Groomzilla

Breaking the Fast with a thank you and two questions

2006-12-27T09:14:00.000-05:00

Dear Man Across the Subway Tracks,

Thank you for checking to see if the man laying next to the pillar on the Uptown C platform was dead this morning. While I was happy you found him alive and kicking, I was sorry to see him doing so in a literal manner and I hope he didn't scare you. I will have to get my Dead Homeless Man radar checked out, as his complete lack of motion and ashen pallor -- in addition to the curiously large puddle of urine circling back to his head, thanks to the unfortunate laws of gravity which apparently dominate the uneven floor work of the MTA platform system -- led me to the mistaken conclusion that he must be deceased. As you quickly found out, this was not the case! I, for one, was surprised at the energy with which he was able to scold you for rousing him from his concrete slumber, and I hope his response doesn't prevent you from future inquiries, unlike the seventeen other people who hopscotched over his puddled head as they exited the subway car.

Signed,

Passive Yet Concerned Bystander

***********

In other news, I am also breaking my 40 day hiatus to pose a question:

Is it a sign of codependence, or merely mental instability, that while M. has been gone on his four day trip Back Home, I've found myself going to extraordinary lengths for Personal Safety -- including drying my hands for twenty extra seconds before wincingly unplugging the Christmas tree, rather than my usual haphazard yank; placing both feet in the tub before closing the window in the shower, rather than my typical three-toed balancing reach; and avoiding altogether the need to replace the burnt out overhead light bulb in the entryway, rather than avoiding it only for a day or three -- all in the name of avoiding the electrocution, subdural hematoma, or broken neck that would result in me laying dead on the floor for three days before M. came home to find my unfortunate remains?

Also:

If, hypothetically, it's Christmas night and you're a gay white man who goes to see a movie made by other gay white men based on a musical made by gay white men celebrating young black women, and then after the movie you get gaybashed by two young black women after you ask them to sit down so you can watch the movie credits, does that count as ironic, sad, or just decidedly unChristmasy?

But I Can't

2006-11-17T18:39:00.000-05:00

Hypothetically, a complimentary physical fitness assessment thrown in in addition to one's complimentary workout training session should be both motivating and inspiring.

Then again, hypothetically, one should also be able to pull off more than ten little weakling push-ups.

Also, upon closer inspection, my gym appears to carry the sorry burden of catering to neither the young urban muscled horndog set nor the fifty- and sixty year old retiree set, but instead to a peculiar hybrid of the two, resulting in much leering and staring towards innocent and awkward young specimens like myself by an unsavory group of muscularly flaccid horndog retirees. One of whom looks like David Koresh, and whom I caught peeking at me in my shower from behind his own shower wall. But if creepy is the price of beauty, count me in. For now.

Working out; or, It Might Not Be

2006-11-15T13:30:00.000-05:00

I'm happy to report that I went to the gym not only on Saturday, but also on Sunday. And actually enjoyed myself. I started getting more comfortable with the layout. I started remembering to take a shower towel off the front desk when I first came in, and not after I'd already put everything in my locker. I figured out that eliptical machines are actually made for dancing, and I figured out which eliptical machines are stationed in front of ESPN and which ones are in front of VH1. I showered publicly in the rather public showers, and was both relieved and disappointed to find that My Gym is evidently frequented less by the young urban muscled horndogs that seem to populate everyone else's gym, and more by the fifty- and sixty year old retiree set. And at the end of my second session, right before engaging in my second 100 Daily Sit-Ups routine, I tore my chest open on the machine that grows your pectoral muscles, sending my weak little arms shooting into the middle of the Tae-Bo class on the other side of the gym.

If I had any hope of ever straightening my arms again, I'd totally go back for a third session.

Appreciation, Part III

2006-11-09T21:16:00.000-05:00

Dear Hateful, Spiteful, Miserable Woman Behind Me at Rite-Aid Ten Minutes Ago:

Well, I’ve been beat out at my own game once again. Imagine my glee as I stepped off the subway this evening after forty-five minutes of completely unscathed public transit use. My high but misguided spirits carried me right into the drugstore to purchase a padlock for the gym locker I thought I might use tomorrow morning during my maiden voyage to the Bally’s Sports Club I joined earlier this week in a clear fit of mental instability. Again, a relatively painless excursion into what is, typically, perhaps one of the most excruciatingly crowded and poorly managed Rite-Aids in the greater metropolitan area.

Then came you. Muffled at first, as I still had my earphones tucked into my ears despite the fact that Cassie was through singing “Me & U”, yet urgently loud enough to secure my attention.

“Separate lines,” you hissed, in your indiscernible Eastern European accent, your pasty features book-ended by a set of white earphones identical to my own..

“Hmm?” I smiled dreamily, assuming I’d misheard your innocent query as to where I’d purchased my new, price tagless fall jacket.

“Separate lines,” you gurgled, in a whining plea. “I live here, I know how it works. Separate lines.”

You’ll recall my peaceful but firm tone as I suggested to you that there was really nowhere for the 2nd line to form, as the cashier was planted squarely in front of the Entenmann’s discount baked goods display.

When you squawked that fine, you’d stand there if nobody else wanted to, you’ll recall that I then grasped the shiny red down vest of the innocent young woman in front of me and loudly, perhaps owing in part to my earphones, suggested to her, “You’re in that line, right? Right??”

You may then recall, though surely your vision was stymied by the smoke flowing from your nostrils, that the young woman politely conferred with the customers in front of her and then meekly stepped over to the 2nd cashier, while the customers in the 3rd, less confusing line simply stared at both you and I like we were part of some sort of shrieky, inpatient, earphone wearing, sundry purchasing clique.

I turned back to the front of the line and tried ignoring you, resolved that I would not let Another Long Week be capped off by you and your adorably inappropriate antics, but then you took the game up a notch by trumpeting over my shoulder to the cashier, “SEPARATE LINES, RIGHT? SEPARATE LINES?”

Clearly caught off guard, the cashier confirmed your assertion. Having removed my earphones, I distinctly heard the scraping of your claws on the linoleum behind me as you prepared to circumvent your fellow paying customers by line-hopping.

And that’s where you had me. That’s where I lost. That is where I lost all sense of decency, hurled myself in front of the cashier – past the older woman who’d been waiting patiently with her six-pack and enormous bottle of Tide, past the young man whose poor choice of lines had landed him behind the woman who was now on her thirteenth credit card swipe at the 1st cashier, past all of the unfortunate and lost and innocent souls who have ever waited patiently in lines across the world across centuries across mere boundaries of time and space – and slammed my padlock down on the counter.

“Separate lines,” you whinnied once again, perhaps failing to notice my embarrassing act of impulsive public disregard. My brain started to boil. “I live here,” you continued like some sort of otherworldly parrot of Satan, “I know.”

That’s when my head exploded twenty yards into the cosmetics aisle and my hands plunged into your chest and ripped out your filthy, inpatient Slavic heart as I screamed through my disembodied set of lips which were now sailing overhead towards Soaps & Shampoos, “YEAH, I LIVE HERE, TOO. WE ALL LIVE HERE.”

Time froze. People stared. A woman in line 3 stared at me with a look of either abject fear, concerned pity or, perhaps, proud solidarity, as if to say, “I, too, live here.”

I paid for my lock and left, unable to even give the nice cashier a discernible response when he asked me How I Was. “Grawd,” I slurred back at him, swiping my lock into my bag and reeling dizzily out the door.

You’ll be happy to know that it’s now been thirty minutes and my skin still feels like it’s going to fly off my white hot skeleton and go find an innocent basket of kittens to smother. You probably couldn’t tell by the twitch in my eye that I had only recently recovered from the second Migraine in as many days. No thanks to you, I have a suspicious feeling I’ll shortly be moving into number three!

On behalf of everyone else who waited patiently, albeit foolishly, in line, half of whom at this very minute are regaling their families with stories about the crazy Eastern European couple fighting in line at the drugstore, and the other half of whom simply hate me, thanks. Thanks for making sure that, once again, I didn’t make it through a full week in New York City without wishing that I could peel my eyeballs off and go live in the sewer rather than contend with the crazy people. I have a feeling I know who put you up to this, so you’ll be kind enough to extend my thanks to them as well. Maybe the four of us can all get together and be absolutely, indefinably, inexcusably, 100% unconcerned with humanity.

I’m actually super happy that you live here, because now after I go to the gym and get big and strong, it will be that much easier to pick you up by your earphoned ears and toss you in front of one of the Grey Line buses bombing down 8th Avenue! Ha ha! It will be fun!

See you never,

And seriously hope you choke on, or are mortally allergic to, or terribly disfigured by, whatever it is you bought tonight,

G.

Appreciation, Part II

2006-11-03T00:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Upper East Side Girl with the Hacking Cough and Obese Nurse's Aide who Couldn't Stop Sucking Her Teeth:

I'd like to thank you both for participating in the Who Can Ruin a Subway Ride the Best contest, and to announce that, after careful consideration, I've had to declare a two-way win.

Hacking Cough, I have to hand it to you -- and could do so quite literally, since your hands are perfectly clean, seeing as you refused to use them to cover your privileged horse-like maw when you hacked and coughed every three minutes like clockwork all the way from Mosholu Parkway to 86th Street -- the cards were not stacked in your favor, seeing as I was half asleep upon coming off of an eleven hour workday at the end of a Very Long Week. Persistence paid off, though, and by the fifth unnervingly loud cough you had my full attention. I hope you didn't take my sudden sidewards glares as indicative of some sort of congenital tic on my part, or of some sort of surreptitious enamored gawking. What I was trying to convey, silently, was Please stop that, you're rupturing my gall bladder. I especially liked how, given the late hour and the location of the subway station, you clearly work in a medical setting and, given your alarmingly tasteless but clearly overpriced gold purse, you clearly have some money to burn, yet you still managed to convey absolutely zero sense of public decorum and/or health awareness by coughing directly and forcefully into the middle of the subway car. I certainly ate crow when I assumed that the poor man entering the subway car and sitting directly next to you might prod you to cough more gently and perhaps into the safety of your coatsleeve - - I'm sure he'll be regretting his seat choice when he wakes up tomorrow morning with a case of tuberculosis, ebola and whatever else it was that was so clearly causing your uncontrollable cough. Or was it just a cold? And are you just an inconsiderate ass wad?

And Tooth Sucker.....dear, large, sleepy Tooth Sucker. I have to apologize to you as well, as I fear my stares in your direction were only half as guarded as the ones I shot towards the Cougher. It's just that you were sitting directly across from me and, well, I was honestly alarmed that anyone could possibly have both the stamina and the incredible public disregard to suck their teeth for a solid twenty minutes. You probably noticed that my first five minutes of staring were focused mainly around your mouth, as I tried to discern what you could possibly be eating that would cause such an oral fuss! Was it bubble gum? Peanut butter? Taffy? I mean, seriously, my last guess would have been your teeth! Guess I lost that one! The next fifteen minutes -- the ones that weren't already reserved for the Hacker, that is -- were really just me trying to gently communicate to you via telepathy several variations of the same basic message: Please stop sucking your godforsaken motherfucking hell-rotting teeth before I throw both of us through the emergency window directly behind your enormous and sleepy tooth-sucking head.

Anyways, it was a toss-up, so you both win. I'm still trying to decide on an appropriate prize but, for what it's worth, the lingering headache and foul temper you sent me off with look like they're going to last me well into tomorrow morning. TGIF!

Hope your teeth and vocal cords fall out,

G.

The look of love

2006-10-29T23:10:00.000-05:00

Appreciation

2006-10-26T23:21:00.000-04:00

Dear Everyone Who's Walked Behind Me At Any Point During the Past Five Days and Neglected to Point Out The Price Tag Hanging Off the Middle of the Back of My New Fall Jacket,

Thanks.

Luv,

Groomzilla

And yes, I did pay $49.99. And no, I'm not telling you where.

Awkward and Unprepared

2006-10-24T19:55:00.000-04:00

Awkward: Having a sex dream about a coworker.

Awkwarder: Have a sex dream about a coworker in which the two of you are laying in bed when you suddenly realize that your sleeping husband is also there, and in which you first debate and then succumb to the temptation to do it anyways.

Awkwardest: Running into said coworker first thing in the morning whilst still halfway between asleep and awake, resulting in a confusing mix of lust and embarassment and why-is-he-pretending-like-nothing-happened.

In more disappointing news: I am, as usual, running behind on Halloween, a phenomenon which continues to perplex me as Halloween is my favorite holiday. M. and I tried to find Girl Scout/Boy Scout (you guess) costumes on Sunday but the Salvation Army was closed. Thus Friday evening and/or Saturday morning will be consumed by my annual rush to find appropriate wigs and tights and blushes and, in this case, sashes and berets. If the Girl Scout doesn't pan out, I may go as a Girl Pirate. Or maybe just a psychopath. A girl psychopath.

Edit this; or, Every girl has her secrets

2006-10-20T11:28:00.001-04:00

In order to avoid the risk of alienating the small thimbleful of visitors who continue to stumble upon this weblog -- half of whom, granted, slither in hoping for a belated look at Katherine McPhee Nude or, better yet, for advice on How to Call Off a Wedding -- I have decided, upon careful consideration, that instead of choosing between sharing either a story detailing my alarm upon viewing the physical after-effects of the upper GI series barium x-ray tests I took this morning or a story about my distress upon sitting here on this very couch at this very moment and feeling certain that I smell Dead Mouse, yet equally uncertain that I truly want to investigate, I will instead share my joyful anticipation upon learning that there is a new Crate & Barrel package waiting for us at the UPS center. Much safer territory, and much more in keeping with the original intent and spirit of the site.

On a somewhat related note: according to M., as of 4am today, I have officially started sitting up in bed and sleep-talking. This morning's harmless message had something to do with asking M. if he'd remembered to "set all [his] alarms." In the interest of safeguarding my innermost thoughts and feelings, however, I am considering resuming the use of my retainer in order to keep my secrets suitably garbled.

And....take 2.

2006-10-18T15:37:00.000-04:00

The good news about eating donuts and burritos right after your colonoscopy is that, apparently, they don't stay with you for very long.

The bad news is that I may have to angle my side of the bed into the bathroom.

--This message brought to you by Go-Lytely, the gift that keeps on giving. And giving.--

And....cut.

2006-10-18T11:55:00.000-04:00

Well that's over with.

I've survived with barely a scrape. Mainly thanks to my new best friend Diprivan, which was administered through my very first intravenous access somewhere between the time that I finally had to take my underwear off (they let you keep it on along with your assless johnny and your shoes-n-socks until the last minute) and the Moment of Insertion.

Seriously, I don't remember a thing. One minute the anesthesiologist was telling me I might feel a little sleepy, then I felt my brain pleasantly melting into the back of my head -- this, after I asked the nurse what the rapid beeping noise was and she told me it was my heartbeat and asked if I might be a little bit anxious -- and the next minute I was getting woken up by the nurse in the recovery room and asking her what train I was on.

It occurs to me that Diprivan should be sold over the counter and should come in 40-minute-subway-ride and 8-hour-airplane-flight dosages.

I was a little bit wary when the PA told me that "anything left in there before the procedure, we'll just suction it right out," but needless to say What We Aren't Awake For Can't Humiliate Us.

And I'm ashamed to say that even though I planned on celebrating my empty GI tract by filling it with only Good and Nutritious Things from here on out, the only thing I really wanted when M. escorted me out of the hospital was a toasted coconut donut. So that's what I got.

Oh, and the results were all fine. No colon cancer. No polyps. No what-have-you. Just a crazy owner.

Here we go

2006-10-18T06:19:00.000-04:00

Which is worse:

Getting on a subway when you're not sure if your Go-Lytely has, ahem, run its course (in fact you're pretty sure it hasn't)?

Or getting a forty (okay thirty) foot camera stuck up your bum?

Make it stop?

2006-10-17T22:03:00.000-04:00

Please?

Please Baby Lord Jesus?

I don't ever want to see my bathroom ever again.

In other news, M. just came bouncing back from the refigerator announcing how much he loves cheese slices as a snack. I can't wait to eat a cheese slice. Or my own hand.

Please send help

2006-10-17T20:15:00.000-04:00

NOT. FUN.

Good Lord

2006-10-17T19:42:00.000-04:00

Ruh-roh, Reorge.

Food Glorious Food

2006-10-17T19:32:00.000-04:00

The best thing about being a starving person presented with a bowl of freshly boiled chicken broth is, in my mind, the swiftness with which one feels free to depart from societal norms, toss the spoon aside and drink directly from the bowl. Less time washing cutlery means more time on the toilet, I say.

I am my own punchline; or, 30 is the new 80

2006-10-17T19:04:00.000-04:00

On tonight's menu we have me, sitting on the new loveseat, anxiously preparing for a colonoscopy which will take place in roughyl twelve hours. I have not eaten since breakfast - - strike that, yogurt at ten thirty - - in accordance with my colonoscopic instructions. I am dizzy, light-headed, sorrowful, angry and for some reason feeling just a lot bit paranoid. As in, everyone on the street is looking at me. I am considering the alternate explanation that they may have been staring less at me and more at the wild-eyed and panicked look on my hunger-starved face. It has occured to me more than once today, Gosh I finally know what it feels like to be a starving refugee. I've downed two of the roughly twelve, chilled glasses of Go-Lytely which await me tonight, to be consumed every ten minutes until the gallon-jug is empty, which will act as a gastrointestinal death brigade and clear the way for the forty-foot camera which awaits my bum. I've eaten exactly two-thirds of one Edy's Tangerine Flavored Fruit Ice, one-third per glass of Go-Lytely to cut down on the taste -- oh yeah, definitely tastes better chilled, thanks Pharmacist -- carefully rationed because I am fearful that the Strawberry and Raspberry Flavored ones have too much Red Dye #40, which is a no-no. If that camera sees red, I want no mistakes about it. I am also concerned that the Edy's box touts the fact that their product contains "real fruit", which could mean "real fruit bits", which are also a no-no, but I feel safe to assume that any stray bits of frozen, processed tangerine will not be mistaken by the colo-cam as anything alarming.

So now I sit here in T-shirt, boxer briefs and black socks, looking every bit the part of the octagenarian I seem to have become (last week was the Neurologist, and did I mention another one of my molars seems to be developing a dark spot?), patiently waiting for my hot pan of chicken broth dinner to cool. My stomach is already making funny noises, a full forty minutes ahead of schedule if I am to believe the Go-Lytely label. I am scared of what the evening will bring. I've suggested to

**break: glass #3**

M. that I will sleep on the new pullout sofa this evening, so as to be closer to the loo and so as not to wake him up every fifteen minutes, but the New Couch Owner in me fears that this is too risky a venture -- what if you have a dream that your Go-Lytely kicks in, and then it does, but you're still dreaming, or at least thinking you are? -- and implores me to just sleep on the dirty rug.

I will now pour my lukewarm chicken broth into a plain white bowl - - but first, Glass #4, which leaves me with no more than twenty minutes of freedom - - and sit here and eat it and whistfully yearn for the days when I was young and carefree.

Moonzilla

2006-10-14T18:59:00.000-04:00

Dear Mouse #3,

Well, it’s been a full week now since we came home from our honeymoon in Italy, only to find cute and adorable You waiting for us in the kitchen! I must say, the look on your sleepy little mouse face peeking out from the mouse trap was priceless. Someone doesn’t have a very good poker face! I don’t think I’ll ever figure out just how you managed to squeeze yourself length-wise through the entire trap! Needless to say, you’ll be receiving a bill from me in the mail for a replacement, since you weren’t exactly in a position to be easily disposed of! LOL!!! :P

Anyways, Italy was great! Now that I’m over my jetlag, I’ve been trying to figure out how to best capture our experience there. In the interest of time and space, I thought a top ten list might suffice. Here goes!

Top Ten Tips on Honeymooning in Italy

1) Keep your accommodation expectations low. One hotel may have comfortable beds and a modernized bathroom, but an underhanded management staff and tins of liverwurst on the breakfast table. Another may have a gracious staff and a community International Tabloid table, but a perpetually damp bathroom that smells of eggs. Then again, you may strike it rich with a place like La Poesia, in Monterosso al Mare, where the beds are clean, the showers are hot, and Nicoletta gives you prosciutto and cannolis for breakfast. Or, you may get bumped out of your hotel on your last night in Rome, but upgraded to a better place with an enormous bathroom and a suspicious but memorable mirror over the bed.

2) Eat and drink a lot. As in, constantly. After the third or fourth day, a casual glance at the locals’ tables will cause you to reconsider the need to order three courses each, and you will discover creative ways to have your prosciutto and gnocchi and lamb and veal and risotto and bread and pizza and focaccia, and eat it, too. Without spending needless Euros. You will also discover the joys of table wine by the carafe. Here you should feel free to ignore the fact that most of the locals order a half-bottle of wine and stretch it out between two people over two hours. It is a sin to leave an enormous 7-Euro carafe of wine unpurchased and/or unfinished. That goes for lunchtime, too.

3) Gelato. Don’t be the six hundredth annoying person to come back from Italy gloating to anyone who will listen about having found the best Gelato in Italy. Do eat it. Every day. At least once, maybe twice. You can even call it ice cream if you want, because that’s pretty much what it is. Common decency should restrain you from taking the Midwestern Tourist route of shuffling down the middle of the street trying to keep up with your tour group whilst negotiating your foot-long cone piled with 3 quarts of multi-flavored gelato, but two or three or four scoops are perfectly acceptable.

4) Speaking of which, swear right now on your mother’s mother’s grave that you will never, under no circumstances, without exception, travel to Italy with a tour group. They are evil and should be eradicated. They push you against the wall when you’ve only had three seconds to consider Boticelli’s Birth of Venus, and they ruin your trip to the gelato store. They cut lines at every museum, and their leaders confuse and irritate you with the multicolored umbrellas and scarves-on-antennae which serve as evil tour group rallying sticks. If you are low on cash and high on cunning, however, you will learn to look vacantly at a wall or a tree while the tour guide next to you unknowingly provides you with his or her expertise on the statue or painting or ruin at hand, free of charge.

5) Museums in Rome and Florence don’t appreciate amateur photography. While the man in the Sistine Chapel may sound as though he is groaning unintelligibly in an obscure Eastern European dialect, he is actually repeating, over and over, the simple transinternational phrase, No Photo. You will find yourself first sheepishly considering that your camera flash might have contributed to the premature peeling and fading of countless frescoes. Soon thereafter you will find yourself wondering why flashless photos are also prohibited or, more confusingly, what damage a flashless photo could possibly do to a marble statue. As you pass through the museum store on the way to the exit, you will appreciate the Italian Museum Bureau’s plan to steal your Euros with postcards and prints and coffee table books full of the countless pieces of art which were unable to find their way to your memory card. Unless, of course, you acted fast and carried your camera at your hip.

6) A reframing of point 5. Italy is full of statues and paintings and columns and whatnots. All of which look famous. Many of which are not. Only the most diligent of honeymooners will take the time to check their Rick Steves guidebook to make note of each and every piece of art they encounter. That being said, only take photographs of the ones you absolutely know are famous. Sprinkled in with a few that may not be famous, but which you really, really like. But don’t bother trying to remember what they’re called. Chances are you’ll get home and upload your photos and forget what any of them are, and then you’ll type “Uffizi statue” into Google Images to try and figure it out so you can label your online photo gallery, and you’ll get 50 pages of results documenting 3.2 million other honeymooners’ perfectly captured one-of-a-kind shots of the exact same stuff you photographed, famous and otherwise.

6a. Save yourself the trouble of lugging a camera around Italy and, when you get home, go onto Google Images and steal everyone else’s photographs. Because they will quite literally be identical to the ones you took. Photoshop your faces into the foreground.

6b. Rick Steves gets things right about 2% of the time. Do not read his book in public or you will be thrown to the tour groups and scowled at.

7) Speaking of which, if Rick Steves mentions a “long tunnel” leading to a beach in Cinque Terre, what he actually means is the most terrifying experience of your honeymoon, encompassing a rusty steel door that creaks open after the scary Italian voice over the intercom mumbles “Pronto” and then slams shut behind you, leaving you alone in a tunnel full of scary alcoves and lit only by the faintest of miniscule lights. A really long tunnel. Like, a mile. Literally. Your instincts will scream at you to turn around, to get out, to not be like the stupid girl who climbs the stairs in the horror movie, but you will press onwards, mainly because you harassed your new husband to go there in the first place, and you will lie to each other about how it looks like there’s daylight just around the next corner, and then you will come to a scary abandoned camper in the middle of the tunnel, and it is at that point that you fully understand that this is where you will die, this is where the scary tunnel people will come out of their camper to slit your throats and drink your blood. You will take unrecognizable pictures of the dark tunnel ahead of and behind you, and you will know in your heart that these will be the last pictures they see when they discover your lifeless and violated body three years from now, and it is at that point that your mother will look to the heavens and gnash her teeth and wonder aloud why her son would have kept going into the tunnel, and more importantly, a tunnel to a nude beach. Then you will come to the end of the tunnel, pay your 10 Euro ransom fee to exit the tunnel, and spend exactly nine minutes on a rocky, 50-yards wide beach populated by exactly seven nudists who will not stop staring at you in an unwelcoming manner. You will take off your bathing suits and sit huddled together on your blanket with your legs crossed and, when that doesn’t make the starers stop staring, you will put your clothes back on and go back through the tunnel. Sheepishly.

8) Cinque Terre is quite possibly the most beautiful place on earth. Definitely the most beautiful place in Italy. Best of all, between the claustrophobic and dark beach tunnel and the death-defying drops along the trail between Monterosso and Vernazza, all fears will be conquered. Go here for more than two nights or you will spend the better part of the first day trying to figure out why you didn’t.

9) The Cappucin crypt in Rome is the singularly most creepy-outy thing you will ever see. Everything is bones. Walls, bones. Ceilings, bones. Chandeliers, bones. Cappucin means creepy in Italian. Evidently.

10) No trip to Italy is complete without a final one-night stop in Amsterdam, where of course your friend is generous and savvy enough to score you a surprise private champagne canal tour with a lascivious skipper and a pan full of Bitterballen. Followed by Chinese Indonesian food and, of course, a stop at Lelebelle.

11) Cats in a boat? Cats in the forum? Cats in Italy are cat-dorable?

So that’s all for now, Mouse #3. I was sorry to come home last night to find your friend Mouse #4 in a similar predicament to your own. You can only imagine the guttural shriek that erupted from somewhere beyond my bowels when his little head started moving! The emotional distress of having to dispose of yet another trap, rather than simply disposing of its contents like the pack of the package said we could, was matched only by the emotional distress of having to quadruple-bag your tiny friend in the hopes that four plastic bags would suffocate him four times as fast. I hardly slept a wink, wondering what terrifying thoughts must have been running through his tiny, half-crushed head! If it weren’t for the venomous rage I felt towards him for having traipsed his dirty little paws through my kitchen cabinets, I might have tried a little harder for a rescue-and-release on 9th Avenue. Dr. Faustus was right, you little guys really do love Swiss Miss!

You’ll notice - - or your friend will, anyways - - that the pest man was here today to seal your entryway with poisonous goo. You’ll also notice that we spent the day performing a top-to-bottom cleaning in preparation for and celebration of the arrival of our Brand New Couches. Hadn’t noticed the collection of feces you’d accumulated behind the trash can!! Let it be said now that if we catch any of your little friends sullying our freshly cleansed living space, we’ll crush your tiny fucking skulls faster than you can say Arrivederci!

Have fun in Hell!

Luv,

Groomzilla

The price of private dancing

2006-09-25T17:45:00.000-04:00

This weekend M. and I were in Provincetown for our friends' -- aka the Tallest and Most Outdoors-iest Gay Men We Know -- wedding.

I could describe the knot that caught in my throat when the officiant pronounced them legally wed in the state of Massachusetts and my subsequent discussion with M. regarding the actual-versus-perceived concrete and emotional benefits of that little thing they call a Marriage Certificate. I could.

Instead, I will simply declare how Grand it is to attend someone else's big gay wedding and revel in one's ability to sit back and seagull their raw bar, and see how they navigate the vows and the place cards and the first dance, and watch them sweat the small stuff...and then, at the end of the night, slice one's thumb wide open grinding up and down on their center tent pole. D'oh.

The good news is that we will be on a plane headed for Italy in just a little over 48 hours, where I can soak my thumb (and brain) in red wine and cannoli filling.

Me and my shadow

2006-09-20T15:18:00.000-04:00

When I was younger I used to lay awake at night, bemoaning my chicken boney shoulder blades and ribs and plotting vengeance against whoever had called me "skinny" that day.

Yeah...that doesn't seem to be so much of an issue anymore.

In Lieu of Dead Mice; or, where does Emmet Smith get off having such enormous hands?

2006-09-19T21:37:00.000-04:00

Wedding registries are the gifts that keep on giving.

Tonight, for example, I went to UPS to pick up a beautiful shesham rosewood salad bowl from one of our dearest friends.

Not as exciting, perhaps, as the Lite-Weight massage table the sketchy man in front of me picked up* but, still, it's like a little bit of Christmas every few weeks.

A little bit of Christmas which doesn't make everyone else in line look at me like I'm a filthy little whore.

*insert tossed salad joke here.

Where's Waldo?

2006-09-11T10:36:00.000-04:00

Highlights for Children: Can you find the mouse that two grown men couldn't?

Rhetorical update

2006-09-11T10:31:00.000-04:00

Which is worse:

Being filthy enough that a dead mouse needs to start decomposing before you have time to notice it's there?

Or live blogging about it?

Update

2006-09-11T10:22:00.000-04:00

D'oh.

Found it.

Dead mouse.

Hiding amongst a thousand dust bunnies.

Right under the end table.

Pretty much disgusting.

Helpless

2006-09-11T09:58:00.000-04:00

As of this morning at 9:53am:

1. My iPod still has the same sad face it has had since last night, despite my attempts at following the instructions on the iPod website.

2. My living room still has the same dead-animal smell it has had since last night. M. thought someone was cooking cabbage last night. But now...it has occured to me that it is most definitely a dead animal smell, a conclusion I have reached based on the comes-and-goes character of the odor. We're thinking maybe the other trap got tripped by Mouse #2 last weekend, who escaped with a mortal flesh wound and a) in my scenario, ran under the floorboards or behind the wall to die, or b) in M.'s scenario, ran under our couch and somehow climbed inside to die. The latter choice, of course, makes me vomit a little bit. Although it would give us that excuse we've been looking for (other than the complete discoloration and broken springs) to buy a new couch.

3. All of the above is going on while I'm sitting here taking a sick day (digestive bug) and watching the September 11th coverage on all three major networks, sitting in my underwear, at the computer, writing about insipid things and worrying about minor concerns, just like I was 5 years ago.