OMG I am home.

At last.

And now, I can relax and go back to posting on a not at all consistent basis!


So anyways, yes.  I went to Boston and New YorkBy way of airplane.

And I lived to talk about it.


It was totally touch and go for a while, there.  I sweated so bad the whole plane ride, I am pretty sure my seat was wet.  I think I carry all my tension in my ass.

So yes.  Boston was lovely.

Would have been lovelier if James Spader was still practicing law there, but you can’t win them all, and I was there for work, not having sex with the creepy boss from The Secretary.   Also?  Where the fuck was Norm?!


And then, we traveled by train to New York City, just like the old days…if the old days included gang rape and sidewalks littered with pigeon poop and gutter condoms.

It was, um…big.  Scary.  Not friendly.  And moist.  Everything was moist.  Like, the bad kind of moist.  I don’t know, hot diaper moist?  Does that make sense?  Yes?  It was like that.

But, I made it to my hotel, and then things kinda broke down.

You know that scene in the movie Big, when that weird red headed kid, the one who looks like the human version of ALF, left Tom Hanks alone in the city the first night, and Tom Hanks cried and hid in his bed?

I did that.

Only it wasn’t a bed, it was the tub…in my underwear…with the tv up super loud so no one could hear me sobbing.

But, here’s the thing.  Maybe I would have been friends with New York City, if I wasn’t such a germ freak.  Which, I mean, is obviously a shocking revelation, no?


I am messy, not dirty.  The difference between those two things?  Maggots and a live hepatitis B virus.

When I was 8, I was in girl scouts.

We had this insane leader with all these grand ideas about doing all this outdoor shit, when in reality, all I wanted to do was get the high score on Paperboy and puffy paint some sweatshirts.  Whatever.

So, we were at some campground in the middle of nowhere, like, straight wilderness, and the only thing that resembled a bathroom was this old wooden outhouse thing.  Basically, a wooden box and a hole in the ground.  It looked haunted and smelled like it had been pooped in for, at least, the past 20 years.

Anyways, I refused to go in there.  But there was this girl in my troop who, at like, 4am, totally couldn’t hold it, and woke up a leader to go hit up the haunted outhouse with her.  Well, next thing I know, I heard people yelling, and everything was all crazy outside, because, holy shit, the girl fell through the floor of the old rotting porta potty, into the disgusting pool of feces.  I mean, FECES!  OLD, ROTTING, FESTERING FECES.

And, she was throwing up everywhere, the owner of the campground called the ambulance to come, she had all these little cuts and splinters all over her from falling through the wooden floor, and the diseased old shit water was all over her and in her cuts, probably giving her some weird fecal disease.

She was in the hospital getting antibiotics for a week, she totally quit girl scouts after that, and since she went to a public school, I never saw her again until high school, but I totally didn’t bring it up.

I mean, who wants to remember falling four feet below an outhouse into a pool of old human waste?

So anyways, my point is, since that day, I have had issues with germs.

I treat everything I touch, from grocery cart handles to door knobs, like they were just touched by some 8 year old soaked in old crap.

And, if that means full body antibacterial baths in the dining car of a dirty train, ANISSA, then so be it.

So yes, next time New York City, I am wearing rubber gloves, nothing personal.

Oh, and also, on the plane ride home, there was a celebrity on my plane.  I actually totally didn’t even know she was a celebrity, until she announced it in front of everyone at the ticket counter.

The daughter of Rev Run was on my flight, she apparently has a show on MTV.

Also, Rev Run is not the same as MC Hammer.

And, she flew coach.

Oh, and she had an entourage, and they all looked hard core, except for this one guy who looked like Chaz Bono.  You know, the dude version of Chaz Bono.  The one with a wiener.

P.S. Oh look, pictures!

P.P.S. Not pictures of wieners, pictures from the trip.

P.P.P.S. Updated in response to the NYC HATE MAIL taking over my inbox: I totally bought an I *heart* New York tshirt, because, for the most part, as long as I wore rubber gloves and a diaphragm, New York City was wonderful, especially the food.  Specifically the bagels.   And the frozen hot chocolate from Serendipity.  And any meat product on a stick sold from any cart at the corner of any intersection.  Anyways, I only buy tshirts that say things that are true, except for my shirt that says Got Crunk…but that has less to do with truthfullness and more to do with being drunk in Vegas and having a shifty moral compass.

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