Chilean bass sex tapes

The man who sold it to me told me, “It’s, mmm! – like butter.”  Oh well, yeah then, shit, give me some, I said.  I didn’t know how much I had paid for it.  I ate it and almost passed out.  How much did I pay for this?  I ran to the refrigerator to look at the wrapper around the rest of it to see what I paid for fish that almost made me come.  Okay.  Yeah, expensive but, oh well.

I’m too consumed with changing the trajectory of my life to be a foodie.  I keep it basic with food, but now I wonder if there’s other fish out there I missed.  While I don’t spare cost for good food, it can’t be too expensive.  I spent half my unemployment check on that fucking fish.  But I did buy it again.  Oh I just had to hit that up, like, two times…

That Bitch Sandy and A Broken Ring

I love fellow blogger Claire Cappetta’s playful comments on my blog.  I admire the way she weathered that bitch Sandy – pun totally intended.  She was in the midst, filming as it happened – wow!

http://clairecappetta.wordpress.com/2012/11/15/my-video-view-of-sandy-before-it-hit/

While she experienced her own trial, she became part of a community spirit with those in her area helping others in need.  Inspirational indeed.

http://clairecappetta.wordpress.com/2012/11/05/hurricane-sandy-new-friendships-and-a-new-surreal-world/

I enjoyed her book A Broken Ring.  It’s about a woman’s self-discovery during a series of abusive relationships, something that a lot of people can relate to.  Her character comes out in the end with a sense of empowerment.

Not surprising that someone with the fortitude to help others throughout her own challenge could create a story encompassing a journey leading to self-recognition and strength.  I advise you to check it out.  It’s an engaging read.

Claire is also an activist, helping to raise awareness about domestic abuse – boy I tell you – she’s someone to be admired!

Glad to be part of your blogging community Claire!

Oblivion and *penis

I saw my friend outside of the bar, taking a break from drinking to smoke cigarettes.  I hadn’t seen him in a while.

‘Hey you.  You drinking these days?’  He says.

‘Nah,’ I told him.

We used to stay in the bar until daylight — what a waste of time.  We even ate our dinner at the bar counter.

My friend’s an ex-cop.  He’s pretty tough.  He looked out for me when we drank together, way back when you could smoke in bars.

‘You were so bad ass,’ I said when I saw him.  When I got drunk he’d bring me home and be a gentleman about it.  At some point we were “romantically” involved.  Some “romantic involvement” I remember, some I don’t.  Shame.  But anyway — I miss that lifestyle when I want to glamorize it, because I’m an asshole.  It was pathetic, going around in circles, obsessed with drinking.

I wasn’t there to experience what should have been good times because I’d be drunk, blacked out.  Sorry to be a drama queen, but I’m lucky I got away from it with my life.

This video from the movie Shamus reminded me of then.  I would be in the Burt Reynolds’ role, minus the penis and mustache – though, sometimes I think it’d be nice to have a penis.

By posting the video, maybe I am glamorizing the lifestyle, because Burt Reynolds is a sexy bastard, but when I actually imagine myself in this position, it’s sad – especially when it happens more than once.  Like, grow the hell up!

After a night of cavorting, Shamus gets up — no shower — just puts his funky ass clothes back on…ah, memories.  Check out the way he looks at the shoe – haha!

* “PENIS” was just a cheap trick to get your attention I’m afraid. 

Unguent for the tortured soul

I left Mean-Spirited Tales at this book store where I want to have a reading, because the associate said the owner needs to look through my book first.  “Call in a week,” he said.

It’s weeks past the time he said to call.  So I’m sure the owner has read the entire book by now and is waiting anxiously for my call.  I’ll bet she’s all like, “Gosh, when’s Sandee calling?  We need her!  This Mean-Spirited Tales, it’s unguent, for the tortured soul…”

Of course it’s unguent — it has sadism, a beheading, alcoholics, liver pâté, the devil, an angel and some cats.

Do you know how many souls I’ve healed with my book?  It frightens me to think of it.

My other reading was at the Indian Road Cafe.  Patrons were there eating and talking.  Good thing I invited lots of people and screamed the stories to drown the patrons out.  After while I couldn’t hear any patrons.  Or maybe they were just fascinated by my hypnotic story-telling skill – yes, that’s it.  No wait – they were captivated by the creature horns on my head, by my piercing glare.

The Indian Road Café is a nice atmosphere and the food is great, but the book store has a podium!  I’ve always wanted to pontificate behind a podium.  No horns needed to draw attention to my flapping maw – I’ll be the center of everyone’s eye, standing tall.

I need to end this bookstore owner’s anticipation for my call though.  I’ll hurry and call and schedule the date for my reading, that way she can celebrate it over the weekend.  Who says Aunt Sandee isn’t altruistic.

 

 

“Is that…m-my…b-b-butt?”

I’m not a foodie.  But I do like mayonnaise, and I like toast with olive oil and salt.  I don’t eat these foods excessively but my metabolism had problems grinding these foods up along with the free cheese-laden cuisine I was getting from the café at work all last year.

Because I never have the right to pass up bags of free food, my ass is swollen.  I blame free cheese-laden cuisine.  While I’m a cake enthusiast, and lover of strudel, pie, donuts, cookies and candy, I control myself.  I know it could get ugly, because it has.

In ‘night Mother, Anne Bancroft’s character says, “I don’t like food — I like candy!”  I so could have played her, because I identify with people who hate food and like candy.

You’d expect anyone proclaiming to hate food to be bone thin.  Yah, but I’m not bone thin.  I don’t hate food the same as those people who get away with eating very little, those small-boned people who brag about how they forgot to eat.  How cute are they.

I always fear that the food I eat won’t metabolize properly and will just sit there turning to blubber.  I have fear of food — food anxiety.  I also resent spending energy buying, cooking  and eating food, and I hate washing dishes.  This all takes too much time.

I’d like those pills that they had on the Jetsons.  They took care of all your nutritional needs.  You simply pop one in your mouth, and off you go with your jet-fueled back pack to that shopping mall on Venus.

I was inspired to write this post after seeing my image in a dressing room mirror. Aren’t those mirrors evil?

“Is that…m-my…b-b-butt?”  I said.  Maybe I’m in denial about the amount of food I eat?

I really don’t eat much, but once I start eating, it continues until my body says it should stop, and I hate that because it thwarts my fantasy of getting away with eating just once a day.

I know I’m twisted when it comes to food – and maybe a few other things — but, I just need to eat, live and stop ragging on my butt – it’s a useless exercise.

I do have the ability to enjoy food however.  I enjoyed Chilean bass a couple of days ago.  Maybe I’ll write a post about that, and how I only decided to look at the price on the wrapping around the rest of the fish in the refrigerator after it almost killed me because it was so transporting.  It dawned on me that any fish that could do this had to be pricey.

Black Forest Cake

When not bothered with car alarms, subway track shovings, phlegm-splattered streets, or with being steamrolled by high-powered, well-dressed residents, I appreciate the city with a renewed vision.

On Sunday I enjoyed the break dancers on the train without worrying about getting kicked in the face by the one who does back flips.  Their music was an unusual underground club mix.  I wondered who the artist was, but didn’t want to push past passengers to ask the dancers.  So I just enjoyed looking at New York characters on the train like a wide-eyed tourist.  Usually I’d be scowling, hyperventilating, crying.

After Trader Joes and Fairways – both madhouses – I went to the train station without the usual threat of impending doom.  A black man sitting on a stool on the downtown side was warming up on the electric guitar.  The rhythmic pattern unfolded into Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven.  He had a nice psychedelic improvisation.  I wanted to run across the tracks to sing in accompaniment.

But you can’t have everything, right?  The conductor announced that the train wouldn’t go all the way up.  The last stop was City College.  We had to get out and wait for the next train.  Of course it was crowded.

My blood sugar tanked.  My euphoria – gone.  It dissipated into annoyance aimed at the woman who didn’t appreciate that people had gotten off at the last stop and that she now had room to move away from me.

Sapped of energy, I took the train past my usual stop to the next one because there’d be no hill.  Exhausted, I became neurotically focused on what might be wrong other than a common need to eat.

The Carrot Top bakery was on the way.  Just maybe, they would sell Black Forest Cake by the slice again.  When they had stopped selling it like this, I thought of having a Black Forest Cake party, an excuse to buy the cake without dealing with the siren call of the whole cake in my refrigerator for me to eat by myself.  What — ho!  They sold it by the slice again.

Turns out the lack of energy I had at the last leg of my trip was in my head.  I skipped home now, cake in hand.  Cake, the succor of sinners, the balm in Gilead, the rotter of *teeth bones.

*A shout out to my friend who referred to teeth as “exposed bone.”  I totally got this idea from her!

New Year’s Eve With Sandee and Company

I escaped spending New Year’s Eve in the emergency room.  My neighbor had a bleeding growth on top of his balding pate.  Oh I can talk about him here – I’m 99 percent sure he won’t read this.

I love him.  He’s eighty-something.  He has a computer – he doesn’t look or seem to be the age that he is, but when you’re eighty-something, you don’t have time to troll the web for random blog sites.  When he gives me a site address he says the entire www dot-whatever-the-hell-it-happens-to-be-dot com – cute!

I’m his secretary when he goes to Ireland.  I mind his apartment, get his mail.  I call him twice a week in Ireland to read it to him.  Piece by piece.  He gives me all kinds of instructions.  I’m on the phone with him for an hour.  Another elderly neighbor from Ireland used to mind his apartment for him.  When she found out I was doing it she says, “Oh God bless you Sandee!  I’m done with it — he thought I was his fucking secretary!”

When he called and told me that his head was bleeding, I ran down there.  Turned out the bleeding happened during the evening.  He thought he should go to emergency to check it out.

“I’ll get dressed and be back in half an hour,” I said – I had just thrown some slop on to run down there.

I felt guilty fluffing my lashes with mascara while he waited downstairs with his bleeding growth, but one half hour later exactly, I was ready.

I get there — he’s still in his robe, holding a tray of food.

“Come in.  Have a seat Sandee,” he says.

What?!  I almost choked wolfing down my food, and suffered guilt for putting on mascara, and you ain’t even ready — I put off my morning jog for you!

“Why don’t you just call me when you’re ready,” I said, and went up to change for a jog.”

I got back.  No message.  Haha!  He did call — two hours later!  Some emergency.  I headed back to his apartment thinking, Maybe he changed his mind.  Yay.

While he was dressed this time, he says all leisurely again, “Come in.  Have a seat Sandee.”  He sat in the reclining chair.  I stood over his head to see the wound.  It appeared fine.

“You’re not in pain?”

“No, it’s just the damn thing bleeding last night is all,” he says in his slight Irish brogue.  He wasn’t bruised and wasn’t in pain.  I suggested he wait till the day after New Year’s Day, when his doctor would be in.

“If an emergency happens in between, call me.  But you don’t want to be going to emergency unless it’s really an emergency – we could be there hours.”

“Hours?  Really?”  He’d never been to emergency it turned out.

I had an angle then, while he still teetered on the idea of going.

“Yeah, trust me,” I said.  I told him horror stories of the emergency room that we might see sitting in there so long and got him to change his mind.  Brilliant!  I’d seen some pretty horrible things in emergency, heard awful things.

He thought he’d be seen right away.  Aha.  Au contraire mon frère, I told him.  When I was done with my horror stories, my buddy was turned off by the idea of going, and while I successfully angled for this to happen, I’m still taking brownie points.  Dammit. But sure, I’d do it all again.  He’s my buddy.