Monday, January 30, 2006

Let's Talk about Drugs

Fun quotes about drugs:

"My uncle once did heroin. He said it felt like he was cumming for four hours. He never did it again. He knew he'd get hooked."

"What does cocaine feel like? Cocaine makes you feel like you want to do more cocaine."

"We're at a bar, and this girl tells me she's more of a party girl than a pub person. So, on our next date, I take her to a club. Turns out, she just meant that she likes to do a lot of cocaine. We haven't really gone out since."

"She says she's not an addict or anything. For instance, she didn't have any today."

Ms. J

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Hover Hazard



I have a peeve. It’s not just a pet peeve, it’s a real peeve. The kind of peeve that borders from peeved to pissed. Ironically, this peeve of mine is actually kind of pissy, in the most literal sense.

I hate it when people piss on the seat in a public restroom. I don’t know what it is, or why people think they can do it, but it’s just disgusting. Being a woman, I can only speak to the situation in women’s rooms.

I know how it starts. Some women hate germs. Some women believe that sitting on public toilet seats will impart germs to their tushies. Some women may be right about this. This fear of germs results in some women doing the “hover.” C’mon, admit it, you know what I’m talking about. The hover is the bathroom position reserved for the most germy of situations. It’s what happens when the person using the toilet decides to hover their ass just above the seat. My theory is that the vast majority of seat pissers are actually hoverers. There’s really no other explanation.

Which is why, I would like to make a public service announcement to the hoverers. For the good of humanity, clean up for yourselves. You might think, “I don’t use the seat anyway, so who cares if I pee a little on it?!” In short, I care. I care a lot.

It’s a dirty world we live in, why make it dirtier? Don’t let your fear of germs cause you to piss all over things for the rest of us. Thank you.

Ms. J

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Lowering the Bar

I started taking basic pilates today. My husband and I got one of those trial gym memberships, and the class is my first leap into fitness.

Gyms are very intimidating places. The way I see it, one of the pros of modern life is not having to be in good enough shape to catch your own food. The delivery guy has replaced running with a spear, and in my mind, that’s a good thing. Walking into a gym, you’re immediately confronted by hordes of people ready to outrun you for the chicken if it comes down to it. Nothing makes you feel more out of shape than going to work out.

Which is why, I like basic pilates. Unlike my forays into yoga, which were characterized by creative attempts to make the classes increasingly uncomfortable, basic pilates seems satisfied with being glorified lying down. There are no attempts to make the class “power,” nor is their talk of turning the heat up 100 degrees, nor am I asked to chant anything. In fact, my pilates instructor makes my high school guidance counselor look like a drill sergeant. I’ve never met anyone more affirming. Can’t lift your leg that far off the ground? It’s okay, your pushing yourself to where you can! Can’t do a push up? Holding yourself up is just as constructive! Getting winded after trying to touch your toes? Don’t stress, it’s perfectly natural to need a break.

Basic pilates brings something new to my gym experience. It makes me feel like I accomplished something. So what if it does that by lowering the bar? I’ve already coined my new catch phrase. It’s not about strength, it’s about flexibility.

Ms. J

Monday, January 16, 2006

War of the Worlds


Earlier this week, I awoke to my husband saying “Honey, look what happened in the bathroom.” Seeing as we have neither a child we are trying to potty-train, nor a bathroom plant which sprouts money, this morning greeting was going nowhere good.

What had happened in our bathroom can only be described as utterly nasty. Sometime during our slumber, the plumbing had backed up, resulting in a stream of raw sewage seeping across the bathroom floor. Seeing as my husband had to go to work immediately, I was left to deal with the toxic wasteland.

Ever attentive, my super quickly came to assess the situation. As the two of us stood watching the tide ebb further onto the tile, he wisely commented “this is really gross.” Other tenants soon began to call with similar tales, and like a mythic hero, my super fled downstairs to tackle the building’s central sewage pipe. In the interim, I single-handedly prevented the black death from flooding into our bedroom.

Armed with paper towels, our now defiled bath mat, and some flip flops--I stood amidst the rising cess pool, thanking God for the head cold that somewhat dulled my senses of smell. After twenty minutes or so, I was relieved by Alex, who had been sent by my super to help restore peace. Alex came with work boots, an industrial sized mop, and bleach. Taking in my sad paper towels and flip flops, Alex assumed charge with a “ewww.”

A half hour later, after much hard work by Alex and myself, the deed was done. The bathroom had been restored to its former glory. Once we had word that the central blockage had been resolved, we could even flush. Alex and I shared a moment of victory, tried our best not to touch anything else in the apartment, and parted ways.

When my husband came home, he complimented our handiwork. I resisted the urge to tell him to screw himself. Instead, I did the mature thing. I directed him to the flip flops.

Ms. J

Saturday, January 14, 2006

Someone's Got a Secret


There is nothing more irritating than not knowing a secret, particularly when you have a strong suspicion that you are the secret.

The other day, while taking the subway, I had the common experience of riding uptown next to a rowdy group of friends. There were four of them, three men and a woman, talking loudly in a Slavic-sounding language. Two stops into our jaunt, I realized that they were talking about ME. Like most people, I imagine myself at the forefront of everyone’s mind. I therefore initially dismissed the suspicion as another vestige of my own self-importance. The group of co-riders appeared to read my internal monologue though, and they cleared up any confusion by explicitly pointing at me. While I had been observing from the corner of my eye, I decided this development required looking head on. I peered shyly at them across the car. Four heads immediately swiveled to random directions. One of the men became intrigued by the map behind him, the woman scrutinized her nails, and the other two became fascinated with the tunnel wall outside their window. I sheepishly turned away, only to be met by peals of laughter. Amidst busy chatter, the group appeared besides themselves. One of the crew literally shook in his attempts to maintain some decorum. Making a speedy exit at my stop, I slinked away utterly confuzzled.

I have since envisioned alternative endings to the scene. In one version, instead of running away in embarrassment, I wittily respond in their native tongue. This version ends with the group complimenting my impressive mastery of Slovenian. Another version entails them saying, “We just can’t get over how you look exactly like [insert name of super model here]!” I then inform them that I get this all the time, and we collectively remark at the uncanny resemblance. The final version, and perhaps my favorite, involves them saying “We can’t believe it, we came all the way from Kazakhstan, and we discovered Ms. J! Our whole country thinks you’re a genius!” This version ends with my good-naturedly signing autographs.

The unifying factor of my alternative endings is that, in the end, I am not the butt of a secret. I will probably never know exactly what enthralled my audience that afternoon. All I know is that it’s no fun whatsoever to be the unwitting subject of conversation. That, and I’m never going to wear that shirt again.

Ms. J

Friday, January 13, 2006

Gayest (Closeted) Place on Earth


Some friends of mine from Europe recently came to visit the Big Apple. For their final day of sight-seeing, they elected to visit a bastion of American culture, Abercrombie & Fitch. Ever the consummate hostess, I joined them for this excursion.

For those unfamiliar with its wares, namely those living in Tibetan caves, Abercrombie & Fitch is one of the world’s premier purveyors of overpriced preppy clothes. Targeted mostly at suburban teens aiming to achieve cooler than thou status, Abercrombie has made oodles of cash hawking cropped tees and cargoes. If retailers were high school students, then Abercrombie would be the hunky quarterback of the football team. Which is why, it comes as a bit of a surprise, that the flagship store is so obviously…gay. The four floors are a veritable altar to all things homo.

Perusing through the darkly-lit corridors, loud dance music throbbing in the background, one gets the vague impression of being in a club. Upon closer inspection, one gets the solid impression of being in a gay club. The centerpiece of the basement is a life-size sculpture of a muscle bound hottie wearing what appears to be a thong. Behind thong-man, the walls are adorned with photos of gorgeous men in various stages of undress. Some of these men are sweaty, some are covered with mud, all are languidly draped across one another. The photographs are nothing though, compared to the store’s piece de resistance. Starting in the 50 foot open stairwell in the center of the store, is a large painted mural that sprawls outward onto each floor. Depicted in the mural are half-naked men at the gym, half-naked men at a construction site, and half-naked men in the park. Sprinkled amongst the half-naked men are what at first appears to be women, but upon examination, are really men (with Adam’s apples and all) in drag.

Waiting as my friends shopped, I felt the compelling need to document my discovery. It was like finding Joe Quarterback in flagrante delicto at a bath house. I discretely took a digital photo. Within seconds, sales associates swooped down on me. I was asked to “delete my photo” in front of them. Once confident that no piece of Abercrombieness would leave the store, the associates stiffly informed me that the store “has a policy of no photographs or videos.” There was no explanation of the policy, nor did they appear to find their militant enforcement a bit absurd. I imagined my experience similar to someone who discovers Tom Cruise in a lip-lock with his flavor of the week.

All of that said, I now feel the need to help Abercrombie out of the closet. We all had our suspicions anyway. It’s okay, Abercrombie, we’re here for you. You can finally admit to us what all the farm boys in your ads were doing shirtless in those corn fields. We’ll understand, we saw Brokeback Mountain. If that film teaches mainstream America anything, it’s the need for understanding and acceptance. That, and let’s face it, most straight women still find Jake and Heath pretty hot.

Ms. J