Those of us on the American coasts may be familiar with a website network called Patch. Basically it’s a blog covering extremely local news. It’s a great way to stay current on local events, politics and shopping. My local version is Long Beach, NY. Since our local paper is owned by the local cable network, it’s refreshing to get a different perspective on things.
If the lady in the picture here woke up, I would be the first thing she saw. She is opposite the small secretary desk in the Crocker boudior, facing the bed. Continue reading
The Real Housewives of New York City have erupted like a cold sore on the lip of summer. God help us all. Video at link.
Growing up in the suburban idylls of East Williston, life was pretty good. Mom and Dad were mostly normal, there was an endless round of parties and trips to the beach and the local pool (Christopher Morely Park, for those North Shore-ites here at CT), the neighbors were neighborly, and Wheatley Hills, the golf club, wasn’t too fusty for young people. (There was a sex toy in the caddy locker room closet. I’ll never know why.)
I won’t forget that spring weekday, and what happened in my 6th Grade classroom. We were trapped inside because of the rain, and we were tearing mid-century modern room up in a way that might have made Mies van De Rohe horrified. Laughter echoed off the ceilings, and the pure joy of good kids playing ran down the halls.
I had a Whoopee Cushion, and made exuberant fart noises with it at every opportunity. This was so not like me that my classmates were delighted and screamed with laughter. It was so not like anyone else that our gym teacher hauled me out in the hall, slammed me up against a wall, and gave me a lecture about how “the football team” would pay for my misconduct. What? I wasn’t even on the football team. His choking hand on my neck was simply stunning – no one had ever touched me that way before. When I was disciplined at home I was simply told to leave the room. No one had ever hit me. My friend Andrea came out in the hall and warned the teacher – “If you hit him, you’re in Big Trouble. And I don’t like you – never did.” Continue reading
How to be A Real Man: setting the bar. Continue reading
Oh, you.
Yes, you, with the medicine chest bursting with lotions, potions, notions and cosmeceuticals you couldn’t possibly use in one lifetime on one face. You with the basket of Kiehl’s samples slopping over onto a tray on the bathroom counter. You, straight dude, with 10 bottles of cologne that you can’t bear to part with even though you wear only two of them.
Hai! I am Teh Prezident of Ur Club: The Wastrels. And I am here to talk repurposing your unused cosmetics, AHA stuff, deodorant, cologne and all the other crap cluttering up your bathroom, linen closet and the top of your dresser.
I’ve often quoted Miss Manners on the subject of friendship: “Your best friend is the person who convinces you that the unbearable is in fact bearable because it is also funny.” This post is dedicated to the indomitable Will Ortiz, who has seen me through the roller coaster of life with howls of roaring laughter.
Accomplishing a difficult and disagreeable task means different things to different people. Some procrastinate and zip through it at the last minute. Others drag ass through the whole thing, bitching all the way. I prefer a more balanced approach. I call it Toilets And Cake.
This is not legal advice, and I am not an attorney, much less an employment law attorney. For professional advice, contact… well, a professional.
Once, there was a woman named Sonia. Sonia was bright and attractive, professional in her work as an accountant for a nationally recognized Long Island public school system, and she enjoyed a nice working relationship with her co-workers. The Board seemed to enjoy her quarterly and annual presentations, which she conducted with a bit of dry humor so as not to bore them to tears.
Hey Kittens! Ok – I Abandoned Ship. I was AWOL. And now I’m back, bitches, with a tale of a trip. It wasn’t a big dramatic trip, like To The Antipodes Of The Abyss. Nor was it of medium drama, like to The Wobbly Wall Of Woe. More like a Furlough To The Fissure. Or Fistula Of Fire, since it was indeed a pain in the ass. (Thank you, NYC subway advertisers, for introducing the horror of the fistula to my vocabulary.)
Because I appreciate all the support that came my way from my fellow writers here, I engage in yet another Betty Crocker overshare. My experience is bound to help at least one of you who is similarly situated, and that’s what it’s all about, is it not? I love you guys, and it’s the least I can do. Continue reading