Part 3 of That Nasty Post

I took a deep breath. The moment of truth had begun. One at a time, the head judge called the contestants to the stage. Each contestant was required to bring their entry to the stage, hold it up for the audience to view, then give a short speech about their work. The first person who came out was a woman who'd brought an eagle her dad's best friend's brother had killed and stuffed himself. She'd grown up dressing the eagle in baby clothes and pushing it around in a pram. She loved this eagle because she thought it was really funny that her dad's best friend's brother killed the eagle and stuffed it.

Not quite what I had expected.

The next woman works as a professional bug-pinner for the Natural History Museum. She'd brought four tiny diorama's she'd created, anthropomorphizing various South American beetles. She mentioned how she keeps the beetles in her freezer next to her roommates Skinny Cows until she's ready to use them. Based on what she said about her work, I am certain that those diorama's were beautiful and compelling, but I couldn't see them. I couldn't see them because the stage upon which the contestants work was displayed was lit for a sweaty band of boys playing bad renditions of Iggy Pop hits, not for the art I was hoping to see.

The next guy was a short, round, sweaty, fast-talking Japanese guy with an accent so thick I could hardly understand a word he was saying. He used his own taxidermied skin to create squid-baby, two-headed baby and mer-girl. He tried to explain his process - I understood that "summer is best time peal skin" but I'm still not sure if he was actually skinning himself or just using flaked sun-burnt skin. Either way, it would have been really great if I could have actually seen his sculptures. But I could not.

I also couldn't see the eight-hour old yorkie puppie that had been given to the taxidermist by a devastated breeder who'd never lost a puppy. I could kind of make out the plastic skeleton being sold off as Mickey Mouse's actual skeleton and I did not think it was funny or clever or interesting. I was also not amused by the woman who entered into the contest a skull she found on a trip to New Mexico but she wasn't sure what it was, a shellacked alligator-head she bought at a Rite-Aid in Louisiana and a "really cool rock" that she alleged might have a dinasour fossil in it, but she wasn't sure, and she'd love to know if the judges thought so. I was even less interested when the same woman proceeded to read aloud an ad she'd found on the internet for a stuffed piranha from Japan. The ad was obviously written by a person who did not speak English as a first language, yet this "really cool rock" woman seemed to feel that making vicious remarks about someone's ability to write in a language not their own had some relevancy to a rogue taxidermy contest. However, it wasn't until a woman who's contest entry was a bottle of deer's urine and her entire talk was a sales pitch for a particular brand of deer urine that her father manufactures, I decided I'd had enough. Sure, Rabmer, the soft-mounted under-sea jack rabbit was incredible, but it was after ten o'clock and we had an hour ahead of us on the train and I just couldn't take it anymore.

The evening was a crushing disappointment. I haven't been that disappointed in at least four hours, but if I learned one thing, it was this:

DON'T MAKE EYE-CONTACT WITH THE HIPSTERS.

Click here for Part 1

Click here for Part 2

That Nasty Post, Continued

And the answer to last week's Question Of The Week is:

C) You'd let a Very Boring Woman give a Very Boring Speech about a Very Boring Book she wrote, follow it with a psychedelic movie about a deer's butt and then let random people come up from the audience to show whatever the fuck they felt like showing, while they yelled into a microphone about how their dad's friend's brother was a taxidermist who preferred stuffing eagles he killed over all other creatures.

---

The contest started at nine and it did not begin with an introduction to the rogue taxidermists who's work would be on display, no it did not. Instead, it started with The World's Most Boring Woman giving The World's Most Boring Speech. Who was this Boring Woman? A taxidermist? No. She's an author trying to sell the book she just published about taxidermy. Maybe I'd buy the book, maybe if she had cared enough about her book to make a smart marketing decision and hire someone to play her, because the real and actual her was so boring that if I had to choose between having hot needles shoved under my fingernails or listening to that Boring Woman give another speech, you can bet I'd go for the hot needles.

Next, there was an art film. It's too bad I can't accurately type out the sarcasm with which I use the words art film. They played a psychadelic art film about an endangered creature known as the "rumpape". From what I gathered, a rumpape is a face made out of a deer's stomach and placed into his butt. It looks a little like a monkey, but not really. The most surprising thing about the movie was that it actually succeeded in offending me.

You read that right.

The rumpape movie offended me. Me. Me, the woman who has planned to have Valentine freeze-dried and posed as if she's humping a pillow, because that is how I will want to remember her after she dies. I was slightly offended by the rumpape.

It was then, in the after-sting of slight offendedness, that the contest finally began. At nine-thirty. A full two hours after the show was scheduled to start.

To Be Continued...

This may be the nastiest post I've written

tax*i*der*my

noun

the art of preparing, stuffing, and mounting the skins of animals with lifelike effect.

Last week I was flipping through Time Out New York --

It just occurred to me that most of my readers are related to me, live in Southern California, and have no idea what Time Out New York (TONY) is.

It is my belief that at one time, TONY magazine was a great vehicle for finding interesting things to do in the city, great places to shop, the best places to eat, et cetera. Unfortunately, the TONY that I know is a giant wad of advertisements with four pages at the end detailing all of the places to go if you want to get spanked, poop on someone's face, find someone to watch you have sex with your stuffed panda and which porn shops specialize in celebrity look-alike movies with matching dolls.

Last week I was flipping through TONY because, I don't know, it was there and, ALL RIGHT I'LL ADMIT IT. I like reading about the people who think it's hot to wear butt-plugs shaped like horsey tails. It makes me laugh. So I'm flipping through TONY and I come across an ad for:

Drumroll, please.

......

A ROGUE TAXIDERMY CONTEST.

IN BROOKLYN.

......

I almost freaked out. My first thought was, Mike will never go. And it's in Brooklyn. That's like, eight hours away.

My next thought was: IT'S A ROGUE TAXIDERMY CONTEST AND IT'S IN MY CITY.

Do you know what rogue taxidermy is? I didn't either. But I started having these visions --visions of incredible, beautiful, enchanting, bizarre creatures, sculptures made of once living flesh, two-headed rats and four-nippled snakes. I did a quick little internet search for "rogue taxidermy" and read about these artists who use donated pets, roadkill, and other animals who've died of totally natural causes or met with accidental disasters, and they create these incredible works of art using dead flesh as their medium.

Is that not absolutely right up my alley? It absolutely is!

In reality, I wasn't very impressed with the pictures of dead-things art that I saw online. They were all right, but the stuff I was seeing in my head was so much cooler. I just knew that those photos weren't even important. The photos were barely the tip of the ice berg. This rogue taxidermy contest? It was going to be the zenith of my fantasies. It was going to be the end all be all answer to my questions about life and who I am and what I should be doing and what my secret dreams are. This contest was going to change me, forever.

Do you remember when I wrote about how big my expectations get? I'm just saying.

*Weird coincidence: I talk about roadkill in that post too.*

So I get all these ideas in my head. And before I know it, I am more excited about this rogue taxidermy contest than I can remember being about anything in ages, except maybe when I booked that Life On Mars episode. (But I won't mention how that was almost a year ago, because I wouldn't want to make myself feel bad or anything.)

By last Friday I was more excited about a rogue taxidermy contest than I had been about anything in a really long time. Saturday felt like the longest day of my life. Sunday I was practically hysterical. I was showered, dressed, had walked the dogs, had my shoes on, my purse packed, ready to walk out the door by ten o'clock in the morning, a full six-and-a-half hours before it was actually time to go.

I trust you understand the weight of that small detail.

We arrived at the venue at seven-thirty on the dot, and proceeded to wait around for an hour-and-a-half because although the contest was scheduled to begin at seven-thirty sharp, it did not begin until nine. NINE. Nine. They were running an hour-and-a-half behind schedule. They might as well have ripped out my heart.

Question: If you were hosting a rogue taxidermy contest, what would be the first order of business after making your excited audience members wait an hour-and-a-half for your contest to begin?

A) You'd introduce the evening's contestants to the audience.

B) You'd give a short talk about rogue taxidermy and then introduce the contestants.

C) You'd let a Very Boring Woman give a Very Boring Speech about a Very Boring Book she wrote, follow it with a psychedelic movie about a deer's butt and then let random people come up from the audience to show whatever the fuck they felt like showing, while they yelled into a microphone about how their dad's friend's brother was a taxidermist who preferred stuffing eagles he killed over all other creatures?

To be continued...

Psychiatrist's are people too. Or something.

Last summer Mike and I signed up for couples counseling at this therapy center in Midtown.

Did I just tell the internet that we signed up for couples counseling? Yes, I did. Hold on a second while I find a soap box to climb up on....

I know some people shy away from therapy and couples counseling, but I think it's brilliant. The only reason we left couples counseling last time (we've been in and out for as long as we've been together. I swear it's why we still like each other) was because our therapist spent most of our sessions talking about herself instead of letting us talk. Let me provide a breif example of what our sessions were like:

Mike: She hits the snooze button like, fourteen times in the morning. It's infuriating!
Me: Well... I'm sorry! I don't do it on purpose.
Therapist: Oh my gosh. That is so funny. My husband does the same thing! It drives me crazy. We've tried everything to get him to wake up the first time the alarm goes off, but he just doesn't. Sometimes I want to smother him! 
Me: Uh... anyway, Mike stays up really late reading and I can't go to sleep if he's reading, so then I'm too tired to get up in the morning, so it's not entirely my fault.
Mike: Why don't you use that little eye pillow I bought you?
Therapist: My husband and I stay up late watching 30 Rock. That is just the best show! We're in the middle of season 2. We can't get enough of it! Have you watched it? It's great. My favorite character is Liz Lemon. I really identify with her. Except I'm married and I have a great sex life. And I'm not baby crazy. Ew, babies, gross! But we're both really smart women, very career oriented. I just think it's the greatest show.....

People who talk incessantly about nothing drive me crazy. But paying someone to talk incessantly about nothing? REALLY DRIVES ME CRAZY.

We should have suspected that this therapy place would be bunky, considering our initial experience there. Before we could start therapy, we had to be evaluated by a psychiatrist, and oh! What an experience that was. We showed up on the day of our evaluation and were greeted by the receptionist, a cheerful girl seated at a desk midway between the elevator and the administrative offices. She told us to have a seat in the waiting area, and that our evaluating psychiatrist would probably be a few minutes late. No problem, we said. It was 11:45 a.m. and our appointment wasn't until noon, so we sat back and started flipping through magazines. 

At 12:05 the elevator doors opened and an ancient, tiny, beautifully dressed woman stepped out of the elevator. Her bouffant hair-do was a glistening, snowy white. Her back was straight, her nails were manicured, her makeup flawless. I expected to watch her glide out of the elevator, a vision of elderly perfection, but instead she took a tentative step into the lobby and then began a slow and painful looking lurch towards the administrative office. I think it took her fifteen minutes to cross the fifteen foot lobby. Halfway through her journey, as she passed the reception desk, the receptionist chirped, "Good morning, Rita!" and she whipped her head up and spat, "WHO ARE YOU?"

The receptionist glanced over at Mike and I, then smiled weakly. She turned to Rita and said, "It's me, Rita. The daytime receptionist. Lauren."

"I don't know any Lauren." Rita hissed. Then she hobbled her way over to the administrative office. 

This little scene piqued my curiosity, so I craned my head around to see past the reception desk. The entryway to the administrative office was lined with mailboxes. Rita stood in front of them, pulling a stack of file folders from one, scrutinizing each folder with a furrowed brow. A minute later she turned and lurched back over to the reception desk. Eight minutes after that she reached the reception desk.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Rita?" Lauren asked.

Rita's eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. "Who are you? How do you know my name?"

Lauren sighed. "I'm Lauren. The receptionist. What can I assist you with?"

"How did you get here?" Rita's mouth was gaping. She looked a little bit like a fish on land, gasping for water.
"I've worked here for the last seven months."
"Don't sass me, girl!"
Lauren took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then smiled. "Can I assist you with something?"
"I need my evaluation files."
"Aren't these your files?" Lauren asked, pointing to the stack of files in Rita's hand.
"No!" She huffed. "I need my files."
Lauren pulled a piece of paper from a drawer in her desk. "This is today's evaluation sheet," she explained, "and these are the names of your patients for today. They are the same names as the names on those files." Rita grimaced, blinked, examined the evaluation sheet. "See?" Lauren continued, "These are your files. They're all here."
Rita gasped. "Where did these come from??"
"... Your hand?"
"WHAT?"
"You were holding them. You got them out of your mailbox."
"My mailbox? What mailbox?"
Lauren closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead. She took another deep breath and turned to me and Mike, innocent bystanders on a pleather bench. "Your 12 o'clock clients are here, Rita. Are you ready for them?"

Oh dear god. THIS was our EVALUATING PSYCHIATRIST?

Rita stared at the receptionist, blinking her eyes as if trying to clear something fuzzy from her vision. "What? ... Oh! Yes. I have a new couple today. Do you know if they're here?"

"They're sitting right behind you. They're all ready to go."
"Who is?"
"Mike and Tricia Frost."
"Who's that?"
"... Your 12 o'clock clients..."
"Yes. I have a new couple. Are they here?"
"They're right behind you."
Rita looked over her shoulder, a four-minute maneuver, looked right at me and Mike, and turned back to Lauren. "No, he isn't. I don't see him."

"Him? No, Rita. It's a couple. They're right there."

"A couple? Why would I see a couple?"

At which point I stood up and introduced myself. In retrospect, I should have grabbed my purse and my husband and run screaming in the other direction, but I'm too polite. Or I'm too much like a throw rug. Either one. So I held out my hand and said, "I'm Tricia Frost. This is my husband. We're here to be evaluated for couples counseling."

Rita stared at me, mouth agape. Then she whispered to Lauren, "Who are those people? Why are they looking at me?"

"This is the couple that has a 12 o'clock appointment to be evaluated by you."

"I don't have a client."

"Yes, you are seeing a couple at 12 o'clock. Mike and Tricia Frost. It's right here on the evaluation schedule."

"Oh. Where's their file?"
"In your hand."
"No, it isn't."
Lauren pointed to the file clutched in Rita's bony hand. "It's right there. In your hand."
"Where'd that come from?"

Regarding the last post:

Dr. Smith comes in this morning and sees his message from caller Jane Doe from yesterday. And starts LAUGHING. He looks at me and says, "Did you take this message?"

"Yes, I did."
"Pssshhh. I'm not writing this woman a letter! SHE'S CRAZY."
"Uh ... Yeah. That was pretty clear."

And then I told him what I told you guys.

And he rolled his eyes and said, "She's never going to be a therapist because she's nuts. She refuses to cooperate with our program. She's NOT a student in good standing because she won't do ANY of the things she needs to do to be a good student. What a nut job."

He said that.

He called her a 'nut job'.

I FELT SO VINDICATED.

Also? I just drank a dirty vodka martini on an empty stomach. But know what? I TOTALLY DESERVE IT. IT'S BEEN A LONG WEEK. So there. Now I'm going to lay inb ed and wathc the entire second seaosn of Heroes'. And also typeing while tpsy is a bad idea. Wheeeeeeeee~!

This woman thinks she should make her living by helping people work through their issues.

Me: Good afternoon, Dr. Smith's office.

Caller: Dr. Smith, please.

Me: I'm sorry, he's not in today. May I take a message?

Caller: Doesn't he have voicemail?

Me: He prefers hand-written messages.

Caller: (Big sigh.) Fine. My name is Jane Doe. I'm a student of his. I'm changing schools and I need him to write a letter explaining that I'm a student in good standing.

Me: (writing, writing, writing, writing.)

Caller: HELLO?

Me: I'm writing down your message. Hold on.

Caller: (Exasperated sigh.)

Me: All right. Your phone number?

Caller: Read it back to me.

Me: Uh...

Caller: READ THE MESSAGE BACK TO ME.

Me: "Jane Doe, a student of yours, is transferring schools and would like you to write a letter proving she's a student in good standing."

Caller: I don't have to prove anything. Why did you write that?

Me: ....

Caller: I know I'm a good student. I don't have to prove anything. Rewrite the message.

Me: I didn't mean to insinuate that you have anything to prove, it's just what I wrote down.

Caller: Well, I don't have anything to prove, so rewrite the message.

Me: ... all right ... (writing, writing, writing, writing)

Caller: HEL-LO?

Me: I'm still writing....

Caller: (More exasperated sighing.) Read it back when you're done.

Me: "Jane Doe is one of your students. She's transferring schools and would like you to write a letter stating that she is a student in good standing."

Caller: What's wrong with you?? You need to do it again. Only this time, write that I'm leaving his school and starting up somewhere else and that's why he needs to write me the letter.

Me: How about I write you a letter stating that you're a micro-managing BITCH and that you ought to get therapy rather than give it?

This Title Is Definitely Not "Homeless Lady Feet"

Homeless Lady Feet

This photo has attracted 4,312 views on Flickr since I posted it in June of 2007. A whopping 33% of that traffic came from search engines. Apparently there are people in the world doing google searches for "homeless lady feet". I've lost track of how many Flickr users I've blocked because they leave comments like, "I'd love to lick your toes" or "I want to stroke your feet with my penis" or "I'd like to put those dirty little toes in my anus." Is that supposed to be flattering? Because it isn't. Just saying.

The above photo is also the reason why I had to write this warning on my Flickr profile last year. Despite my profile warning, the Crazies insist on commenting on that photo and then adding me as their friends on Flickr. I know they're Crazies because when I check out their profiles to see who is adding me, all of their photos are x-rated. Not normal, run-of-the-mill x-rated. No, no. That would be creepy enough. These photos? The photos the crazies post? These photos are x-rated photos involving food products and squid tentacles and kitchen appliances and poop.

At first I thought it was funny. I would click on the profiles and look at the photos and laugh and then block them. (Hey, FAIR WARNING. You didn't read my profile? You didn't know I'd block you? SUCK IT.) I don't think it's funny anymore. Now it just gives me the creeps.

Today, I removed the photo. I'm taking my power back, Flickr Crazies! I will no longer be fodder for your twisted imaginings! I will no longer allow my pretty feet to be exploited, lusted after, or defiled because at some point in your toddler-hood you found comfort in the mess in your diapers or because your mother punished you by walking on your back in spike heels. No! No. I resolve, here and now, to never post a photo of my feet on Flickr ever again. I've learned my lesson.

(Although possibly not well enough to prevent me from posting the photo on my blog. Does this mean I'll start getting more traffic to this site? Because I think I could use it.)

Meth is bad. MmmKuey?

Public transit used to terrify me. When I first moved to NYC, I was terrified to ride the subways after dark. And the busses? I was afraid to ride those during the day. In Los Angeles public transit is scary. It's filthy, it's unpredictable, it's full of barefooted people with vomit down their shirts who foam at the mouth while they talk to the empty seat next to them. I thought it would be that way in Manhattan too.

I'd only been in the city for about a week when I found myself needing to ride the subway after dark. It was ten p.m., pouring rain and there were no cabs anywhere, so I held my breath and prayed to God that I would make it home alive. I laugh when I think of that now because riding the subway and the busses has become so commonplace. They are clean (generally), they are reliable (usually) and the crazies keep to themselves (mostly).

A few weeks ago I left Adam's apartment a little later than usual. I usually leave his place around eleven or eleven-thirty, but this particular Sunday I didn't make it out his door until midnight. I didn't think anything of it - I've taken the train home after midnight a hundred times. Though, when I got to the train platform, I started to feel a little uneasy. The train was at the station, it's doors open, and every single car I walked past was empty. It's unusual to be the only person anywhere in New York, so I chalked my nervous feelings up to that. I'm just not used to being alone, I told myself. I found the middle car, the one that always has a conductor in it, and I sat down. I felt safer knowing there was a conductor just a few feet away from me, even if we were separated by a steel door. Just as the train was about to pull out, a man slipped through the closing doors. Despite the twenty degree weather, he was wearing sandals, jeans and a t-shirt. Instead of sitting down, he started pacing back and forth through the car, shaking his hands at his sides as if flinging water from them, shaking his head back and forth as if saying an adamant 'no'. And then he stopped, right in front of me.

"Excuse me, miss. Can you tell me how to get to Manhattan?" He was terribly underweight, his skin jaundiced, his cheeks pocked and hollow, his teeth - those that were left - rotting. His eyes looked like lit flames in his skull. He was standing too close to me. He was clearly very, very agitated.

I looked him right in his eyes because I'd recently read that you're less likely to be raped if you make eye contact with your assailant. Apparently, if they think you'll be able to pick them out of a line-up, they won't bother with you. But I wondered if that was the right protocol for possible knife-wielding maniacs.

"Just stay on this train. This is a Manhattan bound train." I said, trying to sound casual.

"Thank you, Ma'am. Would you happen to have a tobacco product? A cigarette? I prefer menthol. Menthol cigarettes."

"No, I'm sorry. I don't smoke."

"That's all right, miss. Thank you." And then he resumed his furious pacing.

Thirty seconds later he was standing in front of me again.

"Excuse me, Miss. Can you tell me how to get to Manhattan?"

I paused. I looked in his eyes. He seemed to have no recollection of having just asked me that exact question.

"This is a Manhattan bound train. You're on the right track."

"Thank you, Ma'am. Would you happen to have a tobacco product? A cigarette? I prefer menthol. Menthol cigarettes."

Seriously? Did we not just go over this?

"I'm sorry. I don't smoke."

"That's all right, miss. Thank you." And he resumed pacing.

Thirty seconds later: "Excuse me, Miss. Can you tell me how to get to Manhattan?"

OH MY GOD.

"You're headed there now."

"Thank you, Ma'am. Would you happen to have a tobacco product? A cigarette? I prefer menthol. Menthol cigarettes."

At this point, I was smothering a laugh. "I'm sorry. I don't smoke."
"That's all right, miss. Thank you."

When we hit the first stop I got off, walked over to the next car and got back on. Not because I was scared, but because I didn't think I'd be able to give him straight answers anymore.

"Do you happen to have a tobacco product? A cigarette?"

"No, sorry. The little green men stole them."

"Can you tell me how to get to Manhattan?"

"Manhattan? Didn't you hear? IT FELL IN THE HUDSON AND EVERYONE DROWNED."

Rich Bitch

One lovely morning in the Spring of 2006, Valentine and I were out for our morning walk when a girl driving a silver Lexus SUV pulled up next to me on the street. She was about my age, salon-pefect hair, teeth so white and straight they couldn't be natural, acrylic french tips, fake tits, the whole deal. She was laughing as she rolled down her tinted window, the scent of some nauseating but probably absurdly expensive perfume wafting out, and then she yelled at me, "Don't forget to pick up your dog shit!" Perhaps she is trying to do her civil duty by reminding me to curb my dog, I thought. But could she not see that I was, in fact, holding a bag full of dog shit? In the hand closest to her car? A car which costs more money than I earn in a year? Was it not perfectly clear that my dog was being curbed? The look on her face was smug, self-satisfied, better-than-thou. And when I noticed her friends, four perfect carbon-copies seated around her, giggling behind their acrylic nails and Tiffany bracelets, I realized, they don't care if I pick up after my dog. They're yelling at me because they find it amusing. They're laughing at me, not with me. They remind me of those hateful cheerleader girls from high school who would come up to me, their glossy lips pinched into nasty little smiles, and say things like, "Cute sweater. Where'd you get it? Target?" and then skip off, giggling with their identical bleached blonde friends.

So I laughed and yelled back, "No fucking problem!" and threw my open bag of dog shit at her perfectly detailed and sparkling gas guzzler. Horror crossed her face as the reeking brown mass slammed into the side of her car and dribbled towards her shimmering, thousand dollar rims. AND I FELT SO MUCH BETTER.

Louis Vuitton would not be impressed.

Once upon a time, I worked at a medi-spa which specialized in non-invasive fat and cellulite reduction treatments. The medi-spa was run by a physician who, long before I arrived, had put into place some very strict yet necessary protocol regarding new clients. This protocol involved the obtaining of a potential client's credit card number in order to secure his or her appointment. Any time a client gave their credit card number, they were told that they would be charged the full fee for any appointment missed, if they failed to cancel or reschedule a minimum of twenty-four hours prior to said appointment. Every client, new and returning, was given this information over the phone and in all emails confirming and reminding them of their appointments. When I came to work for the spa, I took this protocol very seriously.

One morning, this strange woman walked in. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties. She would have been pretty except that she had dried green crust clinging to her nostrils and a vacant look in her eyes. She was dressed well and she was carrying a brand-new Louis Vuitton bag - one of those bags that's so big it could hold the kitchen sink, only this one looked sunken in, as if it were empty. The woman walked up to my desk, staring and unsmiling. She was breathing through her mouth and from where I was sitting I could smell her sour breath. I inched my chair backwards because I didn't want to catch whatever bug was making her face look like a neglected preschoolers. All that dried snot was extremely unsettling.

"Can I help you?" I asked.
"I want my money." Snot Nose had been staring at me for at least twenty seconds and she hadn't blinked yet.
"I'm sorry?"
"You stole from me." Her lower lip began to tremble.
"I don't.... I don't understand."
"You stole from me three hundred dollars!" She was nearly shouting. "I make appointment and I cannot come from school and you steal three hundred dollars! I am very poor! I want my money!" If she's so poor, I thought, why is she carrying a Louis Vuitton bag? 

I asked for her name and when she gave it, it was as if she'd hit a refresh button on my brain. I knew exactly who she was and why she was accusing me of having stolen three hundred dollars from her. 

A few weeks before, she'd sent an email through the spa website asking for an appointment. She explained that she was a student at NYU, new to the U.S. and "very fat". She lamented her weight and her feeling that she had no time for exercise and no money for healthy food. She mentioned several times that she was "very poor" but willing to spend the money on the treatments if we thought they would work for her. Lastly, she requested that all communication be via email as her English was not very good and she found it much simpler to communicate in writing. 

My first thought was, if this woman is so poor, why is she spending money on these fancy treatments? Seriously. It's like Octo-Mom spending California tax dollars on acrylic nails and Starbucks runs. Not smart. But it's not my place to judge, so I wrote the woman back suggesting she schedule a free consultation with the doctor to determine how well the treatments might work before she just jumped in and started spending money. She wrote back that she didn't want a consult, she just wanted to get treatment started. When I replied to set the appointment I stated, in very clear terms, our cancellation policy. I explained that her credit card would be charged $150 if she did not cancel or reschedule a minimum of twenty-four hours prior to her appointment. She wrote back, "No problem!" and gave me her credit card info. 

She never showed up for her appointment. I sent a courtesy email expressing our regret that she did not cancel in a timely matter and that I had no choice but to comply with our standard policy. And then I charged her credit card $150.

A few days later, she emailed again, apologizing for missing her appointment and asking to set up a new one. No problem! I set up the appointment and, again, reminded her of the costly cancellation policy.

She did not show up for that appointment, either. I charged her again. And now she was standing in front of me, green encrusted snotty nose, quivering lip, Louis Vuitton bag, and all. And she was accusing me of stealing from her. And she was staring at me as if her eyes were poisonous laser beams that would blow me into a pink mist.

I took a deep breath and began an attempt to explain the situation, from the spa's point of view. By the time I finished, her whole body was shaking. She was clutching her Louis Vuitton bag to her chest and her eyes were screaming with fury. She did not shout, but there was a terrifying ferocity in her voice and she spoke through clenched teeth: "GIVE ME MY MONEY! GIVE ME MY MONEY! GIVE ME MY MONEY! GIVE ME MY MONEY!"

It suddenly occurred to me that she might be the type of person who would carry a sawed-off shotgun in her Louis Vuitton bag. I thought it might be time to call 9-1-1. Just as I was reaching for the phone, our cute FedEx guy opened the front door. 

"Good morning!" Cute FedEx Guy called out. The entryway is narrow and Snot-Nose was blocking his way. 

"Excuse me, miss" he said. He was pushing a dolly loaded with boxes and trying to get past her. She did not move. Her scary laser-beam eyes were locked on mine. I was trying very hard not to look as scared as I felt. 

"Miss, I'm sorry, I need to get by." Cute FedEx Guy tried again. And then it was as if a spell had broken. Snot-Nose gasped, turned on her heel, and rushed out the door. I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Cute FedEx Guy unloaded his boxes, I signed for them and he left. I was on my way back to the physicians office to tell her all about Snot Nose when Cute FedEx Guy poked his head back through the door.

"Miss Frost? You might want to lock your front door. That woman who was just in here? She's standing on the corner screaming bloody murder." And when he turned to leave, I could actually hear it all the way down the block, the blatant shrieking of a savage lunatic. But then again, what is New York City without a deranged, snot-nosed weirdo screaming on the corner?

An Open Letter To The Asshole Who Doesn't Know How To Walk Down Stairs

Dear A**hole Who Lives In My Building And Doesn't Know How To Walk Down Stairs:

This afternoon it dawned on me that I owe you an apology. For nearly two years now, I have been quietly cursing you on a daily basis. Sometimes I curse you several times a day. At first, I just prayed that you'd be ripped from a peaceful sleep the way that I was when you stomped up and down the stairs every morning. Then, as I became more and more exhausted thanks to your uncanny ability to wake me up an hour before my alarm goes off every morning, I started praying that you'd break your legs and fracture your fingers. I realized I'd gone too far this morning when, at 6:00 a.m., I asked God to have someone wearing a ski mask smash in your skull, rip out your eyeballs and shove them down your bleeding throat. Just because you live your life with absolutely no regard for other people doesn't mean that I have to. I am sorry that I sunk down to your level. I mean, it isn't your fault that every time you stomp your way up and down three flights of stairs you scare the bejesus out of every dog in the building so that each one starts barking insanely, creating a cacophony of canine yelps that continues for thirty minutes after you are well out of ear shot. It's the fault of the people who have the dogs! Including me! What was I thinking when I adopted those furry friends? I should've known I'd never rest peacefully again, not when a neighbor might feel the need to stomp as loudly and heavily as possibly on each of thirty-six steps. You know who else is to blame, other than you? The building itself. For being so old and having such loud stairs. Of course, no one else who lives here makes as much noise as you do, except for that guy who is always slamming his front door. Except for him, every one else is pretty quiet. But I digress. From now on, you have my word that I will not wish you a slow, painful death. From now on, I will pray that you be killed quickly and swiftly. By someone wearing very heavy cleats.

Sincerely,
Your Neighbor Who Hates You.

It's not the worst thing I've ever done, but it might be the straw that broke the camel's back.

For the second time in three weeks I've spent the last two days fighting off some horrible, nasty bug. This time it's in my intestines. I'll spare you the gory details. When I finally rolled out of bed at 2 p.m. today, I couldn't tell if I was still feeling so horrible because it had been 48 hours since my last meal or because I'm really still so sick. Is that jackhammer pounding away in my skull a part of whatever is eating my intestines or is it because I haven't had a cup of coffee in two days?

Last night at work I was actually feeling so feverish that I think I had a hallucination. I don't know how else to explain the woman who appeared before me as I was trying to close down the office. She looked to be in her seventies and she was wearing a black coat and a garishly printed scarf. Thinking back, it could've been a Pucci scarf. Adam is always pointing out these really hideous articles of clothing people are wearing, things with geometric patterns in colors like puce and mustard yellow and neon pink and saying "OH! That's a real Pucci!" And I'm like, "Really? Someone paid decent money for that? It looks like what came out of my ass when I did that colon cleanse last year." Maybe Pucci is Italian for Pukey. I'm getting distracted. So she's wearing this horribly bright scarf, it's actually making my headache worse, and she's got this crazy little hat on, something with fur and lace and a couple of dead birds. Her make-up is caked on so thick I'm wondering if she's ever actually washed her face or if maybe she just adds more to yesterdays base every morning before she leaves the house. Her eyes are lined in black liner so thick it's scary, her eyelashes are gooped with mascara and her hot orange lipstick is seeping into the wrinkles around her mouth. Her appearance alone is startling, but then she's just kind of standing in front of my desk, swaying gently from side to side, staring at me. I didn't see her walk up or anything, I just looked up and there she was. Staring at me.

"Can I help you?"

"You don't know me. I don't know you. I was robbed today on the subway and I need money to get home." She points to the drawer where we keep the cash register. "Can you give me something?"

"Oh, wow. That's terrible. I'm so sorry. I don't carry cash."

It just pops out of my mouth: I don't carry cash. The truth is, I think I have at least five dollars in my purse, but there is something about this woman that is creeping me the EFF out. I'm watching her sway in front of me and wondering if I should risk offending her by reaching over and locking the door to the reception area so she can't come around. She's just a little old lady in a bad outfit, but something ain't right. And I definitely did not like the way she pointed at the cash drawer.

"I got robbed today on the subway and I don't know how to get home. I guess I'll just have to sleep at Penn Station. Unless you can give me some money." I swear she's staring at the cash drawer, but I can't be sure.

"Did you call the police after you were robbed?"

"No. The police don't care. This is New York."

"Well, why don't you call the police and file a report now? They'll give you a ride home afterwards or at least give you a taxi voucher or something."

"This is New York! They don't care! I live in New Jersey! I just need five dollars. Can you just give me five dollars?" Now I really think she's staring at the cash drawer. But I'm feverish so maybe I'm just being paranoid?

"I'm sorry, I don't have any cash. Don't you have someone you can call who can come pick you up?"

"I'll just sleep at Penn Station. Unless you can give me some money."

The whole time I'm talking to her, I'm thinking about my mom. What if it was my mom who got robbed and had to sleep in a train station because she had no money to get home? What if it was my mom asking some girl for a little bit of cash so she wouldn't have to spend the night in a train station and that girl was being a bitch and wouldn't give her any? The thought of my beautiful mama having to sleep in a train station is too awful, so I'm thinking maybe I should figure out a way to help this woman. Except the thing is, #1) my mom doesn't look or act like a crazy old lady. Except when she wants to for fun. #2) My mom would CALL THE POLICE THE MOMENT AFTER GETTING ROBBED. 3) My mom has lots of family members who would drop whatever they were doing to pick her up if she were stranded somewhere, so she wouldn't have to ask strangers for money. I'm also remembering those parables (is that the right word?) from the bible where they talk about the angels going down to earth and acting like sick beggars to see which humans are kind and which are greedy and I'm totally paranoid that God is testing me and that I'm failing. But this woman is creeping me out. And now I'm starting to get mad because I think she's putting me in a really awkward position. I'm starting to feel like this whole "I'll just sleep at the train station" business is a tool of manipulation.

"I don't understand why you didn't call the police after you were robbed. They'd have set you up with a way to get home."

She stares at me blankly for a moment and blinks her goopy painted eyes. "Because I was robbed. I didn't have a quarter for the payphone."

"You don't need a quarter! It's free to dial 9-1-1!"

Just then, one of the therapists comes around the corner. I breathe a sigh of relief because I suddenly realize I'm not alone in the building with this creepy woman.

"Hey, Jackie! This woman was robbed today."

"What? How awful!"

The woman starts jumping up and down. "No, no, no! I don't know her. She can't help me. You don't know me!" the woman is practically yelling at us.

"I don't know you, but I've seen you around before." Jackie replies.

So the woman sways over to Jackie and starts telling her story, how she just needs five dollars, etc. I lock the reception door and stealthily reach into my purse to check my wallet. I figure I'm better off giving her my five bucks and getting her to leave, than having her sway in front of me for the rest of the night. But I also don't want her to see me looking in my purse because I still feel like something is off with her. She's really creepy. Did I mention that?

"I'm sorry," Jackie is saying, "I really don't have any cash. You need to call the police. They will arrange a ride home for you."

I find three singles in my wallet, but that's all. "Excuse me, Ma'am?" I say. "I found three dollars in my wallet. That will help, won't it?"

She looks up at me, startled. "Where'd you get that?" she snaps.

"Um, in my wallet? I just thought I'd double check to see if I had cash and I have three dollars."

"That won't do me any good, will it? I need five dollars. Not three. This is ridiculous." And with that, she storms out of the office. Just like that. I mean, could she have been any more anti-climactical? Seriously? I thought for sure she was going to pull a gun out of her bag or put a hex on me at least. But that's it? She just leaves?

"OK, that was really weird." Jackie says. "I felt bad, but that was weird."

"WASN'T IT?? There was something totally off about her!"

"Yeah. Something was weird. But I'm pretty sure she works here. I've seen her around before."

"She WORKS here? Like, she's a therapist here? Are you sure she isn't someone's patient?"

"No, she's a therapist."

Did that actually happen? The whole thing was so bizarre it kind of seems like a dream. And I genuinely hope she didn't spend the night at the train station, but I mean, if she was really so desperate, why didn't she take my three dollars? Then she'd only need to get a hold of two more. And why didn't she call the police after getting robbed? And why did she wait until 10:15 p.m. before trying to figure out a way to get home to New Jersey? And also, if she was an angel sent by God to test me, am I going to hell now? Because I really think God shouldn't send creepy angels to test us. I mean, seriously. At least play fair, you know?

New Friends

My apartment is way cleaner than yours. Remember last summer when our tenement building was infested with bed bugs? This summer, it's cockroaches. And apparently, cockroaches bother Poompy 100 times more than bed bugs. Apparently, he feels about cockroaches the way I feel about spiders. I HATE SPIDERS.

A couple of days ago, our neighbor (interestingly enough, the same neighbor who first told us about the building bed bugs) stopped me in the hallway:

"Have you had a problem with roaches?"
"Huh? Uh, nope."
"Did you see them in the hall on Tuesday?"
"What? No. Wait... now that you mention it, I did see one on the wall in the second-floor hallway."
"While I was eating breakfast on Tuesday morning a stream of cockroaches started pouring in under my front door. I opened my front door to see what was going on, and I swear to god, it was like a scene in a horror film. There must've been a thousand cockroaches swarming the walls, ceiling and floor of the hallway. I called the super and I guess he sprayed or whatever because they were gone that night. But you better spray your apartment."
"Wow. That's disgusting. Thanks."

Last night when I came home from work I was greeted by five fist-sized roaches scurrying along the baseboards of the third-floor hallway. My hallway. I opened my front door and the first thing I saw was a huge roach on the wall above my kitchen table. Poompy walked in right then to greet me, saw the look on my face, looked at the wall I was staring at, and then he almost started crying. And that was that. The cleaning began. And continued when he dragged my sorry ass out of bed at 8 a.m. to help him. I mean, he is serious about this cleaning. After I'd slurped down a cup of coffee this morning, the first thing he had me do was empty all the book shelves and vacuum each book individually, then scrub down each shelf, the walls behind the bookcases and the floor underneath them. That alone took me 2 1/2 hours. Then I had to empty all the shelves where I keep my girly primping things and scrub those shelves, then give each bottle of everything its very own bath. Poompy had me washing picture frames, chachkis and windowsills. Windowsills! When I left for work this afternoon, he was scrubbing the walls behind the refrigerator. Poompy is The Home Cleaning Nazi.

I have to admit though, our apartment was, well, it needed a good cleaning. It is remarkable to me the dust and dirt that I manage to completely ignore. I saw dust today that I've never seen before, except that I know it's been there for awhile because an inch of dust doesn't collect over night. So how come I never noticed it? Don't misunderstand, we aren't dirty people. We're messy, but we're not dirty. We vacuum every other day, we mop and clean out the bathtub and toilet at least every other week. That's pretty good, right? We do our dishes after every meal and we never let old food sit out. But we don't dust. Ever. Ever. Ever. I was astonished to pull a book off a shelf and discover an INCH of dust on the shelf rail behind it. My parents were in town recently and I watched my mother pick up a framed photo of Poompy and I. She looked at it and put it back and I thought to myself, "Awww. She's admiring a sweet photo of me and my beloved. Isn't that nice?" Today, I picked up that same frame to clean the windowsill underneath it and discovered that it was wearing it's own fur coat. A fur coat made of NYC grime and dog hair. And I realized what my mother had actually been thinking when she looked at the photo: "Dear God, my daughter never cleans her apartment. Get me out of here before I catch something." Only she's just too classy to say anything.

Well, don't worry, Mama. That picture frame is cleaner now than it was when I bought it. And the rest of the apartment? Even Aunt Sue would be proud.

But I'm curious. How often am I supposed to dust? How often do you dust? And really, honestly, how long does it take you? Because I only have so much time in a week to dedicate to apartment cleaning, and I just can't see myself doing the kind of cleaning we did today on a regular basis.

P.S. I say "we" but actually it was mostly Poompy. What kind of special treat says "Thank you for being the Home Cleaning Nazi"? Suggestions welcome.

We Barely Dodged The Crazy

The other night, actually, I can tell you exactly which night it was, it was Thursday night, July 3rd, I was walking home from the movies with my good old pal Barnaby, when we were assaulted by a New York Crazy.

I have lived in New York for roughly a year and I have never ever ever not once been assaulted by a New York Crazy. I once had a late-night conversation with a man wearing a suit made of newspapers about how he'd been delivered unto this Earth by aliens from the planet Magacacapoopee. I once watched a guy get bashed in the head with a steel baseball bat. I once overheard someone telling his pal that he didn't really rape that girl, the bitch wanted it. But no one has ever bothered me, personally.

Barnaby is a good friend of mine from college. We met during rehearsals for a show where I played this cult leader who convinced her twelve sisters to give themselves hysterectomies using a dirty knife she pulls from her boot and without the use of painkillers or drugs and he was playing a dog with a 12 inch black boner. Yes, his costume actually involved a 12 inch rubber penis. A black 12 inch rubber penis. And yes, both sets of parents came to see this play. Mine liked it so much they came back a second time. Anyway, Barnaby and I have been through a lot together. Once you've introduced someone to your parents while they're wearing a giant rubber dildo outside their pants, the relationship is pretty much sealed. Barnaby is definitely one of my more NY savvy friends, having visited the city enough times that, even though he's never lived here, was actually born and raised in LA just like me, he's probably spent more time in the city than I have even though I live here. So, you know, he's not an idiot and he knows how to handle himself on the streets of NY.

That being said, it's probably hard to understand why I was surprised when, walking across 44th St. on 9th Ave. at 1:30 a.m., Barnaby doesn't even flinch as he's accosted by a very round, very sweaty, very hairy, very loud man. In fact, he doesn't even notice. And when I point out to him what just happened, how we almost died at the hands of a round, sweaty, hairy, loud man, he says, "Really? That's weird."

I Love Dead Things.

ef·flu·vi·um (ĭ-flōō'vē-əm) n. pl. ef·flu·vi·a (-vē-ə) or ef·flu·vi·ums
1. A usually invisible emanation or exhalation, as of vapor or gas.
2. a) A byproduct or residue; waste.
b) The odorous fumes given off by waste or decaying matter.
3. An impalpable emanation; an aura.

nec·ro·phil·i·a (něk'rə-fĭl'ē-ə) n.
1. Obsessive fascination with death and corpses.
2. Erotic attraction to or sexual contact with corpses.

No results found for necroamicus.
Did you mean keramics (in dictionary) or Necromanis (in encyclopedia)?

Poompy says I collect effluvia. But that isn't really right. I don't collect invisible emanations or vapors or odorous fumes. That's what he does, sure, but only when he eats too much dairy.

I collect dead things. I have just spent the last twenty minutes doing an online search to try to find out if there is a name for what I do, something along the lines of "necroamicus" ("necro" being Latin for "dead" and "amicus" being Latin for "friend") but that doesn't seem to exist. I am certainly not a necropheliac even though one could call my fascination with dead things a little bit obsessive. Sure I might be obsessed with dead things, BUT I DO NOT HAVE SEX WITH THEM. YOU SICKO.

The night before we left for Gettysburg, I found a newly dead baby bird on the sidewalk. Poompy and I were walking to Jen's apartment to drop Theo off for the next couple of days (the Bitch was staying with our friend Stef) when I found the little gem. This bird was so perfect and so beautiful. It's little body wasn't even cold yet. I crouched on the sidewalk, Poompy waiting impatiently behind me, admiring this perfect specimen and bashing myself for having left my camera at home. Again. And since I couldn't take a photo of the bird, I decided to take the bird home with me and take a photo of it there. So I used a poop bag and carefully picked up my little treasure and that was that.

We arrived at Jen's apartment and got Theo all situated and chatted for a little while and then went home. And it wasn't until I walked in my front door that I realized I'd left my bird on Jen's kitchen counter. YOU CANNOT IMAGINE THE CRUSHING DISAPPOINTMENT. I picked up my phone.

"Hi, Jen? It's Frosty."
"Is this about the dead bird you left on my kitchen counter?"
"Um, yes. It is. Would you - "
"Oh god."
"Would you mind just popping it in your freezer for me? So I can pick it up from you when I get back from my trip?"
"No. No, I will not. That is just too much to ask."

When I was about 12 years old I returned from a week at Horse Camp with some interesting souvenirs. A few days after I came home my mom started noticing a foul odor emanating from my bedroom. The smell got worse and worse until she couldn't stand it anymore.

"WHAT IS THAT HORRIBLE SMELL?"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"SOMETHING IN YOUR ROOM IS STINKING UP THE WHOLE HOUSE."
"No it's not! I don't know what you're talking about!"

She walked over to my bookcase where I'd prettily arranged my Horse Camp souvenirs. She gingerly picked one up and sniffed it.

"OH MY GOD. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS."
"Horse toe-nail clippings."
"WHAT?"
"Horse toe-nail clippings. They're pretty. I bet you didn't even know that horses need their toe-nails clipped."

Then there was the time my father confronted my mother in their kitchen with a grim expression and a paper bag.
"What? What's wrong?" she asked.
"This is not funny."
"What is not funny?"
"This. This is disgusting. I thought there was a special treat in here for me. This is just mean."

My father dropped the bag on the kitchen table and stormed upstairs. My mother, completely mystified, opened the bag and found a little frozen mouse. A frozen mouse I'd left in their freezer probably four years before, since it had been at least that long since I'd moved out. All I have to say is, maybe they should clean out their freezer more often?

But you know, my family kind of encourages this little hobby of mine. A couple of years ago my parents vacationed in Kauai, Hawaii. They hadn't been there since the time they'd taken me as a child. The year they took me to Kauai, I spent the whole week running ahead of them to admire the hundreds of flattened frogs laying dead in the street. I was probably 7 or 8 at the time and I just couldn't get enough of these dead frogs. It seems that the frogs would come out at night and get flattened by cars zipping past. Then they would dry in the sun and turn into these perfect, frog-shaped pancakes. I wanted to take one home SO BADLY. But of course my parents wouldn't let me. So, now the year is 2006 and my folks are in Kauai without me. They've been there a couple of days when I get a box in the mail. It's marked "Fragile" in my fathers handwriting and my mother has written, "This is a special souvenir your father picked out just for you." I was so excited. What could it be? I eagerly, yet gently - minding the "Fragile" warning - ripped open the box. It was a frog-shaped pancake. I still have it. I'm trying to grow the balls to bring it to one of those framing stores to have it professionally framed. I will hang it in a place of honor.

Currently, my apartment is home to a box of rabbit and deer bones which I discovered on various hiking trips through the Santa Monica mountains when I was a kid, a box of snake shed sent to me by my dear friend who is caring for my python while I live in NYC, a box of cat whiskers which I add to whenever I find a stray one laying around somewhere, and of course, the flattened froggy. Oh! and let us not forget my Dead Things photo set on Flickr. It would really be awful if I were ever accused of a violent crime. People would come forward to testify: "She keeps dead frogs in her closet! And she collects animal bones! AND SHE ENJOYS TAKING PHOTOS OF DEAD BIRDS."

Dear Vatican: Hiding Those Golden Vaginas Is A Sin

This article is WONDERFUL. You MUST read it. NOW.

Thank you, Kim's Kitchen Sink.

Bombing in Times Square

This is just terrible.

If you heard about the bomb going off in Times Square this morning, here's a good article about it. Thank God no one was hurt.

Safety is for Wusses.

You cannot imagine how bummed out I was this morning when I realized I'd left my camera at home (again!). Because walking down 9th Ave., I saw four used needles hanging out on the sidewalk next to the garbage pile.




I took these pics with my phone and the camera in my phone (obviously) sucks ass. But man, oh man, can you imagine what awesome pictures I could've gotten if I'd had my real camera?

New York is awesome. Used needles just hanging out on the sidewalk with banana peels and empty cigarette cartons. I once found a used needle in the bathroom of the Starbucks I worked at in Hollywood, but this was much better. I hope I get to raise my kids here because, man, those people living in the suburbs have no idea what they're missing.

Dead Things: Or Why Poompy Loves Me

If you've ever been to my Flickr account, you know my fascination with dead things. Sadly, since I've gotten kind of used to living in NYC, I've stopped carrying my camera with me everywhere I go, so now I regularly miss good photo opportunities with the city's beautiful dead. Which just drives me nuts. I'll be walking down the street and I'll see a squashed rat and I'll stop in my tracks, squat on the pavement for a closer look, dig through my purse for my camera and then curse myself for leaving the camera at home. And then a moment passes as I'm squatting on the sidewalk hovering over the rotting carcass of some poor creature, where I seriously consider putting the thing in my pocket so that as soon as I get home I can take a picture of it. Or, if the thing is REALLY dried out, perhaps I can bring it home and just ... save it. Maybe to put in a frame at some later date*. How cool would that be? I think. But then the practical side of me (yes, I have one too) takes over and I realize how upset Poompy will be if he finds out I've stuck this dead rat or pigeon or sparrow or whatever in my pocket and brought it into our tenement. So I sigh, wistfully, and walk away, knowing I'll never have the opportunity to photograph that particular dead thing ever again.

A couple of weeks ago Jen brought Sexy Sadie into work with her for the afternoon. Sadie is a good little doggy, so she has free run of the spa when she's there. A few hours into the work day, I hear Jen screaming in the back. Before I have a chance to see what's going on, she's running up front with Sadie in her arms. "Oh my god! Is my dog's face OK? You'll never believe what just happened!" Sadie's face looked fine, so I follow Jen into the back room where there are two sprung mouse traps on the floor - one of them with a dried out little mouse in it. Apparently, Jen had gone in to check on Sadie and found her crunching on something which turned out to be the mummified mouse in the trap. (Jen was worried that the empty trap had sprung on Sadie's face, but we've since decided that it probably wasn't empty when Sadie found it. If you know what I mean.) So here I am, at work, with a lovely dead thing and no camera. I took a deep breath, looked at Jen and said, "Can I take it home?"

ÅND SHE DIDN'T MIND. You have no idea how thrilled I was to be able to take that little dead mousy home. We put him in a biohazard bag (it was the only plastic bag with a seal that we had around) and put that in a Dean & Deluca bag. I was worried Mr. Mouse would just crumble up if I stuck him loose in my purse. I had a lot going on that night, so I wasn't able to photograph him right away. Instead, he stayed in his baggies on top of my fridge. Until Poompy found him.

We're in the bitchen** getting ready for bed when Poompy asks me, "Hey, what's in this Dean & Deluca bag? Did you get cupcakes?" And because at the core of my being I'm actually quite cruel, I respond, "It's a treat I picked up for you. Open it!" He opened the bag, looked inside, looked up at me, grinned, put the bag back on top of the fridge and said, "I should've known," And that was that.

Does that mean I have permission to bring home dead things?



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*In an envelope inside a box on the top shelf of a closet in the tenement is a dead frog that my parents sent me in the mail about ... oh gee, I guess that's nearly two years ago now. He's beautifully dried and quite gorgeous, really. I'm just waiting to find the time (and money) to bring him to a shop to have him framed. I think he'll look really nice in one of those glass, shadow-box type deals. A real conversation-starter, you know?

**You didn't forget about our bitchen, did you?

At Your Feet

I got this message from someone on Flickr:

:: At your feet


Hello I must say to you that you have the most beautiful
feet that I have see in my life. Thank you for your Photos
and for your album.
Pardon for this message and for my English who is very bad.
I am a Spanish slave, in this moment I don’t have
Mistress, It is a dream for me to be able to get to be your
servant, your maid, your butler, your houseboy, your cleaner
house, and your slave. I have 5 years of experience in the
submission and the servitude to a Mistress and her partner,
I had been her maid, her servant and the her partner’s
servant from 5 years ago.
It is a dream for me to be able to be your servant your
real slave a live in slave. I always have wanted to be able
to manage to be a slave 24/7,It is a dream to be able to
your slave and be able to belong to you, to your feet my
Princess
If you wish to have vacations/holidays in Spain in a house
on the beach, you have here your house and a slave 24 hours
to the day to your service.

At your feet always

Slave A.

You know, the thing is, if he's willing to give me mani/pedi's .... I might have to think about it.