Monday, February 23, 2004
~
No Good Deed...
...goes unpunished. I am supposed to be posting over at Smitten today. It's a long ass post too! We're talking Crystal Gayle hair long {I have since pulled most of mine out!}. But I can't get the fucker to publish. Grrr. If you are some sort of Typepad afficiando by all means let me know. I'll give you my login info and maybe you can figure out this shiznit.
::kisses::
***update***
After sending out several holy god, help!! emails of the highly paniked variety this was what I just got in my inbox from an acquaintance of a slightly more familiar acquaintance:
You are NOT doing anything wrong, you are NOT an idiot, and people still like you....
Well after poking around, I went to the help menu, and it appears your pal Deb has to approve your post, as you are only on "draft" status:
Junior Author :
Junior Authors can post drafts that the site owner needs to review and publish. Junior authors can edit their own posts.
SORRY!!!!!.
Ah... seems it pays to be acquianted with smart people!! I hope my gal Smitten approves the post before not too long. And if she doesn't ~ I will publish it here later so all my hard work isn't wasted. lol.
12:15 PM
Friday, February 20, 2004
~
Some Ones:
Is it craziness to say that I think I’ve already dated the very best men that are out there? For all the mein kampfing I do over here, I haven’t had it so bad. It’s only as of late that my dating luck is that of Job-like proportions. But even that, it’s just shit luck, it’s not otherworldly or evil. Sure, I’ve been cheated on, but speaking of Job, cheating is just biblical. It’s certainly not indigenous to me. I can recognize that I’ve not been singled out when it comes to cheating. As far as “luck” goes, I’ve probably had my fair share. I’ve never been struck. Had a disease sexually transmitted to me {or from for that matter, but either way}. Been yelled at or purposefully humiliated. And, I’ve not always been the prize that I am now. *wink wink* Par for the nineteen holes of dating, I’ve lost boys that I adored to best friends. Hell, I’ve lost them to girls that weren’t even my friends. I lost them to girls with bigger chests and smaller chests. Smarter girls. Dumber girls. More chaste girls. Filthy slut girls. But along the way I picked up a few blue ribbons. And just like Mike {Tyson, that is} I never knew when to quit. Although really, when it’s right it’s right and you don’t feel like you’re quitting. You haven’t stepped out of the race because you’re satisfied with your time. To the contrary, you feel like you won the race.
To be fair, I’ve never even experienced the messy dissolution of a relationship. It’s never been as messy as About Last Night. As insane as Sleeping with the Enemy. Or, as contested as Fatal Attraction. Quite the contrary. I get along with my exes famously.
The one who I treated the worst still treats me the best. He and his wife invite me over to dinner. Their two kids send me their drawings. When I was in high school, he was in college at BU. He came home every weekend to be with me. I once asked him to drive me to another guys house. Where I then cheated on him. I felt terrible about it, literally for years, I never did that again. {And I mean the cheating part, not the getting my boyfriend to deliver me to my… uhm... cheating buddy}. And yes, my guilt did force me to confess all. And yes, a few years later karma served it right back to me on a silver platter.
The one who gave me eight years of patience. Understood my nervousness about the famed “first time” and let me continuously postpone the date of liftoff. {Soon to be appearing as an entire sordid tale, when I guest blog over at Smitten on Monday, I believe}. While waiting for “it” he taught me several other things that helped us while away the hours and benefit several if not all of his successors. As the years have zipped by, he’s gone a touch… Kaczyinsky or however the fuck you spell it, but he’s still a misguided sweetheart.
The who in college was insanely understanding as I went through my druggie phase. He never once even lost his cool as I played drug-induced games of push and pull, be here, go home. I won’t lie to you, of the ones I messed up with, I wonder about him the most.
The one who I wasn’t ready for. Who uttered horrifying words with the perfect of ease. Words like; marriage, ring, love, children.
These were my fuckups. Not those of men. And I’m not hurt harmed and I’m not broken. And I get lonely and I’ve been sad. And sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I wish there was someone there to stroke my hair til I fell back asleep. But it’s not every day and it’s not every night. And cocky as it is; I'm surprised that I'm {still} alone, and it stuns me to think I may not be a catch at all. And I may just stay alone, for if that's what meant to be than I'll have to accept that. But if it comes to me, it’ll be sweeter because I’ve wanted it. So when I bitch, take it with a grain of salt. Not to heart. Because mine is still ok and intact. And thank you for asking.
12:00 AM
Thursday, February 19, 2004
~
Dear Dave:
Sometimes, like when you and I make plans to get together at Central Park, you let me down and we have yet another fight. Then you sulk, drink and bitch about how hard and hot it was growing up in South Africa {dude!! it's South fucking Africa}. But sometimes you do things; like sing "Typical Situation" or make me want to hear songs about Gravediggers and baby... we're all good all over again.
Love,
me.
2:15 PM
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
~
Planning Committee:
Here at Ari Goes Down, the royal we is planning on hitting 300,000 on ye we olde site meter any day now.
How shall the revelry go down? I'd love to read your suggestions. It's a biggie, after all.
And now that I know what it was, I really thank you {though I'm not quite done yet}. Best hug of the day. For sure.
12:30 PM
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
~
I Rock:
Tell me that this is not the coolest fucking thing I have EVER presented you with.
5:30 PM
Monday, February 16, 2004
~
But Then:
I was the only person I know who was at work today. That’s a nice feeling. When I walked dog, I passed two people. Two. I usually pass about 40. I could have ridden my bike on the bus and gone bowling on the subway. Starbucks was packed as usual though, god bless ‘em. Today was the longest, mostest boringest day ever. No really. You have no idea. I spoke to no one, did no work, ate yogurt for lunch, got into a fight with my jeans and broke them {I’m tempted to dismiss it by saying it’s a long story but it’s not so long. Just so stupid}. I know autistic kids with more going on.
But then…
I got this sentence in an email from a boy I happen to think is pretty cool: Check your mailbox when you get home.
Not freaked out in the least. So Flattered. Thank you. Hey, in the past few days someone besides me thought about me. That’s a kickass feeling.
8:00 PM
~
Know What Makes Me Smirk?
That as hot as you are, and as hot as the thoughts I have about you are, you're way smaller than I thought you were. And you're quite full of unfounded attitude. I mean really, so what if I think you're hot?
I used to dig Peter DeLuise on 21 Jump Street. And yes, that was during the Depp years. So there.
1:50 PM
Saturday, February 14, 2004
~
Happy Valentine's Day:
Here's to hoping Cupid gets shot in a drive by.
1:08 PM
Friday, February 13, 2004
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Why I Need A Scooter:
One of my favorite parts of my otherwise crapass commute to my equally {possibly soon to be remedied?} crapass job is this; I get to cross the 86th St. transverse every morning. By doing so I get to pass the Metropolitan Museum of Art ~ bar none one of the most aesthetically stunning buildings in NYC. {Ironic of course that when Doug IMed me earlier today and asked if I wanted to see an exhibit there I declined, citing exhaustion and it’s beautiful out, I really want to take Dog to the park}.
So – the museum is the high point of my morning and evening travels. But the low point? Heh … happy early Valentine’s Day. Read on.
There is a rather aesthetically appalling man that I see in my neighborhood all the time. He’s got a distinct air of creepy about him as well. You know the exact type I’m talking about too. He stares openly. A little too long. He drifts over to where I stand and he lingers. He’s a completely impotent stalker. If I go in to Duane Reade he’ll wait until I get online and then he’ll get on right behind me. Harmless, loserish but icky regardless. He's never attempted to strike up a conversation. He’s painfully white, in his late 30’s early 40’s. He wears his nasty, nappy, flyaway hair in a little red elastic. He wears way too big baggy pants and a trenchcoat. Also way too big. His bottom lip juts out. His eyes are hooded and he looks like the sort of guy that might play an obscure xylophone-type instrument in the shuttle part of Grand Central station. He’s just off in that impotent and seemingly harmless sort of creepy way.
I’ve become fairly adept at avoidance tactics. I make no eye contact.
Normally I work 9:30-5:30. On Fridays I get in at 9, meaning that I leave my house earlier. I was on the bus at 8:20 instead of the usual 8:50, this Friday morning. I nab a seat, flip open my books on raping murderers and start reading. The bus took forever to get rolling so I look up and who the fuck do I see making his way to the back of the bus where I’m sitting {back of the bus… I am an African American, after all. Except for the part where I am Casperwhite. But pops is still from Africa so there you go}. I see him. He sees me. The eye contact I have actively been avoiding for at least a year is destroyed. Fuck.
He keeps walking towards me and a mantra rolls through my consciousness.
“Don’t be so obvious. Please. Don’t be so obvious. Please. Don’t be so obvious.” You get the picture.
He sits right next to me. God is such a sick bastard. This guy likes me. He wants me, I can tell. His like is voyeuristically oozing out of his hooded, hangdog eyes. Well, of course he does; he’s part of the unwashed masses that always want yours truly. Unwashed men and immigrants. And fans of big breasts, but I digress. With him though, I sense the possibility that he wants me bound and gagged and in the back of his linen closet. I keep reading, he keeps staring. But for the first time from a distance of inches, not feet. This is not fun. how come the guys you want staring at you this attentively never do? Why is it always this guy?
The bus heaves along uneventfully until Central Park West, where he gets off. I’m elated. No verbal exchange. I’m free!!! But just as he gets off {the bus!} he turns back to me.
“Happy early Valentine’s Day beautiful” Guh… I puke into my own throat.
Beautiful has never been such an unattractive word.
So… right… happy early valentine’s day, beautifuls. Dog and I are off to the park.
2:52 PM
Thursday, February 12, 2004
~
In My Defense:
If you and I were to talk about it and you were to ask me why I went, this is what I’d tell you:
I want to have a child before I’m 40. And while 40 is not at all fucking close, and I have no desire for a baby anytime soon, I’m pretty sure there’s some groundwork that has to be set. I have enough issues trying to maintain my own bank account, I really don’t think sperm banks and I should get involved.
Humiliating and Sweet Valley Highesque as it is, it seems I’ve taken to passively and lazily stalking hot comedians. Harmlessly so - as it's mighty fucking cold and I'm certainly not inclined to leave my home.
Optimism is in the air. My friends who are dating are doing so happily. You spend an evening with Alex and Smitten and not feel inspired.
When he said “great, a date” and I responded with “not a date, a drink. As people, not potentials”, he wasn’t put off and his laugh was infective and effusive.
I was having an excellent hair day.
I was trying to conserve pot and fuck it, I figured, I was going out anyway, what’s half an hour earlier?
He charmed me into spontaneity.
Now, if you were to ask me why I stayed 45 minutes longer than I planned, I’d tell you:
When I called him from outside the bar and asked him to meet me outside so we could avoid the awkward moment where we seek each other out and announce to the bar that we’re essentially on a blind date, he ran right out, without a coat and kissed me hello.
He insisted on paying for all the drinks. No, really.
He gushed effusively about his two nieces and didn’t think it was weird in the least when I struck up a conversation with two total strangers. He then talked to said strangers for 10 minutes.
He revealed that he does stand-up and like me, he’s completely amused by Eddie Izzard and Ellen Degeneres. {I didn’t tell him of my crush on the comic. See above}.
I’m starting to realize that Steve is never going to move here and be mine.
It turns out I dig the Jewish guy nose. {let’s not pretend we don’t know the nose in question}
And if you wanted to know how he impressed me; I’d arch an eyebrow and reveal:
He walked me 7 blocks in the opposite direction of where he was headed. He took figurative pains to walk on the outside of the sidewalk.
He kissed me goodnight and said he was glad we met up, he’d had fun.
He called me this afternoon without having said he would.
He was completely atypical.
12:23 AM
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
~
So Much More Fun Than Monkeys:
Even if they are in a barrel.
So… the weekend, which is almost completely vanquished from my memory, was absolutely brilliant.
Friday night I lounged at home with some brothers {mine, not “brothers” per se} and assorted friends {mine, theirs and ours}.
Saturday, after a questionable young man with an itchy trigger finger called my cell phone way too damn early, {9:38am. On a Saturday!!} I was irrevocably awake. First thing first, I cursed loudly and turned off the ringer. Then I started off by walking Dog and puttering about my apartment for awhile. Cleaning and putting shit away. Made some coffee, read some papers watched the Knicks beat the Heat. Redefined my policies on dating classmates for some friends still in the midst of academia. If they get laid, can I take credit? Just asking.
Then I headed downtown to the very aptly named Siberia {it's about one block north of the end of the world}, to watch our esteemed Sir Joseph in his AIDs benefit. It was real and it was spectacular. I got to {finally} meet Joe’s mom who I speak to on the phone at least once a day. She looks like a high school chick! How does she have a 20something son?? I so meant to ask her the secret. Fuck, half the time, I look like I have a 20something year old son! And his father was delightful – such a nice set of parents. Our Joseph is a very blessed man. {I have it pretty good myself, go shed your crocodile tears elsewhere}.
I left Siberia shortly thereafter and as I was walking and smoking a cigarette I passed Cupcake Café. A few weeks back Smit had mentioned being a fan so I quickly ducked in and picked up 6. Then, while wondering why I rested on 6, who said she was having 6?? I headed even further downtown to Alex’s apartment. His delightful girl had been sweet enough to invite me to a small dinner party {of, yay, 6!!} involving: margaritas, tequila, fajitas, fresh guacamole, and the piece de resistance; rimming salt, a reemer. The last two items were the source of several lascivious remarks and much bawdy fun. I just used the word “bawdy” hahaha… am I officially a Golden Girrrrl yet? Yeah, I’m not sure of the criteria either. I met some of the Smitten kitten’s friends – all {boys} hilarious, cute and kind. And enjoyed many margaritas. And tequila shots. And then, as is slowly becoming part of the Smitten & Ari Show, we sat in one of Alex’s chairs and traded lip glosses. Quickie and tongue free but necessitated. See, Ms. Smit was being harangued for her apparent and rumored feelings on kissing girls. And well known fact; there’s nothing we girls like to do more than prove you fellas wrong. Well… aside from spending your money or examining your hairline from upon high. …ahem…
Anyhoo… Smit & Biz are cute as can be and his apartment is not only terrific but in a great spot. The food was delicious, the cupcakes a tad too frosted and I haven’t been in such delightful dinner company since perhaps my friends birthday dinner over the summer. I can’t wait to return the favor.
So there was that. Saturday was excellent and as a direct result, I expect even more from Saturday nights to follow.
5:15 PM
Monday, February 09, 2004
~
Be Cool My Babies:
It's coming. It's coming. I swear it is. And it's about tequila, margaritas, and girls kissing.
Be cool my babies.
4:13 PM
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
~
To All The Boys I Loved Last Night:
My brother E – love your face off for having walked Dog so I could jump in a hot shower after traversing home {for well over an hour – a slight variation from the norm of 35 minutes} in ice cold freezing rain that had me soaked to my frazzled little neurons. Even more love for having water boiling on the stove when I walked in – sugar free hot chocolate rocks.
Stephon Marbury – thanks for always loving NY more than it’s loved you and playing like an animal. For sending Reggie Miller home a loser last night – hasn’t happened often enough for my Reggie Miller hating self. Mostly though, thanks for teaching those other Knicks that oh so elusive maneuver known as: driving to the hoop. *Did I tell you I sat row “H” at the Knicks v. Spurs game last week? Snowstorm Tuesday… it was pretty damn phenomenal. So what if they lost. Row H… I’m so fancy*. You can really see bald celeb heads very well from row H.
Bobby – my friendly local homeless guy {perpetually intoxicated, a study in functioning alcoholism really}. Superlative fighting-dog separation technique. I would’ve lost a chunk of hand. 8 years and he’s not freaked me out in any way yet. And I’ll tell ya man, I value your suggestions, but Dog is going to shed no matter what vitamins I give him. Sorry to disappoint but it is what it is.
Rich Vos – So, the other night I had this … uhm… dream, see? Anyway, I still can’t get it {you} out of my head. You are def. one of the main reasons I watch Tough Crowd {Greg Giraldo too, I ain’t gonna lie} & love your standup. Quite a twisted sense of humor, and damn, that’s attractive. You’re a bit thuggy and I dig it massively. And you’re the only Jewish guy I’ve seen thus far that can pull off a white Kangol. That’s gotta be, what? 27 combined points right there. Now go Google yourself, find this and call me. We have work to do.
Joe - he saves me from going absolutely and completely postal every day of the workweek. Especially today. I love you. Your sister in… yeah, you guessed it. Haha.
Doug - for knowing Austin Croshere’s name before I even got the whole question out of my mouth. Very impressive.
…the rest of you… maybe tonight’s your night!!
1:48 PM
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
~
My Weather Report:
- Hair: totally whooshed out {the ladies know what I mean}.
- Feet: toes frozen and generally soaked in filthy NYC sludge/rainwater.
- Legs: equally sopped in water resulting in saran wrap like feeling about the lower legs.
- Hands: numb yet a smidge pruney from holding curiosity inducing soup and delectable salad.
- Nose: red and highly pissed off looking.
General attitude: fed up and longing for Hawaii. Or Antigua. Or Cancun. Or New Zealand. Or Bermuda. Or Israel. Or… heck… anywhere below the equator. If you don’t hear from me for a few days, send the search team. I drowned.
4:08 PM
Monday, February 02, 2004
~
Disgraceful Miss Jackson:
… that tit was fo’ real!
Ninja Nipple Stars… brilliant. And based on your apology to CBS {which itself has a lot to apologize for – years of shit, octogenarian broadcasting, mainly} one ought to believe that was an unintended display of tumescent {that was for you Fish} nipple. Right?
Ok… as a nipple/s possessing girl let’s briefly discuss…
- Nipples do not stay hard indefinitely – well, at the very least, real ones don’t. Far be if for me to speak for Jenna Jamison’s or Pamela’s, but as for me, hell, that would never stay on. And frankly, I didn’t get the impression that Houston was quite that cold. Hmm.. can we all say “premeditated” together?
- Why are you and your brother {or Sister-in-Kabuki, whatever you feel most comfortable with} always so… battle ready? The getups are retarded already. Has the Jackson clan ever been properly introduced to cotton? The fabric of our lives, and all that? What’s your address, I’ll send you some. Cotton, it’s all the rage, look into it.
- “It was an accident”… a ha ha ha ha ha!! Bitch, my clothes never fall of by accident, and if they did, I bet you the world I wouldn’t have pronged accoutrements dangling to and fro. You are liar.
- And most importantly, would it have killed you to have simply performed? You were ingenious as it was {even bearing in mind the oh so 80’s biking shorts your dancers were wearing}. You def. did not need to reduce the event to your tit and really, would it have killed you to bring an ounce of class and grace to the Jackson name? Lord knows you could use it.
And MTV… nice. Very nice. Quit showing me tits and mixed age groups making out. Quit going for shock value viewing and just fucking entertain me is that so hard-as-a-nipple difficult to understand? I’ll guess you’ll have time enough to ruminate while not planning the halftime show for Superbowl 39 thru infinity.
** and sure, Justin is culpable too, but what is he? 12?? And can we really expect boys to refrain from Miss Nasty’s… uhm… nasty?
5:00 PM
Sunday, February 01, 2004
~
Carpe the ... Carp?
The Scene:
Saturday night. A bar with some friends and friends of friends.
Female friend-of-friend turns to me and says “I’d guess you’re a water sign. Am I right?”
“Yes! Pisces, how’d you know that?”
“Not sure, I just do that sometimes.”
I know what she meant. I can often “tell” if another person I’ve interacted with for awhile has siblings and if so, what gender they are. It’s an odd thing to do but I can and I’m usually more accurate than not.
“For the record though, I’m a terrible pisces. I’m not a huge fan of fish {except for this variety} and I can’t swim.”
“You can’t swim?” Why do people always ask this with such an air of amazement? It’s not like I’m from Hawaii or California. Or a lifeguard. I’m essentially an inner city kid. So what if I went to Crane Lake Camp nearly every summer. And my family has a house on a lake {albeit very recently purchased}. I’m simply not a fan of water. Well, swimming really. As it happens, I’m an excellent rower. Honestly.
“I can not drown, but there’s a difference.”
So there’s that.
But in other ways I’m such a quintessential Piscean. For starters, have you ever seen the symbol? It’s two fish, swimming in opposite directions. Perfect. I’m nothing if not indecisive. And constantly of two {seemingly mutually exclusive} minds. I can see both sides of pretty much anything. Just the other night a very drunken Joe pointed out that I’m indecisive as hell and it incenses him. Oops. Seems that my daily 2pm mantra; what am I doing for lunch, what am I doing for lunch, what am I doing for lunch, what am I doing for lunch is a touch irritating. I know it is. It annoys me! How about this; I’m a diehard Democrat, Republicans are white devils. Democrats are pussies, I’m a toe in the water Republican. Democrats are completely insane, why have I never hugged a Republican? I’m voting for Bush. But maybe I could be ok with Kerry. He doesn’t seem so bad. At least he hasn’t talked about steroids in sports yet. {Who is the idiot that told Bush to talk about that nonsense??} I’m back, I’m forth, it’s a massive miracle that I don’t smack my fishtail into my fishhead more often.
But how do you force yourself to become more decisive. Headstrong. How do I reconfigure myself so that I carpe my diem? Or in true fish style, how do I carpe my inner carp*? {*the fish, it's spelled with a "c", not a "k", right?}
Perhaps I should start off slowly. Say, by putting away the vestiges of two weeks worth of getting dressed.
At the very least it’s carpe-ing the hanger.
3:02 PM
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