Thursday, December 30, 2004


I'm a travelin' foo'. I'll post pics and notes upon my return. Have fun with yer partays!

Sunday, December 26, 2004

Kwanzaa Man, coming soon to a driveway near you.

I guess it's a start. But I really don't think we need to Sharptonize Kwanzaa. I mean, how much legitimacy can be given a holiday where the personification is a Shaft lookalike, and the sidekicks have names like Diz Bop? I mean, yes, Christmas features some ridiculous isht--hello, claymation reindeer with glowing noses, little people in tights and pointy caps and C-list celebrity Christmas albums--but we worked up to that, didn't we? Well, at least Kwanzaa man doesn't drive an Escalade with gold rims. Yet.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Fer the rekkid, I rilly luff yous guys. Hic.

Tonight, Sushi meetup at Blue Ribbon, 8 p.m. Be there or be...somewhere else. This might be my last post for a few days, as I will be trying to hit every state in the Union between now and Jan. 2. This will be the last time, for a long time, that I have two days in a row off, let alone a whole week. Hot damn! I can go out and partay! But Internet time will be (gasp! shudder!) limited. I hope everyone has a happy holiday, and gets all their shopping done on time (ahem, secret-santas, nudgewink) and safely. Be careful on the roads, in the skies, or however else you're all planning to get around. Oh, and I haven't halted the scavenger hunt. I guess I'll just drag it out a bit over the next few weeks. It will be entirely Internet based, so you won't even have to get off your tuchas. Es. Tuchases. Tuchii? Anyway. Just follow the clues (to come) around the Web. The first person to get all the answers will get a meal on me, via either a giftcard to one of the snazzy joints in town, or actual lunch with me, if you're tweaked enough to want to eat with a stranger or are someone I already hang out with (Haha, suckers. Though you guys would probably have more spent on you than a giftcard, and you'll sure as hell be eating someplace really nice if I'm going, too). Happy (vacations!!!) Holidays! Joyeux Noel! Or, as MJ said, Happy Christmahanukwanzaaka!

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Fools who got my pressure up.

T-Mobile's rebate department. After waiting 2 months for my $50 phone rebate (for a phone that, though it does take pictures, tends to drop calls, get a screwed up, Etch-a-Sktch looking external display, and just stops getting reception at all if I take it below ground, even after I come back above ground, so I have to turn it off and back on again, but if you own a V300, you already know all this), they have just sent me a letter (in an unmarked, unremarkable, "this-is-probably-just-junk-mail" -looking envelope that doesn't say T-Mobile anywhere on the outside, so I almost threw it away, clever tricksters) saying I can't have the rebate because my phone number isn't valid. Oh really? Not valid, huh? Weeelllllllll, thanks for the heads up. I guess I can just stop paying my phone bill now. Why pay for a phone number that's invalid? Punks. Update: I just called and they said, oh, we forgot to enter the area code, sorry. Wait 6 more weeks. How in the hell do you forget to enter the damned area code? It's the first three numbers! Grr. CCS First National Card scam masters. These assmonkeys sent me an unsolicited, pre-approved $6,500 limit credit card. In an envelope that says, on the outside, "Credit Department. Attention: Your card has arrived and is ready for activation." Morons. The letter was already open when I received it, which has my paranoid little mind filled with scenes of me, years from now, trying to buy a house and discovering some heifer somewhere has already bought and defaulted on a house in my name, and that my credit is forever ruined. I tried to call the scamming bitches who sent the card (BTW, if you ever do get a card from these fools, cut it up and run. They have nearly a thousand complaints on file with the BBB), but nowhere, nowhere on their scam literature can one find a number that leads to a real, live person, so I can't call them to make sure no one has tried to get a card sent to another address. Any merchant that doesn't take Amex. Lookahere, genius. I have (rather, my company has) money. Money that you want. Why quibble about what the little plastic rectangle says on the front? It's still money. If you don't accept it, I have to go all the way back to work and either a) dig up some petty cash or b) get the official "for assmonkeys who don't take Amex Visa." Both of these scenarios reduce the likelihood of me returning and spending money with you at all. So take the goddamned Amex. People with no home training. Look, I know my place might look a bit chaotic to you. So? That doesn't mean you can a) throw shit on my floor. Doesn't matter that there's stuff down there already. I put it there, fool, it's my house. Didn't anybody ever teach you how to behave at somebody else's house? Or b) start moving things around to god knows where. I knew where everything was before you came over. Now I can't find half my shit. I had a system, dammit, a system you have gone and ruined! Okay, it's not really that deep, but I needed to get that off my chest. It makes me crazy when people do that. When I visit someone, I don't muck their house all up. Not because they've kept it neat and tidy and it doesn't deserve to be mucked up, but because my parents taught me to respect other people's homes. Why is that so hard to understand? I have to go Christmas shopping now, so I'm sure this list will grow. Happy Wednesday!

Monday, December 20, 2004

Boredom breeds...pointless scavenger hunts?

Originally uploaded by Siddity.
So, I'm thinking of doing a sort of photo scavenger hunt, but instead of sending people to places, I'll take pictures of places for people to identify! And each correctly identified place will be a clue that leads you to, um, a meeting place, and time. And...and the benefit to you would be that, um...the person who gets it right gets...lunch on me! Yeah, that's it! (But, like, a prix fixe lunch, okay? I'm not the Donald.)

Alternatively, I could just post random pictures now and then and see who can guess where they are. Who wants to play? Anybody? Where's this mosaic found?

Linky Links

Just a quick rundown of some blogs I have been reading lately but haven't had time to blogroll: The Game: Should get an award for best presidential nickname--Chimpy McFlightsuit. Holy hell, that's hilarious. Chepooka: I dunno what a chepooka is, but I'm sure I'll find out when I take time to read the "About" section. Neat post on the crazy crap being taught in some Christian schools--about how slavery wasn't all that bad, really. That sounds crazy, and maybe the pamphlet the blog talks about is a hoax. But as someone who attended a Christian school for several years and was told some crazy ass things about history, I believe it. And to the news article about the school. Around The Way Girl: I need to use those little arrows on my own damn link to blackblogz, etc. more often. Feministe! I need to Blogroll this one ASAP. Dang. Good stuff.

Sunday, December 19, 2004

Me, shorn.

Me, shorn. Originally uploaded by Siddity.
After all the positive comments on the haircut photo, I thought I'd take the plunge and hack it off a few years ahead of schedule. A good deal of sobbing later, well, here it is. Maybe I should have left this hair on the model. Meep.

The problem with this city is not that there is too much attitude or too much crime.

On the contrary. I think there is too little. Maybe a little more would shape this town right up. For instance, next time some stuck-up crotchety-ass muddafuggah throws me some ill-timed and unnecessary shade, I could simply smack them dead in the fucking face. I would hope this will lead them to think twice before speaking so rudely to strangers again, and I will have thereby done my part in trying to make New York the best it can be. I swear, when I moved to this city, I was a really sweet girl. Now I have days when, for real, I just want to start slapping the hell out of people. The hell. Using really foul slapping implements, like, I dunno, uncooked haggis and sacks of offal and rotten chitterlings and shit. Just slap the hell out of 'em. Just a big ol' wet, shit-stinky juicy greasy whap! if they even look at me wrong. Argh. See, this is why I didn't want to live in this city. I knew this would happen. The Siddity family aggression allele is starting to show its ass. I thought it had passed me by, but noooooooooooo. I just wasn't living under the right conditions for it to manifest, apparently. In no other place have I ever entertained vivid--vivid--daydreams about knocking the dentures down an old man's throat. Daydreams that apparently immediately showed so clearly on my face that the fool was backpedaling before I had even uttered a damn word of response. I used to be zen. I would have just rolled my eyes and thought "Whatever, you'll be dead soon," then felt guilty for being so uncharitable and wondered about what kind of bad day dusty-drawers'd had. Now I want to speed him to his end. WTF? I am not the kind of person who menaces the elderly. I'm not. Grrr. Goddamn.

Friday, December 17, 2004

This haircut.

This haircut is perfect.
Originally uploaded by Siddity.
When I said I wanted the linked haircut in the last post, I meant this one, but the link takes you to the damned homepage. I do not want a hot pink wig for my 30th birthday. I want this haircut. Yeesh. So I have had to unlazify myself and upload the image to flickr.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

Rhapsodi made me do it!

Three names you go by: 1. Sid 2. Bean 3. Rainbow Brite (I have an alter-ego to protect, so I'm not sharing my real name, lol.) Three screen names you have: 1. Sid 2. Budderflie 3. Tortuga Three things you like about yourself : 1. My unsinkable spirit and optimism. Shush. I'm much cheerier in real life. 2. My brains (thanks, Mom) 3. My eyes Three things you hate/dislike about yourself: 1. My ADHD personality 2. My procrastinatory nature 3. My lack of, um, oh, I dunno. What was the question? Three parts of your heritage: 1. Black (Af/Carib. American) 2. White (Welsh/English and French from the surnames. Funnily enough, there are more women with my exact first and last name in Wales than anywhere else in the world. Callalillies, care to fill in here and explain that? Hmmmm?) 3. Red and Brown (C, Momma was 1/2 Cherokee? And the paternal gran says South Asian, too.) Three things that scare you: 1. Men in totally matched, brightly colored polyester suit ensembles. I run. I run. 2. Failure/Mediocrity. This occasionally gives me panic attacks. 3. A short film collaboration between Bunuel and Dali I saw some years back involving slicing an eyeball with a razor. I will never forget that image. Eeeee. Ick. Twitch. Three of your everyday essentials: 1. Contacts. I must see. 2. 'Puter/laptop/cellamaphone, with Internet. I am an information whore. 3. My ridiculously-pricey-but-absolutely-worth-every-penny skincare regimen. Three things you are wearing right now: 1.My blue and white (Boola Boola!) Puma speedcats, which have gotten me more compliments than perhaps any other item of apparel I own, save my flash orange tweed coat. 2. My dangly Oktoberfest earrings. 3. Eyeliner and a flirty smile. Just kidding. About the smile I mean. I'm totally stoneyfaced. But the eyeliner bit is true. Three of your favorite bands/artists at the moment: Right this minute I was humming a Spacehog song, and before that some Sara McLachlan, but those aren't my favorites, I suppose, so here--nope, can't do music only. I'll do a film/music/lit. thing. 1. Wes Anderson (I just saw The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou Wednesday, and I believe my love for The Royal Tenenbaums is well documented. Wes, I am available for mating. Or tea. Whatever you have time for. Mating could arguably be faster. It's hard to drink hot water quickly. But I do have some lovely teas.) 2. Kunzru. I really loved The Impressionist and Transmission. Neither of which I've read recently, but both of which are standing out at the moment. 3. I really want the Maroon 5 CD. Does that make it a favorite? Er, or Outkast. I always luh' those fools. Three of your favorite songs at present: 1. Bebel Gilberto, "Aganju" 2. The main song from The Life Aquatic..., which should totally be my new cell ring. Or the Radiohead song on the Romeo + Juliet (Baz Luhrmann version) soundtrack 3. Pizzicato Five, "Baby Love Child" Three new things you want to do in the next 12 months: 1. Byline in a respected national publication 2. Finish my novel 3. Um, well...nope, can't say, too dirty, mwahahaha! Er, or maybe just shape up a bit, and get more organized, and begin my savings project that will enable me to stop working for a few years and travel when I'm 29 or 30. That would be the best 30th birthday gift to myself. That, or this haircut. I've had long hair forever. At some point, you gotta take the plunge. Three things you want in a relationship: 1. Honest-to-god friendship. 2. Humor and understanding. 3. Space (as in, my own quarters in a shared residence. A study or suite of rooms will do fine, dahlink, mwah!) 4. Naughty, naughty, naughty... Two truths and a lie: 1. I have been to a naked party. 2. I applied to med school and didn't get in. 3. I have spanked total strangers. Three physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to you: 1. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes. 2. Noses--either strong/dignified or very sharp. I dunno why. I just like 'em. 3. Smell. At certain times of the month I could be induced to follow a man who looks like hell but smells good. Three things you just can't do: 1. Eat a raw banana. Blech. 2. Somersaults 3. Read gangsta/hip-hop lit novels. The typos alone make my ass crazy. Three of your favorite hobbies: 1. Reading. 2. Reading. 3. Writing. Three things you want to do really badly right now: 1. Watch some Netflix DVDs 2. Kiss 3. Get an iPod 4. Naughty, naughty, naughty. Teehee. Three careers you're considering: 1. Entertainment industry governess 2. Writer 3. Lawyer 4. Courtesan. Mwahahaha! Interested parties click here Three places you want to go on vacation: 1. Morocco 2. Scotland 3. Brazil Three kids names: 1. Sophie 2. Noah 3. Anneke Three things you want to do before you die: 1. Publish a novel 2. Family/children 3. get an iPod, lol. Just kidding--live abroad again. Four--Five--people who have to take this quiz now or die painfully: 1.Maryann 2. Saffron 3. K. 4. Mary 5. Kendall

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

The cheese stands alone.

Well, for those of you who have signed up for the secret santafest, get a Froogle or Amazon wishlist up on your blog. I'll be handing out names tomorrow--this should be fun. Just make sure there is something on your list your santa can order, shipping included, for $20 or less. CDs and paperbacks are good bets, no? Since I didn't start this earlier, I suppose it is unlikely the gifts will make it by Christmas, but hey, I'm sure presents are welcome anytime. In other, unrelated news(ish), everyone should run out immediately and buy this cheese. It's so good, it should be a sin. God knows your breath will be criminal right after eating it. But it's damn good eatin'! Also, I love this tea. It tastes and smells incredible--green tea with bergamot! Yum. I don't know whether to drink it or dab it on my pulse points. Whatever, it's spanktastic.

More from the AYFKM?!? files

Why did I see a second grader with an iPod today? An eight-year-old does not--I repeat, NOT--need $300 worth of top of the line digital equipment to listen to his...his.... Hang on. What in the hell does an eight-year-old listen to, anyway? 'Cause I can't think of a damned thing on the radio he should be allowed to hear. (And the sanctity of the iPod should not be violated by Disneyfied crap.) And we wonder why yout's today have issues.

From the "Are you fucking kidding me?!?" files.

And then the darkness fell, and all light, creativity and joy was stricken from the land. I hope this fool doesn't get his agenda through. I know, I know. I'm still thinking up a name for my other blog, so this stuff stays here for now.

You know, I don't believe all the AIDS conspiracy theories. Much.

I don't really buy the whole "AIDS was created and deliberately introduced into Africa to wipe out the motherland," theories. But then we never had concrete evidence the NIH was deliberately pushing faulty AIDS drugs in Africa before. Dang.

Sunday, December 12, 2004

So. I just watched Boondock Saints.

Being a fan of such fine filums as Lock, Stock, Fight Club, and other bloody action/comedies, I'd assumed this would be genius. I mean, ususally, people who also love those films lurve Boondock Saints. Um. It was okay, at first. I mean, aside from the fact that the dialogue seemed forced, the Boston Irish accents seemed dodgy (this coming from someone who has lived in an Irish ghetto or two in her time--okay, well, one, if you don't count Boston, and two if you count the neighborhood I lived in in north London), the premise seemed preposterous (twin boys who work in a meatpacking plant--yet conveniently, fluently speak English, Irish, Italian, Russian and French--decide to just start killing area mobsters in the name of God, using cues taken from Charles Bronson films, and manage to get the FBI agent pursuing them on their side for absolutely no discernible reason) and the entire supporting cast was obviously Canadian (not that I have anything against Canadia, but dang, have you ever tried to listen to a Canadian doing an American/working-class Boston/Irish accent? Holy christ, nails on chalkboard. Still better than most American actors trying to do any other accent in the world, though), you know, it was mildly entertaining. I mean, I am a fan of any filum that puts two nicely built and moderately tatooed boys' backsides on display (nevermind, I think that may only have been in the special features). You know, I could kinda sorta get over all that. But then, it just went too far, and crossed over into the completely, truly, ridiculously incredible. Please tell me, Troy Duffy, writer-director man, in what star system is Willem Dafoe in a Peggy Bundy wig and sunglasses a hot callgirl--nay, a callgirl hot enough to convince a mafia henchman to let her into a house, in which an assassination is presumably taking place, in order to have a quickie? Hot enough that, even after Dafoe-in-drag removes his sunglasses, said henchman doesn't realize he's sucking face with Willem fucking Dafoe until the wig falls off? What? WHAT? Willem Dafoe. Willem Dafoe. I mean, I know it's supposed to be a comedy, but damn. Not to mention the fact that the allegedly crazy, deadly, psychotic killer, Il Duce, that the Italian mafia sends to stop the protagonists is played by Billy Connolly--the teacher from the last season of Head of the Class. I'm sorry, Billy Connolly, but your large hair, menace and potential for evil will forever pale in comparison to that of your one-time co-star, Robin Givens. You know what? Hell, even if Billy and Willem had traded roles it would have all been more believable. Billy Connolly could even have kept the beard. I can't wait to see who plays the hot callgirl and murderous hitman in Boondock II. Perhaps Michael Clarke Duncan and Dakota Fanning, respectively.

Saturday, December 11, 2004

Stolen from Saffron, who is a cappucino

You are a double espresso at 3 AM. You are a double espresso at three AM. You are the tortured, nail-biting essence of coffee. You see visions. You could change the world if only you were up at the same time as everyone else. You have created a programming language that throws errors if the code is not written in iambic pentameter, and you are infuriated by the typos in the new edition of Ulysses. You practice sarcasm as a form of tantric sex, and your cats have doctorates. You believe in virgin sacrifice in a good cause. What kind of coffee are you? brought to you by

Who's up for some blogger Secret Santa action?

Seems like lots of nice folks are doing sweet things like sending out e-cards this holiday season. That's nice. But y'all know you all would like some real goodies, too. Anybody interested in starting a blogging Secret Santa ring? We could keep the price limit low--say, $20 including shipping--and send each other gifts. Anyone? Anyone? Hello? Bueller? Well. If you wanted. Email siddity at gmail. Just an idea.

Friday, December 10, 2004


I am an abuser. A corneal abuser. I just had an eye exam (first time in about 4 years) and was told that my eyes show signs of contact lens abuse. Apparently, my corneas are swollen and I have extra blood vessels or capillaries growing into my eyes to provide them with the oxygen they are deprived of while I'm wearing contacts. Eeeeeeeeeeeew. I, of course, was instantly reformed and am now, ahem... *runs to bathroom to remove contacts and put on glasses* ...and am now going to only wear my contacts when out and about in public. And when I get my snazzy new glasses, I'll wear those sometimes, too, but I'm not about to claim I'll wear them out too often, since, frankly, whenever I do, I'll be the unfortunate subject of both versions of the "Boys don't make passes..." saying, at the same time. Anyway. Learn from me children. If your eye doctor tells you to change your contacts every four weeks, do not ignore her and go four months. And really, only wear them a few hours at a time. End health advisory.

Because I absolutely refuse to run out of bloggable events.

Me, yesterday, twoish, crossing Amsterdam, singing to myself: Doobedoo, la la la, deck the halls with boughs of FUCK! (as foot lands awkwardly in pothole and bends violently inward to form an unnatural right angle). Sucks. But I recover my balance, give the ankle a lookieloo and a wiggle, all is well, I press on. Me, yesterday, sixish, rising from a chair: Doobedoo, lalaFORK! (There were munchkins present, and we don't swears around thems, does we? No.) Suddenly my whole ankle/foot area has locked up and hurts like a beesnatch. WTF? Is that allowed? Can there be a four hour time lapse between injury and hurtin' like a mofo? I didn't think so. But apparently there can. I limp home to elevate and ice. Of course, having missed out on four hours of good hurtin'-like-a-beesnatch-mofo time, my overachieving ass, er, foot, decides to be extra unpleasant, swell up, throb, and turn a weirdo shade of red. All of which I find increasingly alarming. I've sprained my ankle before, but usually the pain is in my ankle. This pain runs down the top/front of my damn foot. Unusual. I call my insurance on-call nurse line (because, a. I'm not some whiny pansy girl who will just run to the doctor at every sniffle or fracture; and b. I like surprises, but not the $10000 hospital bill because you didn't call your insurance first kind) to find out if I need treatment. They refer me to an urgent care facility a hunnid dabgum blocks away. It is the only one on this island, apparently. Or at least the only one my insurance will permit me to visit. I call first, to make sure they are open. They're not. Shite. I call my insurance on-call nurse again, and she tells me to take myself to the nearest ER for X-rays. Sounds simple enough. Except. See. It's raining. Hard. I have no cash. And my foot can no longer bear weight, at all. Me no limpy. Only hoppy. And I have no one to help me with any of this. But I hurt a lot. So I suit up for the rain and hoppy through my apartment, down the hall, and onto the elevator. Then I hoppy through the lobby and ask my doormen to hail me a cab, which, miraculously, they manage to do. One hurdle crossed. But I still have no cash. Cabs in this city take credit cards, right? Well, no, not all of 'em. So I have the cab drive me to the nearest ATM, where I get out at the corner and hoppy on one leg, through the rain, to the goddamn ATM booth and pray no one seduces my cabbie away. Then I hoppy back to the waiting cab (he wanted his money) and head for the nearest ER, Roosevelt, down on 59th. I get out and with the help of a good samaritan, I hoppy through the doors (which, despite the fact that it's a frigging ER and automatic sliding doors are kind of a good idea, do not open automatically. Those doors have been turned off, for some reason.) and across the room to the triage nurse's station. I sit and wait. Twenty minutes, maybe a half an hour later (not bad at all, I must say) the friendly triage nurse tells me to hoppy around to his booth for the routine workup--temperature, blood pressure, bitchfest. (Aside: I am so thankful for the practice I've gotten doing tree pose. Man, if I didn't have my balance tight, I'da been in trouble. Well, more, anyway.) Everything is normal there, except for my blood pressure, which is outrageously high. He's bewildered, decides that can't be right, takes it again. Still really high. Are you in a lot of pain, he asks. Why yes, yes I am, I reply (Hello, enough to bring me to the ER, alone, in the rain, at night.). Also, I suggest, it could be due to the fact that I have been hopping all over the goddamned Upper West Side, and was just forced to hop unassisted to his desk. Oh yes, that could do it, he says. Sigh. Finally, a wheelchair. A lovely, rolly, big-wheely wheelchair. Yippee! Then, X-rays. A quick consultation with a doctor, who tells me I have no broken bones, just a nasty sprain, but that my blood pressure is high, and have I seen anyone about it. I explain the hopping. Hmm, she says, still. And gets me a cane. But the cane is useless, as that involves actually using the injured foot. So I request crutches, instead. Another nurse takes my BP again. Your pressure is high, she says. You should see your doctor about it. Gaaaah! Gaaaaaah! Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! I'm not explaining it again. Also, do people usually come into the bloody emergency room cool as a cucumber? Hm? Hm? Could the possibly-broken-ankle situation and wondering how I'll handle my decidedly non-desk job for the next week when I've just been told it might take 3 weeks to recover be a wee bit upsetting? Yeesh. Two hours after I hop into the emergency room, I am ready to go. Unfortunately, I have to sit and wait for a seemingly well-off, older Italian man and his escort to finish refusing to pay for his ER treatment because they thought the price-tag was too high. Mm-hm. But it's the working poor who are the deadbeats and defaulters, right? Anyway. Two and a half hours after I hop in, I crutch-swing my way out and onto the nearest drag, which happens to be 10th. And I stand, in the rain, on my crutches, and watch as cab after cab zips by, occupied, I uncharitably imagine, by curly-haired women in heels who really don't need cabs at all. Pout. Sulk. Grumble. Wilt. After maybe ten minutes, a cab stops, but some people with suitcases beat me to it and speed off into the soggy night. Argh. Eventually, a livery cab stops, and though I know I shouldn't, I take it home. He charges me twice what it would normally cost, then looks pissy when I don't tip him on top of that. Screw that, livery man. But thanks for the ride. What. A. Shitty. Day. On the upside, I was wearing this $2-on-clearance knit winter cap from H&M that kept my head (and thus, my blowout) totally dry, in all of my umbrella-free rain slogging! Astounding. And I actually didn't have any co-pay for my ER visit, so the whole thing onlyt set me back $20. But I have learned my lesson. The rest of that money is being distributed among my pockets, bags and purses for future emergency (cab or whatever) use, dammit.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

You oscillate its tit a little.

So I just checked this joke out online and found that the version I heard, with the punchline above, is much less common than the punchline ML posted in the comments, so full marks to her. I have to say, though, I think the flow is better with the punchline I heard. Say it quickly in you head with the different endings: How do you titillate an oscelot? You oscillate its tit a little. v. You oscillate its tit a lot. Which I guess is more rhymey. Eh. Anyway. Anyway, in keeping (not innkeeping) with the totally pointless and silly nature of this post, I would like to share this low-carb diet friendly recipe with you: take one tall frosty glass of diet vanilla coke, add 2 tablespoons of half and half, et voila! The 40 calorie dessert. It's an egg cream without the sugar. Sort of. Okay, I have to admit, it kinda looks narsty because the HAH not only separates a little but also, like, sucks the artificial color out of the fizzy drink, so you get a sort of chocolate milky brown spooge and dishwater grey fizz, but it tastes nice, I swear, and if you swirl regularly you'll hardly notice. Might be nicer with a shot of something. Or could make a good fauxcohol drink to nurse while you watch your nearest and dearest get bombed over the holidays. Hey, somebody's gotta be sober enough to take the blackmail photos. Also, Happy Chanukah. Also also, thank god for payday, 'cause now I can get replacement beautifiers.

Saturday, December 04, 2004

Bendoverdirect strikes again.

So, just to clarify my seething hatred and overall disgruntlement, this is the problem. Freshdirect keeps fucking up. Wouldn't be so bad if they fixed things promptly. But, between the big old assembly line warehouse and hand wringing "we can't do anything until Jesus comes back to corral his chilluns...let me have someone call you back" spouting bureaucracy, it is impossible to have a problem, call someone once, and Just. Get. It. Fixed. I thought that using an actual credit card rather than my bank checkcard would make it easier to fix this kind of problem. Ha-effing-ha-ha-ha. I actually caught this latest screwup yesterday, while the charge error was only in their system, not on my credit card. My credit card just reflected a "capture" of 125% of the correct price--about $120. Thank god--I thought (see, in my tiny little rational mind, I thought that was a good thing. You know, being able to stop the potential problem before we had a real problem and I needed to show up on a bitch's doorstep). But when I called the customer service department to let them know how fucked up the billing was, I got the usual song and dance--"Oooh, yeah, we did screw up, and we're really sorry. We'll try fix it tomorrow after the order is delivered. " *pressure...rising...fingers...curling...into...claws..gaaaahh...attack...must...attack...* To which I respond, um, NO MUDDAFUCKAHS! because if you wait until then, you will put me over my credit limit. And if you put me over my limit, not only will my credit card company charge me an over limit fee (which you bitches WILL pay, ya heard, but even then, even though it is your fault, that shit will stay on my record) but YOU BITCHES WILL TRY TO CHARGE ME AN INSUFFICIENT FUNDS FEE ON TOP OF THAT, FOR THE MISTAKE YOU BITCHES MADE!!!!! But since they are at least being polite, I can't say any of that, because if the shit hits the fan and they can show I was the one being belligerent, and they are the ones recording the calls...well, it wouldn't be good. So instead I do my best mentally unstable giggle, the one that indicates you have been pushed beyond all reason and want to cut a bitch, and then explain that you need it fixed before that shit happens, and why. And they say okay, I need to talk to someone in accounts, we'll have them call you right back. This call from accounts, of course, never comes. So I checked my credit account again this morning, and the credit card company still lists the $120+ charge, which leads me to believe that the final charge still hasn't gone through, you know, since that is neither the correct amount nor the crazyfuckedup amount. So I call Freshdirect again. (No, I don't sleep on this shit. Freshdirect will be as miserable as I am until I am satisfied, dammit.) And I talk to a new person who informs me that, nope, the error still hasn't been corrected (something like 15 business hours later), but she will go talk to a supervisor and call me back in 30 minutes or less. Which (Shock! Wonder of wonders!) she does. And tells me that they are just planning to charge me the 125% of estimated final cost amount, which is still $120+ dollars. I can kinda relax over this, at least they haven't fucked my credit, and thank goodness for that small favor. The problem is, because the error was made on the assembly line, with the fool who put a $240 sticker on $10 worth of fish, and not in their computers, they have no way (other than common motherfucking sense, which would suggest that, if you gave me four 6-8 ounce fillets, you should really only be charging me for one-and-a-half-to-two pounds of fish. Maybe a little bit more, but usually a little less, since you order by number of fillets, not weight, and they tend to be on the smaller side) of determining how much that fish actually cost, so I am still getting stuck paying about $20 for $10 of fish. So they are still making extra money off their fuckup. Sigh. Like I said. At least they didn't ruin my credit. I am so hardheaded. This time, for real, I'm done.* *I tried again because after three months of doing my own shopping, with my schedule, I'd found myself too busy to do it in any significant way, and I never had time to shop and then wait for Fairway to deliver, so I ended up ordering in instead, which meant I was spending something like $600-$700 a month on food when I should have only been spending about $350. Looks like I'll have to make some adjustments. And my friend, who never has any problems with them, said oh, give them another chance. Because really, who would think a screwup of this magnitude could happen twice?

Belligerent Drunk.

Listen, some celestial isht is seriously retrograde. This has been one of the worst days I've had in recent memory (that didn't involve illness, dismemberment, injury or death, anyway. Thank God.). I woke up late, fumbled my way out the door, and got rolling. "It'll be alright," I thought. "I have tonight and tomorrow off to relax. Soon this bad start will be a distant memory." Nope. I realized early on that the day would suck, because I'd double booked and told Saffron I could have dinner with her and visit MoMA after I got off work at 5:30, but really I didn't get off until 6 (sort of) and then would have to wait around for Freshdirect. And every time I'd get a second to call, some isht would come up. Then I tried to call and discovered I couldn't call an international number. She had dinner with Berry, though, so that was okay. This Freshdirect isht happened. Now, I called these fools last night to be sure they wouldn't ass around with my account. You see where that got me. A quarter of a grand in the hole. The bitches. Then, my bosses (lovely, lovely folks) invited me to a black tie opening/party thing, in a way that said, "You don't have to come. But come." Black tie. So when I thought I'd be chillin' in jeans and my babies, drinkin' dirty martinis, I was instead rocking a fancy dress and (cute but painful) 4 inch heels, and sipping chardonnay to take the edge off the pain, dammit. I thought I'd cut out around 9 to hang out with TBNY and Saff, but that fell through, so instead, I spent the whole night at this party, not eyeing the "talent," because it was all either married with kids, old as Moses, gay, or security. I meant to catch a cab home. I really did. But I hobbled along and tried, from Madison Ave to Broadway, with absolutely no success, to hail one of those little yellow bastards. So I ended up on the got-damn subway. Thank god my feet are small enough for my comfy shoes to fit into my purse. If I'd had to wear those heels all the way back uptown, in the mood I was in, totally sober because I could not drink myself shitty with the free booze, as I'd wanted to, since it was my bosses' party and that would not have been kosher....There would have been carnage, my friends. Carnage. Oh. But I did see Mariano Rivera at the par-tay. Actually, I stood close enough to smell him. I didn't though. Smell him, I mean. That is to say, he didn't stink or smell of cologne. Anyway. He seemed nice. And he looked nice in his camel-suede jacket getup. He's a cutie-patootey. But I digress. Back to my shite day. When I got home, an apologetic email/phone message from Freshdirect was conspicuously absent. Thankfully, they did get part of the order right, so I'm currently drowing my irritation in Dos Equis and frozen pizza, and being a belligerent drunk on my blog. Muddafug! See? Belligerence.

Friday, December 03, 2004

Fucking Freshdirect.

bluefish scale
Originally uploaded by Siddity.
This is a picture of the bluefish I ordered from Freshdirect. What's wrong with this picture? I mean, other than the fact that I went back on my own promise and ordered from Freshdirect again?

Just so you know, that's one of those mini 6 oz. cans of tomato paste in front, so you can get an idea of scale.

Take a guess. What could possibly be wrong? I mean, for once, they got the fish and the spice right, and it looks like there are probably four 6-8 oz. fillets there, as I ordered.

What could possible be wrong?

Fucktardirect, more like. Holy fuck. Unbelievable.

bluefishclose Originally uploaded by Siddity.
Give up? Look closely at the weight and final charge. Yep. Those bitches charged me for 43.77 POUNDS of fish, at $4.99/lb., plus charges for 43.77 pounds of spice, for a total of $240.30. For a pound and a half of bluefish. Which brought my should-have-been $115 grocery order to $343. Someone must bleed for this. But I have a party to attend. More later.
Fucking assbiting cocktard motherfuckers! AAAARRRRGGGHHHH!

Thursday, December 02, 2004

The "More crap I can't easily tie together but I've used 'Randomosity' and 'Non Sequitur' too many times already so this has no real title" post.

Lots of random and rambling little bits: 1. I can't believe I forgot to blog it last week, but I had lunch with Saffron! We ate num-nums at Delta Grill, and then wandered over to Starchucks for warm and toasty coffee drinks (me) and tea (her). She's as groovy as she seems on her blog. I think we're going out Friday or Saturday with TBNY for food, drinky drinks and possibly dancing. Yay! 2. I think I saw Elias Koteas on Broadway, near 81st this morning. I think. If it was him, he's taller than he looks onscreen. Anyway, that was kinda neat. He's a good character actor (I place the weirdness of The Adjuster squarely on Atom Egoyan's shoulders). Cliff Curtis is another. Actors you know you've seen everywhere, but who are so diverse and who get so well lost in their characters you can't quite place them when you take them out of context. If I were an actor, I'd want to be that kind, not the branded, carry-a-film kind. That would suck. I know there are more character/non-star actors I love, but I can never think of them until I see them in something...hmmm....oh yes, here's another. Jeffrey Wright. Totally underhyped. I went to college with this guy's brother. The brother is much taller and better looking--and yet, he was a painter. Weird. Hmmm, that's it for the pseudo-celeb report. 3. I've been thinking about starting more blogs. Specifically, a politcal blog. After the AC came and tried to get all up in my biz, I started to consider a few things. The first being that I've really slacked off politically of late. I was once a hyper-political teen, very vocal (and well read) on my beliefs. AC reminded me of the kind of person I used to be, and I'd like to get back to that (Thanks AC, you've revived a monster). Unfortunately for AC (or not), even slacked off I'm more on top of my shit than a lot of people, but I could always know more. One can never have enough ammunition in the fight against....well, in a fight, I'll leave it at that. But between AC and a few other right-of-center people I've encountered recently, I've realized that conservatives seem to think that liberals are as ill-informed as liberals think conservatives are ignorant. Honestly, y'alls, we don't all worship at Michael Moore's altar*, and we don't all just mindlessly take our cues from Hollywood (the way we accuse you of taking them from the pulpit and the boardroom, ha ha). There's a lot of crosstalk here. And, with that said, I have been thinking more lately about treating those of you on the right with more respect, and maybe "letting the healing begin." I immediately discarded the notion--y'all get on my damn nerves--but I did think about it ;D. I've actually spent the last week-ish thinking about posting links to all my politireads just to get the ideas out there. I mean, I've been looking around--on- and offline--and found that these people literally have guidelines published on how to respond to our arguments! (Thanks to Maryann and her excellent links--especially Alas, a Blog, from whence I drew the link above, which apparently got there via Feministe. Brilliant.) That's crazy. I need to find out if the left is that well hypnot--er, organized, you know, to where we're issuing manuals and shit. I'd like a forum for the posting of interesting or noteworthy ideas and issues coming from the left and the right**. Know thine enemy, or whatever. But I don't feel this is the forum for that. This blog is where I complain about early calls, dish on what I had for dinner, and maybe make fun of myself and others. Anyway, I'm accepting suggestions on catchy politiblog titles. Oh, I might start a pervy/creative/dishy blog, too, but I ain't tellin' y'all how to get there if I do. My mama reads this. 4. In poking around the right, I've run across Ambra. I've read her before, but she never really held my interest, so I don't go often. That said, she ain't no fool. She's unarguably a religious zealot, but she's not stupid. She supports a very narrow, Christian morality. That morality has led her to supprt a lot of conservative ideas. I've found a lot of people have taken to copping out and calling her an Uncle Tom for this. Can we as a people please let that go? I mean, if you think someone is unintelligent, say so. If you think they are intolerant, say so. If you think they're crazy-ass religious zealots, say so (though they will no doubt chuckle and assure you God will smite you, or some such thing). But please, no more Uncle Tom accusations. That pisses me off. Especially when the accuser has a shit grasp of English that makes it really easy for people to discount any legitimate criticisms made. Dang. Just my opinion. 5. Cookies and kisses (Chocolate...Hersheys!) for the first person to come up with the punchline to this joke/riddle: How do you titillate an ocelot? I love this joke. It is so dorky. And way better than the one I made up about Texans and Tamils. Anyway. I didn't make this one up. I got it from this guy whose sole purpose in my life was to share this joke with me, I'm sure. 6. I have had WW veggie Lasagna for lunch and dinner all week. For once, I want some damn nachos. *As far as I'm concerned, the man is the left's Rush Limbaugh--a mouthpiece, a curiosity, maybe even a lightning rod for those who want to be angry but don't have time to do the research, and definitely someone to be taken with a shaker of salt. Nothing is ever black and white. Don't trust anybody who tells you it is. I'm just sayin'. Farenheit 9/11 was interesting, though. **I'm really quite fascinated, lately, with the way many right-of-center people think. Someone recently explained to me they believed that not supporting the war in Iraq may translate into not supporting the troops. Jayzus Christ, why are we still having that argument? People keep claiming that's so, and yet, the outcry against the troops keeps not appearing, you know, kinda like WMDs. That's the one fallacy that pisses me off most. How does "we want them home" equal "we don't support them"? I don't support Bush. I pray for the wellbeing of those he has deployed.