You may never touch them.

Lately I’ve found myself feverishly entering every single New Yorker caption contest that I can.

This is what my dreams have come to.

My humps.

FYI, Alanis Morissette has made a cover of the Black Eyed Peas song “My Humps.”

The words are all there, but the poppy upbeat music has been replaced with strained, intense vocals and a mellow down beat that makes me feel like I’m watching a movie about a little girl in war-time Europe who’s got no one else in the world but her dog and a bird that comes to sing to her every morning while she hides in some kind-hearted farmer’s shed.

I know this song is intended to be sort of, well, “slutty,” in the sense that college girls with certain dispositions use it as an excuse to shake their underwear-less ass. But Alanis sounds like a really sad prostitute in Las Vegas. To be fair, she sounds like she is channeling the spirit of a sad prostitute with a heart of gold and a tender spirit, but still…

A destitute lady of the night isn’t even in the same league as loose college girls. A prostitute pays her own bills.

Scene: It’s high school and N. and I are planning our fake wedding

Me: I’ll wear white.

N: Well, you’ll have too…

Me: Shutup, things could change.

N: Not likely. (sigh)

Needless to say…he had a certain foresight.

We’ll wait and see.

Break up lines I should have used (or hope to use one day) on men:

 

-I’m not really into white guys right now.

-Yea, well I’m sick of your face.

-I don’t think you’re wrong for me, I just don’t give a F*** about you.

-You’re right, we weren’t really in a relationship, because I was going out with other men who I find more interesting than you.

-I’ve forgotten that I cared about you, just like you forgot you promised me the world.

- I seriously do know people who could cause you bodily harm.

-I have multiple personalities and each one is more dangerous than the next.

-I seriously do know people who can kill you.

-I have a decision to make:  Do I stay with you or do I become incredibly happy again?

Death, Taxes and Breakups

 

I have a friend whose accountant is going through nasty divorce.  Let’s just say her accountant may not be in the most “serene” place right now.  

 

She found out she owes the IRS $35,000; she only makes 20G’s a year.

 

Irony?  No, only if it’s spelled M-I-S-E-R-Y.

I read you. God, I’m good at it.

I have psychic powers. Do I use these powers for good? Do I heal the sick with my touch? Predict world disasters? Stop the deaths and complete emotional destruction of others like that guy in Quantum Leap?

 

No.

 

But I can detect when someone stops being interested in me. Exactly, that is, the precise second, when they decide that they will dump me. It’s not really a gift so much as a curse.

 

In college I dated a boy who I was really in to for a few months. H and I were getting along fabulously. He took me places, told everyone how much he liked me, and was completely and utterly fantastic to me.

 

One day while we were having lunch I said something trivial like, “Pass the butter.” And as he did it, there was some look that passed over his face, some twitch of the eye or curl of the lip that told me: I’m going to dump you. Lunch continued normally, with engaging conversation etc.

 

It seemed ridiculous for me to think that. We hadn’t fought. He hadn’t been elusive or “absent” over the last few days. It seemed as though it was a completely irrational thought that had come out of nowhere.

 

After lunch I went home to my dorm room. When my roommate came home she raised and eyebrow and said, “Why are you listening to Wicked Game?”

 

I said, “I have no idea. I think H is going to dump me.”

 

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, “He’s crazy about you.”

 

The next day he dumped me, citing; space, time and a blond with really long legs.

 

It’s a curse really. No one should have to listen to Wicked Game before they get dumped.

Don’t go breaking my heart.

In high school I went on my first, last and only blind date. The boy’s name was Gordo. My best friend at the time, a sensitive, fun and imaginative gay boy named N, arranged for Gordo and I to go to a homecoming dance together.

 

Being, at the time, pudgy, pale and under-bite ridden, dating was something foreign and mystical to me. The only dates I’d ever been on were when I went with N to family functions and parties, serving as his “beard.” Getting the chance to go on a real date felt like a rare and special treat. And, too young to realize the problematic social issues that usually accompany a blind date, I was a bit excited.

 

On the day of my “date” I preened and primped, scrunched my bangs into a well-coifed wave, put on my Baby Soft perfume, and wore my finest dress from Forever 21.

 

Gordo arrived at my house with a lovely rose for me. He’d taken the liberty of calling me prior to the occasion to find out what color dress I was wearing. Sweet, indeed. I really liked that about Gordo. I noticed his quiet, sweet demeanor right away. I also could not help but notice the slight lisp that Gordo possessed and the side long glances he took at N while Gordo, me, N and his date posed for pre-dance photos.

 

Later, I could not help but notice when Gordo ordered peaches and cottage cheese for dinner and told me that his dream job was to be a dancer in a cabaret.

 

Half-way through I pulled N aside and said, “What the hell is going on? Who did you set me up with?”

 

N looked at his feet. He looked at the wall. He looked at the ceiling. He looked everywhere but in my eyes. He tried to shuffle away and I threatened to beat the shit out of him if he didn’t tell me right that minute why he’d set me up with someone who obviously had more interest in him than in me.

 

“Well,” N said slightly ashamed, “Gordo and I have been eyeing each other for awhile and I knew we wouldn’t be able to go to the dance unless he went with you so I figured you wouldn’t mind if you know you were…”

 

“His beard!” I screamed, bursting into tears. “Just say it! It’s bad enough that I’ve been your beard for 3 years and now I have to be Gordo’s too! I thought I was going on a real date! You got my hopes up! You could have just told me!”

 

“I know,” N said pitifully, “but you’re not very good at being a beard when you know that’s what you’re doing. I’m sorry, but you’re a terrible liar.”

 

“What?” I said, shocked.

 

“You’re a terrible liar. You’d give it away. No one in my family actually believes we’re dating,” N said softly.

 

“Oh,” I said, genuinely regretful, “I mean I can try harder. Next time, do you want me to stick my tongue down your throat?”

 

N quivered and a look resembling nausea passed over his face. He quietly said, “Please don’t. I shouldn’t have said anything. Just, eck, please don’t kiss me.”

 

“Fine,” I said, “But I do want to get better at this. I mean what use am I to you if I can’t serve as your beard occasionally?”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Honey,” N said consolingly, “You’re good at other things. Like letting me help you pick out cute dresses from Forever 21 and constantly reminding me of how late I am. Now, that’s friendship.”

I suppose it happens to the best of us.

Someone was listening to Elliot Smith in the office today and I actually heard myself say the words, “Wow, this is too depressing for me.”   

The Best Love Song Ever (As voted on by a panel of my closest friends)

Lover, you should’ve come over

One or two won’t do.

Yesterday, I was having a beer with my friend after work.

 

While we were sitting at the bar we noticed a pretty redheaded woman decked out in a white fur coat, a Chanel watch and knee-high black Gucci boots delicately sipping red wine two seats down from us.

 

A bald man wearing what was presumably a thrift store Metallica T-shirt and ripped jeans under a giant puffy green coat walked in covered with snow. Upon seeing her, he smiled broadly, walked up to her and said, “Marjorie? I recognize you from your picture. Ted said you love this place!”

 

The woman–Marjorie–looked flatly at the bartender and said, “I need two shots of tequila.”

 

The bartender promptly poured her two Cuervo Golds.

 

Marjorie downed each shot successively in under ten seconds.

 

Then she looked at the unkempt stranger with a slightly slacked jaw standing in front of her and said, “Ok…let’s go sit down. Want a beer? Because I do.”