scattered, smothered and incarcerated

apparently, our favorite "hick-hopper" kid rock was arrested this weekend in dekalb, georgia.

according to the atlanta journal-constitution, he "...was finishing up a post-show meal at a Waffle House on Buford Highway about 5:15 a.m. Sunday when a customer recognized a woman in his entourage and began exchanging words with her.

Ritchie joined in the altercation, which soon escalated into a physical fight between the rocker and the man."

kid rock's entourage then jumped into the fight, beat the guy up in the parking lot, got on their giant tour bus and left! because that's what famous people do. they were pulled over, arrested on misdemeanor battery charges, posted bail and paid their fine.

and what happened to the dude who got beat up? why, he was charged with felony criminal damage to property because he broke a window at the waffle house [which costs $500].

i don't know which puzzles me more:

1. kid rock and 5 of his giant friends beat up a guy and they get out of jail on a misdemeanor.

2. a waffle house window costs $500.

3. one guy could break said $500 window.

4. what could be more important than the food at waffle house.

honestly, people. i'm pretty sure angels come down from heaven to snack on waffle house hashbrowns.

but are there nuts in the bread?

recently i was at a dinner party and was asked who i favored as a political candidate.

i felt that my initial response [gagging and spitting my beer across the table] would be considered gauche, so i smiled sweetly and said 'you know, i haven't completely decided.' i tried to impart my philosophy [which admittedly i had determined that exact moment], namely, that political candidates are much like bread in the initial stages; what we have right now are a bunch of blobs of yeast half-risen and ingredients still congealing. nothing that can be considered dough ready for the oven, much less warm loaves of bread.

the older i get and the more informed i get, the more hopeless i feel. politicians, it seems to me, are all the same. it doesn't matter what their party affiliation, their leanings, or their "stances" on the "issues" - it's all a moot point and can change once they reach office. and do the subtle distinctions between candidates actually mean anything? is rudy guiliani that much better than hilary clinton. or vice versa? at this point, i would consider herbert hoover over any of the candidates. everyone sort of bleeds together, like cheap fabric dye in a public laundromat machine: the minutiae will culminate into an overall theme: we're fucked.

so at this dinner party, everyone started talking about how much they love barack obama. and i think that's great. i hope that the fervor these 11 people had for him translates across the country. i hope a fervor for one candidate means a fervor for change. clearly things here need to change. clearly people need to take a stand for change - to want to reverse decisions that aren't working out so well for us all right now. to help ourselves as a country and as a people. as far as i can tell, the list of things that need to change [health care, the iraq war, public education, the economy, our constitutional rights, and so on] is a lot longer than the list of things that don't need to change [our national anthem, baseball as the national pastime, the food pyramid, etc.].

i hope the next president can help the american people more than this current one has. this president, to hearken back to my bread metaphor, was definitely not ready to come out of the oven so soon.

dan becomes blogger

my fabulous friend dan has started blogging!

check him out at : www.gilbysworld.blogspot.com

he's quite the adventurer and is an old-school romantic [ie: loves travel and books and food and people].

he also once made me laugh so hard that i fell down.

i still have the scar on my knee to prove it.

welcome to blogging, dan!

question number 9

just a quick question, for anyone out in that vast void of readership:

at what point do we stop feeling punched in the gut when faced with an ex's apparent successes and happiness?

rock of yawn

alright, y'all. i just watched the rock of love:reunion show.

yawn.

oh, i'm sorry. i totally just fell asleep.

what a BORE. i nearly started vacuuming again just to feel like the earth was still spinning on its axis. i've watched paint drying with more interest. my disappointment in this show is so overwhelming, i'm nearly at a loss for words. nearly. so i'll order my thoughts in list form:

1. riki rachtman as the host. really, ricky? really? this is what you're doing now? hosting the rock of love reunion show? you went from hosting headbanger's ball to the reunion show for rock of love? and your quips. oh, riki. i'd like to punch you in the face for your "quips". when lacey and heather put aside their feud and hug as friends for the show, you chirp with a sickened look on your face "why don't you two hug and make out?" honestly, riki. i've heard 14 year old boys with more pride and better commenting skills. eesh. i feel BAD for you. i honestly do. between you doing this and kurt loder wearing as much eyeliner as john cusack, i can truly admit that i've lost all respect for the old guard of mtv.

2. here's what the vh1 webpage for rock of love says about this episode:
It's reunion time and Bret has gathered all of his ladies for one more night of bawling and brawling. Two of the girls reveal that they have not only moved in together, but that they're sharing the same bed. And then things get even hotter as the girls confront the house troublemaker over past wrongs and host Riki Rachtman has to step in to save Bret from the emotional attack from one contestant who feels that she was used and then cast aside by the rocker. But the biggest sparks fly when Bret is reunited with his "Rock of Love" winner for the very first time since the finale 6 months ago.

a] i must have passed out during the two girls revealing that they're lovers. totally missed that. but i'll tell you this: i saw nothing hot about the confrontation of lacey. it was basically a total publicity stunt for her: her lame band played and she jumped around in tight black hot pants and shrieked about shallow girls. i mean, if she lives off of her investments [as her dad explained in the parents' visit episode], then that means she can spend all of her time practicing her craft, yes? then it should stand to reason that she shouldn't be this bad, yes? ok. just checking.

b] riki didn't have to step nowhere for nothing. i'm assuming this is referring to heather and bret's meeting. there was no emotional attack. unless by emotional attack you mean 'hanging out and giggling about corn nuts' because that's pretty much what happened. it was like the time wyatt and his friend from college who he'd fallen out with about something stupid met up at a bar randomly in ft. lauderdale and within 15 minutes it was like no time had passed and there had been no fight. really, vh1, you're totally mis-representing this snooze fest.

c] sparks flying with bret and jes meeting up. um, yeah. no. not a one. bigger sparks have flown between me and my toenail polish. watching them "reunite" after 6 months apart was like watching my mom and her hair dresser see each other after 6 months. but with less excitement. my mom's pretty bubbly and effusive.

3. since when did men start wearing so much eyeliner? honestly. maybe i'm about 4 years behind this trend, but good god people, did dave navarro involve you all in some sort of eye make-up pyramid scheme? suddenly everywhere i look, people possessing that y chromosome are attacking their lids with kohl. crikey.

4. jes and bret's meeting. wow. nothing. she told him he made a mistake and he should have picked heather. and you know what? on any other show this revelation [or an equivalent] would've had me on the phone with audrey. when jes said that, i kinda went 'mmmm. yes. ok.' she seemed unsurprised by the entire situation. she's a composed lass. a little TOO composed, if you ask me. her reaction was exactly like in college when i hooked up with this kid brian and we went out on a mess of dates for about 2 weeks. then, i went to london for a semester abroad with audrey. i got back, totally disinterested in him: i'd been to london, had sobered up, developed a taste for british lads, had sobered up and returned to school months later totally over poor brian. and so when we ran into each other at the student union, i wasn't all that excited to see him. i was a little cold, a little stand-offish, a little disinterested, a little like...jes.

5. i swear i've seen every single one of these clips. are they saving the best un-aired stuff for the dvd? because i gotta tell you, if i never hear every rose has its thorn again it'll be too soon, so the impetus to buy the show dvd is pretty much nil here. give me something better, vh1! show me that you're good at this reality thing. you're all about celebreality, right? show me what you got! what happened to the surreal life? that was juicy! that was scandalous! this is...oh. what? huh? it appears i fell asleep again just THINKING about rock of love: reunion.

6. do big john and bret look especially rough? no, really, do they? also, what does big john do in real life? was that ever explained? is he really bret's main guy? i kinda like him, like i liked the bald bouncer on jerry springer. like him in a 'if he showed up at my house i'd let him fix my dripping faucet' kind of way.

7. really, does anyone know how to fix a leaky faucet?

just recapping this has bored me to a near-catatonic state. sigh. looks like bret's comeback show kinda fizzled out. much like poison...

how clean is your valley?

i've become obsessed with vacuuming.

ok, with cleaning in general.

ok, more obsessed that usual.

because of R2D2 over here. my adorable little wunderkind of a vacuum, the Kenmore Magic Blue.

he was a birthday present from my parents, and i'll admit that when i got him, i didn't open him up right away. my vacuum was doing alright, and i was pretty obsessed with the Swiffer, so i didn't feel a need to introduce myself to little R2 over here.

but last week, the old vacuum cleaner broke in an unholy way. i won't rehash the details, i'll just throw a few words at you: burnt cord, power surge, burnt motor, dust explosion.

i think you get the idea.

well R2 saved the day when Old Faithful [my vacuum cleaner who outlasted 8 boyfriends and their filth] finally went to that big showroom in the sky. and dammit if this thing isn't light and easy to use. my downstairs neighbors must HATE ME. i know stavros does. if there's one thing that cats really can't stand, it's vacuum cleaners. now, many will argue that the one thing cats can't stand is water or dogs or tape on their backs or loud noises or mice or birds or their owners. but believe me when i tell you that a cat would rather cozy up for eternity with any of those things rather than face a vacuum. so when i turned this puppy on this morning, stavros vanished with a rather bleating little noise and i haven't seen him all day.

which is fine, because that means he'll keep his hair contained to one area and not all over the damn place [including the upper corners of the apartment near the ceiling?!?!?!?].

it's amazing what a good vacuum can do for you. my allergies are better. the place feels nicer to come home to. i'm not spending an arm and a leg on swiffer sheets every week to clear up the dust that's all over the place.

riddle me this, new york: why in sam hill are you so dusty? i don't understand. i don't understand how i can dust and vacuum [and when i dust, i use the allergen free spray stuff and i do a for-real vacuum job, not just a once-over] on a sunday and by tuesday everything is covered in a layer of filth.

i grew up on the beach. i grew up with two brothers. we all surfed. we all played school sports. we were all teenagers at the same time. on the beach. in florida. where there is sand, dirt, grass, pine needles, shells, and various pieces of debris. our house was cleaner than my tiny little apartment is and my mom didn't vacuum nearly as much as i do now. it's become the national pastime here at bexhq. in fact, when i go home for visits, i love lying on the floor and playing with the dogs because the house is SO CLEAN.

is my mother that much better a cleaner than i am? i dunno, she taught me all i know plus she doesn't clean as often.

are there less people in her house, you ask? not really; between her and my dad and the two dogs, plus their random friends and the fact that they live ON THE BEACH, i don't see how that's less dirt than me, my roommate and her boyfriend [who are never here] and stavros, who hasn't left the house since february when i took him forcibly to the vet [my arm has just stopped looking like a prop from hellraiser 9].

so my only conclusion is: this city is DIRTY.

fact: after 1 full day of wandering around in my flip flops in new york, the soles of my feet are black. compare this to 1 full day of wandering around in my flip flops in new smyrna beach [my hometown] where the soles of my feet look like the soles of my feet. sort of khaki colored.

fact: the oscillating fan in my apartment has to be dusted once a week, otherwise the cage and the fan parts are covered in black furry dust. compare this to the oscillating fan in my apartment in college [same fan, same brand] that i never dusted. because it didn't need it.

fact: when my friend came to new york and rode around in the back of a truck for 8 hours [it was for work, don't ask] he blew his nose and his snot was BLACK. compare this to when he was in colorado and blowing his nose and his snot was, well, snotty colored.

is it the condensed nature of the city? all this exhaust, soot, fumes, dirt and grit has a finite amount of space to expand to, thus it expands onto us and then into our homes? is the same amount of exhaust, soot, fumes, dirt and grit in every city in the country but because those cities have more geographical room we don't notice the dirt as much?

it's something to think about. honestly, when you sit down and make a list of all the grody things about new york, all the things that make it a not-so-great-place-to-live, the list gets a little long and depressing. so why do we do it? why do millions of people cram themselves onto this tiny island so desperately?

it's not for our health, i'll tell you that. i don't care what the ratio of good doctors to patients here is: black snot ain't good for you. plus with the cost of health care and the amount of uninsured people...

oh i'm not getting up on my soap box. i'm going to go vacuum the crevice between the stove and the wall. at the very least i'll retrieve the knife my roommate dropped back there last night.

quiet evening takes a turn for the puppet

just saw death at a funeral with kim this evening. we had a quiet evening in the neighborhood - geeking out over john krakauer books [kim's reading under the banner of heaven and i've read into thin air and into the wilderness] at telephone bar and then we hit the movies on 3rd and 11th. though we had just had dinner, a movie is not complete without icees. blue icees. i'm not alone on this love, though folks aren't usually as forth coming as i am about it. [my tongue did not turn as blue as i would have liked.]

the movie was delightful. the opening credit sequence was a bit long and thought it was cleverer than it was. [i was not as offended by it as kim was.] the actors in this ensemble did a great job and i was chuckling, if not laughing outright, through most of the film. just truly enjoyed it and felt good at the end. though i was [again] disappointed in the end credits - i felt they fell short. am i focusing a bit too much on the bells and whistles? maybe. but i haven't completely processed the film beyond the fact that frank oz has director more films that we love than any of us realize. imdb him as a director. do it. aside from the fact that his picture on there is absolutely adorable, you'll start to recall that the man directed in and out [oh kevin kline], the score, bowfinger, and seminal films like what about bob?, dirty rotten scoundrels, little shop of horrors, and the dark crystal. that's right. the dark crystal. putting aside my perverse love for ruprecht the monkey boy in dirty rotten scoundrels, the dark crystal was a formative film for me. i remember my parents went out for the evening when it first came out on video, and dean and wyatt and i huddled on the floor in front of the couch watching it. i don't think i slept for about a week. though part of that could be that dean and wyatt kept hiding in my closet and under my bed and making weird noises the minute the lights were out.

the dark crystal, and for that matter the original star wars movies, are more believable and realistic to me even now than all of these cgi computer-generated things put together. maybe it's the nostalgia that clouds my judgement but i think that the use of puppets and models and miniatures gives these films an organic vs. generated feel. these things are REAL. a computer generated movie looks computer generated - even if you know that a mystic is an amazing puppet, it's still a moving, breathing creature [breathing because there's a puppeteer behind it]. there's a depth and a realness to these movies that all the computer programmers in the world can not recreate.

i'm by no means denigrating computer generated things, or the amazing people and technology behind them. i'm just saying that these films are more real, more tangible, than the most fantastical futuristic computer animated/generated one.

my babbling has gone beyond my ken, so i'm going to slip into bed and dream of lush puppet trees and bumbling british boys.

go see death at a funeral. not only because it's funny but because i think we should all support frank oz.

wouldn't you want to have breakfast with him?

so why do we love rock of love so much? why is it that i have no idea when the show actually airs, but definitely know that they show reruns on sunday mornings on vh1?

we love our washed-up stars. or, more accurately, our former mega-starts trying to hold on to some level of fame and notoriety. is bret michaels washed up? beats me. i haven't noticed him doing much since poison was in their heyday, but then again, i'm kind of square when it comes to music scenes [unless we're outside and i've got a blanket on a hill and everyone's well-behaved, i'm kinda not interested. phish concerts have gotten too rowdy for me, even]. anyway, we loved these people who are in that grey area of celebrity. celebs but not actively celebrated. and we love to watch a train-wreck of human emotions. we like to watch the car crash, the train wreck and smile while we're on the couch thinking smugly 'at least i'm not like THAT'.

simply put, shows like rock of love make us feel better about ourselves. do we care this much whether bret michaels finds love? whether he chooses one woman to 'keep rockin' his world' as he asks at the end of each elimination round? of course we don't. it doesn't effect our lives at all. no bearing, whatsoever. what we want is to watch a bunch of women act like drunk teenage morons to win the chance to sleep with someone who used to be incredibly famous. [and who slept with drunk teenagers.] we want to watch these girls act like nincompoops so that we can sit back and feel better about the times that WE acted like nincompoops. shows like this help us cement our perceived places in this world. the whole 'sure i've got a mind-numbing job and the only thing i truly look forward to is getting a seat on the subway so that i can listen to my ipod and pretend that i'm in maui but at least i'm not drunk getting a tattoo of some guy's name on my neck and screaming obscenities at other drunk girls who have all slept with this guy that i want to be my boyfriend because he's more famous than i am.' situation.

don't get me wrong: i watch the show. i was recently in a meeting and we spent the first 15 minutes discussing who we want to win bret's affection. i actually said 'while i like jess the best, i want heather to win because i think jess has more in store for her than just being bret's girl.' i said this in front of co-workers. people who i would like to take me seriously. people who i respect and who i'd like to respect me.

it's the new water-cooler talk. not everyone's a sports fan. not everyone is going to share my enthusiasm over seeing andy pettite pitch his 200th game on wednesday [in fact, it constantly surprises me how many people aren't sports literate, but that's another post]. but i guarantee you that more people know something about bret michaels, poison and his show rock of love. politics and religion polarize people. it's not ok to talk about these things at work. but rock of love and i love new york unite us. whether we're agreeing on how insane laci is, or how tango really does look like a teenage mutant ninja turtle, we're agreeing. we're united.

would i rather unite with people over appreciation of thomas hardy's novels or the sad state of health care this country is in? of course i would. but giggling over heather's use of the word 'tatters' is so much easier.

tee hee. tatters.

why we're all idiots when it comes to love.

i blame hollywood.

easy to say, right? but i've been watching terrible romantic comedies [the next person who calls it a romcom gets hit with a sock filled with pennies] all night on tbs, and quite frankly, hollywood is to blame. take serendipity starring john cusack and kate beckinsale. at what point is this movie at all believable? so far for me, and granted i've eaten nearly an entire box of cereal without milk this evening, the best parts of this dreck have been jeremy piven being his usually malignant delightful self and my pre-teen obsession with john cusack - a man who makes wearing eyeliner an everyday occurrence.

i'm rambling, i know. but i'm in a bit of a kerfuffle on this: of COURSE we're all morons and unrealistic in our relationships! of course people sleep together at the first sign of attraction and then wake up 3 weeks later and realize 'my god. what is in bed next to me? this person offends me on 17 different levels. i've made a terrible mistake.' movies like serendipity teach us, essentially, that all you need to do is be in the right place at the right time and BAM! you'll be matched up cosmically with your soul mate. and if you're not, if you happen to be in a relationship with a perfectly nice person, well when your soul mate DOES pop up [and you know they will and you know you'll know it because you just will. plus, mood music] you'll be able to extricate yourself from the current relationship with little to no fuss. because while there might be tears, there will be no guilt on your part. and your significant other will just fade away. it's picture perfect, really.

i'm being redundant, but it's unrealistic.

the manager at the bookstore i worked at during high school was unrealistic. she'd been married to her husband for 15 years and complained to me that the relationship was over because the passion and spark were gone. granted, that sucks, but she couldn't recognize that relationships grow and evolve into things that don't involve getting slammed into stacks of books in the store room during inventory by the 19 year old delivery van driver. which she wanted. and she did. during breaks. not just inventory.

which ended my ever going into the store room again.

my point is: hollywood has been training us to be unrealistic. so that we continue searching for that soul mate, that perfect person that only exists on the silver screen. my theory is that john cusack does NOT say the perfect thing all the time. he doesn't stutter adorably when he's nervous. he does not always wear a soft t-shirt and blazer and look amazingly natural in his eye liner. i think he can often be found in sweatpants and smelling faintly of gin. i bet he farts and picks at his feet while watching man vs. nature. and he's the john cusack i'm interested in. no need for a boombox.

comment. let's open a dialogue on what love really is all about - because i certainly haven't a clue and i think i'm supremely bad at it. i'd hate to think that what the father character in the wedding date is true, that every woman has the love life she truly wants. that would blow. on so many levels. [i can not believe i'm posting paraphrases from the bloody wedding date.]

but listen, i may not respond right away. i'm throwing in the towel and watching reruns of soap operas on soapnet. at least they're honest in their sham.

a must have for the disaffected cowgirl youth

i never imagined that my doc martens and cowboy boots would mate while i had them tossed in the closet. but man, that baby sure is pretty.

i kinda want a pair. it's a steal at $99.99, yes?

when there just isn't enough coffee

well it's monday, right? and though we all know that this happens - every week, mind you - we still show up cranky and crabby and bitter that it's happening. you know when i didn't hate mondays? when i was a bartender. in college. over the summers.

but i digress.

i'm writing this while i wait for a conference call to start. because everyone is in such a bad mood, it was decided that we'd all conference from our desks [no lie] while we talk to these folks in minneapolis. my guess, actually, is that someone's assistant forgot to schedule the conference room, but i'm NOT back-seat assisting. believe me, i'm not.

so before this becomes the most boring blog-entry ever, i will converse with myself about where i've been for the past few months.

so where in the world have you been, bex butler?
i got the death flu in late june. and -

i'm sorry to interrupt, but the death flu? really?
yes, the death flu. i couldn't get out of bed. i had a fever. i couldn't keep any food down, or around, me. i lived on flat gingerale and saltines for 3 weeks. i think i lost some weight.

you have been looking svelte lately.
thank you. you've been looking pretty cute yourself, you know.

thanks.
sure.

so...
right, so, i was just getting over the death flu and was feeling really pretty good and i was in the shower and was listening to the radio and the umbrella song came on -

which you hate.
well...i say that i hate it but secretly it's a damn catchy song. have you listened to it?

i try not to. i can't believe you admit that you like it.
ANYWAY. i was boogying in the shower - because i felt so much better [have you lived on saltines and flat gingerale for more than an hour? it's terrible. seriously.] and the song came on and i was sorta shaking it and i slipped and, um, fell and well...

you hurt yourself, didn't you?
i broke my wrist.

you're an idiot.
that's what my doctor said.

and i don't have an m.d.
you don't even have an m.a.

true. though i didn't fall in the bathtub and break my wrist.
so once i broke my wrist i couldn't really type. i considered getting someone to blog for me, because honestly, i fell in my shower dancing to the umbrella song. it's funny. as soon as i stop being mortified, it's funny. i mean, i went to the emergency room in sweat pants and my pajama top soaking wet.

how IS the emergency room in new york city?
it's both better and worse than you think. there were a fair amount of people there that seemed like this was just how they went to the doctor. granted, gunshot victims probably get a separate entrance than walk-ins, but nobody seemed in any sort of dire emergency. i sat there for awhile watching cnn. in pain. trying not to cry.

admit it. you cried.
a little bit. but on the walk over. not there.

you walked to the er?
i didn't know the address and so wasn't sure what to tell the cab driver.

god, you're an idiot.
hey now.

so...
so my roommate came and brought me gatorade and pretzels and i got a little cast and went home and called work and got some great pain medication and watched high school musical on tv.

i can't take any more of this.
fine. i'm late for a meeting anyway.

with my tail between my legs

well kids, if you're still reading, i reckon it's been awhile. and you know what? you deserve an explanation. no, i think you do. because, goodness, it's been a right long time since i've posted here. and i'd like to make this explanation good [and believe me, i've gotten myself into some pretty hilarious scrapes now that it's september and i can look back on this ridonculous summer from some distance] but unfortunately, it's going to have to wait. why?

1. i'm exhausted. i drank way too much beer friday night with the wacky boys and somehow yesterday's attachment to the couch didn't completely cure me [i think my age is starting to show].

2. i've got an 8 am meeting tomorrow. i know. it IS inhumane.

3. i was at the park all day today playing frisbee with jp and friends and i'm covered in sweat, sunscreen, and park grit.

4. i'm going to ease back into this slowl.

5. i think there's a sliver of glass in my foot and i'm going to try and dig it out with my camping tweezers.

so there you go. it'll happen. i promise. I PROMISE. GOSH.

postcard #6

i'm waiting for my brother to arrive. he's late, as usual, and while it's not like i had anything on my agenda beyond reading like a maniac and maybe watching kyle xy on abc family [listen: do not bust my chops on this. he's kinda cute, he's an alien, he has no belly button it's all very fascinating. oh shut up. watch it.] i still get a bit cheesed off that wy's late. why is wy late? well, he's late because that's who he is.

he's the middle child. he's always been the rebel. it might be, psychologically speaking, a sort of middle-child-syndrome thing, i don't know. see, i'm the baby and the only girl, so of course i'm not really allowed any wiggle room on rebellion, misbehaving, etc. older brothers can really ruin things for you. everyone with older brothers knows what i'm talking about.

wyatt lives up to his cowboy-type name, i guess. i gotta tell you, my parents were pretty good about giving us each more creative names. i mean, how many girls named amy do you know? there were FIVE amys in my class. FIVE out of THIRTY. that's a high percentage, wouldn't you say? also, lots of jasons. i am by no means saying that these are bad names. they're wonderful names. i think that wy had 2 michaels on his baseball team each year. seriously. lovely names. every single one of them. but my parents, they knew what they were doing. nobody forgets wyatt. possibly because of who he is, but also, he's got a cool name. wyatt earp. that's what everyone thinks of. and i wonder: would wyatt be so...wyatty...if he weren't named wyatt. if he were named, say, ben?

was shakespeare a genius - wouldn't a rose smell as sweet if it weren't called a rose [oh my thesis professor is cringing while i butcher the bard on a blog]. but seriously, at what point do we inform our names or do our names inform us? is inform even the correct word? clearly i had too many beers last night at banjo jims with kim.

but wy's always been sort of a laid-back surfer kid about time. i'm kind of obsessive about being on time. jp makes fun of me constantly about it, and in fact i will tell her to meet me at an earlier time just to ensure she shows up closer to the original plan, but i just think that punctuality is within your sphere of control. and in a world where so much is out of our control, wouldn't you want to exert a little bit of that by being ON TIME? granted, he's driving down from boston, where he's getting his phd at harvard [yes, yes, yes i'm bragging] but he also told me he was leaving around noon. um...if he HAD, then he'd have been here three hours ago and i wouldn't be writing this like some scorned ex girlfriend on prom night.

i know. i should know better. our older brother is always telling me to chill out, that living in nyc is actually incredibly bad for my already too present neurotic behavior, but i'm a stickler about time. i am. i mean, i thought we could go for a walk, maybe catch a movie. i've got to be at work early tomorrow, so i thought it'd be fun to have a nice evening after i cleaned the apartment like a psychotic housewife all morning. HUNGOVER. I GAVE MYSELF BRAIN DAMAGE FROM THE TILEX MILDEW REMOVER WHILE HUNGOVER FOR MY BROTHER WHO IS STILL NOT HERE.

my roommate's out of town with her new boyfriend - they went to seattle where he's apparently from. i don't remember his name. i know, it's awful, but i think it's kevin or alan or something and he doesn't look like a kevin or alan. he looks like a carl. or a sam. you'd know what i'm talking about if you saw him.

so it's been nice to pretend i live alone. and to not have to beg for our television to not be playing the bridezilla marathon that is always on. dear WE television: why? WHY?

for anyone keeping track: kate made it through her write-a-thon with flying colors [which means she didn't cramp, or as she put it, put a pencil through someone's eye because she's a bit grumpy these days and i'm honestly not sure why] and she was so tired last night that she didn't come out with me and kim even though we were RIGHT DOWN THE STREET FROM HER. whatever. she's an odd little egg, that one. i think it's from writing. you know, you live with made up characters in made up places so much, maybe your interactions with actual people are a bit difficult?

ok. i'm going to grab an iced coffee from pick-me-up while i wait for wyatt. i'm nearly finished with the memory keeper's daughter which teresa lent me and i'm enjoying it, though it's making me a little sad. maybe because lately, anytime i read or see something about a woman in a relationship that makes her trapped and unhappy, i see too much of myself and good ol' mr. x. as soon as i can exorcise him from my being, i think i'll be a lot happier without the glorious aids of caffeine and jack black videos online. i love jack black. does this say something about me? like love like most girls love brad pitt.

this summer sunday was a little cold, wasn't it? it reminded me of winters on the beach - the sand cold and damp beneath your feet, and while it's too warm to wear a sweater, you still feel chilled inside your bones. but it makes you feel alive. like the captain of a ship in a storm.

distressing news

right, we all heard it early this morning dressing in our pre-approved uniforms for our day-lives. but still, who's up for moving to the canadian border where life is affordable?

from: www.gothamist.com

June 6, 2007
MTA Subway and Bus Fare Hike in 2010?

If the report released yesterday by the city's Independent Budget Office is true, it could get a lot more expensive to ride the MTA subways and buses in the future. The IBO believes that the MTA has to increase its revenues by 20% by 2010. That means subway and bus fares could go up at least 20% by 2010, making a single ride $2.40. The worst case scenario - where rates for other revenue sources are not increased - has subway and bus fares jumping to almost $3. The price of a monthly metrocard would would jump from $76 to $112. A weekly card would go from $24 to $36. The last increase in fares was in 2004.
Why the drastic increase in subway and bus fares? Years of borrowing money for improvements in the system has resulted in mounting debts. The agency faces projected deficits of $800 million in 2008, $1.4 billion in 2009, and $1.8 billion in 2010. For 2007, there is a projected surplus of $270 million. In previous years, the MTA has often projected a deficit (though you can never trust them), only to have a surplus at the end of the year because of real estate tax revenue that was more than projected. This may change in the coming years, according to the IBO's report (full .pdf report).
Gean Russianoff of the Straphangers Campaign, who asked the IBO to review the MTA's budget, said that Mayor Bloomberg's congestion pricing plan could keep the fares from rising so drastically. "We call on Gov. Eliot Spitzer for help, especially in pressing for Mayor Michael Bloomberg's congestion pricing proposal to help bring billions to the transit system."

A subway fare hike is...
Understandable - it takes money to run a system that works around the clock. Obvious when the agency is poorly managed and gets little support from the city and state. Insanity when subway service is already so mediocre.
> View ResultsPollDaddy.com Polls - Take Our Poll
The MTA is to announce its budget plans next month, but Executive Director Elliot Sander has already asked departments within the agency to cut 4% from their budgets. The Post mentions some other ideas from the IBO that could generate revenue: 1/8% increase in sales tax (additional $236 million), include co-ops in the mortgage-recording tax (additional $140 million), raising state aid to the maximum level (additional $444 million).
Photograph by Triborough on Flickr

found objects

this'll be quick since i'm in the midst of crazy meetings and everyone here is getting married and having a wedding shower [seriously. the amount of time and money i've spent on people i'm not that fond of for events that have nothing to do with me will depress me to the point of needing anti-depressants should i add it all up]...

but.

yesterday, steps of the q/r/n/w train at 57th street and 7th avenue, there was a pair of panties [looked like bikini and black] bunched up in the dirt.

ladies: why in all of god's green earth would you:
1. lose your panties going either up or down to the subway
2. leave them there


also. could you explain how that happened? because, while not the clutziest person i know, there is no way i could walk either up or down stairs while my under-drawers were falling down. did you penguin-step? how did you step out of them? why am i so concerned?

because i must distract myself. while procrastinating at work i discovered that mr. x is in love. is in a wonderful marvelous relationship with some woman. who is not me. while logically, we would assume that he is also making her miserable the same way he made me miserable, the glorious human mind does not work this way and instead i am remembering all the ways darling mr. x was darling, and thus keeping up the cycle of perpetual macabre self loathing that i've been dealing with for too many months.

how do bruce willis and demi moore and ashton kutcher do it? does wealth and perfect skin really make your life easier?

do let me know. please. kutch: punk me into understanding.

juice boxes

i was momentarily way-laid coming out of the subway this morning by a woman trying to shove a straw into her morning juice box.

it was a box of edensoy.

granted, that made me want to vomit, but then i thought some more about juice boxes in general [yes, i'm still stuck in this box theme].

why are juice boxes so bloody great?

i decided to debate this issue with myself, in my cubicle, instead of reading a cost report of something that's 4 pages long and full of numbers in very small print.

they're portable!
yes but so are sodas in a can. sodas in a can are not as fun as juice boxes but just as portable.

they're lined in a weird metallic paper!
canned beverages are contained in METAL.

they've got straws!
you can put a straw in just about anything, chief.

but they're little bendy straws! in a tiny plastic wrapper! sometimes the straws are red!
if this is what you need in life, i've got nothing for you, my friend.

they're pleasing to hold!
cans are more ergonomically sound for the human hand.

you can smush them!
i know where you went to college. you saw cans being crushed. in fists, on forheads, on balcony railings, give me a break.

but when you're drinking them, you can suck the air totally out so that they collapse! like capri-sun!
we're talking juice boxes here, not capri-sun. i would never argue with you regarding capri-sun. i'm no idjit.

often they're fruit punch flavored!
yes, yes they are often fruit punch flavored.

they remind me of my childhood!
which, some might argue, is not a plus.

you're stupid.
no, you're stupid.

and then i started thinking about brent's comment yesterday about how wine comes in a box. why do we look down on wine in a box? it's just a juice box for grownups! why is it ok for a woman to walk down 57th street drinking edensoy out of a box and not ok for someone to be drinking pinot grigio out of a box? granted, they'd have to get single-serve wine-in-a-boxes, but why don't they? perfect for picnics in central park! it's like a 6-pack of beer! but it's wine! in a box! with a straw!

it's too genius to ignore.

oh, shut up. you'd by it.
no i wouldn't.

cube dwelling

so listen. it's hard to be in a cubicle. it's hard to live in new york city and go from your box of an apartment to your cubicle via the subway [a moving series of boxes].

no wonder so much of our vernacular has the term box in it:

boxed in
think outside of the box
boxcar betty
box your ears
boxing match
etc.

what's also interesting is that my cubicle is an odd greyish brownish color, which, according to wikipedia [which i am unsure that i should trust] is a color:

Box was identified by British scholars as an official color to be considered part of the color wheel or color spectrum. The color ranges from mild sage to burnt sienna. Many are adopting this color as a political thinking or "Thinking Outside the Box" in current presidential campaigns.

'bex,' you might say, 'are you going to make a point anytime soon?'

my answer is a forthright 'probably not.'

to be honest, i had a long flight with screaming children yesterday afternoon [why are there always screaming children on flights from florida?] and then 3 mojitos at a new cuban place on 10th street when i got home since my roommate was fighting with her boyfriend.

i know that this is considered bad, but alcohol does make things better.

not everything.

but many things.

for instance, being in this cubicle might be considerably more fun if i were allowed to drink alcohol within it. would i be as productive? that really calls into examination just how productive i am hopped up on iced coffees and cheese danishes from the deli down the street.

i'm not condoning alcoholism. i'm just saying: hemingway, fitzgerald, george burns...you tell me.

postcard #5

so you might, and rightly so, wonder "bex, if you love going home so much, why don't you just stay home?" because, dear mysterious reader [and little voice in my head], then it wouldn't be so fun to go home.

granted, my frequent flier miles are building up, and granted, since x and i broke up i've been heading home much more frequently, but i think that there's no other place like nsb to lick one's wounds.

have i been licking my wounds too much?

eh. maybe.

but you know what? i was with the man for 4 f'ing years. 4 f'ing years and he hasn't had the decency to email me back [i emailed and snail mailed him a birthday card] and let me remind you - it was his idea to break up. so it's not like he hates me because i'm evil and all sorts of terrible and i've ruined his manhood or anything. no, he still looks like the big bad boy who ditched the girl who was "holding him back" and oh...lord. i really am having a problem letting this go.

and i think i'm not supposed to be so open with the fact that i was pretty much dumped.

audrey and i ate way too much fried seafood because that's what we do and my grandmother took us to bells because that's what she does and then audrey and i went to the mall because it was literally 4000 degrees outside.

if you've never been to the volusia county mall, i can only tell you that you're missing out on some serious insight into the psyche of today's american teenager. granted, part of audrey and my love of going to the mall is the fact that we go by the speedway and the reason the speedway is so meaningful is because when audrey was 12 she swore that she would be married there during the daytona 500.

she did. i don't really remember when her love of the daytona 500 started, but it probably began as abruptly as it ended, so that i only remember that one day when she told me that my bridesmaid gown would have racing stripes on it and that the reception would feature slushees [cherry] and popcorn [cheddar flavored] and it all seemed very logical to me at the time and now that we look back on that neither one of us can remember what in god's name she was thinking.

because she's neither a fan of cherry slushees or cheddar flavored popcorn. i, though, am still a fan of a bridesmaid dress with racing stripes. though at audrey's elegant wedding, i wore a navy blue strapless gown and these beautiful earrings i bought myself at the union square holiday market the christmas before and she looked stunning and we all danced for about 4 hours to a wonderful wonderful band. that's the only wedding i've ever cried at.

anyway, i had a wonderful time at home but it's wonderful to be back here though stavros is acting like i'm the worst cat parent ever [i am] and has been shunning me for approximately 3 hours now. which might be disturbing were it not so funny.

now that my cubicle has been moved [well, the cubicle wasn't moved, i was moved to a new cubicle] and i am no longer in a direct foot traffic path, i think i'll be able to blog more effectively from the office. i'm also trying to teach myself html, remembering that w once told me that html was handy to have, especially since i've got a lovely 'eye' for design [oh what men will tell you when they're trying to get your pants off], and i think perhaps he was right.

sadly, though, kim and i no longer sit near each other, and she can't im me because her new manager is over-the-top-controlling and we have to meet in the bathroom for tryst-like gossip sessions.

honestly, when you think about it, the workplace in all its modern wonder and facist tendencies is forcing us to act like we're back in high school.

at least where i work. but i bet it's no different where you work.

an open letter to the sleazy man behind me at the deli

dear sleazy man,

just because you are wearing a suit and have your sunglasses on inside does not mean that i want you to stand alarmingly close to me while we are in line at the sandwich place at lunch time.

just because it is a gorgeous day and i am obviously sick from my death cold and thus buying a minestrone soup and apple juice does not mean that you can leer at me and slide so close to me that you might as well just jump into the back pocket of my pants and say in this horrifyingly wet voice "a little hot for soup, isn't it?" so that i fear that your spit is in my hair.

just because i said "oh, excuse me, please" as i tried to move away from the counter but barely could because you were attempting to claim my personal space as your own does not mean that you can put your hand on my arm as though to assist me in walking - something i do every day.

but DO note that i ground my heel into your shoe because you would not MOVE THE FRICK AWAY FROM ME when i tried to get my change from the cashier. MY SPACE IS NOT YOUR SPACE.

if you think i'm pretty, thank you. i appreciate that. i don't feel pretty because i have the death cold. which you now have all over you because you were in my personal bubble. enjoy it. i hope you two live happily ever after. however, if you wish to let me know that you find me attractive, why don't you do so in an acceptable manner. smile. say 'hello'. heck, say 'i think you're pretty'. do not, i repeat, DO NOT stand so close to me! listen to the police. sting repeated that phrase about 62 times in that song. don't stand so close to me. you are skeevy. you are obviously a wanker. if i see you again, i'm going to step onto your other foot with my heels and then push you in front of a bus.

you need help.

and i need a nap.

death cold

alright. apparently, i am terrible at timely and frequent blogging. but, in my defense, i am recovering from:

THE DEATH COLD

do you know what sucks more than having a cold? having a cold when the weather is finally nice enough to be outside and enjoying the sunshine. i lay out on the fire escape one day, propped up against the wall with our central park blanket and a box of kleenex and a hefty dose of dayquil. which, by the way, makes me unable to focus my eyes. the office culture for the job is such that they're pretty adamant about germs NOT being in the office, so it's really frowned upon for me to come in with a cold spewing germs around. which is nice. it's actually one of the only nice things about that place. so i managed to stay home and be ill. i'll probably make it back in tomorrow.

my roommate, bless her soul, is such a train wreck usually, but was super sweet and mothering. i think she just needs someone to need her. granted, some have suggested getting her her own pet, but i fear for the poor thing's life. she can barely remember that i have a cat.

but she brought me matzo ball soup, and there was always juice in the house, and the one night she came home drunk with some dude from some bar, she did come in and check on me while i was deliriously watching grosse point on my laptop. [you need to check out that show. the show, not the movie with john cusack. seriously. it's got some delightful moments. now, i'm not saying it's a freaks and geeks or even undeclared sort of situation, but do check it out. you'll thank me for it. unless you're my brother. and you moan the entire time and then hit me with a pillow until i have marks on my face.]

she's sweet, honestly. but i worry for her. granted, i'm 8 years older than she is, so much of the idiotic stuff she does makes me cringe for reasons beyond that it's idiotic cringe-worthy stuff. reasons like 'dear lord. was i like that when i was her age?' and 'jesus, mary and joseph. please tell me this is vastly different than when i was so drunk i fell down.'

we've all done stupid stuff, am i right? we've all gotten blind drunk, made out with someone we shouldn't have, or slept with someone we normally wouldn't have, or yelled things at a cop when we should know better...but somehow, i feel the danger more in her actions. the fact that she brings home these guys that she's met, into our apartment. maybe i've watched too much law and order and csi. maybe times have changed. maybe i wasn't as out-of-control as she seems to be. but i feel like i need to have a talk with her. not an intervention, because, really, she is young and she's allowed to get a little crazy, but a sort of 'i feel uncomfortable that you bring random men home to our house. they could rob us or kill us or something. and if you're ok with those odds, great, but i'm not and i pay the rent too so if you wouldn't mind not doing this until you live alone, i'd really appreciate it.' it's an awkward situation, when it shouldn't be. i'm under the impression that standing up for myself shouldn't be a bad thing. especially when it's not out of line.

oh. tea's ready. and i'm trying out actifed today, and it's time for another dose.

in this age of 'my life is my life' and exertion of our rights, when and where do we draw the compromise line in the sand?

a postcard of a bloody tooth

so it's a little dramatic. but so, apparently, am i when i go to the dentist. my dentist, who in the past six months has transformed into a less-emo version of zach braff. imagine my surprise. i could have sworn he looked mildly like my cousin. who was in the military. and refuses to change haircuts.

in any case, i've been feeling some pain. in my left top molar. enough pain that i was continually pressing my jaw together to feel that pain. to, you know, test it out. see if i had a popcorn kernel stuck in there or my cavity was growing or the aliens had implanted another transmitter there.

apparently, i've broken all three of my fillings.

by grinding my teeth.

at night.

in my sleep.

my dentist said [and i am not paraphrasing here] 'you are grinding your teeth like a maniac! A MANIAC!'

so i had them fixed. refilled, if you will.

but first, he had to remove the old fillings. because due to my filling destruction during sleep, my cavities had expanded.

what's more uncomfortable than getting a filling in the first place? having the damned thing removed, then getting a NEW filling in its place. dentist numbed my face with something that smelled like watermelon jolly ranchers and tasted like rubbing alcohol. then i was injected with whatever it is that further numbs me. i've got to say, at this point, i was drooling and wondering if maybe i should just bonk my head on that giant ufo light so as to just pass out and miss all this fun.

the right side of my mouth fillings went smoothly. as smoothly as this all goes. i mean, i was in pain and my right knee started to do this weird twitchy dance, but other than that everything was peachy creamy.

my damned left top filling, though. first off, that side of my mouth didn't get as numb, or stay as numb or something because jesus mary and joseph when he went at my mouth with that drill i did an involuntary full-body twitch [i think i finally hit that pilates move where you're supposed to go from lying down to this 'v' position balanced on your butt] and yelped. i also, embarrassingly enough, started to cry. no sobs, but my eyes let loose a barrage of tears the likes of which i have not seen since, well, since thinking seriously about my ex.

anyway. my dentist immediately stopped and said 'oh, honey, i'm sorry, hold on, let me numb you up some more.' and shot my jaw with some more novocaine [dude, that stuff is hot when it goes into you] and actually WIPED AWAY MY TEARS FOR ME.

it was at this point that i fell in smit.

it took, no lie, i think 45 minutes for this sucker to get filled. and then this whole experience became very 'the secretary'-ish while he was checking my bite to make sure the fillings didn't stick out too much. i don't know how else to explain it but the situation became very intimate and nearly erotic.

i say nearly because:
1. i was delirious
2. this is my dentist, i'm getting fillings. he does this often. i've done this before. we're both dental appointment whores
3. my face is so numb that i'm pretty sure i look like a beluga whale. but better dressed.

this appointment started at 10 am, so i got to wander home touching my face gingerly and curiously. imagine my disappointment when i looked in the mirror and my face looked totally normal. i don't know what i wanted to look like - maybe one of those weird lion creatures from dark angel or something - but i looked normal. like me.

so i spent the day fading in and out of naps on the couch, drinking lukewarm tea and watching the trashiest tv i've ever watched.

the dentist, before i left, recommended i ask my doctor for valium. because of my teeth-grinding. i've got a mouth guard [read: retainer] that i don't wear because it's a retainer! i do not wish to be transported back to 7th grade! when i had a retainer! i'm 31 years old! there is nothing sexy about a retainer!

anyway, the valium. apparently i have a lot of anger/stress/anxiety/what-have-you. i process this in my sleep through grinding my teeth in my sleep. i had no idea i was still doing that. we all know i have anger issues. i have a lot of anger. who living in new york doesn't? no, really, i want to meet them. and punch them. because they're obviously not paying attention.

so i spoke with my shrink, once my lips felt normal and my tongue seemed under my control, and asked about valium. she thinks it's something to discuss. but, you see, that's why i have this blog. to sort of release some of my frustrations. to a forum. if i just wrote down everything in a journal, it doesn't work, because i'm the only person who reads it. i wasn't going to hand someone my journal and say 'hey, read this. i'm sort of cranky about a lot of stuff. it's all written down in this.' so this blog is so that i can make my observations blah blah blah.

my point here is: there is still anger and i am still grinding my teeth to the point of destruction!

i am impressed with myself, quite honestly.

impressed with that bill from dentist zach braff as well, let me tell you.

tonight, i'll be doing some yoga stretches and thinking good thoughts before i go to sleep.

i'll try to wear the mouth guard. i've been soaking it in listerine all evening. so, if nothing else, it'll get this lingering metal watermelon taste out of my mouth from the fillings.

if i break that thing with my teeth grinding, then i'm definitely getting valium. is that something i can buy from my teenage neighbor?

postcard #4

could the clinton street bakery be not-so-crowded for one weekend so that i can finally eat there? i can't really get out of bed prior to 10 am on the weekends, so i guess i should really get used to waits but i hate waiting. so kim and i hit this weird place on avenue b which had one dude doing, i think, every job in the place. i was a waitress all through college, so i get it. i GET IT. it's brunch, so just bring the coffee with the menus. it's not hard. there were only 4 tables filled, though the one was filled with 10 20-something guys who looked to be indeterminate european vacationers.

point: after breakfast kim and i decided to wander the neighborhood so that i could get inspiration for liz's second bridal shower gift [there will be an entire post, eventually, devoted to bridal showers and why i'm eloping if i should ever manage to have a relationship long enough to form a formal commitment] and on 4th street there was a turtle. yes, a turtle. 40 pounds, or so. just hanging out in the doorway of this little restaurant. he fell in love with my feet [my toenails are painted bright green, so i'm guessing he thought 'damn, this lettuce delivery service is absolutely fantastic'] and followed me no matter which direction i moved. i'm not up on my turtle behavior, so i didn't know if he was going to bite my toes and if he did, how badly it would hurt, so i sort of shied away from him. but he lives on 4th street. there appears to be an exotic pet rescue place there and he lives there with some iguanas and other odd reptilians and he was out enjoying the weather along with everyone else. the folks on the street seem to know him and nobody thought it that odd.

the more people i tell this story to [and you're the 8th], the less weird it seems. that's why you will have to pry my apartment here out of my cold dead hands: the east village truly lives and lets live. aside from bludgeoning people with canoe paddles, i'm pretty sure nothing phases anyone here. i like that.

stavros the cat is drooling like a banshee on the kitchen table - apparently he's od'd on catnip again.

go outside and notice the turtles. they're out there.

a poem by jack prelutsky

do you know who jack prelutsky is?

why not? honestly. when you had to recite a poem from memory in elementary school, did you always choose shel silverstein? did your mom make you memorize something from rudyard kipling?

well, i'm sorry. my brothers and i became OBSESSED with mr prelutsky. he's terrific. absolutely magical and easy to memorize when you're little because the language is so in tune with kids' minds. also, the poems are fun.

so it's national poetry month. and i thought you'd like some stanzas from jack prelutsky's good sports: rhymes about running, jumping, throwing, and more. enjoy!

I rise in the air
Like a silver balloon.
I'm light as a zephyr
En route to the moon.

I whirl and I twirl,
Every move is precise—
I'm out of this world
When I'm skating on ice.

*

I'm waiting here in center field,
And getting really bored.
For no one hits a thing to me—
I feel a bit ignored.

Then suddenly a high fly ball
Comes heading straight my way.
I barely catch it in my glove...
Once more I've saved the day.

*

We're in the blocks
And hear the gun.
We get out fast
And run run run.

Seconds later
We're all done
And out of breath...
Who won? Who won?

[special thanks to the borzoi reader the poem-a-day subscription from alfred a knopff publishing]

postcard #3 or an open letter to the yankees

i really think that something's got to be done with this societal notion that the person who works the most wins. it's inane. clearly warped. people who take minimal vacation are applauded and it seems like whoever has the least amount of personal life wins.

i bring this up because kim and i went to the yankees game last night - we left the office at 5:45 pm, which isn't early since we're in work at 9:00 am. you would have thought that we'd tied people up in their offices and were jumping into the elevators with fax machines and confidential files under our arms. someone honestly snorted at me as i waited for the elevator with a 'wow. cutting out early, butler, aren't we?' i believe, you cretins, that i signed on for this insufferable job at 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. honestly. HONESTLY.

so kim and i are thinking 'baseball, the new pitching prospect phil hughes on the mound, beer, hot dogs, hot damn it's a night game.' well. well, yankees. thanks so much for making yesterday just another winner of a thursday. now, i'm not one of these yankees fans that hates them when they're losing and loves them only when they're winning. they're my boys in pinstripes. they're my yankees. i was born and raised watching these guys. at a wedding 4 years ago, i impressed a number of not-available men with my ability to recite the line-up for 1986. in fact, during a particularly un-responsive inning last night, kim turned to me and with a sigh said 'remember chuck knoblauch?'

yes, yes i do, kim. and so i give you my open letter to the yankees:

dear yankees,

you know i love you. i still have my butch weiniger baseball card in a photo album. i've had sex dreams about scott brosius [3 of which have taken place on the 4 train, you tell me]. i named my first pet gehrig [poor gerbil died within a week] and my second one babe [who lived quite well, especially after we got babe a friend, who my brother named mickey]. i feel at home in your stadium, i listen to you on the radio, i cry when i see replays of paul o'neill's last game on the yes network.

that being said, what in the world could possess you boys to play like a bunch of drunken 8 year olds at a pinata festival? get your heads in the game. i am not blaming hughes, in fact, nobody should blame him - poor kid's 20 years old and your first time out on the mound at yankee stadium is a pants-pooping one. [we need to grow some prospects.] but what are the rest of you doing? come on! you're the new york bleeding yankees! this is awesome! this is go time! this is BASEBALL for crying out loud.

i'm sad. you're disappointing me. not because you're losing [and that you are] but because it appears that you're going out there without any heart. you've got to have heart, boys.

also, 8 bucks for a miller light makes me nauseous. i'm buying them and i'm drinking them, but please.

love,
bex butler

ps jorge? hola. jorge. seriously, dude. i know you've got it in you. seriously.

postcard #2

maybe it's just me, but running into one's ex is traumatic.

i spent four years with the man. i spent four years sharing a coffee pot. four years eating off of someone else's place. mixing my laundry. these are the things that get me. it's the little things; the realizing that you don't need to fill the coffee maker up so much in the morning. if i had a coffee maker. i don't. he kept it. which is FINE, the coffee maker is obviously not the point. i've lived without the coffee maker for seven months, it's fine. i'm re-learning this whole thing.

so i went home for a long weekend for some decompression, some home cooking [nobody makes burgers on the grill like my dad. nobody.] and liz's bridal shower. so i'm back in the city, a little shell-shocked that i have to go back to that soul-sucking cubicle that we all work in, that i do have to battle the morning subway commute [amazing how easily we get used to not being in the city, right?] and i walk out of the coffee shop with my morning coffee, thinking 'this sunburn's not THAT bad' [it is] and i hear the voice. that's what got me four years ago and lord have mercy it apparently gets me now.

honestly? i felt like i was going to throw up. i'm 31 years old. i've broken up with people before. i've seen them afterwards. i've not thrown up. i shudder to think that i'll spend my entire life fearing hearing his voice because it makes my stomach do triple gainers.

so, because i'm super suave, i started routing around in my bag for my cell phone. which wasn't ringing. but i thought that maybe it'd look like someone incredibly important was calling me. and i was necessary on this planet. my self worth is definately not tied up in the disintegration of this relationship, no sir. so while i'm balancing my very hot coffee, squinting through my sunglasses which were all cockeyed on my head, and fruitlessly digging through my vortex of a bag, i walked right into a ups guy. my coffee got on him. and on my feet. which are a bit sunburned because i'm no longer used to that florida sun. i don't know if my ex saw any of this. i'm pretending he didn't even notice me in the first place because i like to pretend that i blend into brick really really well.

the ups guy noticed me. good for him his uniform's brown, right? because everyone shouldn't necessarily get used to their clothes having brown splotches all over them due to intense clutziness, like i have.

so i staggered to the train. tried to drink what was left of my coffee. spent most of the day at work writing out to do lists for liz's wedding [ah, the life of a maid of honor] and wishing i was outside reading a book.

i'm ok with making my coffee one cup at a time. i just really wish the coffee maker didn't still seem so great.

postcard #1

i had this dream where i received postcards one after the other, numbered, from different places all over the world. because it was a dream, i couldn't quite read who they were from, but each one thrilled me and calmed me at the same time. i kept each one in a wooden box that i knew was a cigar box, but couldn't have been since it was a little bit larger than a shoe box. when i woke up i felt both lost and excited. i became fascinated with postcards that day. i was twelve.

so much can be said on a postcard. it's a small space, but with the picture on the one side, so much can be said with just a few words. i once made this grand statement, and i'm paraphrasing here, that if you need more than a postcard, then you need a phone call.

i've been known to send multiple postcards, never numbered. i'm annoying that way.

i recently went home to visit family and to see audrey. we went to deleon state park and ate at the little restaurant there. we made banana pancakes at our table [it's like a fondue place, or a shabu shabu place, except you get a pitcher of pancake batter, the extra of your choice - think fruit, chocolate chips - and you cook the pancakes on your table top hot griddle]. i had four cups of coffee and only burned myself mildly, which is a record for me. in the gift shop there were delightful gee gaws and tacky overpriced t-shirts, but i bought eight postcards. i sent a few to audrey [of course] and have kept the rest in the box i keep under my bed. it's not wooden and it doesn't smell like cigars like the one in my dream. it's plastic and i got it at bed, bath and beyond for $4.99. it was on sale and i couldn't resist. i bought four of them.

you never know when you need a plastic box. if the east village ever floods and is under water [as meteorologists keep theorizing will happen should there be a particularly strong nor'easter or a hurricane in these parts], i will be able to save many things by shoving them into these boxes and pretending that they're water tight and buoyant.

buoyancy. i guess we've all got to have some sort of buoyancy in this world, right? we get dumped, laid off, lost, confused and if we can't bob to the surface each time, then we sink. and then we're sunk.

i am attempting buoyancy.