A Christmas Poem

Twas the afternoon of Christmas
And my tummy was rumbly.
I was lucky to have
Some extra Christmas money.
I took out my phone
And dialed Wah Fung,
But there was no answer,
The phone rung and rung and rung.
What ever shall I do?
I asked my self with dread.
All I have in the house
Is tuna and bread!
I guess I'll just wait.
And hope they open later.
Or I'll be stuck eating
Tots made of Tater.
I'll just call back, later today.
No one should have to eat
Ramen on Christmas Day!
At least I have wine
I thought with a smile.
If I drink enough,
I won't care in a while!!


Things That Happen When You Don't Shower

Living in New York City, there are certain inevitables that occur. Things that happen here that don’t really happen anywhere else.  Things are bound to happen, like:

  • Getting stuck on a subway car with no air conditioning. In August.  Nothing like the smell of ball sweat and freshly baked homeless guy to liven up your evening commute.
  • Finding a giant, thug water bug in your apartment at least once a summer. This happens even if you’re as neat and clean as Felix Unger.  Thug Bugs will suddenly show up, just to remind you that they’re there and they can take over whenever they wish and you’re living on borrowed time.
  • Turning tricks to pay the summer Con Ed bill. (Con Ed is responsible for more desperate people turning to prostitution for money that Meth, Crack and Heroin combined.)
  • Wanting to stab tourists. Stab them to death. Over and over and over again.


And, in life, you’re bound to run into people at a bad time, just when you don’t want to see them.  Like running into an ex-boyfriend while you’re doing laundry and wearing your extra special “laundry pants”. Seeing your landlord when you’re a week late on the rent.  But there is particular kind of NYC inevitable event to which I refer.

And that involves New York City Firefighters (FDNY).

There's a fire...in my pants.


Wanted: Receptionist, Must Like Anthrax

There are some things you’re willing to put up for at a job for the money. Especially when you’re younger and poorer.  You put up with managers with bad attitudes, long days with no overtime. Cleaning up after a fire. As I got older, I was able to snag decent jobs with decent pay and great benefits.  Being of the blue-collar mentality, I was often willing to go above and beyond because the hours were good, the pay was decent, I got vacation, sick leave and sexy, sexy health insurance.  But there’s a line to be drawn. And that line is death.
It was in the weeks following September 11th in 2001.  I was working for a technology company in midtown Manhattan as a receptionist.  Needless to say, everyone was on edge. It was very tense in Manhattan. Our building had been evacuated a few times and we were all more than a little bit jumpy and slightly irrational.  But the events of 9/11 aren’t what I’m here to discuss.

Let’s talk about mail.

We deliver....fear.


No, Dr. Starbright Dream Raindrop, I Was Never Molested By A Cat

Psychiatric treatment is a peculiar thing.  When you go to a physiatrist, you put a lot faith in a complete stranger, pretty much having to tell them very personal things from the very beginning of the relationship.  Things you wouldn’t tell a potential mate until the twenty-third date. (Or never.)  If you’re in a situation where you need medication, you have sometimes have no choice but to be much more honest then you’d like in the beginning so that they can properly medicate you.  There’s no “honeymoon” period in these cases.

Several years ago, I was diagnosed with a lovely little condition called Bipolar disorder. I was actually relieved when I was diagnosed because it explained a lot of historically nutty behavior on my part, including some serious cases of depression.  After an initial diagnoses by a psychiatric emergency room doctor (psych ERs, so much more interesting that regular ERs.  George Clooney does not hang out in psych ERs) I went through my insurance’s website (oh insurance, how I miss you…), pulled up a list of NYC psychiatrists and started making phone calls.

Check out my sexy PPO, bitches.


Blockbuster Video- Rentals So Hot, They're On Fire!

Back in the late 90s, I worked at Blockbuster Video for a few years.  It was a great job in terms of co-workers; I made some good friends there and had a lot of fun working with them.  It was a shitty, shitty job in terms of pay and dealing with corporate bullshit and customers. I won’t get into the stupidity of dealing with customers, because we’ve all seen Clerks (if you haven’t, I don’t want to be your friend).  So let’s deal with the corporate side.
Blockbuster Video was an incredibly cheap and frustrating company to work for.  Minimum wage slave-like salary aside, the store managers and staff had to fight for simple things to keep the store running on a day-to-day basis. Things broke and we couldn’t get money to fix them or replacements. 

  • We had a vacuum cleaner that created sparks when you plugged it into the outlet, and you put your life at risk every time you did vacuum duty when you were closing the store, God forbid you didn’t vacuum because the district manager may write you up.
  • The refrigerator in the break room probably hadn’t worked since 1988.
  • Roaches the size of hamsters would casually saunter out onto the front counter, heedless of the light and people and just chill. 
  • In winter time there was no heat, but you couldn’t wear a sweater because it wasn’t part of the uniform.
  • The store gates would stick and require you to hang off of them with your full body weight to get them to close. 

As I said, incredibly frustrating.

But then there was the summer that Blockbuster’s cheap ways came to a head.
The pinnacle of corporate WTFery.

Let’s talk about The Day Blockbuster Caught Fire.


Strippers Love Me or How I Called My Stupid Boyfriend's Bluff

When I was in my early 20s, I discovered something about myself. Strippers love me.  And Lesbians. Lesbians love me too.  Not in a lewd, overly sexual kind of way, but both clearly enjoyed having me around, thought I was cute, even though I was straight, and they treated me as some kind of cute mascot.   I once pondered why Lesbians love me so and my friend Sharon put it ever so gently, “Well, you’re kinda dykey.”

So, in my 20s, I would sometimes find myself at strip clubs.  I wasn’t trying to be the “cool girl” and I didn’t go to the clubs to prove that I was one of the guys. I would just sort of end up there. I would be hanging out with the guys and once in a while, someone would mention “Hey, let’s go to a strip club!” and I’d join them. Again, not to be cool.  I didn’t go for the women, because if I wanted to see tits and ass, I could look in the mirror.  I never bought a lap dance for anyone, because if you want to be dry humped, you can pay for it your damn self, I was poor.  I went for one reason. Two words. Free Drinks.

Don't mind if I do....


How I Became A Teenage Devil Worshipper Without Really Trying

Back when I was starting high school, in the fall of 1987, it was pretty much a disaster.  The high school I was headed for was known in New York City as a “zoned” school, Bryant High School, which is a school for kids in the neighborhood that can’t get into any of the better schools (in NYC, you can apply to good high schools like college). Zoned schools had to take you. 
Pictured: An 80s fashion plate.
So, I was thrust into a zoo of a school that was very dangerous in the midst of the 80s in NYC. I was fourteen and coming from a relatively safe school where kids didn't carry knives or follow you home from school to kick your ass. In order to survive, I transformed myself.  I became a “metal head”, black hair, black eye liner, the works.  I hung with the metal crowd, got into metal music and built my defenses.  I also learned the art of truancy and ditched the year.  The. Whole Year. I shit you not. 
So, after my failed freshman year in Bryant and a summer of trouble, my Grandma and Mother decided to enroll me into an all-girls Catholic school, St. Michael’s High School, in the hopes I would straighten out my act. I agreed...what the hell? At least I wouldn't get stabbed in the bathroom.


Ripley and Me- The Summer of '86

The Summer of 1986, I was 13.  At that age, kids are only ankle deep into the teen years, just testing the waters, watching the big kids in the deep end, still very childlike (or at least they were back in ‘86).  The personality that would shape me as an adult was far from set yet, still very malleable.  I was, as we all do at that age, just beginning to form my own strong opinions on things, yet still looked to adults for answers. 
As with most kids, I was at the age where I believed the adults in my family knew nothing.  They were clueless creatures and I was surprised they managed to survive past breakfast on a daily basis.  So, I looked to celebrity idols, as many kids do.  But, I was not your run of the mill 13 year old.  I didn’t idolize Kirk Cameron, River Phoenix or any of the other teen heartthrobs that existed in the 80s.  
My female idols didn’t include the Brat Pack members of Demi Moore, Ally Sheedy or Molly Ringwald.  They didn’t hold my interest, I found them boring.  I loved science fiction.  Mr. Spock was my heartthrob.  My female idols were Uhura, Wonder Woman and Jamie Sommers (The Bionic Woman).  My school binder had pictures of Spock glued to it.  

So, that was me, the misfit child roaming the world in 1986, trying to figure out who I was and who I was going to become while making the Live Long and Prosper sign at people.  The epitome of cool.

Wanna be friends?