Oh the Thinks You Can Think...

When going on a 3-day trip to the greater Boston area, it is important to have three things:

tickets to Gutenberg the Musical, a Dunkin' Donuts gift card, and the knowledge that no matter what obstacle gets in your way, everything will eventually be fine.

On day one, when you get to the car rental place and a creepy man from Quebec lurks over your shoulder and delays your trip by 20 minutes -- do not fret and search for some mace -- you'll eventually leave.

And when you leave and finally get to Salem after two hours of traffic and have to circle the town for over an hour looking for parking on a crowded street -- do not panic and scream ten obscenities -- you'll eventually get one.



And then when you've parked and you're walking around and can't find any of the buildings that sell the tours you've been planning for over a month -- do not let the stress give you a headache -- you'll eventually find them.



Then the next night when you've spent the whole day anticipating a show and get lost on the way with only twenty minutes to spare -- do not have an earth-shattering panic attack and almost crash your car into a wall -- you'll eventually get there.



And afterwards when you're looking for somewhere to eat and the only place open is a Taco Bell with a line that stretches over 30 cars and trucks -- do not grip your stomach and almost pass out from its emptiness -- your burrito will eventually come.



Then on the last day when you go visit Harvard and you're too stupid to find legal parking -- do not experience heart palpitations because you're afraid you won't have time to then see Lizzie Borden's house -- you'll eventually find a space with a meter.

And after all is said, seen, and done, and you leave Massachusetts with just enough time to get back and return your car -- do not get diarrhea and almost vomit out the window when you see this:



Once you're off the highway, you'll be able to zoom through every yellow light, ignore all the red ones, go 20 miles over the speed limit, and almost kill a dozen passersby before you eventually make it back to Hertz in a puddle of sweat right before they lock up the doors.

I am hoping to lower my blood pressure -- eventually.



Thanks for the mem'ries, Massachusetts.

There is a love that is like no other love. A love that turns all night into day, and all black & white sets to color. A love that transcends all race cards, religions, and creeds.

A love... for Gutenberg the Musical.

I first fell in love with Gutenberg on a cold, starry night in April, and for one and a half months, this love lasted through weekdays and weekends, afternoons and late nights.

It was a beautiful love, this love. Full of laughter and insight and more joy than any human human could ever think possible.

And then one night it was over.

Gutenberg packed up its things and left me -- with only a vacant theater and an unlit marque as a reminder of a relationship that once was, but was no more.

Devastation.

I walked by that theater a couple of times after our breakup and it was almost as if Gutenberg was mocking me. Yes, we're still open! No we are closed. Come on in. The doors are locked!

A cruel, cruel joke. In a cruel, cruel world.

It would be months before I'd recover. Sometimes in my darkest state, I wondered if recovery would even be possible.

Then there was Chicago, a glimmer of color in my black and white world, which gave me the wings to fly far, far away for one night of unbridled bliss.

For all intents and purposes, a one night stand. Because the next day I was alone again, back at home, with a pile of T-shits thrown on my bedside.

It is a complicated love, this love of Gutenberg. One that brings me joy, but leaves me devastated. I love this love but yet for it, I have some hate. Hate for the obsession that has overcome my life.

On Saturday, I leave for Boston. Gutenberg has opened its doors there and so I feel that I must go. Go to it like a moth goes to flames. Drive to it like a racer drives to finish lines. Propel this relationship to the only level left I see on this horizon.

Stalking.

Next stop, prison.

There are many things a person can do to ensure that they have a good weekend. Go to the movies. Visit some friends. Take a few naps. Do a little shopping.

Carrying oversized paraphernalia all around town? Twice? Probably not one of them.

Everyone, meet Figgie.



Figgie is my roommate's 9-year old cat, who when we were freshmen in college I encouraged my roommate to get, because she was little and I wanted to play with her.

And for seven years she was a lovely little cat. With an ear infection and urinary problems and a fear of other animals, but a lovely cat nonetheless because I did not live with her.

Now, unfortunately, I do.

Everyone, meet Pooka.



And Snooches



And Prancer



Pooka, who is morbidly obese, likes to smack Figgie whenever she goes near her food bowl. Snooches, who is the only male, enjoys clawing her face like a tiger attacks a wildebeest. And Prancer, the baby of the family, does whatever the other cats teach her to do.

Which for the most part, consists of beating the hell out of Figgie.

For protection against these predators, Figgie spent the majority of her hours at the corner of roommate's bed, where roommate would chase away the evil kitties and save poor Figgie's face.

Then Figgie started pooping in bed. And that was the end of Figgie.

My roommate bought a child safety gate and put it on her door. Figgie retreated to the dining room where she sought refuge under an armoire and we never saw her again.

Until she thought it best to start pooping on the floor.

On some nights, a chocolate treat on the carpet. On others, the occasional Mountain Dew. The house smelled like a basket of rose petals.

Last Wednesday, my roommate spent $80 on yet another gate that would enclose Figgie in the room with her litter box and put an end to all these shenanigans.

$20 gate -- never went near it. $80 gate -- jumped over that sucker a million times over.

And pooped on the dining room floor.

A problem.

When I came home last Friday, my roommate called me into her room, and she said, "Roommate, I can no longer live in cat feces. We must ponder this dilemma and find ourselves a solution."

Ponder. Ponder.

I called my parents.

We pondered.

At 9:15 we all went to Home Depot, and after scouring the aisles, we found a 5 1/2 foot gate-like plastic that we could hook onto the walls and use to trap the cat.

Perfecto!

As we waited in line, I looked at the gate and was so proud of our triumphant pondering that I couldn't wait to get home and give the poor little poop cat a new start at life. What genius!

And then it wouldn't fit in the car.

Spending ten minutes on a line with a 5 1/2 foot block of plastic should've probably been enough time for someone to realize that the 2003 Ford Taurus we'd come in with wouldn't be big enough to hold something that couldn't be bent.

But no.

In the empty parking lot, at 10pm, I offered to stay behind while my parents pulled down the back seat and slid it through the trunk.

But no. That might have been too easy.

Instead, my father stuck it under his arm, threw the car keys to my mother, and started walking out of the parking lot.

Everyone, meet my father.



While physically fit, he is a 67-year old stubborn white man, with no sense of direction, who should not be carrying 5 1/2 foot plastic haphazardly around the northeast Bronx.

"Let him go. He'll be fine." my mother said, as she got into the driver's seat and prepared to drive away.

This is my mother.



She has no fear for others.

This is me.



I fear for all.

So through the empty parking lot, at 10pm, I run to catch my father, so together, for 30 blocks, we could carry 5 1/2 feet of plastic -- for a cat that is not mine. -- as my mother and roommate follow us along the side of the road.

You know, like the secret service.

In my half-hour long walk, I would often look at my roommate sitting comfortably in the car, as I walked up the hilly sidewalks and under trees, and I would say to her, "you will pay for this, you stupid bitch." And she would nod and smile -- for she was in the safety of an automobile. And I had 5 1/2 feet of plastic on the street.

A half hour later, as my father and I arrived back at home, the fun did not stop there, for there was still the joy of hammering hooks into the wall and measuring distances. And of course, the multitudes of happiness from capturing the cat.

In the midst of this, I again said to my roommate, "you will pay for this," and she again smiled and nodded, and then blamed me for picking out this cat in the first place.

Everyone, meet my roommate.



She is evil.

At 2am, after the half hour walk and the hammering of hooks, and the measuring of walls, and the capture of the animal and the listening to the whimpers of a sad crying cat, I put my head to pillow and I vowed to bring my roommate's downfall. To cause a problem that she should solve. To cause her stress and tension.

And better yet, to buy the biggest posters a gal could find and hang them all over our living room.

For anyone who has never met my roommate, my roommate does not like the posters. When I moved in, the apartment looked like it has been ransacked for drugs and the only things left behind were a table and chair.

It does not look like that now.

My roommate doesn't like it. I do not care.

On Sunday, I was going to the Broadway Flea Market, the greatest flea market in history where theaters sell all of their merchandise and show props for charity. In the past couple years, I have come home with a very large sign about turning off cell phones (which she wasn't a fan of), a dozen Broadway show posters which I've hung in every room (which she didn't enjoy) and a very large poster of Rosie O'Donnell (which she hated).

This year, I was going to find something -- and it was going to be good.

Then on Sunday, like some wondrous miracle, there it was.



A 6-foot door poster of the one and only, American Idol winner, turned loser on Grease, Taylor Hiccks.*

My roommate, who in addition to her many physical ailments has quite a large mental one because of her love for the Hickey, is someone I've had to deal with for quite a long time. I've had to hear the screaming of a screwball every time he’s been on TV, listen to the ramblings about the wedding they would have, and watch the sad, sad life of a college educated person who should have better taste, but does not.

My roommate loves the Hickey. But she does not love the posters.

So it was all there. The duel between hatred and love. The internal feud over sane logic and illogical insanity. The joy of watching a poster-hater watch a 6-foot monstrosity being let into her house.

Sold to the lunatic with the $50 bill!

A gal could not get any luckier.

Throughout the day, as I shopped the other tables and added more items to carry on my back, I would come back to the Hickey, with his very bright smile and his gray hair ablazin', and I would make sure he was doing okay.

A $50 masterpiece has to be watched, you see.

Then at 5:30, as the tables were broken down and the merchandise boxed up again for next year, I reunited with the Hickey one last time in Manhattan and we got ready to make our trek uptown to the Bronx.

But how exactly was I going to carry the 6-foot Hickster all the way home?

Everyone, meet Jen.



Jen is often a smart young lady, but for some reason often allows herself to get roped into very annoying situations with no hope of monetary gain.



To the Bronx we go, Hickey!

For those of you who have NOT carried a Taylor Hiccks door poster through a crowded flea market, onto Time Square, cross town and onto the subway, these are some things you might experience:

- Someone who works at Grease taking a picture of you with her cell phone so she can send it to Taylor and prove to him that there are in fact people pathetic enough to have his blown-up face sitting in their living rooms.

- People waving at you as you struggle to cross the street with 8 bags of mugs and T-shirts on your back and a life-sized man under your arm.

- A woman from Norway stopping to take photos of you on 5th Avenue.

- A whole lot of people tilting their heads.

- And free entrance to the subway from cops who then ask you from what street you stole your billboard.

Hickey loves riding that rail!

He also loves walking down crowded subway stair cases, waiting on a platform, and figuring out how to get on and off cars without snapping in half.

Rock it, bitch!

After walking 7 avenues and 3 blocks, and riding on a subway for 45 minutes, things got a little tiring, and even more so when I remembered I live 10 blocks away from my subway station and had another set of stairs. But no worries! This was roommate's payback, and when roommate gets her payback, the pain just floats away.

Like a butterfly.

We finally made it to the front door, got ourselves in positions, and I called my roommate, and said to her, "Roommate, I've forgotten my key. Would you be so kind as to come to the door so that I may allow myself inside?"

It was going to be AWESOME.

And then I heard it. The Hickey squeal.

The squeal I've heard for far too long that illustrates her mental illness of Hickey love that I thought I could abolish.



NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

You don't hump the Hickey poster -- you get mad at the Hickey poster!

A 6-foot example of an entity you hate. You are supposed to enjoy it, but deep down be annoyed.

Roommate, I didn't throw my back out so that you could be happy. I did it so that I could be happy!

Bitch!

Taylor's overly bright smile and blazing gray hair now sit in our living room facing a black and white cat and the giant white screen that separates the two of them.

After we release her, maybe Figgie will piss on him.

That, would be payback.



*misspelled purposely on the off-chance that Hickey has his name on Google Alerts.

Don't ask.

I have figured out the reason why I have no concept of Alaska being attached to North America. And in doing so, I have figured out an inherent flaw in the art of mapmaking.

More importantly, I have realized that I am in no way to blame for my lack of knowledge, and I can go back to feeling superior to all of you, my beloved friends.

Exhibit A:


Look at Alaska just floating away all by itself!

Exhibit B:


Olook, there it is again!

The way the maps mislead poor, impressionable children (and 27-year olds)?

The cartographer's fault.

The fact that Geography lessons are based on these maps and tests are given where poor, impressionable students have to fill in the names of states on these maps where Alaska is floating in the ocean?

The teachers' fault.

Most importantly, not my fault.

I am just a victim of the New York City private school system. I cannot help that my parents opted to pay thousands of dollars for my elementary education.

I can only move forward.

So I am not going to think about the fact that 100% of my peers, in spite of these maps, managed to discover on their own the location of Alaska.

And I'm not going to give credence to my coworker who when told of the faults of my schooling, laughed and asked if based on these maps, I also thought the world was flat. That coworker is a nasty, unfunny woman.

Instead, I am just going to blame the mapmakers, teachers, private school systems, Google maps, and society in general for my blatant ignorance.

Phew!

You can all go back to admiring me now.

I am someone who considers herself to be a relatively intelligent person. I was in the top 10% of my high school. I took honors classes. I graduated college. I can memorize an entire 3-minute speech in less than 20 minutes.

I am also a complete dumb ass.

In the early parts of today, this entry was going to be an ode to my most beloved technological advancement of the 21st century, Google Map Street Views -- and how it has allowed me to stalk the neighborhoods of all of my friends, and stroll the streets of Australia without ever having to leave my house.

As has become relatively obvious for most, I have an insatiable, no-holds-barred incredible love for Google maps that should probably be the cause of my institutionalization. If there ever were to become a way to never leave my house again and see the world only through Google maps, believe me, I would do it. The amount of time I waste physically walking the streets in addition to digitally viewing them is getting in the way of my yoga.

So, this entry, in essence, was going to be the love story between Google and I, and how a camera on top of a automobile managed to rock my world.

It has now turned into the the story of how Google managed to point out quite definitively that I am absolute ass.

My day today started out relatively well. I went to work, I made some calls. I had a sandwich. And around 5pm, I did what any sensible, inquistive gal would do in her spare time -- I went to Google maps. Since I staunchly refuse to travel anywhere that Gutenberg the Musical isn't playing, I digitally visit a major city each day to enlighten my very small mind. Yesterday it was Boulder, Colorado. Today it was Anchorage, Alaska.

And therein began the problem.

When I discovered that Alaska was available in Google street view form, I couldn't contain my excitement. Alaska! The state very, very far from New York and the home of the Anti-Christ, Vice Presidential candidate, Sarah Palin. A more fun experience could not be had!

I started off at Cunningham St, a nice residential area, where I found many sheds and an interesting assortment of motor homes; and then I made it to 1194 3rd Avenue, where as luck would have it, I found a Mobile Trailer Supply shop. Awesome! Those Alaskans must love living on wheels. And speaking of wheels... let's go onto Ingra St, where there appears to be an auto-mechanic, used-car lot, and gas station on every corner.

This is where the problem grew deeper.

Hmm, I said to myself, I've looked at so many cars in these pictures, I should probably see what the license plates look like in Alaska. I have never in my life seen a license plate from there! Upon inspection, it appeared that there were two types of plates -- one that was completely mustard yellow, and another that was white, yellow, and blue. Fascinating!

I called out to one of my friends at the next desk and I told her what a great privilege it was to be able to see an Alaskan license plate, since it's virtually impossible for us as members of the contiguous United States to view one in person. She said uh huh and went about her business.

Fool, she be!

Within minutes, another friend appeared at my desk, and I retold her my tale of what a privilege it was to see these license plates.

Why? she asked.

Because we're never going to be driving on the highway and see a car from Alaska driving up alongside us. It's virtually impossible!

But it's not impossible.

Well of course, but who's that attached to their car that they're going to ship it here all the way from Alaska?

Ship it? They can just drive it through Canada.

Canada?? What crazy bridge do you know of that connects Alaska to Canada?

And then my world got completely, cataclysmically, embarrassingly flip-turned upside down.

ALASKA IS ACTUALLY A PART OF NORTH AMERICA AND IS NOT JUST AN ISLAND FLOATING IN THE PACIFIC OCEAN??????????????

WHAT?????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I didn't believe my co-worker when she referred to these legitimate facts, and instead I belittled her and called her retarded. Then, thanks to the zoom out function on my trusty old Google map, I saw that she was in fact correct. Alaska IS attached to Canada.

If I wanted to drive to Alaska, I could do so. In a car.

How I missed this semi-important piece of information in my 17 years of schooling, I am not quite sure. From my recollections of sitting in class, I remember doing quite well on standardized tests. Some of them, I believe, included maps in their questioning.

At the peak of my discovery, I went around to everyone who was left in the office, and they, to my amazement and disbelief, also seemed to know exactly where Alaska was. I then called my brother, who based on most levels of scholarly aptitude, is quite dense. He, also, was aware of this geographical insanity.

As was my roommate.

Mother.

Father.

BFF of my brother, Jayson.

And everyone else who has managed to call my cell phone in the past 5 hours.

I like to consider myself a relatively intelligent person. I was in the top 10% of my high school. I took honors classes. I graduated college. I can memorize an entire 3-minute speech in less than 20 minutes.

I just can't memorize a map.

Tomorrow I walk solely to my subway and back.

I originally refrained from showing this picture to all of you web friends, out of respect for the subject at hand. Things you do at 3 in the morning, late at night, in an empty Wal-Mart in the middle of nowhere, should never be held against you once you return to reality and are back inside civilization.

Keeping that in mind, those who were there that night needed to be reminded, and they persisted and they called me, and they said, screw Jayson, things like this are meant to be seen.

( And so I relented. )

I've heard it said before that when people need to rest and get away from the stress in their lives, they go away on vacation, to sit by the beach, to take in the sun, to read a few books.

The Mooneys, go to Wal-Mart.

Last week, the day after the celebration of my 27th year, I decided such relaxation was in order, and bags were packed, cars were loaded, and along with sickly roommate, my brother, brother's girlfriend, and friend, Jayson, I left the beautiful Bronx behind and took off on 1-87 to Lake George, NY.

In our childhoods, my brother and I spent seven summers in the heart of Lake George, wrecking havoc on the Minnie Ha-Ha and the House of Frankenstein, and ten years later, we were going back there again -- together.

Let's all take a moment...

We arrived at our motel at 7pm, four hours after hitting the road and 4 hours after sitting through endless amounts of mind-numbing traffic -- one of the reasons that unlike last year, we did not get pulled over for speeding.

The other was that my brother was driving.

But late arrivals and time-close-to-sunset be damned, for I promised myself I was going to go swimming this vacation, and swimming we would do.

For two hours.

When I was seventeen years old, I went to a friend's high school graduation party and we all went swimming in her parent's backyard. Until this vacation, that was the last time I had been inside a swimming pool.



Lake George makes dreams come true.

At nine o'clock, after swimming down memory lane, my compadres and I packed into the car and made our way to the heart of fine dining -- the Olive Garden, where unlimited pasta bowls with an assortment of sauces and unlimited breadsticks and salad equals the greatest meal ever.

You just can't get meals like that in the city.

Afterwards, it was decided that the night was still young, so we headed into the town of Lake George and perused the shops, partook of some Frankenstein museums, and spent time at the arcades until the wee hours of the morning. At 12am, our eyes started drooping for it had been quite an eventful day for us all.

But then we went to Wal-Mart.

In case, there are people who aren't aware, Wal-Mart is our greatest gift from Middle America, with hundreds of under-priced T-shirts and underwear, and in Lake George, it is blessfully open 24-hours.



If that's not super, I don't know what is.

Our first night at the Walmart, I ran around the aisles looking at the 10-cent packs of pencils and the $5 DVD bin, and all was right with the world.

Then I found them.

The wallets.

With the velcro.



For seven years, ever since I was a sophomore in college, I have been looking for a wallet to replace my old one, whose velcro had lost its power to grip.

But tragically, stores do not carry many wallets with velcro and so for seven years, I have been searching. For seven years I have been using a broken wallet, that would not close, and that presented a great opportunity for muggings.

The Wal-Mart wallets would never have allowed such a thing to happen. They were magical.

And $5.

At 2:30am, after I bought my magical wallet, the five of us left Wal-Mart and made our way back to the motel room, where with roommate, brother, and girlfriend safe in their beds, Jayson on his air mattress, and I on my cot, we all settled in for a long summer's squat.

Then my brother mentioned the word, fupa, and the laughter began.

For 15 minutes.

I had never heard this term before, but according to my brother, and this newly discovered website: http://fupahunter.blogspot.com/ fupa is "a Man or a Woman so afflicted by obesity that their pubic area is used to store patches of soft fatty waste." In other words, Fat Under Pussy Area.

In my normal existence, this would probably never have caused such uncontrollable hysterics, but in the existence of late-night Wal-Mart runs and countryside, this politically incorrect term delayed sleep for quite an enormous amount of time.

Fupa kills.

The next morning, roommate, brother's girlfriend, Jayson and I woke up early to swim in the pool with our fellow motel mates, while brother stayed in bed like a corpse. Then, sickly roommate stayed behind to try and get sun cancer, and the rest of us went to the outlet malls, where we all witnessed hell freeze over as I bought a designer T-shirt dress by Tommy Hilfigger.

For $12.

We also got to watch time pass us by, as we sat outside every store waiting for Jayson to try on clothes.

And then more clothes.

And then some more clothes.

Jayson may have $3,000 worth of furniture he hasn't paid off yet, but he could sure find the money for sweat pants and t-shirts.

That evening, we dragged our countless shopping bags back and ate dinner outside on the boardwalk before gorging ourselves with ice cream, skee-balling at the arcade, and trekking 10 minutes out of our way to see a mini-golf course with memorabilia from a real city subway train.

Because you can't see stuff like that back at home.



Then we went to Wal-Mart.

On our first trip, I was too mesmerized by the wallets that I did not fully partake in the goodness of everything else. At 2am I walked out of there with 2 packs of underwear, three t-shirts, a fleece blanket, pillow, and a few sets of tube socks.

Life was looking good.

The next day, our last in Lake George, breakfast was had in the great establishment that is Friendly's, and entertainment was had in the great argument of 2008 -- my brother and his girlfriend smackdown. Out of respect for their privacy, I will leave out the details of this cage match, but highlights consist of goggles being flung out the window on Route 9, towels being thrown all over the porch, and my brother's hairy ass being shown to all motel inhabitants.

Last year, when just roommate and I went on vacation, I'm pretty sure there were no goggles on the highway or the horror of almost seeing my brother's balls.

Life was much simpler back then.

Everything calmed down in an hour's time though, and my brother almost drowned Jayson by "teaching him how to swim," I experienced explosive diarrhea, and we all went back to Olive Garden after a 45-minute fight and a democratic vote. We also spent two late-night hours at the arcade -- one watching brother's girlfriend win 400 tickets at Deal or No Deal, and another deciding what Care Bears toy and keychain to cash in those tickets for -- while the lights went out around us and the doors of the premises were locked.



At 12:45, we made it back to the motel room, packed up our bags in anticipation of the next day's journey, and reflected on our productive vacation, with the many items bought, and the tons of swimming done.

Then we went to Wal-Mart.

Jayson, in retaliation for his drowning, bought a deadly amount of crayons (a nemesis of my brother's). I bought Wedding Crashers - Uncut Edition for $7. And for the rest of our hour and a half in the store, we explored every inch of the premises.



We tested their cots.



Risked death.



Sat in some buckets.



And were just plain stupid.

If ever there were to become a 24-hour Wal-Mart in the area of the Bronx, let it not be for many years to come, when my brother and friends are mature enough to respect it.

That time is not now.

We did not leave Walmart until 3am, and at 3:15 when we were back in our motel, and back in our beds, I shut the light and shut my eyes -- and then the crayons started flying.

I am not exactly sure what my mother snorted during her pregnancies or what my father slipped in our formula, but the Mooney children have very weird phobias. In addition to my obsessive compulsive fear of everything, I am especially fearful of buttons and tic tacs. My brother has his own fear of crayons.

When he was younger, my brother would gag at the sight of used crayon boxes and refuse to participate in coloring sessions. When he became older, he stayed clear of crayons in general.

Then they were thrown at him at 3 in the morning.

Jayson said he was getting out of bed to take his shirt off. Everyone would hear a cracking sound. Then we'd hear my brother scream in terror.

My brother, who spent his arcade tickets on one real knife, and one fake one that he stabbed people in the chest with all night, and spent $60 on a BB gun at Wal-Mart just 'cause it looked cool, is considered by many to be a pretty tough and all-together guy.

Those people have never heard the shrieking.

I'm not sure if anyone got much sleep that night, but to watch the rise and fall of a crayon-phob was quite the worthwhile experience.

As long as nobody gets any ideas in regards to me.



The next morning, after my brother stood in a corner and I cleaned all the crayons off the floor, we loaded up the car, Jayson took the drivers seat, and we made our way back to our beloved hometown.

But not before we got this incredible picture.



Just another reason why Wal-Mart is awesome.

Thanks for the memories, Lake George.

I am a person who's never been one to leave a lasting impression. I keep to myself. I don't like to bother anyone. I'm kind of quiet (most of the time). But that being said, I'm pretty confident that if everyone who's ever known me was put into a room together, 99% of them would reach the consensus that I have a reputation for being cheap.

In other words, stingy. Penny-pinching, Miserly. Some might use the term tightfisted.

Everyday I eat two-slices-of-bread-with-a-piece-of-cheese-in-the-middle for lunch. I don't own a pair of shoes that isn't from Payless. And I don't buy the paper in the morning because I know that if I did that everyday, I'd end up paying $182.50 a year (a fact I learned from Oprah). I also spend my free time paying visits to the ATM, just so I can look at my money, and every time I pass a penny on the street, it very often ends up in my pocket.

For the mathematicians out there, 100 pennies equals a dollar. 100 dollars equals a good time at the ATM.

And the ATM has never done me wrong. Everyday I skimp and I save and I give to the ATM. And everyday, I go and I visit, and the ATM gives back to me.

It's the circle of banking.

But in considering all of this, I must admit there is a secret. A secret so huge that it's not even known to the mama who bore me. But I will tell it all to you.

Sometimes I like to spend money.

Not often! And I'm not proud of it. But it is safe to say that while I take much pride in only paying $1 for lunch and having the same wallet for over eight years, every month or so, I go a little buck wild and I spend a day completely blowing money out my ass.

A alternate way of thinking comes over me. I listen to it. And then I go, yes, I DESERVE this stuff. I work moderately hard. I have a credit card. I may not need three different versions of the same ottoman sitting in my room, but I WANT them. And I should HAVE them.

In June it was blankets and throw pillows. Last month it was Gutenberg T-shirts. This month it was supposed to be a shopping spree at Ikea.

Only despite my incessant need to drop money like it's 1999, Ikea did not have the right color chalk outline bedspread and their rugs all looked like ass prints.

I spent way too much money on meatballs and then I left empty handed.

My eight-year old wallet was not happy. Sometimes it enjoys being opened.

Neither was I. Sometimes a person really DOES need a bedspread with the outline of a dead body on it.

I felt betrayed by the all mighty Ikea. Like I have never been betrayed before.

And so in the disappointment over my situation, I picked up the phone and I scheduled another vacation back to Lake George, NY, where I will be this Friday through Monday.

For those of you around last year, you may remember Lake George is where I dropped $50 for a snack table in the shape of a grizzly bear, and where I spent many a night in the 24-hour Walmart.

A Walmart that's open 24 hours, allows for 24 hours of shopping goodness.

Then that's it for the month.

I do have a reputation to uphold.

It is not easy being a single mother.

Jamie Lynn, Britney, Denise -- they've all got it rough.

I should know. For I am a single mother.

To my roommate.

My roommate, who was admitted to the hospital in June and didn't come out until July, spent 11 days in a bed, in constant pain, listening to the sounds of "I don't know what's wrong with you" and "Why is your temperature so high?" and of course, the daily affirmations from me that gave her the will to live.

It is that will that got her released from the hospital last month, and that will that brought her back to our apartment, still sick, and still bedridden, in a room across from mine.

In June when my roommate was in the hospital and she would scream out in pain, there were nurses who could help her through it and make sure she was okay. But when my roommate came home in July, those nurses did not come with her, and I was left alone to provide for the household and ensure the health of its inhabitants. When my roommate screamed in pain, I could no longer pretend I didn't hear her. Because she could see into my room across the hall and know that I was there.

And so, I had to make the decision to raise her.

When the crack baby gets left on the doorstep of the nunnery, do the nuns turn their back and slam the door? No, they take that baby and they show it the way.

I am like those nuns.

When standing in the face of adversity. I don't run away from the burden, I grab that burden by the balls and I say to it, Burden, I will rise to your upending challenge and I shall not be defeated!

Being a single mother is not an easy job.

On the night my roommate came home from the hospital, I was playing Scrabble on the Internet when she called out to me for some ginger ale. I took a look to my right and a look to my left, and in neither direction was there a man in the room to go get it.

I would have to do it alone. Like Britney.

On that night I got up from my chair and for the first time in quite some time I went into the kitchen for a beverage when I myself was not in need.

A mother must be thoughtful.

I also spent time cooking when I myself was not with hunger, and over the course of the month there would be many more kitchen trips and many more ginger ales -- all gotten without the help of a father figure.

It was hard.

One night I spoke to my roommate about this, after I had cleaned the apartment by myself and stocked up the fridge with fruits and vegetables. I said to her, roommate, it is with great hardship that I continue as your sole caretaker, but as you need a mother, your mother I shall be.

My roommate appeared confused by this, but I knew this was the illness talking and not her brain, so I continued forth my mission. My mission to raise this baby alone.

That's what Angelina would've done. Before she stole a daddy for Maddox from Jennifer.

I am just like Angelina.

Every morning, as I prepare myself to face the world, I peer into my roommate's room to ensure that she's still breathing, and although I need time to iron all my clothes, I still take 15 seconds to say, hey roommate, how are you feeling? and leave her food and water before I go.

Mothers are selfless in that way.

And in the evening, after a long day of supporting the family, I realize that children need entertainment too, and I sit at the foot of her bed and read to her all the notes I've written on the subway and things I need her to proofread -- just like the bedtime stories my mama read to me.

It is truly a beautiful time.

But mothering is not all fun and games, and sometimes all alone, you have to make sacrifices you do not want to make. Like giving up your last pack of cookies because the children want a snack. Or missing the Biography of David Berkowitz because you were in line at Rite Aid for Tylenol. Or losing lots of sleep at night because you were finding a bucket for your child to puke in.

I imagine that's what Dina does when Lindsay comes home from a night of coke and booze.

Dina is a really good mom. So am I.

We're working for the good of our children.

And today, after a month of bedtime stories, and ginger ale runs, and selfless acts of care, I came home after work to a darkened apartment, with no sounds of TBS on the television, and no glimmer of nausea in sight. My roommate had made it out of her bed and gone to a friend's house.

They grow up so fast.

Hi.

Rememember last year, sort of around this time, when I became ridiculously obsessed with visiting the world through Google maps?

Well amp that up about a thousand 'cause Google has added street views for all of the Bronx and Queens!



That's my street!

Everyone who's ever been foolish enough to give me your mailing address... consider yourselves stalked.

I am not 27.

Although friends may already be sending me birthday cards and I just got another one this evening, my birthday is not until the end of the month.

And until then, I am not 27.

I am 26.

Although 26 is still older than I would've ever cared to be, it is still younger than the age I am not -- which is 27.

I am NOT 27.

Also recently there may have been some jokes that I am halfway to age 54, and I may have in the past called my already-27 year old friends elderly and inept.

But I am not 27.

I am 26.

26 and 351 days.

Not 27.

Thank you.

Two days ago, Rosie O'Donnell announced on her blog that she would be taking the summer off and would not be updating throughout the month of August.

Let's just all take that information in for a minute. Think about it. Reflect on it.

Okay...

As Rosie is the single most influential person in all of our lives, this is news that could possibly be quite traumatic for us. I, myself, considered not getting up this morning because of it.

But we must persevere.

The blogosphere is a very wide open space with millions of contributors, and although it might be difficult, we have to accept the fact that once in awhile, one of those contributors might leave us... for a short period of time.

So tomorrow morning, as the month turns anew, let us all reflect on the good times we have had reading the blog of O'Donnell, and take comfort in the fact that she will be back... and life will be good again.

In the meantime, I will remain here.

You're welcome.

Today marks a very important day in the lives of us all, for it is the day my roommate leaps into the age of 27 and proves to the world that she is so much older than I am.

By one month.

A few weeks ago, during one of our many conversations, my roommate (who continues to have no other identification besides, "my roommate"), asked me why I have not featured her on this blog on a more regular basis. As someone I am forced to see in my home everyday, my roommate, who is an egomaniac, thought that surely I would have a plethora of stories to share with you, my beloved readers.

So in light of that, this entry, on this special day, is being written in honor of my special friend, who on this special day, has become so very, very old.

And just like other old people, and people much older than I, my roommate got sick last month -- and was admitted to the hospital. This entry shall be the story of that...

On a late Wednesday night, she thought it might be her appendix. If not that, maybe kidney stones. Or gall stones. Or some other type of stone that would cause illness. Her stomach hurt, She was in pain. She was nauseous. And when she couldn't eat meals without vomiting, she thought it might be time to get help.

So on this late Wednesday night, she went to the emergency room, and after 6 hours, they liked her so much that she got her own room and a bed -- and they kept her there for 12 days.

During these 12 days, my roommate had a lot of fun tests: a colonoscopy, some x-rays, an MRI, a few blood tests, some urine samples, and a cat scan -- all of which would come out clean and problem-free. If her potassium levels would stabilize and her pain would just go away, there would be nothing wrong with her, and she'd be allowed to go home. And if her fevers would just go away, that might be helpful too.

104.7, I'm told, is not the best temperature to have.

And so, in the hospital she'd stay.

I would often visit my roommate during this time, and each night, as she shivered and screamed, I would sit by her bedside and tell her tales of the outside world: the people I had spoken to, the homeless I had seen, and all the amazing sunlight she had missed out on by being locked up in this hospital.

As long as I was there each night, she knew that there was a reason to live and a reason to get better: so that she could listen to these tales back at home.

I really am quite an inspiration in that way.

But good things do not last forever, dear friends, and trouble was soon to come, for I had booked this trip to Chicago long before, and Gutenberg was calling my name.

I had to go...

In the dark of the night, I sat at my roommate's side and I told her of my dilemma -- how I had taken my role of inspiration-giver seriously, and how it had pained me to leave her in this state. Her response to my grief somehow seemed to come out like apathy, but I could feel there were tears deep inside her. For who, besides me could deliver the comfort I had so kindly provided? Her father? Her cousins? Her (gasp) other friends?

No, it would have to be me. And so, as any other kind-hearted and gentle friend would do, I took a picture of myself and I framed it, so that whenever the troubles were to come to her, she would know that I was there.

On the night before I left, I wrapped it up in shiny paper and I presented it to her, along with my good intentions. And although she didn't seem too thrilled -- like there may have been other gifts she'd rather have gotten -- I saw the sparkle in her eye as she downplayed her emotions, and when I displayed that picture by her bedside 2 feet away, she didn't get up to remove it.

That's how I knew she was grateful.

The next night, I was well on my way to Chicago and so I don't know what might have went on in that hospital. But I have a hunch that at 3am when she fell over to a bucket to hurl, she saw my smiling face and she knew it was okay.

Because I was with her.

And although she may claim that she didn't look at that picture often, and that her father may have wanted to cover my face with a monkey's, I know in my heart, that looking at me gave her an endless amount of joy. Is it a coincidence that she was released from the hospital three days after it was given to her? I don't think so.

My roommate also likes to tell the story of how some nurses saw my picture by her bedside as a sign that she was a lesbian. And how in the midst of her sickness and nausea, she had to pull together all of her strength to tell them no; that her roommate was just mentally ill.

Normally, I would take offense to a remark of my mental illness, but in this instance I knew it was coming from a place of deep love and respect. Because I knew that she knew that I had cured her. And if only lesbians get to be cured by framed pictures of me, then let the conversions begin!

Because what do you call a lesbian who has a picture of comfort and joy by her bedside?



Lucky.

Birthday wishes and get well soons, roomie!

I really wanted to like this show.

Last year, when the stars of this show performed a skit at a benefit, I remember thinking to myself, wow! these writers are amazing! I can't wait 'til this show makes its way to Broadway so that I can leave my house and go see it!

And then the promotion started, and every time I turned a corner and saw another witty slogan on another billboard poster, I thought to myself, hot damn, these advertisements are smarter than any other show advertisement on Broadway. This show must be incredible!

And today, as I walked into the theater, with my ticket in hand, I passed a t-shirt at the merch stand that was unbelievably brilliant, and I said to myself, even their merchandise is amazing! If I like this show, as much as I should like this show, I'm going to treat myself like a rich girl and buy myself this t-shirt!

Well, to make a short story short... I didn't buy the t-shirt. Even though all I wanted to do on this earth, was like this show and buy myself this t-shirt... I didn't buy the t-shirt. Even though I wanted to walk around the city and wear it and go, THIS is what theater is all about, THIS is where art and creativity, and inspiration LIVES!... I didn't buy the t-shirt.

Because holy fuck, the Lyceum Theater is where theater goes to die... because that's where [title of show] is playing.

I want to preface this by saying that I love shows about the behind-the-scenes making of shows. I was addicted to Studio 60, I voted way too many times during Grease: You're the One that I Want, and I think [title of show]'s concept about doing a show about writing a show is spectacularly creative and witty.

It's just that the actual show happens to be the most boring, unfunny, egomaniacal melodrama I've ever seen.

How many times can a person recount a boring conversation they had on a boring topic and tell it in the most boring way POSSIBLE? A dozen times? A million times?

How about instead of retelling the story they just told, they just retell the story of how they retold it -- and then retell it AGAIN.

And how about instead of actually coming up with a storyline, you just show people what you did yesterday and last month and last year, and somehow think your life is worthy of people actually giving a damn?

But I really don't want to say any of this, because maybe in the grand scheme of things, these people's talents are so incredibly huge that I'm way too stupid to see them, and in the end, if I ever met the writer, Hunter Bell on the street, I'd really just want him to like me because I think he's adorable, but holy-Mary-Mother-of-God, Hunter, I don't think I like YOU.

You have boring conversations with friends and think other people care enough to watch you rehash them. You make really bad jokes about writing lines for other actors and then you run those jokes to the ground. And you somehow think there's a reason that people should want to watch you tell them over and over and over again that you deserve a Broadway show.

Hunter, you are so damn cute, but I am so [synonyms for disappointed, distraught, heartbroken, devastated, sad].

There are many ways I could go about recounting my three days in Chicago -- descriptions of the clean city streets, tales of happy and helpful concierge interaction, or picture-taking adventures inside a big giant ass -- but instead, I'm just going to say this:

Merch.

If ever there were a reason to get on a plane, defy your own death, and spend hundreds of dollars on a three-day vacation, it is barrels upons barrels of Gutenberg merchandise.

Merchandise… that makes the world go round.

I'll admit that I was not expecting much when I arrived in the windy city. Having a good time with my friends, that was going to happen regardless. Seeing the greatest show ever written or created, that was a given.

But then there was the merch.

Before I made my way to the theater that night, all I had really been hoping for was a poster. A simple piece of oak tag that I could put in a frame and hang on my wall for inspiration. The New York production never had one. There was never anything available on the Internet. And yet, while my hope had been shattered before, a glimmer of it still remained in Chicago -- and I kept the faith.

That faith was then rewarded. With merch.

The Chicago presentation of Gutenberg! The Musical!, was produced as a non-equity production in a 65-seat theater – facts that would normally lead the common theatergoer to predict not even getting a program. So when directly in front of the entrance is a stand full of merchandise, one has to start believing in miracles.



I'm going to admit that I gasped when I saw it. A loud, gutteral gasp that may have disturbed a few patrons. For not only was there my desired poster -- but there was a hat. And a magnet. And a CD order form. And a T-shirt. And yes, folks, when you made a purchase of $10 or more, you got a free Gutenberg bracelet.



I've heard many times that money doesn't buy you happiness.... but when you HAVE money and you can use it to buy Gutenberg merchandise, happiness is included in every purchase. Maybe I didn't need doubles of every item, and maybe that hundred dollars would've been better spent on the poor, but happiness doesn't come in the form of charity.... it comes in merch.



The show itself was also a whirlwind of goodness. The actors were hysterical. The show is still the greatest show ever. Our 800 mile trip was rewarded with greetings from cast and crew and an hour-long drink fest with a cast member afterwards. And I've witnessed firsthand that learning about the rehearsal process and the logistics of doing this show, from a person directly involved, is an incredible experience.



It is even better with merch.

As for the rest of my vacation, I walked a lot. I saw a lot. I had a lot of fun. A lot was learned. And a lot was done.

On the first night of our stay, after a group of teenagers stumbled upon our cab and tried to get in with us, I quickly realized that Chicago is a city that likes its booze. Grocery stores have entire aisles devoted to the selling of hard liquor, beer gardens grow plentifully throughout the area, and intoxicated men talk to you for ten minutes about the swirlies at Julio's Hacienda. As a person who does not enjoy the drink so much, I was a little wary at first of the effects this alcohol affection would have on the sober. But then I remembered that people who are hung over have a strong desire to eat really bad food.



Enter in: The Super McDonalds, a 24-hour, two-floor, 2-lane drivethru-ed spot of goodness that has an escalator, elevator, malt shop, flat screen TVs, and several lounge areas. Throughout our stay in the great city of Chicago, many a good time was had in there -- and many a good burger was eaten.

The only thing missing? Merch.

Our second day in Chicago, July 4th, a vast amount of time was spent taking in the city and the various attractions the area had to offer. Without this experience, one may not have learned that entertainment in the midwest consists of searching for non-existent gift shops, free Bonnie Rait concerts, and fountains where fake people spit at you.



Another attraction is the Taste of Chicago, where for over a week, the entire city packs itself into a blazing hot park and samples of food are offered from all the city's restaurants. If one were less naive, paying $3 for a quarter slice of pizza might sound like a good idea, but instead, my compadres and I partook of the free games and walked away with t-shirts, photos, bags, and my personal favorite -- the suntan lotion.



Suntan lotion, if purchased in a Chicago grocery store, would have cost the average person $11, plus tax. And for those of you who've been paying attention, you all know what that money could have been better spent on.

Merch.

In the evening to celebrate our country's independence, time was spent on the Navy Pier, where because of some smart thinkin' individuals, we had prime staircase seats for the fireworks display -- which right after being announced to start at 9pm, shot up at 8:45. The Navy Pier also offered up some delicious funnel cake, a terrifying ferris wheel, and a crowd of obnoxious children to interact with all night.



In short, it was a lovely experience, and if not for the teenage intercourse sex show in a bathroom stall afterwards, the fireworks might have been memorable enough.

But alas, no.

Unfortunately, I did not have to pee on this July 4th evening, and so missed out on the entertaining peep show. But from watching the culprits run out of the ladies room like bats out of hell, and listening to the descriptions from my friends and hysterical strangers, I was able to feel like I was part of the experience.

And thankfully, I was to be present for the second sex show that would happen a day later.

During our trip, The Reagle Beagle, a local bar in town that no local actually seemed to know of, became a favorite of my friends and I because of its sitcom nostalgia feel and its affinity towards Vanilla Ice rap songs. On our first night there, we spent over an hour admiring the Doogie Howser posters on the wall and singing along to bad 80s pop music.

On our second night there, we watched old man make out with teenager.



In the real Reagle Beagle that was featured on Three's Company , I have a hard time remembering Jack Tripper ever sucking on a girl's breasts in the middle of a group of onlookers -- but if Mr. Furley were to have done it to Chrissy's titties, while grinding up and down on her, and licking her face, it would have probably looked a lot like what we witnessed on that Saturday night.

And while those two people looked like they were enjoying themselves a hell of a lot, they were not nearly as happy as I was.

With my merch.

On our final day in Chicago, we spent time learning about hacksaw amputations at the Surgical Museum and watching some very entertaining monkeys at the Lincoln Park Zoo, where we also paddle-boated inside an oversized swan. While some might find it enjoyable to actually paddle while inside a paddle boat, others who are smarter agree to straddle the middle seat and steer.



Other attractions seen in the fine city of Chicago before we left included the illustrious Chicago Sun Times building, which had no visible entrance; the smallest, tallest building in America, The Sears Tower; and a parking lot where suicidal drivers go to die.



On Sunday morning, as our return flight home was scheduled for 7:30am and we needed to leave for the airport before 5, we napped quickly and spent the night saying goodbye to the Super McDonalds, and to the city that had been so kind to us on this journey. And at 4:45, after we had checked out of our room, walked out of the Marriott hotel, and loaded our belongings into the back of a cab, just like had happened at the start of our trip, we were once again greeted by an inebriated fellow – who proceeded to take off his shirt, get inside our trunk, and sit on our luggage.

Inebriated fellow is very lucky my bag was unharmed in the process.

I had a whole lot of merch in there.



Thanks for the memories, Chicago.

I know everyone has been anxiously sitting by their computers waiting for an update on my Chicago trip (and by everyone, I mean, basically the three others who went with me), but as my week has unexpectedly become quite productive, I do not appear to have the time. So right now, as a way to appease you all, I will just say this:

A car is not a train. And a train is not a bus. And a bus is not a plane.

Cars and trains and buses all vary in size and remain on the land, where land mammals and grasshoppers should be. Planes, on the other hand, travel in places only meant for seagulls and bats, and cause panic and nausea not suitable for the average human.

I would like to say that I took travelling in the sky very well. Aside from my legs giving out, and the hyperventilating and the rapid heart beat, and my constant need to distract myself with muffins, I was quite calm on American Airlines flight 381 to Chicago. To the best of my knowledge, my screaming did not disturb other passengers and I was able to keep my shaking to a minimum.

That being said... humans are not meant to fly.

On this trip, I learned a lot about the human body, the most important of which is that humans do not adjust well to changes in altitude. As they take off into the land of seagulls and bats, they tend to become nauseous, stiff, and experience several types of ear aches that have the ability of being quite irksome. Although I experienced none of these symptoms on my flight because I am bionic, the people around me did -- and in the process, became less equipped to deal with the more important issues at hand: my panic attacks.

When I am shaking and breathing all too heavily for a non-asthmatic person, I'd like to know that when I turn to the person next to me for comfort, they will be able to turn in my direction and not be paralyzed by nausea.

I would also like to know that when I am on a 7am return flight and my nervous breakdown begins during takeoff, that all the people I consider my friends would at least be semi-conscious and supportive, and not passed out around me in uncomfortable chairs.

If we had all adhered to my insistence of renting a car and driving to the midwest, problems like these would not occur, since one of us would have to be awake to steer the car, and if not, all of us would be jolted awake once the car crashed into the side of the highway.

Car Crashes on side of highway = mostly comical fender bender. Plane crashes into the ocean and fields = death.

I also take issue with the fact that the safety tutorial before a flight does not include a question and answer session or allow for hands-on preparation. When an oxygen mask falls down from the ceiling, I would like to know that I have been fully trained in the art of death prevention and not rushed through a 30-second demonstration. In the event of a real emergency, I don't believe my watching a flight attendant pointing to a "how-to" booklet on my chair would give me the resources to save myself from a sea of flames.

Stewards on planes apparently want you to die.

So too, do the people working security, who not only make you go barefoot on an unsanitary concrete floor, but also put your toiletries and clean clothing into buckets that don't appear to be hosed very often.

In my car, which I have full control over, all people get the appropriate hosing before entrance.

It is for these reasons, and for several others not mentioned here, flying is an evil and traumatizing mode of transportation that should be outlawed for all American citizens -- and until that happens, for the benefits of my safety and also my mental stability, I will be avoiding it at all costs.

Until Gutenberg premieres in San Francisco. Then all bets are off.

The countdown is over.

Today is the day.

Godspeed.

I love my brother very much.

When he was a baby, I used to climb into his crib every night and read him passages from my Big Bird books. I would help him with his homework when he couldn't figure out prepositions. And when he goes off to play basketball in other countries every year, I think of him often and I wish him well.

I do not call him a week before his flight and tell him the airline has malfunctioning planes.

Or make jokes about July 4th weekend being a great time for terrorists.

Or tell him that today could be the last time we see each other -- because planes are known to kill.

And if my brother was ever waiting for me to drive him home after a long night of packing and theater-attending, I would never delay his trip ten minutes so I could find pictures of plane crashes on the Internet.

As I said before, I love my brother very much.

The love is dwindling.

The countdown has begun.

For those of you who didn't know there was a countdown -- there is a countdown, and it has begun.

In two days and 5 hours, I will board a plane for the first time ever and take off into the sky.

My bags are mostly packed. My parents know where the food is to feed my cats. And I have my brother driving me back and forth to LaGuardia.

I have also experienced my third bowel movement of the day. I had a gagging fit this morning. And I am balancing between panic and nervous breakdowns every half hour.

The countdown has begun.

For those of you who didn't know there was a countdown -- there is a countdown, and it is going to kill me.