Snowflakes in the air

I secretly enjoy the holiday season. I have already decorated my apartment with a small tree, bells, bows, and the scent of the holidays (Christmas smells like gingerbread and Goldschläger.)

There is something magical about this time of year. Like a sucker I feel the need to watch every TV holiday movie. These poorly made classics are staples on my television. A Charlie Brown Christmas is arguably the best.

A Charlie Brown Christmas shows a simple world where children run everything. With bit of talk about the Big J and speeches against commercialism it has touched the hearts of the American Public. If you hate this movie you ARE THE DEVIL.

In light of the upcoming holidays (and the recent biography of Charles M Schulz) I decided to spice up this holiday classic with a drinking game!

Take a Sip When…

* Charlie Brown says something that is ridiculously EMO.

* Every time a non-white character comes on screen.

* Schroeder rebuffs Lucy’s advances. (Finish your drink if anyone in the room suggests that Schroeder is gay…or if you think it.)

* Every time Schroeder’s piano produces the sound of some absent instrument. (Finish you drink if his piano magically sounds like a full jazz quartet.)

* Every time someone makes fun of Pigpen’s appearance. (Kids are horrid rude creatures. Shouldn’t the Christmas sprit extend to all people, including the dirty kid?)

* The relationship between Snoopy and Woodstock confuse you.

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

I wake up to Al Roker

I woke up at 7am, brewed some coffee, took a shower, tamed my wild mane and made a few thanksgiving side dishes.

By 8:45am I was ready to just relax and take in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. As I sat down with my hard cider I realized this is the perfect time to live blog. So I present to you my thoughts on the (first hour) of the American staple The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. (EDIT: I was tipsy when I wrote this, I made an executive decision and decided to post this as is...enjoy!)

9:00 am- Oh, those cheesy children dressed up in costume singing their guts out. I just know that they have no chance in hell at making it in the musical theater world. The guy at the ribbon cutting ceremony is ggggg gay and checking out his hair in the camera.

9:15 - Legally Blonde The Musical…wow singing a personal essay. When I am studying for LSAT’s I always wish things like this could happen. If I could only tap dance a personal essay instead of writing about how I want to save the world. Yes, I am a bit envious of a fictional blonde ditz who gets into Harvard Law because of “love”

9:20- Everyone is rubbing in the fact they are close to their families. SOME OF US LIVE ACROSS THE COUNTRY AND CAN’T BE WITH OUR FAMILIES. SOME OF US ARE STUCK CRASHING OUR BOSSES FAMILY EVENTS.

Why am I so bitter?

9:25 Young Frankenstein…this actually looks good. I am also already 2 hard ciders in…may or may not be dancing to the fridge to get another.

9:28 The Ronald McDonald balloon looks a bit like he is taking it in the rear from M&M guys.

9:30 Bob Saget in a helicopter, I have no clue why but this cracks me up. Now I hate him he is making fun of homeless people and the Golden Girls, not cool. Wait he just made a J-date joke which mildly increased his funniness.

9:30 Xanadu..I LOVE THIS MOVIE. Yes, I admitted this. And the idea of a roller-skating disco musical is my idea of heaven. Plus guys in American Apparel short shorts are always entertaining. I was born in the wrong decade. I want to think if I was in my 20’s in the late 70’s I would be a disco queen. In reality I would have been some lame lesbian feminist with a power suit job.

9:38 Time to call people and wish them a tipsy happy Thanksgiving…this does not count as a tipsy dial because I would have done this 100% not tipsy.

9:41- CHRISTOPHER MELONI (that guy from Law and Order SVU) HAS THE MOST AMAZING DOG. A pug, French Bulldog combo named Bonnie. I WANT ONE. I love pugs and French bull dogs, as I saw this dog I squealed it really is one of the cutest dogs ever.

9:43 Mary Poppins...nothing can compare to the classic movie. At this point I have moved on to rum and OJ. Why orange Juice, because that is the only mixer I have)

9:50 The ROCKETTS. I saw the Rockettst Easter special once. The show started with the Rocketts dressed like nuns singing in Latin, it was awkward and everyone in my family could not stop laughing. I opened up my blinds and I am sitting in the sun like a cat with my feet up in the air like a 15 year old girl on the phone. I have no clue why you need to know that but it fit.

9:56 The TV coverage of the balloons is starting…this is the boring part

9:59 I SPOKE TOO SOON DOLLY PARTON. God I wish I look as great as her “I am not the Dalai Lama but I try” words to live by Dolly, words to live by.

It has been a great hour. Mission accomplished if I do say so myself.

I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving and a lovely time with family and friends. Have a lovely Tofurkey day!

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

I missed DEXTER for THIS?

So I went on a date Sunday night. My first New York City date. I “met” the guy through the personals on bust.com through Bust magazine and had high hopes for this gent. He is 30, in magazine publishing, plays the guitar and seemed to be very attractive.

APPEARANCES ARE DECIEVING PEOPLE. Do not put up pictures of yourself that make you seem hotter than you are! That is just such a bad idea; I cannot stress it enough. Sure I put up a few pictures where my neck is at such an angle that I look like I have better bone structure than I do, but I wasn’t hiding a major skin disorder or a major jacked up teeth situation that causes a nerdy sounding lisp. Just don’t do it people.

So let me back up a little bit. So this Internet “bad-ass hottie” named Steve and I had been emailing for a few weeks and decided to go out for dinner and drinks. “Mamas gonna get some!” I casually thought to myself while making a thrusting motion of my pelvis (at work).

A few days before the date was to go down (if the pictures were accurate…zing!), Steve called me to chat. I was immediately caught off guard by what a stereotypically “nerd” voice he had. It was nasal with a slight lisp and he stuttered a lot. He also talked. A lot. Mostly about the difference between chrome slides vs. Digital photos in a magazine. Now I’m a design/magazine nerd, but such conversation is not the way to my heart, or my pants. He also divulged that the reason he couldn’t go out on Saturday is because he was going to UFC, or Ultimate Fight Championship.



Like the cage fighting you see on Spike TV when you’re flipping through channels...his “obsession.” Hmm…I hung up a half hour later feeling 98% “Oh fuck, how do I get out of this gracefully?” However, the 2% left rationalized that cool people can be into lame things. Take me for example, I love “Buffy The Vampire Slayer,” “Mystery Science Theater 3000” and went to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival for 6 years in a row out of choice. Or my roommate Serena! She’s cool as shit, but enjoys a good Renaissance Festival and likes horses. Or my sister! The epitome of cool, and she likes Linkin Park! I was feeling better and ready for our date.

The day before our date R2Steve2 (as he shall here on be called due to his cliché nerdy voice) called again and said we would be going to a Mexican restaurant on St. Marks Place. “Score!” I thought. I had had a very successful first date at a nice Mexican restaurant before and St. Marks is a trendy area. So the afternoon of the date I was filled with anticipation and butterflies. So I killed those butterflies with my pre-date ritual of a glass of wine and a bagel (well, the bagel wasn’t part of the ritual, I was just hungry). Except instead of one glass, I had three and was feeling a wee bit sloshed seeing how I had only eaten half a bagel that day. I realized that I had no idea where St. Marks Place was, if it was a park, circle, arch, dome, cube? I looked at the MTA map and saw that there wasn’t a St. Marks Place stop anywhere. Not wanting to call R2Steve2 back and reveal that not only am I new to the city, but I’m heavily geographically challenged, I searched the rolodex of my mind to think of who would know how to get around St. Marks. I knew there was only one man: my father. Seeing how my father went to NYU and spent a good chunk of the 60’s as a junkie laying around that area I called him up. Yes kids, I asked my dad for directions to my date drunk. Siiiighhh… But trusty old dad knew the directions of which trains I should take off of the top of his head and I was on my way.

Half an hour later, there I was, gussied up and looking fly, waiting for R2Steve2 at the corner of St. Marks (a street, not a park, circle, arch dome or cube) and third. Suddenly, he walked up and we exchanged glances. “What’s up, I’m Patsy.” I calmly said. “OH MY FUCKING GOD! HE’S SHORT, HAS GRAYING HAIR, LOOKS LIKE HE’S SUFFERING FROM LEPROCY, HAS A SERIOUS BUSTED TOOTH PROBLEM AND SMELLS LIKE ONIONS! RUN! RUN AS FAST AS THOSE IRONIC COWBOY BOOTS YOU ARE WEARING WILL TAKE YOU!” screamed my brain. But I’m not that shallow. I decided not to run and to continue on to the Mexican place and give the man a chance.

Now about this Mexican place. Turns out he takes me to Burritoville, a burrito-to-go place where you order at the counter. I got a taco salad and offered to pay but was met with R2Steve2 assuring me “Oh no, it’s on me, it’s the least I can do since we have to eat it in the cold.” Are you fucking kidding me? It was 32 degrees out! We shivered over our food talking awkwardly, most of the time just him talking about his new found love of shrooms and the best way to brew them in tea. Once the meal was over I thought, “Thank God, I’m getting the fuck out of here!” But then R2Steve2 asked if I wanted to go for a drink. And I just can’t refuse a damn drink, so I reluctantly said yes.

R2Steve2 took me to “The 24-hour Cocktail Lounge,” which I can best describe as the seedy bar at a seedy strip club, but sans strippers. We were the only people there (besides the 90 year old bartender who can’t speak anymore and just shuffles around) and there was no music playing. You could cut the awkward with a knife. We sat down at a booth that no doubt has already given me the Herp, and began awkwardly talking again as I chugged my Heineken. Finally another couple came in and started to have a normal conversation that was occasionally interrupted by bursts of laughter. “Do you think we have that kind of chemistry?” R2Steve2 asked. “No I don’t. I also think I have to go now.” And that was that.

Fuck. Me.
Patsy

Liberty High

I know you all sit and wonder how I spend my free time. And perhaps in all that wondering you had a strain of thought that went something like this:

“I bet Eddie sits around her apartment sporting a ‘Hanes Her Way’ sweatshirt, matching panties and matching thigh high socks. She sits on her daybed (which is also her couch) sipping hot coco and crafting. The whole time My So-Called Life (the recently released DVD box set) plays in the background.” Well random person, you are 100% correct.

1990’s Zeitgeist, plaid and teen angst is always awesome.

I wish I could like quit you Jordan Catalano ,
Eddie

Stuff that Turkey

Today’s drinking game is brought to you by a special little underage lady, my friend Golden. (No I do not spend my time trolling for underage girls in parks offering rides for candy. Golden has graduated college and has a legit job, she just on the young side.)

One night I was one of those ‘bad’ friends and left her in a hotel while I went out to the bars. Golden joined forces with a co-worker and stayed in the hotel drinking. In a tipsy state Golden created The Food Network Drinking game. [Golden’s Edits: due solely to said co-worker's love of cooking, because Golden actually loathes the Food Network with the fiery passion of a thousand suns and wishes Rachel Ray would die a horrible, slow death. Get the fuck off my box of Triscuits, you crazy bitch!]

I can not attest to the quality of this game, for I was out wasting time and money. But when I returned to my hotel golden was giddy and obviously under the influence. With turkey day fast approaching, and as Americans turn their minds to food this is the perfect time to play. Feel free to play while your family members yell at each other. Or, if you come from one of those families gather everyone around the TV and play together.

Take a sip (of your expensive California wine…or in golden’s case Smirnoff Ice)
*When anyone with an accent speaks
* When a catch phrase is used
* Every time the title of the show is sung, spoken, or shown
* When measurements are given in immeasurable methods (such as a dash, a pinch, to taste)
* When the shows theme centers on an upcoming holiday
*Any time an onomatopoeia is used- IE the infamous "BAM!"

Finish your drinking
*Every time you see Rachel Ray (this rule can be amended for shows staring her…)
Golden’s Optional Rule: Hit your drinking mate with a pillow anytime a show staring Rachel starts. Yes, I know the rage that her annoying, shiny face induces. Just don't spill any booze in the process of releasing your anger. Wasted alcohol is not acceptable.
* When a shows theme is centered on a past holiday
* Whenever Neil Patrick Harris' full name is used

[Golden's Note- this game was born of a very specific show called Dinner Impossible, in which Neil Patrick Harris randomly guest starred as a sous chef, and I found that hilarious. How could you not laugh at Doogie in a kitchen, trying to make mango paste look like cheese? If you're really compelled to see this, the episode was called the Magician's Meal... or something.]

Wash your hands and double dare everyone in the room to take a shot
*When Mark Summers is on TV

Drink up Bitches

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick

In addition to tsunami warnings the cute coastal town warned me not to touch seals on the shore. There was a harsh monetary punishment for coming within 50 feet of the sea mammal. As a rebellious spirit I decided I had to break the law. I vowed to come within 49 feet or less of a live seal and poke it. My weapon of choice was my finger, with a short stick as a backup.

Sadly, I never achieved my goal of poking a seal. During a lovely walk on the beach a rock started to bark. After my girly shrikes ended I was delighted to find the noise coming from a cute little seal pup. The small creature looked up at me with big brown eyes (actually eye, the right one was crusty and closed) and instantly like the Grinch my heart grew. I also realized this thing was infected, and from the look of the funk eye it was not good.

I am a very tactile person when it comes to animals. Going to zoos and seeing animals just out of reach is torture. These beautiful majestic creatures behind plastic and bars call my name. They appear to say, “pssst Eddie, forget the sign, please pet us!” It is not just living creatures; I also have to fight the urge to touch museum artifacts and works of art. Like shooting up with dirty needles my personal demons are risky.

Years ago, at the National Zoo I was joking around with friends about panda coats. (If you ask me babies would also make a great leather coat. Over-fed babies plump and supple for the skinning. Babies from all different ethnicity's would create a darling patchwork effect… I am Cruella DeVille.) As soon as the sentence was out of my mouth a panda lady appeared. I do not use the name “panda lady” lightly; this woman was COVERED in panda gear. She wore panda shoelaces, socks, pants, t-shirt, vest, necklace and earrings. To top it all off panda lady donned a pair of panda ears in her damaged perm fried hair.

In a deep robust hausfrau voice panda lady proceeded to shout information at me. She informed the growing group panda hair was “poor coat material” along with other useless facts. All of a sudden from the back of her panda pants pocket the zoo worker (or what I hope was a zoo worker) pulled out a bag of panda hair (or what I hope was a bag of panda hair). The woman kept moving to stop me from running away. She firmly instructed me to reach into her zip block bag and touch the furry mass. The hair felt identical to a goat (truth-be-told it could have been a bag of goat hair). Yet, the experience quenched my thirst, I found out what a panda feels like without jumping into the bamboo ridden habitat.

There is a lesson in all of this (I am also the internet Aesop):

1) Panda people are weird

2) Sometimes making rude jokes and mistreating endangered wildlife can be a risky, yet awesome life choice.

I wish I could quit you,

Eddie

Rule #1 of Fight Club: don't blog about Fight Club

When I come home after work, generally I’m in one of two states.

State 1: Zombie State. Example: last Thursday I came home, drank half a bottle of wine in bed watching “Reno 911: Miami!” passed out and slept from 9:30pm until it was time to get up and get ready for work the next morning.

State 2: 12 Year-Old Boy with ADD/ADHD State. Example: A few weeks ago I had an enormous surplus of energy. Where this excess energy sometimes comes from, I have no idea, seeing as I’ve been compared to a housecat on numerous occasions. I decided to channel this energy in a constructive manner by challenging my boy roommate, Blair (of wrote the last Drinking Game fame) to a fight club. Blair being basically me in male form whole-heartedly agreed, and the battle ensued. Most of the fight was pretty innocent, spent rolling around and tackling each other while trying to sneak a punch in, but towards the end of the fight, we had a good old fashioned “How Hard Can You Punch Me?” competition. Two things went awry at this point. First, I held back. I should have beat the shit out of my dear best friend, but I know my own strength (Eddie can attest to this, we took kickboxing together), and I didn’t want to hurt the poor thing with my Hulk-like strength. The other thing I forgot is that Blair is athletic and really strong. I don’t know why I forgot this, seeing as Blair is a dancer and once was a gymnast…boy is strong. As my mom later said to me, “The boy may be gay, but the boy is still a boy.” So I let him pound away on my right upper arm until I couldn’t take it anymore. The result was a beautifully impressive black and blue bruise the size of a baseball that lasted about a week and a half.

However, once the bruise disappeared, I sort of missed it. It made me feel so badass. And it’s been cold in New York as of late, so I’m always wearing long sleeves or a wrap. One night last week when I had another random and unexplained bout of high energy, I dared Blair to punch the spot where the old bruise was as hard as he could repeatedly in hopes that a new bruise would return (I swear I’m not a masochist weirdo…I just get bored and I like proving my high tolerance for pain…I DON’T NEED TO EXPLAIN MY ACTIONS TO YOU!) And indeed, a new bruise is back…and bigger and blacker and greener than ever. I was impressed for a few days until my mom informed me that such a bruise could turn into a blood clot, move to my brain and kill me (Fight Club not over however, we’ll just move to my left arm, and I won’t hold back anymore).

So the Fight Club, and resulting massive bruise really haven’t been a problem until today. This morning I was running late, and before I was out the door, I realized I was wearing short sleeves, exposing my disgusting and suspicious bruise. With no time to coordinate a whole new outfit, I ran to my dresser and half-assed covered it up with foundation and shimmery powder. So now I’m walking around with a bruise that looks like I’m desperately trying to cover up a beating I got from my boyfriend with shimmery powder.

If I had a quarter from the number of concerned/odd looks I’ve gotten from co-workers today, I’d have a shitload of quarters. When faced with inquisitive co-workers, it would probably be less embarrassing to mutter some cliché line a la Lifetime made for TV movie (maybe specifically from the one starring Tiffany Amber Thiessan where her army husband beats her but nobody cares because that’s the price of being an army wife…anyone? No takers? Only I saw that?) like “Oh that…I…I uh ran into a wall,” or “Oh THAT…haha…no my army husband beats me.” These statements are all less embarrassing and more socially acceptable than “Oh that? My roommate and I sometimes play Fight Club and see how hard we can wail on each other. He’s good. I’m secretly a 12-year-old boy on the inside with the body of a stacked 22-year-old woman. Well see you later in the conference room!”

So if anyone asks, Blair is my husband, he’s a serviceman and he puts me in my place when I get new fangled ideas like maybe getting a part-time job or learning to read.

Sha la la!
Patsy