Killer Instincts

In my third installment of having much more aggression than I know what to do with, this evening, on my way to a personal training session, I left my apartment seething. I wanted to kill someone, and pictured myself pummeling someone to a pulp (which, inside of this brain, isn’t nearly as gruesome as it sounds). In my fantasy, which was cartoon-animated, I looked like I was jumping up and down on 12,000 ketchup packets — my knees springing as high as my eyeballs, splatters of red flying everywhere. “Take that! And that, you cursed ketchup packet, you!” I have no idea if anyone has ever, in fact, killed a person by tap-dancing on them, but in my brain, it works.

As I was crossing Flatbush Avenue, a woman in her car decided crosswalks be damned: “I am not stopping, and any bitch-ass pedestrian who gets in my way is going down.” She, clearly, wanted to kill someone too, and I was about to become her ketchup packet. I kept walking, because, well, I was in the crosswalk and had the right of way. Obviously, this would have been a good moment to practice the adage, you can be happy, or you can be right (happy, in this situation meaning alive). So she laid on her horn and swerved around me without ever stepping on her brakes. I showed her by swatting her windshield with the mitten I was about to put on. Oh, but it was a very menacing mitten. I’m quite sure I left her pretty shaken up. Not me, though. I was out for blood. I finished crossing the street and proved what a badass I am by welling up and almost crying –because that is what I do any time someone makes me mad.

Let’s Get Physical

Saturday, I sat at home wrapped in a blanket like an invalid, because Pete, my personal trainer, murdered my quads on Thursday. I couldn’t navigate the four flights of stairs outside my apartment. I couldn’t walk to the refrigerator to refill my water (though a pint of Ben and Jerry’s did find its way into my hand. I take no responsibility). I couldn’t lift my legs out in front of me to rest on the ottoman. I couldn’t even sit down without holding onto the wall with two hands.

I started going to Pete for personal training at the Fitness Collective about three weeks ago. During my first session, he whipped me into such submission that all I could do was stare dumbly and obey. My legs were knocking together and quivering, begging me to cut the shit already. “We’ve had enough. Either you sit down or we’re giving out. Party’s over.”

And I must admit: I love it. If I’m not dazed and disoriented from my workout, I feel dissatisfied. I want to be beaten to a pulp. I’m pretty sure I sound like a crazy person, but burning myself to the ground is almost as good as sex. I’ve got the adrenaline and endorphins coursing through me, I’m sweating my ass off, and at the end of the hour, I am so delirious and spent, all I want to do is sleep.

Course, maybe this just means I need more action in the bedroom — but something tells me my neighbors are happy to have me work out my aggressions this way instead.

She’s a Screamer

Caroline Cartwright and husband Steve

Did you hear the one about the lady who got a suspended jail sentence for her screaming good times? 48-year-old Caroline Cartwright narrowly escaped time in the slammer because she subjected her neighbors on numerous occasions to excessively loud sex. I think the charge was something like anti-social behavior. Perhaps if she had invited everyone in for a gander, it would no longer have qualifed as such?

I love that the judge and the jury had to listen to tapes made by the neighbors to determine whether her screams and moans were beyond normal mating noises. And I wonder if, had the woman been a super-hot 20-year-old, the neighbors might not have found it so egregious. As it stands, Caroline is definitely not someone most people want to picture having sex, if I may be so judgy.

There is nothing more annoying than having to listen to banshee screams and wails that make porn stars sound like Helen Keller. (Speaking of Helen Keller, I was listening to Pinball Wizard while playing Rock Band the other day — it’s all about a deaf, dumb and blind person playing pinball by their sense of smell. What is he/she? A dog?). Anyway, speaking of dogs, back to Caroline. Kidding. Sorta.

I am not hating on Caroline at all. In fact, I  sympathize because, as any of my neighbors or old roommates can tell you, sleep will not be had on the nights I engage in what I will refer to here as, er, matrimonial coupling (just to take as much salaciousness as possible out of my admission). Ryan confessed to me the other day that when we first started dating, he was almost hesitant to put the moves on me whenever anyone else sharing our walls was home (Is that why we were always doing it in his Mini Cooper?). Poor Ben, our roommate, would actually leave the apartment. A year or so after he moved out, he sent me a message on Facebook asking if I was still loud as ever. I love how I was all offended and indignant even though he’s the one who was exiled.

I can’t explain why I’m so loud. Could I control it? Truthfully, the answer is probably yes. But the more you have to think about stifling yourself, the harder it is to have a mind-blowing orgasm. And, call me selfish, but I refuse to give that up. As I’ve mentioned before, feelings and me — not really the best of friends. I like to hide them so they can pop up and surprise people in the most inappropriate moments. Keeps people on their toes. So, my very scientific theory based on years of research then is this: the more you suppress your emotions, the more they will come out when you allow yourself release. Conclusion: get me to therapy. Or, barring that, just buy me a muzzle. Who knows? Maybe it’ll up the kink factor.

Up for Air

Why did I ever think I could pull off an 80-hour workweek? I wonder if this has anything to do with the reason why I’m sick for the third time this month. Oops, I’ve already wasted too much time. Must get back to work. I’ll be back when I get my life back. Sanity? Not sure that will be returning any time soon.

Don’t You Hate When That Happens?

File this under “Why Me?”:

Tell me if this has ever happened to you. You’re feeling run down, and are pretty sure you’re getting sick — which is really great timing, because in two days you’re going on vacation to your uncle’s beach house. Maybe it’s for the best, you’re thinking, because the forecast says it’s supposed to rain every day next week, anyway. If you’re going to be sick during a vacation, at least you’re not cooped up indoors while the sun is gloriously shining outdoors. Nonetheless, you want to do everything you can to beat it, so you make yourself some soup. Chicken chili to be exact, because that’s the closest you have to chicken noodle soup. You grab yourself a bowl and start pouring the steaming-hot chili in from your saucepan. It’s chunkier than you realized and it starts plopping and splashing everywhere. Before your reflexes can kick in to do damage control, a blob hits you right below your left eye — and it BURNS. So you drop everything and start running your face under the faucet, because you’ve burned yourself way too many times to not take the proper precautions. But, alas, it is too late. You have developed a teardrop-sized blister beneath your lower lid. How cute: it looks like you’re crying but you’re not! Oh, well, at least your scar from last summer’s burn will have a matching accessory.

No? Are you sure? Doesn’t ring a bell? Because I would have sworn this is something that happens to everyone. Kind of like the time my boyfriend popped a bottle of champagne to celebrate my new job, and the cork bounced right off my eyelid. We’re not together anymore. I can do enough damage to myself without the help of others, thank you very much.

Time to Make the Donuts

It’s National Doughnut Day! In honor of NDD, I wanted to post a picture of me with Mr. “Time to Make the Doughnuts” Guy from Dunkin’ Donuts that I took back in the day before digital cameras. No, I wasn’t 12 at the time. I’m just that old.

Of course, that involved finding the photo, which meant going through bags of photos that were never put in photo albums. But first I had to find these bags of photos, which you’d think would be easy, since I just spent the last weekend clearing out every closet and drawer in our entire apartment. But as it turns out, when you clean out your place so you can actually find things again, you end up not being able to find anything because you can’t remember where you so neatly put these things.

Finally, photo in hand, I popped it into our trusty old scanner which, it turns out, is old, but not so trusty. My computer refuses to recognize the piece of equipment, so I have to use Ryan’s computer. You’d think it would be as simple as pressing the scan button on the scanner, wouldn’t you? But it’s never that easy. And, doesn’t it figure, Ryan has removed the software icon from his system tray. Fun. So I have to go poking around his computer to find it. Sorry, Ryan — I swear I wasn’t snooping. And…. Presto! Now can I scan the stupid photo?

I launch the software, but it won’t open. Naturally. That’s okay. I’m resourceful. I’ll just take a picture of the picture. But where the hell is my digital camera? Again, I put it somewhere in my massive clean sweep last weekend, but where, I have nooo recollection whatsoever. Bastard. Well, I guess I can take a picture with my iPhone, right? Oh, how naive of me. That would be easy — and life, my friends, is never easy. My iPhone has been giving me all kinds of trouble ever since I got caught out in a downpour without an umbrella. I needed to keep my iPhone out, because I had no idea where I was or where I was going, and was going to rely on the Google maps application to show me the way. This, because my friends were making fun of me for printing out maps and carrying them around with me when I have a perfectly good iPhone that will do the same thing. Except, that is, when it’s raining. This is why I never like to depend on technology. Because. You. Can’t.

So back I go to dig up my camera. A-ha! But it’s completely dead. Gah! So now here I sit typing about my trevails, pissed off about donut day, and waiting for my camera to charge. Really, the photo isn’t worth the trouble — at all. But when you’ve invested this much time into something, don’t you  feel like you’ve just got to go through with it? Like, I would never be the type to call off an engagement after a year of planning the wedding even if Ryan were pulling a “Jon and Kate Plus Eight” stunt of “showing women his car.” Is that what we’re calling your junk these days? Seriously, you’re half-Asian. It’s not that big. Nope, I’d likely go through with the whole ridiculous affair and then file for divorce a day later. If you can’t get a refund, you might as well enjoy the party, right?

So, without further ado, I give you Fred, the Dunkin Donuts mascot, who, I might add, was really, really creepy. He kept muttering about Pavlov’s bell, which I suppose makes sense, given the indentured servitude of his commercials.

Fred, the Dunkin Donuts guy

BTW – they’re giving out free donuts with a cup of coffee purchase today. I myself prefer Krispy Kremes (sorry, Fred), and they’re giving out donuts without having to purchase anything. I would run out and get one, but something tells me it just wouldn’t be that easy.

Aesop, Revisited

The other day, I was walking my dog and admiring all of the flowering trees. I never look up, because when I do, I end up performing a face plant due to uneven sidewalks, potholes, trap doors, holes to other dimensions — what have you. I went down just a week or so ago, right in front of the fire department. Oh, but didn’t they have a good chuckle? It was all in good fun — at my expense, of course. Something about having to perform a rescue operation right in their driveway. Yes, I’ll have a good chuckle, too, when my lawsuit check comes in. All the way to the bank, biatch. Who, me? Sore sport? If it weren’t for my twisted ankle and bruised ego, I’m sure I would have seen the humor, too. (Never mind the fact that I almost fell down the subway stairs and tripped two more times that same night. Sadly, I was completely sober. Fucking heels. I mean, er, damn city sidewalks. Did I just ruin my chance of suing?)

But this other day, I was finally coming out of a grumpy spell, due in part to all the little blossom petals drifting down in my path like confetti. And then, I slipped. I skidded right across the  sidewalk, like I had stepped on a banana peel. Since I was out walking my dog, my initial thought was, oh, please, please don’t let me have stepped in dog shit. Wouldn’t that angry little Asian lady feel so vindicated? Well, I guess my prayer was answered, because it most definitely wasn’t dog poop. It was a dead baby bird. I just skated down the sidewalk on the slimy insides of a mashed baby bird. Now isn’t that a modern-day fable? Hilarious, really. Wasn’t there a movie where every time someone wished for something, they got it, but at the gruesome expense of someone else?

Since that day, I have seen dead baby birds all over the sidewalks of my neighborhood. I’ve been counting. We’re up to 8 now. Either avian flu or west nile has taken over Brooklyn, or everyone and their mother is hoping to God they didn’t step in dog shit, and God is having a grand ole time answering their prayers.

Missing: One Head with Hair

I panic when I have to talk to people I don’t know, and end up saying things like, “Excuse me, I have to go find my hair.” That’s what I ended up saying at my boyfriend’s 20-year high school reunion last weekend.

He went to a prestigious all-boy’s prep school in Boston, so of course everyone there was Ivy-League educated and married to very successful women. As it would turn out, I got “stuck” talking to a literary agent who just so happens to be looking for books from writers like me. This would be an opportunity of a lifetime for anyone else. But instead I said to Ryan, “Please don’t leave me alone with her. I’m afraid of her.”

She and her husband sat down beside me just as Ryan was getting up to use the bathroom. “So, Jill…” said her husband, Chip.

I glanced up at Ryan in horror, jumped out of my seat and blurted out, “I’m going to the bathroom.” Not, “Would you excuse me one moment?” Just “I’m hitting the bathroom, so leave me alone.” So very debonair of me.

It obviously took him aback, because he said, “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

Realizing Ryan wasn’t going to leave without me, I recovered enough to say, “Oh, no, not at all. What were you going to ask me?”

“Oh, I was just going to ask you what you do,” said Chip.

“I’m a writer,” I said. Then turned around and walked off.

Later, his wife, the agent, sought me out. Turns out, she’s looking for health writers. That’s funny. Because I’m a health writer!

“I looooove neuroscience,” I gushed. “Did you read ‘Stroke of Insight?’” I don’t know why I asked, since I hadn’t read it yet.

“Yes, I did,” she said.

“That is, like, my dream book,” I said.

“Yes, well, minus the fact that you’d have to have a stroke first,” she reminded me.

“Right, right…” Then I went on to explain to her that I had absolutely no ideas for a book, and why I wasn’t qualified to write a health book, anyway.

And that’s about the time I said, “Excuse me, I have to go find my hair.” She didn’t seek me out for the rest of the evening, or even ask me for my card when I left. I can’t even imagine why.

How Not to Be an Optimist

Last week, my hairdresser was explaining how, one day after buying a dozen eggs, she yanked open the refrigerator and watched the carton fall to the floor — all 12 of them shattering. “I knew I should have put them away properly but instead I just shoved the whole container into the egg rack.”

Instead of being disgusted with herself, she started laughing. “I was chasing yolks across my kitchen. You wouldn’t believe how slippery those things are!” she said. “I had to sit down on the floor — I was laughing so hard.”

Meanwhile, that morning, I had experienced my own trying moment when I walked my dog to the park. There, my German shepherd squatted as if she were going to do her business, then decided it wasn’t a good enough location. She did this little fake-out two more times until she found a suitable spot to use as her toilet al fresco. While I was bent over picking it up, a jogger ran up to me. “Your dog go over there, too!” she said angrily.

“No, she…”

“Bad dog owner! Making mess of park! You pick up.”

“There’s nothing over there. I swear. She just went here.”

She continued to scowl at me. Obviously, she had nowhere else to be. “Your dog go all over!” she spat.

“Um, I think I’ve got it all. See?!” I said, holding the bag of dog shit up in her face.

I dangled it back and forth in front of her nose, but what I really wanted to do was throw it hard enough at her head that it would make a nice mud masque for her hair.

“Over there, too! You no pick up!”

Obviously, the swinging pendulum of poop did not hypnotize her into submission like I was hoping.

Fellow dog owners watched on, unsure which of us was the bad guy. The woman did not speak English very well, and I had no idea how to explain to her that my dog was simply pantomiming using the powder room.

“I appreciate your vigilance, really, but I think I’ve got it taken care of, all right? But I do thank you SO MUCH for your concern,” I said with a tight-lipped smile that conveyed something else entirely. I guess that settled it, because she ran off, muttering about bad dog owners.

A sympathetic dog owner tried to comfort me by saying, “Yeah, sometimes I try to make a big show of picking up my dog’s shit.”

“Gah! I shouldn’t have to!” I said.

Trying to change the subject, he said, “Well… it’s a beautiful day out.”

Before I could edit my response I blurted, “Really? Is it?” This poor guy. I barely even know him and now I was making him uncomfortable. I walked away and fumed for a good 20 minutes.

When my hairdresser told me about her eggs later that day, all I could think was, now why couldn’t I find the humor in my situation? I’d been working all week on a series of articles about how to be an optimist, and I was not following my own advice.

Determined to find the funny, I decided that I would try to tell my story to Ryan the next day.

“That would have pissed me off! You should have thrown the shit in her face,” he said.

And that made me laugh. I guess some of us just aren’t capable of being upbeat in the face of a, um, shitty situation.

Couples Therapy or Anal Sex

So I was recently asked to participate in this year’s NYC Lit Crawl, which is just as it sounds — a pub crawl where literary-type drunkards (and aren’t they all?) are supposed to drag ass bar to bar without getting lost, and then settle in quietly to listen to a bunch of us mumble our way through a reading. Sounds like a recipe for disaster, but it’s a success in San Fran and they’ve already done it here once, so who am I to judge?

I just know that back in the day when I still had it in me to schlep from bar to bar, drinking every step of the way, there was no way I would be orderly or respectful or anything short of loud, obnoxious and belligerent until I threw up on someone and was sent home. Actually, I haven’t vomited on anyone since college, thank you very much. I  moved on to much more ladylike pursuits such as flinging my bra across the room of an eating establishment or mooning an entire wedding party. It was the rehearsal dinner, so technically it doesn’t count. I like to think I helped them prepare for the worst. You just never know what’s going to happen on your wedding day.

Anyway, my editor at YourTango asked me to do the reading. This is the email she sent to cajole me: “I was hoping you could read from your couples therapy essay, or if you’re super brave, from your anal sex Q&A (which our readers love, by the way).”

Hmm… couples therapy or anal sex? How do I choose when they’re both so non-revealing and not in any way subject to judgment? And how revealing is it that I think it takes way more bravery to tell a roomful of strangers about your couples therapy experience than it does reading a gynecologist’s step-by-step description of how to have anal sex? Lewdness or feelings? Lewdness or feelings? I’d rather go with the lewdness, please.

The only problem, of course, is that reading a Q&A out loud is so very dullsville, even if it does have words like lube and anus in the same sentence. So I’ve agreed to read from the couples therapy piece, you know, for the sake of my audience. My drunken audience. And if I end up puking on any of them, I swear it will be from nerves, not the tequila.