Out of The Will Blog Post

Can you believe my family thinks this woman is only turning 4 years old? Maybe we could have splurged on a few more candles. Unless we're going by the Pluto year.

Ponderance on the 2 Train

From the world of "Unwise Choices:" I took the subway home by myself at 4am. As I rode home basking in the flourescent glow of the 2 train I let my mind drift. I pondered the varrying outcomes after my murder on the subway or the walk home from the subway. I wondered if my friend Jesse would give a speech at my funeral? Would he cry as he talked about my bravery? And not the bravery I displayed the night of my demise as I valiantly faught off my assailants, but in the end was bested because my bladder was brimming over with urine, inhibitting me from throwing a kick. Not that bravery but the bravery of constantly saying inappropriate things to oversensitive people. The bravery to go on living despite knowing I lacked any ability to better myself as a person. Would he even give a friggin' eulogy?

I wondered if any ex-boyfriend types would show and think, "Shit! I guess I missed my chance of winning her back." How many of them would throw themselves on my coffin? How would Jack feel about these guys making an appearance. Would he understand their hurt. We he console them? Would they bond over the great loss they all feel? Or would he tell them to fuck off, they should have apologized while I was still alive.

Then I thought if I died at four in the morning on March 30th my funeral would probably be the same day as NCAA championship game. Just my luck. My death couldn't compete with that. The only people to attend my funeral would be my parents because they're not sports fans. I guess I'm lucky I didn't perish earlier in the month when the Sopranos' season opener aired, then no one would have showed.

Note to self don't die in February during sweeps month.

Mondays with Flo

My paternal grandmother's mental agility is not what it once was. Doctors recently diagnosed her with diabetes. When her blood sugar is out of whack her mind gets a little foggy. Now, I could let this get me down or I could embrace the situation. Sure she's the one suffering with diabetes but why should that stop me from making it about me? I should have some fun too. Right? Right.

Last time I visited my grandparents I sat and chatted with Nana. (Please note that this is NOT the grandmother who called me a "shit ass.") Here's a snippet of our conversation. Imagine my grandmother played by Jack Lemmon in drag. Think of it as "Some like it Hot" meets "Tuesday's with Morie." (Everything is a movie pitch these days.)

"Rachael, do have to be somewhere later?"
"Yeah, Nan. I have to go tell jokes in the east village."
"Oh that's nice. I wish I could go. Don't get old Rachael it sucks."
"I'll try not to."
"So what are you doing later?"
"Telling jokes."
"Oh that's good."
"Do you have to leave soon?"
"Well, yeah. Ya, see I have to go down to NASA and train to be an Astronaut so that tomorrow I can explore the outer reaches of space. It's an accelerated program."
"Wow. That's nice. You girls today with your careers. All I ever wanted was to have my own house."
"I guess you're a success."
"Your best friend Anna getting married soon?"
"Ahh. I don't think so. I think first she's going to have to date someone longer than 3 months."
"Tell her it's OK. Being married isn't so great, they don't tell you that when you're younger. No need to rush into it. So what are you doing later?"
"I'm going to a take a tour of a science laboratory in hopes that an experiment goes very wrong and I end up with superpowers. Then I'll fight crime and seek revenge on all those who've done me wrong."
"Oh that's nice. You really work hard, Rachael."
"I try. OK. I guess I better head out."
"Oh? Where are you off too?"
"I hear fire engines in Brooklyn and I have to go rescue a herd of cats caught in the tree growing in Brooklyn."
"Sounds like fun. I wish I could go rescue cats; get out of this god damn house once in a while. But I'd probably get dizzy. We'll have to go get lunch soon. When you coming back?"
"I don't know. Soon."
"Enjoy telling superhero jokes in space while rescuing kittys."
"Will do."

------

For any of you who are interested in the Answer to Will's question, "Where the title of this blog came from?" I've linked to a long ago post that may or may not shed some light on the subject.
Behind the Title

Back to the Present.

Yesterday I enjoyed Spring's long waited arrival with a walk through Brooklyn.

On my journey I passed this particular Haagen Daz in Brooklyn Heights.

As I passed by I remembered I had patronized this establishment seven years ago on a date with a fella named Andrew. We had walked over the Brooklyn Bridge on a beautiful summer night and then down the Esplanade to this ice cream provaier (sp). I had the chocolate mint chip. This was back when Haagen Daz still offered this flavor. It's different from most other chocolate mint combos in that the chips were mint flavored while the ice cream was chocolate. Wild. I know.

Anyway, some people say I live in the past. Those people are correct. Some of those some people say That by living in the past I miss out on the present, those people should be slapped with a leather glove for their short-sightedness. I completely experience the present--once the present becomes the past.

In a few weeks my one year anniversary of my trip to Japan will be thrust upon us. I'm really looking forward to enjoying this trip. Actually, I'm looking toward the future to live in the past. A couple of weeks after my Japan trip anniversary will be onto Anna's anniversary of the day she got back together with that fellow folksinger no one seems to like. I can't wait to finally talk her out of redating him. Which is the best advice because it didn't work any better the second time. But if I had given her that advice a year ago I would not have had the confidence it's correctness. But now as a year has gone by I can see clearly that she should not have redated him last May. And that's a real benefit of living in the past. That and you're a younger than everyone else, yet wiser. How crazy is that shit?

Just a Suggestion

In honor of women's history month here is some advice for the females:

When my best friend Anna gives you a ride home to Brooklyn on her bike after a Folksinger open mic do not ask Anna how best to land Anna's ex-boyfriend. This is in poor taste. Do not furhter worry that if you pursue Anna's ex-boyfriend that you may ruin the friendship between you and Anna's ex-boyfriend. Maybe you should be worried about ruining any congeanality you have with Anna who just peddled her little feet off to get you're untalented ass home, and now has to peddle up a big hill from your side of the borough to hers in the dark, with very poor night vision. Anna might not want to hear about how you get so excited you barely can speak when her exboyfriend is near you. I doubt she wants to hear about his lovely eyes. Because you know what lady? Her ex-boyfriend doesn't have lovely eyes--they are cold and hard. I know this, everyone who is not Hellen Keller knows this, even Anna, who really cared about her exboyfriend. But that affection did not cloud her vision to the reality of her former flame. Which is why it's completely insensitive to go on and on about the connection you think you have said boy. You also might want to rethink the "connection" position now that you know you were wrong about the eyes.

Ladies we know that we do not pursue boys that our friends have dated. We do not pursue boys our friends have crushes on. We do not pursue boys who have beady eyes and knock knees. I'll grant that maybe you aren't friends with Anna, but if she peddled all the way from mid-town to Brooklyn so you could avoid waiting for the subway, maybe you could at least not ask her for dating advice regarding her ex-boyfriend.

Women's Health

Ladies, listen up. I'm going to give you the cheapest and simplest diet to follow for loosing weight. It's original name is Anorexia. But I like to call it the "Really Simple Diet." Basically, you don't eat. That's it. No books to buy. No counting calories- because all calories are bad. No eating chemically saturated cancer causing food that still doesn't taste like real cheesecake. This diet doesn't require cooking complicated or even simple meals. No mess in the kitchen. You don't have to pay some expansive trendy chef to prepare your meals for you. This is a diet everyone can afford.

Plain and simple you don't ingest any food whatsoever. Sit back and watch the calories shed. That's what is also great you can just sit back. This diet requires no exercise. The only discipline you need is the discipline to sit and be. And let's face it muscle weighs more than atrophied skin and bones. Exercise just makes you weigh more. Could 100s of movie actress and 1000s of models be wrong? Of course not. They are famous and rich and therefore very smart. That's how it works: money and fame equal brilliance. Brain genetics and study have nothing to do with it. That's just propganda from ugly, nerdy, fat scientists.

They only draw back to this diet is that you may at times find yourself hungry. If you can't be zen about it you can try stimulants such as tripple esspresso (no milk or sugar!!!!), cocaine (no chocalate or cola) or meth. What's great about Meth is that eventually you're teeth will fall out leading you to shed even more pounds. Pretty fantastic. The drawbacks from the stimulants are that they may cause you to put forth physical energy and they cost money. But if you can get them for free you win! Remember sex burns calories but doesn't have to develop muscle as long as you just lay there.

Go ahead loose wieght on "Really Simple Diet." you'll be looking like bones in no time. Yippee!

***the following post was inspired by the blog "whatconcernsmemost"

The Temp Pool Results with a run down of WYSIWYG

So what did you have in the "how long will Rachael last at her latest job" pool? For those of you who had until the end of her first day. You are the big winners. All you optimists (or pessmists depending on how you look at it) who thought at least until Friday. I'm sorry you are not a winner, but feel free to try again next time.

After entering data methodically yet slowly until 5:30pm I rushed home, showered, grabbed my guitar, and headed back out to the city to perform in the WYSIWYG
reading series. My first order of business was to get a glass of water. Last time I did the show we performed at PS 122, a lovely theatre but no bar, I forgot to buy a bottle of water before the show, and well... there was a whole big fiasco.*** I got my free glass of tap water from the bartender at Bowery Poetry Club. I then tipped the bartender a $1. The water was free so I tipped zero percent. That's what sucks about tipping for a free item, you can never tip 20% or more. So you always look like a cheap ass.

Tipping was the least of my problems last night at the Bowery Poetry club. I read my piece so fast it would have given the micromachine man wet dreams. Not only that, but on the few instances when people were kind of enough to throw me a laugh I just steamrolled right over the chuckles just to make sure people wouldn't do that again. Comedians don't want you laughing that's so hack. I might as well be a comic from 1987 wearing a neon blazer with my sleeves rolled up. Ugh! You'd think by this point in my performing life I'd at least have down the mechanics of presenting material. Don't get me wrong I didn't bomb. If I had I wouldn't have been able to sit through the rest of the show, I would have had to runaway immediately after my set and contemplate whether or not to step infront of bus. However, it was lack luster so I ran away 5 minutes after the show had ended and contemplatedwhether or not to become an alcoholic.

Everyone else:

Amnesia Sparkles (amnesiasparkles2.blogspot.com) was the perfect person to have on the first WYSIYG show at the Bowery Poetry Club. It's the kind of brilliance the Bowery is known to support.
Diana Eng (populartransit.com) brief but she was completely lovable and engaging.
Matthew Callan, (spaces.msn.com/members/sportsfilter) a filthy story about a dumpster, a ball, and Mike Piazza. Funny and inspiring.
Derek Hartley (derekhartley.com) he slayed them. If it were a straight up comedy show (without having to be straight) he would have had the set of the night.
Doug Gordon (planetgordon.com) I wish I wrote prose this way.
Lindsay Robertson (http://lindsayism.com/) told a great story about not-stalking Corey Feldman while he lived in her apartment.

***Last time I did the WYSIWYG show a dude I had dated was also on the show. While dating we had conversations that went something like this, "Hey how about those Mets?"
"I'm a Yankees fan really. "
"Oh yeah."
"Nest time we have sex we should use condoms ."
"Yeah."
And then of course we wouldn't, which would lead to repeating the above conversation.

I arrive at PS 122 parched. I see the boy I once dated. I mention to him how I'm thirsty I should have bought a bottle of water. He says, "Oh yeah." Then proceeds to bull out this gigantic bottle of water. It's like the size of my torso. Not that my torso is big for a torso but it's big for a bottle of water. I ask, "Oh can I have a sip of your water?" He responds, "Do you have a cup?" "Are you kidding me?" "No, I don't want to catch the flu." I retort, "That's what you're scared of catching? Aids? A baby that doesn't scare you? How about if I put condom on my tongue! Could then I have sip of your water?"
He's like, "I don't know is it lubricated?"

Another gentleman, whom I just met that evening- he writes a blog about living in the chelsea hotel-, sympathetically offered me water from his bottle. No cup necessary. Of course two days later I came down with a cold, but we don't need to tell anyone that.

I'm Giving Odds

Two weeks ago I had three separate temp jobs. By Friday I had been sent home early from 2 out of 3 of them. I felt like I had hit my Temp wall. Unfortunately, my landlord has not hit his collecting rent wall. It's a shame that these things can't coincide better.

Today, Tuesday, I'll be starting yet another temp assignment for yet another temp agency. Apparently, I hit my wall so hard I smashed right through it. I'll be entering data at a realestate firm for $15/hr. It's supposed to go for at least a couple of weeks, possibly longer--oh goody! I figure you guys can start a pool as to how long I last at this one. Of course I can't wager on this one as that would be unethical. And though I may steal office supplies by the truck load (excuse me--reappropriate office supplies) I draw the line at fixing games of chance.

We can have a second pool where I can drown myself.

Also, Jack and I are sorry about the cold weather. Last Monday when the weather was so beautiful Jack dismantled the weather machine and put it in storage. We jumped the gun.

OK it's late and I have to get up early to go to work. I'll be going to bed late tomorrow and Wednesday night as well for those of you trying to handicap this thing.

WYSIWYG Show Tuesday 8pm

It's Like

Living in NYC is like living in the 1800s . It takes 40 minutes, minimum, to travel 5 miles within the city limits of NY. Perhaps, if you traverse the five miles in a car, when there is no traffic, you can cut your travel time in half. However, it will still take you 15 minutes to find parking. Granted if you are driving a car in NYC it is no longer like living in the 1800s. But I mean, 20 minutes to transport oneself 5 miles via an automobile is ridiculous. It's like you're living in Yugoslavia where everyone drives a Yugo. Yes, I just wrote a Yugo joke. So reading this blog is like being in the 1980s. Too bad I don't know how to write in a Russian accent.

Though, if this were the 1980s you wouldn't be reading a blog in your cubicle. What did people do in cubes before the internet became ubiquitous? Get work done? No way. Getting work done would be like living in a futuristic dystopia where all the people are monitored by some grand, evil Pooba Overlord type. The Overlord in conjunction with his ruling class cronies would fashion a system where every single person on the planet is monitored every moment of their lives. Further, the food would be drugged to make people compliant and 100% productive. And that all is really like living in a 1970s sci-fi flick.

When you boil it down, living in NYC is like living in a 1970s Sci-Fi movie except it's the Starbucks and Chipolte who are invading.

St. Patty's or St. Paddy's

In honor of St. Patrick's day I give to you a story involving an Irish American--Tommy.

Several times I met a boy named Tommy at an Irish bar on E. 50th street. Each time it was the same Tommy. He was 20 something, fit, and had a small tattoo. Yum. One evening we got to talking about guitar playing, then we got to drinking and eventually we got to making out in the bar. Oh yeah. So he invited me back to his place to 'play guitar.' I thought that was an original take on the "You wanna come over and see my glow in the dark stars" line. It doesn't take much to impress me. You can imagine my astonishment when he actually pulled out his guitar upon our arrival. No this isn't a euphemism. He took his guitar and played a couple of Guster songs. (I don't judge boys by their pop culture tastes. OK, I don't judge cute boys by their pop culture tastes.) He finishes up the last song of his set, and then begins kissing me. "Uhhh. HELLO." It's my turn to play guitar. I mean I was all prepared to make out with him sans the guitar, but he brought out the guitar, so I want to play. Even though I had yet to perform stand-up I still was self involved and spot light hungry. I wanted to scream, "Hand over that guitar buddy!" His invitation stated we'd both play music. I remained silent and kissing him. My silence prompted him to ask if I was gay. No, I was clearly not happy. I wanted to play guitar.

----------
Oh and here's a little joke I wrote where I mention the word Irish. They've got some crazy drinks out there. I heard this girl order "a big black dildo." "What's that, " I asked. She's like, "It's five shots of Jaeger." Wow. That's alot to put in your mouth....Oh.... I can't handle that. I needed something smaller so I ordered the "Irish dildo." It's just two fingers of Jameson. Sometimes all a girl needs is two fingers. Hello. Rimshot.

Show Tuesday

For those of you who missed "Slap Your Knees Off" can still catch me perform this month. Check out WYSIWGY the Starfucker Show. You know which star I think I fucked.

Tuesday March 21, 2006
8pm
Bowery Poetry Club (***Brand new location for the show)
Bowery Street btwn Bleeker and Houston.

Featuring:
Amnesia Sparkles(amnesiasparkles2.blogspot.com)
Diana Eng(populartransit.com)
Matthew Callan(spaces.msn.com/members/sportsfilter)
Derek Hartley (derekhartley.com)
Doug Gordon(planetgordon.com)
Lindsay Robertson(http://lindsayism.com)
Rachael Parenta(rparenta.blogspot.com)

I don't know

It's said that women only have sex to advance in their careers or to gain wealth and power. That's the way women operate. Women are very cunning. They use sex as a commodity.

It's also said that women can't have sex without becoming emotionally attached to their partner. They lack the ability to remain emotionally disengaged in sex.

So which is it pop culture? You can't have it both ways. Either women are cold and cunning or they're emotionally needy--crippled by their attachment disorder.

A Love Story Excerpt

I walked into the cafe. My eyes and soul were immediately drawn to the beauty at the small cafe table. The sunlight fell through the window gently onto her. She sat there picking the skin off her earlobe with one hand while the other hand tirelessly tried to yank a hair from her magnificent chin. If she had a third hand I'm sure it would have burrowed through her lucious hair to continuely scratch that perfect scalp of hers. And if she were blessed with four and five hands I'm sure they would try to squeeze a zit. The moment my gaze enveloped her I knew that Grooming Disorder Siva Goddess must be mine.

Why Not Post it

Horror movies have ruined the music box industry. Whenever I hear music from a music box I get completely creeped out. I sit at the edge of my bed holding my broomstick of death and wait for demise.
-----
The entertainment industry is the perfect place for a paranoid who does not want to be labeled insane. In that environment the paranoids are right-- no one can be trusted. Though, no one is out to get them. Performers are too self involved to bother "getting" anyone.

Censorship on the Homefront

This past Sunday I performed my comedy stylings at a sold out show at Mo Pitkins. My boyfriend Jack who is usually very supportive of my comedy was a little peeved. Ya see, in attendence was a British gentleman who Jack and I may or may not have gone on a couple of dates with this past summer. For a few months Jack and I were not clear on whether or not Jack and I were dating this guy. However, for the last 4 months I thought Jack and I were on the same page that this British guy and us were just casual acquantances. Turns out Jack was pining a little or something because he lost his cool Sunday night when we got home.

"Rachael, how could you do all those dating and sex jokes?"
"I don't think I did that many---"
"You made it seem like you've slept with a ton of guys."
"So what?"
"So what!!! Rachael, our British suitor was in the audience. He's going to think you've slept with a ton of guys. He'll stop pursuing us."
"Jack, he never was pursuing us."
"Not this again. He's just taking his time."
"9 months. What, are his intentions gestating in his womb?"
"Rachael, if he thinks you slept with all these different guys he won't think I'm special. I'm just another notch on your bedpost. He'll completely loose respect for me. Now if you only slept with me than you are very discriminating which means I'm very special because Rachael Parenta only choose me to sleep with."
"Jack, you've lost it. I can't help it if I wrote a handfull of jokes about two dudes I dated before you returned from your overseas do-gooder missions. If you want to email him my pathetic number of sexual conquests go ahead, but I think that would freak him out. Honey, if he judges you by the number of sexual partners your girlfriend has than he is not worth our time. I thought we put this gentleman caller behind us."

Jack ran out to the Key Foods and purchased a pint of ice cream and then watched some sex and the city.

Why are men such pussies?

Here Comes the Bride.

Last week my best friend Anna came running into the bar and announced she was getting married.

"Anna, that's awesome. Who are you marrying?" I asked. I wasn't aware that she was dating anyone nevermind on her way to an engagement.
"Remember back a couple of years when I lived in San Fransisco? I was in that band, 'Bunny Bunnerstein and the Lumberjack.' I got on really well with one of the dudes in the band, Brian. We had the best conversations ever and he was cute, and smart. We never got around to dating because I wound up moving to New York with you and he relocated to Vancouver. We kept in touch for a few months, but we eventually lost touch. Well, I sent him an email which he responded to the next day. We are totally getting married."

"Did he confess feelings for you?" I inquired.
"Yeah, he wrote he was glad to hear from me and we should do a better job keeping in touch."
"Uhh. Did he say he was moving East anytime soon?"
"No. I figure we'll have to compromise and move to Seattle or Chicago at somepoint."
"Sure enough. Umm Anna? Did he say he was looking to move?"
"No. He said he pretty much sees himself staying in Vancouver for the foreseeable future."
"When are you guys getting married?"
"Oh at somepoint in the future. I've never been more relaxed of comfortable with someone I had a romantic interest in so I must marry him."
"Does he know you plan to marry him?"
"What does he need to know that for? It's just nice to have my romantic life settled. We'll get married when the logistics work themselves out. What's with all the questions? Can't we celebrate my impending nuptials? Gosh, Rach you're such a buzz kill."
"I'm sorry. Congratulations. May you have a long happy life together whenever you eventually possibly get married."
----
Thanks to Anna and everyone else who came out last night to "Slap Your Knees Off" we packed the house. Thanks to Jess, Charles, Will, and Daniel who all were friggin hysterical. For those of you who couldn't make it, I've updated my performance calander with the rest of my dates for March.

Staying Tuned

picture from Del Water Gap in NJ

Because I had to endure some asshole nervously bitch through a microphone about the Garden State I am going to post my New Jersey sketch. For Context I wrote this for a show in Portland, OR

Jersey Slide Show

The Bar, A man sits at the bar with a glass of water, on stage RACHAEL and MARK are in the midst of performing their goonies bit. Sitting at the bar is MAN not paying much attention to the show.

MAN
Ufff! What? Did you get this water from Jersey? How can any one drink this?

BART
You want bottled water?

(RACHAEL crosses from the performing area to the MAN)

RACHAEL
Are you serious?

MAN
What?

RACHAEL
Don’t give me that “what.” The state of New Jersey is an amazing wonderland of nature, beauty, and ideas. You’d be lucky if that water came from New Jersey.

MAN
Just go on with your little show.

RACHAEL
You patronizing.... You’re coming with me.
(RACHAEL walks MAN over to a chair similar to the one in Billy Joel’s “Pressure” video. As she ties him to the chair she speaks her next lines. Or this could be an omage to Clockwork Orange)
You will sit in this chair and learn the truth of the 3rd State of the union. I am sick and tired of this bullshit. Have you even been to New Jersey?

MAN
What exit?

RACHAEL
You truly are clever.
(she gags him)

(The lights go low and a picture of the New Jersey is shown on the screen)
New Jersey, small but mighty.

(Click to a picture of the State lifting weights.)

(Click: picture of corn on the cob)
Oh what’s that? Could it be the most scrumptious corn ever grown on the planet. Sweet and splendid. And yes that’s right grown in the Garden State. That corn isn’t for popping.

(Click: a picture of Albert Einstein)
Hey it’s New Jersey’s good friend Al. When he was fleeing Nazi Germany, he could have taught at any college. Any would have had him. Where did this GENIUS chose to settle?

(Click: a shot of Princeton University)
Were you thinking Harvard?


(Click: picture of Kevin Smith)
But can everyone claim this man? Does Clerks take place in Nebraska? Does Mall Rats take place in Minnesota? Chasing Amy in Utah? I don’t think so.

(Click: picture of Uncle Floyd)
Or Uncle Floyd. OK you don’t know who he is. He had a small roll in Good Morning Vietnam and a Cameo on Law and Order. His public access show has been going for over thirty years. Thirty years! A star like him could have moved to Rhode Island. But he stayed.

(Click: a family on the beach)
Oh the famed Jersey Shore. That’s what we call the beach. Is that a family frolicking in the waves? Why, yes it is. The water is warm enough to swim in. They don’t look blue at all. It’s a paradise right here on Earth.

(Click: a black bear)
Look nature. This bear totaled my car.

(Click: disgusting urban decay and factory misery)
Oops…Ahhh… Look the ever-enduring New Jersey Industry. Yeah sure there’s a factory or two. What state doesn’t have a factory?
(Click: A mobster looking guy with a bat being yelled at by a Hindu)
And multiculturalism. Look at disparate cultures cohabiting together.

(Click: Picture of Dinosaur)
The official state Dinosaur, Hadrosarous found in 1858. The first nearly complete dinosaur skeleton found in the world, it sparked the paleontology revolution my friend. Does your state have an official state dinosaur? Yeah, didn’t think so.
(Rachael does the cabbage patch dance move)

(Click: awful traffic)
And if New Jersey sucks so much, mister water drinker. Then why do so many people live in this little oasis? Hmmm?

MARK
Crosses over to Rachael and Man. He gently grabs RACHAEL and removes her from the MAN.

Rachael. Come on. Step away from the man. He’s just an ignorant drunk.

MAN
Hey. (indignant)

MARK
(to man)
Do you want to watch the documentary? (to RACHAEL) Let’s go we’ll listen to some Sinatra and watch Eddie and the Cruisers.

RACHAEL
I’m sorry. It’s just that people don’t understand.

MARK
I know. It’ll be alright. I have ice cream in the back.

RACHAEL
Ice cream? Is it hand-dipped?

MARK
Straight from Bishoffs.

RACHAEL
They don’t know what that is?

MARK
It’s OK. Come on.

(they exit)

MAN
Hey! What about me! Hello!

(lights out)

Not Natural

Some say monogamy is not natural. Maybe. Maybe not. But you know what is natural? Jealousy.

I've Been Around the Block. The Same Block

Here's a little coincidence. The temp agency I most recently registered with has landed me an interview for a temp to perm job. I don't think I'm going to get this one, kids. She told me the name of the company I'm to visit today. The name sounded very familia, but I couldn't place it. Then all of a sudden I remembered how I know this company. It turns out I've already been fired from this company.

A year and several months ago while on a temp assignment through a different temp agency I worked for these people. Some snotty VP didn't want me checking my email. No one stands between me and my hotmail account. That's the only form of love and attention I know. Without email I'm alone. Email is my life blood. So, obviously, I continued to brazenly check my email throughout the day. Then I got the after 5pm call--they always call after five to fire you... after you have left the building. This way you don't destroy property or stab someone. Corporate America understands so little. I don't care. I didn't care about your internet policies, and I don't care enough to exert muscular effort into killing any of you. My apathy runs deeps. This is probably why this company began hiring temps from a different agency. Too bad no one realized that New York City is one big temp pool. There are hundreds of agencies but they've registered the same 300,000 temps/actors/comedians/muscians/painters.

When I realized the Universe's joke I told my latest temp agency that I had worked at this company before. I explained there had been a "conflict." "What kind of conflict?" my temp placement officer asked. "My supervisor was abusive," I responded. And she was. She deprived me of love. Is there any worse abuse than that? Apparently, my temp placement officer is heartless all she sees is her commission and she is sending me on the interview anyway.

Oh It Will Be Televised

So I was walking to a friend's house and my mind started to play out my future. I thought I most likely would be murdered before I arrived at my friend's place. From there the horror got worse. Images of the press surrounding my violent demise scared the shit out of me. Throughout the country I'd be mocked for being a shitty black belt. "She'd been studying karate for 18 years and she couldn't defend against some psycho path with a machete. What kind of karate school did she study at?" How humilating. My friends would be interviewed, "We were always scared of her, she seemed so tough. Who knew we could have beat her down for that obnoxious mouth of hers all these years? It's a real shame we didn't get any licks in when we had the chance."

Basically that's my fear that someone will attack me and I won't be able to defend myself and it will seem as if my whole life has been a lie.

--------
People let's look out for one another.

Threes Company

Roommate Good has left town for a week and half to take pictures in Colorado. Now it's just me and Roommate Bad in the apartment. Let the passive agressive games begin. Yehaw!

I have been hording rolls of toilet paper in my bedroom for a couple weeks waiting for this moment. In an exercise of biting my nose to spite my face I'll cart the toilet paper back and forth from the bathroom to ensure my nether regions are hygenically sound, while depriving roommate bad of such luxury. He has never contributed to the toilet paper supply of the apartment. He's going to have to now. It's that or nasty underwear. I guess he could alway refrain from a bowel movement. That's probably what that lathargic troglodite will choose. Damn Him!

Yesterday was the third day they sat in the sink. I couldn't take it anymore. I thought of taking the dirty dishes and putting them on his bed, but I don't know when he washed his sheets last. I didn't want to touch them on the chance I might contract the bubonic plague, nor do I want contaminate the dishes, which once cleaned will share cabinet space with the rest of the dishes and glassware. I've just left them. Yup. Just left them there. They just sit there undone-- filthy-- waiting to attract vermon. I wanted to say to him, "Since Roommate Good is in Colorado, and therefore, can't clean up after you do you think that at least for the week you ould clean up after yourself? Maybe even delegate the job to your girlfriend?" Instead I just said, "Hey could you clean your dishes, today?" He said, "No." So I did his dishes. But I haven't thrown out the trash from the bathroom. And it's kind of overflowing. One tissue has fallen over the side and sits at the base of the sink. I'm not picking it up. I'm not. Not today at least. I'm in NJ working until Wednesday. But I'm pretty sure when I go back there I won't be picking up that tissue. Unless of course it starts getting mildewy.

I still have the toilet paper hording. That's got to get his goat. I wish he had a goat at least the goat would eat the garbage so I wouldn't always have to take the garbage out.

Can't he just die already?

Obligatory Brokeback Joke-- a little late

I don't know why everyone has made such a big deal about the Brokeback Mountain. It's basically a remake of Torch Song Trilogy set in the West. I tell you this Heath Ledger is no Harvey Firestein.

Green With Envy? No. Olive.

According to family members--my mother-- I'm jealous of my 7 year old cousin. How untrue. That's the thing with my family though, they don't have any knowledge regarding the things they proclaim. For example, they keep saying how smart the baby is. Baby? She's 7 years old that's hardly a baby. If it were the early 1900s she'd already have a full time job, most likely in textiles or munitions, but she doesn't have a job--can we say lazy? And as for the smart--puhleeeze. Early this week I witnessed this girl pick up a bottle of body spray and then ask what "sensual" means. Smart people know what that word means. In fact people of average intelligence know what body spray is used for. My cousin, the out of work "genius," needed an explantion.

Later on that same evening I mentioned the city of London in coversation with my grandmother. The kid pipes in and says, "London is in France." I corrected her and told her that London is located in England. She disputed my claim several times. Finally, I had to pelt her with a Mikey Mouse ball while saying, " London is in England. Paris is in France, Miss Everyone loves me, I so adorable that I'm going to inherit my grandparents' house." As I picked up the ball a second time I continued, "I was adorable once too, but I didn't let my adorableness get in the way of me knowing how things like how to spell Joseph. Can you spell Joseph? Didn't think so. Hell, kid do you even have blog?"

Jealous. Ha! Jealous of what? Not knowing basic geography. When she does inherit that house she better not leave the premises because I doubt she'll be able to find her way back. So go ahead family---aka Mom--- and delude yourself into thinking she's just the cat's pajama's, the great new hope of the Parenta family. Too bad her last name isn't even Parenta. And too bad, mom you aren't blood related to her at all.

It's All Greek to Me

Yesterday I spent 10 hours temping at BearStearns. My assignment had me sitting through a risk management symposium. In an effort to escape I tried slitting my wrists with a copy of the agenda. Unfortunately, it was too dull.

Do you remember when syposiums consisted of gallons of wine, togas, and sex with young boys? What has happened? White Anglo Saxons bankers ruin everything.

Merely a Story about Soup

My best friend Anna and I went out to lunch yesterday. Anna asked the waiter if there were any specials. He told us about the asparagus, pesto pasta dish and then told us the soup of the day was Lobster Bisque. Hwwever, he continued, they were out of the bisque. Since asparagus is disgusting, we ordered from the regular menu. I guess when they say "special" at this eatery they mean "special" as in small bus "special" because there are very few vegetables more retarded than asparagus. You don't believe me? Next time you're in the grocery store ask the asparagus to spell its name. I'm so convinced of it's utter awfulness that I won't be US centrist with my test--It can spell it in any language it chooses. You know what? When you ask it to spell it's name hold up a flash card so the asparagus can read the answer. That's how sure I am of the dumbness of that vegetable. I would say that asparagus was the inspiration for the term "vegetable" when describing humans in comatose states except that would be giving asparagus too much credit.

Moving on. None of this has to do with Anna's story.

I ordered eggplant over chicken and Anna ordered Arancia (Italian rice balls) and a salad. Before the waiter left to give our requests to the kitchen he turned to Anna and said, "Somewhere you know you shouldn't have the bisque."
Anna responded, "But I didn't ask you for soup." Our waiter turned and walked away from the table. Anna was flabergasted. "Rachael, did you hear me ask him for soup?"
"No."
"Why would I ask for the soup if it's not available. There is no soup to be had. And who said I wanted the bisque even if it was available for the having? What a ludacrious statement. Should I be thinking that much about the bisque? And where should I know whether or not I should or shouldn't have the lobster bisque?"

I said, "You are lactose intolerant and bisque has cream in it"

"So my intestines are telling me not to eat the bisque? Funny they never pipe up when I'm about to eat a bowl of ice cream. Who is he to tell me what I should or shouldn't know and where I may know that information. I know what I know where I know it, I dont' have to go searching for answers to questions I have never asked."

"You've gotten the bisque before."

"Yes, before. I used to be five before. It doesn't mean I'm five now. Do you think after having already experienced the lobster bisque a couple of times I want it again?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps, if I asked for it, but I didn't. As enjoyable as the bisque can be after many spoonfuls it becomes too rich for me to finish--not that the bisque has or had any money.-- Sometimes after the bowl of bisque had been in my presence for awhile I'd want to defenistrate it. I'm not saying that having the bisque again hadn't crossed my mind, but I didn't come here for the bisque. I didn't ask for the bisque and I think the waiter should worry whether or not he wants the bisque. He acts like he's not upset about their being no more bisque but he easily could be upset."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"In fact I bet you there is plenty of bisque left and he wants me to have the bisque, but because I never asked for the bisque he got all hurt and had to act like he didn't want me to have the bisque to save face. So he told me that somewhere my psychic self has tuned into the universe where I've intercepted the message that I shouldn't have bisque. No he presents himself as some non-emotional rational man who knows consciously knows that I shouldn't have the bisque."

"Are you still talking about soup?"

"Was I ever talking about soup, Rachael?"

"I think you're hungry. You're blood sugar is low, and you need to eat something."

"You're God Damn right I need to eat something but it sure as well won't be a bowl of lobster bisque that they don't have that I didn't ask for!!!!!"

"As long as that is settled."

***Yes, this post was created completely sober.