Buckets'o'corn

I have been in Oklahoma City since December 18th, and I've hit a new milestone. Today, at 3:07 p.m. Central Time, I fnished off an entire bucket of popcorn. I'm talking about those buckets with the three different flavors: butter, cheese, and caramel. I ate it all myself. No help from my family or friends.

Here's to doubling my body weight in 2008! (Hey, that sorta rhymed...)

My whole life fit into 9 boxes and 2 suitcases

It's official. Besides the fact that I still have four more days in New York, I have moved all my belongings, with the exception of two suitcases and my laptop. I now finally feel like I'm actually moving, and I’m finally starting to have the moments of complete terror and sadness that I’m leaving have begun to sink in. Thoughts like “What in the hell were you thinking Porch? Sydney?! It’s on the other side of the fucking planet!” to “You do realize you’re never going to see some of these people again, right? What were you you thinking when you decided to move?!”

I think I have the habit of making things seem better than they are when I’m about to lose something. Think about it: When you get out of a semi-not great relationship, you start to remember JUST the good times. I did this once with someone when we ended our relationship, and years later, I’m just now remembering that things weren’t always perfect, but for the first couple of years after we broke up, you would think we had the most picture perfect relationship ever seen. I think that’s what I’m doing with New York. Six months ago, I was ready to leave. I wasn’t happy with my personal life, work was still good and something to look forward to, but overall, I felt like I wasn’t really accomplishing anything outside of my job. Now don’t get me wrong. I have come to realize that I love New York. This city offers so much that you can’t find anywhere else in the world. When I’m ready to come back to America, I can see myself coming back here. But at the moment, I feel as if I’m leaving a picture perfect life, which isn’t really the case.

I think part of this is that I’m struggling with saying goodbye to the people I care about here. I put a lot of emphasis on my personal relationships with my friends, so knowing that I won’t see some of them for a very, very long time is heartbreaking. And honestly, there are some of them that I might never see again. There is no way to easily rationalize this, hence the tears.

My going away party is on Saturday night, and I’m expecting a somewhat bittersweet event. It will be great to have everyone out for one last “hurrah,” but at the end of the night when folks start to head home, I’ll know that the goodbye we have then might be the last one we EVER have. Here’s to the next month of my life, probably one of the most difficult of my life…

Truf: The international music section in every record shop smells like farts AND why I love strangers who openly admit to me that they farted

It is a universal truth that every international music section in every music store you have ever visited in the entire world smells like farts. Don't ask me why, but it's true. I visited Barnes & Noble today trying to find a copy of a very old school 1980s movie on DVD and decided to swing through the music section. This truth was very evident, might I say.

Also, this morning on the L train into work, a man openly admitted to me and the crowd around the two of us that he had farted. I'm pretty certain everyone noticed the smell, but honestly - who would say anything? But apparently this man does not live by this rule. Very plainly, he said "That was me. Sorry, my wife made chili last night." Everyone kind of giggled, except for me. I shook the man's hand and introduced myself. I just met my new hero. And his name is Garry Cartledge of Brooklyn, New York.

You should ALWAYS carry a stick of butter in your purse/man bag.

I believe that a common trait these days amongst women my age is the inability to cook. Maybe it's a New York thing where one of the side effects of living in this city means small kitchens with no counter space and having an oven that may have been brought over on one of the first Dutch ships to land in New York. Ignoring the fact that I have no ability to make food outside of microwaving, boiling or toasting, I do enjoy watching Paula Deen's show on the Food Network. I can appreciate an overweight, recovering Southern agoraphobe - so sue me.

My favorite part about the show is not the recipe, but the fact that the Food Network gave a television program to a completely bat shit crazy woman. Why is she bat shit crazy you may ask? Well, here are my two reasons for this conclusion:

1. She talks to her dog and I sincerely believe she hears the dog talking back.

2. The woman ingests at least 4 full sticks of butter EVERY DAY.

Now don't get me wrong. The Paulinator (that's my loving nickname for her) is probably the best thing that has every been broadcast on extended cable. For one, she somehow been granted a free pass to say/do whatever the hell she feels like. Whenever a male guest is on her show, the Paulinator stops just short of slathering his male parts in toffee syrup and having a go. AND PEOPLE EAT THIS UP! I say if you can blatantly sexually harass someone and people applaud you for it, kudos to you.

As mentioned, one of the Paulinator's best qualities is her relationship with Bo Deen, her beloved pet dog. Here is a typical interaction between the Paulinator and Bo Deen (and please read the Paulinator's lines at about seven decibels louder than you normally would talk):

Paulinator: "What's that Bo Deen? You think we need some more whipped cream?"
Bo Deen: (Silence)
Paulinator: "Oh Bo Deen! You're so bad! But why not?! A little whipped cream ain't gonna hurt!"
Bo Deen: (Silence)
Paulinator: "Bo Deen, you're gonna make your momma fat!"
Bo Deen: (Licks himself, more silence)

I have a theory that if Bo Deen was a stick of butter, the Paulinator, despite her deep affection for the pet, would have eaten him about six years ago. Butter is Paula's kryptonite. Every recipe calls for double the normal amount of butter an average human being should/physically can consume. Eating a ham sandwich? Add a stick of butter! What's that? Just a plain salad? Hell no! Add a stick of butter! And why you're at it, mash up some butter in your infant's baby food - need to get them eatin' that butter. I think Paula's love for butter needs no more of an explanation than this: her recipe for deep fried butter balls. Yeah, you heard me. Take the fattiest thing ever created and make it even fattier. Why have a heart attack when you can actually make your heart explode? Here is the recipe:

2 sticks butter
2 ounces cream cheese
Salt and pepper
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 egg, beaten
1 cup seasoned bread crumbs
Peanut oil, for frying

Cream the butter, cream cheese, salt and pepper together with an electric mixer until smooth. Using a very small ice cream scoop, or melon baller, form 1-inch balls of butter mixture and arrange them on a parchment or waxed paper lined sheet pan. Freeze until solid. Coat the frozen balls in flour, egg, and then bread crumbs and freeze again until solid.

When ready to fry, preheat oil in a deep-fryer to 350 degrees F.

But, without a doubt, my favorite thing about the Paulinator is this: at her restaurant, every meal comes with her signature garlic cheese biscuit and one of her famous hoecakes. Now I ask - what is a hoecake? I can easily find the answer on Wikipedia, but I think the definition that is slowly forming in my own head is probably much better. Perhaps my Paulinator is slowly trying to kill me. Disguised by her down-home southern drawl and her jolly demeanor, perhaps, and for lack of a better word, she is attempting to butter me up only to deep fry me one day and have me as a special dish at her world famous buffet? The fact that I'm not at all frightened and just a tad bit excited that I could be served next to her award winning maccaroni and cheese says alot.

Appropriate or not: Can you ask someone if their friend is a tranny?

I recently came across some photos that include a friend of mine, and one of the other subjects included in the series of photos may or may not be a transvestite. Now, if you know me at all, you will know this is a question that will bother me for weeks on end unless I get an answer. Tranny? No tranny? Vajayjay or junk? Ack! I'm already unable to sleep!

Now here is my question: Can you ask someone that is somewhat of a friend if THEIR friend pictured is a tranny? What if this person is their love interest? What if the tranny/not tranny in question is their best friend? How do you begin a conversation that could lead to this question coming up naturally? Here are some of my ideas:

1. "I realized today that I'm so tired of having to sit down to pee. It just seems like an extra step. You know what I mean? Of course you don't - you're a dude. But...what about your friend so and so? What are he/she's thoughts on the subject...?"

2. "I ran into an old pal of mine and he's a tranny now! He does a mean Barbara Walters impression. Know anyone that might be interested? What about so and so?"

3. "Man, chicks with dicks are so admirable. I don't know how your friend so and so does it! Wait...I meant so and so...oh my, I've had WAY much to drink!"

I think all three give me a way out if I get no response because, as the case may be, the he/she at hand might actually be just a she. An unfortunately looking manly she, but a she none the less.

Feel free to leave suggestions on how to bridge this topic. The best one wins a prize (as yet to be determined by author).

Broken arms are like having a socially appropriate limp dick joke at the ready.

Last Thursday, I broke my arm. I wish I had an eyebrow raising story on how this happened, but the reality is that my tale is more of a mix of every first draft of a Woody Allen movie script ever written and hanging out with your grandma. This is how it happened:

I'm somewhat merrily leaving my annual optometrist appointment, learning that I don't need to change my eye glasses prescription (side note: why I was excited about this, I'm not too certain. Perhaps I'm either more easily excitable than I thought or possibly I have been suffering from a lack of excitement in my life.). It should be noted that my eyes were still slightly fuzzy from the eye drops my optometrist used during the exam, so the fact that I thought there was only one stair when in fact there were four stairs was not a huge mistake on my part. Also, the lobby was dimly lit, so there is a huge portion of society (mainly the over 70 or cataract-stricken crowd) that would have made the same faux pas. But alas, I went airborn and the next thing I know my chin is hitting the marble floor below and I'm somewhat dazed, but not dazed enough to where I couldn't manage to drop the f bomb a couple of times and roll over on my back. Besides the fact that my knees were already bruised and my wrist and chin hurt like hell, I wrote myself off as klutz and headed for the subway.

I noticed that the slightest nudge to my arm sent shockwaves into my body as my fellow passengers swayed with the flow of the moving subway car. But still, I thought, nothing is seriously hurt. By the time I got back to Williamsburg, I had decided that something was actually wrong with my arm, but at worst, it was a sprain. Then I tried to take my coat off. Now what can only be described as the most incredible pain you've ever felt but marginally better than what I imagine child birth to be like, I finally realized that my arm was seriously broken after trying to take my coat off. After successfully getting said coat off and realizing I could not properly extend my arm, I put said coat of painful death BACK on, called my roommate as I had no clue where a hospital was and after receiving his advice, headed back into the city to visit the Beth Israel Emergency Room on 1st Avenue and 16th Street. To make a long story short, I broke my arm at the radial head, which is just a fancy doctoral way of saying "Hey dumbass, you completely fucked your elbow."

For the past five days, I've had a splint and sling attached to my body. The sympathy was fun at first, but after you realize that going to the bathroom involves a 15 minute operation of knowing ahead of time that you have to pee so you have enough time to try to unbutton your jeans with only one hand AND THEN pull down your pants with only one hand, all the while trying not to jar your weak limb, you begin to think that the broken arm is the worst thing that has ever happened to you and must be punishment for calling that 10 year old girl on the show "Kid Nation" a cunt (She really IS a nasty bitch of a 10 year old! Watch the show once and you'll know what I mean!).

Yesterday, I had my first orthopedist appointment at Dr. Arscht's office in Union Square. One thing the receptionist doesn't tell you is that when you visit the office and are sitting in the waiting area, you have voluntarily entered the fourth circle of hell. Now I want you to imagine this: Think of every time you have ever gotten stuck behind an old person in line. It doesn't matter where - the movies, a fast food restaurant, a bank, where ever. Now think about how every action that is required of them takes at least 5 more minutes than it does anyone else on the planet. Also, I need you to envision how they ask questions about everything, even after being told for the hundredth time that yes, they can have a soda, but no, they have to fill up their cup themselves with the self-serve soda machine DIRECTLY behind them, and no, the soda machine is not over there it's OVER THERE, JUST TURN AROUND!. Now imagine taking those old people and giving them an injury that in some geriatric fantasy land means they can talk at a decibel normally reserved for sportscasters about how their bowel movements have never been the same since they broke X, Y, and Z. Now, I didn't go to medical school nor do I claim to be an expert in the field of human science, but I'm pretty confident when I say that a broken leg, elbow, hip, etc. DOES NOT effect your bowels and or their "movements." On the upside, I feel alot closer to Gloria of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn after over hearing the exact details of her bathroom habits for the past six months.

Lucklily for me, my diagnosis is better than Gloria's. To breeze over the subject, my bathroom habits remain unchanged (bonus!), and in even better news, I don't need cast. Now don't get me wrong, my arm is in a sad state of affairs but because the break involves the elbow, I must start physical therapy immediately to prevent a permanent loss of movement in my elbow. If you can see my sad, pathetically limp arm in person, you'll agree that you have seen better flexibility in your life. But hopefully, my crack team of physical therapists led by Esther will be able to get me in tip top shape again, or at least enough to where I can bend my arm without wincing. Also, expect a posting about me being hit by a bus in the coming weeks since I just dedicated an entire paragraph to ragging on old people.