jamYe waXman. seX matters.

Are you pondering what I'm pondering?

Lately some "friends" have been asking me why I write my blog? They don't understand why I obsess about writing something I don't get paid for, I don't get laid from, I basically don't get anything "perkish" out of, but still I sit and write and write and ...well, you get the picture.

It's not an ego thing, although c'mon I am documenting blips of my life. I describe it as practice for my writing career, which it most definitely is. And it requires that I have discipline, because wanting to update my blog keeps me writing on a regular basis. But these answers are still biting at me, the way I bite at my nails on a regular basis. Why, Why, Why must I write this blog all the time?

I don't really have an answer, except that well, in addition to the two aforementioned reasons, I really, truly do enjoy simply writing about nothing. Since I'm one of those people who talks about nothing on a regular basis, and was recently reminded by someone who does the same that I should learn to cut down on my ramblings, I find this is an outlet to ramble on and not actually offend anyone with my scratchy, husky, no I don't smoke cigarettes, pack a day sort of drole.

So. Why do I write my blog? Because I want to. That's not the best reason...but for now, it's the only one I got.

------------------------------------FLIP THE SWITCH-------------------------------

I will never watch Goodfellas again. I think I'm having some sort of past life regression. I hate loud noises, explosions, firecrackers, gunshots, bombs, balloons popping, blood...things like that..and I couldn't stand the goryness that is "Goodfellas." So, now I'm thinking...I must have somehow been involved with the mafia in a past life. I must have somehow been killed (I'm thinking by a gunshot) in this past life, and while I don't remember more than this...this explains why I've always been terrified of big noises...but I don't think I was ever afraid of the mafia...really...until now...

F*** the Academy Awards

I used to work with this lady. No. Really.

I'm not watching the Academy Awards.

They're on now. I missed the first two awards, the two that matter, and I tried to watch when The Incredibles accepted the award for best animation, which, since when is their an award for Best Animation, but I got bored. I tried a little harder and really, really wanted to get into Drew Barrymore as she announced the nominees for best song, but that's when it clicked...

I don't give a flying sh** about anything Academy Awards. I don't care who wins, who loses..I don't think I've even seen one of the movies nominated for best picture.

You watch the Academy Awards, I'm watching Goodfellas..another movie I've never seen. So while I catch up with movies from what, like 20 years ago, you watch who wins this year. I'll get there eventually.

But still the Acadmey Awards..they aren't my thing.

Next Question - New Day

Why don't I sleep like a normal person sleeps? Am I even a normal person? Or am I not a normal person anyway?

No. Seriously. I can't sleep 'in' at all. On the days I think I'm sleeping late - I'm waking up at 8:22AM!!! Even the cats let me sleep in this morning and I couldn't.

I can't go to bed early either, because, then, forget about it, I'll be up at the crack of dawn, and the only crack I want to see in the morning isn't rising at 6AM (I have no idea what I just wrote, but it kind of makes you squeam, right?).

I can usually make the 6:45AM yoga class. Not a bad thing, I know, but who really wants to get up for a 6:45 yoga class? Or maybe it's good to get up early, it's just that most of the world doesn't agree with me.

I think getting up really early reminds me of working in an office or going to school. I usually wasn't looking forward to the day ahead. Although not so much so when I started producing, then I think I liked going to work. Well, most days anyway.

Still, I want to sleep til 10AM one morning.
......Wait, I think I did on Monday.
................I think I at least slept til 9:30
..............................That's getting closer.

Okay, next question, same day.

Why is it only happening once a week?

A different perspective

The Hitachi Magic Wand. (Maybe Too) Powerful Vibrator. Excellent Back Massager. Really.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm catsitting for my friend L., whose mother taught me this weekend that miracles do happen...that is, if you believe. I don't know how much she'd want me going into any detail, but let's just say - I believe!!!

Sitting here, in her apt., with full use of an internet connection, three cats, one of whom used to be mine...and as my grandmother describes him, he (or she since she always calls the boy a girl) "has the nicest fur she's ever felt on a cat." He's super lovey, like right now he's staring adoringly at me and rubbing on my computer (like mother, like son), and I feel like I'm couch surfing once again, even though I'm (thankfully) not. It's just reminding me of not too long ago. Now Silly, the cat that has two mommies, has just crawled into my lap. I'm feeling the love.

Five minutes later and now he's gone and my mind is wandering to thoughts of what guy's often do when they have nothing else to do..and I'm not talking about watching TV or picking my nose (although I do love the latter anyday)...why am I always horny?!!!

LIKE
The funny thing is I don't want to be hooking up with random strangers right now. I don't have the urge, the itch, that burning desire that is not associated with vaginal yeast. I like a boy and when I like someone I'm more monogamous that when I don't...which makes perfect sense...but I'm even more monogamous than most of my friends who aren't all that monogamous.

What I don't believe in is forced monogamy, which is why I am harping on the subject of being monogamous now. I guess cause it's not forced at all right now, because of that, it's just the way I feel like being. We are all human beings, all animals, we like to hump each other, we aren't really supposed to be limited to one mate. But for now he's the only boy I want. And even though I have the option to do what I want, I don't want to do anything. Well, not anything, I do want to do some work, and get some sleep and spend part of any day in a room with the someone that I like. A lot. For now. Is that addiction?

WORK
There's decisions to be made about work. It's as if I'm surfing yet again, but this time a wave and not a couch, and while I use balance and the power of thought to stay on the board, I need to just relax and let the wave take me on its ride as well. Cause then it just might happen. This whole "next level" thing just might happen

HOME
Even though I'm sitting here with a bag I've packed for the weekend, when the weekend is over I'm going back to my home, the place where I still need to connect to the freakin' Internet *which, thanks to Time Warner Cable is happening next week. But still three months ago I didn't have a home and that started to suck.

LIFE
I'd say the last three months have given me perspective. A whole, new perspective. I can't believe how much my world has changed in just three months.

I think this weekend I'll enjoy the reminder.

Finger-Biter

My fingers are all dry. Especially around the cuticles. I have OCD, or ADD, or whatever they diagnose kids with these days, and even though I've never been diagnosed by anyone outside of my siblings, who both happen to be in medical professions, I know this is true. As I sit and stare at my fingers, trying hard not to pick off all the dead cells, I see living proof of my "habit".

I can't stop picking. It's as if the skin just peels off from around the areas of dryness. I've been doing this for years, and for years I've been telling myself I shouldn't be doing this at all. I can't help it. When I'm bored, when I'm nervous, when I should be doing other things, I pick my skin. I know that eventually, if it hasn't already altered my long term skin growth, this habit will destroy me.

My sister has a fucked up thumbnail. Like alien-esque, messed up. She'd probably be pissed at this description, but it's true, her thumbnail is a phenomena to me. It's all warped. I think it's from the picking and even though I don't want a thumbnail like that, I still can't stop my habit.

A couple of my fingers are aching now. Aching - because in the time I've been typing this update, I've also been taking the time to pick my skin.

It's as if I'm addicted. Maybe I just need some lotion. In fact, lotion would be the best place to start to nip this addiction in the bud.

Lubrication. One of the most important elements of life, and sex, and good finger maintenance.

the 22nd

My Kitchen.

There's something nostalgic about the 22nd of every month. Perhaps it's that my birthday falls on the 22nd of October, okay, I know that's what it is, but there's something pensive about the date. It's that the 22nd serves as an easy marker for me to remember exactly how old I am. I have currently spent 30 years and 5 months on this planet, which does not include the time I spent inside my mother's womb. I guess it would be hard to celebrate birthdays if we included the days from the moment of inception.

Imagine the birth annoucement if we considered our "inception date" as the day we were born. Instead of calling it birthday, we could celebrate our day of formation. My formation-day was somewhere in January. I came out a couple of weeks late, but here's what I imagine the birth announcement would read. Today our daughter Jamye was born, at over 9 months and 2 weeks we welcome her out of her shell.

I was a jaundice baby. I was born yellow, and my mother left the hospital a couple of days before I did. I don't really know what they do for jaundice, but apparently the doctors didn't do anything to me. I still think I have a yellowish tint to my skin. It makes me feel special, like I have a little added color or something, and seeing how much I like color, it kind of makes sense. Or no sense at all. Depending, again, on how you view things.

And then of coures there's the fetus vs. baby debate. And since I am pro choice, not anti choice, I can side with the right for a woman to choose what to do with her body, without being told that it's murder. But that's a deeper debate, and I'm keeping things light. Although I always have to go dark at the end, just for a minute.

Whatever. Today is about the 22nd of the month, and how it will always remind me of how far I've come. Or how far I've still got to go.

Learning to say No

The Gates. CP style.

I think saying No is one of the hardest things to do but that in order to maintain any sort of sanity and direction in my life, I need to learn to do just that.

"No."

It's a day to day process. Today I said no once, and of course I contemplated if I was a bitch for doing it. But I'm sort of proud of myself at the same time. Because I realize that saying no is something that we all need to do. And no, I'm not preaching. And no, that's not the kind of no I mean.

Yes is so easy. It's good to feel like we can do everything, but I'm learning the most important lesson to date, that no, nobody can.

No is about picking and choosing and cleaning out cluttered spaces. Yes is about adding more to your life. It's not a bad thing from time to time, but it's okay to say no as well. See, I'm a big fan of clutter. I've been a collector of shit for way too long. From bandaids to magnets, I've collected a lot of useless items. *magnets are not useless items

So I need to clean things out to move on. You can't move forward with too much stuff. It just gets too heavy to carry it all. Metaphorically speaking. And you have to say no.

One more thought:

Has anyone ever watched Growing Up Gotti? What's up with Victoria Gotti? Her kids can't stand her, and she thinks life is dandy. Her kids are rude pigs and she's out of her mind wacky. And what's up with the plastic surgery and fake tans?

Saturday morning silliness

I now understand why out of towners think that everything in New York is so damn expensive. I had breakfast at the very trendy Balthazar's this morning, where a basket of bread costs $14, and eggs with spinach and artichoke $15.50, and at 11AM the crowds of tourists that lined the place where out the door, and I realized that this, this sort of experience is what makes New York expensive.

It was crowded. I got pushed a lot. I don't think I'll ever have to eat there again. Except that the slices of chocolate bread were really damn yummy. I'm talking the best surprise of the morning.

I can't go to bed early. I mean I can, but if I go to bed too early, the only thing that happens is that I wake up early as well. Last night I was in bed by 10:20PM. This morning I was up at 5:38. I tried to go back to sleep, I watched the sunrise over the water, even masturbated a few times, and I think eventually I fell asleep for maybe another 20 minutes. So, from now on, I'll have to go to bed at an unreasonable hour, just so I can wake up at a reasonable one.

I've taken two days to regain my mental health, and while I'm not at the top of my game, I feel the energy re-entering my body. Speaking of energy, I've seen some crazy shit this past week, energetically speaking, but I'm not really ready or sure how to explain it. I will just preface any later explanation with this...I am not crazy, nor do I think I'm going crazy, but yes, life is crazy. It's this whole molecule thing, I'm having a hard time grasping that we are all just made up of molecules...and...oh, fuck it, I don't want to go into it now.

In fact, I don't want to go into anything at all right now. Except maybe my bed for a few more good hours of slumber. But it's Saturday and that means I have other things to do...

Stuck in the middle

It's a really strange experience, actually living in the projects. Not that I haven’t noticed some things in the past, but today, today I spent a part of the day at my physical home, and in spending time in the middle of it all, I began to see things in a different light. I usually come home after 10PM. Today, at 4PM, I felt like I had a front row seat to the tension that I'm now calling - "Days of Our Lives: Project Style". I've lived in the projects for only 2 months, or over two months, depending on if you're a half empty, half full sort of person, but today was the first day I was actually home at 4PM.

I'm trying to give myself a day of rest. A restish day. Sort of.

So, I waited for the elevator with an older African American woman (AAW) and a Spanish man (SM). This whole building seems to know each other, as if they’re one big community, which in a way is what they are (they even have a neighborhood watch group that patrols the building at least twice a week), and when I tried to let the AAW go ahead of me, she courteously held the elevator door open. Then she waited for the SM to step inside. And after that, she pushed her button and started speaking pleasant Spanish to the other man. As the doors were closing I heard the faint desperation of a man, “hold the door, hold the door.” I want to be a star resident, so I held the door for the voice.

It appears that I pushed some of her buttons too.

So, in walks an Asian man, his wife and their obviously retarded son. The son is sitting in a wheelchair, and he’s got lazy eyes, his tongue hanging out, and the innocent look of a retarded boy. The AAW starts yelling, “I’VE TOLD YOU TO WAIT FOR YOUR OWN ELEVATOR. DON’T BRING HIM IN THE ELEVATOR WITH OTHER PEOPLE.” She spoke to the boys parents (RBP) as if their son wasn’t supposed to ride in the elevator with the “normal” folk. It just got worse. She started complaining about the wheelchair, and how she’ll get stuck when she needs to get out, and screaming out what she perceived to be true stereotypes about Asians. Racist things like that.

It was strange. Really, really uncomfortable, kind of strange.

I hope that boy didn’t understand what she’s saying, although he probably did. When she got out of the elevator, a production in itself, she kept complaining about how she couldn’t move her cart and actually, physically get out of the elevator. AAW shouted at the RBP's. I just wanted to yell back, “Shut up lady, don’t you think these people have enough to deal with already?”

I eventually told the RPB's dad that it would be to their advantage if they’d help her get her cart out of the elevator, and eventually they got the hint about actually lifting her cart over their son’s wheelchair. As soon as the elevator door shimmied shut, and the AAW had left, the RBP's turned to me and said, in both English and Spanish, I guess they were unsure of which I spoke seeing that all white girls like the same, but anyway, they turned to me and said "loco."

"Crazy."

The SM was still in the elevator, looking up at the ceiling. They all obviously hated each other, and here I was stuck in the middle of an interestingly tense situation.

In my life I have the ability to get into these places. Like Bucryus, Ohio - one of the strangest towns I've ever lived in.

Now I'm living in New York City, only with a bit of a twist. I'm really enjoying the experience.

I'm reading the Celestine Prophecy. I'm babbling.

I'm in the middle of something. But what?

Label Whore

I am so not into name brands, at least not anymore. But at one time I had to have what was cool. I think wearing name brands made me think I was popular, because anybody who knew me in high school knows that the truth was pretty much opposite of that.

I had one close friend. "Sally." Sally came in second in the "best looking" category of our yearbook's superlatives. I realize years later that I had a massive crush on her, (again another story) but back in the day, I got to spend a lot of time with Sally, and that meant I got to spend some time around the popular crowd.

Which meant, of course, I had to dress hip.

TOP FIVE THINGS THAT MADE ME FEEL HIP:
1. Farlows: Skin tight jeans that literally stuck to your body. I think farlow helped pave the way for cameltoe.

2. ID#: These shirts rocked, although I don't really understand the fashion statement that goes with the "hey, let's make a line of shirts that people wear inside out." They sort of looked like pajamas, but they had really cool prints. Still, inside out?

3. Z Cavarrici: There is no excuse for these pants. Really. Can you say guido?

4. Gear: These bags were so cool, with their bubbly 3-D designs. I had one bag that had these hearts on it. The only downside is that they didn't have straps and each bag was essentially a clutch. Ughh...

5. Justin Boots: Even though there were no cowboys on Long Island, you had to have a pair of $200 Justin boots. Accept no imitations.

I am so glad I'm not a label whore. I am so glad that I feel vintage these days. I don't miss the labels. I don't think I ever will.

Dragging on...

The boob saga drags on. On Sunday, I did a photo shoot with a husband and wife couple who are working on a really cool idea that I won't be sharing with you here. Anyway, we were taking photos, when, because the subject of the photos, which was, at the time, part of me, was easier to view topless, they asked me if I would mind taking a couple of pictures with my breasts exposed.

Of course the first thought that ran through my mind was, ugghhh, documenting these things? But then, within a couple of seconds my mind went back to the place I've only recently discovered. Show the world your boobs this voice in my head screamed, SHOW THE WORLD THAT NOBODY IS PERFECT, but that everybody should be proud. My top was off within seconds. At first only the photographers saw my breasts, all the camera shots they did focused on my back. But then, towards the end of the shoot, they asked if I would mind turning around, and without a moment's delay, there I was, waiting for the camera to grab an image of my lopsided lovelies.

The photographer grabbed more than one shot. In fact I think it was a couple of roles. I'm looking forward to seeing the pictures. To actively move forward in my quest to accept my not so perfect breasts. I'm loving me more and more each day.

It's kind of cool.

Boobs. My latest obsession

Thee Pill

I write this as if there's only one pill, because whenever someones says they're on the pill, you know exactly what pill they're talking about, even if there are hundreds of thousands of pills out there. Although it reminds me of a time, back when I was 15, when someone asked me where I lived and I said the island. I was in LA with my Aunt and some very famous friends, and she looked at me as if I said "I like to kill little animals and fry up their eyeballs."

For the record, I would never eat a fried eyeball, or kill a small animal unless it was a cockroach, but still, when I said "thee island" my Aunt pulled me aside and said, "Don't ever say the island. It's not the only island in this world, and it's most definitely not the center of the universe."

I understood what she meant. My small bubble had been burst. Which wasn't a bad thing. It allowed me to realize there was so much more to life than Plainview. And once I realized this, it actually allowed for my built up teenage angst to froth over. I've found some of the darkest writing I ever did back when I was 15. I didn't want to go back to high school on Lawn Guyland after that summer. I wanted to find a new center of my universe.

But that's not my point. Not tonight. Tonight it's about the pill. The birth control pill. The pill I was on by the age of 16, when I first became sexually active in a penetrative sort of way. I stayed on that pill until I was 24. Until that first, and practically only relationship fizzled away, I kept popping my one a day baby prevention. At 24 I decided I didn't want to do it anymore, put this artificial hormone in my body. At 24 I said goodbye to the pill.

It took me over a year to get my period back. The doctors told me that if I ever wanted to have babies, I would most likely need help getting pregnant. It took three more years to get a more typical flow. I've only been "normal" since this past summer. Before that, my period was touch and go. I've always blamed it on the pill.

I have a lot of cancer in my family. If I go into my history I'll just get depressed, but let's just say that today, at my gynecological visit, the doctor said "The cancer history in your family is really scary. Have you ever thought about going on the pill?"

She was the second person in less than a month that had mentioned the word. We talked about it. How the pill helps cut the risk of ovarian cancer. How nothing can protect you from the risk of breast cancer. We thought about it together. I thought about it alone. I've decided to go back on the pill.

So, within the next week, I am returning to a place that I haven't been back to since I was having regular intercourse with a boy that I loved. And while that was my reasoning for being on it at the time, this time it's taking on a whole other meaning.

And I'm nervous, for the possible weight gain, the first week of nauseous, the idea that once again I am chemically altering my body. But I guess if it helps me stick it out here, on this Earth, a little bit longer than I'll do what I can.

After all, it is thee pill.

It's Valentines Day

I have always found it amazing that one greeting card company could concoct a day that makes people focus on love or the lack of it.

I hate Valentines Day, and it's not because I'm single. In fact, I've been "dating" somebody for a couple of months, and while I don't want to get into details right now, or possibly ever, this is the first year that I have a Valentine in, oh, let's just say six years. I'm not seeing him tonight, which is actually fine, because, like I said I think Valentines Day is almost the stupidest holiday out there. I'd put it up there with Sweetest Day (a Valentines Day celebrated in mid-October in the midwest), which is only more stupid cause it couldn't even get national attention. Still, if you can't tell me how you feel about me the other 364 days of the year, don't bother telling me how you feel on the one day that everyone else feels obligated to share their emotions.

So, if you feel the need to scratch your itch for love on Valentines Day, jump on the bandwagon and let your sweetie, or the people that mean the most in your life, know just how you feel. If not, tell them tomorrow, when it won't matter to most people, but when I think it matters more. And even better, tell them every day after that.

Cause love isn't about one day of the year. Love is about emotion, intensity, passion and understanding.

Like I said... Fuck Valentines Day. Or...Fuck on Valentines Day. The choice is yours. What're you going to do?

Sense(less) Circles

This is really just a Sunday afternoon rambling. It might make no sense. It might make all the sense in the world. Who knows?

My friend G. told me that I have a lot of random friends in different places because I've never felt close to one group of people. I tend to disagree, arguing that I have different lives, I like change and I'm genuinely interested in meeting new people. Therefore I make close friends in different spaces and hang on to some of them for what feels like forever.

I need to preface things by saying that I don't feel alone. Sometimes I am lonely but I know there are friends and family that I have that I can go to. Still, I've never found one space that I entirely belong.

The Circle:
I've been having this discussion with a close, personal friend as I watch him embrace life and the community that we both share. It's actually the community I feel closest to right now, and outside of my co workers at "Babeland", it's the one space that I've felt most comfortable in and around in my 30 years on this planet. It's the one space where I can exist as me, and everybody else can exist as they want to.

He talks about circles, and about how life is about them. I sort of understand, but I see circles as smaller communal shapes, housing an infinite number of people, and I think he sees a greater possibility. After all it is a circle of Life (yes, cheesy Lion King reference).

Still I keep myself outside the circle, whatever that means, outside of the spaces that I know I do belong. I keep myself waiting for an invitation to be let in, even though I've already been invited on more than one occasion. And then I jump in, feel the water, and jump right back out again. It's as if I'm afraid that once I find a place, I'll never want to leave.

He makes me think some more.

And as I think about things, I tell this close, personal friend about how I love change, and how maybe it's what makes me stay outside the circles. That it's one thing I'm not afraid of. He tells me that too much change is just as constant as no change at all. He makes me think that maybe they're one and the same. And that maybe it's time I stop running from circles.

Last night, at a party at a place I'd never go back to, I realize that I do have my circle. And it's okay to embrace a community, and it does feel good to belong.

And even if I like change, and even if I eventually leave, it's time to stop and smell the circles.

At the end of the day

"You're another day older..." (Les Mis, one of my favorite musicals and a really appropriate song for a girl in the projects)

So, Verizon did indeed cancel my order. They say my building has fiber optic phone lines and I need a copper phone line in order to get DSL. I think this is "project discrimination." I feel the pain of living in a building where most people can't afford to care about the fabric of their phonewire. I've offered to bribe them to get me copper wire. I don't know how they feel about being bribed, but they are going to check my building just in case they can find me some. I'm still thinking about cable. I have to call Time Warner on Monday. I'm feeling desperate. I really need Internet access. I really love my apartment, which by the way, I found through an online post - Curiosity Jones, if that is your real name, and I don't want to have to leave my view of the river because I can't get connected.

It's Friday night. My grandmother was in a pretty bad bang up car accident yesterday. In typical old lady fashion she blamed the sun for being too damn bright. "I tell you," she said "the sun can kill you these days." She didn't break any bones, have I mentioned that I do believe in miracles, but she's pretty bruised up. If my grandfather were still alive he would have seen the other car coming. Now I'm trying to convince her that driving might not be the thing to do anymore. But how do you do that, without taking away someone's last bits of freedom? She loves to go out. I suggested she move into the city. She says she can't afford it. I understand.

I'm going to have a weekend of enjoyment. I feel I need it. I feel I deserve it. I feel like next week the chaos starts all over again. I was lieing in the "relax" pose in yoga, and for the first time in my yogic experiences, I felt like a heavy weight was crushing my chest as I tried to relax. I couldn't lift my arms, my legs, even my eyelids. It was so strange.

For a girl whose life seems like a vacation, I'm in need of the real thing.

Why I hate...

Hate is such a strong word, but really, that's the only word I know...

Why I hate VERIZON the phone company and VERIZON the DSL provider.

A short story by Jamye Waxman

I am living in the housing projects where not everybody has a computer, and where maybe two people have wireless Internet. That means I can't get my wireless card to work in my apartment, and that means for the past two months I have been living a life in a solitary studio overlooking the East River without any form of outside communication. I don't want a TV, which means I can't get a cable modem to help my computer get online. I opted for the "cheaper" alternative, a phone hookup which would lead to DSL service.

Ah, DSL, I thought, how exciting! I couldn't wait to get my phone and my new friend. At first Verizon was very nice, and seemingly helpful. They hooked me up with a phone number and the insurance that my DSL starter kit would be in the mail the next day.

I got a call the next day that they had to change my phone number. Okay. Fine. No Big Deal. The new number was actually a much easier to remember one, and I was happy with the triple same digits at the end of it. I anxiously awaited my DSL starter kit. Another week passed. Nothing.

When I called Verizon to find out where the kit had gone, they told me that my DSL order had been cancelled because they couldn't find service for the old number. No one had "communicated" to a "communications" company that my phone number was changing. I was upset. Disturbed. But I gave them another hour of my time, all the information they needed, and the hope that they could somehow expedite my service. I placed this second call on Jan. 27th and they told me I wouldn't see DSL until Feb. 9th.

Since I feel like 2005 is my year of practicing patience, I decided this was a good enough test. I waited, patiently, until Feb. 9th. I read the instructions on the install kit that eventually made it's way to my home, and I followed all instructions, including the one that read "don't install until after 6PM on the date of installation."

I didn't get home until close to 11PM. Like a child on Christmas Eve, I tore open the box that held the key to my outside communication. I did everything the install CD told me to do, and when it came time for my computer and the DSL system to become one, nothing happened.

Funny, I thought. I'll give it a few more minutes to connect.

After 40 minutes (the instructions said it would take several minutes to get a connection, and I didn't know what several meant), I called Verizon. I told them that my DSL was having problems, and they looked up my order. The technical man on the phone last night told me that my order had once again been cancelled.

I told him I hate Verizon. I told him that for a communications company they sure as hell didn't know how to communicate. He told me to call sales in the morning.

This morning, upon my 7AM wakeup, I made the first call. I didn't talk to anyone until after 8AM. They told me that my service wasn't cancelled, it's just that it's still pending. When I asked what that meant, they couldn't give me an answer. They couldn't tell me how long until my service would be active and no longer in limbo.

I hate Verizon.

The sucky thing is that I have no where else to go. I don't want to get cable. I can't use my wireless card in my apartment and I need Internet access in my abode. So now I must wait, a prisoner of Verizon, while they take steps 8 and 9, apparently my service is almost complete at step 7. I asked if they could email me an update, they said no. They said they couldn't really do anything, except tell me what they've told me.

What can I do? I'll demand lots of free DSL time, but other than that, I've already made some ridiculous threats to any Verizon phone operator I get to talk to. I am going mad. And it's all because of Verizon.

Insanity. Just another reason to hate Verizon.

I'm in Gothamist

And I'm actually the one being interviewed.

Read it here

Read the interview..that's all I want you to do today...read the interview...

Art and Sex

The Red Print

My friend J. is an artist. A really talented painter and a liberal freak. Back in late October, he did watercolor portraits of me in various stages of undress. That's the first time we talked about doing "it".

*Family - If you don't want to know more...or even if you think you do, but will have a hard time looking at me without questioning how I was spawn from the same seed as you - please read no further.

It is not about sex, but there was something taboo, hot and revealing in what J. was asking me to do. "I used to take pussy prints of my ex's cunts," he said, although I doubt he used the word cunt, it's just that pussy and cunt are my two favorite words for a woman's vulva, so I am going to use them interchangeably here, and as he could see from the fact that I wasn't wearing any underwear, "you have a really cute pussy, I'd love to make some art."

It sounded cool. I told him I was game, but months passed and life happened and we never found the time to make the prints. I knew it would eventually happen, and I knew that when it did I'd be faced with the challenge of not only getting naked in front of one of my close, never-has-been sexual friends, but I would also be faced with the challenge of how to make sure it would stay that way. I mean, c'mon, I was about to spread eagle for art.

And so after what J. described as a very classy drink (whisky and soda water) we got down to business. I set up three chairs, one for my ass, and the other two for my legs, and I went into the same sort of headspace that I go to when I visit the gynecologist. Not that I'd equate what I was doing here with going to the doctor, it wasn't like that at all, but the fact that a non-sexual person is getting a really close look at a pussy that you spent a half-hour shaving just earlier that day is in itself a compromising position.

We used food coloring. Four different colors. J. had high quality print paper and he had ripped it up into different size squares. We started with yellow. J. carefully applied color to my lips and my clit and any other space he thought would give my pussy good shape. It was cold and wet, and truthfully felt kind of nice. He reapplied color after every three prints. It was totally experimental, even if he had done this with some girlfriends before. I was his first real pussy art project.

I washed in between each color. The next one was red. Then blue, and finally green. By the time we got to green I was a little more sore than I had anticipated. I started to panic thinking that the food coloring was not only killing my pussy, but that my cunt would shrivel up and melt away. I called some close friends to ask their opinion about my food coloring woes.

My pussy burned. I had washed too much. But overall the prints came out fucking amazing. We did over 60 prints, and I got to pick my favorite 4, one of each color to take home and frame. The one above is from the red series. Doesn't it look like a feminine woman? Fuck, I love it!

That was my Monday night. Giving my pussy to art. Who knows what tonight'll bring...

Droopy Boob

I can't get a picture to upload!!!

Okay, so now that I posted about the state of my boobs *see January 2005*
I’ve decided to take a really good look at the ladies myself. Last night I snapped a couple of pictures on the digi cam, so I could see my boobs without looking at my face, hips or thighs. And, confessional speaking, there was something oddly hot about not seeing my own face, and just staring at my breasts. Is that strange?

I could never fully understand why my boobs looked so awkward; so different than most other people’s, in my perception, perfect boobage. And I realized why I have always been less than confident in how my boobs look. See, it’s that I have a droopy boob. Well, not exactly droopy, but that’s how it looks when your right boob is a B cup and your left boob is a C cup. It’s strangely amusing, actually, and the more I stare at myself, the more I realize how unique of an individual I truly am. The left side of my body and the right side don’t match up at all. From my eye, to my boob to the curve in my hip, it’s as if two halves of a woman’s figure were fused together to make one person. And while that means I’m slightly off, something that most people would'NT argue with, I’m quite happy with this larger left boob and smaller right one. I’m beginning to feel like it’s a perfect fit with my personality. Even if my breasts remind me of that cartoon dog…I think his name is Droopy, I still have to love them.

Is droopy a bad word? Does sagging, or one hangs really low, while one doesn’t, sound more appealing? I don’t know, but I do know that whatever you'd call it, I got it. And for the first time ever, I feel like my boobs have personality!

I’m debating posting pics so that I can get even more comfortable with how my boobs look. But I’m not going to just yet. I don’t know if that crosses the line into porn and I don’t know if I’m willing to post naked pictures, at least I'm not willing to yet. But it’s a thought that has, for now, crossed my mind on more than one occasion.

So, I’ll think about it. Just like I think about my boobs. I know I’m not alone in my boob dilemma. I know there are other women out there just like me. I just don’t know how many of them talk about their different sized breast. But I think the left one is always bigger than the right.

Hmm…

The Sunday Blues

What percentage of Americans will actually watch the Superbowl?

If you expected to find an answer here then I'm sorry to disappoint, but I have no idea what the answer is...I just wanted to know if you knew...

I have this Sunday blues thing, which I've mentioned here before, and today, because I'm stressed but highly excited about tonight's class..the one I know all the people who love me will be at, the Sunday blues came on early. Or earlier than they usually do.

I called L., one of my bestest friends, to ask her why I'm sad. "Do you think I should go on anti-depressants?" I asked.

"It's just the Sunday blues," she said.

"Oh yeah." I said. As if I didn't know, but of course I remembered. But still, I hate this thing, this every Sunday empty feeling, this blah, blah, bluch, sort of thing, and I feel weak and sad and underloved. I want to blame it on the Bikram Yoga I did this morning, is that a good excuse?

Bikram Yoga makes me loopy but it's also addictive and I can't stop doing it. Even though my introductory week, the one week where it's not so expensive to do the yoga, is now over, and classes cost around $12 each (on the cheap side) I'm going to have to keep torturing myself with the heat induced stretching that overtakes me in the bikram yoga studio. But now it's over 3 hours later and I feel like I'm on another planet from yoga this morning.

Trying to get back to Earth.

I'm sitting in my favorite free wireless Internet bagel shop and the people next to me are talking about the Burning Man community. I know all the people they're talking about but not the people sitting next to me. It's strange to be sitting next to a table full of strangers hearing them talking about your friends..

Okay. Other deadlines call. Aliens from another planet call. The ghost of Bikram Yoga past calls. I gotta go, it's for me. Damn those Sunday blues.

The Memorial

I was there as an observer and it was one of the most compelling observations I've ever been allowed to make. It's the kind of thing that makes you realize that life is not yours to take for granted, even if we are all guilty of doing just that. It reminds you that while all things might not happen for reasons we understand, things happen and that life is too powerful for death to ever stop it.

Which might be the most interesting aspect of a memorial. Memorials are for the living to celebrate the dead. And while I understand that we all must die, it's something I've always had a hard time comprehending why.

Life is too powerful for death to ever stop it.

Yes, life goes on, and as I watched Jeffrey Sparks lead the procession from Nicole's memorial to the place of her death, I couldn't stop thinking about him. He was beating a drum, always looking straight ahead, and he had the intent and the drive and the eyes of a warrior. He pounded that drum until the end of the memorial. He was surrounded by some 200 friends and he, along with the two other people who had been there that night, came to celebrate the life of the woman whom he most obviously loved.

The three "witnesses" danced, wept, laughed, and displayed a range of emotions I wouldn't have thought myself capable of at a moment like that. And that they returned to the scene of what might amount to the worst day of all of their lives, was in itself an expression of strength. The street was bright, filled with bodegas and nail salons and apartments that go for more money than they are worth. And I thought that I could never be scared on this block. Then Jeffrey raised dead flowers over his head and lifted them and threw them into a chalk and rope outline of Nicole's body, and the flames began to stir on Clinton Street. It was as if her spirit was given permission to leave the place it had so suddenly become one with.

They returned to the scene of the crime. Some say that you have to do that in order to set a spirit free. People witnessed her spirit rising. I stayed on the outside of the circle. I don't have their strength.

Afterwards, a large group of us went to a bar to drink. Jeffrey was there and my eyes kept finding him, watching him interact in a world that must have felt both so familiar and so strange at the same time. I am a morbid thinker, this I will admit, but I couldn't, and can't, stop going back to what he must be feeling today, the day after he was filled with so much support and love and friendship. I watched as he talked with her friends, and as his friends lent their support and their courage, and how his friends were literally always there, by his side.

I watched with the survivor's guilt that I felt for having the chance to live this extra day. I can't imagine the survivor's guilt they are all feeling for having been there that night.

My heart is heavy today. Heavier than it was last night. Heavier than it has been in a while. And I am thankful for another day of life, even if sometimes life is really, really sad. At least I have a chance to bare witness to it all.

Blog..Blog..Blog...

I'm not going to post much today but I felt like posting something was better than posting nothing at all.

I've been such a good girl these past two days, in bed before the clock hit midnight. Trying to focus on work, but all work and no play makes me a very dull blogger.

Well, not really, I'm just in a dull mood. Sitting here in my soaking wet top after having done my second day in a row of Bikram Yoga...then having left my second day in a row of Bikram Yoga, dripping sweat with my tank top exposed and my jacket wide open...Probably not the healthiest thing one can do after an hour and a half in over 100 degree heat.

I wanted to kill the instructor. Not because she was a bad instructor but because she a)picked on me and b)the heat made me mental.

Now I'm freezing cold and cranky and ready to go back to sleep, only I can't. So instead I'm going home (remember I still have no Internet access there) and showering and interviewing one of the coolest women I know for a website I've never written for.

And yes, despite my low level of excitement, for this I am excited.

Why?!

An old picture of me that I found on the web..from my "WOR" days...

I started this post at 10AM...(that's almost 12 hours ago, and I still can't finish the damn thing).

spinning...

I've done yoga twice this week. It feels really good, except that after I'm done and I start to list the rest of my day, I get that not so clean stressed out feeling all over again. I'm trying to keep the peace within me, as the yoga instructor taught us, because, she said "no one can take that away from you."

I haven't had Internet access in my apartment since I moved in in December. I should have it by next week. I can't wait, cause it sucks to have to constantly find places to write, seeing as, outside of selling dildos, it's what I do most in my life.

They caught the killers of that actress Nicole DuFresne. The one who was shot two blocks from where I work. I've had a hard time really comprehending this, and tomorrow, tomorrow there's a memorial service for her, and a lot of my friends either knew her or the couple that she was with, and so, some of them are going and have invited me along. Some of my friends say I should attend - For my own personal closure with the situation. Is it selfish of me to go, and share in other peoples memories, when I didn't know her at all? That's my only concern. This would be closure for me about what happened, and more importantly where it happened. While I might need that, is her memorial service the place to do it? I'm just wondering..

I have no time to wonder really. No time to do anything right now.

Did I mention that I'm teaching a class this Sunday?

just checking...

What do you mean it's February?!

Where did January go?

I don't know if I should be admitting this, but, what the f--k...

I got really drunk last night, as in too drunk to even realize I was really drunk. See, I didn't eat anything except a rather large salad yesterday, and although that might have been enough, given that my appetite was rather supressed, it was also the first time that I did yoga in over two months. Actually it was the first time I did Bikram yoga in almost five years, but I lied and told the instructor that I had been to a "hot" class not too long ago. Bikram is the kind of yoga done in over 100 degree temperature, so that by the end of the class you just want to be naked as you slide down your mat...

anyway, that was a major digression from the point of this story, which really has no point at all except to say that I got really, really drunk - drunker than I had expected to be, or even knew that I was.

I got drunk at the Penthouse Club, where my good friend Candida is giving these woman's salons, and where, I'll be teaching one of them..and yes, I know, no one I know will show up...but anyway, I'll keep me posted...

Carrying on...which is what I do best...literally...uhm, so yeah, I got drunk, like not walking in a straight line drunk, showed up at my friend's house, not being able to get in touch with them (don't you love inpersonal pronouns) I thought I'd have to get my ass back on a train and go home, only to discover that all the doors to their house were open. So I made myself at home in their room, because they were in the other room conducting a meeting, and although they wanted me to meet everyone, I knew I smelled worse than your average five dollar whore, who most definitely smells pretty next to me when I'm that drunk. And since I was right, I didn't want to get to close to other humans.

Eventually I did get close to one human who couldn't get over how bad I smelled. And I found out I called a friend that I didn't remember calling and she said I was wasted. So, I'm off the drinks, at least right now, and still trying to collect myself from the embarrassment caused by overdrinking.

Pheww...

And although I'm bummed that I won't be able to attend any testosterone induced activities this superbowl Sunday, I will be teaching a SEX class at Babeland..so if you happen to hate the superbowl, you could always sign up for my class...the Sexth Sense...

I'll continue to self promote til Sunday...like I said, I'm keeping me posted....