Fast Forward

Up in the right-hand corner of your blog (go ahead, look, it won't hurt) there is a button titled "Next Blog".

Go ahead, hit it a few times. What you'll come across ranges from mildly interesting to down-right weird and twisted. It's fun especially if you're bored.

You can thank me later.

Panini...It's what's for dinner.


I just had lunch with my executive vice president and a very smart doctor. Sometimes it's hard when you are clearly the least intelligent person at the table but I had a meatball panini so I'm over it.

The Oar or Bust!!

This past weekend I went to Block Island with my peeps to celebrate Lauren's 30th birthday. You see, Lauren, one of my best girls ever and probably one of the funniest people I will ever know along with having a giant heart of gold, just had a baby back in July and needed, ahem, some adult time with Mr. Alcohol.

So we get the crew together, Me, NikG1, Cor (NikG1's sister), Kay (Lauren's sister), and Danielle and drag her ass to BI. Actually, she never needs to be dragged because BI is a magical place of beaches and bars where everyone gets off the boat, lets out an earth shaking sigh, and slips right into let's get fucked up mode.

We kept the whole thing a secret and she had no idea until she got to the boat where she proceeded to jump up and down.

First thing's first, we head to the National for drinks and appetizers on the deck. Everyone starts getting greased. Then the shopping begins and I think we can all predict that drinking and shopping are not two things I should be allowed to do together. I come home with a Wendy Hill fur vest that the group hates but I love. Nik thinks it's something she'd see her grandmother wearing. Just as I start to second guess it, I say "Fuck it bitches. I like it." They're fine with it because they know I'm nuts and the liquor is taking effect.

As a side note: I proceeded to come home and find said vest in the latest issue of InStyle magazine. ALWAYS GO WITH YOUR GUT.

We head back to the hotel and get ready to go out. For some god-forsaken reason I decide it's a good idea to wear off-white corduroy pants and stiletto heels. "Who does this?" they all shout in unison. "We're on Block Island, not in downtown Boston, you dingdong!" I am convinced this is the best outfit in the world and no one can convince me otherwise.

We head to the Oar.

Now, I know I never published the chronicles of my summer vacation and I still get flack for it but the moment for that has passed. To summarize, on my last night I met one of the bartenders at the Oar and we hung out a bit. He was a great kid and cute. He tried to convince me to call in sick to work the next day and stay on the island with him. He had this great plan where I'd just keep calling in sick, indefinitely, and I could stay with him at the animal house (where all the seasonal workers live on the island). Oh yeah, like I said, really nice kid but could you see how that would go over?

"Hi, boss, um, cough, I'm really not feeling well after two weeks vacation, cough-cough, I'm not going to be able to make it in today..."

"Ok, Melissa. I hope you feel better after your two straight weeks of vacation....Hey, what's that screaming about a funnel and a bong in the background?!?"

So excellent.

So, I'm getting off the subject. We walk into the Oar and there he is and my stomach drops. We exchange big hellos and I sit with the chickitas. Giggling ensues.

"I'm going to go say hi" I tell them as I swat Lauren in the head.

Needless to say, the exchange was frigid at best. I asked him if he could take a break for a cigarette. He says there was no way, with a laugh, he had no barbacks for the night.

I was pissed. "WTF?" I say to the girls.

Anyhow, the drinking gets amped and I decide I'm not hungry. Mistake numero uno.

After a loud round of "I'm not taking care of her" I get right on the train to cockville. Full speed ahead.

I am now the conductor and of all people, Kay and Cor are the caboose. Now, if you knew Kay and Corey at all, you'd know this was highly unusual and this is an indication of how the rest of the night will be. Corey is pretty straight-edge and Kay has a lot of self-rules.

We meet these two skeevy guys but whatever, they're buying shots and feeding me cigarettes so I'm fine with it.

We decide we're going to the Yellow Kittens. This is bad. Lauren and Nik are working on their ump-teenth Pabst Blue Ribbon, can-style. This is not good. There is a band there. This is very bad.

When I left the Oar I had to close out my tab. Shit. I had to talk to him again.

The conversation went something like this...

Me: Can I close out my tab.
Him: Yup.
Him: I can't go out drinking tonight. I'm going fishing tomorrow at 5am.
Me: I didn't ask you to come drinking. (Shit, that was bitchy but if he really wanted to he could.)
Him: Oh, I know, I'm just sayin'. Why didn't you call me so I knew you were coming?
Me: Because I thought it would be weird and you wouldn't remember me.
Him: I probably wouldn't have at first but after a few seconds I would have. You should have called.
Me: Ok, have a good rest of your season.
Him: Yeah, see ya.

I was pissed. I saw his reasoning but he could have come out for a drink if he really wanted to. Whatever, we're going to Yellow Kittens.

When we get there we immediately head for the dancefloor. At this point I have handed the train over to Corey and Kay and the train has thoroughly derailed.

We're talking total amtrak derailment - a real disaster.

Things get fuzzy but during intermission Corey and I are on stage and Corey is pretending to be the lead singer and I am pretend-playing the drums.

The band comes back and the singer pulls Corey on stage and she pulls me on stage. Everyone is shaking their ass.

A little while later, Corey's usually animated face switches to a night of the living dead-blank trance, Kay is on the dancefloor flipping around like a fish out of water and it is time to go home.

I'll spare you the gory details of the next morning but needless to say:

Kay is exhausted from throwing up all night.

Corey boldly states she is NEVER drinking again (yeah, right Cor) in between dry heaves.

My head is about to explode right off my body and I'm convinced I'm going to die before the day is over.

Nicole and Lauren are finding all of this extremely amusing but their bowel sounds are telling me that the Pabst is going to be coming back to haunt them.

Danielle, being pregnant, has no time or patience for any of us dummies.

We had an unbelievably good time.

Is that girl in the back making fun of me?

Over the course of my life I've had people ask me "what my deal is". Some people say that I'm hard to figure out. They claim they "can't get a read on me". This, to me, is ludicrous but I guess it goes to show how differently we see ourselves.

I guess I bounce all over the place. I run the gamut. Shop-a-holic in stilletos with a wicked need to get down to business. Girl with a truck-driver mouth and razor-sharp bluntness. Someone that seems to do a pretty good job keeping her friends laughing. Individual who might be in desperate need of a major psych evaluation.

Some say I'm a contradiction unto myself. Perfect example, I'm sporting a watch that costs more than a yugo while I'm wearing pants that are 5 sizes too big, the bottoms of which are stained and dirty, a t-shirt that's almost too small and reefs I haven't taken off all summer, my feet, inevitably black with dirt, after just getting a spa pedicure the day before.

I work corporate america all day and the boys I prefer have full sleeves of tattoos or look like they just graduated from middle school. One day I could be at a meeting setting up a budget for a 5 million dollar project, the next day I could be having a full blown conversation about "If you could give birth to any animal, what would it be?"

When this request to explain myself comes up, I've never felt compelled to answer it for a few reasons:

1. This messy question is best left to my weekly realignment with one truly patient and wonderfully insightful Dr. Goldberg, my therapist

2. Lots of time this question is posed to me by a boy, after I have ruthlessly made fun of him and reduced him to a deflated shell of himself because I'm seeing through his bullshit of wanting to sleep with me. Dude, you don't care, you just want to throw it in me. At least be honest about it. Honesty is a turn on and you'd probably score without all the acting and extra effort.

3. When people don't know what they're going to get, it keeps it interesting.

Now, there are definitely exceptions to this rule. My friends can see right through all my crap and get right to the core of me. I'm so unpredictable that I'm predictable. The shows, the tap dances, the bullshit that comes flying right out of my mouth, they say they knew it was coming and they laugh, but these people have known me for years and this is why they're my peeps. I love them. I love them more than life itself because they get me, still love me and make my life a great place to be.

Some people can find it annoying, especially guys who don't know which route to take, but fuck these people. This is how you weed out the weak.

It's like a "choose you're own adventure" book some people love em, some people hate em because they require work and mental wherewithal.

So for those of you who don't know me all that well and posed this burning question I'm going to lay it out in simple terms so you get a better idea of that who is me. Finally you'll be able to sleep at night (or maybe not, after reading it). For those of you who already know me, feel free to call me out on my misinterpretation and we can have a roundtable discussion about it at my next intervention. I'm laying it out here, people. It's not all going to be pretty, some of it will be down right embarrassing but this is who I am, take it or leave it. And if you leave it, don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. I'll be just fine while I continue my current love affair with my vodka tonic, extra lime.

I am the girl who:

never played sports in high school. I was too busy smoking and getting my acrylics filled (straight out of the gate with the unpretty. You asked for it)

while driving to work today was able to squeeze in "china cat sunflower" by the grateful dead right after the explicit version of "in da club"

loves cute boys who are actually nice but when it comes time to talk, becomes painfully shy. unless she's in one of those moods where she could really give a shit.

loves cute boys with attitude problems even more and can't seem to tame the back and forth banter which gets her into major trouble (see "reasons not to explain myself" #2). unless she's in one of those moods where she REALLY could give a shit. Then we have MAJOR problems.

feels the bigger the sunglasses, the better

has a very serious shopping addiction that needs to be addressed

hates to work, ever

feels empowered that she makes a somewhat large salary and can support herself

drives by the mega millions billboard every day, where they post the current jackpot, while sitting in bumper to bumper traffic and has it spent by the time she moves 1/10 of a mile

has a really horrible case of road rage that may get her in trouble one day.

has been known to throw an elbow or hip on the dance floor if some girl doesn't know the definition of personal space.

on the first day of college, where existed a fair number of tree-huggers and hippies, wore a pair of hideously multi-colored striped shorts and matching yellow t-shirt. I looked like I walked straight off the set of Kid -N-Play's "House Party"

hates everyone right out of the gate until they grow on me (Most people like everyone until they mess something up. I say screw that dance and let's just start raw.)

can do a real number on themselves, mentally, in the middle of the night when sleep seems to be a million miles away.

loves to give gifts

loves to get gifts

can think of nothing better than a couple bottles of wine, an eighth, and a summer night with my best friends.

will blow her entire paycheck on a day spent with her friends as long as everyone's having a good time

will take her ENTIRE family on vacation, even though they're nuts

lived in a raised ranch with one bathroom with six girls during college. we were threatened with eviction on multiple occasions and the house should have been condemned. the owners were thrilled that they finally had girls renting the house and when we moved out they said we were the worst tenants they ever had. Never judge a book by it's cover and never do anything half-ass

can not be land-locked, ever

eats hershey kisses wrapped in american cheese. before you go back and re-read it, yes, you read it right.

depending on the audience, will drop the f-bomb up to 10 times in one sentence or talk about the current state of government regulations without even dropping the phrase "gosh darn it"

is the one in the back of the bar making fun of everyone. especially the tiny blonde masses who have no individual style and personalities that are a cross between legally blonde and children of the corn

was raised in a house where screaming and verbal abuse were the preferred form of communication

loves things that are new, pretty, shiny and/or makes my butt look fabulous.

could never understand the point of political correctness. If you're a good person you shouldn't need it.

loves the strawberry daiquiris at the National on Block Island (yes, I said strawberry daiquiris)

loves being buzzed in the middle of the day

counts the days until summer vacation

loves early dismissal from work

will always act like a 5 year old on Christmas

loves to be scared

prefers sarcasm and exaggeration as the main mode of telling a story

will always be up for an exceptionally good dinner, no matter the price tag

has fun always listed as the number one priority

has more strength that she ever thought possible, but it never seems like enough

always puts family and friends first

wonders if Betty Ford would make a good sponsor

after much hard work, truly loves herself. every aspect, the good and the bad because it all makes me who I am.

I'm a very, very bad girl...

I've had a bunch of people questioning my motives as to why I haven't posted a damn thing all month.

They say things like "What the fuck, dude." and "Come on, I need a fix!" and "What's taking so long?"

I have no excuse, people. I'm a very bad girl. I won't write things for the sake of throwing things up here to keep the masses entertained. I won't compromise.

I was on vacation the first two weeks of August. It was a beautiful two week span of limited electronic nooses and mental masturbation.

It was truly a beautiful thing.

I promise I will be back on track. Stick with me people.

"Exits are at the front and rear of the aircraft"..."Great, where do the horses' asses get off?"

I will readily admit that I am the first person to complain about my corporate-bitch of a job but sometimes the perks aren't half bad. Even if you have to deal with assholes who think these perks give them license to use their "inside voice".

One of these perks is first class. First class is something I appreciate. I travel enough with my job that I have bought stock in multiple drug companies and apple (thank god for the invention of the ipod) and the aircarriers see fit to offer me "status" with their airline so they can convince me their airplane food and plaid scratchy blankets are the reason I should let them suck my company dry.

Nine times out of ten I am the only female-under-thirty in the first class cabin. This is both empowering and mildly annoying/frightening.

To walk into a sea of drawn-looking businessmen, frantically talking on cell phones and furiously typing on blackberries, only to have them stop to both oogle you and look as though you've invaded their cigar-smoking, Louis XIV-drinking, power dinner at Smith and Wollensky's can be a bit jarring.

Now, you would think this shouldn't be such a side-show oddity to them. Like I'm the bearded lady or the alligator girl, half girl, half reptilian freak (lucky for me this isn't the case, because I'd probably want to turn myself into a bag or pair of stillettos), but all reason seems to fly right out the window, I think, once you realize you're about to head into the friendly skies in something that is completely opposite the weight of air. I try to remind myself of this as I board along with the rationale that some of these men have daughters my age.

And then there are some that need to be reminded that they actually do have daughters my age.

And wives that produced these daughters.

I recently got back from a trip to Dallas. On my return flight home I was settling in, equally thanking and praying to god for the trip, (thanking god for getting me out of the office and for the paper denim I got on sale and praying for intervention for yet another needless purchase, the seven for all mankind skirt, that was not on sale), when average-joe businessman interrupted my internal dialog.

He started innocently enough. What did I do for work? Was I from Boston? Was I in Dallas long? My wife this...my kids that. Fine, idle chit-chat, I can oblige. I'm not a total jerk. Get it over with, curl up in a ball, wait for the meds to kick in and pass out to some steely dan (yes, I said steely dan).

The plane hasn't even taken off yet and joe is three wines deep.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Here we go.

"No I don't. It can be difficult with this job."

"An attractive girl like you doesn't have a boyfriend? I find that hard to believe."

Ding, Ding Ding...ladies and gentlemen...the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign, he is expecting some light turbulence...

Ok, the complement was innocent enough. He's attractive. I love attention. I'll bite. The conversation can continue.

We're thirty-five thousand feet in the air and joe is now 5 wines deep.

"Are those real? If we go down, can we both use your flotation devices?"

Now, I have to say, I'm pretty easygoing. Not a lot of things get to me and frankly I hate political correctness. I actually believe political correctness is the single biggest killer of things fun and humorous, especially in the workplace, but this was too much.

Dude, use your inside voice, you idiot.

I used mine. I said to myself, if this bucket of bolts goes down buddy the only thing I'm using these flotation devices for is to save myself and the bag holding my paper denim and seven skirt. You are on your own.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is that first class should be an all-around enjoyable experience, not quasi-enjoyable peppered with anxiety. It's first class, for christ's sake. Did I encourage it, yes, but I busted my ass for this seat, buddy, just like you, so back the fuck off. I didn't ask to slide down your penis to the inflatable rescue raft.

I'm just a girl trying to get a bloody mary and a scratchy blanket.

"We're seeing some action in the bullpen...I think the Undertaker might be taking the mound..."

Can someone please explain to me how a team can walk all over their bitter rival 17 to 1 and less than 72 HOURS LATER struggle to come back, in the last inning no less, from a 3 run deficit?

Why the high drama?

This is why I am utterly convinced (sometimes) that MLB is staged, much like the WWF.

He Shoots...He Disappoints

After multiple after-work drinks I've made it home, left a trail of carnage in the form of shoes and clothes along the way, and parked it on the couch. I'm desperately trying to catch the last of the sox/orioles game while simultaneously flipping through the latest issue of Boston magazine.

I come across an article and to my absolute horror I find that Bob Lobel isn't actually the womanizing drunk I thought he was but, in fact, a sufferer of every young mother's nightmare and every college student's ritalin-snorting dream. The uber-diagnosis known as ADD. He claims this is actually his un-reversible curse and that the people of this great city interpret this malady as an alcohol-induced analysis of Manny's homerun average. "Bostonians are so judgemental" is his whine.

It was much cooler when I thought he was a womanizing drunk.