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)

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.

“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.”

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.”

A friend of mine finally made contact after trying unsuccessfully to reach me for a week. Between adjusting to my new early work schedule, never-ending unpacking, and all the work that goes into maintaining FAPIPO, I’ve been a bit unreachable to everyone in the outside world. To top it off, I’ve also decided to take up the project of creating my own webpage.

As I told my friend about it and how the page would be dedicated to everything classic film related, he asked me what I was doing at the moment. “Watching another Rita Hayworth movie,” I replied.

“Who?” was his pretty much expected response.

“Just another actress from my old movies,” I simplified for him.

“You’re always watching those…they’re so boring. You should catch up with Heroes instead so you’ll be ready when the new season begins.”

“Well, I have to watch them so I can get started with my site.”

“It’s a site all about this lady?”

Exasperated since this wasn’t the first time I talked about this, I said “No, it’s a site all about classic films. I wasted too much time worrying about a layout that I almost forgot I would need material! So now I’m re-watching a ton of movies.”

“That’s weird; it sounds like you have a crush on her.”

“Did you even hear what I said? It’s not all about her.”

“But aren’t you going to write about other actresses.”

“Yes and other actors as well. So?”

“So it sounds like you have crushes on these people. Weird. Anyway, I’m headed to my car and then I have to rush back to the city for a David Cook concert.”

“Who?”

“He won the last American Idol. Remember, I played a CD of all his performances that time we drove to Montauk?”

“How could I forget? You made us listen to that the entire four hour drive.”

“Yeah, well he’s performing in the American Idol concert so I have to head out now if I want to make it out on time.”

I snickered. “You mean to tell me you’re running off to go see some American Idol supposed heartthrob? Isn’t that a little…”

“No, he’s a really good singer; you heard his stuff. Besides he’s got this good guy rocker image…you know, like I have (if I could sing or play an instrument). I’m telling you, he’s really amazing. Anyway, I gotta go.”

And I’m the weird one!!!

Living close to NYC all my life, I feel like I’m a seasoned city girl. After all, practically every job I’ve had in the past ten years has been located in Manhattan. So when I hear people say that New Yorkers don’t appreciate the city fully, I completely agree with them. I’ve lost almost all the initial awe I had for the tall buildings, the zillions of restaurants, the chaos of the public transportation system, etc.

Since I take these things for granted, it’s very rare that I’ll do something as simple as looking up when I’m in the city. To me, there’s nothing to really see; just another tall building, just another flashing sign, just another large advertisement with some guy or girl in their underwear. It’s a shame too since as a teenager I loved to take pictures of different signs (such as one that said “Superman Knows What’s Happening” – I have no idea what the ad was for!)

But yesterday while waiting at the corner for the light to change, I happened to glance up above at the Madison Square Garden screens and that’s when I saw it: an ad for the October concert of New Kids on the Block. Laughing to myself (which prompted a guy with a pink Mohawk to glance at me like I was insane) I quickly had to pass the news to my friends. The last I knew, there was a show on VH1 a few years ago that tried to get the band to reunite, but to no avail.

The fact that NKOTB is having a reunion concert makes me more aware of my increasing age. Though I was just a couple of years too young to really understand why everyone insisted on screaming while in their presence, I still owned a Joey doll along with a few cassette singles that I had forgotten to return to the library. Aw man, even thinking about cassettes makes me realize that I’m not necessarily a spring chicken anymore.

I almost want to get tickets to see just what it’ll be like. Will there be hoards of screaming 30 year olds? How does Jonathan Knight look after all these years (he’s been out of the spotlight since they split up)? And will someone get injured attempting those dance moves?

I recently came across the site Dear You, another blog here at Today.com that’s basically a collection of funny open letters to groups or individuals. I’ve cracked up at many a letter on the site and today I started thinking: what if I were, even for just one day, to do the same? There are so many people I encounter during my day and sometimes their oddness or stupidity is wondrous -

Dear Guy Who Got Upset When I Tripped Over His Laptop,      

Okay, I understand how carrying a laptop can be a pain, but you seemed to have been doing just fine going up the stairs. Yet when you extend the handle and rolled the bag behind you (leaving two people’s worth of space between you and the bag) in Penn Station at rush hour, you shouldn’t be annoyed at me that it tripped me up. Maybe the floor isn’t the best place to drag your expensive machinery around on?

Dear Lady with Stroller,

Do you really think it’s such a smart idea when crossing the street to push the stroller ahead of you and then look to see if there’s any oncoming traffic? The worst part is that you’re not the only person who does this! I am completely baffled as to your logic.

Dear Girl Who Keeps Crashing into Me When I Go on Break,

Why are you always so surprised when the elevator door opens and I attempt to go out? Do you think it’s just some magical floating metal box that’s there only for your disposal?

Dear Guy Pushing Around an Empty Dolly,

Get back to work! (Inside joke at my husband’s expense)

Dear Group of Delivery Guys Who Stand in the Same Spot for Hours and Catcall,

Get back to work as well! And do you have to be so obvious? Did you ever think that maybe instead of calling me “Hey Mami!” and getting a glare from me, you could instead say “Hey you look very pretty,” and get a gorgeous smile in response?

Dear UPS Guy Changing His Pants in the Back of his Truck with the Doors Open,

We can see you!

Dear Lady Holding Everyone up on the Stairwell,

If your shoes prevent you from going down the stairs then maybe you shouldn’t wear them.

Dear Large Group of Tourists,

Must all 8 of you hold hands…are you trying to clothesline everyone else?

Is there anyone who doesn’t love a good rant? While those of you who are regulars to FAPIPO know that I have a tendency to bitch about something and anything, my rants always end up turning into ramble. I lack the focus to provide golden rants like Ettarose over at Edge of Sanity (check out her recent one Crosses on the Shoulder)

But even Ettarose can’t be as ridiculously random as this guy who posted in the forum section of the Long Island Subaru Club. Since you need a log-in to view his original post, I’m copy/pasting it here so his awesome randomness can be fully appreciated:

Originally Posted by kevinh211 www.longislandsubaruclub.com

“I understand how scissors can beat paper, and I get how a rock can beat scissors, but there’s no fucking way paper can beat rock. Is paper supposed to magically wrap around the rock and leave it immobile? Why the hell can’t paper do this to scissors? Screw scissors, why can’t paper do this to people? Why aren’t sheets of college ruled notebook paper constantly suffocating students as they take notes in class? I’ll tell you why, because paper can’t beat anybody. A rock would tear that shit up in 2 seconds. When I play rock paper scissors, I always choose rock. then when somebody claims to have beaten me with their paper I can punch them in the face with my already clenched fist and say, oh shit I’m sorry, I thought paper would protect you.”