Que Sera Sera

Cringe: The Cringing

Tomorrow night is Cringe, and it’s shaping up to be a right regular sausage fest, which is rare. I guess while all us ladies spent our formative years journaling through our lust and rage, you boys were busy drawing helicopters on the backs of your spiral notebooks. I know this because I saw it. But we’ve rounded up some pipe, and it’s going to be sweet. Word on the street is we’ll have some repeat performances from Marc “Anonymous Love Letter to His Neighbor” Balgavy, as well as last month’s crowd pleaser, Harris “So Then I Jerked Off In Mike’s Bathroom” Lastname, and some new blood in the form of Joshua B. Mogul Newman, who apparently at one point in time slowdanced with a girl at his bar mitzvah. Also, corn/ladies will be served.

Did you like how I said “pipe” up there? I was attempting to coin my own slang and see if it flew, but it ended up looking like I made a drug reference instead. Whatever, I’m sticking with it.

Cringe Reading Night
Wednesday, March 1, 8:30 pm
Freddy’s Bar & Backroom
Dean & 6th Ave.
2/3 to Bergen, any train in the world to Atlantic/Flatbush
Cost: as always, free dollars


Yesterday I ordered a Mac. My current computer was my college graduation gift, and uses both AOL and dial-up, so not only am I a dinosaur, I’m an Amish dinosaur. I typically upgrade my electronics about once a decade. I think this is sort of a Brown thing—we clung to our Betamax until I was a freshman in high school, and my first car had an 8-track player. It was landmark that 2005 saw me upgrade my cell phone AND purchase a DVD player, because I still own and operate a walkman on a daily basis. But now that I’ve officially ushered in the dawn of superior computer technology, it’s going to be like freaking 1997 up in here.

This upgrade was a long time coming, a mixture of two parts being poor and one part being lazy, but the switch to the Mac was something else altogether. I had an iMac and an iBook at my first advertising job back in 2000, and liked them both just fine, so it wasn’t a fear of the unknown that kept me from switching; it was the fear of becoming a Mac Person.

I was very wary to cross this line, convinced that once I owned an Apple product, I’d have to start typing all in lowercase, wearing scarves indoors, and listening to a lot of Belle & Sebastian. I’m aware that this is my own skewed stereotype, because about 90% of the people I know and love own Macs, and not one of them makes me choke on twee. Clearly, this is all in my own head, but it loomed very large in there: it made perfect sense to me that I could not own a Mac simply because I like dive bars and men who don’t put product in their hair. I realize this is akin to calling someone a fag because they don’t eat meat. Basically, I’m the Archie Bunker of computers.

I think a lot of this comes from the annoying iPod commercials, and just the interior of the Apple store itself—it’s all brightly-lit and full of right angles, and free of clutter or any human involvement, like an IKEA catalog fucked Annette Bening. I do not feel comfortable in the Apple store; I feel like I should lint-brush my clothes.

Anyway, I got over all of this, mostly due to my friends pointing out that my computer wouldn’t live inside the Apple store, it would live inside my bedroom, and while it lived inside my bedroom, it would basically be a home entertainment system that also allowed me to write emails. This really spoke to the lazy bigot inside of me, so hell yeah, sign me up. I’m not even ruling out an iPod purchase somewhere down the line, but I’ll make a blood oath right now that if that day comes, I’ll buy some giant headphones to go with it. I’m not having any of that tiny earbud crap. I generally demand my electronics cased in gleaming polished oak, and so large that you can smell whether they’re on or off, so let’s baby step this one.

It's a pill that gives worms to ex-girlfriends

I’ve had a sore throat and a cough this week. I’m headed out of town tomorrow, and I thought it might be polite not to infect an entire plane or another region of the country, so I went to see the doctor. Not my real doctor—who apparently won’t see you at a few days’ notice unless you have a baby hanging halfway out your judy, and that baby has the 12-Day AIDS—but the walk-in family clinic affiliated with my real doctor. So I spent an hour and a half in the clinic waiting room sitting next to this couple I swear to God were R. & Aline Crumb, and they were having this amazing conversation that I wrote down on the back of a credit card receipt until I ran out of room. A sample:

Man: ...so the government asked me to run some surveillance on this girl...
Woman: Just like that movie with Tom Berenger and Mimi Rogers where he’s supposed to be watching her but he ends up doing her!
Man: Right! Only with us, that part came before.


Woman: ...and I was SO fucked up at the time I had to crawl into the bathroom on my hands and knees. I took these pills, they were like, small? And green?
Man (nodding knowingly): And round.
Woman: Yes! Round! That’s the ones.
Man: I’ve had those before.
Woman: You see, I was dating a man named Justin at this point in my life.

Then the woman told us all that she was going to use the fucking ladies’ room, and another man came over and took her chair and started up a conversation about June weddings with the R. Crumb man. I love how the crazies can spot fellow crazies in public, like they’re all drawing little crazy fishes in the dirt with their walking sticks.

So I finally got back into an exam room, and a nurse named Svetlana informed me she was going to give me a strep test. I was like, “Oh! Um, okay, but I should tell you, I don’t do very well at those.” Which is a giant understatement. My old doctor in Tulsa gave up on giving me strep tests years ago, because none of her nurses would give me one anymore. Apparently I’m what the nursing community calls a “kicker.” This is not on purpose. I can’t help it that my gag reflex is somehow connected to my knee. It’s a nice little surprise in the bedroom as well.

So Svetlana said, “You do not want test? I see the spots.”

And I said, “No, no, I want, I just… I might not… do… very well. I might kick. You. On accident.”

And Svetlana raised her eyebrow and said, “You want swab yourself?”

No one had ever offered me this option before. DIY strep test, hell yes! So I said, “Yes. Yes, I want very much to swab myself.” And I went into the bathroom and used the mirror and I don’t see what the big fuss is about medical school anyway. And no, I did not kick the cabinet because I am not a parakeet.

Anyway. So I gave Svetlana my swabs and sat down to wait for the doctor. And when the doctor comes in, he’s my age and very cute, and shakes my hand and says, “Hi, I’m Dr. Smith,” and I’m suddenly very glad I am wearing a skirt and sitting up straight. I definitely sensed a little vibe there, and he was flirty and very thorough, and while he listened to my heartbeat I silently high-fived myself for not having made my BJ-itis joke.

So he writes me a prescription and we shake hands again, and I come back to my office, and an hour later my cell phone rings with an unknown number. And when I answer it, a voice says, “Is this Sarah? This is Dr. John Smith.” And I said, “Oh, hello,” and he said, “I was just wondering if you had any trouble getting that prescription filled.” And I said, “No,” and he said, “Oh, okay. Because sometimes they need my number to fill it.” And I said, “No, it was fine, they didn’t ask for your number,” and he said, “Well, just in case, let me give it to you,” and I was like, Dude! You are totally leaving your blue T-shirt at my house right now, Dr. John Smith!

It’s too bad I make it a rule not to date rich guys.


I have participated in one meme in my life, but to be honest, that one was sort of fun, and besides, Maggie tagged me and hers was the first weblog I ever read. Also, who am I kidding: I could use the practice.

Four jobs I’ve had:

concession stand, neighborhood pool
waitress at hippie pizza parlor
advertising copywriter

Four Movies I can watch over and over:

Harold & Maude
Coal Miner’s Daughter
Urban Cowboy

Four Places I’ve Lived:

Tulsa, Oklahoma, for the first 26 years of my life, so notable subranking:
a. 2644 South Sandusky Avenue (1977-1980)
b. girls’ dorm temporarily relocated in the boys’ dorm due to construction (1995-96)
c. 1920s servants’ quarters turned into garage apartment (2000-2001)
Brooklyn, New York

Four TV shows I love:

Arrested Development
The Vicar of Dibley

Four places I’ve vacationed / Who’s Almost 30 But Has Never Left The Continental United States Except For That One Summer in 1991 Spent Building Houses With a Youth Group in Mexico?:

Aspen, Colorado
Park City, Utah
San Francisco, California
Newport, Rhode Island

Four of my favorite dishes:

My mom’s chicken casserole
Emily’s fajitas and pico de gallo
Black olive, garlic glaze, and alfredo sauce pie from Hideaway Pizza
Anything involving cilantro

Four sites I visit daily:

Achewood (first thing, without fail)
Golden Fiddle
FBOFW.com (It’s a long story.)

Four places I would rather be right now:

Driving down highway 412 West, windows down, twilight, summer
The Q train to Coney Island, November
Coloring under the grand piano by the window at my grandmother’s house, 1982

Four bloggers I’m tagging/slightly alienating:

Lady Toole
Josh Osmium
Barrett Chase
Amy Chop

Army had a half day today.

Tonight is Slumber Party. Slumber Party has no “the” preceding it, sort of like Army on Arrested Development. Slumber Party promises to bring together some top-notch ladies with some top-shelf liquor, as well as Megan’s famed Chocolate Beet Cake. Perhaps a return visit to Peter Scolari’s summer home; who knows? All I know is I celebrated my return to drinking again just this week, and I am very, very thankful for the existence of Slumber Party. And then, just to balance out the weekend and make sure it doesn’t get too boxy, my boss just handed me four tickets to the Knicks game on Sunday. Steve Holt!

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