Upon hitting the share button a notification appeared reminding me to be “thoughtful about my audience selection”. I appreciate Google+’s intent of polite exchanges, but how long could that last? Google’s attempt at transforming their users into demographics strategists sounds like e-Utopia where no one requests your hit man skills for their Mob Wars team or to plow their Farmville back forty. Yet, Myspace began as a relatively subdued bulletin of mind-numbingly inane postings, but quickly blossomed into a graphic-heavy sensory overload nightmare of music and videos ad nauseum.

And games, of course! Games? I don’t understand the attraction of online gaming, but hey, this is Google’s feeble attempt at offering a supplementary social network that actually ensures some semblance of privacy. Alas, I hate games, virtual or live, and shy away from competition at all cost. I once feigned food poisoning to avoid a round of Chutes & Ladders; just not my thing. Meanwhile, Friendster has been reduced to a free online gaming site looking more like a virus-waiting-to-happen than the once-precursor to Facebook.

If Google+ is just a hybrid of Twitter and new Friendster, then by all means, I’m going to continue donating my personal information directly to Mark Zuckerberg.

The Elephant In The Room

2011-11-04T11:30:00.001-05:00

My scale is broken. The read out claims I am the same weight as I was in junior high, pre-puberty. It's amazing how one little number can make or break your morning. This morning, my friend, was made. Are you like me? Do you enjoy a New York strip with a few pieces of bread, some onion rings, and wash it down with several glasses of wine, only to wake the next day, step onto the scale and feel appalled that you don't weigh 130lbs? Nevertheless, I'm happy to have reached my goal weight circa 1995.

I'll be charging $5 at the door to step onto my Self-Confidence Machine and you, too, can remember the magic of what it was to eat a king size candy bar without considering the repercussions of gluttony.

Under no circumstance will I be replacing this scale.

Criminal Declawing

2011-11-03T11:37:00.000-05:00

The people of New York City are divided into two very distinct classes: filthy inconsiderate cretins blind to social norms and hygiene, raised by drug-addicted blood-thirsty wolf mothers and people who don’t clip their nails on the subway.

Somehow it has become vaguely acceptable for a person to fish through their pocket, retrieve their silvery chopping tool and proceed to fling pieces of themselves about the car. Pocket space comes at a premium; for me, it’s saved solely for hair bands, a Metrocard, and maybe a couple of bucks. Purse space is no different, required items include: keys, cell phone, wallet, book, and chapstick. I’m aware others have different needs; perhaps an extra pair of shoes, a laptop, or maybe a lunch. So the mind reels to even consider a person leaving their apartment, collecting the standard items and thinking, “Gosh, these nails could use a trim, but I’m so pressed for time! I’ll tuck these clippers into my pocket and take care of it on the subway.”

No! Wrong! Make time! At home!

Artist Jason Shelowitz agrees. Last spring, he created an art installation amid NYC Subways educating those less informed on obvious unacceptable behavior:

Brilliant, but how quickly people forget.

During rush hour yesterday, I sat on the train reading in peace when suddenly I heard the unmistakable “plink!” noise and felt something graze my cheek. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” I said, turning to see that less than a foot from my face a woman had brandished her clippers and began grooming herself on the downtown A train.

I submitted my best “Really?” face which translates into a squint combined with a look of disbelief. No acknowledgement and she continued. As I picked nail shrapnel from my hair, I heightened my combat to an audible wide-eyed, “Really?!” paired with aforementioned facial expression. Her return reaction was a non-verbal, “what’s the problem?” (Subtext: “doesn’t everyone jettison their unwanted hardened protein on the train?”). Disgusted, I stood to move my seat. Other passengers took notice and began backing away from her mine field, too.

I’ve seen much worse, but always from a distance. If you’re going to be brazen enough to do this in public, at least try to avoid innocent bystanders.

Upon exiting the subway, opportunity appeared in navy blue.
“Pardon me, officer?” cheery, but infuriated by my experience, “just curious, can you give a ticket to someone clipping their nails on the train? You know, littering or whatever?”
He agreed it should be a crime but the assailant, safely whisked away to the next stop, will go on to stab others with her perpetually regenerating flying talons.

On the next edition of “What The Fuck Is Wrong With People”, we’ll learn about creating discomfort with your camera phone use on public buses!
Until then, Readers, ride the rails safely and wear protective eye goggles.

Keep It In Your Pants

2011-10-31T11:11:00.000-05:00

Does it stem from exhibitionism and the incessant need to post outrageous photos on Facebook or is there another reason why suddenly men’s Halloween costumes have taken a turn for the filthy? After eons of women dressing like whores, do the gents feel left behind and collectively decided to catch up with a vengeance? I love Halloween more than Christmas and VJ Day combined, but I hate cheap humor costumes.

Years back, I met a man at a Halloween party dressed in what seemed like just a black fur poncho. He looked almost elegant and when I asked about his costume he told me, “I am the most horrifying thing in the world.” A seamstress by trade, he flawlessly crafted his costume from scratch designed so that when he raised his arms, the fur would part down the center revealing a pink silk lining. He was a vagina and as a gay man that was the most disgusting thing to him. Now, that’s clever. But, clever no longer seems to be commonplace, instead swapped for cheap dick jokes and blow-job references galore.

What are the consumers who actually purchase these costumes hoping to achieve? When an idiot walks into a bar dressed as your standard sexy nurse/sexy cop/sexy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, she’s aiming to get attention, free drinks, and potentially herpes.

However, if one selects a costume such as this:

Does he assume parades of women will line up delivering public blowjobs? I’m just curious.

In contrast, is the man who charms his own snake really insinuating he’d take masturbation over anonymous bathroom hook-ups?

If you really want to get in someone’s festive pants, skip the cheap Italian sausage because, really, that's character evidence for your inevitable statutory rape charge...

...and make outlandish offers of home repairs, dinners for two, or washing the dishes. I’m a whore for anyone who can fix a toilet or willfully take out the garbage.

I’m also pretty sure if you throw on at-shirt and a pair of jeans topped with some pre-fabricated packaged polyester get-up, then you’re doing it wrong.
I’m looking at you Little Man in a Canoe. You're tasteless and make your mother cry.

I can’t stand lazy costumes. Easy costumes, I can get behind; lazy makes me wish I carried lighter fluid in my purse. On Saturday night, I saw a guy in a tuxedo persistently checking his gold pocket watch. I assumed wrong when I guessed James Bond, instead this gentleman was dressed as the 1%, a rare instance of easy yet clever Halloween attire.

If you happen to pass a walking dick joke, a Beaver Hunter, Pussy Magnet, or The Shocker, please do me a solid and slug him in the face.

Have a happy Halloween, my dear Readers.

Nightmare City: The End of An Era

2011-10-30T21:00:00.000-05:00

This is a re-imagineering and de-zombification of the original film Incubo Sulla Città Contaminata, directed by Umberto Lenzi in 1980. Recut & rewritten by Nat J Gruca.
Voices by Nat J Gruca & Sarah Sweeney

Nightmare City (Part 4 of 7) from nat j gruca on Vimeo.
Activate Beard Stealth.

Nightmare City (Part 5 of 7) from nat j gruca on Vimeo.
Stealin' All The Milk

Nightmare City (Part 6 of 7) from nat j gruca on Vimeo.
And that is how you run an army, Colonel.

Nightmare City (Part 7 of 7) from nat j gruca on Vimeo.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

If you have trouble viewing these videos, please visit Nat Gruca's Vimeo Page

Targeting Fate

2011-10-28T09:04:00.000-05:00

Dear Target,

Let me begin by informing you, I don’t have a sizeable rack. From this, I don’t feel it necessary to purchase a $52 brassier from your standard Victoria’s Secret STD Collection or otherwise. I don’t need any state-of-the-art support technology or supplementary ropes and pulleys to keep everything in place. Instead, I choose you, Target. I choose you. Your cutsie oval-shaped oven mitts are perfect for a gal like me since any semblance of a B+ cup is all smoke and mirrors. In fact, I’m convinced $14 of the $19.99 covers the cost of padding and wires alone.

But Target, my friend, my confidant, why must you implant* that bizarre additional mystery hook in the back and claim it’s for “converting” the thing for additional uses. What uses are you suggesting, you fine people of Minneapolis, Minnesota?

Will I need to fashion a zip line from the strap’s superfluous hook or is it as simple as a DIY hanging plant project? Do you know my demise, Target?! Such an unforeseen scenario that only you, Target, are aware of? Maybe I’ll be cast as a doomed extra in Indiana Jones 6 (part 5 is already in development, really), involving a freak accident where my cheap bra with the weird hook miraculously saves my life during a particularly convoluted action scene. Or are you suggesting there could be a little more leafy green life in my apartment?! This is killing me!

But worst of all, more often than not my hair gets caught in that goddamn hook and a bald patch has formed in the back of my head from tearing it away from my skull. Yes, fine, I need a haircut but imagine my embarrassment, Target. People pass me in the street and assume the worst, alopecia, chemotherapy, indecisiveness towards white supremacy. I can’t face these people anymore. I can’t face them and it’s all because of your damn mystery hook!

I don’t mean to complain, but surely you can manufacture an option for us flat-chested consumers without the unnecessary bells and whistles that we (fine, I) don’t understand.
For a more feminine shape, I’m partial to a metal breastplate.

Sure, this won’t fit everyone snugly, but the additional room can store keys and chapstick.

Thanks for your understanding, Target. I really am fond of you and hope we can remain close. Keep sending Target coupons and having sales.

Sincerely,

Kleenex-Tits

*pun intended

Sleeping with the Boss

2011-10-28T05:30:00.000-05:00

My husband recently hired me on to take care of some clerical work for him. I say “clerical” because “data entry” makes me feel like I’ve picked up a high school summer job. As an independent contractor, he can dole out mindless tasks to the functioning heroin addict who lives down the block if he wanted, alas he chose me. It’s awkward having your fella play boss-man. Knowing my aversion to the ceaseless micromanagement I endured amid my former “grown up” job, he successfully avoided this behavior and in turn, successfully avoided getting punched. Nevertheless, it was fascinating how he explained the process and from this I’ve concluded the following:

My fella believes he has married a vegetable trapped in the Commodore era.

The following is an actual conversation that actually occurred in my actual living room this morning.

Me: I’ll have that spreadsheet finished by late morning, Boss. Just want to check over the numbers once more.

Boss-Husband: Cool, thanks. And the great thing about excel is that you can email it!

Is he proclaiming the magic of technology or covertly trying to teach me that I can compose an email letter with my typing machine, glue my squares ‘n numbers paper to it, and drop it into the Fourth Dimension mailbox for him to receive via witchcraft moments later? Why yes! (Maybe?)

Me, subtly sarcastic: E-mail it? Wait a second, are you sure?

Professor-Husband: Yea, just attach it and send it to my gmail.

Me: Oohhh. Email. I think I get it, OK.

Oh jeez, he does think I’m an idiot. Does this have anything to do with the Thundercat paraphernalia in my nightstand next to my retainer?

I’m not a grown-up but being a decade his junior, I am the Steve Jobs of this duo.

Nasty Bitches

2011-10-26T15:00:00.000-05:00

There’s this bar in my neighborhood where I used to waste my time and money that is until it became overrun with crazy bitches. I blame a combination of NYC tap water and the contractor who constructed the joint. The bar itself may as well have been built by Helen Keller. With an L-shape, one side sits at regulation height while the other slants at an incline hitting the dwarfed clientele at chin level. With the normal side always occupied, a game of Musical Chairs will ensue as others pay their check and leave. It’s never occurred to the owners to find taller bar stools for the towering side, so needless to say the former seating area is coveted amongst patrons.

One particular middle-aged woman, always well-dressed, began showing up to drink their hideously sweetened signature cocktails. She looked like the type who would refer to herself as a “modern career woman.” If she were someone’s boss that someone likely goes home each evening to weep and cut themselves. In short, she looks like a bitch. She would reserve two bar stools, one for her bony ass and another for her oversized Louis Vuitton purse, and chat on her cell phone during her entire stay.

I arrived one evening to find her purse drinking in the seat next to her, making my quest for comfort impossible.
“Pardon me?” I whispered with a smile, feigning respect towards her public telephone conversation. She turned to face me, sized me up in one scowling glance, and turned back again without acknowledgement.
“Excuse me!?” now annoyed at her indifference.
“What,” her response unexpectedly curt.
“Is this chair taken?” I asked feeling anxious as this woman was clearly a cunt.
“Obviously! So I suggest you sit over there,” waving me off to the dregs of the watering hole.

Shocked and unprepared for such arrogance, I moped over to the poorly constructed side. Mean women freak me the fuck out and based on her response, I assumed this woman was no stranger to delivering a bitch slap. I have an unrelenting fear of getting into a legitimate fight, so passive aggression works wonders for me. Should anyone ever want to fight me I would melt into a pitiful sobbing mess on the ground covered in my own blood and possibly urine.

Maybe she was saving the stool for some poor bastard to share a drink with her, but that response was too much. After a moment of stewing and deep breathing, I approached her again hands on my hips to mask the Parkinson’s that had developed in them in the last five minutes.
“What do you want now?” she viciously emitted before I even inhaled to speak.
“Wow. What is your problem? I asked a simple question but you seem to have your head lodged firmly up your ass.” I’m still not sure how I got the sentence out without crying.

The manager rushed over with the obligatory, “Is there a problem, ladies?”
“Why, yes. This young lady doesn’t understand her place.” Whoa. I was suddenly over my fear of blood-thirsty combat.
Then something amazing happened. He laid down the law, “Your attitude is no longer welcome at this establishment.” I nearly threw up with excitement. She lifted her Mochatini or whatever the fuck she was drinking, splashed it in his face like a reality show star and stormed out.

“I hate that bitch. She scares the shit out of me.” True story. She scared him so much that he withheld objection when she returned the following week to continue drinking their Kool-Aid-based cocktails. Meanwhile, I’ve moved onto other establishments built with more precision... and a level.

The Slow Release of Death...

2011-10-26T11:41:00.000-05:00

...As depicted by a sugar cookie

And truly nothing spreads holiday cheer than the reminder of how finite life is, even for a snowman. Let's all take a moment to reflect upon the snowmen who have left us. I'd like to include a few memories of my own, but I warn you, some images are graphic and not meant for young children.

With every passing winter, passes many of our frosty friends. Adopt a snowman in your neighborhood today and help the lives of snowpeople all over the world. You'll sleep better at night knowing your snowperson eats a nutritious meal each day and isn't covered in animal or human urine. If adoption isn't right for you, consider a donation. Just pennies a day will ensure your icy neighbor's carrot nose resists rot, his or her coal eyes aren't stolen for trashcan fires, and their silk top hat remains lovingly placed upon their head. Please, before it's too late.

Nightmare City: Parts 1 - 3

2011-10-26T09:56:00.000-05:00

I recently had the esteemed pleasure of working with writer/director/editor Nat Gruca on a re-cut, rewritten zombie movie from 1980. Nat selected me to play various female voices, including the main co-star Olive. Here's a still of her looking especially hot:

Nat Gruca will be rolling out one installment each day until Halloween. So, without further ado, please enjoy Parts 1-3 of Nightmare City:

Nightmare City (Part 1 of 7) from nat j gruca on Vimeo.

Nightmare City: Metropolis of Dreams, and Television Celebrities.... with Beards.
If you have trouble viewing this video, please visit Nat's Vimeo Page

Nightmare City (Part 2 of 7) from nat j gruca on Vimeo.

TV's Beardo Lombardi, man of many talents. And whiskers. And TVs.
If you have trouble viewing this video, please visit Nat's Vimeo Page.

Nightmare City (Part 3 of 7) from nat j gruca on Vimeo.
If you have trouble viewing this video, please visit Nat's Vimeo Page

This is a re-imagineering and de-zombification of the original film Incubo Sulla Città Contaminata, directed by Umberto Lenzi in 1980. Recut & rewritten by Nat J Gruca.
Voices by Sarah Sweeney & Nat J Gruca.

Wash Your Mouth Out With Soap

2011-10-21T11:34:00.000-05:00

Weird fact I heard today: it’s cleaner to lick a toilet seat in the bathroom of the Astor Place Starbucks than to lick your own cell phone. How is that possible? Now, I fiddle with my cell far more than I should for a person who abhors the oblivious zombies who swipe and finger their iPhone all day. But, rarely do I set it down on the subway floor, a kitty litter box, or sewage pump. Rarely. Call me tidy, but I like to keep the thing against my ear or in my excessively clean hand.

For those of you who have never visited the Astor Place Starbucks location, I’d like to enlighten you. From the naked eye, one would assume it is riddled with hepatitis (full alphabet versions), vomit, blood, and rat droppings. This is the short list, I can assure you, but it’s not socially acceptable to lug a microscope into a public bathroom. It’s a campsite for the homeless, junkies, and worst of all bloggers. Now you may see why this phone vs. toilet fact boggles my mind.

Even if you’re the type to scroll through the morning’s tweets while seated on the can – completely acceptable, by the way – then surely you’re not using the phone to wipe? Where exactly are these germs coming from? If the average cellphone carries e. coli, then what the hell is crawling all over the pens chained down at the bank? The Metrocard touchscreen machines? Money? Growing up, we were always told money is dirty, but we never asked, “Dirty with what?” If trace amounts of cocaine can be found on four out of five dollar bills, then what else can be found on them? Furthermore, upon reading this fact, are you licking the contents of your wallet?

Last time I was sick, I asked my doctor if he could prescribe an antibiotic. He obliged but not without nonchalantly lecturing that “antibiotics will only help to fester a worldwide Super Bug; an inevitable pandemic for our overmedicated population.” He’s an alarmist, I like that about him. If you’re hoping to avoid the allegedly inescapable Super Bug aiming to eliminate the earth’s population, then I implore you to build a tolerance and lick that cellphone!

T-Zone Elimination

2011-10-21T10:00:00.000-05:00

There's something to be said for a good night's sleep. Behold, the innards of my medicine cabinet where the face astringent stuff (purple liquid on the right) lives next door to the nail polish remover.

Can you guess what I absentmindedly smeared over my never-to-be-greasy-ever-again forehead this morning?

Acetone burns. I need to reorganize this shelf.

My So-Called Subconscious

2011-10-19T10:53:00.000-05:00

I had a dream last night that I went to Lizzie Borden’s house for a nap. You remember Lizzie Borden with her axe, yes? Homicidal Victorian woman of Fall River, Massachusetts who delivered forty whacks to one parent and forty-one to the other? Cranky young lady. The house in my dream resembled my best friend’s home growing up except rundown, abandoned and museum-like; dusty and stale as if it would smell of mothballs. I awoke from the dream-nap to a phone call from my mother.

“Why the hell are you sleeping at Lizzie Borden’s creepy house?” I don’t know, I’m asleep on multi-levels right now.She insisted on picking me up immediately and driving us to Zaccagnini’s Bakery for an Italian dinner. Dinner at a bakery; I subconsciously strive for diabetes.

Cut to my mother storming through the creaky front door to wake and drag me from the murder house for a birthday cake dinner. As she pulled me angrily by the wrist down the driveway, "I have reservations!" I saw an old date-rape mobile like a 90’s Nissan Turbo parked under a tree with the front seat reclined all the way back. Crouched low hiding in the car was Jared Leto, naturally.

Reader, allow me to clarify. I was once in love with old Jared Leto. Back when Jared Leto looked like a young James Taylor:

Not this anorexic, pink Mohawk, guy-liner, black nail polish-adorned hipster from the future wearing leftover wardrobe from the Fifth Element:

I loved him when he was that lovable illiterate scumbag Jordan Catalano on My So-Called Life which now airs on Sundance, Monday nights at 11pm, hopefully forever. My subconscious misses the 90's.

Capital Improvement de Muerte

2011-10-18T12:41:00.000-05:00

I’m writing to you from the corner of my kitchen floor where I’ve recently unearthed a healthy dose of paranoia. Some weeks ago, my husband and I made the executive decision to update our apartment starting with new hardwood floors. I’ve elected to stay home to greet the installers and ensure all goes smoothly. Certainly of our duo, I’m not the most apt to speak up if shoddy work is performed, but I need to ensure none of my Halloween costumes are tried on and/or sniffed. Most men are into the stale scent of petroleum-based body paint, right?

Four men arrived this morning at my door and with a heavy accent one began, “Sarah... Weeney?” “Actually, Sweeney,” but thanks for bringing me back to 9th grade all over again, “Please come in!” I’m never quite sure what to do with myself during repair or maintenance visits and my inner Donna Reed rears her uncomfortable head. “Could I fix you a cold beverage?” I’ll say with a fixed nauseating smile. And no matter what, I can’t help myself but to hover over the job; every leaky faucet or electrical mishap, I want to help during the process so as not to appear useless. In short, I overcompensate.

After completing the necessary paperwork, they began unloading the wood planks, tools, and saws to tear up the squeaky hardwoods to replace them with a rich caramel oak. With only a smattering of high school Spanish left in mi cabeza gringa, an intense game of charades commenced. Finally, I mustered the courage to conjugate some simple verbs to attempt better communication. This helped and we all appeared to be on the same page. Amid my feigned cheeriness, the men muttered to each other in hush tones in Spanish far too rapid for me to pick out any keywords. I realize with one comprehended exchange I have somehow tricked them into thinking I understand the language, “cuidado… ella entiende.”

And then it dawns on me, this project provides these men with all the tools in which to murder me, saw apart my lifeless body, and tell-tale-heart the pieces under the fresh new auburn floor boards.

From the untrained eye, I may appear to be the spoiled wife lounging at home whilst repairs performed by strapping young Latin men sweat about me. But then one may also notice I live on the fifth floor of a walk-up building in the Calgary of Manhattan, clearly not the lap of luxury. No afternoon martinis and cliché bon-bons here, but that doesn’t stop me from the overwhelming feeling of “white guilt” which in turn rises in my mind as motive.

Hours pass and I begin to see the signs of my untimely death. As a warning shot, they shrouded my television like a Taliban hostage:

I overhear their gibberish and it all begins to make sense:

The short compact man asks the younger stronger of the four, “¿Qué él hizo con el taladro?”
I translate this to clearly mean, “Please lay down that plastic tarp to keep the blood from staining the carpet. It looks imported.”
His response, “En el dormitorio al lado de la ventana,” likely meaning, “Shouldn’t we just put the body into the bathtub to ensure easy clean up?”
“¡Necesito el arma del clavo, también!” or as I assume, “This isn’t the Sopranos, she goes into the subfloor!”

The short man answers his ringing cellphone, the boss calling the shots from afar. Upon hanging up, he seems agitated, “Mi esposa guarda el llamar de mí.” Perhaps they’ve wasted time and have another “job” to do?

Their effort in this plot is admirable; the floors are coming along beautifully.

Alas, I'm no fool! As I sit here on the cold tile floor amid all of my belongings shoved into the kitchen with me, I await the Circular Saw of Death.

En Vino Veritas

2011-10-14T13:38:00.000-05:00

My friend Trey allegedly coined an affliction called “The Emotional Hangover.”I’m sure it’s pretty self-explanatory, but allow me to define the term in orderfor me to shake my own emotional hangover:

It’s that feeling when the crust ofyour eyes breaks apart, you see the morning sun for the first time of the day (generallyaround 11am), and feel a pang in your chest that tells you, “I’ve done or saidsomething despicable last night”. It’s the knowledge upon waking that youconsumed a shocking amount of alcohol, enough to kill a toddler, yet survivedin order to deliver a scathing comment to someone, or worse, a left hook. Ifyou wake up knowing you’ve left your coat, credit card, or virginity at a bar,you’re likely experiencing this.

A couple I had recently met invited me to their joint 30th birthday party. Having barely known these people I hoped to be on my bestbehavior since the party guests would consist of judgmental Europeans and asmattering of acquaintances.

The nightprogressed and fun was had until I swallowed that final cocktail sending meinto a level of insobriety where one is liable to contend with the EmotionalHangover. The timeline became fuzzy and dim and I awoke in mybed the next morning, rubbed the vodka-laced sleep from my eyes and withoutreason, I felt guilt. I bruise like a leukemia patient so after a night such asthis I inspected my body for telling signs of accidental abuse. In mygrogginess, it looked as though I began to slit my wrist about a quarter-inch,got distracted and returned to my drink. Thankfully, the vague memory of abouncer scribbling on me with a red sharpie to indicate my paid cover chargesurfaced in my memory. What a load off.

Raising myknees to further the inspection, I see they are covered with dried blood. “Oh god!” I shrieked aloud, waking myhusband, "I lost an Irish Step dance competition to a cheese grater!" As hestirred and turned to face me, his mouth formed a mischievous smile fromear-to-ear: an indication my tongue should have been bitten, hard, at somepoint late in the evening.

It wasexplained to me that a young lass plopped herself next to me for a friendlychat. In response, I raised my eyes to meet hers, glared with anger and merelygrowled at her. Growled, reader! An alcohol-soaked incantation of Tim Allen witheyes at half-mast.

He went on toexplain the growling only subsided when a waitress approached the table todeliver a platter of barbeque chicken wings. As cuisine I’ve never enjoyed -- allthat bone and gristle and squiggly stuff at the joint -- I couldn’t have orderedit for myself. But he knew I was in trouble when, with a zombie-expression, Islid the entire plate in front of myself, oblivious to the outside world (andthe person it was intended for), and began eating with my bare hands wiping thesuperfluous sauce on my legs.

The Euros were displeased with this American behavior and ignored me for theremainder of the evening. Good. I don't know what's going on with Greece and Portugal anyhow.

I forced myselfto call the birthday girl to apologize for my animalistic aggression, “ohplease, I barely remember anything from last night either… except you eatingall my god damn chicken wings!” If that was the only memorable offense, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all? Nevertheless,en vino veritas, I secretly love marrow and gristle. So, for now I’ll take theEmotional Hangover and hope to be forgiven again next time.

Zip Code Anxiety

2011-10-13T15:02:00.000-05:00

"I have never googled an ex; I would only be disappointed when I didn't find an obituary." ~Anonymous Friend

Is there anything worse than learning an ex hasmoved uncomfortably close to your neighborhood or office? Sure, cancer,starvation, paper cuts: all bad. But knowing the inopportunity to cross pathswith someone from your past, especially when you’re unprepared: the worst.

Years back I dated someone in California and it endedas soon as it began. At the unseasoned age of twenty-four I had theesteemed ability to warp a three week affair into a full-fledged romance. Ispent more time mourning the relationship’s demise than actually dating this guy. I concede I was a fool. I’ve since married someone else who not only claims to love me but makes a much better (read: funnier) match than the aforementioned. I had forgottenabout California Boy -- blocked my whimpering pathetic time out of my mind -- andmoved on with only the rare passing thought of, “I wonder what that guy is upto?” Thankfully, in a pre-Facebook era we never “friended” one another thus theout-of-sight-out-of-mind healing process worked wonders. That and excessivedrinking. How in the world people now recover from their disappointingrelationships with the bastard constantly popping up on their News Feed is beyond me. At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, I’m mystified bythe lifestyle of people even five years younger than I.

So there I am enjoying marital bliss, or whateverfloral words used for consensual detainment, when I learn from a crediblesource that my former distraction, once safely tucked away on the left coast, isnow head of some fancy pants company right here in New York. In my owngoddamn backyard. I felt secure with the eight or nine flyover states ensuring I’dnever endure an awkward encounter as I squeezedavocados muttering to myself in Whole Foods. Suddenly the safety has come off off and it’s openseason on Zip Code Anxiety.

Allow me explain Zip Code Anxiety, a little known factionof Murphy’s Law, wherein the subject aims to avoid contact with a previousoffender yet subconsciously allures surprise encounters when said subject leastexpects it. It’s the hope of successfully dodging the Mean Girls of your highschool when you venture back home for major holidays. It’s seeing your boss atthe movies, seating yourself on the polar opposite side of the theater but bumping into her in the ladies' room. Reader,I know what you’re thinking: New York is overrun with an absurd amount ofpeople, what the hell is the worry? I'll tell you: I run into people on the street constantly. Friends, neighbors, college professors, old co-workers, acquaintances, high school friends who live in different states, you name it.

Itemped at a large cable network back in ’07 for a few weeks where a gentlemanwith whom I had relations years prior also worked. I assumed the likelihood of happenstance was rare, but lo! In my brief time performing menial filing tasks, wetraveled in the same elevator no less than a half dozen times. Do you have anyidea how difficult it is to upkeep elevator etiquette amongst strangers while feigningwell-adjustment, success, and mental stability in front of someone who lived inyour pants for a year? And as a temp!? Impossible!

So, great. Fantastic. I'll continue scanning thepedestrians on the streets with the indecision of how to approach the inevitable.Statistically, this worry will dissolve and over time and I’ll forget my unrest.Yet, Zip Code Anxiety will overthrow me on the day I leave the house with apulsing scarlet zit at the end of my nose wearing an ill-fittingshirt while eating a messy cheeseburger with toppings that have just fallen onto my lap.

So you see, this really is worse than a paper cut.

'A' Is For 'That Red Thing'

2011-10-11T14:42:00.000-05:00

If I were to believe the children are our future, then somewhere along the line someone forgot to teach them well and let them lead the way. To encounter people no more than ten years my junior and realize they can only communicate in 140 characters’ worth of thoughts and reply in text-speak is no rare find. Recently, I overheard a high school aged girl respond with the abbreviated “obvi” when an elderly woman asked if the pharmacy was closed. It was obvi closed, but “obvi” is not a word and I can’t even begin to broach the disrespect in your tone, young lady.

My neighborhood grocery store is a microcosm of the poor state of public education in this city. Granted, I’m in no position to mock an employed citizen*, but I want to create a training program with a slide show for these twit cashiers and remind them that Cheetos aren’t actually made of cheese and when labeling the sale items, that Jewish loaf is not spelled holla bread.

When I was 16, I started my first job at the local supermarket in Cranston, Rhode Island. We were trained to learn all the different types of produce, even the bizarre crap no one actually eats, like carambola, whatever the fuck that is. I’m not Malaysian and nor are most people in Cranston, Rhode Island, but nevertheless we learned it.

Today like any other day I didn't think for a moment the produce items in my grocery basket would be questioned. My annual pre-Halloween diet is on, so at the check-out of my local Washington Heights market I had selected all fruits and vegetables. The girl behind the register was no kid, more or less my age, so it surprised me when she held up a summer squash and muttered, “whussis?”

Maybe you’re into carambola instead, but that yellow thing doesn’t ring a bell? I told her and she returned to scanning my items. Moments later her ignorant mouth made more noise while holding an large egg-shaped purple item, “n’ this thing?”

“Really? This thing would be an eggplant.” You’ve got to be kidding me? You work in a grocery store!
“Pffft, egg-plan. Never heard of it,” she replied defensively. By now she had done it! She pushed my brows’ limits of furrowing!

She could tell I thought she was a moron and for that I felt sorry -- sorry she doesn’t know what an egg-plan is. Thank god my math skills are so poor, otherwise I might have noticed she shorted me eight bucks when she shoved the change into my hand.

*Left my corporate job to avoid killing myself and/or others. More on that soon.

Rat Tail Follow-Up

2011-10-04T16:30:00.001-05:00

Dear Reader,

I feel morally obligated to inform you the consequences of googling "rat tail". Please avoid it at all cost lest ye be subject to actual photos of chopped off rat tails. Searching for photos for the previous post turned my stomach and I don't wish the same ghastly reaction upon you, dears.

You're Welcome,

Sarah Sweeney

Upper Manhattan: A Great Place… for serial killers Part 2, "Rat Tail Man"

2011-09-28T14:25:00.000-05:00

I’ve always thought a person who wears their hair with an additional dangling rope of locks in the back communicates one of two things:

1.) I enjoy Nascar to an alarming degree and refer to my pants as "Dungarees"

2.) I’m really into Star Wars

However, I am wrong. There is a third category I was unaware of, the Serial Killer category. Last Rosh Hashana, my fella and I decided to celebrate the Jew Year with a few drinks at our favorite neighborhood bar. We climbed into our usual seats and took stock of the other patrons. To my immediate right sat a middle aged man drinking a beer wearing a bright orange windbreaker and a foot long gray rat tail affixed to the base of his skull. He immediately struck up a conversation with us and seemed nice enough from the start. He had a little too much vim and vigor for the time of night and something told me he diluted his beer with some of Escobar’s Dandruff. That’s fine, no judgment, but altogether uncomfortably friendly for the average New Yorker.

Unable to shy away from free amusement we engaged in seemingly benign chatter: our neighborhood, careers and interests. An artist who enjoys mixed media and woodworking, he displays and sells his works in the bar and other Upper Manhattan haunts. He was raised in Queens and would occasionally visit a childhood friend in Connecticut. That’s when the conversation went from status quo to mentally jotting down any identifying features.

That night I wore a plain silver necklace. I remember him leaning in to admire it and directly touching the pendant - and consequentially my sternum - in his admiration. After this, we should have saddled up, but fate stepped in. The bartender watched from afar and soon sent over a free round which I later took to understand she wanted us dead.

Rat Tail explained this Connecticut friend had gone through a messy divorce. As one who has never seen the inside of an asylum, it seemed this ex-wife had received the brunt of the mess. Despite his friend’s additional lovers, Rat Tail enlightened us she was a “filthy whore” and her decision to break ties was reprehensible. We nodded and simulated agreement with a smile. At that point in the story, we were trapped. If we left then, it would appear rude; but if we stayed, our dental records would soon be cross-checked for a comparison to dismembered remains. Naturally, I insisted we opt for the latter.

As he continued to drink, he grew angrier. Now, I’m no stranger to getting heated over nothing after an evening of beverages; I no longer drink brown liquor because of this fact. But his explanation of how he would handle his friend’s situation became distressing and despite our feigned concurrence, I can’t imagine we concealed our horror well, “A woman like that needs to be taken care of…” at this point his gaze drove into my eyes.

He continued, “…if I was him, I would have put her where she belongs: in the ground.” Chuckling with a forced, “yea, no kiddin’!” I shot a look to the bartender to indicate check please! while squeezing my fella’s knee under the bar. From this, a series of non-verbal hand gestures were created for future incidents to indicate “DANGER!” to the other.

By then he noticed our buy-back and did not like we had received a round on the house and he hadn’t. The bartender felt he drank enough and refused him another. Perhaps she was interested in being placed into the ground by this man since from the expression on his face, I would have given him the contents of the till and my social security number. He stood abruptly knocking over his stool and stormed off to the bathroom only to return seconds later. In that time, he had forgotten us and his energy now focused completely on the petite barmaid denying him more beer. He demanded another pint once more and once more she RSVP’d Yes to a slow death delivered by Rat Tail himself. He leaned across the bar to deliver grumbled choice words about her character. She shrugged and this sent him into a tailspin of fury (pun intended). He then turned towards the display of art and tore his works from the walls, cursing and hollering throughout. Others enjoying a late dinner perked up with attention and the restaurant area became silent. He stormed out of the premises but not before pointing to the poor girl threatening, “I’ll be back for you.”

Moments later, the hush subsided and people returned to their conversations and my fella and I turned to each other, wide-eyed and horrified, in silence. I then understood the importance of a good haircut and I never saw Rat Tail again.

Upper Manhattan: A Great Place… for serial killers Part 1, "Pink GirlyBuck Shot"

2011-09-24T15:01:00.001-05:00

Some years ago, I moved to Upper Manhattan where the rent is cheaper and the tourists are scarce. After a few weeks of exploring my new zip code, I realized the “night life” up here is not just underwhelming, but dead. Demographically, the crowd is older with elementary school-aged kids and a substantial population of Orthodox Jews; not your typical group for all night boozefests and casual hook-ups. Having spent five years in Hell’s Kitchen surrounded by the intense turn-over of bars and restaurants with youthful chatty patrons, I became spoiled with variety. Nevertheless, I was moving in with a “boy” and it was time to grow up.

My boyfriend and I got into the habit of frequenting one particular restaurant around the corner where you could enjoy decent fare at the bar and make the painstaking effort to chat up the locals, most of whom had lived in the area for decades. We began to notice this place drew an eclectic crowd: older couples, young Latinos, skinhead-type bikers, artsy gays, butch lesbians, and above all, loners. After several visits, we became friendly with the owner and wait staff who would quietly clue us in on the more eccentric patrons.

Most barflies appeared benign such as Robert, the childlike 50-something who resides in his boyhood apartment with his mother. Or Daniel, the white-bearded elderly man who reminds me of Santa Claus. Or, Luis who prefers to sip Merlot and read ‘The Economist’ with a booklight clipped onto the top. But more often than not, we’d find ourselves either chatting or eavesdropping on another at the bar who made us feel as though he had recently committed a murder.

We began noticing bizarre behavior from one particular regular: a portly balding man in his 60’s wearing thin wire frames and a crumpled dark suit. A striking resemblance to Dick Cheney. He would take a seat at the bar; always appearing disgruntled, and mumble his drink order. Given his appearance I would have guessed he’d prefer sipping a whiskey, neat. Or on the opposite side of the spectrum, a Budweiser.

“Midori sour, three cherries,” he grumbled. My fella and I exchanged a glance both silently communicating our surprise at his unexpected choice. Cheney grasped the straw with an angry fist and sucked the lime green cocktail down in one long gulp. Slamming the glass down on the table, he slid his money towards the barmaid, put his coat on, and walked out of the bar. His time in the watering hole couldn’t have been longer than 3 minutes.

We shrugged it off and returned to our conversation. Shortly after, Cheney reappeared, removed his coat and resumed his place at the same bar stool to again order a drink.

“Pomegranate margarita, no salt.” What?! Perhaps this was an indication that the lacking “scene” in the neighborhood had lowered our standards for entertainment, but we were enthralled! The bartender began mixing the concoction without batting an eyelash, pouring it into a dainty martini glass. He forewent the straw this time and swigged the pink liquid down furiously. Again, sliding cash towards the bartender, and walking out without another word.

We learned with disappointment that he has never uttered anything more than his drink order to our friendly bartender, and avoided all eye contact in the process. She, too, had been curious of his behavior and unsuccessfully attempted conversing with him in the past, “he contributed nothing more than his girlish drink request, not even a ‘thank you’”.

As time went on, we viewed this routine with increasing curiosity. We likened him to a man with many dark secrets, untrusting, anti-social, living in a small filthy apartment: a cold-blooded murderer. We envisioned him aimlessly walking the streets with a bloody knife wrapped in a handkerchief in his coat pocket, naturally. It was the same scenario every time: enter bar, order feminine cocktail, chug, leave, rinse, repeat. He began to consume us outside of the bar; we talked about him at home, hypothesized his lifestyle. Why don’t we ever see him around the neighborhood? Is he visiting other establishments and running the same game? We had to get to the bottom of Cheney’s motives.

Weeks later he popped into the bar on a slow night and aside from the wait staff, we were the only three patrons. A tequila sunrise was prepared and in the silence opportunity beckoned. My fella tentatively took the initiative using the most common bond among men, “Hey… how’s it going?” he stammered. “The Jets are killing it tonight, huh?” gesturing to the fuzzy screen perched overhead. Knowing he used the phrase “killing it” for my benefit I squeezed his knee under the bar as fireworks of excitement shot off in my brain. Oh the anticipation! Finally, the secrets of Cheney about to be revealed!

“My son and I watch the Yankees. I don’t like football much.” His reply, gruff with no eye contact. The Cuervo slipped quickly down his gullet until the highball was empty. His coat practically buttoned to the neck before either of us could formulate a strategic reply. We watched him walk out the door, our efforts thwarted, all anticipation lost.

Twenty minutes later he returned, slung his coat over the back of a bar stool and never once looked in our direction.

“Mojito, extra lime.”

Neighbors Are Meant to be Strangers

2010-06-18T19:56:00.003-05:00

Seemingly every sitcom set in New York mocks the idea of the neighbor and how those who live just feet away are perfect strangers. Neighbors are generally a mystery; if it's any matter of interest at all the clues of their lives are revealed only by the cooking smells that seep through their door, the mutual schedules kept, or the mail that mixes in with yours from time to time. On some lucky occasions, you can peer with clarity into their lives based on the amount of weed they smoke and their disinterest in concealing their vice with a damp towel by the front door. But alas, the one neighbor you're certain to learn about is the one with whom you share a wall.

If I had a dime for every time I ran into my next door neighbor and subsequently wished I were dead, I'd have about a buck fifty.

After getting acquainted with my then-new neighborhood, I would notice an old man in a worn gray suit lecturing unsuspecting folks on the sidewalk about how they can live forever. Despite my curiosity, I avoided him noting the pained look in his "students'" eyes wishing and hoping to politely bow out of the outlandish one-way conversation. Weeks later, it was my turn. O' what fortune! As luck would have it, the man lived in my building and I had the pleasure of learning the secret to immortality in the lobby. My gentleman friend introduced us one afternoon and it wasn't until he violated the standard American personal space bubble that I realized he emitted the wafting scent of vodka and tuna fish. I later learned this was the only scent he carried. He scrutinized me so closely I feared he might bite my face.

Mihovil, the 70+ Yugoslavian alcoholic/canned fish enthusiast, in shock to see his neighbor was now shacking up with a young lady began slugging my gent square in the arm, laughing, and muttered something, doubtlessly uncouth, in Serbo-Croatian. The three of us began to climb the stairs of our walk-up as I thought, "surely a man of his age must live on the 2nd floor... no, 3rd?" No, he lived on the 5th floor directly next to us.

Months passed and Mihovil and I would bump into one another often. I'd inevitably get sucked into a marathon lecture on deathlessness, the benefits of sprinting, and how I mustn't get fat, of course(!), if I wished to achieve the former. His harangues transformed into topics on liver regeneration, racism, the occasional lecherous comment.

At first, I relished in listening to the neighborhood loon, but even polite in nature, I found myself sternly claiming I hadn't the time to chat. Mihovil metamorphosed into a dreaded waste of time. His bizarre nature paired with the IV drip of vodka and subtle violent comments became so overwhelming that I began avoiding him.

One evening, I came home to an empty apartment, plopped on the couch, and flipped on the set. I could hear Mihovil coughing through the wall. I rolled my eyes and turned the sound up on the television. The noise soon increased combined with labored agonizing groans; my annoyance melted away I immediately worried he was having a heart attack. In a conflicted panic, I called a friend who, aware of his unsettling behavior, recommended I ignore him. In the few moments on the phone, the arduous sounds came to an abrupt halt. She encouraged, "if he's dead, there's nothing you can do." I conceded to this fact and sat nervously until my gentleman came home.

As he entered the front door, I leapt from my seat recounting the four minutes of horror and Mihovil's presumed death, he requested I mimic the sounds overheard. Once finished with my impression he looked very grave, placing one hand gently on my back and the other reached for the telephone. Guilt overcame me, grief overwhelmed me, and my selfishness for not acting made me feel disgraceful.

He looked back at me grimly, his new "tenant" who had only known the deceased a few months, and said, "god damnit... that's Mihovil masturbating!"

Sure enough and to this day, Mihovil prances around the neighborhood preaching cell rebirth and eternal life as I lurk from afar hoping he won't notice me and return to an amusing stranger.

Happy Q2!

2010-02-09T22:42:00.006-05:00

Please answer me this: what's the statute of limitations for exclaiming "happy new year" at the close of each email and upon greeting those in the work place? A week? Two weeks? It appears this tradition of dragging out an ever-disappointing holiday insists upon rearing it's ugly head year after year well into March! What are these people trying to hold onto exactly?

It's wearing thin on my nerves and should be added to the lengthy list of Office Faux Pas such as prognosticating a co-worker's case of the Monday's. I suppose it just adds variety to the usual closer, "thanks"(subtext: "in advance for the demand I've enclosed in this missive").

I spent New Year's Eve 2009 at a resort in Mexico, an Americanized hell if you'd ask my traveling companion and me. However, midnight came and went as the DJ spun YMCA for the fourth time and seven minutes into 2009 he exclaimed, "ahora es hora por Año Nuevo!! Diez, nueve, ocho, siete..." A bit lax, which I thought was likely the best stance on New Year's ever. But upon returning to my hovel of a cubicle the following week, I noticed the wishes of a happy new year stamped upon every single email that landed in my inbox.

Corporate lingo proves soul crushing feats; an entire dictionary of terms you'd never ever use among friends or better, people you actually like. For example:

Friend #1: I propose we do a little R&D* at the new pub that just opened. We could leverage our fiscal assets with the happy hour they present from 4pm - 7pm.

Friend #2: I'm aligned with this proposal. My reco** is to regroup on Sunday with a follow-up to access our findings. However, we'll need proper sign off from Friend #3 at COB***.

Friend #1: Will do! I'll circle back with you after I've downloaded**** Friend #3.

See?

After a few years behind a desk I've noticed some trends in office conversations that, not unlike a giant stick thwacking me repeatedly in the face, remind me how often my eyes glaze over in agreement, when really I'm thinking, "Do you kiss your mother with that vernacular?!"

How long does it take to live among a corporate environment before the language envelops my personal conversations?

I worry. But in the meantime Happy New Year, 40 days late, Reader.

*Research & Development

**Recommendation
***Close of Business

****To inform. (This is a funny one to me, because if you're giving the information, technically, you're uploading. Yet, I hear this phrase at least once a day.)

Hey, They Can't All Be Gems

2010-02-09T21:16:00.007-05:00

Earlier this afternoon, someone had pointed out the fact that I hadn't posted a new blog in exactly one year. Oh, the shame! Oh, the neglect! Oh, the -- holy crap, has it really been a year? This friend of mine alerted me publicly via Facebook, where all good Americans and Taiwanese under the age of thirty-five converse and gamble with pretend money, respectively. Going back light years into my youth, this gentleman, I'm positive was my first kiss (a mere peck… on my birthday… of which I definitely don’t remember the details at all!). This person who 'outed' me for my extended sabbatical was like my total ridiculous kill yourself crush in like 1997.

And now that he's exposed me for what I am, a lazy bastard, he has single handedly brought me back to Vile Moods after a shameful year's hiatus and damnit, have I a back-log of tales to tell you, reader! But ugh, infuriating. How dare he? Now, I have to actually muster up the time to string together amusing sentences to avoid the internal ridicule of blushing and all that other girlish foolishness.

So, yes. Instead of giggling and coyly inquiring, "OMG! You, like, read my blog?" a la Sweeney c. 1997, I'll unload the amount of indescribable stupidity and absurdities I have witnessed, heard about, or executed in the last year.

So go easy on me, it's been a while... I've missed you, too.

Your Ever-Loving, Perpetually-Frustrated, and Annoyed,

Saserella

The Perfect Job

2009-02-09T16:03:00.005-05:00

It's nearly impossible to find a non-porn position let alone 'dream job' on Craigslist, however, the following posting passed through my inbox from, Ms. Brown, a friend and active internet skimmer:

Henchmen/Henchwoman Needed 6 Month Contract

Reply to: job-1001746799@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2009-01-21, 12:49PM EST

I've been trying to think of ways to spice up my life. I'm 35 years old, happily married with two kids and I have a good job in insurance. But somethings missing. I feel like I'm old before my time. I need to inject some excitement into my daily routine through my arm before its too late. I need a challenge, something to get the adrenaline pumping again. An addiction would be nice, but, in short, I need a nemesis. I'm willing to pay $350 up front and $350 after six months for you services as an arch enemy. Nothing crazy. Steal my parking space, knock my coffee over, trip me when I'm running to catch the Go train and occasionally whisper in my ear, "Ahha, we meet again". That kind of thing. Just keep me on my toes. Complacency will be the death of me. You need to have an evil streak and be blessed with innate guile and cunning. You should also be adept at inconspicuous pursuit. Evil laugh preferred. Send me a photo and a brief explanation why you would be a good nemesis.

British accent preferred.

But of course, I had to respond! It has been a life long dream to work as a 1960's Chaos vs. Control Bizarro Agent 99 type! Here goes:

Dear Sir:

I'm writing in response to your advertisement (read: ad-VER-tis-ment) on Craigslist regarding your need to fill the position of a Henchperson. Currently, I am employed by the television industry which has given me years of experience in trickery, falsehoods, and overall money grubbing evil. However, I wish to find a position that enacts less challenging tasks.

To highlight my experience, I wish to inform you that I'm well versed in foreign accents including your desired British, but also Russian and Japanese; which in my opinion is the trifecta of Nemesis dialects. My past adversaries are now either dead to me or legitimately dead*. Also, I enjoy wearing black. Other attributes include my mastery of disguise, my dreadful mean streak. I also have access to a private jet, and my spare bedroom often doubles as a secret lair.

In the line of Henchery, laughter is truly the key to performing duties with expertise and I believe mine is not a chuckle nor a titter, but a splendid robust cackle of wretched blood-curdling mirth.

Common Words & Phrases in My Vernacular:

Drat!
Curses!
You'll pay for this, insert enemy name here!
I will end you!
You'll live to regret this!

This part-time bodes well with my schedule (read: shed-jule) and the salary works well with my current financial needs. Please contact me immediately (read: imm-e-djiatly) to discuss how my previous experience and interest fits as your personal nemesis. I look forward to mucking up your income tax, draining the petrol from your vehicle, delivering mild food poisoning, and much much more.

Yours Very Sincerely,

Ms. Sweeney

*More of column A than column B

I am currently awaiting my offer for this position.

Tickets Hea!

2008-05-20T10:42:00.013-05:00

What is it about retail in this country? If you buy an ugly shirt and 6 months later realize it's ugly shirt, unworn, collecting dust in the back of your closet, then you can return it with no questions asked.

Don't get me wrong, I love this ridiculous feature in American consumerism. It truly aids my "What-Was-I-Thinking-I-Can't-Afford-This" afterthought, or the "Who-The-Hell-Do-I-Think-I-Am-Trying-To-Fit-Into-A-Size-Six" retrospect.

I understand the customer relations concept of 'no sale is final' but why doesn't it extend to all aspects of retail? The disallowance of buyer's remorse when purchasing concert tickets, for example, is like planning a wedding; it's kind of expensive and impossible to predict months in advance if your ticket holding buddy will actually show up. Case in point, last night's presentation of The Swell Season featuring the stars of the movie "Once" at Radio City Music Hall.

My friend Rachele ordered four tickets months in advance for her and her gentleman friend and another couple. Yet days prior, everyone bailed for seemingly valid reasons. However, she was stuck with $250 worth of tickets and no one to accompany her.
I took her up on the offer for an extra ticket and we planned to try our hand at scalping the remaining two.

Now, scalping a ticket, I've learned, is a cut-throat profession. We noted the style of dress and demeanor of the average scalper: baggy sports sweatshirt, a backpack of some kind, poor dental health, and a gleam in the eye that says, "I may have a switchblade in my pocket." Passers by viewed Rachele and I as a couple of jokesters as we stood innocently under the façade of Radio City mimicking the professionals by quietly uttering, "tickets here... tickets?"

We kept at it for a good 15 minutes before we got a bite; an older man approached us for the sale. We bartered for about 30 seconds before aforementioned pro-scalpers hovered over our near-transaction and offered the gentleman seats at half price. Clearly, we had missed the mark in haggling and face-value was no longer an option.

We continued repeating our "tickets, tickets here" mantra for another 20 minutes. But, not unlike a contestant bidding "One Dollar!" on the Price Is Right, each possible prize was swiped away with a better offer from the greasy pros. Over and over, they'd swarm in close bullying nervous old men into buying their tickets. Eventually, Rachele hit her breaking point. In all the years I've known her, I've never witnessed her become angry, but suddenly she let out an ear piercing, "Dude!" The scalper and I both jumped. "I'd like to get rid of these fucking tickets," she continued, "so if you would back the fuck off, that'd be great!"

He backed off alright, and so did our bait.

In the end, she ended up eating the cost of the tickets and we passed through the doors of Radio City feeling defeated for not completing our misdemeanor task. We walked away thinking about the real scalpers and their rotting molars and stained sports sweatshirts... which reminds me, I have an ugly shirt I need to return.

The Trouble with Brazil

2008-04-01T20:18:00.020-05:00

Maybe it's just the booze and self-consciousness talking, but I think this is a mistake*:

This is called a "mono-kini". Pardon me, but whatever happened to the already torturous bi-kini? According to the most recent Victoria's Secret catalog, nothing says fun in the sun quite like a roll of scotch tape and a nail gun to hold up the brand new bottle of Wite-Out that you accidentally spilled all over yourself.

And furthermore, is this pose necessary?

*Same goes for sweatpants that read "juicy" on the rump... and not because it's blatantly trashy, but because it reminds me of diarrhea.

Roswell Revisited

2008-01-29T12:28:00.000-05:00

Okay, it's true, I question her species. And my curiosity grows more and more as seemingly unrelated news stories keep popping up. Recently, sightings of space crafts have been reported over parts of Texas with bright moving lights. Surely, her privately owned spaceship transporting her to Vegas for the Caesar's Palace show can hold off on checking the electrical and pyrotechnics until they land?

And note her long lustrous locks: peel it away from her scalp and she'd look exactly the same as other certain celebrities who hail from "afar". Case in point, according to tv.com, she's an avid fan of "Deal or No Deal" and up until that show started airing, I was pretty sure Howie Mandel was human as well!

Remember the late 90's? What song was drilled into the minds of millions?? Was it perhaps... Near, far, wherever you are? Exactly how far Ms. Dion? Perhaps as far as the forty-ninth moon of Jupiter curiously named Cyllene!

Honestly, what is her appeal? Just because her dad ::cough:: I mean husband is the Arab-Canadian version of Rob Reiner doesn't mean she has a sense of humor.

Yet her relationship with long time hubby René Angelil will aid her preparation in the calculated and covert domination of Earth. The translation from her mother tongue must be tedious, however her ability to simulate the idea of love into English lyrics intrigues me. Platinum hit soundtrack ballads for "Up Close & Personal," "Sleepless In Seattle," "Titanic" reveal her plot! Clearly, her target is American romance films, thus creating a false sense of the warm and fuzzies for her soon to be very captive audiences!

Well, you can't hide in plain sight forever! I'm on to you, honey!

Bureaucracy Bred

2007-12-12T09:58:00.000-05:00

Well, what a load off! All this time I thought you could bring your homemade TNT onto the George Washington Bridge without any documentation! Phew!

Just Wondering...

2007-12-06T10:07:00.002-05:00

How in the world has the product "Spic 'N Span" survived in our politically correct nation?

The Root Beer Challenge

2007-10-10T13:51:00.001-05:00

My good friend Patrick and I discussed the possibilities of perhaps drinking one's weight in root beer, a beverage offered for free here at my current workplace. Pat, a factotum of sorts, asked me if the available soda was diet or regular, informing me that regular cola uses sugar which has a higher density than the sugar substitute used in diet soft drinks.

Just as we were creating a formula to determine how many 8oz. styrofoam cups of regular root beer would equal a hundred and forty some odd pounds of woman, a biker looking gentleman wearing blue coveralls approached my desk. He introduced himself as Russ in a low mumbled voice and his visit was to inform me that my seat is moving to a different floor. He looked as though he had done time, displaying tattoos that looked homemade in all visible places even his earlobes. He wore a graying beard with a handlebar mustache and bulky silver rings in the shape of eagles and skulls on each finger.

Russ handed me some empty boxes and told me to just pack up the small stuff and he'd pick the heavy stuff up later. I confessed to him I wasn't sure where the ON button on my Mac was, but not to worry, I could shut down the computer without any trouble before it needed transporting.

Just as our conversation wrapped up, I felt provoked to stop him and ask, "say, Russ? Do you think I can drink my weight in root beer?" And without skipping a beat as though he was experienced in such a challenge he replied, "No, Sarah, you'll throw up first."

Irreplaceable

2007-09-19T14:30:00.001-05:00

He left me a year ago and didn't even have the decency to tell me himself. His very thin and very gorgeous assistant informed me with a smirk awaiting my disappointment. It was almost as if she practiced breaking the news to other girls, but blurting out his departure to me brought her true satisfaction; she knew I depended on him. I'd see her every few months with her holier than thou attitude, knowing that whenever I'd visit him I'd have to go through her and her petite platinum blond self first.

He and I had lasted a little over three years, longer than any one before him. He would run his fingers through my long hair and ask what I wanted him to do to me. No matter what technique he used, I was always satisfied and he was the only man I have ever trusted. I thought about him every morning while brushing my hair and I would smile. We had a mutual understanding of our relationship, and it wasn't love, certainly not. It was so much more.

I tried pushing the thought of him out of my mind for the weeks that followed, which proved impossible. How could I ever find another as skilled as he?

Weeks past without so much as an email and my denial transposed into anger. Until on a Saturday afternoon, while waiting in line at the post office I suddenly recognized my sleek and sophisticated man who had disappeared without a trace. Apprehensive yet eager to learn the truth, I approached him.

"Hi, long time no see," I said smugly, mentally cringing at my opener.
"Hi! How are you, sweetie?" he exclaimed, acting as though nothing had happened.
"Fine. So... what happened to you?" breezing past the pleasantries.
He cocked his head to the side, knowing I deserved an explanation.
"My heart just isn't in it anymore... I didn't know how to reach you," he paused, "I'm moving to Germany," he stood holding a large package under one arm addressed to Frankfurt.

Shock overcame me. I didn't care about his aspirations and could only think of my selfish needs. He'd helped me through short lived awful situations with ugly endings. He forgave me when I foolishly strayed towards others with more available schedules. What in the world would I do without this man? I depended on him and he made me feel beautiful. Sure, he's a 5'4" effeminate gay man with a penchant for wearing leather pants, but he cut and styled my hair every three months like a dream and I'll be damned if I can find a replacement who will tell me "No" when I mistakenly consider going blonde.

Drawing The Line

2007-08-27T18:58:00.000-05:00

Two men seated together on the uptown A train stared mindlessly at the print advertisement shown above for this film. I couldn't help but overhear the following exchange between them:

Guy 1: She's kinda hot.
Guy 2: Yea, but I'd have to say 'no thanks' if she offered up a blow job.

Close To Sweatpants

2007-08-27T15:25:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, while sitting in my underwear at 4 o'clock watching The Munsters on TV Land and spooning straight peanut butter down my throat, I realized this is what unemployment is all about. It's beyond any normal point of boredom. Idiots are amused by shiny objects and unemployed folks are amused by naps and retro-television. Why is this? Every day is like being granted the wish to stay home sick from the third grade. Every day that passes is like you've got a free ticket to do whatever you like because you don't have to struggle through long division equasions for Mrs. Murphy or create an Excel spreadsheet for your supervisor Gary.

I set my alarm clock much earlier than needed thinking I'll fill my day with something productive like visiting a museum or writing a post for this damned blog or hell, hunting for a new job. And each day has prospects for accomplishments; I'm showered and ready to go by 9am but inevitably the television is flipped on -- innocently to check the weather -- and soon I'm sucked in. By waking so early I find myself more and more guilty as the day passes thinking, "gah, I've been up for 6 hours and what have I done today??" Answer: Absolutely nothing. Sure the dishes are clean and there isn't a speck of dust to be found, but truly nothing of value. Looking outside I can see what a beautiful day it is and what a waste it would be for me to stay indoors. Yet if I was sitting in an office all day, I'd think at least I'm earning a paycheck while missing out on the beautiful weather. Somehow this all drags me into a rut of supreme and miserable boredom. I burn out on television, napping, and even snacking. Aimlessly wandering around the city is an activity I exhausted months ago during a similar stint. It's the solitary game of waiting around for something to happen. You can send out a stack of resumes each day and contact everyone you know, but inevitably, you're stuck waiting for someone to choose you to do their long division and Excel spreadsheets.

Meanwhile, Herman's in a pickle and Grandpa is the only one who knows the antidote!

The Knock Off

2007-08-07T22:44:00.000-05:00

Right now, I’m eating knock off Cheerios. Packaged in the same yellow box with the same circular oat pieces yet priced about 80% less than General Mills, it was a purchase in the name of science. Why, I ask, can something so simple as Cheerios, a small toasted O’ of whole grain oats cost so much? I was hard pressed for finding a delicious breakfast food that is also well-balanced. If my future aspirations included diabetes and obesity, then by all means, send in the leprechaun, the rabbit, and the toucan! But damn my fears of insulin injections and a fat ass, I choose Cheerios! And dag nabbit, Cheerios costs an arm and a leg (not unlike that diabetes!).

This is where my scientific experiment comes in: Upon choosing “Toasty O’s” manufactured in Hewlett, New York, I save about $5.32. Multiply that by 52, as I go through one box of Cheerio’s a week. That’s $275! That could buy me a round-trip plane ticket to Los Angeles, pay for 1/6^th of my monthly rent, or yell “everyone, beers on me!” (39 to be exact!). That, my friend, is a whole lotta money. So I make my purchase only slightly embarrassed waiting in the check out with my knock off cereal brand.

Why does it feel terribly shameful choosing generic brands over popular brand names? Does it stand as an unspoken status symbol for one to purchase Windex over “Streak-B-Gone”, Pam Cooking Spray over “Pan Coat”, or Britney Spear’s Curious perfume over “Hep C(urious)”. I digress.

My lab partner, Jon, witnessed and took notes as the testing transpired. The scent of the generic O’s did not waft into my nostrils with the desired nostalgic aroma of whole grain goodness that I so fondly rely on with Cheerios. Instead, it was the scent I’d imagine riboflavin would smell like. Nevertheless, I poured the desired amount of O’s into a regulation size cereal bowl pouring 2% milk over the generic product in the standard ‘S’ formation¹ as I would with the General Mills brand Cheerios.

Upon taking the first spoonful of Toasty O’s, the moment of truth, I crossed my fingers hoping I’ve discovered a treasure hidden in plain sight, the bottom shelf of the cereal isle; hoping that this new product would save me the hassle of rationalizing a healthy diet. My lab partner watched, waiting for a profound reaction; commenting on the sounds escaping from my wheat-filled cheeks. “It sounds just as crunchy as Cheerios” he half stated, half asked. And by god, it was crunchy! It had the aesthetic and the texture, but did it have the taste?! The flavors soon set in and I asked myself if this food experience reminded me of anything, did it bring me back to another time… say every morning before kindergarten??

The answer: Certainly not! If Cheerios had a rendezvous with Kellogg’s Rice Krispies with zinc oxide sprinkled over the top for an extra snap (crackle or pop), then that’s the vague taste provided by Toasty O’s. Disappointment overwhelms me, mostly due to the 15oz. box of guinea pig food now occupying space in my kitchen.

Cheerios is clearly the winner; the winner of stealing my money… and my heart.

¹Like an eight year old, all sauces, dressings, and liquid “add ons” are poured over the food before me in an ‘S’ shape signifying my initials and my inability to grow up.

Beer Before Liquor...

2007-06-19T20:16:00.001-05:00

Truth be told, I'm a terrible bartender... ahem, mixologist. I cringe when people order a "sex on the beach" or a "red headed slut," partially because I'm ignorant to their ingredients but also because their moniker screams "rape me after I've drank four of these" or "I'm from New Jersey". Yet, here and there I've laid whiskey down in several establishments in exchange for conversation and monetary tips; neither of which has ever been profitable.

Months ago, I filled in for one night at a neighborhood watering hole owned by a man who has been a lecherous yet somehow kind acquaintance for years. His facility has no heating or air conditioning units, much less any form of advertising which draws few patrons and climate-wise is a sneak peek into hell... or homelessness. To an outsider, little speculation would reveal that the neighborhood's demographic boiling over with gay gay gay men, proved anything behind the bar with a pair of tits was pointless. Yet, the very friendly owner consistently insists upon hiring sweet naive blond girls who end all sentences with the intonation of inquiry and turn the phrase "oh my god" into one word.

In short, I didn't fit in. But, what was meant to be a one night only fill-in gig, soon became a weekly character study on the wayward residents of Hell's Kitchen.

I learned the ropes and became acquainted with the regulars. The clientèle demographic amused me: prissy gay men and desperately lonely single women whose only common interest was the sickly sweet pink drinks served after the namesake of the bar.

Rarely breaking more than fifty bucks at the end of the night, I found solace in the fact that I was permitted to have a few on the house during office hours. I showed up each week out of loyalty and stupidity and eventually decided that quitting would soon be a wise idea.

When arriving to begin my shift last week, the owner sat at the bar with a whorish looking red head informing me he was making some changes and hoped to attract a "younger crowd." He introduced me my replacement, Amber, a girl no older than 20 to display her (fake?) boobs as a form of marketing. I happily returned my keys, kicking myself for not quitting the week before as I had originally planned.

Of course, the Vile Moods of Yours Truly could certainly act as an outlet of revenge, however when I tell you of my dismissal from this non-lucrative position, I don't wish you to abstain from wasting your hard earned money on cheap vodka in all martini bars in Midtown. No, no! 'Tis merely the back story.

However, now that I no longer attend the salt mines of margueritaville, my next few posts promise a tell-all of the characters who stepped into my life, got hammered, and soon thankfully stepped out. Please enjoy.

Can That Wait 'Til Later?

2007-05-15T09:42:00.002-05:00

The problem with living in a city jam-packed with so many people is that around every corner someone doing something completely hideous because there is no other place to do it. Most of these acts can, of course, hold off until the assailant arrives the to comfort of their own home. But hell, if you've got a long commute, why not clip your toenails on the subway ride to work?

What boggles my mind about the population insisting on shaving their legs (dry) on a busy sidewalk during the evening rush is they're the types who appear to have jobs where they have to spend at least eight hours a day pretending to be normal.

Over the years, I've witnessed dozens of the standard piss and vomit parades late at night and mid-day masturbation sessions in public phone booths are aplenty. But despite all this, the most unabashed display occurred on the 7 train last Sunday on my NYC Transit journey to a Mets game.

The couple seated across from me spoke in hushed tones while she dug through her purse intently searching for something. She soon pulled out a pair of tweezers and leaned in. Her gentleman friend, a man in his late 20's wearing a white baggy velor sweatsuit, bowed his head towards her and seconds later the most horrifying act transpired!

He looked to have been involved in some sort of barroom brawl and had some abrasions on his forehead and this woman was kindly willing to remove the stitches from his skull. Now, when I think surgically clean, I think the Queens bound #7 line, don't you?!

With each tug and pull, he managed to emit a relentless monotone "ow, ow, ow, ow..." until she carefully removed a single strand of string from his brow. These were stitches not ready to be purged; unbeknown to the surgeon and patient as they focused on the liberated thread, a single drop of blood fell onto his summer whites. Several on lookers recoiled in disgust, others watched with disbelief. She returned to her work and dabbed the small wound. But just when it seemed she had finished with only a minor infraction, the train hit a bump in the tracks and the turbulence shook her once steady hand. O' reader, there was blood! One drop made my stomach turn, but with a quick and accidental r-r-rip his reopened wound would need another round of succors!

She scrambled to find a napkin inside her "doctor" bag while he cupped his hand over his face now seeping with plasma. She carried tweezers, but no tissue? What kind of Transit Doctor are you?! Thankfully, the train arrived at my stop and I exited hastily with only a minimal feeling of dizziness. Walking onto the platform from the recreated M*A*S*H scene, I made my way through the crowds of baseball fans to the stadium desperately trying to remember why I live in this city.

Gender: Unspecific

2007-03-30T14:44:00.001-05:00

This afternoon, real errands occurred, you know the kind. The kind of errands that have been sitting on the To Do List for the last six months that require more than a walk down the block for a quart of milk and a pack of smokes. The kind of errands that force me to fish through the junk drawer for a measuring tape and catch a crosstown bus ride to the Home Depot located on the East Side of Manhattan. These are errands made for people without real jobs and oodles of time on their hands.

Enter: Sarah Sweeney.

While the items improved the condition of my apartment, they are irrelevant. The store, scantly populated with suits on their lunch hour ogling power tools and decorators feverishly searching for the perfect lighting, brought me to register #3 for transaction.

The cashier stood wearing the standard khaki pants and the nondescript collared shirt with the bright orange Home Depot smock overlaying the outfit. She had long blond hair curling down her back and sizable but not imposing breasts sitting upon her chest. Aesthetically this was a woman.

She welcomed me with a forced smile and obligatorily asked if I had found everything I was looking for. I had. And while generally, most pay lacking attention to their friendly underpaid cashier, I noticed the person taking care of my Home Depot needs today.

Flipping through my mental Rolodex, I remembered one of the first oddities that made my acquaintance in college. Week two of freshman dorm life: a late evening spent with a group of gay men, their fag hag, and the Belle of the Ball, a flamboyant queen in all senses of the word. He spoke of high fashion, overpriced cosmetics, "alternative" surgery, and anonymously fucking men in public places. I was in awe and secretly in shock.

At the time, this man contained the personality of ten and spoke of "makin' it big." This, I realized, was the person bagging the crap that I didn't really need at my East Side Home Depot location. It broke my heart.

Back in college, he introduced himself as Adam while wearing a peach colored prom dress and glitter to highlight his brows holding a plastic purple magic wand. He carried off the effeminate lisp and made all feel welcome in his colorfully decorated home.

Someone recently asked if any of my initial encounters with New York struck me as curious or even wildly outrageous being from a comparatively small city. The answer for this person was a strong and confident "No." But after a look back at my few hours with this bubbling blond he/she, I remembered the thoughts that raced through my mind that night, running somewhere between wondering what in the world was in this person's pants to what in the world was going on in their head. I was speaking to a blond woman wearing a bra stuffed with socks, an artificially high pitched voice, wearing a junior's size 14 formal gown, yet had been born with external genitalia. While foreign to me, also conveniently blocked out of my mind in order to present my hometown with a little pizazz and an open mind.

Adam graced my presence only once until today's afternoon shopping trip. He stood behind the register accepting my cash with a plastered on smile. I wanted to feel sorry for his retail plight, but couldn't muster the sympathy after reading the name scrawled onto his smock in permanent black marker, "Eve."

Eve?! For this young boy, time and money were poorly spent on hormonal medication, perhaps surgery, even voice lessons in order to become your standard run of the mill cliché tranny who most likely willingly accepts invitations for bathroom stall fuck sessions therein giving upstanding homosexuals a bad name! I envisioned him proudly introducing his alternate persona to new acquaintances, "I'm Adam by day... and Eve by night!" with a smirk at his ironic reference to the Old Testament's Genesis. This is a man who could not possibly have a mother... with the sense of sight or hearing.

I met a transsexual at a Halloween party a few years ago whose professional name was Sonny; he was a financial adviser. He invited me to his drag queen show where he performed his best Cher impression for the audience.

How can someone spend years learning to alter every feature that illustrates their birth given gender and settle for a moniker so trite? Why is it those with the most sense of expression and seemingly individualism make a mockery of themselves? What's the point of trying so very hard to escape your own skin in order to transform into someone who has already existed a million times over in a thousand other socially uncomfortable misfits?

I guess I just wanted Adam to be a star rather than a cashier at the Home Depot.

Are You Feeling The Madness?

2007-03-22T23:28:00.000-05:00

The other night, I sat in my livingroom anxiously watching the Ohio State vs. Tennessee game in the NCAA Championship. While on the phone with a guy who watches sports religiously and bets strategically on this kinda stuff I realized, this is the best television programming of the whole year! Lost, CSI, The Sopranos; the intensity of these shows are nothin' in comparison to the Sweet 16 and the Final Four games.

By and large, I'm a shitty basketball fan. Well, I'm a shitty NBA fan. It's seems cliche to root for the Lakers post-1987, especially now with Shaq playing for the Heat and Kobe Bryant allegedly not raping anything that walks. Rooting for the Knicks is out of the question, since I meet my Underdog Quota by cheering for the Boston Red Sox from April to October.

Yet, March is a month for lovers. Lovers of the NCAA Basketball Championship and 19-year old kids playing their hearts out in hopes of getting selected in the NBA draft. College basketball has the highest energy, highest adrenaline sportsmanship in the land! Sure, hockey gives b-ball a run for it's money, but I'm not a Canadian Mountie nor is this 1980 c. Cold War Era. With basketball, you can see the excitement, the frustration, and the sheer intoxication of victory in the player's eyes.

Despite the late games past my bedtime and making enemies with next door neighbors who don't appreciate cheering at the television set, it's all worth while when guys like Greg Oden, the 7' tall Buckeye Center, take the court by storm.

This forty-five year old Ohio State freshman is the number one pick of the NBA draft, and by golly, Greg Oden is America's Basketball player!

Jury Duty: The Selection Process

2007-03-21T15:24:00.000-05:00

Flash-forward: Jury Duty, Day One.

Alas, it was time. Today would be the day that I would participate in my inalienable right as an American to judge my fellow man… ultimately finding him guilty and inquiring the number of volts used in the average electric chair.

This comment is what I’m told to be one of the many ways to escape the torturous ennui of Jury Duty.

It seems participating in one’s inalienable right is an inalienable pain in the ass and after discussing my inevitable boredom with others, the suggestions for escape came pouring in:

Route of Enmity*

Claim you hate Jews
Claim you hate black people
Claim you hate cops
Claim you hate lawyers
Claim you hate any visible characteristic on the defendant

Life Experience Route

Declare you were once a victim of whatever the crime may be, thus holding you biased against the defendant.

Claim you were once the victim of robbery, identity theft, rape, sexual assault, domestic assault, credit card fraud, mail fraud, racketeering, reckless endangerment, murder**, etc.

Insanity Plea

While you, Citizen X, are not on trial, the act of appearing unreasonable and borderline wacko is a fine tactic. I'm told district and defense attorneys often shy away from choosing jurors who perhaps have something simple like curlers in their hair or rat feces smeared on their chest. Adopt a new persona and consider it an acting experience!

“Yell back every answer, marine style; no one wants to listen to that all day.” – Ann of Cranston, Rhode Island

“Wear a rabbit suit and take on the persona of a hungry rabid bunny.” – Jon of Washington Heights, New York

"In the midst of Jury selection, conspicuously remove a bottle of maple syrup and dab a bit behind your ears. When asked about it, simply respond, 'my father is Canadian,' and offer no further explanation." Patrick of Summit, New Jersey

“Dress like a hooker, chew gum, perhaps get it stuck in your hair. Ask to borrow scissors.” Rachele of the Bronx, New York

“Make up a fake KKK membership card!” J.J. Jingleheimer-Schmidt, Dresden, Germany***

“Rent a baby, bring it with you.” Tara of Midtown East

“Attach a stuffed animal to a leash. Bring your new pet, a bowl of water, and sausages to court.” Richard of Harlem, New York

Or alas, there is always the Smart Mouth Tactic:

After a random selection, I was chosen to sit in the juror box with 19 other suckers and answer a series of questions from both the Defense and the People. Both sides seemed drawn to me (sans rat fecal matter perfume) to describe my feelings towards the scenarios they presented.

It was high school all over again; not knowing which response was correct and afraid to get in trouble (read: contempt of court) or made fun of by my peers for providing stupid answers!

The Defense attorney looked vaguely like Ed Begley Jr. and spoke fast like a used car salesman. From this, I decided the defendant was probably guilty. He hypothesized a scenario where if his client chose to not testify on his own behalf then this does not necessarily mean he's guilty. Or whatever.

Ed Begley Jr. Esq.: Mr. Juror #5, do you understand this?
Mr. Juror #5: Yea, I get it, but I can only think of negative reasons why he wouldn't want to testify.
EBJ Esq.: Who else agrees with Mr. Juror #5?

Several raised their hands, including myself.

EBJ Esq.: Ms. Sweeney, why do you feel this way?
Sarah Sweeney Juror #8: Well, (I thought carefully before answering), I guess if I was innocent, I'd want to get up there and tell my side of the story.
EBJ Esq.: Hmmm... oh crap he wants more of an answer...

Under the stress of the sheer intimidation of the courtroom, the following sentence flew out of my mouth, "Well, uhh yea, I'd want to shout my innocence from the rooftops rather than leave the fate of my future in the hands of a guy like you."

A guy like you. Crap. Much to my surprise, the court erupted in laughter and I felt that instant camaraderie among my peers within the courtroom. The class clown persona had presented an out for me, mistake or not.

"Touche!" he exclaimed, trying to laugh off the embarrassment I accidentally provided for him.

Moments later, Juror #8, yours truly, was dismissed.

*The excuses named are not unnecessarily the beliefs of the author
**For kicks, keep ‘em on their toes
*** Some names changed to protect the eccentric

Jury Duty: The Back Story

2007-03-20T22:45:00.000-05:00

Ah, the smell of Democracy in the morning! No, really, at 8:45AM the New York State Courts have called upon me to serve as a juror in their fine flawless system, a task I’ve avoided for nearly a year now thanks to the “postponement” option. No one knows the true number of times one may postpone serving, but I had the esteemed opportunity to get the judicial equivalent to a “time out” by a clerk in the Jurors’ Excuse Office.

Excuse #1: I’m recently unemployed and I believe it would behoove me to spend my time searching for a new job.

Actual Reason: It was last spring and the first sunny Monday morning I could enjoy since college. I planned on touring the downtown area in neighborhoods previously neglected.

Wish Granted. (Side bar: It soon rained; I went home and napped instead).

Excuse #2: I have a temporary job and would not want to jeopardize my position and lose a paycheck that I so desperately need.

Actual Reason: I wanted to go home and nap instead.

Wish granted.

Excuse #3: I’m terribly ill with the flu and exposing my poor immune system to such inclement weather seems risky without health insurance.

Actual Reason: I had tickets to The View (don’t judge me).

Apparently illness, fabricated or legitimate, is no excuse for missing out on an action-packed day of DEMOCRACY!

A woman in her late 40’s with frosted blond hair in the Excuse Office pulled me into a separate smaller office and informed me (with the demeanor of Nurse Ratchet crossed with my evil third grade teacher Mrs. Stamp) my absence displeases the system. No wait, it “displeases the system,” direct quote. I’ve offended the now personified system. And any further postponements could result in disciplinary action. Wait a tick, hoodlums guilty as sin within the System await trial and perhaps freedom for their ill actions, and I’m looking at jail time because I enjoy forty winks on occasion?

She stamped my juror card and informed me with the persuasion of the Mob that I would attend the following Monday to serve.

Tune in tomorrow for more!

Alien? No. Sineade? No. G.I. Jane?

2007-02-17T17:53:00.000-05:00

Thank goodness! Crossroads 2 green lit for production!!

Author/screenwriter Nicholas Sparks -- best known for his heart wrenching tearjerkers, The Notebook and A Walk To Remember -- has come onboard for creative consulation to revive Spears' beloved character, Lucy Wagner, of 2002's coming of age blockbuster, Crossroads for a follow-up sequel film.

Sparks in a recent interview with the Associated Press explains, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it," recalling past box office revenues from his past novels turned films. True to his formulaic plot line, Spears' character dies of leukemia.

Boredom: Redesigning A Nation

2007-02-16T09:48:00.000-05:00

Ennui hit the United States Mint hard over the last decade forcing millions of unwanted dollar coins into already jam packed wallets. Wallets not necessarily filled with money, but superfluous space-consuming crap: business cards of people never to be contacted, fortune cookie messages, long expired student ID's, condoms, unused gym passes, year old receipts and sentimental bullshit.

It's only a matter of time before future ill-fate of our forefathers, not unlike Sacagawea and the bastard-child tied to her back, fall to the wayside shortly after the unveiling of the new Presidential $1 coins.

Yet, the most concerning aspect of this overhaul of currency lies in the g-string of America's strippers. If the US Mint eradicates the dollar bill and replaces our waif-thin currency with a heavy awkward coin, who then will endorse our hardworking strippers with class, style, and most of all a reward that tucks so neatly into the rectal floss of their work uniform?

Perhaps an overhaul of the exotic dancing industry is long overdue as well? Straying from the tired pole dancing and "Hide The Salami" in the VIP room to trivia games like "Show me the only man to serve in office for one month!" where a lonely businessman would fish through his satchel of Presidential coins to brandish a William Henry Harrison.

Quaint Yesteryear

2007-02-11T12:33:00.001-05:00

This weekend a medical physician informed me that my immune system is "worth shit this time of year" and I have acquired pneumonia. Forced to sit around and rest induces the inevitable Cabin Fever. So instead, I chose to bake.

My mother has old cherished recipe cards from her grandmother -- handwritten originals over 80 years old -- in her possession tucked away in a small wooden box in the pantry of the home I grew up in. The recipes show their age with browned edges and faded ink containing coveted mixtures for sauces, roasts, and pastries. They were written with care in a script only Microsoft Word can produce now. Just by looking at the handwriting, the nature of my great-grandmother shows through: she was a refined lady, something out of a Jane Austin novel.

On my self-induced house arrest baking spree this weekend, I decided to add a little flair when trying new recipes from the Internet and copying them down onto little note cards so that if ever they pass through the generations like my great-grandmother's, the future will think I was an eccentric nutcase.

"Whisk 'til arm falls off."

"Chop 1 large onion finely as though mutilating a deceased corpse."

"Wrap scallops in bacon. Note: Goyim only."

"Slice ham diagonally; match Cousin Ally's wrists."

"Bake your future 5lbs. at 400 for 25 minutes."

"Serves 4... or 12 models."

Wanted: Drunk Number Cruncher

2007-02-10T00:05:00.000-05:00

My last serious job interview with someone over the age of 25 was at the close of the Clinton administration; I was still in my teens looking for college internships. Since then, through luck, fate, and perhaps sexual favors, job positions have fell into my lap... qualified or not.

I own a suit, heavy stock paper for my vaguely fluffed resume, and an arsenal of experience-related anecdotes from coffee running to that of a military war hero and after 10 months of enjoying day-time television, today was the first interview I've had for a job since then; a job that could possibly shovel me out of the debt I insisted upon digging myself into.

Arriving to the 34th Street subway stop with thirty minutes to kill and a Macy's nearby, a quick visit was on tap. Spending time in the cosmetics department not only amuses me with every employee's plastered on smile but usually brings in samples au gratis. Case in point, Bliss hustling a product called "body butter." Here in America, we call it lotion but in Macy's they call it free.

The Bliss counter girl vyed for the attention of anyone who would pass by holding up a bottle of the aforementioned lo-- ehh, body butter. "Save your skin from the cold?"

Looking at my dry hands, I agreed. Better not attend my first interview since the turn of the century with cracked winterized hands! The cosmetic gal squeezed more than a dollop onto my palm and like a good little consumer, I began rubbing the oil-based product into my skin. It felt as though my hands had been submerged into a tub of Crisco and drizzled with reminisce of Courtney Love's unwashed hair. Nevertheless, I smiled and thanked her for the sample and began to walk away, fishing in my pockets for a clean tissue to wipe off the superfluous schmutz off my palms.

"Smell it," she added with excitement, "it's scented!" I turned to see the doe-eyed young girl enthusiastic over her bottle of grease. Feeling inclined to humor her request, I took a whiff. The scent was familiar... reminiscent of bad weddings or holiday obligations or... something of the 1980's.

Champagne.

She had smeared booze-scented lotion all over my hands. The kind of scent that, once placed, is unmistakable.

Fantastic! I'm on my way to a relatively important meeting with a man who is probably wearing a freshly pressed suit with a double Windsor knot in his tie and I now reek of drunken prom queen!

Seating myself in a conference room dressed in my "grown-up" clothes reeking of a white wine spritzer entered my mind. I envisioned the mail clerk chuckling to the intern about the drunk chick who stumbled in for a job. "I have a degree!" I'd slur vindictively, champagne permeating my blood stream with my index finger pointing violently into the air; wrapping my arm around the interviewer yelling out, "I love you, man!"

Thanks, Bliss!

Soviet Douchebags

2007-02-01T17:34:00.001-05:00

After a month-long stint of house-sitting in Queens while subletting my apartment to strangers from Craigslist, my move back to Hell's Kitchen has been just shy of relaxing.

Since hailing a cab from Queens to Manhattan costs somewhere in the neighborhood of $35, I opted for my pre-paid Metrocard and took the subway. Dragging all of my belongings from point A to point B required two trips and the combined strength of Mr. T and Jack La Lanne, but alas, only short trips which disallowed the rationalization of vehicular transportation. See below:

My girl arms could only handle so much carrying what felt like the weight of Ralphie May in clothes, shoes, books, and the computer that produces this fine literature you kids read. My journey proved to be a task that quickly filled my "fuck" word quota for over a week. I soon devised a new plan: subway from Queens to Midtown Manhattan, cab from subway stop to home. For added adventure and dramatic effect, I planned on affixing a face of despair and informing anyone who asked that I was leaving my cheating husband.

The good people of Queens passed me by viewing my self-imposed struggle and offered to help. The people of Manhattan, the island where I and a few million other idiots call call home, proved to be filled with cocksuckers.

After ascending the three flights of stairs from the E train across the street from the Ed Sullivan Theater holding one suitcase, one backpack, two large shopping bags, and one medium-sized annoying purse that insisted on slipping off my shoulder as soon as I had a handle on the rest of my awkward and weighty belongings, I waited for an available cab to pull over with the patience of Veruca Salt.

Rush hour: the perfect time to move your life from one borough to the next.

A cab approached as my fatigued and jello-feeling arm flagged it down. Re-adjusting my bags and relieved to have a ride, I carefully made my way towards the cab. So close to home... nearly finished with my Strong Man Competition feeling like this guy:

Just as I reached for the door to climb into my well-deserved taxi, a stupid douchebag woman swooped in front of me and got in the backseat!

Does this actually happen in real life?! The aforementioned was your standard Eastern European New York transplant. For those of you who live outside of the Tri-State area, let me explain this species: picture a woman semi-trapped in the 80's with long blonde hair and dark roots, some form of dead animal keeping her Soviet Bloc back warm, excessive jewelry, gobs of make-up to compete with your average drag queen and always always tall black boots with 4" heels. Generally, she looks like a hooker or some modified white version of Rupaul without the charm.

This is a demographic of women never learned the words "please" or "thank you," are motivated solely by money and the prospect of receiving it from a sugar daddy or anyone else they may manipulate into writing a check. I went to college with this breed and their "how you say?" accents are like nails on a chalkboard. These women make Borris and Natasha look like upstanding well-mannered law abiding green card holders.

Standing there watching my cab get stolen before my very eyes and unable to move fast enough without dropping anything in my arms, I yelled, "thanks a lot, cunt!" She waved and replied, "you're velcome!" Grrr.

Dedicated to Andy McDonald author of The Douche Blog

Vile Movie Review

2007-01-13T14:57:00.000-05:00

Fat people teetering on the edge of quintuple bypass surgery who fall in love with thin people are inherently humorous... apparently.

We get it, we get it! Eddie Murphy stars... with Eddie Murphy and... Eddie Murphy. Hilarity ensues!

How many times will the American viewer lay down $10.75 at the box office and allow this man to co-star with himself? Is he so hard to work with that a fat suit and prosthetics are needed for production to run smoothly? Does his contract allow him seven pay checks for each character? Who is this man's agent and how can I contact him?

With an R rating, Norbit is not intended for young audiences, so this lowest common denominator of comedy is meant for who exactly? Inmates? The illiterate? Deaf mutes? Coma patients?

These questions and many more will remain unanswered on February 9th when the red carpet will roll out and the whole movie will end as audiences return home chuckling to themselves glad they don't tip the scales at 580lbs.

We as red-blooded Americans like Eddie Murphy... circa 1984. We like him as Detective. Axel Foley in the Beverly Hills Cop trilogy, we like him in Trading Places and Coming To America. Hell, we even secretly like his early 80's song, "Party All The Time."

We like this Eddie Murphy...

...until the Nutty Professor. Is Mr. Murphy aware of the starving actors out there who would kill to play a farting fatso in his high grossing comedies?

I'm sure Dreamworks can relate to the tag line for this movie. The biggest mistake of course, green lighting this project.

Eau De Toilette

2007-01-08T16:00:00.000-05:00

A City Holds Its' Breath As An Unknown Source Passes Gas!

And lo! Consolidated Edison of New York, the Empire State's electric and gas company, threw up it's ever present arms claiming no responsibility to the faint smell of petrol seeping into the lungs of every warm-blooded mammal on the isle of Manhattan with a working respiratory system. The big guys at Con Ed land right on the money when it comes to skirting questionable issues relating to public health and safety.

Electricity & Water? Con Ed says, "a fine cocktail for a zap of fun and excitement!"
Gasoline & Book O' Matches? Con Ed exclaims, "bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit, let cool and serve to New York's Bravest!"

Terrorism? Looks like the fine work of none other than the Black Knight of Monty Python's Holy Grail... whoopie cushion and slippery banana peel at hand for hijinks; a quick cure for monotony.

Across the Hudson River in New Jersey, Gotti wannabes and overreactors marched themselves to their local hospitals to whine that their Garden State didn't smell so fresh. Unlike the odor, it's no mystery that New Jersey could indeed use a good douching.

New York City Mayor, Michael Bloomberg addressed his minions and peons, "one thing we are very confident of, it's not dangerous," as the pressroom inhaled deeply now reassured by their fearless leader, "probably," he added. Concluding with, "how long and what the sources are, we just don't know." Essentially, no ideas on the odor's origin, but just relax and breathe normally and you'll be just fine! Wait a second, wasn't gay cancer a mystery?! I don't need to watch And The Band Played On to know enough to keep myself out of bathhouses, homeless shelters, and Somalia!

CNN failed to seize the opportunity to throw in a silent but not so deadly quip, yet links video clips describing, "how officials are baffled by the odor!" Is it just me, or does anyone else seem to remember some bit about the debris, asbestos, concrete, human remains, carcinogens, capitalism, and pure evil that floated through the financial district in, oh I don't know say Fall of 2001, being completely harmless??? Raise your hand if your emphysema and lung cancer has been acting up lately.

I smell something alright, and it reeks class action.

Mentalist Math Equasion

2007-01-03T23:16:00.000-05:00

In this town, it helps to know people in the "biz" for proper entertainment... por gratis. And there's nothing like meeting celebrities from your childhood... and have them completely fuck with you.

A friend of mine produces a comedy talkshow for Sirius Satellite Radio. Last night's special guest was none other than The Amazing Kreskin, who I grew up watching on Letterman way past my bedtime wishing he would read my noggin which was then occupied by cartoons and games of tag, nothing's changed.

Since this culturally depleted generation knows nothing of great American mentalists like Mr. Kreskin and his Amazement, allow me to enlighten you with the tale of our meeting:

The Amazing Kreskin was nothing short of that. He walked into the sound booth and prepped for his appearance on the upcoming segment. The producer introduced the sound guy and me. Kreskin stared at me while my producer friend explained the rundown. He interrupted, "Sarah?"

Holy crap, Kreskin is talking to me!

"Sarah? Sarah are you thinking of moving? (no)... is your house number four digits? (it's not)... Are two of the numbers the same?? (no, again)..."

Oh god, the beloved Kreskin has lost his touch. How old is he? What could he be getting at?

The now Not So Amazing thought for a moment, I thought too. He looked off into space at seemingly nothing in particular, rubbed his head and scribbled something on a piece of paper.

"Are you sure?"

Just then I realized what he meant! I hadn't moved, but instead had subletted my apartment to house sit a friend's place in Queens. He turned the paper my way to reveal the numbers 4212, my friend's exact address.*

Kreskin reading my mind and my boob.

Not only was the truly Amazing Kreskin standing spit's distance from me, but he was listening to my extraordinarily interesting thoughts... my new and temporary address!

While the others spoke regarding the show, I sat quietly thinking about what had just transpired, my mind was blown (literally, I think). I can barely remember which street to turn down in wacky Queens, but this guy could deliver Chinese to me, no problem!

I began thinking of what else Kreskin was capable of... images of all sorts of scenarios flooded my brain. Namely this simple equasion:

If Professor Charles Xavier....

...equals The Amazing Kreskin,

Then the Amazing Kreskin equals...

"Ha!" I laughed to myself, Kreskin is probably the best lay in the Western Hemisphere, this guy knows exactly what people are thinking! He so good, no American casino will allow him to gamble in their facility.

The show ended and we gathered our coats to leave. Kreskin approached me to shake my hand and say goodbye. He leaned in close and said quietly for my ears only, "be careful, my dear, your mind is an open book," smiled and exited the studio.

Oh god. Kreskin heard all that best lay mumbo jumbo!

...Or maybe he just heard what I was thinking about his funny glasses.

*Information changed to protect the paranoid author.

And Then God Said, "You're Welcome"

2006-12-08T00:47:00.000-05:00

There comes a time in a young lady's life...

...when she meets George Clooney.

And now what? Is there any reason to get up in the morning now? No need for a Pulitzer or an Emmy or even a gold star on my next spelling test. There's nothing to look forward to. No! There isn't a single reason for me to drag my ass out of bed in the morning because after shaking hands with the sexiest man alive (a little clammy I'll have you know, reader), never again will I meet anyone who will make me giddy and feel a little more like a woman than Georgie.

Unless of course... we can arrange a luncheon with this man...

A Lesson Before Dy-- Birthdays

2006-12-03T20:41:00.000-05:00

In just a few days, another birthday of mine will pass. Even though I'm only turning twenty-- ehh something, I'm sensitive about my age. Chalk it up to feeling like a has-been over the age of 21, not being blond with big perky tits and an IQ of a Cancun waitress with acrylic fingernails who thinks heart-shaped anything and unicorns are cute. Birthdays put me in a rut, and I say "rut" because depression is for pussies. With this in mind, every off color comment about gaining the status of mid-twenties makes my blood boil.

That being said, Sunday afternoon was spent Sweeney style: hanging around the apartment watching bad television and fixin' to roast a chicken and bake a pie in the late afternoon. Unemployment has domesticated me ten fold. And yes, I see the irony of living like a 40-year old housewife.

The trip to the grocery store for dinner items went smoothly... until transaction time. With the birthday at hand, a six-pack of Sam Adams was well deserved.

A doe-eyed high school aged girl rang up my cornish hen, cherry pie filling, and beer. She smiled as she scanned, reached for the Boston Lager and politely asked to see my ID, god bless her.

I thanked her in an ironic "I appreciate you pretending as though I look underage" tone. She glanced at my birthdate and while calculating the math to confirm I was born during the Reagan administration, the other high school aged girl bagging the groceries piped in,

"Pshh! Don't bother. She look like she thirty-two."

!?!???!?!

I considered paper-cutting her to death with my receipt right then and there! Leaving only her nubile and obnoxious bloodied corpse on the conveyer belt with all the chicken juice and dripped condensation from milk cartons to work themselves into her pristine white Phat Farm silk jacket!

I considered giving her a lesson in the English language on her misuse of the word "look" as a noun and her absent verb to compliment the object, "thirty-two".

Instead, I reached into the depths of my soul to retrieved my inner Mrs. Thurston Howell III. And yes, I see the irony of channeling a then-50-something year old woman as my defense for agism.

"Pardon? And how old are you, sixteen?" leaning in towering over her with a snarl. I don't begin conflicts with bitches without first prefacing my fighin' words with highbrow British-sounding phraseology like pardon.

The disaffected teen looked no more intimidated than a WASP at a suburban bake sale. She watched this bright smiling faced lass who had just been mistaken for one born later than 1986 melt into pure evil with a hint of murderous rage in her eye... and the little shrew just stood there.

If suicide is the 3rd leading cause of death among those between 15-24 years old, then by god, I demand a recount. Ignorant and uneducated cunts bagging groceries with loose tongues are bound to send a young lady such as myself to an early grave!

Shameless Self-Promotion

2006-11-15T20:26:00.000-05:00

Dear Friends, Enemies, & Casting Agents:

Set your VCRs, TiVos, and DVRs! Hold onto your wigs and keys! And drag your ass out of bed this Saturday morning at the ungodly hour of 9:30am for my television debut as a cartoon!

I've always wanted to be a two-dimensional Asian girl with a squeaky annoying voice and finally got a shot at it. Cartoon Network is scheduled to air a Pokemon episode titled, "What I Did For Love" featuring the vocal stylings of your pal, Sarah Sweeney. The character is a young girl named Mollie with green hair... just like me.

And now you can put a face to all the whining and complaining you've been tuning in to read for the last glorious few years.

With Love,

Sarah

pokemon episode 444 what i did for love

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Gravity Administers A Beating

2006-11-06T08:36:00.000-05:00

From bedtime after Halloween to rising for Thanksgiving,
No hops nor grape shall pass my lips for a style of dull living.
November is the time of year for shocking detoxification,
It upsets the friends, upsets the courts, upsets the whole damned nation!
While everyone is up in arms with all their liquor cares,
I miss a step in sobriety and fall myself down the stairs.

True story. My liver hasn't processed anything more than a normal dosage of Nyquil in the last 5 days. Who knew such an organ needed entertaining cleansing activities in order to keep the body's balance! Perhaps it was a shock to the system having ingested two solid weeks worth of a celebratory Ramadan-esque marathon of Halloween fun.

I suffered no cracked teeth or fractured anything, just a broken shoe and the minor embarrassment of having a giant security guard backstage at a Broadway theater rush to my aid and physically lift me off the ground. He had heard the tumble from his booth around the corner and came a-runnin'.

What would have truly made it better is if he kissed my skinned knee and affixed a Batman band-aid upon it and sent me home. Instead, he dusted off my shaken-up self and said in the most gentlest of voices, "don't cry, little lady." I wasn't crying, but most likely had the look of a beat up geek in the playground, hoping that no one witnessed my plight. Only the stage manager learned of my accident and the rest of the evening went on without a hitch and me limping like a 'Nam vet.

Honestly, I'm more broken up about the shoe than the horrid battered woman-looking bruises from the knee to ankle.

Fear Comes From Small Packages

2006-11-02T22:31:00.000-05:00

It doesn't take much to sway me into staying home from the gym... I hate going and my recent visit confirmed it is indeed an awful place.

While standing in the locker room after a swim in a bathing suit and towel, Snoop's "Drop It Like It's Hot" blared over the sound system throughout the facility. An old woman untying her shoes near me angrily mumbled to herself, "Drop what?! What's hot?! Ech! Stupid bullshit!"

I knew this voice. It was none other than the little racist Italian woman who struck up a conversation with me a few months ago. It was like she was performing a mating call for me to hear and stupidly ask, "'scuse me, is your name Sophia?"

"You! I know you!"
"Yes, we met in the park on 57th." Oh good Christ, what have I done, I thought.
"I remember! You're too tall!" she howled. "You hear my voice and remember me?"
I nodded.
"Eh! You son of a bitch!" she literally shook her fist yet her fierce expression transformed into a sad pathetic smile. "I miss you, why you no come to have coffee with me?"

What began to occur was inevitable; she undressed before my very eyes. What is it about the elderly and their utter lack of shame? She continued to talk and remove articles of clothing. I forwent the polite practice of making eye contact while she spoke and let my eyes wander north to the ceiling hoping to avoid a glimpse of the ghost of Christmas future.

She paused from her oration about the genius behind Ugly Betty and let out a screech, "Eechhhhh!!"
Oh good god, I've somehow angered the beast, who was wearing nothing but a bathing suit pulled up only as far as her midsection with the standard age 65+ lycra "skirt" awkwardly tucked into the crotch of the suit.

"Look at me! I'm a woman! I'm a woman just like you!" She screamed, grabbing her breasts and slapping her thighs. I've never seen such a display of insanity off the set of my television. I stood there modestly hiding as much as a complimentary gym towel covers, stunned and speechless. Without the slightest idea of how to respond to her "femininity," I adjourned to the showers with a hesitant "ehh, sorry. I'll seeya later."

Having found refuge behind the plastic shower curtain, I began to rinse the chlorine off my skin. Taking a deep breath and allowing my blood pressure to settle, I heard the unmistakable sound of a slow and careful flip-flop flip-flop. I froze. I was trapped in a horror movie. A verbal slasher film. Suddenly I could see her silhouette casting a shadow upon the curtain before me.

Doom came in the form of, "Tall! Get your skinny ass out here! We go to sauna and relax!" Her diction, comparable to a Nazi officer, resonated against the tile walls. How in the world does this woman relax? Better yet, how could I relax with her constant outbursts about my height and inability to look at a naked wrinkly body.

I obliged just out of sheer curiosity. She yammered on some more about Ugly Betty and when it was time to go, I left her behind the closed door of the sauna. The lifeguard on duty turned to me in his chair and said, as though it were fate, "she never shuts up."

Call Me Old Fashioned... pt. 2

2006-10-16T23:21:00.000-05:00

The new brick-sized phone was reluctantly purchased and I proceeded to walk home and make one call to an old friend. Heading North on 9th Avenue, speaking to my friend about the usual (boys, candy, and Richard Nixon), I started to notice that people were looking at me... Dare I say, checking me out?? After concluding a bird hadn't shat on me, there was no "kick me" sign affixed to my back, and my fly was indeed zipped properly; I felt pretty hot. I mean seriously, everyone was eyeing me.

I passed an outdoor restaurant where a scholarly looking handsome gentleman reading a book also followed suit in spying my supermodel walk home. I smiled... he smiled back.

"Hey Dina," I whispered, "ridiculously gorgeous guy making nearly uncomfortable eye contact!"
"Oh My God!!! Totally go for it! Give him your number!" she squealed.

He smiled some more... and I proceeded pull a card from my purse.

Asking my friend to hold a moment while greetings and number exchanges would soon transpire, I held the new phone by my side and introduced myself. Attractive professor and I spoke for less than 5 seconds before the overpriced Samsung in my hand began speaking, well, worse...

It was Dina--singing to herself over the god damned speakerphone while her idiot narcissistic friend handed her business card to a stranger. This ludicrous feature had been activated somewhere between the Verizon store where I felt like a schlub and 9th Ave where I decided I'd get an agent and move to London to begin my career as the next Twiggy.

The entire phone call with my dear friend was broadcast over Midtown due to a tiny inconspicuous button on the side of the damned thing right about where my pinky finger heavily rested.

I avoided chucking the thing into the nearest brick wall, but learned something valuable that day: no, I wasn't that hot after all and by god, I have no business operating anything more complicated than a fountain pen.

Call Me Old Fashioned...

2006-10-16T22:12:00.000-05:00

I learned a few weeks ago that not only is exposed brick in an apartment highly sought after, but it's great for ruining small electronic devices when hurling them in a fit of rage after one too many people ask, "hey Sarah, how's the job hunt going?"

Solution: taking the poor tiny little cell phone to its' grave (the original box), and choosing a new one.

My trip to the nearest Verizon store went a little something like this:

Sarah: I'm looking for something small... how come cells aren't small anymore?
Pompous Verizon Salesman: Well, cell phones are made with so many more features now!
Sarah: You mean all that unnecessary crap?
Defeated & Uncomfortable Verizon Guy: Ehh.. we like to call it bells and whistles.

Well, I'd like to take a stand and say fuck bells and whistles! There is no need for my cellular telephone to have a camera, a dishwasher, a coffee percolator, a semi-automatic glock, and CNN wired right into it!

And speakerphone?! What genius thought of this!? Is it not enough that speakerphone is rude and obnoxious in an office setting? Is it not enough that douchebag Nextel subscribers openly discuss fucking they're baby mama's best friend while riding the downtown bus seated next to children and elderly??

The user guide accompanying the phone is about as thick as Bea Arthur is tall with more languages than a U.N conference.

I got to thinking, if I got rid of the cell phone... well, can you catch e. coli from payphones now?

A Blurb?

2006-10-09T22:40:00.000-05:00

A borderline stranger in Texas named Ray said a few things about this blog in the website where he contributes his genius, The Strangelands. His words weren't incriminating, accusatory, or the story of the last easy fifty bucks I made. Therefore, I'd like to pass the link along to you. He's swell. I like him and have no idea what his last name is. If you'd like to read the words that get me up in the morning (that being "Sarah Sweeney rocks"), then by all means allow Ray to toot my horn for me and click on this business.

Crime Pays... Sometimes

2006-10-09T20:50:00.000-05:00

New York is a city filled with hoodlums; hoodlums who love to feed their mind with today's news and ongoing political and cultural events. This is why the streets are dangerous to subscribers of the New York Times or any other delivered publication. Every weekend, I wake up at a reasonable time and think, "I should definitely sleep a little longer," but then I remember the education hungry thieves roaming the streets at 8am waiting in the shadows to pounce upon all the news that's fit to print. This thought acts as a catalyst to drag my ass out of bed and claim what's rightfully mine.

Saturday was no different. Noise from the street below woke me at around 8:45. I layed there cursing the whatever vehicle choose to skid and hit something on the avenue. So, after a few moments of convincing myself, I got out of bed to grab my newspaper before the delinquents of Hell's Kitchen got to it first!

Just picture me Reader: greasy hair in a messy ponytail, residual eye make-up left over from the night before, morning breath with a lingering scent of red wine and garlic, wearing a t-shirt stolen from the set of a mini-series* and a bruise on my exposed thigh that gave the indication I had recently been beaten with a baseball bat. I was the definition of beauty.

Upon opening the front door to retrieve my paper, I see this man:

...And about 3 dozen people swarming around him, my street closed off as far as the eye could see with 2008 Mustangs racing up the block and fake police cars not far behind.

Now, I've gone black once and have since been back. But I'm willing to go black again... for Will Smith. So, after a short conversation with the Man in all my early morning glory, I started working on I Am Legend yesterday which releases in November of 2007.

*previously worn by Mr. Timothy Hutton

Sarah Jokes With The Government

2006-10-04T13:56:00.000-05:00

A little sense of humor always helps when deferring your student loans with the U.S. Department of Education. It's a simple process and requires just a few check marks and a signature and voila! In mere weeks the borrower no longer has to shell out a few hundred bucks per month for up to two and a half years!

Of course, I value my college education and subsequent degree stating that I'm a smartiepants. But at the rate my loans are moving, I might as well fake my own death and defect to Canada to avoid paying off the thousands upon thousands of dollars I owe to the government.

A friend of mine gave me the brilliant idea to simply defer and put the darned loan on hold for a while until I'm a working and valid member of society again. So, after completing the form, neatly folding it in thirds and stuffing it into an envelope sealed with a sloppy wet kiss, I found myself in quite the predicament: choosing a stamp that conveys to the Department of Education that I am in dire need of saving those few hundred bucks per month.

Here were my immediate choices, ten DC Comic super heroes:

Narrowing down to one hero to serve my cause proved to be quite simple:

Both Superman and Wonder Woman didn't even need to go to college, they were probably born with the smarts of journalism and nursing, respectively.

Bruce Wayne (Batman) is rich and powerful, he'd never defer his student loans, in fact I'd assume he'd just pay in cash.

The Flash gives the indication that I'll get a job fast to pay off the loans, but you and I both know that's not happening. He was then omitted from the running.

Plastic Man, well, he just looks like a used car sales man and whoever trusts them for matters of finance..?

The Green Arrow has a similar look to Robin Hood and well, I don't want to give my loan officer the impression that I'm into thievery.

Aquaman can breathe underwater for Christ sakes! No government employee would scour the sea to contact him for payment.

Hawkman, your standard alien policeman, similar line of work as a loan officer and the government takes care of its' own. He's out.

Supergirl is just a dumb blonde; she never finished high school after getting knocked up from the star quarterback.

So Reader, I had but one choice left...

The Green Lantern, who will create a force field and protect me from payment and keep my bank account safe and sound!

Lager & The "I Don't Care" Job

2006-09-16T19:53:00.000-05:00

Boston is a great place to sit in an Irish pub in the middle of an afternoon, drink Sam Adams, across the street from Sam Adams' grave. This sort of activity occurred for my cousin and me this week. The thought of crossing the street and pouring a little Sam Adams on our homie, Sam Adams, crossed our minds... but we forewent the brilliant idea and instead allowed some underage Boston University boys buy us a few rounds. Partaking in such business requires two unemployed Irish girls from the Northeast; one legitimately unemployed, the other a student. Having graduated college ages ago and feeling older than dirt, I am the former.

So, my cousin and I sat in a pub and drank... and drank... and drank. And to be honest, I can't think of anything better than sitting in a Boston Irish pub with your Boston Irish cousin drinking Boston lager while the Boston Red Sox lose their millionth game this season... except maybe if our boys actually won.

We sat and contemplated our lives and what in the world we should be doing for the rest of it, and the thought occurred to me, I could work for 911. I could be the disaffected jerk who picks up the phone and asks what the problem is and make it quite clear that I don't care who's getting stabbed/mugged/shot/raped/lit on fire/etc/etc. Irish cousin in Irish pub and I discussed. How in the world does someone get that job? We decided it went a little something like this:

Operator: 9-1-1, what's your emergency?
Prospective Employee: I'm unemployed!

Other than that, we were stumped.

Cosmic Destiny??

2006-09-05T16:36:00.000-05:00

Years ago in junior high, my friends and I were fiddling with a Ouija board. The Ouija said that I would be murdered by a man named Peter when I turn 25.

Granted, I had mean spirited friends back then who loved how much I bought into the magic of Ouija. But folks, I'll be 25 in a few months and am on-again/off-again working for a man named Peter. He's foreign, disorganized, abuses alcohol, and has a wife floating somewhere in the US that he claims stole his identity. He writes bad checks, employs morons (me included), and has the overall demeanor of a pirate.*

Should I be concerned?

*And no, he's not a pimp.

The Itch

2006-09-04T11:45:00.001-05:00

Today is my seven year anniversary with Manhattan. I moved to this cesspool in '99 and haven't lived elsewhere since. Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like if I stuck around Rhode Island. All the money I'd save and people I'd still be friends with...

Thankfully, those who I'm still close with in the smallest state reassure my decisions to move away. Behold, the most ridiculous opening to an IM conversation ever:

HighSchoolFriend: so, i was with tim, and john picked up ricky who was with brendan... then we went to jay's and brendan was telling me how hot i was.. i didnt think anything of it bc zack and ricky were telling me i was too...

In my friend's defense, she's a very attractive girl, but blatant narcissism aside, she forgets that Rhode Island and I don't hang out too often anymore and I haven't the slightest idea who any of those people are... except Ricky, I mean who doesn't know Ricky.

Oy. Viva La Empire State!

Marijuana: Paranoia's Best Friend

2006-09-02T00:35:00.000-05:00

After acquiring full intoxication at a backyard barbecue in Brooklyn, I had little to no desire navigating my way back to the subway. So, upon meeting a couple who were equally drunk, but had a car, I accepted a ride back to home. They were complete strangers who were willing to transport my rum-soaked self from Brooklyn back to Manhattan and in my condition, it would have been a feat to acquire subway access.

For the record, I don't do drugs... often. "Dabbled," more than describes it. Adding up the amount of times I've partaken in narcotics can be summed up on less than 3 hands. And while sitting in the backseat of the car, a joint of pre-smoked potent weed was passed back for my so-called enjoyment. Soon after inhaling I remember why this sort of activity is missing from my regular to-do list; I get paranoid. I get paranoid bad.

We drive from the depths of Brooklyn, and with the directional sense of a posthumous Magellan, I realize not only do I have no idea where I am, but no idea who I'm with, having already forgotten the names of the driver and his passenger/girlfriend. Panic arises in my mind. Shitshitshit, what is his name!? Initials... PJ? RJ? MJ? Ack!

"Oh shit," I hear outside of my head. The nameless driver expressing he too has no idea where he is. We're lost.

Right. I think to myself. We're "lost." The neighborhood we aimlessly drove through had gotten grittier with less and less signs for accessing highways or bridges. John Doe pulled the car over and opened the window to allow for a plume of smoke to escape. A mumbled exchange between he and his girlfriend took place and he exited. Fantastic, this is the part where I'm stabbed to death and pushed into a shallow hole on the side of the road the paranoia continues. Soon, he returned to the car with an intimidatingly large man who was pointing and gesturing. Ah, that's where they'll bury me. Despite impending doom, I remained calm as Derwood returned to his seat and sped off, sans the Hulk, towards my supposed soon-to-be grave site.

Hours had passed (or what turned out to be about 10 minutes) and I had dosed off in the backseat, phone in hand, ready to hit 'send' for my future rescuer.

"This is you, right?"
I wake up from my marijuana induced coma. "Hmmm?"
"This is your building, isn't it?"
And voila, there I was, my vitals still in tact and two smiling faces in the front seat with sleepy drunken eyes at half-mast wishing me a good night.
"Call me," the girlfriend said.
"Yea, definitely," I lie, thinking how I can't even remember her name.

Thanking them for the thrill ride and relieved to be home and out of imaginary harm's way, I looked down at my phone to the number at the ready for my rescue. The address book highlighted a name, "Monica." ...The name of the passenger/girlfriend.

Home, Bitter Sweet Home

2006-08-24T18:20:00.000-05:00

In theory, visiting your hometown is a swell idea. Mama's home cookin', visiting with old friends, sleeping in a quiet suburban neighborhood where the only noise is that of the chirping crickets outside your open childhood bedroom window. In reality, returning to your roots involves a bus/train/airplane ride, coordinating a lift back to your parent's home, and settling in where you're told to "put your shoes away."

Yesterday, I decided it was high time I face the hassle of spending a few days back in little ole Cranston, Rhode Island. Reaching my final destination of the Kennedy Plaza bus station in Providence, I remembered mama's home cookin', visiting old friends, and a quiet sleep aren't nearly as fantastic as previously imagined.

It starts with the 4+ hour Bonanza bus ride which is really just a four hour contest of how long you can hold off using the bathroom, if you can call a 2' X 2' enclosed and dimly lit room with a hole and blue water a real bathroom.

Upon arrival, there's the phone call to the prescribed pick-up ride.

"Hi, I'm here!"
"I'm stuck in traffic. I'll get there when I get there."
Nothing like a disgruntled voice to welcome you home, I always say.

Visiting home on a Wednesday and still forgetting that unlike back in high school where you could skip work from your stupid minimum wage waitressing or cashier job, I sat around and clicked refresh on my email all day since everyone I know in this state has somehow grown up and works fulltime. Fine. I'd find something to do. Unfortunately Rhode Island has been manufacturing cabin fever for as long as I can remember, so it came down to the following conversation:

Mom: I'm thinking of repainting the livingroom, something subtle to match the new couches.
(Subtle? I'll have you know these "couches" look like they belong in a Hyatt in Indonesia).
Sarah: Oh yea? I'll do it!
Mom: Ya sure? Wouldn't you rather--
Sarah: No, no! I'll do it in a day!

Clearly, I had been drinking.

But don't get me wrong, I like doing this sort of Susie Homemaker kind of silliness and have repainted my own apartment twice. Gives a girl with a dead end job (or in the current standings, no job) a sense of accomplishment. But really, what was I thinking?

So, the livingroom is slowly becoming the color of coffee milk, Rhode Island's State beverage, and thanks to Benjamin Moore, I'm inhaling enough paint fumes to kill a horse.

Career Change

2006-08-14T20:15:00.000-05:00

Can I be a college graduate and water plants for a living?

Other than my off-the-charts availability, I feel obligated to tailor my resume towards this position to prove my experience in watering plants. Having cared for many over the course of a lifetime, I'm perfect for this!

Foliage Re-Hydrator/Green Thumb (May 1983 - Present)

Skilled operator of the most sophisticated faucets, hoses, and spigots
Managed hydration content providing only the purest tap water
Experience with watering cans of plastic and metal materials

Prior Training (January 1984 - October 2002)

Chia Pet (all varieties)
Dandelions (backyard species)
Grass (3rd grade Science experiment)
Balsam Fir (Christmas 1983 - 1998)
Marijuana (Junior year Science experiment)

With so many years of experience under my belt, the training session should be a breeze:
"Pour this clear viscous fluid onto anything green." Training completed.

My only concern is the stipend for a position with such tremendous responsibilities. Does pouring dirty NYC water into dusty office plants really warrant $30/hour? Who cares?! This job is mine, which is why, you'll note, I blurred out the contact information so none of you can steal my new career!

The Art of Conversation

2006-08-08T13:27:00.002-05:00

I spent the better half of my morning people watching and sipping burnt coffee at a concrete park in my neighborhood. A woman no older than seventy with red hair and enough perfume on for ten magazine inserts threw her bulky yellow purse on the table next to me, sat down, and proceeded to light up a cigarette. She smoked like she was being filmed; inhaling with her eyes closed as though it was her last, exhaling as though she hated it. She turned to me and stared long and hard. Unwilling to engage in awkward conversation, I pretended not to notice under the shield of my sunglasses.

"What are you, 5'9"?" she finally demanded in a heavy Italian accent.
"Uhh, yes?" I responded, my aversion plan foiled and now confused by her opener.
"Ech! I knew it! You can't wear heels! Too tall!" as though my height were a disease.

Irritated yet interested, this exchange somehow turned into a long conversation about our neighborhood.

"Where you get your dry cleaning done?" She asked as she was killing time before picking up her husband's suit around the corner. I told her about the Korean couple downstairs from my apartment who could alter a pair of mittens into a wedding gown. She responded by stretching out here eye lids and saying, "I don't like them." Nothing like some good old fashion unabashed elderly bigotry to start your day.

"You have boyfriend, tall girl, yes?" she clamored.
"Umm, I'm not entirely sure, but I'm guessing no," I responded.
"Ech! Look at you! You find man!" proclaimed the woman who had already sucked down 4 menthol cigarettes in the last 30 minutes. She followed up her off-handed compliment with wisdom, "Not in this city though, nothing but Gays!"

Other park-goers perked up and began to tune in to our conversation. I covered my face as though I was actually embarrassed at her outcry of the general truth.

Soon, a man equally as old but much more feeble shuffled over to the tables where we were sitting; the husband waiting for his suit.

No introduction was made before she yelled, "look, Sal! Look at her legs! She's too tall!" She pointed at my shins to her husband.
He shrugged signifying that he couldn't care less about the height of this stranger.

She arose with a huff and collected her smokes and colossal canary purse but not before telling me to meet her there tomorrow for more coffee. She walked away to pick up the aforementioned suit leaving her husband behind with me.

"She never shuts the fuck up," he said. And we sat in silence.

Pardon?

2006-08-05T00:36:00.000-05:00

It's important to teach kids foreign languages in school, but sometimes I wonder if they teach English anymore? New York City Mayor, Mike Bloomberg, is a big fan of the "No Child Left Behind" Act, ensuring students in primary and secondary schools aren't pushed through the system without learning to read, write, or have some basic knowledge of the War of 1812. You know, the crucial matters of life.

Last night, a child who has clearly been left behind contacted me. Please read his myspace.com message below:

Wow. I'm just aghast. Is that a mug shot?

A angel? Had no one taught him the art of proper articles for nouns? For shame, New York City public school system! I'm impressed that the silent 'k' made it into 'KNO' but alas, the silent 'w'? Neglected!

How is it possible for this young gentleman to operate a computer and yet haven't even close to a fifth grade reading level? He may lack eloquence with the pen, but I'm sure his comprehension of the second and fourth amendments are crystal clear. Or maybe he's just all too familiar with the paternity testing from a certain ex-boss of mine.

Are the stereotypes offending you yet, Reader? Tough, that's why you tune in.

I took a closer look to uncover the many layers of this young onion called "Brooklyn's Son." His profile, overwhelmed with html coding and moving images of himself, reveals his occupation, which has nothing to do with computer coding, as one would assume. Instead it reads, "TAKIN CARE OF MY BABY." Bingo, he and DNA samples are old chums.

I tried to figure out what tidbit in my profile says, "Yes! I want to date an illiterate 19-year-old!" and realized the inclusion of "delightfully unemployed" may have been the Eureka! for this young soul. And perhaps his final thought, "maybe we could hit it off" was just a formality and adding the word "off" was his fatal attempt at speaking my language. I see through you Brooklyn's Son! You'll hit nothing on this girl!

A Rabbi Walks Into An Internet Cafe...

2006-08-04T22:30:00.001-05:00

My landlord is an 70+ year old married Orthodox Jewish man. To understand him is to understand the Torah. Every sentence begins and ends with either "God bless," "God willing," "thank God," or a simple "oy." He visits Israel annually, has invented prescription drugs, and presumably has more money than there are Berkowitz's in the Jerusalem & Vicinity phonebook. Thankfully, this shiksa has an 'h' at the end of her name, so over the years he's been a businessman but kind towards me and my fresh-out-of-college income.

In the last 24 hours, our landlord-tenant relationship has shifted drastically. He has sent me three separate and quite curious emails. Generally, he forwards correspondence between he and contractors regarding the condition of the leaning tower of tenement I live in to inform when improvements will occur. These recent emails have strayed from the norm.

Last evening a brief message with the link to a blog about Israel appeared in my inbox. "Enjoy," the message read. The blogger.com powered site included information on the recent conflicts with Lebanon. Pictures of soldiers, dead babies, and general destruction occupied the page. Enjoy? Does he views me as a pedo-necrophiliac type with a penchant for violence? Never the less, I read through the current posts thinking perhaps he had written it. No indication of that. Moving on...

Moments later, another message arrived. This one included seven attachments, photos of 18-wheeler trucks with intricate art on the sides. Interesting, but still leaves me befuddled as to why I'm now a part of his click + send world.

Lastly, early this morning, a third email and by far the most entertaining: an essay by Dennis Miller. So confirmed, he does see me as a pedo-necrophiliac type.

Now, to know me is to know that I don't do cutesy forwards. But alas, this is my landlord, the sole human being who keeps a roof over my head in exchange for the cost of a small island off the coast of Belize per month. With this in mind, I feel inclined to match his unexplained friendly greetings. Do I respond with a knock-knock joke? Reply with photos of my recent vacation? Links to the blogs I read? Favorite recipes?

What exactly is the proper etiquette for casually corresponding with someone who can make you homeless? Is he trying to make me feel guilty for subletting my apartment during my West Coast stint? Do I invite him to a movie? Are we dating? I'm so confused.

Audience Participation

2006-08-02T10:26:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers,

My four month anniversary of unemployment is coming up! So I'm looking towards you to help me out. Tell me, what do you do for a living? I need ideas. Please leave a comment with your occupation and how I can procure such a position without any prior knowledge or experience in your field.

Thanks in advance,

Sarah A. Sweeney

Scathing Review With A Silver Lining

2006-07-12T11:16:00.000-05:00

Learning to drive a stick is like lighting your hair on fire and waiting for the flames to reach your scalp. It's going to hurt but don't bother to put it out, just hope it'll extinguish before it melts all the skin off your skull.

When it comes to operating heavy machinery, I'm a fucking useless piece of shit girl with skills comparable to Gene Shalit's knowledge of style.

Other than feeling like a complete yutz, everything in California is sunny and 72 degrees, literally and figuratively.

Best Wishes!

2006-07-06T11:46:00.001-05:00

Happy 60th birthday, Gee Dubya, you fucking walking malignant tumor dictating downfall of a civilization causing illiterate blood money laundering oil hoarding giggling little prick.

Love,

Sarah A. Sweeney
U.S. American Citizen, Democrat

And On A Personal Note...

2006-07-03T09:10:00.000-05:00

I'm going on 3 months now of hanging out, sleeping late, and watching daytime television ad nausuem with little ambition or desire to settle into a new nine-to-five. Finding a job might be a good plan, not just because my funds are running low to pay for my hot bachelorette pad and my expensive drinking habit, but because I'm growing more and more delusional as each day passes.

Today, for example, I woke up around 7:30am. Now when you're unemployed there is absolutely no reason to wake up at such an ungodly hour. However, I had a scary dream. Ya know the kind when you wake up in a cold sweat with tears running down your face and you're one speed dial digit away from calling up your mommy? Yea, like that. I didn't call my mommy, instead, Pat Kiernan of NY1 News made me feel better. Somewhere in these last few months he's become a surrogate father to me. We laugh, we cry, and on occasion I quietly tell him about the scary dream I just had.

Getting back to the lack-luster job hunt: Paradoxically, I'm bored to tears, yet motivation-free. With over 90% of the people in my life who have daytime jobs, they receive demanding IMs from me each day requesting that they "tell me a story." Do you know how many of my working-stiff friends have time to tell this unemployed Pat Kiernan-loving douchebag a story? Do you have any idea how often someone will take a few moments to type out a little tale that begins with "Once upon a time," conveniently naming the main character Sarah who usually happens to be a princess? Do you?! Thankfully a lot. I'd have gnawed through my wrists ages ago if they didn't humor me with this crap. And despite the boredom, it is impossible to spin malicious little tales for you fine folks because my stress level is at about a 1.7. It's hard to be mean and viscous when you're carefree. Don't fret, things change.

What I'm getting at is, in the last 2.5 months, I've made a series of rash decisions and resolved to selling my soul in Hollywood. I haven't bothered to get a new job here in NY because I'm leaving Hell's Kitchen for an extended stay out West, a land I've never laid eyes on in person. In that time, I plan to re-learn Spanish, work for the Devil, get laid, learn how to drive a stick, surf, and point out every fake rack and bad dye job I see... not to mention visit every tourist trap in Tinsel Town.

I'm not sure why I'm telling you people all this, I don't even know you people! But thanks for reading and rest assured, I'll have plenty of fuel for the Vile Fire when I walk among the uber-phony in California.

With love,

Sarah

American Vengence

2006-06-22T18:59:00.000-05:00

Meet my friend Pat. He works for the government.
Here is an instant message exchange we had today:

AssassinPants: I got a death threat today
SaserellaVEvil: Oh?
AssassinPants: and if you tell my mother
AssassinPants: I'll kill you.

See who's running our government?

We Americans are a bunch of violent bastards, a veritable pay revenge forward... with death. It's the little things that amuse me.

Baby, Please Don't Hit Me One More Time

2006-06-18T00:02:00.000-05:00

Which is scarier: Big sweaty saggy white trash tits attached to a knocked-up Southerner with an eighth grade education... or Matt Lauer wearing loafers with no socks?

Both have been witnessed by millions on national broadcast television, most notably on Dateline NBC last Thursday night. The sight was horrific, what has happened to the sweet and seemingly innocent Britney Spears we once knew? Remember when she was a "virgin"? Millions of men across the planet have stroked it once or twice with her in mind, yet doing that now compares to fantasizing about your mother.

It was a sensory overload of awful. Between the pillow head, the blatant gum chewing, the wayward mascara, and her seemingly sweaty everything, our dear Britney was the antithesis of visual aesthetic. I imagined her mother and her publicist crouched in the corner giggling together because neither one of them offered to rake a brush through her rat's nest over-processed hair or told her to spit out the gum.

The topic of motherhood was inevitable having witnessed her flawless parenting skills over the last few months. A touchy subject... it sent her over the edge.

The tears began at exactly 9:48pm and watching a fat girl cry is just as nauseating as watching a fat girl eat a deep fried Twinkie.

Lauer asked her the due date of the second spawn of K. Fed's loins, her response, "I don't know." Call me crazy, but if there's a small undeveloped douchebag-to-be suckling the nutrients of all the Hi-C & vodka and Hot Pockets you've ingested, wouldn't you want to know when that bun is coming out of the oven? She's probably too busy surfing the internet for another pompous sounding name like Preston, her first nearly illegitimate child. Yes, too busy to drag her fat ass to Planned Parenthood for that sonogram or as I imagine her calling it, a "baby picture takin' machine."

Britney is still not a girl, not yet a woman so why can't social services see that and tie her tubes before she makes more babies?

SWF Seeks Lover of Manual Labor

2006-06-05T08:49:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago, the inside of my closet was comparable to Dresden c. 1941 and a few extra coat hangers would soon fix that. A quick trip to Bed, Bath, & Beyond would aid my disorganized troubles. Arriving with the sole intent to purchase a dozen plastic back alley abortion catalysts and quickly exit, I saw the most beautiful object in the store: a 10,000 BTU air conditioner with remote control. Now, I have no idea what "BTU" stands for or if 10,000 is a lot, but it was the remote control that caught my eye. Having yet another wireless handheld device would make me feel technologically cool, pun intended. If only my drapes, lighting, and iTunes could perform the same way. I stared at it's beauty for a good long time and made the obligatory phone call to my mother whining, "should I buy this?" stared at it some more, and then asked a large man with a name tag to throw it into a shopping cart for me.

Impulse buys for normal people are usually a pack of gum, maybe some flowers on the street, or a magazine, no? Perhaps I should look into these types of purchases considering mine are far out of my league and unaffordable.

The delivery men arrived and carried my pristine new air conditioner up the stairs with ease. I turned on my girlish charm and pouted, "how does a weak thing like me get this big thing installed?"

They laughed and said, "we're not installation engineers, we're just delivery guys!" I found it disheartening that those who throw heavy square cooling objects into windows are considered engineers where as the dudes to drag it up a four story walk-up building are just blue collar masses of muscle surviving on a low salary and tips.

Flash forward to 2 weeks later and the temperature outside has risen while the air conditioner , my once love, still in it's original box, has turned into a convenient coffee table in the middle of my livingroom floor.

I Don't Call It a Tattoo, I Call It a Birthmark

2006-06-01T16:54:00.000-05:00

On the train this afternoon, I watched a pudgy hispanic guy pick up an unsuspecting girl and force her to listen to the music on his ipod. She looked uncomfortable as though she was going to catch a disease from the visible wax on the earbuds of his headphones. I couldn't blame her. He swayed with the music and told her how much he loves Three Doors Down. "They be my favorite," he shouted at her. And just then, shock and awe took place, she gasped, "I love them too!" The fell in lust over a shitty band on the Brooklyn bound L train during rushhour. While viewing this ghastly occurrence, I noticed his tattoo. He had a handful of them in plain sight, but one in particular disclosed the fact that he was the biggest asshole on the train.

I waited for him to finish his dissertation on why the band Evanescence is "fuckin nice" before asking, "'scuse me, this is kinda silly, but could I take a picture of your tattoo?" Long pause. Wearing his sunglasses indoors (and underground mind you) making it impossible to tell if he was offended or flattered, he finally responded, "I got like 9 of em, which one you wanna capture?" I pointed to his forearm. "Oh that! That's not a tattoo! That's ma'fuckin birthmark!" he exclaimed with a laugh. I forced a smile from my Red Sox loving face and proceeded to capure the image of this ridiculous ink job with my cell phone. "Best team ev-vah," he hooted.

This guy actually paid someone, US American dollars I'd assume, to permanently brand his arm with the logo of the New York Yankees. I've met sports fans in my day, but none of them were as much of a yutz as this chump. One day, George Steinbrenner is going to die and someone else will take over, and maybe one day they'll become a shitty baseball team like say the Devil Rays or the Marlins.

I'm willing to bet if I picked his pocket right there on the L train, I'd open his wallet to find more ludicrous Yankee merchandise, like this gem found in the window of a bank on 34th Street:

When he's old and grey with sagging skin he'll look at the symbol of sports capitalism on his arm and wonder why would anyone want a picture of his dumb tattoo. The answer is, to make fun of it, my dear, to make fun of it.

Misunderstood Frosted Pheromones

2006-05-26T16:40:00.001-05:00

Is there something about my face that says, "Hey! Give me a free donut!" ???
My whole life! Free donuts and mediocre jobs have fallen into my lap.
Today, I picked up a panini for a late lunch from Babu, a portly Indian man on 50th and Lexington, and he says, "Oh! I have something just for you, you will love!" And lo! A pink frosted donut resting next to my panini... Frosting side in. Nothing goes best with a turkey and swiss sandwich like concentrated sugar and red #40 with sprinkles.

Iron Curtain Murder Plot

2006-05-19T16:23:00.000-05:00

I've lived on the East side for over 2 weeks now and so far nothing inappropriate has happened yet. I decided all the molestation and assault must happen on the West side. Apparently it's island-wide, I now know.

After picking up some chicken lo mein filled to the brim with MSG, a gentleman standing outside the front stoop approached me. Foreign (and who isn't), think Goran Visnjic from ER. In a thick Eastern European accent, he began the following conversation:

Luka look alike: Miss! Miss! Do you live in #36?
Xenophobic Sarah: No.
Luka: What about #46?
Sarah: Ehh, no.
Luka: Well, I am seeing "eh-part-mint," I want to see yours.
Sarah: You have the wrong number.
Luka: What about your pants? I want to see what's in your pants.

Deadpan. Did he really just say pants?

Sarah: Pardon?? ::slowly backing away::
Luka: ::pointing to the knee-length denim skirt I have on:: your pants! Your pants!
Sarah: Sir, I'm not wearing pants.

I turned to the door, fiddling with the keys I'm not yet used to and made it inside unscathed. I reached the fifth floor and entered the apartment, dropping my bag and recently purchased lo mein on the dining room table. Safe.

Before I could slide the chop sticks out of the paper pocket, the buzzer sounds. I sat still for a moment trying to decide if something was to be delivered today. Nothing.

Moments passed, it buzzed again. How could he know which apartment I schlepped up to? Impossible! A 6 floor walk-up building with 5 other units per floor. I got up to press the "talk" button:

Xenoirritated Sarah: Who is it?
Foreign Legion: Your apartment! I want to see your apartment!

I stood for a moment starting to panic and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the front hall. No make-up. I'm going to get murdered by a man from behind the Iron Curtain without an ounce of make-up on. Fantastic.

10 minutes has passed and he's still buzzing. Death is inevitable... and I look like hell.

$395.87?!

2006-05-16T10:19:00.001-05:00

Dear Verizon,

I have a bone to pick with you. You deliver wireless communication like a dream. While some complain about dropped calls, complicated contracts, and poor service, you, You Verizon have made me a happy woman for the last 6 years of my life. You've provided me with a telephone number that is easy to remember with consecutive seven's and nine's. You allow me to dial the other side of the country with ease. Your text messages deliver at lightening speed. So why, Verizon, can't you whisper in my ear, "pssst, Sarah... you're about 84 minutes over your daytime limit. You might want to wrap this call up. Psst! Dialing up that out-of-network friend of yours means your dialing up another hundred bucks. Psst! Sarah! You're financially raping yourself by calling that T-Mobile bitch. You don't even like her! Pssst! Sarah! Put the phone down and get a fucking job! Psst! Sarah!"

Yeah, I mean what the fuck Verizon. How could you let me do this? Sure I'm sitting around all day pondering the finer points in life like, "Just how old is Regis?" and "Will Marlena ever become possessed again?" and "Can Joy Behar get any more Jewish?" And granted, I may make a handful of unnecessary phone calls to voice my concerns regarding these issues, but a little hint to let me know that I've surpassed the New York State legal limit of personal and frivolous telephonic action would be great.

Thanks in advance,

Sarah Sweeney

9 Minutes: Not Long Enough

2006-05-08T19:09:00.000-05:00

Alright, ABC! You have gone too far! Is it not enough that you still show America's Funniest Home Videos? That you force the entertainment loving people around the world to sit through 3+ mind numbing hours of the Academy Awards giving false hope that it might actually entertain!? That you produce Extreme Makeover and still sleep at night? That you air The View with a straight face? I guess it wasn't enough, American Broadcast Company! But you have the audacity to subject network viewers to David Blaine and his perpetual cries for attention and half nude body. David Blaine, "magician" extraordinare, has floated in a tank of water located in Lincoln Center for a week. Before emerging from his piss-filled aquarium, he plans to hold his breath for 9 minutes. Assuming he doesn't die, leaving us with out magic, whimsy, and drawn out hype, he will have broken the record for performing such a ridiculous stunt. A man who sits in a glass tank for a week is about 9 minutes away from slitting his own wrists in a warm bath while his oblivious mother cooks dinner downstairs.

I loathe him with a capital HATE. His shriveled, water-logged, emaciated body floats just a few blocks from my apartment. While I haven't passed by to visit the living corpse in the giant goldfish bowl and sprinkle some flakes of food in for him to nibble at, I do know his soul will at least reach the Eighth Circle of Hell; where false prophets have their heads put on backwards so they may only see what is behind them. Or worse, permanent shrinkage.

If you've flipped on your set to ABC, then abandon all hope, ye who enter here, there is no dial changing now. One should not endure such crap, yet one cannot turn away. Prepare to waste the next 2 hours of your life. Prepare to up the ratings and encourage the production of more bad television. Prepare to indirectly tell Mr. Blaine, "Hey, it's OK that you're a nut job and perform time consuming bullshit on camera. We like you, almost. But only because of your curious relationship with Leonardo DiCaprio."

Downfall of an Empire

2006-05-03T08:50:00.001-05:00

Mother's Day is coming up, your friend's grandmother passed away and don't forget, your niece's birthday is next week. You'll need to send a card. Well good luck finding something to suit these events! Hallmark is no longer the hallmark of greeting cards! Recently, while buying a sympathy card, a get well card, and a birthday card, I found the writers of Hallmark and can't write their way out of a shoe box. Get it, Shoe Box?

It's turned into thoughtless cards such as, "Shit, you're old. Happy..." and then the pen trails off into scribbles with some burned buds stuck on the corner of the card. Or "Sucks the cancer gotcha. Good luck getting well with that one!" Or "Happy Mother's Day, I'm glad you didn't abort my illegitimate fetus."

Sure, all of these suited my needs, but by nature, I'm a phony bullshitter and prefer to send cards that make people weep, saves me the trip to deliver an Indian sunburn or a swift punch in the gut. Or as Hallmark's writing career website proclaims, "We put into words what the heart wants to say. Bound by a deep understanding of the human heart, our writing community uses imagination, intelligence and craftsmanship to create distinctive, relevant messages."

Writing community? Please. This year's Sarah Sweeney Valentine's Day Card proto-type was pretty clever, a hand drawn picture of Richard Nixon, reading, "Don't be a Dick! Have a Happy Valentine's Day!"

Now that's comedy, but I'm not applying to any jobs for Fresh Ink.

The problem is greeting card companies are creating sub-sub categories that only appeals to about 5 people on the planet. Sympathy cards for pets, sure people love their dogs, but their friends don't buy into the sorry for your fluffy loss bullshit. Or what about the spinning wheel of ages? Happy [fill in the age blank] birthday. How many people live to be 93? Not many, but if sending a card for a 93-year-old, is a lazy spinning wheel (that turns to age 35 whilst traveling via US mail?) birthday card really appropriate? These people witnessed great American history for Christ sakes!

Or see below, this is my favorite of the specialized bullshit that appeals to no one.

Yea, congrats on paying exorbitant rent, slumlords, noisy neighbors, cockroaches, no backyard, and minimal storage space.

In conclusion, make your own cards, use glitter and those plastic googly eyes and the recipient might actually appreciate the sentiment.

The Judiciary System Thinks I'm Hot

2006-05-03T07:48:00.000-05:00

I've lived in New York City for nearly seven years yet continue to receive notices at my mother's house in Rhode Island to serve for jury duty. I've made a few calls, "Hey, um I can't make it, I'm busy ehh washing my hair" ... "Yeah, um I don't know how to tell you this, but we broke up years ago." But no avail. Every year around this time that familiar slip is shoved through the mail slot and a phone call is made:

Mom: Hey, ya doing anything on April 23rd?

Sarah: Eh, dunno. Why?

Mom: The division of jurors wants to hang out. Say around 8:45AM... again.

We share a chuckle or two at the expense of the State of Rhode Island and I call up Uncle David, the county clerk, and let him know I couldn't possibly be a juror... I'm too busy filing my nails... in New York.

Later that same evening while checking my mail in Hell's Kitchen, a red and white envelope sat accompanied by the previous resident's Newport News catalog and a Val-U-Pak in the cold metal mail box asking to be thrown away. Alas, I put it in a pile with the rest of the junk mail and did not open it until today, one month later.

"Jury Summons Enclosed! 5/5/06!"

Seriously US Government? We're in the middle of an immigration crisis and you're going to make me drag my ass out of bed for an 8:30AM call time on Cinco de Mayo? Hey, I'm unemployed and enjoying the fruits of leisure. How dare you force me to bring my way-left-of-center-pro-choice-pro-legalize-pot-anti-Iraq-war-pro-drop-the -debt-pro-Jon-Stewart-anti-red-state-but-please-still-take-pictures-of-foreign-
prisoners'-genitals-and-broadcast-it-worldwide-cause-it-makes-me-giggle-self downtown for hours of mindless droning of why I would not be an ideal canidate for the Division of Jurors...

But then it dawned on me, the Judiciary system just thinks I'm hot. And what the hell, now I have a date for Cinco de Mayo!