make sure you wipe that down, mmkay?

i'll be the first to admit it: i am one of the biggest spazzoids i know. whether i am tearing through residential neighborhoods at excessive speeds, hauling ass down the crowded sidewalks of boston to make it to work on time, or struggling to keep my keep it together whilst living at home this summer, my sanity always has one foot out the door. i know it's just waiting for the perfect moment to peace out on me, rendering me a sobbing, twitching mess for the public's scrutinizing eye to fall upon and judge the shit out of. god only knows what my fate would be if i drank coffee.

after about a month of schlubbing around the house, i decided that i needed to do something about my far-from-normal state of mind. i enlisted my good friend and fellow shaws alum jeff to plunk down the plastic and join a nearby gym. i figured that a few days a week sweating to (and with, as the case so often was) the oldies would be just what i needed to stabilize and eliminate my all too frequent brainfarts. also, the protrusion of my gut was starting to rival that of my chest. and while the size of my funbags aren't something to brag about, the fact that my six-pack from days of yore had vanished irritated me like the impending hanson comeback. yeah..mmmbop this.

it wasn't until halfway through the second week of my workout regime that i realized that my gym offered (gasp!) free-of-charge yoga classes in addition to the plethora of ellipticals and free weights housed within its walls. though i am a big fan of pilates, i had always been skeptical of its equally flexible cousin. i didn't want to turn into a tree-hugging, granola-eating, peace-and-love, i-don't-believe-in-razors kinda lady..but the thought of an entire hour of solitude and potential incense burning appealed to my frazzled nerves. armed with my squishy pink mat and icy poland springs, i semi-openmindedly entered the studio.

the next thing i knew, i was downward-facing doging all over the place (your mind = in the gutter..get it out..pronto). i was all about the warrior 2 and was known to rock out a pretty nasty reverse triangle at a moment's notice. this curious venture soon became a mini-obsession. if i didn't harness my chi at least three times a week, i just didn't feel right. it didn't matter if i was sun salutationing, bridge-posing, or attempting the nearly impossible crane, the artist formerly known as my strung-out self had become just another one-hit wonder instead of multi-platinum legend hall of fame inductee. after a semester of more downs than ups and questions than answers, i felt more like myself than i think i ever have. plus, how many people do you know that can put both feet behind their head without needing medical assistance to reverse the same action? think about it and report back. i'll wait.

now as i sit here, munching on a nature's valley and contemplating how i can help the starving orphans in calcutta, i am actually embracing the fact that i've become kind of crunchy. key words: kind of. i still step on ants with no fear of karma biting back and hock the occasional flavorless piece of gum out the window. i can't curb my potty mouth and don't always bless people when they sneeze. i also can't bear much more than a quarter inch of stubble. regardless of those trivial diffs, i think we can all agree on one thing: my ass looks great in yoga pants. ch-check it out. ok, enough..no need to leer.

..namaste..or whatever,
lex

suck it, corporate america.

have you ever had one of those mornings (or afternoons..depending on how much you heart the sleepies) that you roll out of bed, wipe the gunk out of your eyes, pull back the blinds and say to yourself, "sweet sassy molassey, self! today looks absolutely DELICIOUS!" this evaluation signals immediate gussying (or hussying in some cases..you know who you are) up into your favorite warm weather garb for a day of fun and sun. however, for most of us corporate whores, those days are limited. our hectic schedules of office bitchery force us only to revel in the few precious moments of freedom we have going to and coming from the office and on the occasional extended lunch hour. revel with me, won't you?

as i teeter back and forth on the cusp of adulthood, i realize i enjoy these too-few moments waaaaaaaaay the hell more than anything so much harboring a shred of responsibility. while i do fancy ordering myself a drink during a meal and being able to verify my age via non-fake id, sometimes i almost have to stop myself from requesting a chocolate milk so i can blow bubbles through the crazy straw. though i do loathe most children with the fire of a thousand suns, i am still but a child at heart (and size), making going to work on those perfect summer days a cruel and unusual punishment. chinese water torture? sure. the rack? bring it on. desk work on a 90-degree, cloudless day? i would rather kiss a toilet seat.

i try to maximize my non-worky time, opting to truck it from state to congress street instead of switching trains to the uberclose south station. armed with my flip-flops, tousled beachy curls and stylin' shades, i am the portrait of summer..until i set foot inside 286 where i promptly lose a tit as a result of the frigid central air. seeing as though it is indeed august and i have no short-term memory so to speak of, i neglect to take any sort of sleeve or other warming device from home. from 9 to 5, my day is spent not inducing skin cancer on a white sand beach, but instead doomed to shivering in my ergonomic chair, hugging my knees to my sharp-as-glass chest until the vents stop spewing winter. with each file i create or document i scan, my patience and sanity begin packing their bags. i look out the window and see tourists passing by in their obnoxious clothing (apparently a prerequisite for both out-of-towners and middle school skanks-in-training), posing for stupid pictures and laughing gaily. it takes every ounce of strength i have not to huzz a paperweight through the glass to be embedded in their carefree craniums. i am so jealous of their freedom that i would willingly don one of their ridiculous ensembles just to be released from the clutches of my corporate captors.

im trying my best not to get off on a tangent here..so bear with me. you might learn something, tangent-laden or otherwise.

one of my favorite quotes of all time comes from the shawshank redemption. though the subject matter of the film does lack the ha-has i usually crave from my cinema experience, my life is summed up perfectly by red when muses, "some birds aren't meant to be caged..their feathers are just too bright." not only does it explain my string of failed relationships and penchant for not-so-subtle attire, but it pegs exactly where my priorities lie professionwise. i just can't do the office thing. give me my laptop, a lounge chair, and some spf 15 (for safety's sake!) over an overzealous supervisor and timed bathroom breaks any day. though the comp may procure some interesting tan lines, it's something i'm willing to look past if it rids my flesh of its current ghostly hue and my mind of its current state of blah.

unlike some people i know, i do not have my life after college perfectly mapped out. after strutting across the stage in my blue and white next may, what lies ahead is hazy..but by no means bleak. i have found something that i am good at in writing. it's my own personal piece of flair that i wear with pride instead of by force and threats from the management. while it is something that will never make me the kind of cash and security another profession could provide me with, if i did anything else i would be compromising part of who i am. why else would i be sitting here, blatantly disregarding the bossman glaring over my shoulder (ps..hi back there) and the "important" legal task at hand in favor of participating in this brain dump of epic proportions? forget red bull and crystal meth. this is the ish that fuels me. if you don't like it, you're probably already miserable about the path your own life is taking. step away from the desk slowly. you're welcome in advance.

..hoping this next half hour is over quicker than my first awkward sexual encounter,
lex

is that the guy with the old balls?

i know that i am going straight to hell in a kate spade saying this the day after my nana is hospitalized from suffering a stroke, but i could use the balmy temps and a hot little tan. let it be known that i truly despise the elderly.

don't get me wrong..not all who are prune-faced and teeter along at a tortoise's pace warrant my hatred. my nana is the definition of red-headed perfection, my papa is so cute albeit a tad senile, and i want to adopt ralf, the owner of the building i work in. i get high-fives every day from the parking lot attendant at beachmont, "hello, bella! como estai?" from joe with the missing middle finger, and small talk and weather reports from the security guard on congress street. they make me laugh and occasionally give me money. clearly, i am down with this crowd...and why wouldn't i be? they're a fun bunch. it's that other breed of fogie that i wish would trip on their orthopedic shoes and fall face first into a soiled bedpan.

old people think that they can say and do whatever they want without any repercussion, much like a rebellious teenager..but sporting depends instead of a thong. some can get away with a snide remark or dig by masking it in "what? where AM i? who ARE you?" confusion. even i, the queen of the short fuse, can let one or two comments like these slide without going bruce lee on the person whom from which it came. hard to believe, but i do have somewhat of a conscience, a few manners buried beneath years of cynicism. however, catch me on a bad day, like monday through sunday, and the once polite pretty princess is no where to be found. an example, you request? you BET.

i wake up one morning a few weeks ago and decide that the twenty-four dollars in my bank account might like some company. so, i round up some spare bills and uncashed checks, hop in the civvy, and zip on down to the bank. traffic on broadway is horrendous per usual and i am forced to listen to the oonnnntttzzzzoooonnnntttzzzoooonnntttzzzzzz vibrating from the speakers of the guido behind me. with the bank finally in my view, i put on my right blinker and prepared to turn..but what's this? an illegally parked cab and equally illegally parked truck are blocking my path, leaving approximately 4 centimeters of pavement between the two cars for oncoming traffic to flow through. not wanting to do any more damage to my ride, i wait patiently for one of them to move so i can proceed to ever so slightly increase my account balance. i was still half asleep, what with it being 10:30 and all, but i bolted upright when i heard a voice from the left. "what the fuck are you doing?" the voice croaked. i turned to see a wrinkled face scowling at me from the back seat of the cab. not wanting my first words of the day to be negative, i explained ever so sweetly that i was just waiting for him to move so i could maneuver my vehicle into the bank drive-thru. i guess i was wrong in thinking that he would nod his head in understanding and tell the cabbie to hurry along so the lovely young italian girl could get her finances in order, maybe even give me a quarter for my cause, but my explanation was instead cut short with an equally gravel-throated, "well hurry it up, mother fucker." i couldn't believe it. i honestly didn't think people that age were allowed to say that, let alone know the term at all. with the miss america smile still plastered on my face, i looked him in the eye and said, "you are so lucky you are going to die soon, or i would kill you myself you son of a bitch." guess who came out looking like the bad guy? she didn't have a penis, that's for damn sure.

since that incident came and went, the experiences i have had with the non-youngins has been few and far between, but delightful none the less. until tonight. i was again in my car, driving to my cousin's house to unwind over "confessions of a teenage drama queen" (her choice, not mine) and a fattie (a mutual and excellent decision). i was stopped at a red light at a major intersection, waiting for the light to change. john mayer quietly crooned about a split screen sadness when the light turned green and i eased my foot onto the gas. the next thing i know, winthrop avenue merged into the last lap in the indy 500 because the gray-haired gent beside me floored it, cutting me off with inches to spare. i went with my first instinct and flipped him off and continued down the busy street. i switched lanes, and father time immediately swerved his hoopty in front of me. switched lanes again moments later with the same result, except this time he tried to fast brake and make me hit him. it was only after the third escape attempt that i looked at his license plate and saw the words "disabled veteran" emblazoned across the metal. his motor skills seemed razor sharp from where i was sitting and i'm pretty certain that i was suffering more post traumatic stress than he could ever claim. at least he didn't call me a mofo..to my face.

old people are an acquired taste, a delicacy to some and utter garbage to others. personal preference is the name of this game, but it shan't be too hard to figure out where my taste buds reside on this matter. as always, i am constantly looking for a lesson to be learned through an otherwise unpleasant experience, searching for something, anything, that will help me see my surroundings from a slightly different perspective. this time is no exception: i am never growing up. EVER.

..pass the playdough, not the prunes,
lex

motivation vacation.

no matter how much i may strive to be a "go-getter," "people person," or "nice," my inner slacker is watching, waiting, and anticipating the perfect moment to strike, henceforth sabotaging anything productive that i could possibly be capable of. though we may tussle for a bit, my inner slacker and i, slackey usually prevails and the two of us end up on the couch, eating junk that goes straight to my ass and thighs and watching bad reality television instead of doing something constructive. oh slackey..how i love and loath thee.

the preceding cycle is a problem i often find myself grappling with. there have been times where i have stayed in my pjs for over twenty-four hours, even when venturing out to do short errands or when necessary to nourish myself (ahhhh..weekend brunchies). there have been weeks that i have opted out of going to the gym in favor of an afternoon-to-evening nap. months where my bed has gone unmade day after day and years where i refused to believe the side ponytail was, indeed, out of style (the comeback is in the works..girl, you know it's true!). when monetary incentive is involved, however, slackey goes on hiatus and my alter-alter ego, money-grubbing whore, makes a hot little cameo.

it's pretty pathetic what i'll do for a little dinero when i'm bottom-of-the-bucket, hovering-just-a-skotch-above-the-poverty-line broke. since my keister is unemployed for about 8 months out of the year when i assume the role of student and have the necessary shred of morals left not to stoop to prostitution, i will take any employment that is offered to me when i am home for an extended period of time. there have been my adventures in temping, hostessing with the mostessing, substituting pint-sized hellions, servicing customers via telephone, papering or plasticing the components of the food pyramid..if i was getting paid for it, i'd do it. i couldn't guarantee i wouldn't be complaining about it to anyone who would listen, but when the mere thought of a pay day entered my cerebellum, it made any task..albeit menial and degrading..strangely tolerable.

with the dnc officially kicking off tonight and making boston a commuter's nightmare, i thought for sure that i would be riding a tsunami of job offers straight through the week. i could pick and choose which hoity-toity law firm to tool around at between 9 to 5, carefully select which desk job i would pretend to do for 8 hours a day. like blond hair and black eyebrows, i was oh so very wrong..for my sole income is stemming from my semi-weekly stints as a north end espresso wench. though i do enjoy bullshitting with the regulars and all the free gelato i can eat, i cannot subsist on witty banter and sugar alone (contrary to many of your beliefs). i need the reassurance that i am providing quality service..an encouraging pat on the back or chuck under the chin every so often to say "nice work, lex. keep it up."

basically, i need fucking tips.

i'm fortunate enough to have nabbed one of the coveted positions on saturday nights, where business is booming and the clientele is usually bombed following their (mostly liquid) evening meals. and what do most drunk people need? aside from the obvious filth your brain is currently stewing, the answer is caffeine and a calorie-fest. when the orders for cannolis, babas, cappuccinos, and mochas start pouring in, i welcome it only with the hope that i will be compensated with a washington or two in the tip jar. i'm not smiling like an asshole and biting my acid tongue the whole night for my health. the kid i work with, however, couldn't care less. he rolls his eyes when asked to whip up a few coffees. he sighs in disgust when milk needs to be steamed and frothed. he ignores any and all requests in favor of talking to his ass-clown friends, who are taking up three seats at the bar all night, instead of earning his keep. on a night when $200 could possibly be made, tonight our grand total was $51.32..discluding the canadian coins and napkins that were unwittingly thrown into the mix. don't get me wrong, the kid is nice to a fault and buys me snacks, but even a pleasant disposition and a slice from ernesto's is no substitute for cold, hard cashola. then again, few things are. it's nothing a judo chop to the jugular and threats to stick a biscotti where the sun don't shine won't fix. i'll keep y'all posted.

..money can't buy happiness but sure as hell can buy me cute clothes,
lex

ouch..my ego aches.

when i was two and a half years old, my family (which then consisted of me, my father, and my very pregnant mother) moved from a small apartment near the beach to a modest-sized house on a tree-lined street..the house i still reside in when not away at school. the first day we moved in, i decided that it would be a great idea to explore my new environment with my dog, vito, who was a year younger than me and three times my size (if that wasn't blatant foreshadowing to the life of midgetry that awaited me, i don't know what would have been).

with my fluffy, k-9 companion in tow, i toddled through the sunporch and into the kitchen, hung a right into the soon-to-be playroom, a left into the bathroom, and wandered across the living room until i reached the stairs heading to the second floor. my dad, a school teacher and part-time carpenter, had just finished ripping up the old carpet, leaving the aforementioned stairs a mess of glue residue and potential splinters. bored with what i had seen up until that point, i embarked up the steep flight, making it about halfway up before i tumbled, ass over elbows, back to my starting point. as i sat there in disbelief and bleeding from the shin, any and all adults persons in the vicinity that had up until that point been completely neglecting me rushed to my side. my diapered ass was subsequently scooped up and rushed to the bathroom for repair via neosporin and band-aids. despite the certain pain i was in, i didn't shed a single tear, for somehow i was aware that this was not the last time i would wind up injured as a result of my own devices. i have the scars to prove it.

many of my more painful moments started out much like that day had, when i was looking for an adventure or attempting an experiment or contest. there was the time my brother and i were pretending we were race car drivers and i stuck my mother's car keys into a make-shift ignition (an electrical outlet), causing my bowl haircut to stand up on end before i passed out onto my screaming sibling. there was the day that i was outside with jimmy luiso and thought it would be a good idea to sprint down the street wearing a dress, stupid hat, and patent-leather maryjanes..a good idea that led to a skinned knee and me sulking on a couch all easter sunday. i stepped on a bee in my bare feet to see if it would sting me (it did). in my very first t-ball game down mcmackin field, i got hit in the face with a line drive because i wanted to see just how far "in" the infield really was. a marcia brady-style encounter with a football occurred the week before my 8th grade social, all because i wanted to be one of the boys for a hot minute. two car accidents, countless phalanges slammed in windows and doors, close encounters with gym equipment and frothed milk (separately, surprisingly enough), even pulled muscles and bite marks from a particularly rowdy roll in the hay and a heart that has been tap danced on more than the parquet floor of michael flatley's private studio, the list goes on..each new entry that teensy bit more embarrassing than the one preceding it.

it was only natural that my klutziness was bound to follow me into the workplace like a stray kitten..looking nothing but cute and innocent until it turns the new sofa into its own personal scratching post. though my years in retail did heed their fair share of calamities, sooner or later i would jeopardize my own safety and the well-being of others in a corporate setting. today was that day when, approximately 7 minutes after i arrived at the office, i dropped a 20-plus pound box on my flip-flopped foot (business casual, fools..shut up), rendering me clumsy mcgimp until the swelling and throbbing ceases. apparently, the powers that be thought that i hadn't suffered enough from both pain and embarrassment and commanded me to trip over a bump in the carpet and skid into the refrigerator on the way to the first aid kit. continuing the journey down my shame spiral, my bosses, all three of them, continued to check up on me throughout the day, making sure that i wasn't engaging in any activity that could harm myself or those around me. i kid you not..i wasn't even allowed to use the stapler.

i had a point when i began typing this, but, like my sense of coordination and good judgement, it is long gone. however, the next time you see me atop a balance beam or holding a small child, make sure an ambulance is standing by. it's scary what i am capable of.

..knowing full well 911 will always occupy numero uno on my speed dial,
lex

it's boner time..or not.

it really doesn't matter where you are on this crazy blue marble we call earth, one thing holds true regardless of where you call home. africa, australia, even antarctica or india..where nary a square of skin can be seen beneath snowsuit or burqa, respectively. take a gander downwards. does your chest protrude? if so, be prepared for skeezeballs to flock at a moment's notice. if not, you are the one a-flockin'.

while all you gents (and i use that term verrrrry lightly) in the crowd are shaking your head in "what choo talkin' bout, willis?" disbelief, please direct your attention a la derecha where an explosion of "hell yeas" "woopWOOPs" and "mmmmhmmmmmmms" have just exploded in the exact location where the group of mild-mannered young ladies stood in the not-so-distant past. could YOU be one of those abominations that makes our glistening, moisturized, lightly-scented flesh crawl? are YOU one of those mutations that we bag on when we go to the bathroom in herds? to be honest, with a dash of tact for flavor..abso-friggin'-loutely.

though outbreaks have been reported throughout the year, a full-blown epidemic sweeps the globe every summer. like locusts, overzealous charcoal-happy grillmasters and one-day doorbuster sale seekers, the second the weather warms, the moment turtlenecks and corduroys become unbearable, a hybrid of all that is nastiness is unleashed on the female population. this is clockwork..more accurate than the trains under mussolini or your monthly craving for chocolate and soap operas. walk to the bank instead of driving? that's a negative. forego the gym for an al fresco workout? think again. they are waiting for you.

the first time it happened to me was when i was roughly 14 years old. my friend whitney had just paged me (haha remember those?) and asked me to come over her house so we could sneak and hang out with some older boys we met from east boston. not wanting to miss the opportunity of getting felt up in the back of an '77 cutlass supreme, i laced up my nikes, kicked up my heels, and scurried to her house as fast as my prepubescent legs could go. i was so intent on reaching my destination in the least amount of time that i failed to notice the pick-up truck trailing me. when i finally stopped to take a breath, i heard it. the lip smacking. the wolf-whistling. and my very first "hey mami..where YOU headed in such a hurry?" i whipped my head around to see three (tres) rico-not-so-suaves, all easily old enough to be my father (and i don't mean papi), leering at me from the window. naturally, i looked around to see who they were addressing (more like mentally undressing now that i think about it) and realized that i was the only person on the sidewalk that their gaze was fixed on. i looked myself up and down: tank top, shorts, sneakers. made of fabric and other assorted textiles..though the way six eyes were boring through me i could have sworn i was clothed in saran wrap. for the first time in my life, i was at a loss for words..though my facial expressions did enough gymnastics to warrant an invite to the summer olympics. the shock. the horror. the nerve.

was that my last encounter with a creature from skeezeball lagoon? hardly. i'm not saying that i bounce along like vintage pam anderson as i go for my evening runs. far from it actually. but no matter how plain jane i think i may look as i go about my business, there is always that one tool that will slow down, beep the horn, and shout something gross with a capital OH MY GOD I'M GONNA PUKE. though i do enjoy the occasional lewd comment or sexual innuendo (my outgoing voicemail messages can always attest to that), there's a time and a place. that place is not when i am trying to burn calories, nor is it when i am sitting in traffic on the way to pick up my mother from a mammogram. the t may seem like an ideal location, what with all the crowding and the rubbing up on and whatnot that will only be intensified by the impending dnc (well hellooOOO mr. senator. is that the constitution in your pocket?), but try to bust any game and i can guarantee you your manhood/ego won't be what it used to be (not that it was much in the first place..).

and now for my aesop moment: spare us the lines, guys. have they ever gotten you anything besides a pity laugh, eyeroll, or knee to the groin? didn't think so. there is a reason gerardo was a one-hit wonder.

..really glad that loss for words thing was a passing phase,
lex

ps..how YOU doin'? ;)

the anti mary kay letourneau.

the thought of having children has never particularly appealed to me. first, there is the massive weight gain and the constantly full bladder. second, the uberpainful birthing process. third, the inevitable saggy boobs, stretch marks, and struggle to shed the aforementioned massive weight gain. lastly, the mere thought of having to deal with a miniature version of yours truly until safely dead and buried. i barely play well with children my own age.

that being said, it may seem a tad odd that someone as offspringaphobic as myself would knowingly sign up to substitute teach..but it was the week after moving home for the summer, i had an "in" in the school department, and i thought making fifty bucks for playing seven-up all day sounded like F-U-N.

yeah..no.

i should have known the day would be a little slice of hell when the first student came barrel-assing through the door, took one look at me, and barrel-assed right back out, shrieking, "SUB! SUB! SUB!" at the top of his lungs all the way back down to the foyer. when the rest of the childrens came in, they congregated in the back of the classroom near the closets, sizing me up as i wrote the lesson plan on the board. a few of them, sure to someday be "yes" men and women, left their cronies to point out the bad kids and identify themselves as the good ones. then, they asked if they could pass out some papers, which is something second-graders are completely addicted to and obsessed with. it's the cocaine of the elementary school world..and i was their druglord.

we started about 10 minutes late because apparently bells are a thing of the past. i took attendance and did the lunch count, they pledged their allegiance (to the flag) and sang some stupid song, then i announced that we had some math worksheets to do. i quickly learned that the word "work," when emitted from the mouth of a substitute, is like poison to an 8-year-old's ears. they groaned and whined the whole way through the lesson (which i actually understood..thanks to the teacher's manual..) and continued their vocal gymnastics when i suggested reading worksheets. did you know second-graders are learning words like "leisure?" i didn't. they didn't. i think we all just wanted to color or something.

snacktime was, 1.) NOT recess (the kids schooled me) and 2.) just as i had remembered it, a sweet 10 a.m. reprieve from anything valuable to my future. i sat at my desk in my cushy chair, eating my dry cereal and watching the class kick the crap out of each other. after twenty minutes, 7 of them went to the nurse..which they couldn't go to unless they brought a buddy..upping the 7 to 14. after snack/hospitalization time, i let the kiddies work together on some make-shift (read: please just shut the fuck up so my migraine ceases) art projects. some of the little kiss asses actually made "best teacher ever" cards..which they addressed to a "mrs. mattera." i brought them home to my mother. she liked them.

lunchtime = thank buddah those little satan spawns were out of my sight. i reveled in the half-hour of solitude, literally skipping around the empty classroom and calculating the nanoseconds until dismissal. when i went down to pick the crapweasels up from the caf, i was greeted with several "hey! he loves you and wants to marry you!'s" and a plethora of tiny hands wanting to style my hair. no thanks, especially not after eating a fluffernutter. after a pee break and coat grab, it was time for recess (NOT snack, the kids schooled me again), where some woman from a nearby zoo entertained the kids with parrots and opossums and cockroaches (oh MY..). i didn't have to do anything. i smiled to myself and contemplated what kind of cocktail i would mix myself when i got home.

back into the classroom, where i screamed at the hellions to keep it down until the librarian came to pick them up for, what else, library time. ah yes..another half-hour of blissful silence as the youngins struggled to pronounce three-syllable words. when they returned, my father had the bright idea to bring down a tank of garden snakes from his classroom. pretty dim, pops. those damn reptiles started more fights and induced more tears than could ever be found anywhere on the planet..except maybe at a european futbol match or the daytime emmys. another temple-throbbing episode, followed by more screaming and threats of leaving a bad note for the teacher until it was time to go home..all this without playing even one game of seven up. dag, yo.

now here i sit, not even two hours after leaving that temple of doom and already dreading my reprise role on monday morning. as my age climbs closer and closer to that plateau we call "mid-life," the mere thought of procreation still makes me a little queasy..and no, it's not morning sickness. i think that until children to be born as fully-developed 18-year-olds ready to go off to college instead of the squirmy, pink annoyances they currently enter this world as, this gal will not be contributing to the globe's overpopulation any time soon. you'll thank me.

..heads up, seven-up you little bitches!
lex

life's big questions: answered. well..kinda.

there are many things in this life that puzzle me. why has a monkey been running our country for the past 3.4-ish years? who invented the bouffant? does a hooker charge her significant other for services others pay for hourly? with the right seasoning, can liver pass as a desirable entree? these are questions that take up the bulk of my thinking space..space that could be used to further my academic success..but alas, my thoughts tend to stray to these unsolvable mysteries. makes me wonder how i haven't gotten kicked out of school yet.

last year, i decided to put some questions like this out there for the world to see in this particular forum. the way i wrote was the way i played these scenarios out in my mind countless times per day..and the way it came out just happened to be humorous enough to garner the attention of anyone with opposable thumbs and access to my AIM profile. i would get ims from friends, enemies and complete strangers (a la "i'm a friend of so-and-so..") within hours of publishing, all saying the same thing: you are one funny chick..when's the next installment? what began as a form of therapy to ease my ever-wandering mind at odd hours of the night when sleepies were playing hard to get (ps..no one likes a tease) turned into some kind of cult. i was the one stirring the kool-aid..and you were all salivating in anticipation, eager to savor the first sip.

after perusing my last few (and far between) entries, i had another one of my many mental fender benders..and for the first time in a long time, i had the answer. the query: "why do people read this?" you can be honest, you don't give a good god damn about what's going on at my school or how i spend my workday. my birthday? my friends? my spastic family? you lean back and yawn..scrolling for something of interest. it was only after i had delved into the archives that it became abundantly clear: y'all get pleasure from my pain. last year, i was one angry little girl, and, despite the significant upturn my life has taken since then, there are still those times that something pisses me off so badly that i just want to beat the motherfucker causing it within an inch of their life. however, such actions are deemed incarcerationable in 48 of the 50 states (assuming, of course, that alaska and hawaii are daring to be different), so i opt for a verbal ego-bashing instead of the unusually high likelihood of sharing a cell with martha stewart. i'm really not down for arts and crafts whilst bubbling with contempt.

fret not, my parched disciples, your thirst will soon be quenched.

..the bitter bitch is BACK,
lex

ncAA.

monday started out like any other day. i woke up a shade before noon (god bless the invention of the once a week night class), got scalded by my demonized shower, and walked around in my underoos for the better part of an hour whilst trying to plan out the rest of my day. despite the fact that it was about 4 pm at that point, there was still much to be done. tv and beer won't watch and drink themselves you know.

we students at uconn are not commonly referred to as a mild-mannered bunch. regardless of where you go to school, you know what x-lot is and that, despite the ick factor of the name, the rape trail is the path most travelled on campus. however, someone started spreading a rumor that uconn had lost its edge, a bunch of second-seed pansies, so we had no choice but to squelch the bejesus out of that falsity. and squelch we did.

at approximately 11:34 pm, after several hours of hardcore boozing and lighthearted commentary (big ups to alicia b and her zero bullshit tolerance), we ventured..ok stumbled..outdoors into celeron square to celebrate uconn's just-acquired national championship. this wasn't some quaint affair. we forewent the cheese and crackers for leaping flames and ritualistic chanting. little known fact: the main function of a couch is to be sacrificed to a victory blaze and a keystone light shower is almost as effective as its soapy cousin. also, school property makes excellent kindling and boys with tattoos and/or muscles will never miss an opportunity to deshirt. for those of you with cars on campus, i highly recommend you check their status..pronto.

if you don't go, you don't know..but fortunately i'm here to tell you: we party like we play ball..hard and to win. this, my friends, was clearly a huge W..evident from the glazed-over eyes and frequent whiffs of vomit courtesy of the 8 people who attended class the next morning.

..wondering why i have yet to be tapped to write promotional brochures,
lex

ps..the women won last night. woop woop..but you didn't have to be one of the psychic friends to predict that ish.

it's twelve o'clock somewhere.

"where is it?" a raspy voice crackled into my right ear.

"it? what is it ? what are you talking about, mister?" i responded, still groggy from a delicious, but interrupted, nap.

"oh you KNOW what IT is," the voice persisted, more menacing than before. "if i don't get it soon, you'll be sorry."

"seriously lisa, i'm trying to sleep. i'll blog it up later i promise. now go get yourself some chloroseptic..you sound like my brother when he was going through puberty," i said as i slipped back into my slumber, knowing full well that there was a better chance of my sociology professor showing up to class in a sequined thong and boobie tassels than there was for me to keep my promise of a blog-filled evening. fingers crossed..never fails. suckaaaaaaaaaz.

that exact conversation, or something like it (read: "lex..do a blog." "eh..not now."), occurred almost two months ago. apparently, my roomie isn't the only one perceptive enough to notice the lack of action up in this piece. what was once a pretty hoppin' brothel has become a chaste convent. jay nice had some choice words ("you gotta do one..i got my boys hooked on it!"), as did my asian twin pauly ("that shit is hysterical girl..do it up."), and even my own brother ("what? no one's been pissing you off lately?"), who will undoubtedly have something to say about the throwback to his not-so-distant past ("you're such a bitch."). the hate mail did begin to wain for a while..but the queries came back full-force this evening as i innocently poisoned my mind with reality television. even as i type these words, deven smith-clarke himself imed me with a demand of his own. it's a sweeping epidemic..and NO ONE is vaccinated. you best drop your pants.

exuses are for homewreckers and politicians (a bit repetitive, i know), so i will spare you a movie of the week worthy tale of woe. i attribute most to laziness and busyness, some to nekidness, even less to soberness. school has been playing a hot little game of "kick-my-can," the debaucherous week known as spring break has come and gone and stripped me of checking funds, braincells, maybe a pair or two of panties, and the day i had been waiting for for the past eternity finally arrived.

the rumors are true..aside from my dwarf-like proportions and childlike sense of wonder, this gal right here has joined the ranks of that scary species known as "grown-up." i'm not saying that i've traded in the civvy for a minivan and my whore boots for orthopedic mules, but it's probably in your best interest to take a whiff before taking a swigg of any drink in my grasp. ahhhhh 21: it's a beautiful thing. my liver, on the other hand, has seen better days. sorry ol' gal..i truly am. i'll make it up to you..meet my friend. his name is mr. cuervo. not your type, eh? well maybe you'd you prefer that red-headed slut at the end of the bar? menagetrois? SCANDALOUS!

..OH the possibilities that lie ahead!
lex

no means no..unless it means yes.

when i was a little lex and did something bad (i.e. pinching my newborn brother til he began to wail, pushing kids out of line in preschool because i had to be first, and dropping the F-bomb whilst pulling my mother towards toys r us to get the newest my little pony), a myriad of punishment options awaited me. first came the yelling (and you thought my dad just had a beautiful telephone voice), then maybe a light spanking, followed by the punisher pointing to the stairs. as i sulked and scowled up the thirteen steps to my bedroom, i always heard the token "i hope you learned your lesson" or "take this time to think about what you've done" quietly behind me. i'm sure i would have done a lot more thinking if my parents had disconnected my television.

that being said, MAN have these last couple of days felt like a stroll down memory lane..not once..but TWICE (two, dos, deux). after waking up at 7ish o'clock, battling for the shower, and readying myself for the better part of an hour, i set out on my commute. i park my car, pay the wrinkly little foreign man behind the partition, grab a paper (crosswords = very hot this season), and scamper through the train station turnstiles for a half-hour of mbta bliss (smelly people, cellphone enthusiasts, the occasional ass in the face..score!).

"are we there yet?" you begin to whine. "no," i respond, "now shut up before i backhand you in the mouth." you begin to cry. i laugh at you and point, drawing a crowd that does the same.

a sexy little jaunt down the street and elevator ride later i am on the 22nd floor. this is where the punishment aspect ensues, because after freezing my sweet little arse off, there i stand, being told that there is "absolutely nothing" for me to do and that i can "just go home." and wouldn't you know it, i have a whole empty train to myself to think about it! guess it's time that i send around a little intraoffice memo saying that phone calls, like the daily crossword, botox, and a comfy pair of uggs, are also an "it" item. tres chic. tres buy a brain.

it wasn't a complete loss. by getting the proverbial boot on friday made it possible for me to give lis and aleesh a proper reverian welcome instead of sending them out into the city like deer caught in headlights. nothing to crazy..just a weekend of lounging in, dining out, and having pillow fights in our underoos while watching football and drinking bud light. regardless, a good time was had by all..even you male readers, as i have single-handedly given you a mental picture of one of your biggest fantasies. enjoy.

in other news, a 12 year old boy tried to talk dirty to me on the phone tonight. join me as i vomit up dinner.

..goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow,
lex

no real cohesive topic here.

if i was found carousing about the web at my last job, wannabe intimidating bossman would have chopped my hands off and subsequently beaten me with them, using me as an example for other workers to comply with office policy.."or else." big R.C., if you're reading this (and at this hour, you shouldn't be according to your aforementioned policy), snack on it..cuz i'm coming to you live from T H & T in beayooooootifully frigid downtown boston. mmmm yum..tastes like i win.

while i can't get enough of putting on my grown-up clothes, jumping on the T and playing a little game we call "work" every day (including, but not limited to, the thrice daily objectification rituals courtesy of the guys in the mail room), the past few weeks laden with holiday breaks have been, per usual, a delightful time shared with the people i love. christmas, as predicted, involved not only yards of crumpled wrapping paper and bottomless drinkies, but also bursting with dramatic flavor. for the record, if you like how the way your head happens to rest just-so on your neck and shoulders, don't mention weddings, politics, or pork fried rice within a seven-mile radius of my kin. they will hear you..and you will pay..dearly.

less deadly (depending on how you look at it) was the new year's celebration at el apartmento de mikey klein. who's the asshole who brought the noisemakers, leis, and tiaras that pretty much guaranteed an ungodly mess and temple-throbbing migraines the next morn? why weren't they denied entry based on simple common sense? because it was me..that's why..and everyone who played along in the fashion show/jam fest looked and sounded fabulous. to the host du jour: good show old chap..nothing like a night of alcohol and substance abuse amongst amigos to ring in the '04..except the door kicker and the champagne monsoon. definitely not in the forecast..more proof why meteorologists are worse liars than republicans.

on that sure-to-anger-some-GOPers note, i have to go file some ridiculously important accounts. and they put me in charge of this why?

..now privy to the fact that champagne is NOT a beauty secret,
lex