fupafighter

Happy New Year!

So here were are again.  Another year.  Another set of resolutions.  I heard a few days ago some self-help guru propose that people call them New Years Goals and not New Years Resolutions.  I think I agree with this, b/c a goal implies something one can slowly work towards, it allows for ups and downs, for positives and negatives, for the possibility of failure and the probability of picking up the pieces.  Resolution comes from resolve and it's too much of an absolute, at least for me.  It sets up situations in black and white: either you succeed or you fail, there's no in-between.  I need to know that I can fail and not give up.  Isn't this a nice thing for you to think about too?

I started a list of goals and realize that I really have one:  This year...

I Will Face My Fears

This is obviously an over-arching, all-encompassing, undoubtedly cheezy but nonetheless truthful goal that will take Herculean strength on my part to apply in my daily life, even to the smallest degree.

Last year THIS WAS MY LIST of resolutions for 2005.  Since I was actually too afraid to set some real goals, I did the purely "un-Natalie" thing and decided to make a joke.  Wow, shocking isn't it?

To launch this trend of owning up, I'm going to be bold enough to say that I'm counting days.  I have started to count days before, but always in my head.  Therefore when I failed, only I knew.  And that's fine, b/c I didn't count.

I count.  I count to a lot of people.  Above all, I count to myself.

Here's to 2006.  I spent the Eve with my parents at a restaurant.  I was in bed by 2:30 am.  It's the first New Year's day in about a decade that I'm not hung over.  I exercised.  I went to mass with my Mom.  I've contacted people that I've fallen out of touch with and answered emails that have been sitting in my box for weeks and opened bills that I've been toting around with me all month.  Face it baby.

Happy New Year to all my friends and strangers and cyber lurkers.  I'm owning this year muthafucka. I hope you do too.

Was I Alive Right Then?

The one redeeming thing about working at the Crew has been the staff.  For the most part the people are young, smart, funny, but more important, they are cynical, jaded, and wonder too on a daily basis why they are folding argyle,v-neck, merino sweaters.  It's basically a where-did-things-go-awry-fest.  My favorite subject.

Though I do like my co-workers, there are only a handful to whom I've all but completely dropped my proverbial 'filter' (and it is arguable that I even possess the  shadow of one in the first place).  So during break-time conversations I've tried to keep the nasty factor in the yellow zone, every now and then coming dangerously close to elevating it into the red, but to pat myself on the back, I've been as 'reserved' as I can be. 

A few days ago a group of us were chatting in the window-less, stale, shoebox in the back of the store that has been relegated as the employee break room merely b/c it has four stools, a water cooler, and a small microwave breeding paleostine amoeba on it's rotating tray.  There was me, a big, ghetto stock guy named Pablo, a cute, petite New-Yorican named Eileen, and a few fawny cashiers.

Pablo: Damn!  The water in that cooler is fuckin' warm yo!  The water in the toilet bowl is cooler then that!

Me: Yeah?  You have a habit of lapping it up from the bowl?

Pablo:  Nawww, not really, heh heh.

Me: Well what makes you an expert on the temperature of the bowl water?

Eileen (looking up casually from her empanada): It's b/c when Pablo takes a big shit in the morning, the shit plops into the bowl and all of this water splashes up on his ass.  Dat's how he know it cold!

Me:  Ewww, that's disgusting!

Eileen:  But you know it's true. Don't tell me that ain't true.  You know it's true.

Me:  Umm, yeah.  It's true.

Mind you, we were all eating lunch then as well.  Rare are the moments when I'm the one that's flabbergasted and not standing on the other side of 'the line.'  In a room full of half-strangers half-heartedly enjoying their fast food, I think visions of plopping shits took the cake for most inappropriate.  Or maybe I'm just becoming a prude.  It's a fine like folks.

The Perfect Job

I keep calling my absence from cyberspace a hiatus or a lapse, but I think I should just face up to the fact that I'm kind of over the whole 'blogging' thing, if that is to say, I was ever into it in the first place.  Half of my entries are apologies for not writing whereas the other half are merely the written transcripts of the drunken mishaps of the night before.  Solid literature.

Not to mention the whole me-me-me factor of blogging, which only doesn't annoy me when I'm reading about, not surprisingly, me.

Therefore, I'm just popping my head in to say hello (hello typepad, hello fupafighter, hello 21st- century-version of calligraphized fountain pen tirades) and highlight a job posting I saw online today that I think might just be my destined career.  Unfortunately I'm three years underqualified, have no true prior 'work' experience regarding the subject matter aside from living it on a daily basis, and I'm not a thirty-some fraternity alumni.  Still, if you saw this posting, wouldn't you be a little curious too?

Liquor & Auto Manager Details Magazine

12/6/2005

New York, NY USA

Full Time

Please, they had me at liquor and auto.  Enough said.

Airing My Own Dirty Laundry

My good friend has a site where (almost) daily, he casts his witticisms across cyberspace and his readership eagerly awaits the next batch of dirty laundry to be deposited into the textual hamper.  Airing of this sort is desired and encouraged, but then again, it's completely proverbial.

Last week the stomach flu hosted a demolition derby in my gastrointestinal system.  I was also summoned to jury duty on Monday morning.  In short, I was fucked. But the law-abiding, god-fearing, politically-astute, socially-sensitive, Jerry Falwell-masturbatory-fantasizing citizen in me decided that I should at least show in person at the court house to avoid any legal repercussions.  I showed up two hours late--I never listed "punctual" above.

I was redirected to a different depressing legal establishment a few blocks away where in a matter of 30 seconds the clerk assigned me a new date.  By that point I had visions of my bed and tall glasses of Alka Seltzer dancing in my head. 

After arriving home, I couldn't tear my clothes off fast enough in my bedroom.  As my jeans hit the floor, I noticed something dangling out of the left leg.  It was a pair of underwear.  Dirty underwear.  Peculiar, since I was already wearing underwear.  It dawned on me that they probably got stuck in there the last time I wore the jeans and didn't realize it.

Therefore I walked around Centre St., two courthouses, and took a round trip on the 1 train with dirty drawers peeking out at the world from my pant leg like a curious groundhog.  Now, if that's not airing some serious dirty laundry, friends, I don't know what is.  Just another reason why I should really never leave my apartment...

Douchable Cream Finding

Yup, that's about all I got when I read the directions for the research test I took for a freelance position at Martha Stewart Living.  The test consisted of three parts:

1. fact-check a recipe for salmon loaf

2. copy edit a story on salt-water taffy

3. fact-check and edit a mock article on how to make holiday pop up cards.

Umm, yeah.  The directions to these tests stated that a person should look for errors, site back up sources for the fact checks, and point out places where further elaboration might be needed.  For example:  When decorating with twill tape, should the twill tape be attached with fusible seam binding?

They obviously had NO idea who they were giving this test to.  And what is twill tape?

Like I said--douchable cream finding.  Is it a wonder that the opportunity went to someone else??

Joining the Crew

Sad that it's procrastinating working on my thesis that compels me to write in my blog.  Oh well, at least right now I'm not where I can usually be found--nestled in the canyon in my couch, awe-struck by the demi-god I pray to on a daily basis, my TV.

Maybe it's just a small dose of being busy, mixed with two pinches of shame,  a cup of sheer laziness, and a dollop of guilt that has been the recipe keeping me  from updating for a while.  But I can't quite hide it from the world any longer...I'm in retail.

Yes, yes, like serving drinks to the gays wasn't enough, I now get to have a bunch of Japs sidelining me on the floor at J.Crew asking for another size. 

That's not my job, bitch. 

I'm in the office at the Columbus Circle shop and responsible for sending out the catalog--or shall I get technical, locator--orders that swamp our database each day.  No, it's not glamorous, but it's part time and I'm totally in it for the discount.  However, I couldn't help but think on my first day, before anyone showed me the ropes in the office, when I was put in the fitting room to fold clothes that A) this is shit I should've done ten years ago when I was a bratty teenager B) I probably wouldn't have been such a brat if I actually had a job like this back then and C) no, I can't get you another color of that tank b/c I don't know if it matches with your cashmere A-line b/c I have a masters degree in creative writing and not fashion! (well, at least the mere suggestion of an actual degree anyway).

I'm thinking now that it would be enlightening to just get a new job every six months, one which I would probably have at one point turned my nose up at otherwise (basically, if I follow this system, I could very well be continually employing myself for the remainder of my existence.)  I mean, if I now over-tip and fold my clothes neatly after using a fitting room, what next? 

I should probably try my hand in a laundromat--maybe then I'll think twice about throwing my period panties in the hamper without batting an eye, just so the Asians can scrub them clean and return them to me, virtually, spotless.

The Most Disappointing Moments

This morning when I was working on my thesis...oh wait, did my readership just die of shock, I think so...but yes, believe it, as I had to meet with my adviser today and turn in a pile of my feces.  The story I was trying to get through had to do with my parents...yes, you've all recovered, now you're fainting from disbelief again...and it reminded me of disappointments.  Disappointments of all kinds I guess, but more specifically, disappointments in life--mainly, myself.  I'm sure after all my parents have gone through in their lives (you know, the whole defection thing and all), there's probably a lot more they expected of me that I, naturally, have not lived up to.  However, I was reminded of a conversation I had with my mother when I was home recently.  She was of course waxing and waning on the subject, until in summary she tells me:

"You know honey, der are four tings in my life so far dat have been de biggest disappointments: Von, ven your fadder and I left our family in Hungary; two, ven you came out to me; tree, grandma's death; and four...ven you told me you vore a toga to Pride."

Okay, does anyone else here see a problem in this succession?  I should've just responded:

"Yeah Mom, I know what you mean.  My biggest disappointments to date are: one, when I was born; two, when I came out to myself; three, when grandma died; and four, when I missed the shoe sale at Urban Outfitters." 

Instead, though, I think I did what I usually do about 80% of the time my parents open their mouths--I stared bug-eyed and drop-jawed mentally concocting ways I can incorporate the particular statement into part of a greater literary masterpiece.  Oh well...I suppose a blog will make do.  Sigh.

Some People To Hear Out

I do my fair share of blog cruising, but there are only a handful (and being mainly my friends') of blogs that I return to on a regular basis (far more regular than I post myself, tsk tsk).  My friend has this site linked to hers, and after giving it a pretty thorough read today, I think you should check it out too.  It's the site of an ex-Mormon mom who was fired from her job b/c of her blog.  She's been blogging since its nascent days and I'm sure we can safely call her one of the pioneers of this particular art form.  Just in the "about" section I found myself laughing out loud.  I think she had me, though, at "AIM LOW."

Another site revealing poignant and thought-provoking commentary is the RN Breakroom.  *Warning: Have barf bag on hand while reading*  Chronicling the joys of nursing in the infectious disease unit, NK tugs on the human heartstrings and delightfully portrays the loads of tribulations suffered by those in health care.

Finally, my bf just recently started blogging as well (uh, that's not to be confused with boyfriend, folks), however, I'm not sure we've finished debating the moral, ethical, and emotional repercussions of having a blog, so I'm holding for now.  Pretty soon, anyone with a telephone jack will be able to access the goings on within my group of friends.  Kind of frightening, eh?  Or is it scarier that perfect strangers, lost acquaintances, ex friends, ex lovers, and closet psychos even care enough to read them?

Looks like Ellen Is Goin' to Hell-n

There's still quite a bit meteorologists don't know about the natural phenomenon of hurricanes.  Sure, they've studied evaporation-condensation cycles, converging wind patterns and pressure gradients, but in the end we're still left with several patchy grey areas concerning the reason that hurricanes form.

Until now.

Pat Robertson, founder of the Christian Broadcasting network and recognized religious leader (and therefore obviously an authority on everything) has proposed a solution that has embarrassingly escaped scientists, meteorologists, and geophysicists worldwide.  It's simple, really.  It's Ellen DeGeneres.

In this article on Dateline Hollywood online, this zealot actually made the claim that, “By choosing an avowed lesbian for this national event, these Hollywood elites have clearly invited God’s wrath,” henceforth Hurricane Katrina.  An "avowed lesbian"?  Pat Robertson is an avowed psychotic.

I hate this man.  I know that that's a strong word to use, and rarely can I say that I honestly "hate" anything (except those resealable bags that don't really reseal, I HATE those, ugh), but I thought to myself, if I walked outside of my building at this very moment and Pat Robertson should pass in front of me, I would seriously kick him in the rear and out into traffic with the hopes that some large moving vehicle, perhaps a bus or cement truck, would flatten him into something as ugly and 2-dimensional as his system of beliefs.  The woman (Ellen) was visibly distraught on her first show, recounting stories of her family and friends that have lost everything, and though I didn't see the telethon she hosted, my friend told me that she was weepy and emotional the entire time.  Now this gargantuan asshole is saying that she's the cause of it?  Not only that, but he also went so far as to make a link between the September 11th attacks and Ellen's last stint as Emmy host!  Talk about deconstructing someone's self worth.

The most terrifying thing, however, is that he announced this none sense on The 700 Club which has one million viewers.  So not only did one million people witness the statement firsthand, but about that many probably believe it as well.  Well, we can't let Ellen take all the credit now--you should see Melissa Etheridge and Rosie O'Donnell duking out for the tsunami.  Yikes, stay away from that one.

Well, I've gotta run.  Got to do excessive Kegel exercises to cause some tidal waves.  Luckily, they're all directed towards the Bible Belt. 

OUTright OUTrageous

I'll forego the whole 'lapse apology' because by now I think it's fairly well established that I'm lazy, irresponsible, and find even talking about myself a chore at times. Only at times...

My 26th birthday was on August 14th, for which I flew home and spent several gluttonous days mimicking my life in New York, with the addition of increased exposure to skin cancer. I was perpetually "flirting with a melanoma", if you will. A week earlier, however, I became privy to some very important information that, shockingly enough, had to do with me.

Entirely unbeknownst to me, my mother decided to out me to my father. Apparently 48 hours after this conversation between them ensued, I called home on a typical Sunday afternoon--hung over and hoping to keep the chat short, sweet, and confined to subjects regarding weather and workouts. Here's how the talk actually transpired:

Me: Hey Ded, how are you?
Dad: So so. How are you?
Me: All right. What's up?
Dad: Nothing, really. You?
Me: Nothing.
Dad: So I've heard about your change in lifestyle...(pause)
...and that you've become a big lesbo.
...
...
...

Me: (after ER team performed resuscitation and I re-discovered the ability to speak) Uh. Uh, wha? What do you mean? Where did you hear THAT from??
Dad: Your mother.
Me: Ooooh-kay. So...how are you?
Dad: Okay. I mean, I didn't jump up and clap, but it is what it is. I think with you it's about 25% hormonal, 25% environment, and 25% genetic. You know, 50% of men who are in jail engage in homosexual acts, and 25% of those continue that behavior even after they are released.
Me: (totally confused) Sooo, you're saying being gay is like being in jail??

During the 40 minute calm conversation we had, my father made such claims as: "Yah, you should bring home someone we can share, preferably someone with a daddy-complex," and, "Well, there's just something about a man courting a woman that I'm sorry you'll miss out on--you know, I had sixty women before your mother." And who could forget at my birthday dinner where, after listing some friends with whom I had spoken with that day, my father exclaimed, "Hmph! All women. It'll be nice if some men would jump in your puna and not just women."
*this of course being a rough translation from Hungarian, but I think the point is preserved, regardless of the idiom*

So there it is. If any of you are struggling with any issues of sexuality whatsoever, I can only say that I hope you all are blessed with as tactful and sensitive of a family as I am. In the meantime, I swear by the remains of my liver that I will be more diligent with Fupafighter, especially now since all I have to do is call home to collect more fodder.