Prudence Press 10

If you die I'm going to f*cking kill you Idiot

2011-10-31T02:09:00.003-04:00

During the translocation of myself and my sister from coast to coast (lake Superior is a coast) we were exposed to the harsh truths of both the American landscape and our erratic family dynamics. In particular, I learned that my go to response to any situation involving a loved one is a sort-of inarticulate blind rage. My vocabulary shrinking to various conjugations of the f-word and usually punctuated with an idiot or two.

This was brought to my attention during our trek through Oklahoma and into Texas. Route 32 (I dont fucking remember the highway, and if anyone cares to correct me they can fucking go fuck themselves idiot) was starting to wind itself around the aptly named Cascade Mountains. (I dont fucking remember if those were the right fucking mountains, go fucking research it. Idiot) It was my turn to Drive the U-haul, sister Bee-bee in the passenger seat and my mother in charge of the smaller lead car.

For 25 years I have inexplicably survived the horror that is my mom's driving. An action she reserves to supplement long phone calls and one handed coffee binge drinking. Many countless deer have beeen slaughtered because my mother would take her eyes off the road to ask me to explain what I meant by yelling "DEER!" I have been disconnected from two seperate calls when she's veered off the road causing her to drop her phone in an open mug of coffee. Startled by a french accented "faster!" when I slow at a yellow light. Pulled over when she called me a baby for at first refusing to make an illegal u-turn. So yes, I've been exposed to many of mother's terrible driving habits. But being forced to watch it in a seperate car is an entireley different blood-boiling experience.

As the road began to wind more, my mother thought it fun to stay securely in the blindspots of any semi she came across. As she slowly crept along the passing lane, she refused to turn off her left blinker just in case she made it out of the blindspot she would be able to both startle and irritate the other driver. This behavior of course being terrifying, my sister called to suggest we change drivers. But after a few rings, it went to straight to voicemail. After the second call we saw her car doing a frightening impression of a car trying to ice skate, as she began wildly switching lanes without signaling, and then jerking back into place.

Beebee and I came to the only possible conclusion. She was sleep swerving and we had to do everything in our power to wake her up. We called countless times as the road became more treacherous, and the driving worse. If you listened to the voicemails you would here a distant scream saying something like this:

"What the son of a bitch are you fucking thinking? Idiot. You're going to fucking die with your fucking idiot blinker on. There is no fucking other left fucking lane to turn, son of bitch godammit, idiot."

While Beebee softly cried in the foreground.

This may seem harsh but being right behind the swerving car in an oversized vehicle we had two front row seats to witness any of the many very possible ways our mother could involuntarily manslaughter herself.

When the calling, and screaming and crying didn't work, it was clear I would have to take action. I got directly behind the little car and honked in hopes that she would understand this as an invitation to safely pull over. This of course made her speed faster. I then repeatedly flashed the brights which made her turn off her headlights. The final step was to brave passing her slaloming vehicle, praying that if she did hit us we would all crash and die together.

It took all the nerve I had to floor the truck and keep it steady, but slowly we were able to reach the side to my mother's car. Just as we were about to demand she be responsible, pull over and answer our calls, the brightly lit interior lights exposed our Mother's large doe eyes, staring innocently at us over her cortotioned left shoulder as she reached to the passenger side floor searching for her fallen cell-phone.

When we reached the next exit my mom excitedly asked if we wanted to eat at Ruby Thursdays, or TGI Tuesday's, and then exclaimed how proud she was that I finally learned to stop driving so slow.

Rent A Dog

2011-10-18T13:07:00.000-04:00

So I sadly admit I've made the coast to coast move from NY to LA. Amongst a vast city where smiles abound, I've been fighting bouts of loneliness. After a few over ASSumptions, it's becoming clear that behind those pearly veneer's lies a quiet emptiness. I've been meeted and greeted left and right, but remain a friendless, sad clown. Turns out in LA, if the parking attendant tells you that you look nice today, he won't go any further than make out. (tease)

BUT luckily I am a woman of ACTion. People don't yet have the honor of knowing me here so I need to advertise my cool. I drafted some friendship posters (with the usual info, height, snack preference, social security number, grandmother's lock box code and address to fortune) , and posted them in the lobby. After a few days I came to my senses and felt sooo stupid. It was clear the lobby was not getting any traffic since nobody called me. So I moved the flyer to a much safer spot. A busy street corner with a broken pay-phone. (Cuz that place is off the hook!) I also made sure to tell that awesome joke any time I checked the flyer. It would have been really lame to write it on the poster, and I couldn't draw a hand in the shape of a phone without looking too Cow-a-bunga.

My tactics worked like a charm, and soon my phone was like my ears after leaving my neighbors party after telling them to be quiet, it's Friday and some people are trying to watch TV alone. (Ringing!)

Though I did receive an influx of phone calls this resulted in a few less than desirable candidates. First there was the street pots salesman Jackson who was very unappreciative of my excellent marketing work. I directed the entire LAPD work force to his business, and he never called me again!! Then there was Mr. Peets, a method actor who kept asking me to wash his feet and never told me what homeless man role he was playing. His only answers were "again", or "the stars are corrupt, death to stars!" After three foot baths I had to give up.

The last was, Angela. She started out great remarking I had brave skin tone, but she turned out to be a bit self-centered. She could not stop going on about how after a life of government servitude as a CIA operative she was summarily dismissed and stripped of everything when a new agent and former Rumsfeld croquet buddy used his fraternity connections to have her wrongfully terminated when she voiced her objection to his "haze to solve the maze" civilian inquisition tactics. Apparently now the only place she is safe is an unmarked cardboard box under the over pass because her identity was exposed to every terrorist cell she spent her life trying to destroy. (Drama Queen!) When she began crying I knew I had to help so I told her the inspiring story of how my perfume company stopped making my perfume, so I had to switch to a less pink perfume. She was so moved she couldn't even speak.

But I guess I should feel bad for Angela. She's now so embarrassed that I pointed out her petty complaining that every time I go to see her she hides.

Disappointed in Skid Row's finest, I went for a lonely walk. My shoes began to hurt, so I took them off. Holding them became uncomfortable for my delicate forearms, so I dragged them by their laces. The dragging noise sounded like a howl, and when they saw other shoes they got excited and peed. And then it hit me! I don't need a person friend, I need a dog. But just like shoes you drag on the ground, I wanted to be able to change my dog when it annoyed me. I looked up Rent a dog, and too my absolute surprise there is a company that offers that service.

At the top of the FlexPetz web site there was a flashing notice. Apparently elected officials in Boston took extraordinary measures to pass a law making pet-renting illegal. At first I have to admit, the concept seems bizarre. But a dog renting service is actually the humane alternative. For those who love animals but understand they are not at the point to give the necessary time and attention FlexPetz offers a varitable halfway home for pups in need. All potential renters are required to pay a steep sign on and monthly fee, on top of the daily rental fee, weeding out canine abusers. Once fees are paid, renters must also go through a mandatory training to insure proper treatment of the animal.

If only this service was offered to Humans. Then maybe Genevieve would still be alive.

Who?

2011-08-18T01:39:00.000-04:00

It's always strange to meet a person whose last name is McGhee, but first name is not Tits.

Just Cutting Grapes

2011-08-08T13:29:00.001-04:00

It's Lunch time in the Press Household. I've been banished from New York, the details of such will be explained in later posts or never explained at all. I don't have time to catch you up, so I will instead leave you wondering why I am home in Michigan. If contemporary human nature holds true to what I have learned, most of you will turn to your friend and say "you didn't know Prudence was back in Michigan?" with this single question you will have convinced yourself that you know why and make up some probable cause, relieving me from any due explanations.

Now, back to Lunch...

A family meal in the Press household tends to be an event. Drinks are contemplated, meat is defrosted, pastries are on standby and onions are invariably chopped. Though my family does not treat themselves to a a three course meal every day, there is no middle ground. The breakfast, lunch or dinner in question is either unneccessarily extravagant, or chips and squeeze cheeze.

Apart from impressive culinary pairings (foie gras served next to mini pizzas) meal time entertainment is also an elaborate affair. Mostly this consists of sisterly competition for my mother's attention. Attention from Mother Press is like basquing in complimentary sun shine. In every way my mother resembles a bright ray of light. (I'm not saying I'm a a direct descendent of the Sun. But I'm not denying it either.) Luckily my father gave up both competing for my Mom's attention and wanting the similar treatment from his daughters. He now spends most meals pretending to save said mother from non-existent kitchen disaster. This has caused some irreparable damage. I've developed an irrational fear of wooden spoons bursting into flame and garbage disposals crushing your hands no matter where you are in the kitchen.

As the meal progresses, so do the stakes. (And not the ones cooking beside the roast pig) Small accomplishments are set aside for talk of bigger life goals. (dessert conversation gets very theoretically philanthropic) One has to pace herself like a marathon runner. Don't start with your plans on balancing congressional budget deficit by investing in recyclable sporks. Start with cute anecdote including the use of the multi-purpose utensil. (And don't try to string news buzzwords together to look smart) Placing small nuggets of information to slowly guide the conversation towards yourself, is the key to winning.

I had developed the perfect plan involving the turning on and off of the TV. This would in turn begin a complaining session of the downfall of network television programs, and my hopes to awaken the under-valued intellectual American audience, giving them a break form their beloved books. Bringing to light the importance of our nations last great export, entertainment.

As soon as I entered the kitchen, my plans were crushed. Third sister Beebee's boyfriend was sitting at the bar. I had not calculated for a foreigner. It would take a little more sidetracking, so I decided instead to bring up youngest sister's Coquette's Jersey Shore party comparing it to/ a Fellini festival I attended. This would bump her down two points, and me up 3. But I couldn't find a time to slip it into conversation as boyfriend was too busy explaining his food allergies. This was a critical blow. Mother Press is a food time mother Theresa. There is no allergy she won't try to cook around. Boyfriend has hundreds, so it took her utmost concentration to create a diverse and tasty allergen free menu.

As they discussed ingredients and swelling rates, I sat in the background defeated. I couldn't even try to cook anything to look industrious. I needed the ok'd food list. I heard the word grape and thought maybe I could peel a few to at least look compassionate. Because I was feeling emasculated, I took out the Largest sharpest knife I could find.

The grape peeling process is as expected, painstakingly slow. After spending 2 minutes on one grape I only became more upset. I had everything in the palm of my hand this lunch. All the preparation completely foiled. As I reached for the second grape I heard Beebee using boyfriend's allergy as a platform to describe the necessity of her food education work with at risk populations... Bitch

Grape in hand I stared angrily at Beebee's stupid mouth talking. My temper boiled inside me until my warrior instincts took over. (I was an avid Ninja Turtles follower as a kid.) I waited till I caught her eye, then threw the grape in the air wielding my knife toward it like an expert samurai. Unable to stop herself, Beebee screamed. She has an irrational fear of knives flying through the air. The room went silent and all eyes turned to me as I picked up the two halves of the grape.

"You know, reality TV has gotten completely out of control, using cheap shock tactics to get the viewer's attention."

And with that, the spotlight was mine.

My Blind Side

2011-05-24T17:10:00.002-04:00

Early on a Thursday morning I decided to donate my eyes to medicine. I made an appointment with an optometrist for a routine/complimentary eye exam. Blazing through a kaleidoscope of tests my doctor struggled to find something I would fail. We opted for a Glaucoma check and subsequent pupil dilation. As predicted I was burning through this task ahead of schedule and began to lose eyesight very quickly. I couldn't partake in any of my kill times so I let my mind wander back to earlier that morning.

In line at Dunkin Donuts to pick up breakfast for roommate ordinaire (there is a toilet paper issue we have to settle before she can get back that extra) Brown S. Frank, I noticed an old woman with a cart looking for juice. The well-trained DD employees were already onto their next customer as the woman continued to ask for juice which was kept in a tight corner to the side of the line. The woman looked down at her cumbersome cart and jiggly knees.

   "I get it myself?" She said directed mostly to her shaky bones.

The woman attempted to backtrack the line, and like an old salmon headed up a stream of fast-food breakfast efficiency, she came very close to natural selection. But then something miraculous happened. And that some was actually a one. And that one was naturally me.

   "I can get that for you." I said, my voice echoing, reminiscent of a statue with speech abilities
   "Oh yes please!" the woman obliged thankfully

Like a muscular cat with good hair I slid effortlessly through the line over to the juice refrigerator, where I managed to maintain my sensitive nature.

   "Would you like the plastic bottle, or carton?"

She chose carton and thanked me over and over for my heroics. I accepted with a modest bow. When I lifted my head up to address my adoring crowd I was shocked to see the back of a familiar body ordering a chocolate sprinkled (donut lingo). Not only was I denied the residual audience thank you's I deserved but the jerk behind me cut in line while I was helping the old woman. I couldn't believe it.

I finally got to the front and proceeded to order three doughnuts. Upon deciding the third the woman grabbed a medium-sized box and told me to pick out three more. I told her I only wanted three to which she barked back

   "Its the same price for 6. Pick out three more."

I asked her if she just saw me get the orange juice. She swiftly said no. I answered precisely. She said excuse me? I told her three more doughnuts would have slown me down to the level of human sight. She then asked what happened to the orange juice. I told her she was missing the point.

A half an hour later I was able to convince the manager that I was not stealing and successfully brought home 3 doughnuts for the price of six plus the cost of one orange juice.

Remembering this delightful anecdote took up half the time it takes to fully dilate my pupils. I spent a few seconds playing with the jar of candy in the waiting room, dipping my hand in and trying to identify the hard candy. The receptionist asked me not to do that so I took a handful to play with in my pocket to play pocket pool. (you pretend a bunch of candies in your pocket are swimming.)

During this time I reflected on the sad realism that is my physical superiority. I passed every eye test with flying colors. (and was able to identify those colors for extra credit) Unfortunately this meant that glasses would be nothing but obsolete windows to my eyes. You may be thinking "That's wonderful Prudence. Not only will you not have to shell out extra money towards the upkeep of frames and lenses, but we as your viewer will not have to suffer any facial obstructions to your beauty." If this thought has crossed your mind, you've obviously not seen me in glasses. Imagine Renoir going through a tastefully-sexy librarian phase.

My near sight fading away I was forced to look to the distance. I couldn't look outside because the sunlight was too harsh on my new eye crevices. The only place left was the impressive 4 tiered case of designer eyewear. A cruel punishment for such a prize specimen.

The final touch to my glasses free coffin was the glaucoma test. There was absolutely no sign of eye degradation. We sighed and looked at the photos of my naked eyeball. The only consolation was that it looked like a pretty boob. The doctor and I both stared for a suspiciously long period. I chalked my stare time to conceit. I think the doctor just likes big round boobs.

My thoughts were on the void of glasses. But when I left the office I realized there was a much more pressing issue at hand. I was blind. The sun was harsh so I had to look down directly in front of my feet. But my near sighted vision was completely blurry. I walked at snail speed and entered the wrong subway platform twice. Crossing the street proved to be quite a challenge. I only made it half way when the light apparently turned. I was stuck in the middle not sure whether to turn back or go straight. Luckily a knight came to my rescue. Noticing his arm skin felt the rough texture of middle age but trying to wear cargo shorts, I decided he probably needed some reassurance. "Thank you young man" I exclaimed and then gave him a peppermint for his trouble.

To celebrate my perfect vision, I thought what better treat then homemade steak and french fries! When I got to the cash register I had an overwhelming urge to pay in exact change but couldn't see what the coins were. I had to ask the counter lady to count the change for me. She helped and I gave her a werther's original caramel for her trouble.

As I left the grocery store I hit my broken toe, causing a very painful limp. I decided to use my umbrella as a cane for my last errand, dessert. The umbrella was a compact so I had to bend over quite far, scoliosifying myself. When I entered Dunkin Doughnuts and asked for 3 doughnuts they handed them to me. Without even bothering to give me the discount for 6! I waited to see if they would mention it, but they didn't. And it hit me. The old lady, the lack of thanks and accusation when I helped her. The new senile shorter me not being offered discounts.

Dunkin Doughnuts, you are AGEISTS!!!

Thank god I am usually young.

Pinky Swear

2011-04-29T20:44:00.002-04:00

I was on the phone with collegiate friend Angria Benders. I had just won a rousing game of phone tag (psychological warfare to determine who is socially superior) I was gloating when I realized it was probably time to stir my bowling pot of deluxe Mac and Cheese. (another sign of social superiority based on whether your cheese is powdery or squeezey) In my rush to stir the pot, I broke my smallest of toes on a vintage chair I now regret buying. I told my friend who answered with a laugh. I looked down to see my pinky toe pointing due west while the others were still pointing north. I consulted the other foot to find that all toes were also facing north. With this new information I told my still giggling friend that the situation was "really bad" and I had to go. To this she continued to laugh and mockingly said "OK". I felt her answer to be a bit insensitive but just figured she was still sore from realizing she was inferior.

For the next 10 minutes I sat on the ground wiping the sweat falling from my eyes. (stress of the situation must have caused the ocular perspiration) I was then strangely compelled to call the woman who so kindly gave birth to me. I told her of my situation and she became unexpectedly angry, threatening to send me to anger management. (A statement I am now noticing is a bit hypocritical.) I took a second to remember she is foreign and explained that I didn't intentionally break my toe as a form of self mutilation, it was an accident. Unable to put any pressure on my foot and unwilling to change into a sports bra to bounce to the hospital I discussed my options.

During my contemplation period I was receiving non-stop calls and txts from a group of friends I was supposed to meet with. They had just reached their drunk-dial trigger finger point and were exchanging each others phones to confuse me when I answered.

"Hello Jose?"
"No this is Laura"
"Hello Jenny?"
"No this is Daniela"
"Hello Rossana?"
"No, this is Rossana."

I explained that I had broken my toe and would not be able to meet up. Every member responded differently but the consensus was one of disbelief. (however it should be noted that one extraneous member did not hold a position either way. His attention diverted by the fact that he farted for the first time in his life. It should also be noted that this member is very adorably gay.)

Through a series of exhausting and unheard explanations I realized I was going need hard proof. I got back to my mother who was busy researching the best toe facilities in New York city. I explained there was a medical center two blocks away and I would just go there. She then pleaded that I call an ambulance. I told her it was much too dramatic for such a small extremity but she then told me my insurance would cover everything. Insurance that I never actually use (duct tape and shoe lace have served from cast to bandaid and everything in between) and will be expiring in less than a year. With this new information I was reminded of a conversation I had with my bar therapist. He told me I needed to try new things... I had never been an in ambulance before.

Three minutes later I got a knock on the door and three strapping EMTs were there to greet me. Feeling embarrassed about the state of the apartment I made a joke about not expecting company. They found me both brave and charming.technician overeager technician decided to follow my lead and started his own line of "fake hostess" jokes when he saw a box of cookies. He was not blessed with comedic timing and his one liners did little more than make me feel rude for not preparing a snack.

The small break for small talk made me forget the sheer embarrassment of the situation. I didn't have time to explain to my neighbors that this gratuitous ambulance ride was a political statement for my backing of comprehensive medical coverage. They didn't know that I had broken toes and arms and legs before, only to grit my teeth and walk myself to the hospital. Thrown off my bike (sexily) only to ride again (hotly). Broken my hand overseas and waited until I was back on US soil to keep Medicare costs domestic. To these spectators I was a just another princess with a glass toe. My only hope to save face was to clutch my purse and stare at the ground, praying that everyone would think I was being taken to a mental institution.

Safely in the car the two more experienced EMTs explained to the new guy that extra paper work was required when a call involved an unaccompanied female. Ambulance mileage must be recorded to insure no molestation took place. I became very sad.

Once at the hospital, unraped, I was sent through fast track. In a waiting room with all chairs facing a big screen tv flashing only advertisements for the hospital itself, I had to crane my neck to get a peak of the only other form of distraction. A tiny box tv in the corner playing the CW's series of vampire sex shows. This I believe is the definition of cruel and unusual punishment.

At registration I was given a photo ID card which felt very unnecessary. Even more unnecessary when I saw that they Included another card of one Ms. Yecenia Ocasio. I was then given a pair of crutches to go to radiology because no one was available t wheel me there. This was both a relief and a chance to showcase my crutch skills. I'm very talented, something my surprisingly attractive doctor noticed immediately. Toe vindication was beginning.

I was sitting alone in the radiology waiting room when a man came over and looked at me strangely. I glanced around nervously as he continued to stare. I then decided it best to face downward so he wouldn't notice my striking attractiveness in case this was one of those sad "funny business" situation the EMT's were talking about. That's when I noticed my hospital band had a M next to my birthdate. I first assumed it meant "mature for age" but realized it probably stood for Male, explaining the man's confusion.

Once we sorted out the fact that I was female I was off to x-ray. A place I was once again able to showcase my skills. After only 5 minutes the doctor told me it was broken and gave me one pain pill and I was wrapped up and discharged, advised to come back for podiatry work. I thought it better to lie and say I'd come back, instead of give my it's not you its me speech.

I crutched back home, which turned out to be quite a workout. Many kind neighbors offered to carry me, help me, and "fix that foot for you girl". I declined their offers. I got home in record hospital time to offer solid proof to my many friends and family who didn't believe me. They finally gave me their sympathies. Especially my phone tag loser friend who I learned had thought I said "dropped a coke" instead of "broke my toe". I see now how my frantic reaction would be funny, though I will still hold her unsympathetic reaction against her for at least two compliments and a favor.

Word of Advice

2011-04-14T19:51:00.002-04:00

Buy ugly pants. When you need them the most, they will always be your traveling napkin.

Taxi-Cab Confessions

2011-03-30T12:18:00.003-04:00

As you probably assumed by my Renaissancian tendencies, I am a bit of a foreign language enthusiast. I studied Spanish at the institute of some of high school, and also French at the school of I can say one phrase very well. So it will be no surprise to any of you that I feel very comfortable in situations that don't require my native English.

Last night I finished work a little late and decided to grab a cab to cut the long commute short. It was just me and my unrelentingly sweet El Salvadorean colleague. (who I should add is by far the favorite employee at the restaurant) He called his friend, equally as sweet Washington Heights cab driver Rafael (Yes he is Dominican you racist) to pick us up. We closed the gates and within minutes Rafael was on the curb waiting to take us to our respective homes. (This isn't going where you think it is horny guy who is following a misguided lead.)

In an effort to get some tipsy customers to leave early, I had been stealing sips of their cocktails when they weren't looking. (It's not a health code violation if the customer is an ass hole) This had provided me with an extra boost of linguistic bravado. Late night conversation with my colleague is usually in labored English, but last night I jumped right in with my very own Spanish Inquisition.

"Como esta tu vida?"

For 15 minutes my colleague and chauffeur answered in rapid fire Spanish. From my translation, I learned there are many problems with girlfriends, and received a warning not to have my baby on the street. I agreed but tried to explain I was not pregnant, forgetting the word for pregnant because I had never actually learned it. To this my colleague exited the car at his stop, smiling and waving happier than ever.

We drove off and now it was Rafael's turn to offer bits of wisdom in rapid fire Spanish. I learned great tips like if you break a bone make sure to use plenty of eggs to slow down the swelling. Avocado's are ass holes but its always good to have one as a friend. Don't let your life turn into a burrito, always look for excitement. As I was about to open the door and leave the cab Rafael stopped me exclaiming:

"Un momento, la puerta esta cerrada"

I turned to him and said "Yes, Rafeal the conditions at the port are serious but let's save that discussion for another night. Could you please unlock the door."

I exited the car breathing in a deep breath, as I exhaled I proclaimed

"World, I am your citizen!"

Then I got a piece of pizza and went home.

Family Conference Call

2011-03-29T00:10:00.002-04:00

On a quiet Sunday afternoon I called my parents to say "What up Mother-Father!?" My mom in her endless attention to insignificant detail told me she was putting lemon wedges in ice water. After a very dull though time consuming inquisition I learned my family was holding a business brunch to plan this summer's agenda. Realizing I was a necessary asset to the board of trustees, I decided to skype into the conference. I felt very professional, and was proud of my family for taking its job so seriously.

Below are the minutes.

1:05 P.M. - Prudence Press Calls family
1:05:30 P.M. - Prudence Press Calls family
1:05:35 P.M. - Prudence Press vows this is the last time she lets herself be a pawn to her families web of let downs. Vows she is better than her family and will not let them do this to h..
1:05:36 P.M. Prudence Press connects with Family
1:06 P.M. - Prudence masks her pain by lashing out at younger sister.
1:07 P.M. - Apologizes
1:08 P.M. - Talking to father's right shoulder, asks family to reposition computer camera.
1:09 P.M. - Now facing mother's left shoulder, Prudence once again asks family to reposition computer.
1:10-1:30 P.M. - Repositioning of computer, followed by arguments over computer's position.
1:31 P.M. - Computer placed in front of lemon wedge water pitcher. Prudence Press claims to be able to see entire family. Preferring to deal with the non-argumentative water pitcher.
1:32 P.M. - First order of Business cross country move. Mother discusses dates and u-haul options. Father walks away.
1:35 P.M. - Mother concludes cross-country move details. Father returns eating banana. Questions "What were you talking about?" Mother explains.
1:38 P.M. - Mother concludes re-explanation. Youngest sister asks to go to the bathroom, entire family declines in unison. Mother Father and Prudence share in proud moment. Sister scowls. Eats cheese.
1:39 P.M. - Father leaves room.
1:45 P.M. Discuss Grandmother's Birthday and 3 Sisters' graduations. Begin the long process of coordinating dates. Father returns with vacuum and begins to clean. Mother stops and looks at father inquisitively. Father continues oblivious. Discussion momentarily halted.
1:48 P.M. - Father turns off vacuum. Mother begins discussion again.
1:49 P.M. - Connection lost.

Share a tear Florist

2011-03-26T00:57:00.001-04:00

A very emo Spaniard I have come to know and love was the center of a surprise fairwell soirree. I would not usually make the hour long commute uptown, but I was willing to expose myself to subway boredom for my very dear friend. I was waiting for my third train when an odd sight caught my eye. A young woman sat next to a bucket of pitiful flowers. They were decorated in both valentines and springtime attire with hearts and butterflies competing for surface area. I suppose the colorful wrapping paper made sense for a snowy day in march, an attempt to cover any trailing or impending hallmark holiday. But still I feel she was overcompensating.

I surveyed the area, and saw that no one on the packed subway platform was interested in this poor woman's flowers. Its true they were not particularly fresh, and the packaging a bit bi-curious. But the florist had no competition and many potential customers. All she needed was a marketing ploy. It's no secret that strangers tend to follow me like a leader they've lost years before. (Once I slipped on a patch of ice, and three people behind me did the exact same thing.) It was obvious she needed my help.

I will single handedly save this woman small business. And also impress all the party-goers with my thrifty and romantic street-flower purchasing skills. They will picture me writing poetry by an open fire signing checks to save endangered sparrows. Avid picnic goers and organic piccolo enthusiasts will be green with envy.

I shuffled around my pocket, playing a little pocket pool (when you pretend your hand is swimming because your pocket is so big) and found the 3 dollars change I had from breaking a 5 to buy a pack of combos. (Incidentally after I bought that bag of combos someone else behind me totally copied and bought a newspaper.) I strolled up to the woman, teeth in full gleam and asked for three of her beautiful roses. She was delighted and rushed to grab the best 3 of the bunch.

The flowers were bound in packs of two, she rushed to separate a third flower having a bit of trouble getting the two apart. I heard the train arriving behind me and leaned in to tell her two would be just fine, when she finally seperated the flower, but simultaneously connected its scratchy stem to my genetically expensive 20/20 eye.

I was stunned and stepped back. My eyes began to water, the pain was sharp and irritating. I took solace only in knowing I was due for some sympathy. I blinked a few times and when sight became available once more I directed my injured eye toward the woman. But to my horror she had not noticed she hit me. She was quite happily and obliviously trying to shove the now free third flower into the pack of two I was prepared to settle for. I looked around for witnesses, hoping to get a passing "I don't know you but feel your pain" glance from a stranger. But all I got was a nasty look from some displaced Frat Boy, shaking his head at the girl that has to buy herself flowers. I tried to give the "it's not for me, its for a friend look" but my pink tear swollen eye was screaming "I'm on my period and this is how I reward myself."

The florist finally managed to stick the third flower in between half of a distressed rubber band and handed me the sad tri-pod bouquet. Still she had not noticed my misfortune.

A strange desire washed over me. I needed her sympathy more than ever. I craved even a half concerned "what happend to your eye". I squeezed my injured eye shut, conjuring as many painful tears I could to stream down my face. I stood desperately in front of the florist and her flower bucket, missing my train so she could share in my pain.

But all this was to no avail. The clumsy florist was distracted by a new customer.

Damn my popularity.

A Lesson in Irony?

2011-02-21T15:36:00.000-05:00

Another late night trying to make my way home from work. I was feeling ravenous from a hard night of not eating. A few people had noticed I'd lost weight and I wanted to continue to impress.

'Something to eat? No thank you. I'm nothing but a waif, food is just an after thought.' - thought to myself

I'd made a little extra cash since I of course rewarded the compliment givers with the free drink they had asked for. A late night snack was deserved, almost warranted at that point. I was about to hop into my usual Pizza place when a glowing yellow sign caught my eye. A man was talking to the wall and then the wall handed him a bag of food. This seemed much more efficient then dealing with the tiresome opening and closing of doors.

I got in line for the McDonald's walk-through and the same glorious thing happened to me. Bag of food from wall. Going with my theme of efficiency I decided to skip the drink. I can walk and eat if I have one hand to hold the bag, and the other free to dig around. I got onto the subway platform and a delightful robotic woman was kind enough to inform me that the train would be arriving in 6 minutes. Just enough time for dinner.

'As a busy successful waif food is something you do on the way to point B. It's not that we don't have time to sit down and enjoy a meal, its that we choose not to.' - inner monologue

I decided to fit in some reading while I was eating and make for super efficiency and post-situational rhyme scheme. My hands were tied at the moment so I began perusing the varied selection of 1st Ave Subway wall decor. I became very well informed that current American Cinema has managed to keep a consistent level of shit. I'm also happy to know that Adam Sandler is still able to trick himself into thinking he is attractive.

After a few movie posters of what I'm surprised to find were actually different films and not different posters for the same movie, I found a gold mine. A full length Doctor's ad. Lots of words, and before and after pics. I looked at these women with unscrupulous judgement. How could they let themselves get to that level of obesity?

I became thirsty and learned that the greasiest fries could serve as a thirst quencher.

Karen D. from Hoboken, New Jersey, you irresponsible cow. You probably stuffed your face constantly without thinking. Making excuses like "I don't understand what happened", and then Oprah will pat you on the back with idiotic recognition. What an embarrassing mark of overindulgent American culture. I shook my head and reached into the McDonald's bag, but to my surprise it was empty.

"The next Rockaway Parkway Bound L train will arrive in... 4 Minutes"

I finished a burger and fries in 2 minutes? Wow I am getting more efficient every day!

5 Doughnuts

2011-01-28T23:40:00.001-05:00

Finally hearing that special answer to that special question, I headed out the door with a spring in my step. Apartment Associate (Apt. Ass. for short) Brown S. Frank finally agreed to join me for a doughnut breakfast. I was a bit excited and bought a few too many, but hey, what's a few too many amongst friends? Jumping through slush puddles, and weaving through single lane snowwalks, I finally got home to hear Brown S. in the shower. She must have wanted to look her best for our big breakfast. I began to brew a pot of coffee and then decided one doughnut while waiting wouldn't spoil my appetite.

By the time the coffee was ready Brown S. still was not. I couldn't let the coffee go cold and in my own personalized dictionary I have drinking coffee without doughnut under blasphemous, so I decided one more might fill me up, but I'm sure the excitement of roommate bonding will give me ample hunger to enjoy a social doughnut when Brown S. joins me.

As I was eating the third I began to suspect the doughnut breakfast would be another sad solo. I had a fourth to help my mind digest the depression. I glanced at my stomach and understood the weight of the situation.

Something was wrong.

Why was Brown S. showering for so long? And didn't she shower yesterday? No self-respecting Brooklynite-Pratt-Art-Grad-student would waste that much water. I knocked on the door, no answer. So I punched through it doing an aerial summersault into the bathroom.

There it was.

A burglar was holding Brown S. hostage, turning on the shower to turn me off the trail. She was tied up to the toilet, fully clothed to avoid an embarrassing situation. I jack-knifed the robber in the chin, breaking his nose spilling blood on his black and white striped robbing shirt. I started to take off his eye bandana to reveal his true identity, but then I realized that I'd rather not know a dirty stinkin rat like that. I picked him up with one hand and raised him over my head saying "I'd rather not know a dirty stinkin rat like you" Then tossed him out the window.

I quickly untied Brown S. who gave me a well-deserved high five, and apologized for missing doughnut breakfast. We shared the last two together and Brown S. complimented my sophisticated French Press coffee making skills...

HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK

A car alarm woke me. My face was half in half out of the Dunkin Doughnuts box. I shook the dream out of my head to notice one of the two remaining doughnuts was missing, probably snagged by Brown S. on her way out. There was one last doughnut, sitting all alone, just like me. I looked at him and smiled, a twinkle in his glaze seemed to kindly say

"Prudence, this has to stop"

"I know" I softly whispered through tears. And with that I slowly ate my final Doughnut.

Para Mis Amigos que hablan espanol

2011-01-21T17:04:00.004-05:00

Hola, me llamo Prudence Press Diez. Soy una amiga de tu amiga, Idioto, pero no soy Idioto. Soy muy awesome. Mis comidas favoritas son doritos, doughnuts, y mayonesa. Pero, mayonesa no es solo una comida, es una philosophia. Me gusta beber cerveza en un vaso pequeno, por que soy una muchacha. Pienso que los gatos son los leones que no han dado cuenta de su verdadero potencial. Bebi un cafe y una botella de agua, necessito ir al bano! Lo siento, no tengo enyay en mi keyboard.

Hasta Luego Amigos Nuevos!

Poppin' Buttons

2011-01-21T16:44:00.002-05:00

I was putting the final touches on my casual outfit, when disaster struck. The top button of my fly took flight and rocketed across my living room. I was standing in front of the mirror at the time to make sure I didn't catch my testicles in the zipper, but my genital insurance method provided me with an unwanted dose of reality. I've made sure to tilt my mirror to the funhouse angle of dangerously thin, preferring the dream state idea of my body over the... other. But the last button on my eight dollar jeans seems to be testing my resolve for conscious delusion. My lifestyle along with my pants, might need some changing.

I decided to get a coffee before I made any drastic changes. I put on a long coat, and carefully zipped it making sure not to catch my breasts in the zipper. It was a bit warm, but I would have to suffer the heat if I took off the coat my open fly could give me a bad reputation in an already bad neighborhood. I ordered a coffee and opened my moleskin notebook, luckily I had filled it with clippings of handwriting from various magazines so it would look like I was a very talented calligraphist. (Calligraphy scouts are everywhere.) As I was tracing the script of an ad for watches designed specifically for pop-musician's tattoo artists, I realized something. I have little to no marketable skills. On most days breakfast and lunch consists of coffee with soy milk. As a young brooklynite, I'm simply too poor to attain the necessary materials to gain weight.

I delved back into my delusion and decided to celebrate with New York's greatest attraction, Happy Hour. When the real prices resurfaced, I went to a friends bar and volunteered to taste-test cocktails. I looked around to notice the products of my generation. Men in women with unwashed hair, Tattered clothes, gloves with fingers cut out, sipping 12 dollar martinis.

Shit. I'm not poor, just fashionable.

I went home to my funhouse friend. The only mirror I knew kind enough to lie. I turned her upright, and began to question:

Will I have to diet?
Do I need to buy new pants?
Would I have received better compliments if I changed my pants before I did my free-lance table dance? Or were the compliments a direct result of my care-free pants lifestyle?

The questions were overwhelming. I felt asphyxiated. I ripped off my pants and exhaled. Suddenly I was able to think more clearly and realized I was thirsty. I got a glass of water and then put the glass directly into the dishwasher, instead of on a book or electronic device to gather dust for a week. It was late but suddenly I felt wide awake. I walked over to my dry erase board and started planning the next day using algebraic equations. I began to feel a bit hungry and was about to make my usual peanut butter and pickle sandwich, when something compelled me to go to the stove instead. Half an hour later I was eating steak au poivre listening to chopin and drinking a 7-year old bordeaux I found hidden in a small space I had discovered when cleaning behind the fridge.

A small commotion disturbed my meal. Using only my hearing I was able to decipher that my neighbor was choking. I broke the door down and gave her the heimlich expertly detaching the hard candy lodged in her esophagus. I delicately explained to her the dangers of candy after midnight. She thanked me when her roommate surfaced and began to berate her for making noise. I noticed a strange pattern in her infliction and sat the two down for conflict mediation. I both uncovered and resolved jealousy issues between the two and now they are marrying in New Hampshire this Spring.

I realize now that my rouge button was not telling me to cut back, but to cut free. Pants were restricting my true potential, and without them I am much better Person. I can expand my horizons. I can help people. I am exponentially more productive and responsible. Say hello to a a new Pants-less Prudence who will, for the first time ever, finish what she sta

As Promised Dude

2010-12-23T19:25:00.000-05:00

This didn't happen to me, it happened to a friend.

2010-12-16T11:49:00.004-05:00

Last night I saw a friend bar-tending at a place where she seems to be an extremely talented and popular bartender. People stayed late and I saw that after her shift she had a bourbon or two, that she paid for and by no means stole. She seemed to be getting a little tipsy so I followed her to a late night cantina where she had a few more drinks with a coworker. She then got into a cab. I was afraid for her safety and curious to see where this story was going, so I hopped on my razor scouter and followed them down to the 1st avenue L-stop.

When on the platform a sign read 1 minute until the train came, but a robotic bitch announced it would take 9 minutes. My friend grew impatient, and though she was not hungry at all, she went above ground to grab a slice of pizza.

On her way back down, she heard the train arriving. (Everyone knows it takes less than 9 minutes to get a piece of pizza, otherwise we wouldn't eat pizza.) I swipe my, er, she swipes her card and it doesn't work. She jumps the turnstile, it takes her a couple times because she is not used to crime, but finally all of her is on the other side. All except for the pizza. She looks at the slice lying injured on the ground, angry at what its done to her. A man walks by and doesn't help. She grabs the slice and heads down to the platform towards the garbage. It's now 4 am, the train won't come for another half hour. She has very dangerous time to think.

"You missed the train to get a slice of old pepperoni pizza" her eyes seem to say.
"You aren't even hungry" - I imagine she was thinking.
She sits examining the slice. No sign of dirt, or mutant rat saliva. All pepperoni pieces still in place. They have been through a lot tonight, and the pizza has proven resilient.

The next half-hour was a test of wills. Underground and alone, my friend who I was spying on and not helping because I practice documentarianism, had to make the tough decisions other people aren't prepared to make.

I don't know what happened because I got on the next train she missed while stuck making those decisions. I just hope she has found piece.

Bourne Davinci Code Sense

2010-12-10T13:26:00.000-05:00

An overwhelming sense of dread burns the veil of my blind optimism. Things to come are only dark.

I found this note scribbled on a post-it stuck to my hand. The path to my bed hazy, if known at all. The message even more so. The handwriting with familiar strokes seems like a wilted version of my own. One clearly weakened by newly uncovered intelligence. I shake my head and read it once more, searching for meaning in each word. Blinking with hopes that realization will appear like Waldo in the CIA character profile training books. But the note remains a mystery.

My stomach growls, interrupting my concentration. Food will help me solve this anomaly. Luckily I've spent the last of my paycheck restocking groceries. I run to the fridge, more delighted with each step. I swing the door open with ferocity. Slowly my jaw drops. The note, the warning finally clear.

I don't know how my refrigerator was unplugged. But I must find out.

To the Dude: Response to your comment

2010-12-02T14:59:00.000-05:00

Dear Jeff Bridges, first off I am so happy you take the time to read my blog. I know you've been busy lately. (can't wait to see you in Tron!) Second I would like to sincerely apologize. Offering only 3 episodes for a web series with cliff hangers, and Latin celebrity appearances is criminal to say the least. There were a few issues facing the Dramatic waitress series. Below I have offered a behind the scenes list of excuses:

1.) DW's costume was posing a few problems. Despite tireless work in the editing room, entire episodes had to be scrapped due to the revealing quality of a cheap bubble skirt.

2.) The untimely death of a stage pigeon and consequent cover up kept our producers wrapped up in court.

3.) I found a website with a comprehensive list of all fast food delivery services near my apartment. (grubhub.com)

4.) 8 seasons of family guy free on netflix streaming.

5.) In an act of defiance, quit job. Had no money. Temporarily lost camera in street card battle royal. But I got it back... I got it back...

6.) Found out Auntie Anne's pretzels are ridiculously good.

7.) Rewatched Daniel Craig's Bond in Casino Royale. Tried to recreate opening crane parkour sequence. Lost an actor... not at liberty to say who.

8.) Rewatched House of flying daggers. Cried at how beautiful it was. Forgot that I was living in an ugly reality. Mourned the loss of a dream.

I would continue, but Jeff I have some good news. Lawsuits were taken care of. Traumas, both human and existential, were dealt with. And all fast food delivery restaurants have banned together to refuse services to my apartment stating "We are business men and women, not animals. Please except these vegetables and bottles of water as a parting gift and more importantly a plea to stop the atrocities you have subjected to your digestive tract."

New low budget shorts coming soon!

I act to survive

2010-11-16T12:40:00.000-05:00

Mr. Conedison has sent Brown S. Frank and I one last love letter. He's taking the heat out of our relationship in a harshly literal manner. Apparently our trusted landlord, who has changed names twice since we moved in, has been outstanding when paying bills. (not the good kind like how people describe my cooking and/or breasts)

There is one condition however. If we can prove that our bodies are too sickly to survive a New York winter then Mr. Conedison will allow us a sustainable amount of heat. I imagine it in the form of one extra coal at Christmas similar to what Scrooge McDuck awarded Bob Cratchit (expertly portrayed by Mr. Mickey Mouse) in the beginning of Disney's A Christmas Carroll.

So now I am channeling years of practice in elementary school. When fashion ignorants made fun of my stirrup leggings with holes in the butt. (I'd made the daring choice of forgetting to wear underwear that day.) I'll have to be sicker than the day after I was pushed down a hill and my pants came off. Even more ill than the week following the exposure of my free-spirited way of wearing blue jeans. (Unbuttoned after lunch)

So ready your tear ducts ConEd, its gonna be a warm winter.

Retraction

2010-11-09T13:42:00.003-05:00

I feel bad. Not for killing my neighbor, but for saying I hate my friend. Hate is a strong word. Ok phew, now God can forgive me.

I hate Vibha Gupta

2010-11-09T13:11:00.003-05:00

On a high from a great weekend, I received a phone call from a friend who opted out of driving the hour to see me in Michigan to drive 5 hours away and do things I don't care to know of. I got over my teenage abandonment issues when said friend set me up with a stand in who turned out to be better in every way, so I picked up. She spoke in a strange voice and language and after 5 minutes of "whats" she told me she wanted me to speak in the voice of a man with a severe overbite we met while traveling. It always cheers her up.

This particular voice is hard to recreate, so in order to get the right tone and inflection I have to yell as loud as I can. I catered to my friend's whims for the entirety of the phone call. And then she asked how I was. I was excited to tell her how great I was, dying for social contact since I have forced myself to leave people behind and work on impending grad school applications. But the second I began to talk in a normal voice she announced she was at work and swiftly hung up. I was about to call her back when I got a knock on the door from my neighbor asking if I was ok. She looked inside suspiciously, noticing I lacked an overbite. I told her everything was fine but she gave me that familiar look of "I know you are a toothist and killed an Englishmen in your bedroom. I will be calling the cops as soon as you close the door."

So now instead of finishing my applications and enjoying a quiet lunch before work, I am stuffing neighbor parts into recycling bags and re-routing my trip uptown to squeeze in a stop at the Hudson River body dump. So friend, you know who you are. You are responsible for the blood on my hands and new shag carpet. I'm sending you both the dry cleaning and jail cell rental bill.

Iphone 4 is conniving ex-girlfriend.

2010-10-26T11:50:00.000-04:00

I was happy to accidentally break my phone. Sure I was a little embarrassed that I had crushed it by sleeping on it, but this meant it was time for a new model. I clicked all the necessary keys and buttons on the computer interface (sorry about the techno lingo, I'm just very smart) and boom the latest Iphone was on it's way to my heart.

But like any relationship you kill someone to rush into, things didn't go so well. I spent the first day on the phone (via skype) with technical support. Apparently I-4 was feeling a bit sluggish and jet-lagged from the trip and didn't feel like performing. I didn't let it hurt myself esteem, she was just tired... Right? Once we got a good couple of meals inside of me, she started to perk up. We were making phone calls with crystal clear clarity. It was great.

But it seemed whenever we were out with friends (alone inside my apartment calling them) I-4 always wanted to cut the night short. At first I let her rest, but soon it got a bit ridiculous and I stood my ground. Calling friends and family back when she "accidentally" dropped the call.

I tried not to be paranoid, but one phone call I could not deny her jealousy. I was talking to a friend, and when things turned even mildly flirtatious (you should flirt with whoever you can, great practice for when you are a mom and stuck at a PTA meeting) I-4 turned both mine and my friend's voices into devil's tongue. Even though I found it hilarious and stood on the phone laughing for 20 minutes, my friend was terrified and ended the conversation. I-4 denied anything, blaming it on the way I was holding the phone. We got into a bit of a fight, and I left the house using an apple shuffle to listen to music.

This was a low blow, I know. But she ruined a perfectly good conversation. I had time to think and came back home to apologize. We made up and I dealt with her terrible service. She made me apps, and we enjoyed a romantic digital fire display on her screen.

The next day on a donut walk, I decided to call my mother. I went outside to avoid any service mishaps. I-4 and I had just made up and I didn't want to ruin things. But my cheek accidentally put my mom on hold and started calling another number. I was pretty upset, trying to explain technical difficulties to your mother is always a bit straining. I lashed out at I-4, and that's when she showed me her true colors.

Dropped 3 calls in open air.
Put call on "mute" 4 times, even after I hid the keepad.
Never allowed my mother to call me back.

I finally got contact with my mom again and we decided it was time to return the phone, stop dreaming and join the blackberry real world. Then she told me she had to go, she saw two beautiful office scarecrows and would call me back once she had introduced herself to both.

I started looking online at different options feeling a bit sad. I didn't want this relationship to end. I had to give it one more try. So from skype I called I-4. She was sitting right next to me and never lit up, never got the missed call, never even vibrated.

Well I-4, I got the message loud and clear. Goodbye you crazy bitch.

Pocketbook Watch 2010

2010-10-25T11:44:00.002-04:00

Old residents nostalgic and newcomers naive, everyone has been calling for a return of the New York of earlier times. But wishes like asian carpe are sons of bitches. We should all know this. (if you haven't learned this lesson please watch the film Aladdin... I will wait.)

A recent spike in crimes, the result of a smaller police force and higher unemployment, has residents worried the city will replace it's cupcake shops and co-op farms with strip clubs and murder. Expert roommate Brown S. Frank had a taste of the crime wave when her phone was stolen from her very own bar. And just last night Expert Restauranteur Jay Jay Leaves nearly had his phone stolen directly from his ear. The attempted thief tried to grab the phone mid-call, completely disrupting the flow of conversation. Mr. Leaves a word enthusiast, held on to his phone, but chased the criminal to punish him for being so rude.

Mr. Leaves has 200 pounds of strength and anger on his side. Brown S. Has wirey limbs and a Vegan's temper. Me? I have the doughy physique of an infant, and also the hair and soft skull bones. My only hope is pity or trickery. If the soul-less criminal does feel like robbing a tall baby, I will be armed with my fake out phone. One I use only in emergencies when I break my phone when I'm drunk. I will say to him or her (equal opportunity blog) "Please don't take my phone, oh no. OK here you go. Life is more important" But little will they know that I have my real phone tucked away safely in my Nalgene water-bottle. A place no one will ever look for a phone. And also an annoying piece of plastic nobody would ever want to steal.

Theif, I have outsmarted thee.

Why publish this on my blog you ask? Well if a thief is so inclined to read my blog, they deserve a phone and we will probably become friends and he or she (equal opportunity) will share his or her (equal) bounty and we will probably get married.

Future Husband-wife, I'll be waiting!

Call it a New Year

2010-10-08T00:03:00.001-04:00

Every year of my life I become more and more popular, this year being no exception. Needless to say I am more frequently invited to smoke tobacco cigarettes by the most popular kids from the alcohol bars at various hotspots around New York. (Not to name drop but I am always on the Chicken wings guest list at T.G.I. Tuesday's. If you're there just drop my name and $13.95 to say hello to an all you can eat plate of 5 piece buffalo wings and one domestic beer coupon)

But all this smokescreen hobnobbing has caused a bit of tooth tinting on my glorious set of pizza knives. I want to keep all my attractive person perks (like privacy on the street when people can't look at you because they are drowning in a jealous sea) so I invested in an advanced tooth whitening system. I picked a tray guaranteed to whiten 3 shades in only one hour. This perfectly combines my two loves. Efficiency and mouth guards.

I got home excited to marginally increase my attractiveness and began to choose an hour on my clock calendar in which to whiten. But all of a sudden I ran into an unstoppable problem. I couldn't find a single free hour when I wasn't scheduled to either eat or speak. I freaked out.

My insides cried like a banshee stepping on a tack. I began to rip off all my upper lip hair. I threw a chair across the parking lot I had walked to when I was angrily dragging my chair by her hair. I found a knife and a kitten and was about to perform the obvious when luckily I realized this was an absolutely ridiculous problem... of national importance.

All I need is a country-wide holiday in order to allow myself the free hour it takes to use the tray. I consulted my consultants to find a day of no importance. After a comprehensive search it has now been decided that on the strike of midnight on December 31st/January 1st I am calling for a me-moratorium of silence in the honor of my teeth. Let's all join in for a celebratory 60 minutes of no food or conversation. Can't wait to SEE you there! But not hear you.

Apply Yourself

2010-10-01T17:57:00.001-04:00

For the past couple of days I have been bogged down with life moving on responsibilities. I've taken on a few mysterious projects, and also begun the Graduate school application process. I do these things in hopes of making money but more importantly to be able to pick up high class caterer's at cocktail parties I sneak into. (My degree in Muzzy French has stopped getting me tail since middle school, and Hooked on Phonics turns out is a non-accredited school for dumb kids. Forty grand down the drain)

I am now at the horrible stage where you have to asses your life and pick the most important events and characteristics. But how do you choose between "fell out of tree and survived" or "proficient in Doggy paddle"? My problem with the application process is not that I look back on the past 5 years and wonder what the hell I did and remember it was watch TV, but rather that I am sooo talented there is no application long enough to to fully pay tribute to the wondrous accomplishment that is my life.

I sat impatiently at my think desk, then wandered back to my work desk, then finally found piece at my pizza desk when I looked in the reflection of the oil. If I'm going to chop my life into bits and pieces, I really need to simplify.

School of my dreams, yes we are a perfect match. You knew it the day you opened the mail and saw the self portrait I drew half in colored pencil and half in pink highlighter in place of the required though uninspired school transcript and resume. I knew it when you picked me up in the limousine pulled by a Segway driven by high school Fabio because no one knows what he would look like but they wonder every night before they fall asleep. We are forever each other's eternally and beyond.

Can't wait for spring break!!

Testify

2010-09-28T13:57:00.000-04:00

Can we all agree that white people rapping badly for comedic affect hit it's peak and stopped being funny after the Grandma in the Wedding Singer? It's now crossed into the world of pharmaceutical advertisements. Please let this joke rest, or at least wait until its controversial in 50 years when white people are finally eradicated due to Indian out-breeding.

Crack-Head McGee

2010-09-28T02:42:00.000-04:00

It was my turn to pick up my Apartment Associate Brown S. Frank. As always on the car ride home we exchanged witty comments and laughed jovially as we silently repeated the phrase "Oh wonderful youth" inside our heads. But when we crossed the bridge and got deeper into Brooklyn, I was remembering my timely distaste for the usual subjects trouncing the late night streets.

I am a simple midwestern girl, used to what we refer to as "Normal" people. I miss the plain of the plains, the mundane outfits and short sensible haircuts of my home. I'm over seeing emaciated, vintage, apathetics. Although it goes without saying that everyone hates a hipster (mostly its hipsters themselves) And even though they are mostly delightful, I also need a break from New York's finest. The crazy people.

I was commenting on this fact to Brown. S, when a beacon of point illustration rode up beside the car. A crazy-faced man with on an old fashioned road bike. He fully embodied my two hatreds in one terrifying package. But before I could say anything Brown S. Erupted.

"Oh god, don't let him see me."

I stopped a bit confused. Here is a man, riding in the middle of the street with a face that could probably be sued by wal-mart for copyright infringement, screaming "nahhhhhh" if anyone comes near him and then laughing uncontrollably all while perched on a suspiciously nice ten-speed. And my roommate had a relationship with him?

She went into a story explaining the situation, but I didn't have time to listen. I had to find a way to upstage her. Who does she think she is? I'm the strange idiot in this relationship. I'm the one who obliviously gives dangerous people printed google map directions to my house to make Kwanzaa. I'm the girl who writes her own phone number on strip club bathrooms. I'm the girl who gives legal advice to overweight pigeons. (McDonald's should be held responsible to print nutritional information on discarded trash fries. I'm expecting a large settlement pending a meeting with Mr. Clown and Mr. Burglar. If you don't know who I'm referring to then you are too young to read this blog. There is probably a youtube of Justin Timberlake doing something to be sexy again. If you don't find Mr. Lake attractive, then you are probably gay. If you think that reference is outdated, I was trying to keep the joke in line with McDonald's advertisement celebrities. If you think I know too much about this corporation you probably work for the government and find me suspicious. But I only grow stronger off your fear, rendering you useless and probably gay. Gay of course meaning you will find better use of your time.)

Knowing this fact I had to upstage her. Racking my mind for erratic behavior I came across a highly embarrassing anecdote from the night before. I was afraid to mention it due to its mortifying nature, but Frank was asking for it flaunting her disgusting ex-boyfriend in front of me.

I was wrong on so many levels.

It turns out Brown S. and the bike man weren't the ex-lovers I had imagined. She was hiding due to a few life-threatening encounters. Crack-head McGee was not his real name, and not even a cute pet name, but rather a mental code word she developed to remind herself to avoid him since he likes to play high speed bicycle chicken.

To make things worse the story was, as suspected, one which you could lose a person's total respect over.

I looked over at Crack-head M circling the block to find his next victim, but this time with a new found respect. We are no longer strangers, but now partners in a highly exclusive club of misunderstanding. Ride on Mcgee, I'm right behind you.

Sans Politique

2010-09-24T13:16:00.005-04:00

If you have the innumerable fortune of being like me, you will find that your well of political knowledge is a bit dryer than most. Whether this is an old characteristic you've had years to deal with, or a crippling realization you came to during a recent embarrassing news conference. (The higher ups on this blog have commissioned me to conduct outside reports, but they failed to tell me that a hair brush was not a popular form of microphone outside of the home video realm. Ahmadinejad actually walked out on me during our interview.)

To increase my nerd status I've recently downloaded a Roku News Channel. The past couple of days I've been studying via podcast and will publicly admit I am up to speed on current affairs. But now that I've filled my brain-well, I realize that everything has come full circle in terms of American political ideology. It seems having the smallest grasp of political theory is more damning than helpful.

Case #1.) Turn right towards the Palindrone

The Alaskan Queen bee is churning up clones almost as quickly as wildly upsetting twitter posts. And just as her comments, these clones seem increasingly successful despite their complete ignorance of common sense. These self-proclaimed idiots (if you disagree with self-proclaimed, please refer to any tea-party representatives proclamations) launched themselves into rock-stardom on a platform made of female-masgonist-fear-babies.

I watch their followers and become very sad to myself. Why can't I be that ignorantly happy? In my pre-podcasts days I might have been able to join this party and feel needed, helpful, like I was changing the world. Now I have to listen to this dribble AND understand that it is completely baseless. It is a harsh reality, the truth. (it was a redundant sentence, that last sentence)

Case #2.) Left Alone

Maybe it's exasperation or an extreme case of pussiness but the opposing tea-partiers of the liberal persuasion have not been able to convince the majority of a nation of the ridiculousness of their claims. With ammo consistently and boisterously provided, the Left still cannot capitalize on conservative idiocracy. The democratic party has now become the kid on the playground you've always felt bad for. But when you tried to help him off the ground he had simultaneously peed his pants and was crying, you couldn't help but throw him back down. Can you really blame anyone for hating a Democrat?

With only a slightly larger understanding of the political process I've learned I don't really want to know anything at all. But don't confuse this with a claim that I'm compelled to do nothing. I believe with the new space our elected representatives have cleared in their heads, we now have room for action.

My First Order of business is small

Casting aside any party views, I independently feel that our current economic situation is due largely in part to business on a grand scale. Sleeping through two semesters of economics I will not attempt to spout theory but simply state that its an issue of common sense. The larger a business is the more faceless their employees and customers become. You buy a computer from a company based in Thailand, then complain when it doesn't work and their helpline is based in Antarctica. This is mostly your fault as a consumer for perpetuating the big business model, and foregoing the computer I so delicately handcrafted for you... Mom. As with fresh produce, meat and weed the golden rule remains. Buy locally.

Don't work for free college grads.

How many of you have 3 prized internships under your belt? Ones you had to claw and scratch your way into, but left with nothing more than college credit. (or the more popular hottest intern coffee mug. Note to you: all interns are by definition sexy, forbidden fruit of the office world. Get over yourself David)

STOP IT! Demand pay or start up something yourself. As a population of overeducated, restless twenty-somethings we are an unstoppable force. The world is in shambles, its time for a new strategy. We need to look at each other for help. If you don't have your dream job, or even something in your field, gather your friends and start working together. If you have a project, pay them. It doesn't matter how much you can afford, its a practice you cannot afford to lose. Mr. Lincoln made some really nice speeches to abolish free labor, we shouldn't let those go to waste. (No I am not comparing unpaid internships to Slavery, if you read this blog at all you should understand that over dramatics is the only way I can fool someone into accidentally reading a post)

So to combine the last two headings, small business is not an irresponsible endeavor for those of us with nothing else to do. It's our duty as products of overspending and low responsibility. It's a throwback to the merchant class when you used to be able to walk up to the man who sold you the faulty sword and demand he fix it. If we are going to complain, let's at least do it to each other's faces.

I hope to end on a very elusive serious note. As a 24 year old anchor baby in a nation I do believe to be inherently good, I am not giving up.

Miracle Discover

2010-09-15T03:12:00.000-04:00

In a miraculous discovery I've uncovered the world's best midnight snack. Waffle-dog.

I was riding home with my Roommate Brown S. Frank. She had a full day of art which of course includes fasting and drinking. (drinking very fast, and fasting very drunk) She sobered up when the time came to pick me up and this also reminded her that she was hungry. On the ride home we passed many late night food establishments. I was not hungry because today I was not an artist, but I have a connection with my roommate that spans further than the hallway that connects us so I felt compelled to point out each open spot to which BSF would reply with "ahhhh im so hungry ahhhh" and then take the next left away from the restaurant.

It was a strange pattern, one which perplexed me but didn't shake my unyielding trust in my little brown roommate. (don't worry I'm brown too, its PC) So after each exclamation I too began to feel hunger pangs and made a mental note of the contents of my fridge. I realized I hadn't been grocery shopping in a while and the only combination that made sense was old waffle and last hotdog.

I know what you're thinking, hot dog is the perfect compliment to every meal. But I have to say I was skeptical. Brown S. Frank's hunger yells had really affected me and I truly believed I was very hungry. When we got home I ran to the fridge and threw the hot dog in the broiler and waffle in the toaster with a cat-like haste seen only in two object juggling shows. (very fast, but very boring) While these were cooking I had time to physically survey my food and realized I had an army supply of 15 minute gourmet soups. All of which I very much enjoy. I then went to the freezer to see that I had boneless vegan chicken wings, something I offered to Brown S., but she turned her nose up to for reasons I cannot explain. (she instead opted for ketchup on rye bread)

Through my search I realized I had much healthier and normal food options. Even further when Brown S. had finally shutup, I realized that I wasn't actually hungry at all. But my food fate was sealed when the toaster popped out my Eggo, and the oven burned my Ball Park Frank.

I put the two on a plate and decided to get it over with quick in the darkness of my room. I wanted to be alone while I ate the meal that actually looked grosser than it sounded. But when the first taste hit my tongue fireworks shot through my blood vessels. The waffle folded perfectly around the dog, cradling it in a way a hot dog bun just won't do. The sweetness of the waffle complimented the niacin in the artificial meat. But the best part was, there was no excess bread. No last bite of nothing but ketchup and mustard. The sizing was perfect.

So I leave you tonight a changed woman. The next time you see me be prepared to be impressed, I will probably be more philosophical.

Tag Team Back Again

2010-09-14T13:33:00.001-04:00

A month or so ago I recall the girlish screams of my roommate, Brown S. Frank, when she saw a tiny mouse in her room. She blockaded the hole with a stack of books, and the mouse disappeared. Brown S. is no longer scared at night, and I take the credit at cocktail parties. (for networking purposes)

Well it seems our Mouse is a reader, and one of the books was a Harriet Tubman biography, because she has burrowed her way across the entire apartment to the free territory that is my bedroom. I don't blame any mouse for choosing my room over Brown S. Frank's. I've made it a haven for small creatures in hopes that my summer diet would have been more successful. (You'd think Ex-lax, Lemongrass and Ether would be a very effective weight-loss smoothie. The only problem is every time you go to the hospital they force you to eat green jell-o.)

Before I was aware of our mouse's liberation prowess I was watching theatrical previews to inspire myself to go to sleep. Also the couple next door was at the Climactic point in their movie called "Keep Prudence Awake by Having Overly Confident Loud Sex". I had gone through all the films I actually wanted to see and was now looking through movies I thought looked weird but hoped to pleasantly surprise.

Step up 2, yes I would see you if someone asked. I would say something like "Why not, it would be Ironic!" and purposefully misuse the word as a test to the askee's sincerity. If they correct me, I would tell them my parents were dancers in the war and never to bring it up again, they've gravely insulted me. They would look at my skin and feel ashamed to be unaware of my ethnicity and apologize to mask their own ignorance of something that doesn't actually exist. On the other hand, if the askee agrees that yes it would be "funny" to see this movie, this is the person I would like to savor a scriptless masterpiece with.

I thought I was done when I got to Step up 2, but my neighbors were on to their own act 2, so I quickly put it on a preview with no prospect of sex. "Legend of the Guaradian: the Owls of Ga Hoole" I'd seen ads on the subway and thought one thing. "I really don't think people can connect with owls". I was hoping to see how CGI would prove me wrong, but it didn't happen. I don't believe a world where an owl can be a hero. The owl can only be the annoying nerd. He either eats your Tootsie pop when you are stupid enough to ask a bird a question that doesn't matter, or is a secondary character in Winnie the Pooh. He's never supposed to kick ass.

Two Minutes of aerial impressiveness, uplifting voice-overs, and flying through fire and I was still not convinced. These are fucking owls. I cut the preview short, and luckily 2L has moved on to post-coital conversation. I can finally go to sleep. Then I hear it, a rhythmic scratching. My God what are these two into? It happens again faster, and seemingly closer and I realize it's our four-legged Harriet Tubman. I start to bang the wall. But that doesn't help. I open the closet door and she scampers away to another corner and at 4am I'm unable to do anything about it. Mice rarely listen to reason.

I fall into bed, defeated but clearly unable to sleep because Mouse Tubman is on a mission of de-carpentry. I think of all the ways I can kill a mouse with it being gross. In a perfect world I would like to use my feet, because they are furthest from my face. But how? I click back to my memory bank, but all I can remember is the Legends of Gahoole. I don't know why I can't shake this damn preview from my head, until I realize owls kill mice. Finally I have a reason to see this movie.

The pleasant surprise trumps my desire for mouseblood and I sleep soundly inspired by the fact that any arbitrary animal can be a hero. In the morning I start my screenplay "Llamma-bunny, a tale of inter-species rape"

Who's the boss anyway, A back to basics approach

2010-08-30T13:45:00.002-04:00

On a business trip to my parent's house I set up shop in the kitchen. It was looking like a busy morning. I had been commissioned by the family board of trustees to bake and prepare a celebratory cake honoring the third descendant's 21st year. I was then commissioned by an undisclosed party of one to bake and consume a pizza while preparing the cake.

Waiting for these foods to cook I turned on our family's state of the art 11 inch entertainment system and flipped through the channels. I was compelled to stop on the Hallmark channel when I saw Tony Danza fighting a tall woman with very high shoulder pads. (This was as amusing as it sounds) Although the popular 80's sitcom Who's the Boss gained it's popularity by depicting the common bickerings most American's have with their ex-pro baseball player Manny, I personally was swept away by Danza's everyman parenting skills.

In one episode Danza teaches his daughter Sam a valuable lesson about materialism. The role of Samantha expertly portrayed by my celebrity counterpart Alyssa Milano. (Yes its embarrassing but most people say we look alike. Especially when I hand out photos of my face with the name Alyssa Milano attached. People always exclaim "That's not Alyssa Milano!" I just quietly blush and change the subject. It's good to stay humble.)

Speaking of subject change, back to the original subject. Sam has just passed her driver's test with flying colors. Her father, proud but concerned buys her a boat of a car equipped with many safety bells and whistles. In the 80's this particular vehicle is the subject of much teen foolery, and Milano's character is ridiculed mercilessly. (Especially by her mullet-coiffed dreamboat. Something that for some reason in the 80's was not made fun of.) To avoid the embarrassment she parks in a dangerous part of town which inevitably leads to the kidnapping of the car. Danza is beside himself and Milano has to pretend she cares, but she is secretly relieved. She almost got away with her sinister plan if it had not been for a celebrity guest appearance by a Police Officer who received the audience's standing ovation. (another fact of the 80s that is lost on me)

He spilled the beans and the trail was led to one blameworthy Milano. Danza was crushed and used guilt to teach the young Milano that safety is the number one priority and kids will always find a way to make fun of you even if you are extremely attractive. The episode ended in a group smile and proudly sympathetic applause by the audience.

Although everyone in the show had a happy ending, I was left in the present with the stench of materialism beginning to fill my nostrils. Where is this young generation's who's the boss? Today's youth are watching reality garbage like "I'm fifteen with two kids", "Do what I say my parents are rich" or "I Have a Fake Tan and a TV Career". Today I am sad because there is no Charles to take Charge. No friendly "uncles" to fill our houses, and Defintely no former Cardinal Baseman to take care of America's broken homes. The only cure for our children's recklessness and lack of morals is to get back to our roots of unconventional upbringing.

So those of you in nuclear families take charge. Divorce that husband, kill that wife, and hire a good looking manny to clean up your life.

An Adult Education

2010-08-24T00:27:00.007-04:00

It has come to my attention that being on the right side of 21 I have officially entered the realm of the grown up. This occurred to me at 4 pm on a thursday afternoon. I realized I needed to celebrate and did everything I could imagine an adult doing during times of celebratory realizations.

After I'd picked up a 12 pack of Bud Light Lime from the Duane Reade down the street, I began celebrationally drinking. I thought to myself alone in my apartment "this is great and not at all terrifyingly lonely." It was strange that my inner monologue echoed, heightening the impending sense of crippling solitude. But I didn't think much of it any of the 5 times I heard the sentence repeated in my head.

I bragged to my downtown friend who had now moved uptown. (well more turned up town because I moved further downtown) She too has passed the fun side of 21 and asked to join me. I was surprised, the entire year I'd known the girl she had only come to visit once. A self invitation was new territory for me and I didn't quite know how to act. I gave directions and took a shower.

An hour later I awoke to my phone buzzing. I had passed out, a strange side effect of a tangy beer with fruit chemically imbedded into its formula. I went down the street to fetch my lost friend and then introduced her to my new apartment. She was impressed with the exposed brick, and then we both tilted our heads smiled and said brooklyn in a singy voice while slapping a high five. (Later I will find out I was the only one to have done this, but this is a minuscule detail unimportant to the plot. Even later still I will find out that "slapping a high five" is neither the correct terminology nor is it as cool as I expected it to make me look. But let's continue on past these points of despair)

We talked semi-young girl nerd talk, which turned into post-collegiate philosophy and then immediately turned into a direct hatred of all other people excluding present company. The conversation inevitably turned into two separate self centered rants we realized we could be having in an email to myself or in her bedazzled unicorn journal. Reading each other's thoughts, or perhaps our own, we bid each other farewell and went our separate ways.

I went to lie down and call it a night when I looked at my clothes and I saw it. I was wearing a jumper, the single most versatile piece of clothing in the women's arsenal. The thing about the jumper is that it has the comfortability of pajamas, but the floral pattern of a hipster night club. I couldn't let this happy coincidence (drunk and in appropriate clothing) go to waste so I texted an older friend of mine, planning to continue my adult-themed night. (A term I will later find out on bootlegged showtime has a completely different meaning after 2 a.m.) He was at a friend's drinking wine and eating vine-ripened tomatoes just exactly the amount of class and casualty my outfit required. Two bud light limes later, I was on my way.

The subway ride through Williamsburg to Carroll Park was a glorious display of superficial artistic competition. Each passenger armed with portfolios, cameras, fashion rags and moleskins. In my adult haste I had remembered my notebook but misplaced my pen. I couldn't sit in a floral jumper unarmed, so I turned my music up and looked painfully behind me through the subway car window. Angst was my weapon. A long haired girl with a ukelele watched in envy. Peace is so last season.

I finally arrived to my friend's tomato party and was greeted by a very tall Dane. He gave me a tour of the apartment and prophetically showed me the bathroom. I thought this a kind but unnecessary gesture since I am a lady and also in a unitard piece of clothing, not conducive to frequent toilet trips. I will grin and bear it, I am an adult tonight.

The tall Dane gave me an equally tall chair, and then sat himself down on a child's stool. It was once again polite but a bit unnecessary. I thanked him for his chivalry and then immediately fell backwards on the tall chair. It was very fun, but I wasn't quite sure how to react afterwards. My friend seeing my confusion fell on his chair as well and then the Dane followed suit making the party a hit for water cooler conversation. If only any of us had a job that was rich enough to afford a water cooler.

The night continued on as one would imagine any perfect backyard garden party would. Good conversation and wine turned to dirty conversation and whiskey. Because we were outdoors we all decided it romantic to smoke cigarettes. None of us avid smokers, but what the hell, we are all adults.

After I chain-smoked an entire pack of Marlboro Lights in about an hour, I felt a strange feeling. I excused myself and went to the bathroom that was so fortuitously pointed out to me earlier. This is where I spent a large portion of the night that I will spare the rest of you from experiencing.

It seems like the combination of cigarettes, bud light lime, catnip (don't ask), wine, whiskey and friendship makes me deathly ill. I plopped down on what I hoped was a couch and decided that was where I was staying for the next week.

The polite Dane came inside, gave me a bottle of water and reassured me that I could stay for the night. I then reassured him that I already decided that, politely dropped the bottle and passed out.

Boarding a subway the next day at 8 am headed home while everyone else was heading to work solidified one cheerful fact. I am nowhere near adulthood.

The lack of an expiration date should have been my first clue.

2010-08-06T01:44:00.003-04:00

Reese's puffs cereal is arguably the best cereal of modern times. In other times it would probably be something like Abraham's Wheat Logs, Cleopatra's fruity niles, or Napolean's sweet love for Josephine (the french, what can you say?) It is a travesty to waste even one single bowl.

Well call it travesty.

I sit here tonight, sans good night bowl. My mouth still tastes bitter from a devastatingly sour encounter. When I bought the milk, it took 3 days for it to actually get cold. I feel like I should have taken that as some sort of signal. But the Lack of expiration date seemed more like an "as you like it" type of sign rather than the "don't drink this, it will kill you and your dreams" variety.

As Napoleon can relate, I'm lost without my true love. So raise a spoon to our wounded puff soldiers. Drowned in a sea of yogurty terror. You will be avenged.

Was it something I said God?*

2010-08-05T20:40:00.006-04:00

*For those of you who read my blog on a googlereader, sorry about the teaser.

Nothing has threatened my accurately scheduled mid-twenties Nihilism so much as the events of the past two weeks. It all started with a car door.

I was on my way to a friend's film shoot in Southern Brooklyn. Cars in Flatbush apparently don't notice charming young females on lime green bicycles. A less-than-charming young male swung his car door open at the precise moment I was effortlessly gliding by. (yes effortless women sweat occasionally. And it is not uncommon for effortless women to wear a t-shirt thrice the size of their torso. And yes effortless women are confused for small boys, and no they don't care anymore and stopped crying at night.) The door made contact with my handle bar and my body made contact with the car, the street and the bitter taste of public humiliation.

For my first car/bike collision I was relatively unscathed. My bike however was not and needed fixing. I brought it to the local hipster shop and they agreed to have it ready in a week. In that week's time my mind was allowed to develop an unfamiliar emotion... fear. For those of you who've had the pleasure of seeing me live via eyeball, you'll know that I share the rippling body structure of one Mr. Harnold Shwartzmenhagger (I had to changethe name due our sordid relationship past. I dated his dog, there was a custody battle, you know how it goes.) Anyway not much can scare this 5 foot 6, 7 inch bicepped girl. But given the time to literally slow down (walking takes much longer than anything with wheels. Besides wheel chair..?) I was plagued by flashbacks of my near death experience. I was lucky. This time.

In the middle of one of my flashbacks I received a phone call about my bike. I pressed reject, whipped my head meaningfully to the side, clasped the phone to my bosom, gasped for one desperate breath. Then finally whispered "I'm not ready" while I looked longingly out the window, a single tear grazing my cheek hairs.

I put on clothes and brushed my teeth. Now I was ready.

I was about to leave when I noticed a knife sitting on countertop. As a safety precaution I put it in the dishwasher. When I took my hand it out, it was stained. WITH BLOOD! A different knife had stabbed my thumb. I jumped into medical drama action and wrapped my thumb in toilet paper, securing it with a hair tie.

Now I was ready.

I got to the bike shop, backpack on one shoulder, overwhelming sense of foreboding on the other. I looked around for helmets. After the knife incident it was official and safety is my new motto, replacing the highly controversial Frankie Say Relax. But this place was apparently too dangerous to sell helmets so I'd have to buy one later.

As I left the store, I did the bike-riders unthinkable and wheeled my green dream on the sidewalk. Although I tried not to look, I could sense the judging glances. "She's not even with another pedestrian, or on her iphone" they all seemed to say. I looked like a poser. A girl who buys a new bike specially manufactured to look like its 60 years old and rides it simply to fluff her skirt out in an innocently seductive manner.

But I am not that girl. Nowhere near that girl.

I'm the messenger biker too important to carry messages. I'm the delivery boy with skinnier tires and a less imposing bike lock. I'm the ass hole that yells at people walking in the bike lane.

"I'm a biker dammit" - I said assertively to myself as I got on with no helmet and rode the 5 blocks to my apartment. It took a little longer than usual but I made it safely. I vowed to buy a helmet the next day.

When it became that next day I decided to ride all the way uptown and visit my old stomping grounds. I'd pick up a helmet on the way. Infused with optimism I began my journey. But industrial Brooklyn is as imposing as it looks and soon I was once again bogged down by fear. I tried to stay on the road with the cars, knowing I was only 1 mile to the bike lane. I got as far as one block away from the bike lane, but knew that I'd have to turn left. An aggressive female driver was taking up more than her share so I decided to avoid any chance of an accident and get on the nerdier but safer sidewalk. For a split second I was proud of my decision for safety. For the rest of the second I was laid out on the ground, as far from proud as one could be.

It seems some construction workers decided to sprinkle cement dust on the sidewalk entryway slope (does that thing have a name?) My over-inflated tires (thanks bikeshop) slipped on the dust, turning my front wheel and slamming me onto the concrete, Cheek first. In an effort to avoid an accident I had the worst one yet. In reality, nobody actually likes irony.

I got up instantly, terribly embarrassed. I dusted myself off and noticed a large amount of blood on my knee surrounded by cement dust. I'd also hurt my arm and was unable to put weight on it. I was a mile away from home and forced to shamefully walk my bike.

Each step made me angrier and angrier. I attributed the accident to my weak bike who was wrecked again and chained her up outside, neglecting to secure the front tire. A calculated act.

Two days later and I am still examining my wounds which have now turned a peculiar color. Years of disbelief thwarted by the events of two bike rides. I am now open to the presence of a higher power. One who is kind of a dick.

Stand Off

2010-08-02T00:04:00.004-04:00

A Modern Psychotic Female's take on the classic Duel.

Please double click on video to get full screen, blogger cuts it off.

Please double kick your hairdresser to get full scream, Mother hates her Coiffe.

Hit And Run

2010-07-27T00:59:00.003-04:00

This morning I was mauled by a car door. I must have been in shock because it didn't bother me until later tonight. I made this video to express my feelings.

Bugs and a downgrade

2010-07-22T03:54:00.003-04:00

It was a steamy Brooklyn Night, the kind I'd seen too many times and decided to forego. I planned to pass out early and avoid the sticky boredom of a 100 degree Wednesday evening. But as soon as I lay my handsomely coifed mind capsule on it's equally handsome ruffled pillow I was awoken by a shriek and a light.

My new roommate got a new roommate and he has four legs. Its her first time in a house with a mouse and she doesn't seem to care for it so she was trying to shue (?) him away by constructing a maze to guide it from her bedroom out the door. She is an artist and decided various paintings are the obvious tools in which to persuade vermin to politely exit the building.

I laughed to myself and also out loud to her (its rude not to share) since I am well versed in matters of the mouse. I told her to spray peppermint and wait until morning, get a trap that snaps and stay away from the poison. (they die in the walls and stink up the place, much like your dreams of special roommate friendship when you spend all night making a casserole and it goes unnoticed)

I then went back to my room and yelled "You're on your own pussy" and took comfort in the fact that I am mentally stronger than my pussy of a roommate who was now curled in a ball shaking. I got a text from a friend which turned into a phone call, which gave me time to notice things around the room (When it was his turn to speak of course. Its best to sound interested when someone is talking to you, and what better way to sound interested than to distract your thoughts with something that actually interests you like your plain white wall.) And thats when it appeared. The most terrifying 12 legged insect from the mesotheliomic era. It looked as if it crawled out of a dinosaur's vagina.

So there I was running away from ancient veneral parasites, when it hit me. Why did my friend want to talk to me? Because I didn't pay attention to him. Why did the mouse stay in the house? Because we asked him to leave. Why was the horrifying crustacean circumventing my tapestries? Because I was coyly running away. Its simple mathematics, biology, or other useless high school course. Come on to it, and it will disappear.

So tonight, I Prudence Press am reporting to you live waiting at a romantic dinner for two with a letter addressed to "The Bug of my Life". These candles all burned out and these plates left untouched are all a testament to the truth that nothing gets rid of a pest problem like pathetic availability.

The Movies

2010-07-06T09:52:00.003-04:00

First off, an apology. Sorry readers for my blog abstinence. I recently moved across the world, and I've started a rigorous bootcamp of sorts. (I don't want to be specific, lack of details = sexy. Note that sexy is also known as the skill of making doughnuts. See how it works?)

As some of you patriots should know, it was recently our nation's birthday. (too late to send a facebook post foreigners) Fine members of society celebrate by shooting things into the sky and cooking unnaturally concentric pieces of meat on hot rocks. My new roommate and I too had plans to watch the fireworks.... those of steamy forbidden teen love!

I am 24 yrs old. and I spent this fourth of July watching Twilight. I can't tell you how proud I am to admit it.

Obviously you all know how the movie went. But there was a moment before the screening that revealed a bit about my new apartment associate.

We were walking in the exclusive district of Times Square (only true new yorkers are allowed, if you want to blend in get a caricature sketch or some piece of clothing that has new york written on it at least 50 times.) when a man to our left exclaimed

"Wow, look at the birds."

I was soooo embarrassed. He was obviously speaking of my oversized t-shirt that said Beach, Bitches, Pool etc. (my summer attire). It was clear that they noticed from my brown skin tone that my mother is French. They saw the last part of the print strategically placed on my left sleeve (the most sensual part of a t-shirt) They must have translated "Pool etc." Poulet, French for chicken.

They were so openly gawking at me! I told Stare-ah (roommate) how utterly embarrassed I was. But instead of the appropriate friend reaction of beating up the men and holding me while I cry, she actually had the nerve to try to say that the comment was about the two birds tatooed on her Double-D chest.

I couldn't believe it. Everyone knows sidewalk taunts are much more subtle. She was trying to steal my unprotected young woman in the city thunder. I called her conceited and she looked at my sleeve. She saw the Pool etc. and instantly made the real connection. She was SOOOOO embarrassed, but like the good Christian that my small Michigan town guilted me into pretending to be, I forgave her.

I hope everyone had a good weekend, and the next time a construction worker says "nice ass". Take a minute to think of the symbolism.

No-toe-rious

2010-06-08T14:09:00.017-04:00

My life seemed to be at the brink of a health infused turning point. But through a confusing series of plot twists, the turning turned sour.

I'm nearing my last days of barista and had switched shifts to cover for a friend. I started a little earlier, but was done way before the sun was setting. Vitamin D infused, I went for an intellectual bike ride armed with a newspaper, a camera and a book.

I stopped by the water and began taking extremely artistic photographs of things that common people find grotesque when a friend crept behind me and startled me.

(extremely artistic photo)

She was on a 175 block walk, and needed a break, or as I call it is totally obsessed with me and stalked me the entire time just to get a chance to speak in private... in the public place we were at.

She wanted me to accompany her back up town and gave me the winning smile I imagine most serial killers give to lure their prey. (Although mutual friends may try to convince me the girl is sweet and harmless I know better. I've watched Harriet the Spy enough times to be able to detect the true evil in people) I told her I really needed to do some "better yourself" reading and pulled out my newspaper.

The times is running a series on the negative impact of technology on modern day users, a major contributor to America's sedentary lifestyle. Because I am such a progressive person, I was able to look past her hopeless love for me and appreciate an impressive feat she was accomplishing. A few times a week my stalker stalks the west side of manhattan, traversing from 4th street all the way to 181st.

I looked aft. Poignantly, (think Adult Simba at the end of the Lion King) toward the direction my friend had departed. I felt the twinge of a feeling. One of purpose, of drive. I knew I had quest, but I didn't know exactly what it would be. Yet.

I pulled out my book entitled Born to Run by Christopher McDougal. The author explores tales of super-athletes who run 100 mile ultra-marathons, not for the money, not for the competition, but for the love of it. He recounts the evolution of the human body, built to run for survival. Today that instinctual feeling is lost. Running is seen as an annoying means to an end, rather than something we were born to be doing.

"Perhaps all our troubles--all the violence, obesity, illness, depression, and greed we can't overcome--began when we stopped living as a Running People. Deny your nature, and it will erupt in some other uglier way." - Christopher McDougal, Born to Run (still not sure

how to properly site things)

Now it was clear. All the signs were telling me I needed to run.

1.) Read article about the dangers of sedentary life.
2.) Read a book about the advantages of running.

3.) Was stalked by a crazy girl who prefers to walk over run.

It was the beginning of a new me. Bags of granola in place of bags of Doritos. Rippling abs instead of abs rippling. When on a doughnut run, I will actually be running. (Just because you train a lion to be scared of a chair, doesn't mean it won't need to eat meat)

I jumped on my bike and raced home. I saw my stalker on the way. She waved. I made sure to run her off the road and flip her off. (just so she doesn't think I'm leading her on) I picked up brand new me dinner foods. Zucchini, mushrooms, wheat grass, protein, whey, soy, jumbalaya, hay.

When I got home Francine was trying out her new 15 minute cake recipe. You have to practice making it until you can get prep time down to 15 minutes. Even when baking Francine still subscribes to efficiency above all else. She asked me if I wanted to try

some, but I threw my nose up at her offer explaining that the old Prudence would happily oblige (and then sneakily oblige again when everyone was alseep) but the new Prudence was turning over a healthy leaf.

I threw the ingredients in a pan and decided to multi-taskily clean my room during the simmering. New Prudence moves quickly, so I darted out of the kitchen with the stealth and grace of a samurai swan. But my agility was contested by the extremely jealous and fat kitchen wall. (I repeat, fat)

My pinky toe hit the corner with the force of a tsunami and I gracefully fell to the ground. (I repeat, gracefully) I waited for the stubbed toe pain to go away, but it didn't. I hobbled around in anger holding back tears, trying to remind myself that tough girls don't cry. The pain would not subside.

On the stove my vegetables sizzled. In my heart my dreams died.

I slammed on the couch and called my mother, who misunderstood my passionately shakey voice and thought that I had intentionally kicked the doorway. She was upset with me and suggested I get help for my anger management problems. I angrily hung up on her.

Turned the lights off, put a bag of frozen Okra on my foot, and listened to Ace of Base to give me a sign, weeping strong and silently in the candelight.

Two hours later, my toe was worse and I hobbled into the kitchen to see Francine had cooked the rest of my food and just finished the cake. It looked great even if it did take 8 times longer than it should have. She saw my pain and in a rare moment of empathy offered to fix me a plate of stewed vegetables. I sniffled and looked down at her cake, and without any words she knew what to do.

The cake was the only thing that could cure my pain. I realized that everything--the book, the article, the stalker--all of it was just a test. The ugly world of health tried to lure me away from the purity of

processed food and laziness. Never again will I stray from the path of righteousness.

A Tale of Two Bar Stools

2010-05-31T20:54:00.003-04:00

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the end of my shift.

For our foreign subscribers, Memorial day is another national Holiday Americans use to excuse excessive drinking during the day. (I stick with my tried and true excuse, depression, self loathing and French heritage) Due to an overwhelming philanthropical urge, I agreed to celebrity Barista at the neighborhood Cafe and forego the celebrations this year. It proved to be an excruciatingly long day.

As a reward for hard work I made myself a drink and threw in various berries to make it a happy Margarita or a Happy Rita. A couple of regulars came in, two who I regularly enjoy. The one sitting next to me however had a few more beers than she was used to. The sun was about to set, and as most Memorial Day practitioners know, conversation can only head in one of two directions. I love you or I hate my life. The girl to my left chose the option on the right.

After a 15 minute sour conversation, even Rita failed to be happy. The girl spoke of a bleak career in which she had devoted her life and received nothing in return, despite countless awards and accolades. I tried to allay her pain by reminding her the work and the awards are an accomplishment within itself. But she thwarted the argument with a quick reminder of her current financial state. I tried once again to look on the bright, but she answered back with the almost always irrefutable "You'll know once you're my age".

After this nasty declaration, she was off to sleep away the brief moments of canned happiness she had consumed before the darkness came to consume her. I was crushed. Anxious. Despaired. There was only one solution to save me from the spiral of the even more embarrassing quarter-life crisis. My mother.

I texted her, because its a common fact that she is much cooler and busier than I am. (Tres technologique!) She immediately called back laughing. As any good mother should, she told me not to listen to negativity. And reminded me that anyone in New York is required by state law to reach a weekly bitterness quota. I was almost convinced, but recently I uncovered a diploma from the Goose's School of Mother, my own mother had received upon her graduation days before my birth. (sorry Francine, just missed it) In an ironic twist brought on by recent lack of self esteem, the faith in my mother's reassurance was actually negated by her certified proficiency on the subject. Maybe I am not actually special, but rather my Mother is very good at convincing me I am.

I sulked back to my bar stool, this time neglecting Happy Rita and calling for my usual after work mini-draft. (its a small cup of left over keg beer I drink to escape the imposing eye of my big brother cafe.)

The stool next to me was now taken over by a sundressed woman sipping sangria in between washing and drying cycles. I took a drink of my prole beer and decided to talk of daily affairs to get my mind off impending life failure. I asked about replacing a Michigan drivers license I had lost months ago with a New York State one. The sundressed woman was quick to jump into conversation. She was very helpful and spoke with a strangely calming New Jersey accent. The BP oil disaster flashed on the TV screen and the woman commented. I replied which brought a surprising political discussion jumping from Illegal Immigration, to the Japanese whaling trade, and finally the Chiquita Banana heir's tax evasion controversy.

Her wealth of knowledge on many subjects was very surprising despite the extreme manicuredness of her nails. The conversation was of the sort that usually leaves both partakers pulling chunks out of their hair over the bleak realization that humanity in modern society is completely lost. But sundressed laundry woman was a rare breed, able to speak of any subject on the pretense that change can happen. I could have talked for hours but as soon as her second of two for 1 sangrias was finished, the Jersey princess looked at her watch and said:

"Don't worry honey. Slowly but surely, we will change the world. But first I must go change my clothes." With that she sashayed to the laundromat, leaving a bright beacon of hope where the empty bar stool once sat.

The moral of the story is that Happiness does not lie in a drink. And when you think all is lost, don't fret. Bar stools have a high turnover rate during Happy Hour.

Dramatic Waitress Episode 3

2010-05-22T14:49:00.001-04:00

Hart Braik

2010-05-21T20:57:00.003-04:00

In a daring public Confession, I Prudence Press am confiding in you the reader to help mend my newest broken organ.

I've very recently experienced a break of the heart kind. I know what most of you are thinking, but the culprit was not a doughnut, it was an actual Human. Needless to say I am no expert in this field, so I turn to one man who is THE expert. Take it away Mr. Iglesias:

(note, I had put up a creepy youtube video someone made of E.I.. You know, the kind where its just a picture of his face set to music. But even though I have a strangely unhealthy obsession with the man, this seemed to have crossed the far reaching barriers of my disturbing behavior line. so I've settled with just copying and pasting the lyrics of Enrique's most philosophical song.)

Love 4 Fun

So you think you got it all worked out
And what you're searching for
Isn't what you found
Up in this world that's on the run
A lot of hits but only a few
Number ones
Im making love for fun
Are you looking for a holiday
Im making love for fun
Why would you do it any other way
Im making good
On everything I said
So baby just relax
And let me do my thing
Up in my world you better run
There's only room
For the few who can come
Im making love for fun
Are you looking for a holiday
Im making love for fun
Why would you do it any other way
When you don't have a place to go
When everything feels the same
I can change what you think you know
Making love my way
Im making love for fun
Are you looking for a holiday
Im making love for fun
Why would you do it any other way
Im making love for fun
Are you looking for a holiday
Im making love for fun

Why would you do it any other way

Doughnuts make me Depressed

2010-05-17T23:05:00.004-04:00

For 24 years I've had one true love. The enticing pillowy curvature of a Doughnut has forever been synonymous with such feelings as euphoria, ecstasy and another word commonly used when taking narcotics.

So why now do I lie in bed with the sick taste of regret on my lips? Powdery residue that once brought sweet nostalgia now inciting sick nausea. How did such a love so pure, turn so sour?

I know that most of you are thinking that perhaps I am bitter at the overly soft physique commonly found in Doughnut connoisseurs. But years of engorgement has left my system completely immune to weight gain due to the consumption of our circular friend. (I've found broccoli, spinach and water to be the biggest culprits of scale tipping. I advise any young children to follow their instincts and stay away.)

Could it be the social stigma? As it is the common practice to judge one's class by breakfast food item (Croissant = classy, Bacon Egg and Cheese = trashy, Vodka soda = hard worker) I've found ways to look past this. I almost never dine on an (insert synonym for doughnut so as not to sound redundant... Very hard to find synonym for doughnut. Insert parenthetical excuse to at least make it look like you feel guilty for being redundant) without wearing a floor length gown and my Grandmother's Ruby red tennis shoes. (she died in this horrible tornado accident. Its really a wonderful story. Remind me to tell you sometime!)

So Doughnuts do not make me look fat or poor. Then why this sudden change of heart? I guess Its something I will never know. I chase the reasons round and round, creating a mental metaphor of my newest lost love. But I end up coming empty, falling through the whole at the center of my mental metaphor. I can only hope my aversion is temporary. I look to my right and see a trusty box of Entenmann's pop 'ems mini powdered. But my heart stays still. The beat has not been skipped. And my stomach feels ill.

Happiness is only a few crumbs away!

2010-05-12T20:15:00.003-04:00

As I sit comfortably in Robespierre (my stark and unwaveringly comfortable robe leading the pampered French side of me into a blind revolution against the tyranny that is hard work and success) I am reminded of all that is happiness in the world. Below I've compiled a list so that you too, reader, may finally achieve happiness.

1.) Not wearing real clothes

Restrictive zippers, buttons and jean cannot come close to competing with terry-cloth.

2.) Buffy the Vampire Slayer

For the complete and accurate portrayal of Vampiric life and immortal teen angst. Edward does not compare to Angel.

3.) Chips

Any kind will do. The secret is in the crumb-potency. Make sure you get a brand that allows for many, because then you can have a mouse and cockroach party!! (Recent studies have shown that Vermin are much more loyal friends than annoying people. Please refer to Why Human's Aren't My Friends, Dr. Press, Highlights Magazine 1992)

4.) Root Beer

Shit totally fucks you UP! Ask anyone at my 8-year old cousins birthday party I crashed last weekend.

Start on this list and begin you're path towards the Pursuit of Happiness. (No connection to the Will Smith Movie) But do watch out for the Men in Black!! (No connection to the Rip Torn Movie)

2010-05-07T02:02:00.001-04:00

Dramatic Waitress Episode 2

2010-04-30T02:03:00.001-04:00

Review #1 Juwanna Mann

2010-04-25T11:53:00.003-04:00

(steamy shower scene)

This cross-dressing basketball flick attempts to cover many generic method types of movies. A sports movie, coming of age, gender change and race. The supporting acting is sub-par, but all this is made up for with Miguel A. Nunez Jr.'s hilariously PIC (politically incorrect) portrayal of a female basketball player. Jamal Jeffries (Nunez) is kicked out of the NBA for poor sportsmanship. To keep his career alive he cleverly decides to dawn a very lesbian-chic bob wig and join the WNBA as up and coming star Juwanna Mann.

The entertainment lies in the absurdity of Jamal/Juwanna's learning experiences. Jamal is a selfish ball hog which contributed to is his horrible behavior. Juwanna however is able to correct this when she finds out WNBA players slap each others butts for assisted points. Cut to montage of Juwanna passing the ball and running behind players grabbing their asses.

Its a cheesy sports flick that touches just enough on gender equality to make female viewers smile, and male viewers unaware of what's actually happening. If anything Nunez's performance will remind you of that one loud, funny and horribly ambiguous gym teacher you had in high school, drifting you back to an awkward nostalgia.

Rating 4 out of 5 Prudes

Prudence Press Proud Pleasures

2010-04-25T11:22:00.005-04:00

Picture it. You've just got home. You're alone, tired from a day of thinking, or talking or writing memos. The last thing you want to do is pop in a movie that makes you question the morals of our contemporary society. Reality TV is a coked out misdirected satire. On the opposite end great film is a strain on the few remaining synapse capable neurons for this evening. What you need is a dumb movie.

But which one? There are so many to sift through in Hollywood's vast array of cross-dressing, crotch-grabbing, talking animal, high-budget-low-quality archives.

That is where I Prudence Press 10 come in. Through years of comprehensive low quality film screening training I've developed a true knack for the best of the horrible. Recently two I have found a colleague with beautiful bird tatoos who shares this same God-given ability. Together we watch and discuss from such great sources as:

TBS afternoon matinee double feature
Airplane movies
Netflix least popular
and many more unwanted slots to showcase your life's creation

This blog will now include "Shitty Movie Reviews" (the movies are shitty, not the reviews. Those are rather spectacular. I can provide reviews of the reviews to prove so.)

So from now on don't feel guilty for watching a movie where a major scene involves the lead dressing in a bunny bikini. Come to Prudence Press 10 and be Proud that you are are watching the best movie movie where the lead is dressed in a bunny bikini.

Dramatic Waitress Episode 1

2010-04-15T00:25:00.001-04:00

Danks

2010-04-03T18:33:00.004-04:00

As part of a very important business trip I have been forced to cross the Atlantic and a visit a former work colleague in the wurst country ever! Bratwurst that is.... (I'm in Germany for those of you who don't get hysterical jokes)

Being my first time in the nation of large sausage and strong women, My German is limited to scared facial expression and shoulder shrug. My colleague who has been living in Berlin for 2 months was kind enough to impart some linguistic and cultural knowledge.

It was a sunny day so me and my travel bouncer (I hired a tattooed woman to protect me from adoring/psychotic fans. One fan is sooo obsessed with me that he emailed asking for my credit card and bank information. Totally weird and pathetic I know!) were wearing sunglasses. My former Colleague, Care-of-lint, was quick to point out that German people do not wear sunglasses so we were standing out as idiot tourists. My travel bouncer and I looked first at each other and then down at our large cameras, American flag shoes and "I'm from Wisconsin say cheese" matching t-shirts. (I styled the two of us for the trip!) Supposedly the other items were miniscule details compared to the shades, so we took them off to allay Care-of-Lints concerns and blend in with the populous.

Lesson number two was behavior. Apparently Germans are very polite so its customary to greet everyone you meet with a bow. This seemed simple enough and TB (travel bouncer) and I were very eager to impress our new friends.

The final step was to develop an accent. Most Germans were fluent in English but greatly appreciate when foreigners attempt their language. Since we didn't have the time necessary to learn vocabulary and grammar Care-of-Lint told us the best rule of thumb would be to switch r's for l's and vice versa.

We practiced a bit on the walk over to lunch at an authentic Chinese restaurant known for their body-building waitresses. Care-of-Lint handpicked the restaurant for our first meal so we all very excited.

Care-of-Lint instructed us to pick a table outside in the sunshine and left us to order on our own, since this would be the only way to let her lessons truly sink in. When the 200 lb muscular waitress came to take our order we squinted our eyes from the sun, bowed, and then both ordered flied lice.

The realization of our oblivious racism came in the form of two black eyes and a subsequent limp. A style Care-of-Lint is trying to convince us is in for spring, but I'm beginning to have my doubts.

Success!

2010-03-31T21:56:00.003-04:00

I have succesfully dyed all my clothes blue.

No more lame white sheets. So long cream top I was supposed to dry clean. Ancient mother of pearl Heirloom Silk Cardigan given to me by grandmother, welcome to the 2000's and COLOR! Only lingerie I have that was not purchased in bulk at wal-mart, you definitely are much sexier in smurf blue than ivory.

And now a song for the moment.

When turkey met salami, forget Paris!

2010-03-30T00:10:00.002-04:00

When making dinner tonight I went to the kitchen to find I had run out of bread. Luckily Francine had bought lean white meat turkey (the lesser meat) to use as a bread substitute for my salami (the alpha meat). I introduced the too, turkey meat salami, and in one fell swoop created "meat wrap". The perfect sandwich for the girl on the go.

Hipster tip #24

2010-03-22T22:37:00.001-04:00

old shit is totally rad.

'Press'ing News 03/20/10

2010-03-21T13:34:00.002-04:00

Prudence Spends all her hard-earned cash on a broadcast upgrade. But foolishness ensues when cheap/free reporter Bumbeatrice Frank screws everything up... Again! (special vocal appearances by Enrique Iglesias)

ADD

2010-03-18T22:26:00.003-04:00

So the newest craze in medicinal excuses has been my exploration into mental health. Although I have had many street call diagnoses (i.e. You 'crazy' bitch you punched my dog!) I've never actually been tested for mental illness. One day while sitting in my take out food and discarded clothing cemetary I decided it was time to clean up. Usually Francine will sound her shrill voice-box propelled cleaning alarm, but this week she has been on vacation leaving me to decipher the correct moment of dirt capacity on my own. Figuring this part out was not hard (refer to 2 most recent mouse posts) the hardest part was deciding where to begin.

Despite the obvious chaos my room is divided into 5 sectors of individual mess. Clothes, papers, gadgets, products, socks. They are then subdivided into various piles scattered about the room. Whenever I force myself to clean I take about 1 hour walking from pile to pile to pile assessing the threat level. Is it more urgent to wash clothing then it is to recycle newspapers? This then brings me to many philosophical conflicts in which I continue to walk from pile to pile this time assessing the true nature of each pile. Are they really threatening, or perhaps beautiful? Do my clothes enjoy a carefree life on the ground rubbing elbows with dust and grocery receipts? Or would they rather live a structured life constrained to hangers and only socializing with their own kind.

I decide to divide my mess piles into personality piles. My BCBG button-up will gentrify the clothing rack, while my ripped boyfriend jeans can stay on the ground with a pair of hanes her way socks at the foot of my bed, simultaneously relaxed and dependable. Ready at a moments notice.

So three hours later my room has completely changed. But to the untrained (and ignorant if you ask me) eye its still "messy". A buzz on the door signaling my first house guest in weeks makes me realize I need an explanation for the rooms appearance.

ADD

come with me
let's excuse away
the disarray

I'm not sure if that counts as a poem because while I was writing it I was also cooking a cake and helping to hatch baby chickens in Turkey via webcam. (Egg nurse)

Rogue Post

2010-03-18T02:40:00.001-04:00

Oh my god Prudence, I totally hacked into your blog and I want so say FUCK YOU, YOU STOLE MY DOUGHNUTS!!!!!!!!!

Love but Hate,
Dunkin

Relationship status: OVER!

2010-03-12T15:06:00.005-05:00

Today is a sad day. It seems my new mouse roommate has overstayed his welcome. He drinks directly from the side of the milk carton (what a slob), creepily hides in the dark waiting to scare me when I turn on the light, (the perv totally watches me change) and failed to tell me he was never tested for bubonic plague (just plain rude!!) I guess its that time to sit down and have a talk. Offer him a bite of poison to eat. And then flush his body down the toilet.

Inconsiderate

2010-03-06T22:08:00.007-05:00

Once again my failure to regard babies as humans has resulted in severe monetary loss.

"Table for two" - I say to the ordinary looking couple pushing a stroller.

"Uhh three" - they say pointing to the stroller and its rude passenger who seems to have brought her own food to my restaurant. Too good to eat anything on the menu?

"Oh, you can just leave that up front if you want. Or in the corner by the umbrella trash." - I say with a snide smile, hoping the baby will be able to read the subtext that is clearly stating "You don't bring food into a place that sells food and your not impressing anybody when you hold your leg in the air while wearing a dress that short. I don't care if its Paddington Bear print, you still look like a slut."

So I am considered the inconsiderate one when you babies have two fully functional legs but still make people push you around like they are your servants. And what about when you see someone in a wheel chair who has no choice but to be strapped in a chair and still does not make anyone push them around? Shame babies, shame.

A Nuissance, A Neighbor... A Friend.

2010-03-04T00:50:00.007-05:00

I was casually conversing with my friend Chris Tons when I saw a brown blob dart across the corner of my eye. I calmly noted the disturbance,

"AHHHHHHHHHHH" - I screamed in a pitch much girlier than my choice of pants would suggest.

When my friend questioned my sudden lack of sentence construction I told her I saw what I thought was a mouse. She asked if it had a tail, and I said I didn't know it was too fast and I couldn't see. She then asked if it had four legs, and I told her the same thing. She continued on describing every distinguishing part of a mouse to the point where I began questioning her true lineage. I only allowed her to continue because I was too busy kicking things and running away to pay attention.

When Chris Tons had finally exhausted all mous-like features she wished me luck and was about to leave me on my own. I asked her not to go because I was scared, but then she began to explain that even though we were talking she really was never actually there so I hung up on her mid- sentence.

But, annoying as she may have been, Chris Tons was right. I was alone and needed to handle this alone. I decided to take a page from the origin of my pants and be a man. I started making loud grunting noises and banging the walls.

"You hear that mouse! I am much larger than you!" I taunted in an obviously threatening tone. I felt like a real thug, like Al Capone or R. Kelly.

I did this for a while which naturally turned into an interpretive dance session and a half hour later I forgot what I had started and was back to my daily routine. A few hours later sitting at the computer, I heard what sounded like salt being scattered across the floor and looked down to see 6 whiskers, 4 legs two beady little eyes, and one bucktoothed smile peering up at me.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, GO AWAY MOUSE!" - I threateningly told the free-loader channeling both famous gangsters Al Capone and R. Kelly simultaneously.

The terrified mouse got back on all fours and scampered away. I decided enough was enough and planned an immediate trip to the hardware store to get a mouse trap. Even though it was a hassle I was excited at the prospect of shopping and started sizing up different traps on the internet. Most trap sites were tame, and just showed the cleaner before pictures. But when I stumbled across the Guillo-team: Pest Control Kings! site that was unnecessarily graphic. (I believe its made up by former disgruntled Pixar employees. CGI has become chillingly realistic in the past few years.) I realized I would actually have to kill the little guy.

I flashed back to the sweet buck tooth smile, the soft dark eyes, and playful whiskers. This wasn't a rat, this was just a poor little mouse, trying to make it in the big city.

"Remind you of someone Prudence?" I heard my conscience say. (If you'd like to know, my conscience has the body of Penelope Cruz, the Face of Penelope Cruz and the voice of Spanish Accent Pop Music icon Enrique Iglesias. So yeah, you listen to it)

So come out mouse, we've got crumbs to scavenge and dreams to believe in!

Preparing for Shebah's Arrival Step 1

2010-03-03T10:46:00.003-05:00

Remove all sharp objects.

Shebah is a kind soul, but after a drink or two (Drink=pint of cheap vodka) has been known to flounce around a room how I imagine a gay caveman would. (depending on which cave era you are looking at, they did not invent gay until they discovered sparkle) Although she dresses well and appears to be beautiful and intelligent, in more ways than not, this woman is a Neanderthal.

An ass of myself

2010-02-25T02:37:00.005-05:00

So I went out for a couple drinks with a good friend (the girl in the video below) and literally only had two drinks. But due to my new grandma routine that is apparently enough to get me sufficiently and embarrassingly sloshed. Shloshed? slooshed? Not sure of the correct term, will have my research team get on that immediately.

So like the a-hole I am, I forget my keys and have to call Francine to let me in at 2:00 am. This normally would not be a problem since Francine spends the night time to study little known facts. (sleeping is inefficient and she uses the morning to study somewhat known facts, and the afternoon to make fun of people who do not know well known facts... aka me) But tonight was the only night Francine was actually planning on sleeping because at 7:00 am she has to get all 4 wisdom teeth violently ripped from her overly articulate mouth. She is also planning on attending her two regularly scheduled classes, because as she puts it, "why would she miss class?".

I make the much undesired phone call, and although Francine is upset she agrees to drag herself out of bed to let me in. I feel so bad that once I'm inside I try as hard as possible to make as little noise as... possible.... This of course turned out to be un-possible. I wanted to be polite so instead of throwing around my late night drunk groceries, i decided to put them away. But my good deed only led to me she-manning the cabinet door off of its hinges. I thought the polite thing to do would be to try to put it back together, which of predictably led to many cabinet door thuds to the ground. I finally gave up and tiptoed to my door with the lights off. I figured I should do everything in the dark because that would be the least disturbing.

My apartment is not big by any standards. There really is only a 1 inch margin for error in choosing the path to my room, compared to Francine's. But somehow I crossed that inch and found myself doing a weird mime dance to the side of Francine's door, no doubt clearing all of the important messages on the dry erase board she keeps just outside her bedroom. (I was trying to turn the light on and was wondering why the wall felt so smooth and why the light switch kept rubbing off on my skin and not actually turning on) After 5 minutes, Francine's BF finally came to the door and started questioning if I got in ok. I realize my mistake and scurry like the cockroach I am back to my nest.

I think you know where this post is going.

"In the Face" by Madame and Bovary (not porn sorry)

2010-02-25T01:59:00.003-05:00

My friends are beautiful and amazing. One of their list of many amazing songs... Would have more, if only I could figure out the difference between record and not record. But there is more to come!

Mulholland Drove

2010-02-24T18:18:00.007-05:00

It began an ordinary day, not much different than the rest. (well my days are a little different than yours because I am exceptionally good looking and you are probably wearing sweat pants and a ponytail) I got my morning coffee and doughnut and set off to do some errands. But then something hit me. A small child said "move it fatty" knocking me with his baseball bat. He must have been referring to someone behind me and I got the residual blow, but anyway this made me drop my coffee into a puddle that a dove was singing in and a rainbow was starting to grow out of. The puddle was home to many magical beginnings including the reflection that sparked an idea for the greatest screenplay ever to have been written.

I rushed to my house and began scribbling on the first things available so I wouldn't lose the idea. Scene 1 is written on the back of my front door, and Scene 2 on toilet paper. I continued in this fashion, writing left handed when I needed to pay the Dominos man, and with my toes when I had to take a break to compose the soundtrack.

Nothing could stop me. I heard a baby being kidnapped by a rabid poodle. But I had to let her go. Instead I wrote a dedication scene to the baby for sacrificing her life as a human and living as a wild french dog with bad hair style.

Once I finished the script I had to plan out the direction of the filming. The camerawork would be choppy and mysterious and confusing, but leave subtle clues for the audience. Slowly you will find out the apparent love between the two lesbian leads is nothing but a psychological sham!!

By sunset I had finally crossed the final 'T' in the beginning of the phrase The End. I took one breath and my first sip of water for the entire day. It was time to reread through my masterpiece....

Turns out I rewrote the entire synopsis of David Lynch's 2001 alternative blockbuster Mulholland Drive after watching it drunk the night before.... shit

Child

2010-02-22T14:35:00.001-05:00

Today a child came in to the cafe where I sometimes celebrity barista. He was about four years old and with his father. He had many questions about the our mini muffins and continued to try to make cute jokes. I can't recall any of them because they were neither cute nor funny. I never thought I would be embarassed for a 4 year old, but wow did he make an ass of himself.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Pajamas

2010-02-19T19:29:00.009-05:00

Today I had to be at work at 9:00 am, I woke up at 8:45. I rolled out of bed in the world's most comfortable pajamas that my mom just gave me. In a daze all I cared about was recreating an outfit with the same comfort level. With my eyes closed I dressed myself based on feeling alone. Once I found an appropriate softness combination, I stumbled to the bathroom where my sister was showering. I asked if I could brush my teeth and she said OK, and then asked if I ever called the landlord about the apparent leak in the ceiling. I had forgotten and in the just woke up grace period I was completely honest about that fact instead of telling her the elaborate lie I had conceived of for 3 hours the night before. (it involved a series of events triggered by the dropping of a cocktail napkin, and climaxing with an underwater explosion/ 3-way kiss between James Franco, Penelope Cruz and moi. The story is also in the works of becoming a major motion picture titled Everyone's Fantasy.)

Its a strange sensation getting bitched at 5 minutes after you've just woken up. Especially if its not by the one night stand who found out you weren't actually going to die in 24 hours and is trying to figure out how to get back a night of pity. (you can't its mine, FOREVER!!! ) Its terrifying and stressful, and very similar to the feeling you have when there is a bomb you need to diffuse. While Francine was still yelling I stumbled down the stairs where I ran into my super. I over-dramatically begged him to check the leak and he said he would get to it later with a face that seemed to say "be nice to the crazy girl, she looks like the type that carries a knife".

When I got to work I saw my favorite Colombian customer, all cologned up and looking dapper as usual. He was sitting at a far away table but I was in a good mood from diffusing the Francine bomb. So I got out from behind the bar, brought him his coffee and stood in front of him with an expectant smile. He looked at me in a special way and had three special words:

"You look like a little boy"

OK so that was 6, but I was trying to trick you into thinking he was going to say "I love you". Did you think that? Oh my god you totally did, you are so STUPID.

For the first time I actually got a visual of what I chose to wear that day. An over-sized lime green hoodie, a pair of much too loose, shredded boyfriend jeans, and Tye-dye tennis shoes stained pink from when I spilled an entire jar of cherries 6 months ago. I had already clocked in and knew it was too late to even attempt a costume change. I glanced down at my outfit and then to my empty tip jar. There was only one solution. I had to make it work.

I gave up on pretty and rolled with the little boy thing. I made booger jokes, and told young girls they were "eww gross". Somehow it worked. Parents were crying with laughter agreeing that their daughters were in fact gross. Old people admitted how much they loved any type phlegm and flashed back to their favorite booger moments. It was very touching although it did reached a new level of disgusting. But hey, I was a little boy. I didn't give a fuck.

By the end of the day I was playing with spoons making fake car crash noises and rolling in 1 dollar bills. I came home after the long strangely eye opening day and decided it was time to change into something a little more adult. On my walk to the dresser I tripped over an extremely soft pile. I looked down and there they were, the worlds most comfortable pajamas, glowing in all their periwinkle splendor. I couldn't resist.

By 7:00 pm on a friday night I was back in Pajamas and making a pizza. Francine was gone and I had no plans so there would be no more outfit judgement. I was in the middle of making a sandwich to eat while waiting for the pizza to cook when the doorbell rang. It was the super and his surprisingly attractive ceiling leak specialist. After 10 hours they decide to come precisely at this time to check out the bathroom. I begrudgingly let them in and tried not to be embarassed of my Grandma chic Friday night attire. I snuck into my room closed the door and began to eat my sandwich like a mouse, hoping they would leave soon. I looked over at the new pile of clothes on the floor, which was my old little boy outfit.

Then it hit me. Who is this shy woman, camped out alone ashamed of what makes her feel good. Its not Prudence Press. With a new sense of vitality I stormed out of the bathroom and began flirting with both the super and the ceiling specialist. Using sexy head bobs and sideways winks.

This turned out to be wildly embarassing and I will never try to pull off the pajama look again. But at least I can go to sleep knowing one thing. I would totally kick ass as a little boy.

Priorities

2010-02-17T00:46:00.005-05:00

Its strange to look back at a failed to do list and wonder why its taken you over 6 months to mail a check to a debt collector because your Dentist has exhausted all means of reaching you. (by dentist I mean gynecologist and by mentioning debt collector I am finally realizing a way to reach out to past first dates that haven't the time to call me back after leaving me at the restaurant to tend to their sick aunt/dog/narcoleptic roommate)

My life is composed of many neat orderly lists strewn about in different notebooks and papers. Simple day-to-day tasks bear constant reminding "3.) brush hair" while other errands seem to get accomplished in a manic thunderstorm without any need of listing. There hasn't been a time when I needed glue, construction paper or barbie doll arms that I didn't drop everything to run to my favorite dollar store and purchase these necessary items. (they've pet named me la diabla gordita, because I have a sharp (sometimes harsh) aptitude for the haggling of arts and crafts and also because my daily uniform consists of a poofy down jacket made for husky tweens.)

I ponder this as I sit half naked in my room, unable to leave because I have absolutely no clean clothes. I don't mean I've worn all my pants once, I mean every single piece of clothing has been used to the point of destruction. Leaving my apartment would shatter my cute neighborhood Barista celebritay I've cultivated over countless cappuccino jokes and over-eager smiles. So now I sit. Kind of cold. In an oversized t-shirt.

But here lies the moment of truth. Who am I really? Do I cowardly put on a pair of cherry juice stained pants (please don't ask) to sulk to the laundromat? Or do I proudly announce "there's no time for laundry in my fast paced-world" throw a rope around my XXXXL shirt and call it fashion.

My money's on the latter, meet you at Dunkin' Donuts.

It'll be ok

2010-02-12T00:37:00.002-05:00

Today while on the subway I had to turn down my music to understand the conversation I was having with myself and it dawned on me. I was having a conversation with myself... Much like this blog.

Introducing Twatter

2010-02-10T13:47:00.007-05:00

A complete update of all the things Prudence Press is doing... in bullet form.

PP10 - Eating salad OMG so healthy!
PP10 - Last post was just poem OMG look at me!
PP10 - Snow is beautiful wishing life wasn't so empty so could share happiness with someone!!!
PP10 - Having third white russian to celebrate snow!! Stuffed bear is on his fourth OMG might get lucky!!!
PP10 - Stuffed bear passed out wondering if there is legislation againts what I just did to him, does anyone know????
Attorney_at_lay69 - send me the video baby and I'll let you know wink wink hug kiss touch feel.
PP10 - Thanks AAL69 youtubeing it to you now!!!
Barefan_89 - I wanna tube your yous
PP10 - ok, what does that mean???
Barefan_89 - it means u get naked, and i get naked, and we get a hose and
Barefan_89_'s_Mom - CLEAN YOUR ROOM!!!
PP10 - hahah funny xx love smiles!!
Police_underscore_thelaw - Mam you need to come with us. We have a situation regarding a bear.
End of feed.....

Proving Francine wrong

2010-01-27T11:28:00.003-05:00

So I bought a pack of hamburger buns to eat with the pack of veggie burgers I also bought at the same time. But the cookies, those are for later. Anyway I come home to find they are in the trash. I started swearing and pulled them out, Luckily they were still in the bag and totally fine. I swear, the only other thing in the garbage was a bottle of sanitizer and a mini robotic butler that cleans garbage. So its totally fine to take something out of our garbage....

Anyway Francine comes home and begins yelling at the bread saying it has mold. I tell her I just bought it yesterday so its completely fine. She begins to point at dots of flour on the bottom buns portion (wow there is a lot about this bread that seems like a butt) and tries to convince me its white mold. We fight and she refers to her scholarly proof via google images. The mold looks nothing like what was on the bread so we go back and forth for a while. She then gets frustrated or as we know it (figures out she is wrong) and says I can go ahead and eat the bread if I want and see if I get sick.

Challenge accepted.

I am already down 4 buns, and my sandwich making creativity has really excelled. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me. OH my god I forgot to tell you!

So I bought a pack of hamburger buns to eat with the pack of veggie burgers I also bought at the same time. But the cookies, those are for later. Anyway I come home to find they are in the trash. I started swearing and pulled them out, Luckily they were still in the bag and totally fine. I swear, the only other thing in the garbage was a bottle of sanitizer and a mini robotic butler that cleans garbage. So its totally fine to take something out of our garbage....

Anyway Francine comes home and begins yelling at the bread saying it has mold. I tell her I just bought it yesterday so its completely fine. She begins to point at dots of flour on the bottom buns portion (wow there is a lot about this bread that seems like a butt) and tries to convince me its white mold. We fight and she refers to her scholarly proof via google images. The mold looks nothing like what was on the bread so we go back and forth for a while. She then gets frustrated or as we know it (figures out she is wrong) and says I can go ahead and eat the bread if I want and see if I get sick.

Challenge accepted.

I am already down 4 buns, and my sandwich making creativity has really excelled. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me. OH my god I forgot to tell you!

So I bought a pack of hamburger buns to eat with the pack of veggie burgers I also bought at the same time. But the cookies, those are for later. Anyway I come home to find they are in the trash. I started swearing and pulled them out, Luckily they were still in the bag and totally fine. I swear, the only other thing in the garbage was a bottle of sanitizer and a mini robotic butler that cleans garbage. So its totally fine to take something out of our garbage....

Anyway Francine comes home and begins yelling at the bread saying it has mold. I tell her I just bought it yesterday so its completely fine. She begins to point at dots of flour on the bottom buns portion (wow there is a lot about this bread that seems like a butt) and tries to convince me its white mold. We fight and she refers to her scholarly proof via google images. The mold looks nothing like what was on the bread so we go back and forth for a while. She then gets frustrated or as we know it (figures out she is wrong) and says I can go ahead and eat the bread if I want and see if I get sick.

Challenge accepted.

I am already down 4 buns, and my sandwich making creativity has really excelled. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me. OH my god I forgot to tell you!

So I bought a pack of hamburger buns to eat with the pack of veggie burgers I also bought at the same time. But the cookies, those are for later. Anyway I come home to find they are in the trash. I started swearing and pulled them out, Luckily they were still in the bag and totally fine. I swear, the only other thing in the garbage was a bottle of sanitizer and a mini robotic butler that cleans garbage. So its totally fine to take something out of our garbage....

Anyway Francine comes home and begins yelling at the bread saying it has mold. I tell her I just bought it yesterday so its completely fine. She begins to point at dots of flour on the bottom buns portion (wow there is a lot about this bread that seems like a butt) and tries to convince me its white mold. We fight and she refers to her scholarly proof via google images. The mold looks nothing like what was on the bread so we go back and forth for a while. She then gets frustrated or as we know it (figures out she is wrong) and says I can go ahead and eat the bread if I want and see if I get sick.

Challenge accepted.

I am already down 4 buns, and my sandwich making creativity has really excelled. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me. OH my god I forgot to tell you!

So I bought a pack of hamburger buns to eat with the pack of veggie burgers I also bought at the same time. But the cookies, those are for later. Anyway I come home to find they are in the trash. I started swearing and pulled them out, Luckily they were still in the bag and totally fine. I swear, the only other thing in the garbage was a bottle of sanitizer and a mini robotic butler that cleans garbage. So its totally fine to take something out of our garbage....

Anyway Francine comes home and begins yelling at the bread saying it has mold. I tell her I just bought it yesterday so its completely fine. She begins to point at dots of flour on the bottom buns portion (wow there is a lot about this bread that seems like a butt) and tries to convince me its white mold. We fight and she refers to her scholarly proof via google images. The mold looks nothing like what was on the bread so we go back and forth for a while. She then gets frustrated or as we know it (figures out she is wrong) and says I can go ahead and eat the bread if I want and see if I get sick.

Challenge accepted.

I am already down 4 buns, and my sandwich making creativity has really excelled. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me....

Brazil in Parts: Part 2 partner in cry

2010-01-20T15:22:00.003-05:00

After a not so comfortable night of airplane sleep we touched ground in Rio. A quick costume change and very unsuccessful cab bartering session and we were soon on the Highway headed to destination sun. Shebah and I gleamed at each other, excited for the prospect of 10 days of nothing but sunshine. Our creepy smile stare however was broken up by a threat from our already annoyed cab driver.

"Put up the window, the rain will ruin my car."

Rain? This common weatherly phenomenon had not crossed our minds in the weeks of planning before the trip. (Although a hidden transcript of our planning phone calls reveal that the word Brazil was simply screamed 47 times in a row before a click then dial tone. So the planning lexicon did not allow for much. In case you were wondering the transcripts were kept on record by South American intelligence agencies. They heard chatter of crazed phone calls about Rio and were in the process of preventing what they were sure was a future terrorist attack perhaps by a group of Amazonian Banshees.)

We finally arrive at the apartment of our Host, one tall curly software engineer/couch surfing playboy named Bruno. Inside we met to other American girls and a host of Polish girls. It was the New Year and space is scarce during this time, and it soon became clear Bruno was practicing the art of Human sardining. The two American girls were on their way to the beach so we of course jumped on the opportunity. A long line and train ride later, and voila we were soon in Copacabana. It this point the rain had picked up, but the other girls kept reassuring us that it would probably let up soon since it had the day before. As we had done so many days before, Shebah and I just repeated the words Rio and Brazil to each other.

We got to the sand a decided to walk along the shore before we picked a spot. The beach was being prepped for the New Years celebration so we at spent our time talking about how great the stage looked, trying to ignore the rolling thunder clouds and emerging typhoon in the distance. We had gone through hell to get here, we refused to believe it would be nothing less than we expected. To pick up our spirits Shebah and I share the saddest beer. We plop on the sand, dripping wet but still hopeful. With each sip we share a quiet affirmation.

"I hear pruned is totally in this season"
"Yes, I read in Vogue that Old is the new young"

We drink our beer and gaze meaningfully into the churning ocean. Both too afraid to speak our fears while the pouring rain helped us only by masking our tears.

To be Continued

I feel a future blogger in the works

2010-01-20T14:49:00.003-05:00

My wonderful character of a friend, who I will refer to in codename as Balls, sent me this amazing email. I hope you all can enjoy it as much as I did.

Hey Pru, I thought I would share some stories with you.

1. I bought a mac last night. I am really cool now. Kinda like you.

2. This past Saturday I went to the Science Museum with Nick and his family. We are walking inside the museum to the Titanic exhibit. (Very cool by the way, I kept imagining I was Rose in my sitting room staring at myself with the Heart of the Ocean around my neck). Anyway, I was chatting with Nick's mother - trying to convince her I wasn't a dirty whore- and before I knew it, we arrived at the exhibit. I had forgotten that I would be leaving alone two hours later because I had to get to my hair appointment and didn't pay attention to how I got there. So I spent a merry two hours looking at water-logged items and picturing myself on a massive boat in first class, one that didn't sink - clearly.

At approximately 12:30 I said my goodbyes and left the exhibit. All around me were screaming children discovering the joys of science getting in my way as I tried to find my way out. I walked around the museum for about five minutes, but could not seem to find the lobby through which I entered. Then it hits me that I am on the 4th floor! I calmly walk to the elevator and hit the down button and then decide after 5 seconds that I simply don't have time to wait. I must not be late to my hair appointment. I look to my right and see a side set of stairs. Not wearing heels, I think that this is a good opportunity to get in some exercise for the day and go down to the first floor. I exit the stairwell and turn to my right and see a large wooden door. Of course it is locked. then I look to my left and see outside doors. I decide that I got enough exercise and instead of walking up the stairs, or taking the elevator to a more public friendly atmosphere, I will exit through the doors and walk around to the front of the building.

As the doors close behind me, I briefly think I should stop them, just in case I get locked out and this really isn't the way out. But then I remember when it comes to directions, my first instinct is never right, so I decide to let the door close. I walk outside the building down a long narrow sidewalk. It is so long I decide that I don't have time to walk, and I am not wearing heels, and I need more exercise, so I begin to run down the path. Soon I see that the large black fence awaiting me says "emergency exit only" I proceed to turn around and run in the opposite direction back to the Science Museum doors. Of course they are locked. Then I see that there is another path. I run down that one too and again come to a black gate that says "emergency exit only" (pointless if you ask me).

I decide that instead of setting off an alarm I will go back to the doors and pound on them until someone lets me inside. Then I would take the elevator to a guest friendly area. As I approach the doors I hear a click and the door magically opens. As I am about to push the button on the elevator, I hear someone coming down the steps of doom saying "we've got her". Immediately my face goes beat red, (I am already sweating from the exertion from my run) and tears well up in my eyes. A kind looking gentleman appears and says "can I help you?" I whine in return and exasperation "HOW DO YOU GET OUT OF HERE?" Because he is a kind looking gentleman he tells me that this place is very confusing and then asks if there is an emergency because they were watching me run around like a fucking moron outside. I consider saying yes to make the situation seem like it had a purpose somewhere or somehow, but then figured then he would want to call the police or something. So I just say no, I just need to be somewhere. I leave out the fact that "somewhere" is a hair appointment. He says he will take me to the lobby, but sensing my urgency to be put out of my shame and misery, instead of taking the slow-ass elevator, he unlocks the magical wooden doors I failed to enter through earlier. He leads me "behind the scenes" of the Science Museum, through the dark cement basement, and up the service elevator and out to the lobby. Neither of us talk or look at one another.

I decide I need to stop being a snot and apologize for trespassing on private museum grounds. I am able to look him in the eye and thank him for his museum hospitality. Then I proceed to run through the lobby in the case that Nick and his family see me with an escort and wonder what I was doing "behind the scenes" for fifteen minutes. I make it outside unscathed, still managing to hold back the tears until I see a parking man at my car. I begin waving my hands in the air and screaming "stop!" while running across a busy intersection into oncoming traffic. As I approach he sees my tear-streamed face and simply walks away, parking ticket in hand. I am pretty sure he just didn't like the sight of a crying girl.

I am certain I have never been so embarrassed in my life.

Its Strange

2010-01-20T01:15:00.003-05:00

Its strange, the chicken salad I turned my nose up to eat two days ago because I thought it went bad is now perfectly fine and delicious at 1:00 A.M. Oh mistress of the night, why do you so often visit me as food poisoning?

'Press'ing News 1.14.10

2010-01-15T01:07:00.001-05:00

Glowing new talent, terror in Brazil and friendly vampires.

A Conversation Amongst Scholars

2010-01-13T21:44:00.001-05:00

Probably why no one else would come on the trip with us.

Lavish dish leads to death

2010-01-12T00:11:00.002-05:00

Francine cooked an amazing chicken dish and let me have some of it. (half fell on the floor and I said I would take it to the trash, which was really my stomach SCORE!) But now I feel that I am too good to eat peasant food such as sandwiches and fear that I will starve. This is Prudence Press, predicting her death while eating scraps of the floor, totally unrelated.

Brazil in Parts: Part 1 De-parting

2010-01-11T22:15:00.007-05:00

So some of you may think that a blog post about brazil will be all Samba and Capparhinia, no? WRONG. This next series of posts will show you the true Brazil..... through the eyes of traveling American Indians. Well not native Americans, Indians whose parents are from India but they were born in America. Except one of their parents is French, and there is some Romanian in there, anyway enough! This is real (she says squinting her eyes and gritting her teeth. Mothers hold their daughters and young boys cry. They know only one thing. This girl is tough.)

Let's begin!

I'll take you back before the sun and the green to a place where neither really care to visit. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I was home for Christmas and neglected to realize the airport I was flying out of was an 8 hour drive south. When I did I just figured one of my gracious and beautiful family members would drive me. They did not share this same presumption. I turned to my friends who laughed at me and I shared in the laughter but it was only a mask for my fury. My only other option was a flight. Turns out flights within Michigan in the winter cost about the same as a post-war condo in the South of France, or a small child from Indiana. (Both provide good farming capital, but neither will get you to Detroit.)

I was at a loss, I didn't want to pay the same amount to travel within one of the most depressing states as I did for a ticket to the most shameless Country in South America. (Sorry Colombia, it was close) I was about to purchase an 11 hour bus ticket that left at 1 am and met at an italian deli parking lot when I remembered a small airport in the heart of the Upper Peninsula snowbelt. I checked and just as I thought there was an affordable ticket with a small ad reading "BUY ME PRUDENCE I LOVE YOU!!". I ignored the herpes medication ad and bought the ticket.

I made sure to get a flight a day before I left for Brazil so I would have time to prepare. Prepare means get drunk in East Lansing bars and stand on tables screaming that you are better than everyone before you are escorted home by good friends. Or good police friends that take you to their home with cool bar walls. Either way its fun. My mom drove me the two hours to the small airport but when we arrived we were informed by a hand written sign that the flight had been cancelled. (I believe it was made out of athletic tape and sharpie marker.) A man who seemed to double as both flight attendant and mechanic told us not to worry, he scheduled me for the next available flight which was three days from then. I politely threw a fit and then talked the mechanattendant through the process of getting me on the next available flight in the closest airport.

This turned out to be in Green Bay Wisconsin at 6 am. It was two hours from my home, in the opposite direction of Marquette airport (the one I was in at the time) so a total of 4 hours away. We went home, slept a bit and then at 2 am my poor saint of a mother drove me to Green Bay. (It was actually very sweet, my sisters were going to stay up and drive me and we were going to make a trip of it. But my mom woke me up early to ask if she could do it so she could spend more time with me. I of course said yes. I know this is incongruent with a PP10 story but I couldn't leave it out. So cry your eyes out pansies)

I got to the airport and was checked in by 4:30 am and fully boarded by 5:45. I got ready to take a nap when the Pilot made an announcement:

"Hey guys the plane is broken, can you get off so we can fix it? Thanks, I am a dumbass and didn't think to check if the plane was broken before I decided to schedule this flight. This airport sucks I know. Feel free to punch me in the face, if you can ever find me!!" - Pilot (I paraphrased a bit)

I went through a series of checking and rechecking for later and later flights. My 6:00 am flight had changed to 3:00 p.m. If anyone has ever had the pleasure of being stranded in the Green Bay airport, they will know the only forms of entertainment are Cheese and Brett Favre. I was perusing the gift shop, in the middle of buying cheese earrings (this seasons must have) when I heard an announcement that the flight would be pushed back even further.

Thinking I would miss my outbound flight to Rio I freaked out and called my mom who had found another flight in an airport 20 minutes away. I finaggled a free cab ride to the airport with a man who repeatedly told me how great America is and that Obama was an idiot and that the best way to fight terrorism is to line airplane carpet with pig's blood. I just smiled and silently ran through all the terrible things I could have done to have deserved this. Nothing fit the crime, even punching my 6 year old cousin. (You'd punch her too if you heard her stance on proposition 8. She's surprisingly conservative for a 1st grader)

I finally got to my flight and made it to detroit. All I had to do was pass through security. I took off 80% of my clothing but still the guards felt I needed further scrutiny. They put me into a clear glass cage and said I had to stay until a female guard agreed to pat me down. This portion of the screening process is very hard on your self esteem, especially when all the female guards sporting no makeup and K.D. Lang's newest hair cut argue over not having to be the one to touch you. Finally Nancy manned up to the job. She sauntered over, her mullet gently wafting in the artifically conditioned wind. I can't say I wasn't intrigued by this mysterious gender-defying security guard.

After Nancy had her way with me I made my way to gate D-16 where Shebah was impatiently waiting my presence. Halfway through the walk I felt something weird on my upper lip. Through a wipe on my sleeve, I found out I was getting a nose bleed or the scientific term "Nasular Dorkification". This was actually the first nose bleed I've ever had. In my entire life. I was not entirely sure what to do. Is it ok to go to the bathroom and wipe it? Should I find a bandaid? Or do I just act tough and let it bleed and when people question it I say something tough like "yeah, i know" or "I like blood, it makes me feel alive". Instead I settled for:
1. run awkwardly to a coffee stand
2. steal napkins
3. smile oddly
4. blurt out something unitelligable to explain
"eruhdgahhau!"
5. stare
6. runaway

Completely dishelved and a mess, I see Shebah. A beacon in the flourescent light. Finally someone to take part of the awkward bad luck weight from my shoulders.

End of Part 1..... Go do something.

ughhhhhh

2010-01-07T09:09:00.002-05:00

Ok, So I made the mistake of showing Shebah the last post and she got angry and made me put up this picture while holding me at screampoint. She is pretty.

Also I'm supposed to mention something about bringing Detroit to Brazil, so Holler.

Terror in Brazil

2010-01-06T08:29:00.008-05:00

When traveling with someone, you learn a lot of things. Some of those things you often wish could be erased from your mind forever. For example:

Shebah screams in her sleep.

I learned this when I was also having a terrifying dream that my dad was having a stroke and dying and no one would let me hug him. At the dramatic climax in which I dropped to my knees and cried a beautiful but tragic single tear, I was awoken to "AHHH OHHH EEEEHHH AHH AHH AHHH!!!!!!!"........

That's what it sounds like when Shebah screams. Reminiscent of a banshee monkey.

I was a bit confused and didn't know what to do, so I just said dude over and over again while slapping her knee. To most people this would probably be an even scarier way to wake up, but of course Shebah found my knee slaps comforting and stopped yelling. I asked her what happened and if she was ok and she began to detail her dream in which she was getting smooshed together by two pieces of toast.....

I feigned compassion and tried to put her back to sleep which involved a series of compliments and perverted jokes.

I guess I should consider myself lucky that my fear in Rio does not come from Favela unrest or sex trafficking, but rather from one dark little screaming Indian banshee. When I go home and I miss the little beast I will have to tune my sleep noises machine to terrifying sounds.

Wishing you all a good night.... 12 hours from now this is Prudence Press, keeping one eye open at all times.

An Apology

2010-01-02T21:42:00.003-05:00

On my most recent trip to the Southern Hemisphere, I'm sitting here in silence as punishment for a few accidental slips of the tongue. To explain I'd like to start out with a little history on my travel nemesis and friend, Shebah.

Shebah was born when the sun accidentally stubbed his toe while dancing to electro-trance music. She fell to the earth a molten tear screaming like a banshee the entire trip down and to this day has still finds it hard to control the screams.

This trip has cemented the major differences between Shebah and I as we stumble through Brazil a half drunk half crazy yin and yang tornado attempting to communicate through broken Spanish and awkward thumbs up smiles. (contrary to our pre-trip studying techniques, Portuguese is in fact its own language not a mixture of French and Spanish)

Although her beauty, unsurpassed by any transvestite in the tri-state area, puts her in a class of her own, Shebah still takes time for charity work and has happily agreed to an exhausting friendship with a crotchety miser such as myself. So I'd like to say thank you Shebah, I'm sorry I said I was happy you were going to shower so I would finally have some peace. Your inspired silent treatment technique has truly taught me the err of my ways.... Please talk to me I am bored.

Tradition: for Joan

2009-12-27T23:54:00.005-05:00

During the holidays groups of people who look similar to each other come together and perform rituals that have been done for many years before. This is known to the world as tradition and these groups are called family and they are made for people to openly fight and make fun of one another without having to feel bad or serve TV court sentences.

I am proud to say that for 6 years I have been a major part of Press family tradition. At the end of the holiday season when everyone is feeling the weight of cookies, ham and harsh criticism my family takes comfort in passing around a picture of my youth to lift their spirits. We call it "the Godfather photo" and I'd like to share a little bit of its history.

At a time when I was on the cusp of middle school chubbery my family decided to take a trip to Disney World. The Press children were a little more than my parents liked to deal with so they invited my aunt Lilly (pictured to the left) and our dear family friend Joan (should be pictured on the scooter but I'm ashamed to say that's not her) Joan had a heart condition so we rented a scooter for her to use when she got tired. I volunteered to guard the machine until it was time for Joan to take a break. I was clearly unaware of the effects of extreme lethargy and perched proudly on the scooter for 3 days straight. Joan saw how well I adapted to motorized life and was too sweet to say anything.

So every Christmas when there is no more pie and my sisters have exhausted all available insults, Francine runs to the secret photo hiding spot. She then passes it around while everyone hums the score to the Godfather. They may laugh but I know the scooter and I made a handsome pair. We will go down in tragic couples history with the likes of Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde and Millie and his sweet sweet Vanillie.

Come On

2009-12-17T03:24:00.020-05:00

Plagued by a hapless routine of studying until 3 in the morning, I stood wide awake in the middle of my apartment the night I'd finally taken the GRE. My score was less than stellar, which would have been fine if I'd have found out the week or so later giving me ample time to find something new to obsess over failing at. (dog racing? hot air ballooning? sex? hah jk, i'm amazing at dog racing) But unfortunately the new computerized tests display your scores immediately after. Now I understand why they wouldn't let me take my 24 caliber remington rifle into the testing room. (that sounded like a gun right?)

When I got my devastatingly small numbered score I dramatically fist punched the air and mouthed the word fuck. Then I realized how retarded I looked so I mouthed fuck again and tried to think of all the ass holes responsible for my new identity as quietly over-dramatic air assailant.

First there was the guy standing on the one lane subway escalator, even as he heard people running behind him. I should explain that the escalator ride to the subway platform is comparable to what I imagine a coal miner would take to work. It runs at an 87 degree angle. The only way to find out how far you are from the ground is to drop a match and watch it fall. Basically its long.

The train was coming and Mr. "its so wonderful to take a break from life" seemed to be enjoying his magical automated stairway descent. Didn't he know that he should be rushing at all times for absolutely no reason? And what the hell was with the smile? And who looks around at things admiringly? And who carries toys in a bag that says "for sick children"? What a douche.

I made sure to make extra noise coming down the escalator stairs, slamming down my heels and letting out subtle lady grunts. But he didn't budge. I tapped my toes behind him but still no movement. He didn't even notice my exasperated sighs. I guess you could say I was hurt.

When we finally got to the end of the escalator I heard the train screeching to a halt and there was one more set of stairs I had to tackle. I pushed happy man out of my way and said something awesome like "sianora" or "hasta la peace tards" and nimbly descended the final steps before I lept into the train like a graceful brown swan.

Out of breath (I ran almost 50 feet, it was terrible) I screamed hizzah the second the doors slammed shut to leave happy man in a cloud of rat feces dust. Luckily I was in the first car which is reserved for old cynical people and they joined in on my celebration. We danced, and cheered and cried a little. I forgot what this post was about and I am tired, and my computer is about to run out of minutes so I have to go.*

*Last joke property of Stuffy Greasy-ho, all rights reserved.

Can it be true?

2009-12-15T00:56:00.004-05:00

Just a year ago from now, I left the Continent of Australia and with it the major portion of my cardiac region I like to call my soul. Heartbroken I boarded a 24 hour flight away from my one true love, Tim Tam. (for those of you who don't know, Tim Tams are the best cookies ever made. They are responsible for countless smiles and the expanding midsections of many unsuspecting study abroaders.)

But recently it seems the Aussie government has lifted its strict border restrictions and agreed to share the heavenly chocolate and wafer perfected combination to the world. So far the only New York sighting has been at Jin's Corner Grocery on 181st and Ft. Washington but my sources say they have spotted Tim and Tam soaking up the fluorescent night lights at various Target locations.

So if you haven't been to heaven, you have two choices:

A.) Come over for tea, cookies and gossip with yours Truli and her puppet entourage. (You will not believe who I caught cross dressing the other day. I'll give you a hint, he was so embarrassed he flaked.)
B.) Die when saving a burning bus of blind puppy-children.

See you soon!

No title necessary

2009-12-13T16:30:00.001-05:00

I plugged in my new humidifier and got so excited I decided to make celebration soup. But then I realized something. I am a loser.

Victory will be mine in time

2009-12-12T08:24:00.002-05:00

It's only half a victory when you wear new makeup for today but old hair from last night. And then your eyebrows chime in with "nice try" or "hey remember these" and wiggle their stray hairs in the wind. Beauty, you are a horse in the night I chase blindfolded with one Rollerblade and a skateboard.

'Press'ing News 12.10.09

2009-12-10T17:21:00.001-05:00

Babies

To the wind, dignity! Nice to meet you future of crippling loneliness.

2009-12-09T22:46:00.005-05:00

So I went to the doctor the other day and she immediately told me to stop eating doughnuts. This was very strange because a.) it was my first visit so she's not aware of my unhealthy obsession and b.) she is a gynecologist. I feel like this is not something that I should advertise but since I've cleverly masked my identity no one will be able to say things to me on the street like "hey, there goes doughnut vagina."

This is Prudence Press 10 telling everyone to be safe and proud of lady area check ups.

*She only told me the doughnut thing because she noticed a skin irritation on my arm and said that staying away from unhealthy foods and drinking water will help. It has no bearing on my special place.

Yes, I realize that this post is one step closer to my unsolicited vow of celibacy. But this entire blog has been doing a pretty good job of that anyway.

Baby Purse, not what you think.

2009-12-09T01:22:00.007-05:00

Walking through the subway today I saw many women trying to hall their transportable baby cages up and down the stairs. It must have been so annoying because not only did they have to be with the annoying baby, but they had to have someone else there to help them like some obnoxious husband or boyfriend. When I have my baby I will make sure there is no 2nd party involved, and also I'll make sure I'm really good at blowing that baby off until it can walk like "oh sorry baby, I want to take you to the bar but you have to be this tall to get in" then I would raise my hand right over its head, give it a wink and a nose flick, and make sure to text the dog to feed it once in a while.

But I do see that most of these new mothers haven't acquired the necessary skills to properly brush off their babies so I thought I would offer some help. See if they could carry the baby like a purse, than they wouldn't need that other annoying person. (I'm lucky, I get to be alone constantly. And my friends can all tell how important it is for me to be alone since when I ask them to hang out they either say "no" "stop calling" or "please refer to the court sanctioned restraining order".

So that is why I am gathering up all my inner engineering strength to create:

THE BABY PURSE!

A purse made completely out of living baby, which can also hold cigarettes and lipsticks. Stay tuned...

'Press'ing News 12.07.09

2009-12-07T22:25:00.001-05:00

The search is on

Jamaica v. Brazil

2009-12-04T01:12:00.001-05:00

'Press'ing News 12.01.09

2009-12-01T21:07:00.001-05:00

'Press'ing News

2009-12-01T04:36:00.001-05:00

More accurate than Fox, CNN and The Upper Peninsula's Channel 6 news combined!

Piece

2009-11-23T14:46:00.003-05:00

So I was sitting alone feeling upset that no one has asked me to make a commercial. But then I thought "Prudence, have you ever even bothered to offer a commercial to anyone?" I can't believe I have been so rude. Here you go Peas industry. I hope you can forgive me for the delay.

5,4,3,2,1 done!

2009-11-21T08:02:00.002-05:00

Getting ready for work today I realize that I grossly underestimate the time it takes for me to get ready based on the amount of new food I have drunkenly purchased the night before. Standing in between the bathroom and the kitchen I do a quick time calculation (i'm studying for the GRE so I am smart now and do various calculations on a regular basis. But really I'm the same person.) I figure out I have 15 minutes total to get ready. I then look to the kitchen and the bag of groceries I forgot I'd picked up last night at 2:00 am. With this information I figure it should take about 35 seconds to shower, clean my room and put clothes on. This leaves 14 minutes and 25 seconds to make a salami, wonderbread and bbq chip sandwich for a well balanced breakfast. Side note, Did you know Oscar Myer Salami has chicken beef and pork? You get all your nutrients in one slice.

The worst moment of my entire life.

2009-11-13T17:27:00.006-05:00

I read the letter wrong. I just got a coupon to spend $100.00 on more ads from google. Oh god, that was such a contrast between emotions. I feel as if I went to hug what I thought was marshmallow puppy but turned out to be a pile of daggers and old eggs.

The Single Happiest Moment of my entire life and 4 lives to come.

2009-11-13T17:17:00.002-05:00

I would just like to share my gratitude and joy with all of you absolutely wonderful cyber readers. Today I have received my first check from Google ads in the amount of $100.00. Prudence Press 10 has officially became a lucrative venture. (The amount of times I got laid purely because of my blog don't count. Especially since more times than not I ended up having to pay afterward, new york prostitutes are pretty crafty.)

Just a quick post tonight, I am off to put my earnings in my after hours savings account. His name is Don Julio and he gives me lots of interest. (sorry for the horrific pun.. actually fuck it I'm rich)

Grad School is for Pussies

2009-11-12T16:57:00.005-05:00

So I am in the midst of asking for letters of recommendations to get into a post-graduate program. I never expected my professors to write me a glowing commendation, but I wasn't prepared for the massive blitz of let downs and insults. (You call in one bomb threat and bam! scarred for life) Feeling a bit defeated I asked great friend and wonderful dance star Pally Pancakes to write me her own recommendation in hopes of getting in anywhere, which is looking more and more like its going to be AAU... Alcoholics Anonymous University.

I have been an avid reader of PP10 for months now (long before all the breakthrough videos and hanging with C-Man and the millions in adverts…I knew Pru before she ever went Hollywood…err, New York…bitches) and I was honored to be offered a chance at a "guest spot" on this revered creative literary platform. Prudence requested my essay on a bright sunny November day, the sort of day when Pru used hide out in her room in Lansing d'est with the shades closed, alternating between ab-lounger (YES! I said lounger! You cannot stop me, it is written), Doritos break, "cleaning" her room, break for weird skillet full of fridge-food, and the rare but holy occasion in which she would make an appearance on The Couch to watch Girlfriends with Mandrea Benders, Balls, and myself.

But I digress. Dear Prudence asked moi, Pally Pancakes, for a letter of recommendation of the best sorts: a friend-ommendation! Naturally I accepted. When Pru offers you work, you take it. When will that lazy secretary (Yuli, Fuli, what's her name?) ever learn? In the spirit of the moniker of this treasured publication, PP 10, I will write ten reasons why everyone in the world should yearn to be friends with Prudence.

10. Even when she is hung over from the whiskey poured down her throat from that pesky secretary (Nuli?) the night before, Pru will walk with you to CVS to acquire Sun Chips and Arizona Green Tea. You will only have to beg her for 15 minutes! She will then purchase something equally unhealthy so you do not feel bad about your nutrition choices (and she NEVER hoards her Kit Kats or eats them in bed).

9. Prudence has a bear and best friend, Geebs, whose fashion advice is world renowned and coveted by the likes of Heidi Klum and Michael Kors. Pru's bear Geebs is also scandalicious and provides hours of juicy gossip as he gets caught in inappropriate trysts with his old neighbor, Elizabeth the Bear.

8. When you travel with Prudence and you share a room in a hostel, she will kindly explode her suitcase on ONLY her side of the room.

7. She will share her video ipod with you when you want to watch episodes of The Office. Then, she will NOT give you sidelong glares as you giggle aloud to yourself.

6. Prudence has superhuman healing powers. When you accidentally push her down a flight of stairs and she breaks the plexiglass window at the bottom, she will come out completely unscathed.

5. She is a stellar athlete, as exhibited by her athletic uniform of choice, oversized basketball jerseys. (Do you think a hardcore athlete like her would wear that wimpy stuff of pastel colored tees and tight yoga pants while lazily climbing a Stairmaster and flipping through People Magazine?! Puhhlease) Despite her Olympic status, she will still deign to play racquetball and tennis with you (and she will never complain that you are uncoordinated or lazy on the court).

4. She is very worldly and cultured. She will practice Franglais with you for your French 320 Oral Expressions class, and she will also invite you to the Mountain of Iron for the world's most multi-cultural tailgate.

3. Despite all that distance as she now lives in the New City of York, Prudence is an excellent advice-giver. She will dispense sound and informative advice: if you ask for guidance on office refrigerator etiquette, Prudence will helpfully inform you of very important tactics in the art of war.

2. Prudence is a gifted film maker and if you are her friend, she will include you in her work, even if most of your camera time is voguing and flipping your hair. She is such a pro, she never makes rookie mistakes like leaving the camera on record when she puts it in her bag, or having it on pause for an entire evening of recording. No, never.

1. Prudence has an aura about her, which makes you just want to be around her, all the time. Even if that time is spent watching 45 minutes of infomercials for the Fluidity Bar, planning a Masquerade Ball, or spending thousands upon thousands of dollars at Target, if you are with Pru, you know you are in for a good time (just as long as she doesn't bring that assistant along…Puli?)

Prudonomics

2009-11-11T19:04:00.006-05:00

My attempts at looking like an adult have recently been thwarted by the constant onslaught of laffy taffy wrappers falling out of my briefcase. But keep in mind, a good business woman is only as good as her latest knock knock joke. So with no further adieu:

knock knock
who's there
Madame
Madame who?
Open up Madame foot's caught in the door.

(this joke kills in Paris where I do most of my business. You know because of my biggest client C-Man. You may know him as Croissant Man, but that is because you aren't as famous and important as I am. Famous and important are terms interchangeable with deluded and sad)

Wedding Chronicles: 3

2009-11-11T01:11:00.001-05:00

The big day

Wedding Chronicles: 2

2009-11-10T04:07:00.001-05:00

Wedding Chronicles: 1

2009-11-10T00:40:00.002-05:00

On the way to Beth and Ben's wedding (aka Paz and Don Quixote) Tristan Pally Brian and I have a mature adult discussion.