7

I recently celebrated my 7 year anniversary with my boyfriend. Yup, 7 years. For the most part they've been good years. And we did take a break in the middle, but I still consider those months as part of the 7 years.
So, ofcourse, because all humans think they all need to behave the same way and do all the same things, I was asked, after telling someone I was going on 7 years, why I wasn't engaged. My first respone, "Well, I'm just not that kind of girl!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAA! Right? Am I right?!"
Okay, see, that's not okay. It's not true, and it's not okay. I may be that kind of girl, I just haven't expressed it yet. I mean, yes, the idea of actually planning a wedding seems about as fun as hiding in an attic to avoid the Nazis. And picking out a wedding dress, flowers, mood music, guests, napkins, plates, fish and locations is the thing I want to do right before I get my clitoris pierced and show my dad. They sound equally as fun.
One of my favorite questions I've gotten lately was:
"When is he going to shit or get off the pot?"
Really? That's such a scripted question, first of all, and secondly, that's a very aggressive sentence for something that's supposed to be a beautiful expression between two people. And let's take a moment to break that question down. Shit or get off the pot? Do people do that? Does that refer to someone who is really indecisive and is never sure if they have to have a bowel movement, but they like to give themselves a fair shot, so that get into the bathroom line at Starbucks, and sit and sit, until people are banging on the door, screaming, "Shit, or get off the pot!!"

Frankly, I don't want that question to affect my marital status at all. I don't want my boyfriend to hear this statement, go into immediate panic mode, which will lead to me coming home after a long day pouding the pavement. The lights are off, but a candle is flickering, there are rose petals spread around, a bottle of champagne on the table, he's in a suit, down on one knee and he says.
"Amy, I was recently presented with two choices. To either shit, or get off the pot. I have chosen the former, to shit. I want to shit with you for the rest of my life!" Ewwww.

Anyway,the point is, do I need to be subjected to the judgement that comes along with that question? No! Plus, why the f do you all care? I mean, do I show signs that I need someone to take care of me? When my BF calls, is his ring tone the wedding march, followed by someone crying? No. Do I dress up like a bride every Halloween and instead of trick or treating, I just assign you to my wedding party? No! Does the Japanese character tattoo I have on my butt actually mean "I do"? No. Well, I hope it doesn't. Honestly I was 18 when I got it and into taking E, so it's anybody's guess.

Maybe I need to start taking matters into my own hands? Because it's usually the married people who always ask me these questions, not the single people(who just may not ask because they're too sleepy from all the Zoloft they're on due to not being married themselves).
Maybe the next time a married person asks me why, after all this time, I'm not engaged, I can simply say:
"Hmm, that's a good question.I'll think about that. How about you? Are you EVER going to have a baby? Wow! When is he gonna knock you up or get off the pot? Why are you getting so upset? Oh, is it because you're baren? Yeah."

That seems like a good solution. In fact, just thinking about it makes me feel better. Phew!
All I want to do now is get into my fort made out of Modern Bride and finish this uneaten wedding cake I took out of the dumpster of the local church. Later!

Fashionable

I was walking down 82nd and 1st today, making my way back to my apartment. There are two homeless dudes that are always hanging out on our block, but on either ends. One is always rocking the sweet streets of 82nd and 1st while the other is more wishy washy and changes sides from 82rd and 1st to 83rd and 2nd. He's a bad ass! He's very fashionable, always creating new and exciting things to wear from what he discovers in the neighborhood. Once I saw him wearing a pair of garbage jeans, some paper bag shoes and an awesome headband made from newspapers and orange peels! He's the jam!
Anyhoo, these guys are totally harmless. I mean come on, they're Upper East Side bums, they have etiquette!

So this particular evening I was coming from a disappointing audition and got me and the man of the house a bottle of wine. And when I say "man of the house", I mean my boyfriend, who really didn't get any wine because mama needed her makeitallokay juice. While crossing the street I see the fashionable-hobo kicking it on his corner. He never, ever says anything. Not to anyone but himself, that is. He's actually really great at doing voices and impressions. Once I caught him impersonating someone, maybe the mailman or a former President, all by himself, and he was really good! He's great at using different voices.
Anyway, I didn't think tonight would be any different. I glanced at him while walking past, and for the first time, he was looking back at me.
"Hi there. How are you tonight?" I asked, and smiled.
"I'm doing, okay miss, thank you" He answered.
"Thats good to hear. Have a good night"
"Um, miss? Would you be able to spare some change? I'm really hungry."
"Oh, um, sure. No problem."
I usually give money to homeless folks. It's a really unfortunate state to be in, and especially here in New York. The weather sucks and it's just a harsh place to be. I start to rifle through my purse and pull out a couple of singles.
"Here you go. Take care!" I feel cheery suddenly. Like the night wasn't a total waste.
The fashionable man looks me in the face. I take note that tonight he's clad in a holey sweater and on his left foot an Ugg, on his right, a Croc. Man, he's got taste!
"Thank you you fat ass!" He bellows. Then he laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
I'm stunned. Wait, is he allowed to do that? Can he call me a "fat ass" legally? I just gave that fucker a couple of singles! And he called me fat? Several come backs speed through my brain.
1.Well, at least I can afford to eat!
2. It's not fat, I'm very strong, especially in my thighs
3. Fuck you!

None of these things came out my mouth, instead I just stared in disbelief! And then, I...laughed! A lot! This guy just called me a fat ass! Beautiful! It was a very honest moment, and hilarious, so I'm glad it happened. No excuse me while I barf up my dinner so I feel whole again.

Goodnight!

Smiling

I love green tea. Specifically iced green tea from Starbucks. Unsweetened. I don't especially like Starbucks otherwise, and no, it has nothing to do with the fact that Starbucks is destroying our culture of Mom and Pop businesses, blah, blah, blah. No, I just think their coffee is shit. But the iced green tea is exceptional.

I just got back from a gig last night in Hollywood, Florida. I'm tired, and may or may not have the swine flu. I thought a nice green tea would set me right. I walk to the nearest Starbucks two blocks away, and I'm still pleased it's that far away and not in my building at this point. I get into the long line, but I have time, no worries. There is a young man in front of my, maybe 29, 30. He's talking on his cell phone. I'm not tuning into what he's saying. I'm not particularly interested frankly. This guy looks like the type who has frequent discussions about Hedge funds and the Republican party. I'm casually eyeing the CD cover that they're playing that day. Maxwell. Hmmm.
"Well, just know that my cock is smiling."
What? Maxwell? I'm going to buy this CD.
"Hahahaha...yes, I'm going to punish you tonight you dirty slut. Hahahaha."
Well, I never. I'll take 2 of these CD's!
"You'd better start warming up that mouth of yours skank."
Okay. Really? No. It can't be. It is!! It's the hedge fund Republican. Talking dirty. In a STARBUCKS! At 8:28 in the morning! On the Upper East Side!!!!
YES! Oh God, I knew I loved this city. And I also know that our society is on the verge of total collapse. Is this talk in public okay now? Maybe it's only okay in Starbucks. Now I'm glued to this guy like Cheney to a shotgun.
"Okay, okay...great. See you then."
NO! Don't hang up! I'm almost to the counter...and, ugh, yes canIgetanicedgreenteaunsweetendventipleaseTHANKS! I don't have time to interrupt my listening for this ordering crap!
"Okay, take care. What, yes...ofcourse I'll bring some wine. What are we drinking these days? Pinot Noir. Wow, I don't even know who you are anymore...hahaha"
Oh no. I imagined it, didn't I? I have a fever. Oh Christ, I'm burning up, and imagined this preppy white guy talking dirty in a Starbucks on the Upper East Side. I should call 911.
"Okay...okay....okay...Can't wait to fuck you! Talk to you later."

Ahhhh, I'm okay, you're okay, we're all okay. I do have a slight fever, but it's not enough to have me call an ambulance or not go to work. This white collared, blonde haired man in his late 20's/early 30's was talking openly about banging someone he has little to no respect for in a coffee shop at 8:28am, and the world goes round and round. Now excuse me, I have some green tea to enjoy.

Today, at 12:49 pm I took a step that I never thought I would take. I step that in previous days I have scoffed at. A step that has changed me forever. A step that I cannot take back.
I opened a retirement fund at my bank.
I know. Yes, I'm serious. No, I didn't drink this morning. I didn't!
This retirement fund has put me in a whole different category of person. Why did I do it? Well, this may be the biggest shock of all, but I'm turning 30 in two months. 30 for women is HUGE!! It's when our "clock" starting ticking like the one on 60 minutes. We notice little changes in our appearance that I won't go into detail about, but it includes weird drooping in places that shouldn't droop. It's basically when we become real....grown-ups. Now, some people reach this level much earlier than 30. I am just a late bloomer.

Does this big step in securing my financial future make me a different person? Will I stop watching/quoting reality shows? No!! Never! I'm not dead! Will I continue to openly mock Scientologists in the streets? Yes! Of course! Will I still view karaoke as the most efficient way of expressing myself both emotionally an physically? I'm not even going to dignify that, you know me better than that!What I think it means is that I'm actually taking this stuff seriously which makes me......sick! Ugh! Who am I? Oh my God!!! I miss my old self! My getting a Brazilian wax after 4 martinis then cry on the table self! My starting a fight at the library because they were out of all the old Babysitters Clubs from when I was 10 self. My drinking till 4 am then eating everything I see out of my friends friend's refrigerator before they get up self.

I can't turn back now. I guess I just have to get a Pomeranian, married in some garden in New Jersey, have 3.2 kids and drive a station wagon. Great. Well, the upside is that life includes Botox, so I'll be fine. And by fine I guess I mean fine on the outside but crying on the inside, however you won't know because I'm going to Botox my tear ducts.

Let the fun begin!

WTF

Hi you,

I think there comes a point in every young girls life when she sits down and starts to think about her death. Now when I say "young girl" I mean 29, and when I say "think about her death" I don't mean, like, tomorrow or anything! Jeez, I'm not suicidal! I'm just a planner. I want to have things done and settled by the time I am done and settled.

There are a lot of things I would like to accomplish while on this earth. For one, I would love to have really long hair again. I know, I'm a dreamer, but I look at all those Misha Barton look-a-likes out there, and I can't say I don't churn with envy.

For two, I would like to be a repertory player on SNL. You're supposed to be really specific with your dreams, right?!! Well that's what I want! I can do lot of characters and impressions and I sing. So there, suck on that!
And I think that I would like to have a baby. Ucchhhhhh. I know, I just threw up in my own mouth, but it's true. At some point I should have a person come out of my body and I should name them and feed them regularly.
I would like someone to dress like me for Halloween. Come to the party as Amy. That would be great.
I would like to write for a magazine, preferably about some sort of procedure that makes your wrinkles turn into chocolate to feed the homeless. Or my child that I'm going to have at some point.
I would like to have two dogs. One big and one small. I would like to name them Silly Dilly and Josh. Josh would be the smaller one I think.
I would also like to have the power to make bees attack people I don't care for. Like the ones who don't laugh at my set at a show. Or Republicans.

These are dreams, I know, but dreams can come true. Just ask Peter Pan and Ross Perot! They know!

When I finally do die at the age of 92(but still with an ass you can bounce a nickle off of. Or a Wheat penny) I would like you all to behave in the following fashion:
1. Be classy America. Dress in black with little to no cleavage. Butt cleavage that is, boob cleavage, totally okay.
2. Cry. A lot. And hard. Cry so hard and dramatically. Throw yourself on the floor and then barf a little but keep on crying.
3. Sing a gospel song. Like Amazing Grace or...I don't know any others. So learn one. For my funeral. When I'm 92.
4. Tell a funny story about me. You can even make one up as long as it's funny! And preferably not one about you catching me farting in a car museum or passed out in the men's room of a retirement home. Again, keep it classy. America.
5. And finally, DANCE! That's all. Just dance your sweet little caboose off.

There we go! Now I feel better. All my wishes out on the table...oh,no, WAIT! I forgot the final rule!

6.Make sure my head is cryogenically frozen and pasted upon my new body that has been scientifically manufactured for me by the smartest of Japanese chemists who not only made me have Oprahs power but also her bust line. Win win!

Okay, that's enough.

Love,

Amy

यो दद्दी.or..Yo Daddy

Hi you. You with all your glory. You with your silly face!

First things first. Let's address why the title of this blog is in Tamal. I'd now like to answer that. I don't know. I was writing this blog while I was in India and for some reason the title comes up in the native Indian tongue. It's nuts.

Second thing second. I have an IPhone. The IPhone has changed my life. A tiny cell phone with internet capabilities and an mp3 player has changed me. Not only has the IPhone made me a better citizen, lover, philanthropist and butterfly catcher, it has also opened my eyes to injustices of the world!! That last sentence to you may not have warranted two exclamation points, but it's important that you are aware of my passion on this subject!! Here's how is all came about:

I, like most IPhone owners, have a lot of fun keeping ourselves busy with applications. There's an application for anything you can think of ever. There are bowling games, and things to monitor your weight, and fart noise apps followed by recipes. There are fish apps and cat apps and bubble wrap you can "pop" and a zippo lighter that you can flick open and light the flame by touching the screen. It's magical! I spend a lot of time downloading these applications because frankly you never know when your gonna have some down time and the only cure for your painful boredom is reading about different drinking games you can play later on that night.

I had the pleasure of coming across one particular app one lazy Tuesday afternoon that altered my life forever. Well, not really. But for the few minutes that I had before I realized that I had an episode of The Bad Girls Club dvr'd that I hadn't watched yet. The application was titled YoMomma. It consisted of all the Yo Momma humor you could physically and emotionally handle. It had the classics like "Yo momma's so dumb she put a quarter in the parking meter and waited for a gumball to come out." to fresh up and comers like "Yo mommas so poor she got married just to get the rice.". All delightful, all the time.

This got me thinking: How come we don't have Yo Daddy jokes, hmmm? Why are our mothers the easy butt of jokes? I mean, haven't they been through enough with us? From the pain of childbirth to the inevitable disappointment they feel when you decide to skip college to join your 47 year old boyfriend/cult leader on the road of redemption. Leave mothers alone! Let's turn our attention to other groups of family units, shall we? Well lucky for you I have taken it upon myself to write some familial jokes to take the pressure off of you. You're welcome.

Try these on for size...

Yo' Daddy's so dumb, he forgot my birthday, which is upsetting for me, because he remembered yours, and we're twins.

How about...

Yo' Daddy's so poor he took all the money out of my college fund to pay for that hooker that ended up being my stepmother.

Or this....

Yo' Daddy's so fat, he's at risk for heart disease, which in turn puts you at risk, because technically, it's hereditary.

We don't have to stop there. No sir-ee! There's plenty more where that came from. How about ripping on your brother? He's sort of a dick, right? Let's do it!

Yo' brother's so dumb, he doesn't even recognize that my father loves him way more than me.

This is a zinger....

Yo' brother's so deaf, he couldn't even hear me crying at night all alone while he read comics books that our parents bought for him even though I didn't get anything except for a stupid old Marie Claire subscription which I am clearly too young for, even though his bunk is right under mine.

Ouch! Right?! Ouch! That's gonna leave a mark!

You know what? I'm on a friggin' roll with this! Let's take another crack at this. No one gets away unscathed. Let's try...second cousin. I know, I'm vicious.

Take this....

Yo' second cousin looks so familiar, you swear that she looks way more like your brother than you do, which prompts you to do some snooping, which then leads to an unfortunate and shocking discovery that your mother had an indiscretion about 29 years before with your Aunts husband, but it was promptly swept under the rug and almost forgotten, but then *poof* nine months later you were born which seemed weird to your "father" because they had stopped being intimate 6 weeks after they were married, but it was all too painful to explore, so now here you are in therapy with a terrible addiction to Vicodin and cutting all because your "Mother" made some poor choices that you now hold the burden to.

What?!!!! Burn!! Oh my God, that one is so harsh! I feel so badly for whatever person any of those soon-to-be-classic jokes may apply to. Luckily not to me or anyone I know. Booyah!

Well, gotta go. I'm starting to feel feelings.

How mature am I?!

Hi there,

Seriously, I am getting super mature! This isn't just a guess, I have proof.

So today I went to the doctor. No, nothing is wrong, I didn't catch something from a monkey in India. It was my yearly check up, in which I have to have blood drawn.
(Side note on that: I went to lunch today right after my appointment, and I had the band-aid on my arm where the blood was taken. I put my coat over my chair and walked to the bathroom. The kitchen is right in front of the bathroom stalls, which are two separate, single rooms. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted someone in the kitchen and turned my head towards them. In a matter of seconds the cook who caught my eye looked at me, down to the band-aid on my arm, then back at me, and tilted his head to the side with a weird smile, which just proves what Common was saying that WHOLE time with his ads on the subway: knowing IS sexy. This guy probably thought I was some loose chick who was getting her monthly shake-down before she hit the streets again. Not me buddy. Not anymore).

I hate going to the doctor, which, fortunately, I don't have to do very often. I just have to go once a year to get my thyroid checked. I have a SUPER sexy thyroid thing called Hashimoto's disease, which totally sounds like I have a giant mole shaped like a Sumo wrestler that comes to life during a full moon to kill and eat cats before going back into hiding for another 28 days.Ugh, I wish! That would be awesome! Hashimoto's isn't that fun, it just means my thyroid has a hard time making enough thyroxine on it's own, so I need to take pills everyday for the rest of my life. Sounds like a pain in the tush, but it's not a big deal at all. However I do need to get it checked every year because my thyroid is a total biatch and gets out of whack really easily. The reason why I hate going to the doctor even once a year is because I'm a Jew. Jews love, love, love to create diseases in which they will die an untimely death, and I am no exception. On more that a million occasions I have convinced myself that I have cancer, diabetes, rabies. I once cried in my room for an hour and a half after watching some MTV special on that strain of chlamydia that is resistant to most antibiotics. Why? Who knows. I've been with the same man for 6 years, and unless he's an undercover ho, then I have no worries.

So I put off going to the doctor at all costs, and so far I've been fairly successful and healthy. I think my robust health comes from my Grams, who died in her late 80's, and within those many years drank and smoked herself into delightfulness. Plus she has skin like a 4 year old, so I'm not slighting any of her methods.

Today was a good visit(well I think, I still have to get my blood results back! God I hope I don't have the shingles!) so I took myself out to lunch right after. I was starved having to fast the whole morning. Funny, since I always try to not eat normally, but when I'm told I can't, I'm ravenous! I'm an asshole like that. Since it's my day off I decided I would have a glass of champagne and some fried calamari. If you know me, you know that I love to have a glass of something during daylight hours. Drinking during the day is the best! Not because I have a drinking problem Dad, no it's because I like to go to bed very early, so if I'm going to drink then I prefer to do it early, like 1:00 in the afternoon, so I can be in bed at 9:00 like normal. Plus being drunk during the day time means that I get to make my Kim Kardashian faces in the natural light, which any fashionista will tell you, is the most honest, yet forgiving. Anyway, my champagne, fried food lunch was fantastic! I then grappled between heading to the Strawberry on 86th or head to the CVS to fill my prescriptions. I decided on the latter because frankly I didn't need another sweat suit that said "Phatty" on the back of the pants like the one I got last time I went champagne shopping, and I thought that maybe a nap might be in my immediate future. I get to the pharmacy and the technician told me it would be a 15 minute wait, so I have some time to look around. I LOVE the drug store! I love buying crap I don't need! It wouldn't be strange for me to have a glass of wine and buy $100 dollars worth of nail products, because I've done that. And you were probably with me.

I was overstimulated with everything from wrinkle jelly, to hair softener, to lip plumper, to extra strength lip plumper, to nail growing solution, to anti-fungal oil(you never know, this is New York) to barrettes that had ducks on them. I immediately picked up the wrinkle jelly, because my doctor has opened a side business within her office due to the terrible state of medical care in this country. She is doing Botox and Laser Hair removal in addition to being an internist. Every time I go there she tells me the benefits of laser hair removal, and I wrestle between being insulted and intrigued, but I always smile and think that it's a stupid waste of money. I gave up Brazillian waxes a couple of years ago when I decided that if I were my pubic hair and I got ripped out at the roots every 3 weeks, that I would pick up the hint that I was not welcome there. My pubic hair is about as smart as, well, a box of pubic hair. Also I don't think you should have to drink 3 martini's to make yourself do anything, except for sex of course, because that's disgusting.

The Botox is a new thing for her, and I have to admit, I WILL be getting Botox when the time is right, without a doubt. I am definitely the type of person who gets Botox, and that isn't necessarily a bad thing. I plan on looking 9 when I am 90, so you can suck it with your big ole judgey face! Anyhoo, I ceremoniously picked up the wrinkle stuff, the lip plumper, and then spent 7 minutes trying to find out what shade disappeared against the inside of my wrist so that I could find out what my "Perfect Shade" was for Loreal,Perfect Shade Foundation for women over 40, when suddenly it hit me: I don't really NEED this wrinkle stuff, I'm not even 30 yet, and I stay out of the sun. I don't really NEED this lip plumper stuff, I've tried it all before and it doesn't really work, plus having a juicy set of DSL's doesn't get you as far as it once did. I don't really NEED this fungal cream, I don't have a fungus that you can even see with the naked eye. Then an amazing thought came into my head-Oh my God, am I....maturing?!! Is this what it means to be an adult, to give a second thought to buying nail polish that reflects light? Wow. This is a new thing for me, and I think I....may...be okay with it. I went to the pharmacy counter after the 15 minutes with nothing else in my hands expect for my new found grown-upness, very pleased with myself and my strength.

Now if only I could learn to cook, clean and like kids, I would be almost a woman!