Of All Weeks to Miss the Appointment with My Therapist

Last night's dream:

I was working in this building. It was similar to the building I where I actually work in my non-dream life, but different on one side. I was sitting at my desk, and this hot co-worker asks if I want to go to lunch. I say SURE, because he's so hot! As we're walking towards the door, he's totally checking me out. Clearly he's picking up what I'm putting down.

Hot Co-worker and I walk across the lower-level of the building to a restaurant. And for some reason, I have to go back to my desk. Maybe I forgot my mirror, which comes in handy for checking out his package under the table. While I'm leaving, Hot Co-worker sits in the waiting room, and slouches alllllllll the way down in the plush booth against the wall. SO HOT.

I come back and we get a table. Hot Co-worker is talking all low and seductive throughout the whole meal. I tell him that I want to take a walk, and I leave while he pays the bill. I walk out the front door of the building, and there's a lagoon. Yes, a LAGOON. So I start walking into the water, fully clothed. When the water hits my knees I think, I should really pull my pants up. That is where reality and fiction collide, as I'm pretty sure that would be my exact reaction.

I'm walking around this lagoon, fully clothed, pants up to the knee but in water up to my hips, and BOOM! - Hot Co-worker is already in the water, walking towards me from the other side of the lagoon! He's in a suit, but as he leaves the water I notice his suit is TOTALLY NOT WET. So he's hot, AND made of magic.

I follow him out of the water, and I think, this is getting weird, because hot guy is NOT taking me back to work, but to some weird cabana. I look inside, and I say, hey, you're hot but I'm going back to work, man. Hot Co-worker is nonplussed, and we go back to work.

And then I wake up, slightly horrified that Hot Co-worker was none other than JOHN LAROQUETTE. It was John Laroquette circa The John Laroquette Show, with the gray hair, not Night Court, but still...John Laroquette.

Vice - Do's and Don't

My fellah owns this book, which gloriously points out fashion do's and don'ts around the world. I borrowed it for the train ride from Rhode Island to NYC, and laughed the entire trip. This morning, he sends me a link to Viceland, where I find gems like these:

Fellah-tio

Last night, I accidentally called Seth my boyfriend.

We were partaking in a favorite pasttime - drooling over the latest JCrew catalog together and discussing how adorable Amy is, which is exactly what should come to mind when looking at JCrew clothing. Seth said, looking at a picture of model Maggie Rizer, "I've never met Amy, but why is it that I picture her looking like this?" to which I replied, "Because she does! She's adorable with the hair and the face and the eyes! Go to Natty Minx - you'll see!" to which Seth replied, "Okay!"

I've always said that the man for me has to be a little gay - gay enough to notice when I change my hairstyle, or that the subtle chocolate tones in my shirt nicely compliment my eyes, or that an azalea bush would look nicer in that corner than, say, a rubber tree...but not so gay that he wants another man to stick a penis in his asshole.

Seth is that man.

He picks out flattering combinations of shirts and pants for himself, but the man also knows how to accessorize right down to the dulcet tones in his argyle socks. What really makes me swoon is when he picks out articles of clothing for me. "Ooo, turn to page 61 - wouldn't that look great on you?" or "I think the skirt on page 45 would be so sexy in Ivy." Seth has great taste (read: MY TASTE).

The heart, it doth flutter.

I mentioned that I lovedlovedLOVED this dress a few days ago. When we were talking last night, he said, "Who's to say someone hasn't already ordered this for you?", to which I died. When I revived myself using an old Tibetan secret I learned in 'Nam, I asked him seriously and hysterically, "DID YOU BUY THIS DRESS FOR ME?" He, thinking it funny to tease me, said, "Size 14, Espresso, right?" To which I died again. My spirit frog came to take me to the land of Lemonheads and porn, but pushed me back into this mortal coil upon seeing the dress. I said, "No, really - did you buy this dress for me, really?" to which he replied, "I don't remember...but someone was online today ordering socks." And I squealed, "I HAVE THE BEST BOYFRIEND IN THE WORLD!"

Pause.

"Uh...wait...ARE you my boyfriend?"

He laughed. "Well, you've been calling me your boy, and I've been calling you my girl." I said, "Yeah, but, you know." He said, "Yes, if you want to be sixth grade about it, I am your boyfriend and you are my girlfriend. But I talk like my granddad, so you're my girl and I'm your fellah." I said, "Fellah! Yeah, I prefer fellah."

So there it is.
I have a boyfriend.

We're...us.

This Post is About Shit

I've slept on my bathroom floor twice since Sunday.

The first night was due to excessive drunkenness, thanks to Amy and Kim, whom for some reason thought it would be a good idea to bring a flask of bourbon into "The 40-Year Old Virgin". I was fully on board with the idea, of course, until I was so drunk I was flashing my friends and going to the bathroom every 20 minutes. The night ended with me calling Seth for a bout of laughing, crying, and other forms of mass hysteria. (he still called the next day, god bless him)

Last night, I think I was touched with the hand of food poisoning. I'd had chicken enchiladas for dinner, so I was geared up for a little extra shit session. But no one could prepare me for the CONSTANT STREAM OF LIQUID FIRE POURING FROM MY ASSHOLE FROM MIDNIGHT TO 3AM. When the cramping and shitting would cease for a few minutes, I'd curl up in my bathmat, rest my head on the cool floor and pray to Jeebus to MAKE IT STOP.

When the shitting stopped, I started hallucinating.

For some reason, I imagined I had a baby somewhere in the house. It was time for the baby to eat. So there I am, naked from the waist down, roaming around my house trying to feed a baby that has never existed.

I passed out on the couch. When I woke up at 6am, I decided that I probably shouldn't go to work today.

YWCA Event

The event was a lot of fun. I had the chance to meet and talk with women writers in the community, and meet a lot of supportive, friendly people. The coolest of which was Jacquie, who reads this blog and BROUGHT ME A BOTTLE OF JAMESON. She was really sweet, and that was such a kind gesture. Thank you, Jacquie!

It was weird, and a little cool, to hear people laughing over some words I had written.

Flickr pictures here.

Who Needs a Heart When a Heart Can Be Broken?

Confession:
When singing along to Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It?", as I often do, I rarely sing the chorus as intended, favoring instead the scatty, "...what's love, ska ta doo, ska ta dooooooooo with it...".

Possibly Wicky Ficky

Confession:

Whenever I see a sign for wi-fi, I think "wireless fireless". Because I KNOW the "wi" stands for "wireless", but what the shit is fi? Fidelity? That just sounds dumb. Wireless fidelity? Or wireless fireless?

Wireless fireless.
Wireless fireless.
Wireless fireless.

See? Much more fun for the whole family.

Sandra Flicks

Sandra's pictures from our night of dim sum and debauchery are up here.

Stolen Photos

I always steal a few pictures from Granny's stash when I go home. Here are a few from the rockin' 80s. Click below.

Fussy Shirt

Insomnia strikes with a large, blunt hammer. Watching Owen movies and going through two weeks of mail. Look what I got!

It fits like a dream - long enough to cover the gut, tight enough to show off the girls. Order yours from Mrs. Kennedy here.

Back hoe - Both a Piece of Machinery And A Directive

As a result of living 4000 miles away, I have the distinct joy and pleasure of doing hard manual labor every time I visit my grandmother.

Were I to live, say, 25 minutes away as my brother and his brood do, I would merely have to visit once in a while, maybe take my grandmother to the store or the ocassional movie. Perhaps offer to drop off some diet soda or sugar-free snacks as my mother does.

But I live far away. Before I can even say, "I love your new apartment Gran", she asks me if I can move her curio case across the room. This involves removing 45 ceramic negro angels, random Jesus figurines and various china cups and saucers, moving the 1,000lb. case across the room inch by struggling inch, windexing all of the glass shelves because now I "left my grubby fingerprints on them", replacing the shelves, and CAREFULLY putting all of the figurines in the right place. Everytime I pick up a Jesus, I scream, "JESUS CHRIST ON A CROSS!", laugh maniacally, and shove the Jesus in her face. "Stop it," she says, "and don't put that white Jesus near my black angels." Grandma, are you really segregating your figurines? "You're motherfucking RIGHT I am. Be sure to put the black figurines ON THE TOP SHELF."

After I moved the glass menagerie, she asked me to polish her silver. Yes, that's right - welcome home, now please spend the next two hours elbow deep in polishing cream and clean rags. I thought she was going to have an aneurysm when I only put newspaper under the pieces I was cleaning. I WAS NOT FOLLOWING PROTOCOL. When polishing silver, you must surround yourself with newspaper, putting newpaper on every surface of the floor in the room until great newspaper waves swell around you, leaving smudgy dark marks all over your skin in their wake.

When I was done polishing the silver, I was directed to RE-POT 8 PLANTS AND TWO TREES. Prior to this she had given me a pair of faded green fatigues, army boots and a cigar, so I felt justified in sitting outside on the lawn bitching about the revolution. When I say revolution, I mean MY CRAZY DRILL SERGEANT OF A GRANDMOTHER. She only purchased two bags of soil, so when I ran out after repotting one tree, she ordered me to march down to the home and garden store for more. When I held out my hand for money, she laughed so hard her monocle fell into her coffee and the baton dropped from her hand.

"You have money."
"But my money is for pizza, donuts and whiskey Granny."
"You don't need donuts - you've been bitching about the few pounds you gained for months, child."

After my fat, donut-less ass finished with the plants, I was able to get some rest. The rolled out piece of carpet on the dirt floor was more than the other captives got, at least.

The next day was a fun-filled afternoon of hanging 55,000 framed pictures. Commandant Henderson, not one to let a project begin without full input, was on my ass every step of the way.

"Over. Over. Over. More. Over. To the left. Over."
"GODDDDDDDDDDD GRANDMA IT CAN'T GO OVER ANYMORE."
"Move it, child."
"This is going in my therapy journal."
"I'll give you something ELSE to put in your therapy journal if you don't hurry up and put these pictures up. Oprah is coming on in 45 minutes."

I was able to escape for five glorious days, but upon my return, Princess Henderson of the Slap-a-hoe tribe wanted her room moved around. "I want my bed facing the window and my TV over there, and the dressers over on the other side, closer to the closet." Yes, your highness. Never mind the fact that each of your OAK DRESSERS weighs 400LBS. and the bed was so heavy I peed my pants a little straining to scoot it across the room. YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND.

I collapsed on the bed and shut my eyes, content in the knowledge that all of my work was over. I heard my grandmother shuffle down the hall into the room, convinced she had found something else for me to demolish, hang, polish, move, or juggle. Instead she sat on the bed, lay next to me, gave me a hug and said, "Thank you, baby girl. I love my new apartment. You've made it a home."

I took the heating pad off my shoulder and hugged her back. When all is said and done, I'd move a mountain for her if she asked. I love her.

I Think I'm Going To Hurl

My boy looks like Rasputin.

Well, okay he doesn't look like Rasputin. But he has a beard, so I just started calling him Rasputin, and when I was trying to describe him to my grandmother that's the first thing I came up with. She looked at me with a strange expression, but not as strange as when I told her we met on the internet about three years ago (gasp!). But lo, he has a great smile and beautiful light brown eyes and big, long lashes and he does this thing where he doesn't just hold my hand while we're walking, he holds it and squeezes it lightly for a while AND OH MY GOD I SOUND SO QUEER DO YOU SEE WHAT THIS MAN HAS DONE TO ME.

I realized I had a digital camera and could just show her a picture. Her response:

"He's cute. Does he treat you well?"
"You have no idea."
"He comes from a good family?"
"To my knowledge, none of them are crack addicts or in jail, which is more than I can say for us."
"Does he know that I want you to have a baby?"
"He knows that you are FUCKING CRAZY."
"I like him."

I'm worried about becoming the type of blogger I loathe. You know the one - they can't type one sentence without mentioning their boyfriend/girlfriend and how amazing they are omg!!!11!!! Trust me, internet - I know you don't care. Just humor me for an entry or five. This thing...this is big.

Luck of the Draw

I try my damndest to be on time, but when it comes to flying I am perpetually late.

I believe this is a deep-seeded backlash to the airport preparation my grandmother forced upon us when we were kids. She showed up at LEAST FOUR HOURS EARLY for our flights to California to visit family. Not wake up four hours early...ARRIVE four hours early. "It's better to be early," she would say, as I slumped over in the seat and drooled on the ticket counter. Now that I am an adult, an adult who can make her own adult decisions about when to get to the airport, I can't bring myself to arrive even REMOTELY on time.

My return flight to Anchorage was no different.

The first mistake was staying in bed. I did not oversleep - I simply did not feel like getting up. I was warm, there was a cute boy wrapped around me, and goddammit motherfucker I was on VACATION. What was I thinking when I booked a morning flight? I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON.

The second mistake was not checking the train schedule to see what time I needed to be at Penn Station. I ignorantly assumed that there was a train leaving every ten minutes, and if a train wasn't leaving, there was CERTAINLY a bus. I mean come on - this is New York City! Mass transit is coming and going at all hours of the day and night. By the time I got to Penn Station, I had just missed the 9:15am train, and the next train wasn't leaving until 10:07am. 'Scool, I thought, I'll still be at Newark Airport by 10:30am, and able to check in by 10:45am.

That's when the gerbils that make the universe turn decided to stop and take a water break. My train stopped. Just...stopped. The conductor said that they were waiting for a station signal change, but I CALL BULLSHIT ON THAT. Who checks the signal while the trains are EN ROUTE? Aren't you supposed to do that shit at night, or, you know, IN BETWEEN RUNS? Just when my carotid artery was full to bursting with rage, the train started moving. I got to the airport at 10:37am. For an 11:30am flight.

I hopped on the monorail to scoot around to my terminal, biting my nails down to the bloody quick the entire time. I am a reformed nail biter, so I really know how to dig in there. I only pray to God on two occassions - when I am elbow deep in an orgasm ("deargoddeargoddearGOD") or when I am extremely late. By the time I got to Terminal B, it looked like someone stuck the fingers of my right hand in a meat grinder, and I was in a mental chatroom with Buddha, Jesus, and Haille Selassie.

I ran to the electronic check-in screen. It hocked a loogie on my confirmation number and laughed at me. Then it called me a jackass, told me to go to the ticket counter, and kicked me in crotch. When I got to the ticket counter, I explained that I was VERY EXTREMELY LATE and though I was ETERNALLY SORRY could he please check me in so that I could get on this flight? Clarence, the nice man at the counter, took my driver's license, typed something, and out came a boarding pass. HAHA! Now they can't leave without me, they know I'm coming. I scurried over to security, which was miraculously three people deep.

While in line, I noticed that I only had one boarding pass. I wasn't checked through to Anchorage. Not only was I missing a boarding pass, but the one I had said "Leslie Anderson".

I get called a lot of things, people - Dan, Daniel, Danny, Mr. Henderson. But never in the history of my life has someone fucked up my name so badly.

I called over one of the security guys to confirm the UTTER AND COMPLETE MISSPELLING OF MY NAME, and he said "You should go back to the ticket counter." I looked at him like he just ripped a hole in the universe and said "No way, man, my flight leaves in like ten minutes." He looked at his watch and said, "Well, you can have them fix it at the counter by the gate."

When they finished the anal probe, I put my sneakers half on and hauled ass to the gate. I explained to the woman at the counter that my name was wrong, and I wasn't checked through to Anchorage. She looked at the ticket and said, "Well, this woman is already on the flight. Whoever did this for you double-assigned this seat. Did you really get through security this way? Let me see what I can do." They were boarding the flight, so I started to sweat.

She made a couple of phone calls, and then BOOM - I had a boarding pass. I was so happy I almost crawled over the counter and made out with her. Instead I just ran to the ticket checker. When they handed me back my ticket, I noticed the seat said "1D". "Wait - am I in first class?" She nodded.

I have never flown first class. First class ticket money can buy a lot of cupcakes and beer. But if I'm being bumped up for FREE, well, we've got ourselves a motherfuckin' hootenany.

I RAN to the door like a high school jock runs to a keg, and bounced on the balls of my feet as the flight attendant took my ticket and directed me to my seat. IN THE FRONT ROW. BY THE WINDOW. WITH FOUR MILES OF LEG ROOM AND A SEAT WIDE ENOUGH FOR THREE OF ME TO SIT IN AT ONE TIME. There wasn't room in the overhead for my bag, so the flight attendant put my bag in the closet. DID YOU KNOW THAT PLANES HAD CLOSETS? I sure as fuck didn't. But they do. And if you look in the back of the closet, there's a yellow brick road that leads to an emerald castle where flying monkeys rain down candy bars.

As soon as I sat, she asked if I wanted something to drink. I was confused, thinking I'd have to wait for the skinny cart to come rumbling down the aisle 55 minutes into the flight. But no, apparently I could have my ginger ale STAT. On ice. IN A REAL GLASS.

I didn't have the proper first-class accessories - a cell phone, laptop, garment bag, the balls to ask a flight attendant to fetch my bag - so my motivation was simply to NOT MAKE AN ASS OUT OF MYSELF.

The woman seated next to me had a Birkin bag. If you don't know what a Birkin bag is, the only way I can explain it to you is to say that it is absolutely hideous, an abomination of purses, yet it costs $150quadrillion dollars. It's a status symbol. The one-sided conversation into her cellphone was all about Bombay. How she wanted to go to Bombay, but couldn't really work her schedule around it. But Bombay is lovely, isn't it? Perhaps she could arrange to go in October.

Maybe it was the combination of nerves, the stress of almost missing the flight, the non-stop parade of cupcakes and pizza I'd consumed for the past two days...I had to take a dump. But I'm in first class. Can you TAKE a dump in first class? I didn't think it was a streaker, but the smell alone would waft out and donkeypunch Princess Bombay in the neck. I thought about it for a minute more, but the drink service started. They sent out a trained monkey in a fez to entertain us with a grind organ and I was too busy thinking about stealing the cutlery. You can take the girl out of coach, but you can't take the coach out of the girl. I relegated myself to farting in my seat. I'd pinch one off when I got to Minnesota.

Once we were in the air, the flight attendant wouldn't leave me alone. I was having a manicure and pedicure done before my turn on the massage table, and she was all up in my grill. Did I want more ginger ale? Did I need a blanket? How about a glass of wine? Not one to turn away hospitality, I blindly said YES to everything. Glass of wine at noon? YES. Freshly laundered blanket? YES. Personal ass wiper? YES.

She stuck her big face next to my ear and said "Will you be having lunch?" No one else on the plane was getting lunch. They were paying $3 for rancid snack boxes that included the horrible mixture of cheese, peanuts, and Oreo cookies. YES I'll have the lunch. "We're having penne pasta with mozzarella and basil." OF COURSE we are. They brought lunch on a black tray with REAL silverware, including TWO FORKS. Not a spork in sight. So when I was done with my cheesy pasta, I could use my brand spankin' new fork to dig into my garden salad, which was daintily placed on a doily. A DOILY. I haven't seen a doily since 1994. In true Danielle fashion, I dropped some pasta from my fork and splashed sauce all over my white tunic within seconds of the delivery. They sent a robot over to wash and press my shirt Jetsons style, and then released a team of midgets to provide oral sex as a means to stave off any pasta-related stress.

After lunch, I dozed off, sleeping the sleep of someone that doesn't have to bend over at the waist and rest her head on a scratchy polyester pillow balanced tenuously on her tray. The flight attendant woke me up a few minutes before landing by placing a eucalyptus wreath beneath my nose, massaging my shoulders, and draining my bladder with non-invasive alien technology.

I was on time for my flight to Anchorage, of course, so I was relegated to the usual coach section of the plane. Within three minutes of boarding, the man next to me removed his shoes and started eating loud, crunchy carrots, the man across the aisle spilled hot coffee all over his lap, and the baby behind me vomited all over it's mother while simultaneously screaming so loudly all of the synapses on the right side of my brain burst into flames.

I put on my headphones and bent over my tray. At least I had a glimpse of the good life for a few hours.

Picture Pages

Highlights for Lowlifes

My eyes are burning, and I'm so tired I can't think of what flight attendants used to be called before we all started saying "flight attendant". I've countered the lack of electricity in my apartment for the last two weeks by unintentionally turning on every single light in the joint, while simultaneously leaving a wake of opened and unopened mail in every room.

I imagine I'll recount some vacation stories this week. Highlights:

Vacation. All I Ever Wanted.

Horrific, TERRIBLE interpretive dance performance at 8pm.
Spotting the Washington Square Park Aborigine, complete with cut-off jean loincloth.
Hooch from the bottle and flashing my ta-ta's in Washington Square Park at 2am.
The BEST VANILLA MALTED EVER at 4am.
NECKFACE grafitti at 5am.
Morning bagels at 10am.
Viewing the most CRISP outfit of all time at 10:15am; lean, handsome, bald negro with button down cream colored shirt, beige pants, and lowtop white Chuck Taylors. CRISP.

Good times.
Leaving tomorrow, which SUCKS. BALLS.

But I have plans. PLANS, I tell you.

Rock n' Roll High School

I need some levity.

While I contemplate whether or not to go to my high school reunion, here are some photos for you to poke fun at.

Bangs and a ponytail. I look fairly innocent here. Also, I am wearing a cardigan - it is also white, making it difficult to see. A CARDIGAN. I made a skirt out of ties this year, and COMPLETELY LOST MY SHIT when I saw that "Blossom" had done the same thing in the intro to her show. COMPLETELY.

The surliness is about to set in. I am wearing a leather shoelace around my neck. BIG into sewing and beading. The shirt I'm wearing is actually a dress, but, as per usual, I AM TOO GIGANTIC TO FIT INTO IT AS A DRESS. French braids, lots of french braids that year.

AH, full surl. Flannel shirts and ripped up jeans. I started failing math and science, a trend I kept until I graduated. Hated life. Hated classmates. Attempted suicide. God, look at that hair - that ALONE is a cry for help. Shaved my head a few days after this picture was taken. Did a lot of painting and started keeping a sketchbook. I think I'm channeling Mrs. Dalloway, or at least Mrs. Haversham for this look.

Skipped class almost everyday. I would drive over to Jayne's house to pick her up, where we would invariably look at each other and say, "Do you REALLY feel like going to school?" We'd drive to Friendly's for breakfast two towns away, drive back to her house after her mom left for work. I'd fall asleep on the couch watching 'Jerry Springer', and we'd leave for class around noon. I made the necklace I'm wearing. Upon seeing this picture, my mother said, "I started plucking my eyebrows when they got to be THAT big." Shortly after the comment sunk in, I started plucking furiously...and unevenly for a few months. My quote is combination of a Melissa Etheridge song from "Welcome Home Roxy Carmichael" (great movie - Stinky Bossetti!) and an Irish toast. Quoting Melissa Etheridge...no wonder everyone thought I was gay.

I'm leaving on Sunday to visit NYC for two weeks. There will be intermittent updates and one MILLION pictures, so do be sure to check back.

Donate $1 Just By Entering Your Name

Oh! is donating $1 to hurricane relief for every person that enters their email. They are working towards a $10,000 goal, and are currently at 8200 people. At least 2500 people read this blog regularly. The math, it is easy.

You will not get spam. The only email you will receive is a thank you note. This is the easiest thing you can do to help out - it takes 10 seconds.

Water Water Everywhere

I am feeling overwhelmed.

I have been avoiding the television and only reading intermittent reports about the flood in New Orleans, as I don't think my heart can take the visual reminder of how incredibly short-sighted our government is, and how incredibly divided our country can be. And while deep down I know this isn't the time to point fingers, I can't help being reminded that the majority of the people left behind were poor and black.

Someone sent the link to Sarah McLaughlin's video "World on Fire" last night. I scoffed at first - I CANNOT STAND SARAH MCLAUGHLIN. There's something about her weird brand of Canadian wailing that sends me screaming over the edge every time I hear a millisecond of her songs. But watching this video, and again, the visual reminder of what we as a people could be doing to help one another...I cried. I sat at my computer and cried, and said out loud to no one, "I'm not strong enough to live in this world." My heart breaks a little everyday.

My heart breaks for Mark and his family. Everything they left behind, everything they lost. My heart breaks for newscasters that refer to white NOLA residents as "finders", and black residents as "looters". My heart breaks for the child I saw on the three seconds of the news last night that I could stomach, jumping up and down in a mile of water, arms flailing up and down out of frustration, loss, grief, on the verge of tears but not crying, his little black face already creased with old man worry lines.

There are a lot of places to donate, but my money is with FEMA and The Red Cross. I'll give what I can, when I can, continuously. I'll let the disenchantment sink in a little more. And I'll continue to think that my heart isn't strong enough to make it in this world.