For a Pessimist, I am Pretty Optimistic

19 years old - The Night of the 10 Kamikazes

Entering the club in Astoria with my ID un-checked (thanks to a friend of a friend knowing the bouncer), I’m overwhelmed by all the liquor bottles displayed behind the bar.

“What do you want to drink?” the guy that I’m dating asks. I confess that I have no idea – up until this point my only drinking experience has been a couple of wine coolers in college. He brings me a yellowish mixed drink with a heavy citrus taste. “It’s a Kamikaze,” he tells me. “Just like the Japanese fighter pilots.”

I take a sip and mentally shudder at the strong taste, but keep drinking anyway. Then I ask for another one. Then another. Soon I don’t need to ask anymore as my date is considerately making sure that there’s always a full drink waiting for me next to where I placed my pocketbook.

The night starts to fly by and I begin to work the dance floor. “Waiting for Tonight” by Jennifer Lopez plays and I literally squeal. I start shaking my head side to side, making sure that my hair whips my face. I must look just like a girl in a music video, I happily think.

Suddenly, I need to pee. I ask my date to show me where the restroom is. He points down a flight of stairs and then tells me to turn when I reach the bottom. I just grin at him stupidly. He sighs and asks if I need him to help me. “No!” I exclaim. “I’m totally fine!” To show him just how fine I am, I stagger to the stairway, thinking that I’m doing a great runway model imitation. My date follows me and when I balk at this, he says he needs to use the restroom as well.

We reach the bottom of the stairs. To the left are the bathrooms, but right in front of us is a full sized mirror. I stare at the reflection and actually say “Aw man, we gotta go up the stairs again?” and walk right into the mirror. Seriously. “OW!” I cry as my head hits the glass. My date guides me in the correct direction as I glare at the mirror. Where did it come from? I wonder to myself.

After the mirror incident, I decide to sit down and promptly pass out for a few minutes. The rest of a night is a blur. The next morning I wake up feeling fully rested (even though I only had a couple hours of sleep) and my mind replays the moment when my face hit the mirror. I shake my head and think, “I am never drinking that much again.” Since I’m almost late for work, I throw on some clothes, swipe a brush quickly through my hair, and run for the bus which I luckily catch. My stomach is a tad queasy for a second, but that’s cured by an Egg McMuffin.

24 years old- The Night of the 8 Kettle One and Red Bulls

I meet up with my boyfriend and his friends in Forest Hills after work one weekend where it’s apparent that I need to catch up with them. There are several birthdays being celebrated and everyone has practically taken over the back of the bar. I sit down at one of the tables where a group of girls are giggling to each other and my boyfriend brings me two drinks.

“Hey, we’re already dating - you don’t need to get me drunk to sleep with you!” I joke.

“It was 2 for the price of one!” he shouts over the music and nods to the bar where our friend Jesse is working. Sweet, I think to myself. Whenever Jesse’s behind the bar, I’m guaranteed to be nice and drunk in no time at all.

The night passes by with more drinks, cigarettes, some chips and salsa, and plenty of money being put in the jukebox. Somehow our group has been divided by sex: the boys are all gathered around the electronic poker machine while us girls are laughing at the ridiculous horoscope section of a newspaper.

“Golden Years” by David Bowie begins to play through the speakers. “I love this song!” I cheer. “Who put it on?”

“You silly!” one of the girls says. “It’s the 5th time you’ve played it.”

Really? Oops! No matter, I think, it’s time to dance! I stand up just to feel my legs turn into jelly and I plop right back down in my chair. I call my boyfriend over. “Dude, we should go, like, now,” I tell him. “I think I’m a little drunk.”

We head back to his house where I run straight to the bathroom. I vomit a few times and then crash into bed thinking “I am never drinking again.” When I wake up, my head is killing and no amount of Motrin seems to alleviate the ache. With barely enough energy to brush my teeth, I drag myself into work and though I feel like death, by the end of the day I feel like death warmed up.

At 27 years - The Night of the 6 Margaritas

Super antsy after a nearly disastrous week of moving, I leave my husband at the computer playing some worm game and head to the bar in Forest Hills by myself. Sipping on my drink, I’m pleased that everyone is too busy with their conversations to notice me sitting all by my lonesome. My pleasure is short lived though, as I find myself face to face with my ex.

“Why are you here?” he asks angrily.

“Hello to you too,” I reply. “Having a drink - what the hell does it look like I’m doing?” Even after 5 years, there has been no love lost between us.

He rolls his eyes. “No, retarda, what are you doing here? I thought you moved out to Long Island with your husband.” He says the word husband with the same contempt that he has for words such as manners, bookstore, and pre-employment drug screening.

“Yeah and I thought you and the stripper were in Manhattan.”

“She was a dancer, not a stripper. And nah, that’s been done. I actually moved back home.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that. Anyway, are you planning on staying here cause if so I’m just gonna finish this drink and go.”

“Leave, I don’t care. Or stay. Whatever. It doesn’t matter,” he bitterly says. I sigh and stupidly ask him why he has more of an attitude than he usually does. It can’t all be because of me, right?

Turns out, he’d been stood up by his date. I let him complain to me as I finish my drink, all the while trying to get the bartender’s attention. It’s obvious he’s already drunk, plus from the way he was sniffing he probably popped into the bathroom to do a couple of lines. I wanted to make my escape before he became either too much to handle or before he dragged me into his drunken melancholy mood.

As I frantically wave the bartender over (I swear, it’s like the rings on my left hand make me invisible - I used to never have this much trouble!) my ex says “Oh sure, go ahead and leave. It’s not like I’m talking to you or anything.”

“Dude, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I have to start heading back home now,” I tell him. Is he going to use my push-over tendencies to make me stay?

Of course he will because when the bartender finally comes over, the ex starts another speech, “I guess it all started after we broke up…” This prompts me to, instead of asking the bartender to close my tab, ask for another drink, which I pound while my ex tells me how all his problems are my fault. As he complains, my stress level rises and I order another drink. Then another. Then…oh, you get the point. Each time I take a chug, I mentally kick myself for coming back to this area (I really should have known better).

Luckily, after listening to my ex list every bad date he’s had in the past five years, some friends of his enter the bar and the mood quickly changes to lively and happy. I try to take my leave again, but as these were mutual friends from when we were still dating, they are insistent that I stay and have a few more drinks. Which I do.

The night flies by and I realize it’s much later than I intended to be out. I drunk dial a couple of friends before I call my husband and ask him if he could pick me up from the bar. Completely forgetting I made any phone calls, I stumble into a friend’s car and get a ride over to my ex’s house. We argue and yell at each other while I wait for my husband to meet me at the new location. My husband arrives, but he’s parked on the next block. “Can you make the walk over?” he asks.

“Of course, why would you say that?” I ask (scream) into my cell.

“Because you drank way too much,” he laughs.

“No I didn’t. And how would you know? You weren’t there,” I tell him, trying to prove he’s not as smart as he thinks.

I start to walk away, but my ex is still jeering at me. I then I turn around, tell him the meanest thing I have ever said to anyone in my life and laugh as he stomps into his building. That’s what he gets for messing with me, I think.

The car ride home is filled with me singing (screaming) P!nk lyrics at the top of my lungs. When we get home I throw myself under the covers. “I can’t go to sleep or I’ll be sick!” I tell my husband and then pass out. Oh well, I tried.

The next morning is a disaster. In fact, it can’t even be considered morning as the nausea kicks in at 3am. When the sun comes up around 6am I practically scream. My husband kindly tapes newspapers over the blinds as I cover my eyes while throwing up in a trash can. 4 hours later, I still haven’t emptied my stomach completely of margarita. I manage to call work and tell them there’s no way I can even think about attempting to come in. Finally around 3pm I get myself out of bed and make some chicken soup. “I am NEVER drinking again,” I think to myself.

(To be re-visited at 30 years)

(Poll at bottom of post)

I so hate my job, but let’s face it; I’m not the only one in this predicament. I have a boss who can be an intrusive bitch, another who is only valuable to the company when he’s drunk, and another who pisses the company money away while the former two spend every waking moment bitching about him. Add that with the fact that answering phones for a bottled water company is doing absolutely nothing for my writing career and you’ve got more than enough reasons for me to put a gun to my head.

Yet despite all this, the thing that drives me insane the most is my bosses dog, whom she insists on bringing with her to the office everyday (unless it rains – thus bringing me a new found appreciation for sudden downpours).

Every day it’s the same routine: my boss arrives 7 minutes after 10 (she’ll never admit that she’s late). The dog is first to the door, barking and howling. I let them in and the damn thing stands in the center of the office barking up a storm. This is accompanied by my boss shouting “Eh! Eh! Eh!” because she thinks that this will make the dog stop (it doesn’t). My boss stops her noises after 5 minutes, but the dog continues for about an hour. That is unless the phone rings – then the dog starts barking again prompting my boss to make her ridiculous noises.

When people arrive to the office it’s even worse. Since the dog is quite large and extremely loud, no one wants to come in with it howling at them through the door. So then I have to be the Dog Whisperer, drop whatever I’m doing, and try to get this large creature to listen to me and move, all the while with my boss yelling from her office “She won’t bite, its okay!” Meanwhile, she’s so inconsiderate that she will never realize that it doesn’t matter what she says; if you’re scared of dogs and there’s a giant one howling at you, someone yelling in the background will not immediately cure anyone of their fear. Not to mention that even though she claims the dog won’t bite, this dog does. She’s ripped apart the pants of two of the sales guys and keeps trying to get mine. I mention this to my boss and she replies “Oh that’s just because she’s so playful”. Right.

It’s been brought up many times how unprofessional it is for the dog to be barking in the background of a phone call or for the dog to trample all over prospective clients, but of course, my boss refuses to listen. “What do you expect me to do – just keep her all alone in my tiny apartment?” she whines. Um, yeah? That’s what a gazillion other dog owners have to do when they go to work; if it’s that much of a problem then don’t get a dog. That’s why I have cats – I know that my work schedule can get kind of erratic and I didn’t want to get a pet that would rely on me being home at a certain time so they could pee.

If her boss was in the office more, I wouldn’t have to deal with this problem, but since he’s always traveling, my oh-so-thoughtful “leader” brings the dog in anyway saying “I know how much you like having her around.” I don’t know how my pleas of “Oh my God, please stop barking!” means that I like the dog.

To add insult to injury, this dog can get like the Tasmanian devil and loves to destroy things around the place. She chews up everything and anything and when I try to pull things like a wad of glued up paper or my pocketbook out of her mouth, my boss gets upset with me for saying “No!”

“I’m the only one who is allowed to discipline my dog,” she practically snarls. Okay then lady, then when your dog eats an entire paper coffee cup and starts vomiting around the place, don’t come to me to bemoan over the fact that your dog is sick.

Keep in mind, I’m not a dog hater and I have nothing against people bringing their pets to work as long as the pet has the appropriate temperament. In the office next door, they have the sweetest little dog who sits quietly the entire day wagging her tail and will gladly smother you with kisses when you pick her up. The receptionist can always hear who’s on the line, clients can walk in without being attacked, and the employees can come and go as they please without worrying that they or their belongings will be torn apart. Maybe I should see if they’re hiring…

Do You Think Pets Should Be Allowed in the Workplace?
( surveys)

I woke up today to a gray dismal sky and a damp chill in the air, but in my mind it might as well have been bright and sunny. I was more than pleased with the results of last night’s election and practically nothing would bring my day down - not even the bought of rainy weather that New York is being subjected to this week.

As I walked to the train amongst groups of suits chattering in a volume that should be banned anytime before 9am, I did my usual morning eavesdropping on the two people walking in front of me.

“Did you see the tears in McCain’s eyes as he gave his concession speech?” one suit asked the lady walking with him.

“I was almost afraid of what I would find when I looked outside my window this morning,” his buddy responded, her heels clacking down the platform.

I nearly snorted a laugh when I heard that. Seriously what did she expect – that the fires of Mordor would come bursting through the floor of the Capitol building after Obama gave his speech?

During the train ride the still too loud chatter continued. A girl seated in a group of six behind me asked one of her companions, “Who’d you vote for?”

The guy whom the question was directed to grumbled. “Why should I tell you? Are you going to tell me who you voted for?”

“If you’d like I will,” she responded. “I voted for Obama,” she said proudly.

“So did I,” the other four in the group chimed in without being prompted.

“Well I’m not saying anything,” said the gentleman, while snapping his newspaper open. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway…the country’s going to hell in a hand basket now.” Well that was as good as an answer as any!

I couldn’t help, but be amused at that. Why so reluctant, sir? Is it that you’re just a sore loser? Or are you just ashamed to admit you were backing the wrong candidate? Eh, it’s probably the former. There are some McCain supporters who are crazed and will gladly throw themselves into a Hydra’s mouth before admitting any fault.

After arriving at the office, I watched as my boss walked in frantic.

“I have to check my stocks today and make sure nothing happened to them!” she said, practically barreling through the doors.

“Umm.” I responded casually. I learned months ago never to ask too many questions because more often than not, I ended up regretting it. I deserve a freaking sainthood from actually being able to hold my tongue while listening to her nonsense for 40 hours a week.

“Even though I voted for McCain, that Obama still won. Now all my money is going to be gone.”

Oh dear lord. “Why would it be gone?” I carefully ventured.

She looked at me as if I suddenly grew an extra head. “Because everyone knows that the Democrats will lose all the money. Whose fault do you think it is that the economy is so bad? It’s not Bush’s and certainly not McCain’s.”

I simply stared at her in shock as she continued. “People only voted for that Obama because they’re set on giving McCain a hard time about wanting to send troops to Iraq. It’s ridiculous; the US needs to protect their investment. And now with Russia and all that…I highly doubt that Obama would even try to put them back in their place. The country won’t survive with a wuss in the office”

That was more than enough. “You do know that if WW3 were to occur – and it sounds like you’d be all for that – your stocks would be worthless after the country is destroyed,” I snapped and walked to the back room so I could bang my head into the wall repeatedly.

Guess I’ll have to wait a couple more months for that sainthood to kick in.

Yup, it’s exactly as the title says! Cast your vote tomorrow for the nation’s next fearless leader and receive a treat for yourself.

Slight catch though – Babeland , the sex shop that is hosting this giveaway, only has locations in Seattle and New York City.

If you are lucky enough to live in close proximity to this delightfully fun shop, it’s fairly simple to pick yourself up a goody November 4 through November 11th. All you need to do is bring in your voter registration card, voting stub, or word of honor (as noted in the Babeland blog) and you’ll receive either a free Silver Bullet Vibe or a free Maverick sleeve .

Please note – you do NOT need to vote for McCain in order to get the Maverick sleeve!

This isn’t the first giveaway from Babeland and it probably won’t be the last. Their newest store in Park Slope, Brooklyn had a giveaway on Halloween for the first 50 adults who showed up in costume. I, of course, ran as fast as my wedged heels allowed and was more than pleased with the surprise I received (and I couldn’t help but pick up a few extra things as well).

So what are you waiting for? Cast your vote, save the nation (hopefully), and get yourself off for free…can you think of any better a reason?

For those of you who are either too faint of heart to walk into a “den of debauchery” – or just don’t happen to be in the area – Starbucks is also giving voters free coffee on November 4th.

“So what have you been up to lately?” he asked. “Still working as a receptionist?”

“Yup,” I answered, adjusting the phone against my shoulder so I could type while talking. “I’ve also been doing some writing. I have a blog, but I’ve been horribly neglectful with my stories there because I’ve been too caught up with trying to get my own site up and running.”

“Writing?” he scoffed. “Why would you be doing that? You’re such an attractive girl; don’t put it to waste! You should become a bartender – you’d make a ton in tips.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, it’s what I like to do.”

“What about your husband, Chris? How’s he doing?”

“You know that’s not his name. Konrad is doing just fine. He’s been very busy with work too.”

“Um-hmm.” He paused. “And how is Chris doing?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in almost 10 years.”

“Why not? He seemed like such a decent guy.”

“He wasn’t. He cheated on me, treated me like crap, and his father was horribly prejudiced against me.” I thought for a moment. “Wait a sec…you never even met him!”

He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know, just the other day Linda and I went to the fifties diner across the street. Didn’t his father own a diner?”

“Yeeesss,” I said exasperated. “His dad bought one for him and told him to break up with me if he wanted to keep it.”

“Why would he say anything like that?”

“Because like I said, he was a pathetic, prejudiced, stupid man.”

“Well sometimes you need to learn to deal with people like that for the better. See, Linda and I went to the diner and we were greeted by this lady. She had on fancy makeup and was wearing a fancy dress and lots of jewelry that was definitely real. She smiled and sat us at the table. It turned out she was the owner’s wife and I couldn’t help but think that that could have been you!”

I snorted. “I’m quite happy that it wasn’t”

“Don’t say things like that. You should always aspire to be better.”

“Alright, well I’m going to have to get off the phone now,” I said forcing the conversation to an end. “I have a few things I need to do.”

“Sure. But honey?”

“Yes, Dad?”

“You should get some contacts or something. Maybe without those glasses, you might want to do other things than just type at a computer. I just want what’s best for you.”

“I’ll think about it. Have a goodnight.”

…I’ve just been sick and tired – literally. After dragging ass these past few weeks, I was lucky enough to get horribly sick for the entirety of the Labor Day weekend. I finally returned to work today and have been playing a major game of catch up with everything.

Since it’s already Thursday, I’m going to be terribly gauche by posting only another picture for the week, but will make a full comeback this Monday.  I’ve received some cool awards and I have a lot of reading to do before I can display and pass them on with thanks to Ettarose, Sassy Mama Bear, and Athena! 

The Marlon Brando of Cats

I’ve never been too much of a Marlon Brando fan, but that was because I associated him only with “A Streetcar Named Desire.” I hated the story, hated the character’s, and wanted nothing more than to find Stanley Kowalski and run him over with a Mack truck. After being forced to read the play and watch the movie in high school, I especially hated how all the stupid girls in my class would say “Oh Stanley is so romantic screaming in the street. And look at his body!” They needed to be run over with a Mack truck as well…but I digress.

Yet even I couldn’t deny that yes, his body was divine. So it’s no wonder that there are so many people who shake their heads and say “It’s a shame how much Marlon Brando let himself go when he got older.” I don’t begrudge the man; after all not only did he lead an indulgent lifestyle, but his health wasn’t faring well when he started to balloon up.

So now look at this guy:

Small, lean, and just plain adorable, right? That’s my little guy Jakob. I found him at the local Petco and couldn’t resist his big green/blue eyes as he meowed at me and stuck out his little paws. According to the staff, he was one of the cutest cats and even though there were 5 other adorable kitties also in the cage, there had been many applications for him. The adoption lady said that she decided to pick me since I already had two other cats which would be great company since he was extremely playful.

But just like Mr. Brando, Jakob was horribly temperamental. He never wanted to be cuddled or pet by me, only by his Daddy. He didn’t seem to care that I fed him, gave him treats, tried to play with him, even had long nails for better scratches…nope, Daddy was the only person who he wanted to be near. He would cause so much mischief and trouble around me that to this day while the other cats will come when their name is called, he instead immediately runs away when you say “Jakob, no!”

Then one day I saw him asleep on the couch and noticed his swelled up pink belly.

I found it odd; I noticed he had gotten plumper but I assumed it was because not only was his Daddy constantly feeding him treats simply for being cute, but that he was developing the sack that most neutered males get after the procedure.

It turned out that he had a urinary blockage. The vet put him in a catheter for a day, gave us some medicine, and told us that we needed to feed him special food.

Even after spending a ridiculous amount at the vet (Seriously, why are all 24 hour emergency vets crooks?) Jakob still kept plumping up. He also started to get really lazy (like Mr. Brando as he became older) and even though he’d still pick the occasional fight with the cats, he was almost always on my bed. Since I like to sit in bed while using my laptop, I suddenly became his best friend!

So why did he keep plumping? Because he’s a ravenous and somewhat gross cat, that’s why! He eats everything and anything , his favorite being plastic shopping bags.

But Venus, you say, he’s not that bad. After all, there was just that 44 pound cat that was adopted – maybe you’re being a little too harsh?

Well nuts to you, because I have the ultimate proof:

Here’s him being a pest and trying to steal a box away from his oldest brother

And here’s them now – there’s no way the two of them would fit inside anything anymore!

His favorite position:

Our family (can you guess which one is The Pudgester?):

P.S. On another interesting note, Jakob is the same silly cat who’s sexuality I questioned in “I Think My Cat Might Be Gay? (Not that there’s anything wrong with it)” Mr. Brando’s sexuality had been questioned also to which he is quoted as saying “Homosexuality is so much in fashion it no longer makes news. Like a large number of men, I, too, have had homosexual experiences and I am not ashamed. I have never paid much attention to what people think about me. But if there is someone who is convinced that Jack Nicholson and I are lovers, may they continue to do so. I find it amusing.”