My dreams are reverting to Tiger Beat territory.

I had a dream last night that I was dating one of the Jonas Brothers. I'm not sure which one of the three it was because frankly, they all look the same to me.

If the Jonas Brothers come to town, I'm going to arm a small group of my friends with tranquilizer guns and this warning: shoot me down like an elephant if I mention purchasing tickets to their show. I'm waaaaaaay too old to be supporting a group that makes the front page of Bop! Magazine.

Nostalgia sucks.

While walking home tonight, an ex-boyfriend from four years ago wandered into my train of thought for no apparent reason. I was listening to the Beastie Boys on my iPod and the next thing I knew...BAM! There he was right in my stream of consciousness.

I got to thinking about heartbreak and what exactly constitutes a broken heart. This boyfriend in particular broke my heart. Matter of factly, he is the only one that has the privilege of earning that title. And man...did he break it good. Nice and good. He might as well have ripped out the organ like Robert De Niro did in "Frankenstein" while attacking Helena Bonham Carter's character. That's what it felt like at least (disclaimer: This boyfriend did not look like a gimped up Robert De Niro).

Anyway, when I got home I looked up "heartbreak" on Wikipedia. There is actually a pretty extensive entry on the subject. They even have a list of symptoms (I had 18 out of the 20 listed after the aforementioned break up):

A perceived tightness of the chest, similar to an anxiety attack
Stomach ache and/or loss of appetite
Partial or complete insomnia
Anger
Shock
Nostalgia
Apathy (loss of interest)
Feelings of loneliness
Feelings of hopelessness and despair
Loss of self-respect and/or self-esteem
Medical or psychological illness (e.g. depression)
Suicidal thoughts (in extreme cases)
Nausea
Denial
Fatigue
The thousand-yard stare
Constant or Frequent crying
A feeling of complete emptiness
Feelings of being sad
Feeling of emptiness

However, my point is this: Wikipedia does an excellent job of summing up heartbreak by pin pointing how much it sucks. Kudos Wikipedia. You've done it again.

Truf - If I don't have a boyfriend in six years, I'm moving to South America.

Apparently, white guys find me repulsive. But...the South American Latinos are all about it! In the past three weeks, I have been hit on by a total of eleven delivery boys. The latest incident was last night while taking the elevator up to a friend's apartment, a delivery man said the following:

"I. Do. Not. Speak. Much English. But. I have to say. You are beautiful. You have boyfriend? Manfriend?"

He actually said "manfriend." Melted my heart I tell you. However, he lost points with the pony tail he was sporting. I just can't handle long hair on the dudes. Also, I have a bit of doubt in regards to his sincerity - I was sweating like a pig and there is a good chance I had a case of the B.O.

Indiana Jones and The Zimple of Doom: The story of an infected pimple. (originally posted on June 20, 2006)

Yesterday afternoon, I received a job offer that puts me back on a career path. No more temping. And because of this tremendous news, I agreed to meet up with my dear friend Jessy for drinks at our favorite bar, Swift.

For those of you that talk to me on a regular basis, you know that I was ill last week. I had a full blown cold: stuffy / runny nose, watery eyes, fever, sore throat, ear ache, etc. Also, I had just started my period, which sometimes causes me to sprout up a pimple. Well, this time around I sprouted up one hell of a pimple.

This blemish started off like any normal zit does. just red, kind of gross, but nothing a little makeup concealer can't handle. However, this zit was inconveniently located directly under my right nostril. To be more specific, it was located slightly to the right side below my right nostril, but moving on...

Because of the cold and constant runny nose, which resulted in numerous tissues rubbing the surface where the pimple was located, the blemish became infected. And not only did it become infected, it spread to other small irritations caused by the constant tissue wiping. Basically, I looked like I had a massive wound from my right nostril to my lip. It sort of resembled the state of Florida in shape. And I hate the state of Florida. So i was doubly pissed off.

The "zit" kept getting worse, but I thought that it was just a mutant pimple, thus naming it "the zimple": Not quite a zit. Not quite a pimple. I put Clearasil on the zimple, but nothing helped. Finally, in a conversation with my mother on Saturday, I mentioned the atrocity on my face. Her reply? "For god sakes Mary Ann get some Neosporin! Or Polysporin! That infection is going to spread!" Basically, I took from that exclamation of health care advice that it was just a matter of days until my face rotted off, so I immediately dashed to Duane Reade, which is a pharamcy chain (for those of you who don't live in the New York area). For the next twenty minutes, I read, and reread, and read again the boxes that contained Polysporin and Neosporin. I still don't know what the difference is, but I finally decided on Neosporin, but only because I liked the packaging design better. Polysporin needs a new design team. There box is a snooze fest.

I started applying the Neosporin to the zimple as soon as I got back to my apartment. But then the first problem occurred. I still had a runny nose, so I was still rubbing the zimple constantly. However, I remained diligent in my application of Neosporin, and the zimple slowly started to shrink. It no longer resembled the state of Florida, but more like two of the Hawaiian islands.

Now don't get me wrong. The zimple was still disgusting and noticeable. Applying Neosporin didn't really cover it up either. If anything, the Neosporin illuminated the spot and made it even more noticeable.

I hadn't gone out all last week because of the cold and because of the zimple. I was self conscious about my runny nose, but mostly because of the facial growth I had acquired. While commuting to work, I found myself staring at the ground, as to avoid grossing out my fellow commuters. I felt like a leper, thus going out on the town wasn't that appealing. I didn't want my zimple mocked and stared at. And I knew people would mock and stare at it, because I'm one of those people. I love mocking and staring at people. So alas, I stayed indoors.

This brings us up to speed to last night, where I decided to go out and celebrate my new job with Jessy. She was late getting to the bar, so I awkwardly sat on a bar stool, trying not to make eye contact because of the still apparent zimple, which by this point had been downgraded to an orange level on the zimple scale of terror. However, I was still grossed out by the spot.

To my surprise, a man sitting next to me asked me if I wanted to read his newspaper. I said sure and began reading the sports section of the New York Times. The conversation kept going and I finally made eye contact with him. To my suprise, he didn't even flinch. He was forced to face the zimple and he didn't even bat an eyelash. Was it not as noticeable as I thought? This man even bought me a drink after I told him of my big news of the job offer.

Once Jessy arrived, I was relieved. I'm not one to chat up people in bars usually, and I wasn't interested in this man to begin with. He seemed a bit arrogant, and I thought there was a slim chance he might be losing his vision due to his lack of reaction to the zimple. But he persisted, occassionally interrupting our conversation, constantly offering free drinks, etc.

At one point, this man left the bar to run to the bodega around the corner. I'm guessing he needed to buy more cigarettes because I noticed he was a smoker. When he came back, he brought with him a bag of candy for Jessy and I. A roll of Life Savers was inside, so Jessy and I proceeded to eat those first.

My friends in middle school through high school might remember a certain talent of mine. It's called "gleeking." For those of you who don't know, gleeking is when one spits in between the gaps in their teeth, forcing out a stream of spit. I was blessed with the ability of having perfect gleeking aim, and I rediscovered this last night. I don't know if it was the tang of the Life Saver, or possibly the four pints of Amstel Light I had consumed, but I started to relive my gleeking glory. I gleeked on this man over and over again, and he didn't care. I think I kept doing it to see how far I could push him before he denounced me and the zimple.

Did I mention he was a New York City police officer? I don't think I did. So yes ladies and gentlemen. I spit on a New York City police officer, and not only was I not arrested, HE ENJOYED IT! This probably means he's into golden showers and other things I would never consider doing, but that's beside the point.

To make a longer story short, I was also given another man's phone number. I thinked he worked in the financial industry or something. I just remember his name was Fred and I have his business card in my purse. He actually was sitting to the right of me, so he had a clear on view of the zimple. Maybe he was blind too.

Basically, I learned that zits and spitting on people of the opposite sex are effective ways of attracting positive attention. Maybe it's the pure shock that someone is actually spitting on them, or the fact that a person with an infected facial appendage is seemingly confident enough to go out into public, but I've never gotten that much male attention in one evening. So ladies, if you're interested, I stocked up on Crisco to rub all over my face, and I'm announcing this morning an official ban on washing my face. If ONE zimple did the trick, imagine what FIFTY zimples will do? I'll be ruling this city in no time.

I like Scotch (not the drink, but the brand of tape and the dudes)

Last night, I was lucky enough to score a free seat at one of the last productions (at least in Sydney) of "Black Watch." The show is part of the Sydney Festival and was showcased at Carriageworks, which is a renovated train warehouse in Redfern, which is a suburb of Sydney. I've been told that Redfern is also the ghetto, so of course you know I was excited to be there.

The production was based on recent interviews of Scottish soldiers returning from the war in Iraq. It features an all-male cast (holla!) who are stationed in "Dogwood". I don't want to say too much about it in case any of you get a chance to see it, but basically, it's amazing. How's that for a review? I have to say my favorite part was when the point was made that it took three hundred years for Scotland to establish a well-respected and admired army, but it only took two years in a war that shouldn't even be going on to destroy it. That's about as political as I get, so if you are more politically-inclined when it comes to the war in Iraq, prepare to walk away from this production with some strong opinions, especially if you're American. I have to say, it was eye opening to see (once again) how the rest of the world perceives us.

For all my friends in NYC, it looks like you just missed your chance to see the show as it's already passed through Brooklyn. However, if you check out this link you can see the rest of the upcoming dates:

http://www.nationaltheatrescotland.com/content/default.asp?page=home_showblackwatch

As mentioned, I like Scotch tape and I like Scotch dudes, which works out perfectly for me. I was invited to the cast part on Saturday night, so get ready for some awesome photos of me surrounded by multiple Scottish guys. Can you hear the swooning noise? It's pretty intense.

One last note...

I've been told for about the past six months how ghetto Redfern is (as mentioned, where the show was taking place). In pure sitcom fashion, my friend Karen and I got lost on our way to the theater, so we asked a passer-by for directions. He was kind enough to walk with us, so the three of us struck up a friendly conversation. And what did I learn? I learned that my newfound friend had just gotten out of prison that day after being hunted down by the police and brought back from the Gold Coast. He didn't say WHAT he was arrested for, but to say the least, I felt honored that during my first trip to the "hood" I met a real criminal. God Bless.