Hitting the Refresh Button on Life

Ahhh. It's just past 10am and I'm online with my coffee as my companion and the bambino snoozing soundly for his morning nap. Finally, some sense of order is restored to my universe and I feel awesome. (Sidebar: Witness Grif with his laptop. Now go ahead and die of cuteness).

(Let's just ignore the fact that my apartment looks like it OD'd on Tequila and cocaine last night and lost the contents of its stomach all over the place, shall we?)

So back to my mustache... No, I was not always blessed with this proliferation of hair. It seems with the coming years, I not only desire less the binge drinking affair but also grow unsightly facial fuzz. Before you run for the trash can to heave your morning eggs and waffles (or if you're a New Yorker - your coffee with a side of double espresso), please understand I do not have a real problem, it is more an infrequent nuisance of a stache. However, it cannot be overlooked when it needs taken care of and who am I to offend society's personal hygiene norm by doing so.

Hitherto, I used to take care of this little "issue" with my usual and consistent mani/pedi around the corner from our apartment in Brooklyn (have I mentioned enough about how much I loathe/ murderously hate our new neighborhood over our old dear, lovely, happy, special one? No? Remind me to extrapolate that later). But times change and people quit their jobs and have babies while their husbands simultaneously quit their jobs and pursue post graduate educations of which they curiously have no money to pay for. It happens all the time. And in the destruction and aftermath lies my mustache.

No longer a minor pinprick of my spa routine, it has escalated to part of my mad dash to get ready before an important event, along with bushwacking my eyebrows and haphazardly waving a razor over my legs to give the impression of "Clean Sexy Temptress" not "Musty Idaho Lumberjack". Oh, such is life. I have no qualms nor embarrassments about it any longer.

So on this special day in US history I challenge all of you: Embrace your facial hair, ladies*!

*It just makes us more cuddly in the winter.

Cannot Locate Camera Computer Interface Wire

Since I cannot seem to locate a clean pair of underpants, let alone the camera, or wire with which I must connect my computer to to add pictures to the interworld, I decided to dredge up a few pics from the past and photoarchive the day we found out we were pregnant, rather I'm pregnant and G is forced to obey my every command... Witness!

The first pregnancy test I took was what I thought was two or three days after my period was supposed to start. This is a mystical assessment however, because my cycles are to regular what Obama is to old people. Was that an okay analogy? I didn't really try that hard there. Anyway - the initial prego test was negativo so we discarded it and proceeded to drink a few bottles of wine for close calls sakes. Two or three more days went by and still no visit from the hematopoesis gods, so I returned to CVS to purchase another, more expensive test, in the event that the negative sign is indirectly correlated to the dollar amount you spend on the plastic pee test stick. With G at the ready with the stopwatch, I peed away again. One line appeared right away, three minutes passed and there was a hairline perpendicular line that G considered not serious enough to warrant bringing a new life into the world. Two more minutes and there she was! Plus sign = Kniggity Knocked Up. FYI: the instructions say disregard results after 5 minutes or something ridiculous like that, but the giant roller derby bouncing ball in my abdomen begs to differ with said instructiones (Spanish for instructions).
We only had a few hours to kill (I wonder how often I'll type a sentence like that after this baby pops into the world) before our friends were coming over to party down so we took the opportunity to put our feelings over the new discovery into photograph form. Here I am saying, "Heeeey, I'm Fertile. What's your name?"
After explaining the sticky situation to Hunter, his thoughts were somewhat bleak on the matter: as in "Oh you have got to be f#$%ing kidding me". And then, "This better not disturb my sleep, my treat consumption, or my ability to make you two idiots do whatever I want you to".
And here we have the new parents-to-be saying, "We have no idea what we're getting ourselves into but we think a call to my dad and $100 in bail isn't going to get us far this time."
Preempted with the photographers direction to "pretend the baby was just born":


I know what you're thinking, and you're right. Us = Huge Dorks. But now we have a little baby dork on the way and then we'll outnumber you and your Cool Friend, so there.

As If I Need More Conflict In My Life

Hi, you've reached the Laugh More blog. While you'd think this was an away message stating I was off doing some crazy fun St. Patrick's Day-esque activity instead of writing a new post today, I'm not. I just have too damn much work to do to release my creative juices onto you right now. Are you sad? Did you really need new creative juice today? I know, I know. And I'm sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?

OH I KNOW!

Why don't I recap-in-a-flash Friday night's poker game at our house with our two couple friends? Shall I? Obe-Kabe. It goes like this: work sucked, had to stay late, no time to prepare for guests, naked when doorbell rings announcing guests' arrival, sweating buckets, one guest brings Yorkie dog, enormous headache, everyone eats, sitting and talking, dogs playing, HUNTER EATING YORKIE. Me screaming, friends horrified, end of evening, sad sadness. More sad guilty sadness. The end.

Who wants to come over for a puppy play date?!? ANYONE? NO? REALLY? WHY?

And They All Lived Happily Ever After

Ohhhhhhh do I so have a story for you!

Picture it: Brooklyn 2008. Husband and wife are lieing in bed after a long grueling day in the rat race comforting each other with exhilarating thoughts of the new life they are bringing into the world. Each shares their own unique thoughts and hopes, both voicing their growing love for each other and appreciation for all the small things they share in this life. At one point the husband professes his love for the rest of eternity and the wife reciprocates with her promise that there's nothing the two of them can't handle that this cruel world could throw them.

{Interlude: Wife remembers she has forgotten to take her pre-natal vitamin and excuses herself for a moment to run to the kitchen where her supply is kept. {Interlude the Interlude: If Martha would just send her the damn pill cap tops that remind you to take your pills like she promised she would on that show a few weeks ago, this Interlude would not be happening, eh hem.} Continue with Interlude 1: Wife makes her way to the kitchen and reaches around the baby gate keeping the dog out of the trash, to turn the light on and what does she find? Oh, is that a little flash of vermin running along her counter, now hiding behind her Barefoot Contessa in France cookbook? Surely, in this idyllic dream sequence, a rabies-infested rodent is not sullying the antiseptic countertops with it's feces covered feet? Oh but you're wrong. It is! And there's it's cute little button nose peeping out from behind Madame Contessa's chubby mug. Delightful.}

I - er, the wife - starts calling calmly to the bedroom for her husband's assistance. And calling. And calling, and now it's not so much a "calm" voice as it is a, "get your holy ass in this kitchen right now and spear the beast behind the cookbook or so help me God, I'll never let you see your friends again" voice. Husband understands immediately the gravity of the situation. He takes charge with his tools of mass destruction, aka Raid spray (?), and sends the wife back to bed. Wife returns to bed and fights valiantly to not imagine what is happening in the other room.

Husband returns to bed, hands wife her vitamin, and returns to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. Both say nothing more the rest of the evening. The lights are turned out. The house is quiet. Husband and wife fall mercilessly into sleep. The end.

Minus the Licking of the Behind

My dog believes he is human. He really, truly does, and it's starting to freak us out a bit. Let me highlight some of his homosapien tendencies for you, then you decide for yourself. See? See how I don't force my opinion or mandate you follow my belief patterns? I'm just about awesome like that.

First, he communicates his thoughts and feelings better than 90% of actual humans I know. When he has to go out, he simply sits down staring at us until we finish what we are doing and when we look up, his face says, "Excuse me, Madame. But would it be alright if you took me outside to the sidewalk lavatory now?" Swear. Also, when he is thirsty he picks up his plastic water bowl, carries it across the room to where ever we are in the apartment, lays down with it, and pins us with the following look: "Hi! I'm thirsty now. Can you fill this up with that big water pitcher in the refrigerator?" Honest to God.

Second, he only associates with members of the canine family to disgustingly mock their poor hygiene and communication skills. He is so above that. He'll refuse and ignore every single dog at the dog park, but will chase incessantly the tennis ball that I or G throws. Nonstop. And if another dog dares to get his tennis ball during the "Human" game we are playing? He just sits down patiently and stares the dog down with this: "I'm sorry. But we brought that tennis ball from home to play with - us HUMANS. So can you please drop it right now and never look at or sniff me again?" He gets very frustrated with these "dogs".

Third, he understands at least 1,435 words of the English language, in sentence form. And I have the sneaking suspicion that he's fluent in French as well. Seriously, think of a phrase that you have never heard a dog recognizing and I swear he knows it. Or he knows where to look it up if he doesn't, and he'll get back to you later. Per esempio: "Mommy doesn't feel very good", he immediately stops whatever annoying thing he was doing and jumps up to lay across my legs on the couch with his head laying in my lap. Or, "You're not getting any of this steak, you already ate. Go play," oh yeah, he also processes several sentences at once. Waiting until I've completed my thought and then he'll run off to find a toy to amuse himself with. He also knows, "Coogee is coming over this weekend", because his daytimer is organized weekly.

My Vote is for Johnny Red Nose

And now we no longer have to struggle with baby names...

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/years/2008/0207081mob1.html

The Prophet

Sitting in a Tea Lounge reading our books and jotting notes in our journals:

G: This is probably never ever going to happen again, but I just wanted to tell you that it's pretty awesome.

Me: Why is this never ever going to happen again?

G: I don't know.

Me: I see. That is pretty sad now that I think about it.

How Do I Get Myself Into These Situations?

Okay, I need to disclaim something before I start: I do not intentionally go looking for sticky, awkward, or difficult situations to get myself into on a regular basis.

That being said, let's start work in chronological order of my Sticky Situation Timeline. About a month ago, I got a random email from a friend I hadn't seen or heard from in about a year and a half. She was inquiring whether or not my husband and I had a spare bedroom in our apartment and if so, could her husband stay in it for a week while he was competing in an opera contest in the city. (Insert questioning facial expression here.) Um, okay, let me think about this for one sec. I immediately call my lawfully wedded husband and ask him his insight. I did not always do this before making a rash decision, but have learned that I should, should I ever want to vacation/dine out/or heaven's to betsy, shop ever again in my life. He says it's going to be weird having someone traipsing through our bedroom to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but okay. I email my friend and we're off! Uncomfortable moments, here we come!

First night, he arrives late. G is already in bed asleep with Mr. Hunter snuggling beside him. Awkward Guest arrives and proceeds to try to talk both of my ears off while I'm falling asleep standing up in my living room. After an appropriate amount of time, I beg to be allowed to sleep and attempt to show him to his "room", through and adjacent to our room. Only Hunter freaks the crap out and barks at him for a healthy 10 minutes, while jumping on G, before going back to sleep. Awkward Guest goes into his room and shuts the door. I get back into bed and try to fall asleep, but Awkward Awkwardy gets back up and uses the restroom - again through our bedroom and back again.

Three days pass of his slightly incessantly maniacal talking, interspersed with random humming in an operaesque way, and coming in a tad too late to wake up myself, G, and the dog. On the final night of his stay, he competed in the finals of the opera competition and was out again later than we stay up at our dull, sleep-obsessed house. He lost. I didn't realize it until after he'd already left early on Friday morning, so I felt bad for not saying goodbye, and I felt a tad guilty for not listening to his incessantness more while he was here. Before he left he gave us these items: a box of kleenex, a 16oz bottle of spring water, a half gallon of orange juice, a bottle of Italian wine, a box of chocolates, and a $5 bill.

[The $5 bill was from Tuesday night's dinner that G and Awkwardian spent together, at which G didn't have enough money to pay the delivery guy so Awkwardo paid his $10. I returned home from work that night to G asking me to give Awkwardio $10, only I didn't have $10, I only had $5. So I gave him the 5 spot, with a tiny little voice in my head thinking, "Can't he buy G a $10 dinner for inviting him into our home for a week?" But then my better inner voice said, "Shut up you greedy bastard, he probably only has $10 left to spend on meals for his whole trip." And I didn't think anything of it.]

Cut to present time and me feeling like crap because he gave me my $5 back, although I'm still not sure why he took it in the first place. (?) So the entire week passed and left me feeling completely ungracious. Good job, Self!

Second Weird Situation in Timeline: this morning while walking Hunter on our daily Constitutional, I encountered a beautiful Golden Retriever with a red collar walking down the sidewalk by himself. I watched him walk for a while, cross in the middle of the street and continue down my block. I knew something was not right, so I returned Hunter to his kennel and went looking for Goldie. I found him just down my street and brought him home. Now what was I going to do?

I've talked at times about Hunter's "situation" lately with big dogs and conflict situations. It's not pretty, people. So now I have this gigantic beast of a dog in my home while Hunter is locked away in his tiny little kennel. Not an ideal situation. I come up with a plan to let Hunter out in the bedroom and shut the bedroom door with Goldie on the other side so they can smell each other through the 4 foot crack that runs underneath my bedroom door. This works splendidly though they were both a little wary of each other. Eventually, I let Hunter out of the room, while keeping Goldilocks on the leash so I can somewhat control him. Then I decide to call that guy I'm married to again. He's laughing before I even tell him the whole story. After that little boost of anti-confidence, I call the local dog day care, no luck. They tell me to take him to a vet to see if he's microchipped. Good idea! It should be mentioned that I should technically have been at work about an hour ago. While taking him to the vet, I call the Humane Society and they check but do not find and missing dog reports for this kind of dog in my area. My area being South, Coastal Brooklyn.

At the vet, Gold Member and I have to wait for 30 minutes for the vet to show up. Goldie is just chillin and wanting everyone to scratch his belly. He's so adorable. Finally, Vet Lady gets her handy-doody scanner and Mother of all Gods, he's microchipped! They make some calls and get the owner on the phone to tell her we'd found "Stoney" (a name which makes me ponder the capabilities and pasttimes of these so-called "owners"). She's hysterically crying and describing how they live in STATEN ISLAND, and that Stoney's been missing for two days. Now, I'm looking at Stoney like, You Little Shitter, you had a little romp in Bklyn at your poor family's expense. Smart dog. Way to live on the wild side.

So anywho, I leave the dog with the vet and go to work. Several hours later, my cell phone rings and this guy is all, "Hey, you found my dog" and I'm all, "What? Who is this? Where did you get my cell phone number?" And dude's like, "I'm a US Marshall" and I poo my pants before saying, "No shit? That's some crazy shit right there." Something like that anyway. So now Mrs. US Marshall wants to bring us some food and stuff for finding the dog. I tried several times to tell Mr. US Marshall Captain, that that was not necessary but he insisted. And when the Attorney General US Marshall of the US of A insists, you desist.

Will keep you updated on Mrs. Marshall's cooking.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Turkey Day 2007 is quickly approaching and I am devising a smorgasbord at this very minute. Here's what we've got so far:

* 3 Turkey Legs (Why 3? I don't really know.)

* 1 Turkey Breast (Had to order the little guy in pieces 'cause my oven's too small to fit him whole. Holy tiny apartment living.)

* Creamy Smashed Potatoes (ala G-dog)

* Grandma's Cranberry Salad

* Delicious Corn Pudding

* Piping Hot Pumpkin Pie

* Delicate Whipped Topping

Yes! I just realized we need some sort of festive holiday drink, possibly eggnog? Hot cider? Beer? Good idea. We're also going to eat, just the two of us, in our apartment with our wedding china, which we've never even opened yet. This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever, so why does everyone I tell about it keep giving me with this sad look and offering to invite us over to their house instead? I do not need Thanksgiving Adopted. I'm just fine, spank you very much. And do you think my cooking is really that bad? Geez, tough crowd.


I also realized this year that I like Thanksgiving more than Christmas, actually. There's all of the family togetherness (well, aside from this year - whoopsie) and none of the Retail/Consumerism BS. So long as we don't turn on the Parade or go shopping on Friday, neither of which I do. So here's to Thanksgiving 2007, may your gullets be full from morning until night!

Hollywood's Not the Only One with Problems

Him: Uh, there's no more orange juice.

Me: Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. The Orange Juice Fairy quit last week.

Him: ........

Me: Yep, in case you were wondering, so did the Milk Fairy, the Cereal Fairy, the Dry Cleaning Fairy, the Clothes Picking Up Fairy, and the Bathroom Fairy actually told me to tell you to suck it. Whatever that means, she told me you'd understand.

Roaches de Cock

Since accusations are on the fly that I have exaggerated our infestation problem, let me clear the air. Eh-hem. OUR APARTMENT IS OVERRUN WITH GIANT, FLESH-EATING, FLYING, COCKROACHES. Never one to over-dramatize, I have toned this last statement down to highlight it's truth and accuracy. Let it be known that the author of the accusations has never once had to assassinate the damn things himself, oh no, it's all me Friends. All me.

Now, I know some of you mean well when you spout off cute little stories about the ONE time you saw a cockroach and killed it swiftly to be on your merry little urban way, and I appreciate that your experience was so painless. However, yours and my experience are very different. Very. I have killed oh, about 8 cockroaches in the 21 months of living in our apartment. All 8 were giant, about this -------------------------------------------- long. (100% not extrapolated.) To increase their specialness, several of them have flown at me at the exact moment I was trying to overpower them. Fantastic!

Others of you have suggested putting traps about the place. Hoho, he, hahaha. You naive, sad little children. I remember when I too had rainbows in my eyes and unicorns in my dreams... Let me paint the picture a tad bit more: they have been found in every room of the apartment, in different times of the year/day/atmospheric pressure, oblivious to the traps and sprays and gels and hand grenades that I have strategically fortified the house with. We do take the trash out every night, I have stored all of our cabinet foods in airtight containers, I try to clean over, under, and between every piece of furniture at least once a week, sometimes more.

Twice last year I called up Sally-Overreactor-Johnson (aka the landlady) to inquire about an exterminator and twice he came to spray. That's it. Just twice. Sally thought, "Surely we got every single itty bitty cockroach in the whole damn building in two applications! Yay us! High five." No high five, Sally, no high five at all.

I've thrown in the towel with the Roaches de Cock. They must really, really like that apartment. Well, I don't want to blight their happiness any longer. I'll just finish out my time in New York, and leave them in peace. Besides, there's no recourse. There's no hope. As my sister Gina said, "You can't kill them all, they survived the Holocaust!" Thanks Gin, I think you meant the nuclear bomb. Nice try, though.

Sigh, there's not even humor left in our apartment, the cockroaches snuffed it all out. It's a sad day in the nut house. Sad, sad, sad.

Maybe I'll have ice cream for dinner.

Warning: Hostile Post Ahead...

That's it. Enough. I can't take it any longer. I have to get this off my chest or I'm going to spontaneously combust.

To all of the inconsiderate pricks who hate dogs in my neighborhood:
I try to CURB MY DOG! but he doesn't always make it there, okay?! So get off it with your little xeroxed fliers taped all over your stupid little front fence and your stupid tree in front of your stupid little apartment. I have a geographical news flash for you, you live in NEW YORK CITY. If you've decided that you don't like people or dogs or people who own dogs, I've got the perfect moving company for you, dial: 1-800-movethef#@$out. They're very handy at maneuvering your stupid furniture down your stupid stairs. And. Don't sit on your steps every day and wait for someone with a dog to come within eyesight so you can start screaming incoherently that they have to CURB THEIR DOG. Because if I see you do that one more time, I'm going to call the ambulance right before I beat the living shit out of you. Then, I'm going to take my dog right up your front steps and have him pee his little heart out right on your front porch. Then I'm going to pee my little heart out all the way down your front steps, so there.

Oh, and to the nice little lady smoking her cig'y on her bottom step? Yeah, I'm pretty sure smelling a drop of urine on the sidewalk is more dangerous than those cancer sticks you're snorting into your lungs. Yep, you totally got me on that one.

{Deep breath}

People, it's urine. And, it's on the sidewalk. Near the curb. It washes off when it rains. Adjust your meds. You'll be fine.

Sincerely,
The Bitch with the dog.

Life Size Jitters

Often I come up with these ideas about what I really want to do with my life. And then I think about it for a few weeks, talk to some friends about it, and eventually forget all about it and do nothing. But some day, I really want to do something daring with my career and my life. I just have to find the right thing to do. I've seen it happen before to people I know. They quit a good job, albeit probably boring, to venture out into the unknown, only to find their idea wasn't novel, or a huge success. Then they scramble to find work that will pay the bills and they're right back where they started. Now granted there are a few who's whim actually pays off, and those are the ones you read about on the internet or in the newspaper. But I'm sure there are many, many more who failed.

So, do I do it? Do I go to the bank, take out a huge sum of money in loans, rent out a little space, and try to sell my idea? How bad can it get? Would the satisfaction of having someone buy my idea be as thrilling as I think it would be? Could I at least make ends meet? What should I do before starting it? Me thinks I feel the spreading excitement of newness budding in my aura. It kind of feels like the first day of school jitters. And this is only with the pre-beginning stages of this new concept forming.

What do you think, Internet, should I go for it? Will my advanced education level pay off? I mean, I think somewhere along the line I must have taken a class in "Entrepreneurship for Idiots", no? Oh yeah, that's right. I didn't so much care for the "Applicable to Life" classes they were offering in college. To busy with Horsemanship 100 and 200. But not even that, when I was in college, (I say that like it was a long time ago, not 4 years ago) they weren't encouraging people to run with their idea that just maybe was a little bit better than someone else's, but here, let me show you how to find out. No one ever stood up in front of one of my classes and spoke about honing your experience into invention. It's kind of pathetic really. All we were taught was how to do it just like everybody else, assembly line style.

It's not a new idea, I just think I could do it better than other people, is all. What do you say? The old college try thing going to work here, maybe? Hopefully?

I think I need to go to the Library.

I'm Sorry, Did You Say TENANT RIGHTS LAWSUIT?

I have a crazy, crazy landlady. Her name is Sally I-Love-to-Overreact-to-Complaints Johnson. Her main goal in life is to cry at her tenants when they call her about miscellaneous maintenance issues. Sally is working hard to become the very best cry-at-tenant landlady there ever was. I feel it my obligation to assist her in her endeavors, because I'm a closet feminist who thinks all elderly women should take up a second career late in life. Who's with me?

Let's start oh, 5 months back, shall we? That would make it March, which was the month I decided I had had enough of the troops of GIGANTIC child-eating "Waterbugs" (we all know what that cozy little word means) parading around my apartment, and so I put in a friendly call to Sally. Needless to say, Sally was not emotionally stable enough at that time to deal with the Waterbug Issue. She did, however, feel comfortable enough to expound on the depths with which I was forcing her spirit, by inquiring if there was an exterminator whom she knew of who I could call about our little infestation problem. Far.Be.It for me to assume that a landlord or lady (read: crazy lady) is responsible for keeping giant cockroaches from taking over the apartment building where her tenants are paying kajillions of dollars to live in BUG INFESTATION FREE. *Editor's note: Kajillions is not a word, as per my spell check, but gazillions sure is.

Maybe there are woes of the money-grubbing apartment owner lifestyle that I am not aware of. If so, please share them with me, because not having enough free time in between counting the piles of money you have painfully extracted from your tenants does not sound like it warrants a depressive episode on a daily basis to me. ! After Sally, begrudgingly gave me the information for the exterminator, she slipped in a nice, "Oh by the way, you've gone and caused me a small coronary infarct with your nagging naggingness, thank you very much," closing comment. Since I pride myself on using Pavlov's theory on anyone and everyone I come in contact with on a daily basis, I start buttering up old Sally over the coming weeks with notes and cookies, even visits from our pup which everyone loves!

So then May comes around, and I notice the actual movable space in my bathroom has diminished to about 8 square inches due to the impressive amount of Black Mold growing on the ceiling and walls of the shower that has no outside vent. Eh-hem, Sally? I wouldn't even have mentioned it, but there were painters traipsing up and down the hallway stairs re-painting from the smoke damage that I will have to use at least four posts to tell you the story about THAT one, but just know there was smoke damage that needed painting over in the hallway for a year before it actually got done. Sorry for the side-tangent, mid-tangent there. Anyway, the painters were so nice and right there ripe for the picking to ask about our bathroom situation/disaster. After one of the guys took a look at our shower, he said he'd be happy to fix it in a jiffy if it was okay with Sally. That night I called Sally and once again unaware of the precariousness of her emotional stability, kindly tried to rip her heart out by inquiring about the paint job. Again with the wailing and the sobbing and the tearing to shreds my dark, black soul. But eventually, after she had decided I had endured enough, she gave in and huffily conceded to tell the painters they could re-paint my mold infestation. (Wiping sweat from brow.)

May = Me spotting what I think is a mouse fece in the dog's bowl, and flipping out for the millionth time since we moved to this beloved little city a year and a half ago. Call Sal, she flips out in turn, I flip out again, Mr. G loses half of his hair. Exterminator comes back, and Sally says that's it, she's sick of being bothered by me and my home-care issues. Dear Sally, how I want to see you treated with heavy medication and possibly shock therapy.

Which brings us to June-July-now August, because I am too afraid of my 85 year old landlady to even ask her about what the hell is wrong with our air conditioner and is it supposed to be completely still as a ghost when plugged in and turned to the ON position? Is this some kind of new invention that is designed specifically to not give any indication that it works while it is in fact in working order? I'm thinking no, because it's hotter than 12 Lesbian Whores in Church in my apartment right now, despite the mute air conditioning units in two windows. I finally decided that I'd had enough, and bought a damn air conditioner that I then had to pay 40 bucks to get delivered to the apartment because that's what you have to do when you live in a city as big as this one with no car because the car insurance people and the street cleaning police are in conspiracy to steal all of your money and fly to Tahiti together. God Bless America.

Sign the Petition ~ Save Carroll Gardens!

Since this ridiculous development makes my blood boil more than the heat in my office, I have to tag the story of the atrocious building being constructed in my neighborhood. Please take a moment to sign the petition to ban construction on any buildings higher than 50 feet, which is the height of all of the brownstones in our neighborhood. It would truly ruin the atmosphere and beauty of our serene 'little village'.

Thank you.