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Life is supposed to be enjoyed, not dreaded, so if you are in
one of those moods when everything seems gray and pointless you must
snap yourself out of it. It would help if you have something to look forward to. Your plans don't have to be realistic,they just have to be fun--you can never have too much of the stuff.

This was my horoscope on Friday. Okay, Little Miss Horoscope Fortune Teller Bitch... I'll snap out of this, get happy and tra-la-la all the way home when you give me something to work with. Snap out of it. Thanks for nothing. Why should I be surprised? It's from the Post.

My Weird Dream:
I'm in a restaurant by myself; have to use the bathroom--walking through an endless hallway, I finaly reach my destination only to find it's unisex and inhabited by snotty models who keep blocking my path. I finally get to go in--the stalls are made of glass. So when I'm doing my business, people are pointing and laughing. That's the dream. I know; I have no idea.

If anyone out there has any suggestions, I'll listen.

What's the hot fuss?

So let's get this out of the way:
It's a friggin' scorcher. I love weather that makes me feel as if I'm having an asthma attack.

Did I mention I have baby-fine hair and in humidity, turns into a stylish "just escaped from the mental ward" look.

Enough about the follicular trauma. Here are my musings:
The iPod mini has 4 new colors: red, yellow, white, black and a
lovely shade of who gives a rat's ass? It's still the same iPod, people.
Oh--one more thing: for $119.00 you can buy a waterproof case... yes, I paid $250.00 for the damn thing and spend another $119.00
so I can take it in the pool with me... show off.

I went to the zoo on Sunday; had a gay ol' time. Funny--all the animals looked the way I felt. Tired; slothlike--in need of a fan and a cold brew. My personal fave was the red panda. I wanted to give it a hug; so cute, so cute.
(You do realize if I did crawl in the cage, my panda pal would bite my ears off and all the while, small children would laugh at my misfortune and take bets on what the panda would chew off next).

Good night and have some trail mix on me (extra raisins, if you please).

Satan, don't fail me now-- I'm on a roll

Greetings...

So who's seen the Star Wars movie?

Did ya like it?

All in favor, say "Mrrwaaaaah". (Wookie joke)

Okay, I haven't seen it. In fact, the last movie I saw in the theater was
the 9/11 movie. I know that's f%#@&&*-sad.

So, my little marzipan pigs, let me tell you the deal:

1. According to the Post I'm an "Indie Yuppie".
Because I go to Starbucks; because I own a vintage t-shirt;
maybe because I have a job where my boss changes the time on my time
sheet (to pay me less) and I feel I'm in an eternal time suck vortex
that depresses the ever-lovin' shit out of me.

Oh--take me away to Xanadu (wait, I can't rollerskate).
Yes, that's right; I just referenced that '80's classic. Well, not a classic
but leave me with my sad memories of my youth.

Sorry--I digress--I'm a yuppie because I own an iPod; that's it.

Guess what I did last week?
I had my gums scraped. It's called "scaling and root planing"
or, as I like to call it:

SWEET JESUS YOU'RE KILLING ME THIS IS THE WORST PAIN I'VE EVER BEEN IN
PLEASE KILL ME ALREADY SWEET LORD YOU ARE THE BRIDE OF SATAN GET ME A
PRIEST, GIVE ME LAST RIGHTS...

Anyway, my mouth still hurts.

All this pent up bitchin' has tuckered me out.

Talk to ya later.

Lest we should Fig-get

Hello... I'm back again. I wanted to take some time off to write a book; had a couple of titles: "Hooker Boots & Head Bands", "Tales Of Long Island", "My Uterus Is A Hat & Other Tales Of Whoa"... how far have I gotten? I have titles--what more do you want? That's more than you.

I've been waiting for something exciting to happen to blog about. Like a crazy man flinging poo at me, but no such luck. What can I say? My life is boring. But I'm not complaining--part of my blog is to sound like I'm complaining.

Oh, I just had a birthday. Send cake and iPod accessories through my e-mail address.

I know my minions have been waiting for a funny reply. And that includes my midgets. There will be more to come. Oh, and I'm on the South Beach Diet--which means a muscled gay man on roller skates brings me my meals three times a day.

Ha, ha--I am cornball--hear me roar.

That's all for now. Be Yoda-like and get yer "Star Wars" geek ass outta here.

Cavalcade of schmucks

I've come here to be shockin', y'all.

I'm minding my own business, standing like a lemming on the ferry. All I want to do is get off this barge; we're packed in like sardines. Someone brushes up against me. At first I pay no mind (remember--sardine). Happens again--third time, there's a hand on my ass (okay, now you got my attention). I turn--it's a woman (listen, Hustler fans--this ISN'T good). When I say "woman", we're talking about the Herman Munster variety. With my best half-frozen/half-nauseous stare, I ask her to kindly take her man-hands off my ass. Sorry, guys--I'm not a vagina enthusiast. I guess the lesbians have become emboldened.

You know, if a woman is going to try to pick me up, is it too much to ask for them to (at least) be attractive? You know, so I could say "you're really not my type or gender, but I love what you've done with your hair". Do I make sense?

Oh, the curse of being attractive. But then again, I guess if I looked like Ms. Grab Ass, that might be the only way to get female pulchritude. I guess spring just brings it out in people.

I know why tigers eat their young

For some, night time is the right time.
For me, the morning solitude works just fine.


Every morning before work, I eat my breakfast at a small cafe.
It's my attempt to set the day off, the right way.

There I sit, morning coffee and yogurt. Guess what happens?

"Lady--hey lady". I look up; there's a "woman" right in my face. The woman in question is a lovely mix of tobacco and rancid ass, with a face I can only describe as a mix of Bella Abzug and Lynne Stewart--complete with facial hair. Yes, she was that close.

Anyway: Stinky was trying to get my attention because she wanted
my paper (the free crappy morning rags, Metro and such). Of course, I politely say "No, sorry--I'm reading both ".

"Reading both? How can you read both?"
"Sorry", I say and shrug my shoulders.

That's it, right?

NOPE!

She then decides to imitate what I just said, complete with shoulder shrug.

"Not gonna let me read your paper, Milwaukee?" (Yes--she called me "Milwaukee")

"Why?" -- please: haven't we established she's Crazy Von Stinky Woman. She, of course, sits right in back of me muttering under her breath with every other sentence ending in "Right, Milwaukee? Right, Milwaukee?"

This went on for 10 minutes; my good morning a distant memory.

Before I leave, I give her this parting shot:

"You know, for someone who smells as bad as you do, you could try being a little nicer. Oh--and you could try getting your own paper, too. It's free."

My morning wasn't so bad after all.

The clam dip of my soul

Like my title, feelin' fishy. No, not smelly. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Yes, it's been a while since I've blogged, but damn it--I've had nothing to say. Would you rather I write about nothing like some people and their damn blogs? Sadly, nothing has kept my attention lately. T.V. doesn't have the oomph it once had; do you think I should get out of the house more often?

Work is work. It's the fly in my salsa--what can I say?

I don't know if you've read or heard, but crime in the subways has gone up. Number one snatch-and-grab: iPod. If some bastard tries to steal my iPod, I'll kick him in the nuts, punch him in the throat, throw him in front of a train--wait until the train runs him over--jump down on the tracks and punch him in the nuts again. I do love me some iPod. Let this be a warning to you. If you like having nuts and a neck, stay the fuck away.

What else is in the news? Well, let's just say I filled out the living will they had in the Post. I don't trust anybody. I'll piss my mother off one day and I'll be eatin' from a tube for the next 15 years. I come from a vindictive family. There--I said it.

Went to the dentist today. Let's just say I accept donations at any point.

I love all of you--even the little people. And by that, I mean my minions, not my midgets.

Love always,
Le Fig

I like the quiet, don't you? (my own private soundtrack)

As you already know everyone has an opinion.

Please allow me to opine on a subject dear to me.

Much has been written lately on the iPod (or as I like to call it "the glorious music machine"). The complaint is (and there's always one) -- "everyone is now hooked up, tuned in and tuning out. Public spaces have now become cocoons; sealed off from one another".

My question is: when did this become a bad thing?

As I'm sure you know from reading my previous blogs I so enjoy interaction with people (especially the subway riding public).

Between obtrusive conversations and dirty comments (I have a good one); a gentleman (actually, a human douchebag), greeted me with "Hey pretty eyes,
I like your ass". From my eyes to my ass. What a sweetie.

When I have my iPod, it's as if I have an invisible force field that says "I CAN'T HEAR YOU; I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU--GO AWAY!". Being able to shut out the maddening crowd (and for a brief moment) and enjoy a soundscape of good music (God knows, I'm sick of hearing snippets of crap music).

Listen: iPods didn't start human isolation. The people who write these articles haven't lived in the big city for long (let me guess: you're from a small town where you bought penny candy. Your mother went to the town Woolworth's to buy gingham for a "purdy" new dress, and of course, Shopkeeper Dan knew your name and was always glad you came. Too bad--we are city folk; we do things differently.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must go back to my wall of isolation.

Happy Mondays, boring Tuesdays--happy endings?

What a shocker...

Woke up on Monday in a great mood; the sun was shining--the morning was easy. Came to work with a smile on my face. The day breezed by. Finally went to the gym; of course, it was filled with every gymtard humanly possible (you know the type, the sign clearly states 30 min. time limit and they've been on the machine for oh...49 minutes--stop covering up the timer with a towel--I'm not a moron).
Listen, I'm back on track--that's what counts.

Off the subject...
Three pet peeves...

1. This is totally unoriginal:

Cell phones are working my last good nerve. I dont want to hear your stupid ring tone (nothing like a tinny version of a crappy top-40 song to start your day). I don't want to hear your conversation about your sister's mother's friend who had an abortion (please, someone, please give me an icepick).

2. "Supersize Me"
This movie was the most self-indulgent piece of crap I've seen in ages. Let's see: I'll eat shitty fast food (like there's good fast food) for 30 days--let's see what happens. Don't know? YOU GET FAT, DUMBASS! I'm truly tired of people blaming their fat asses on everything but the fact that they eat five McRibs and an 80 gallon jug of Mountain Dew (people, please nothing good ever comes out of
soda that looks like electric urine). It's so sad. Oh and please--people who get gastric bypass are cheating swine who deserve to be smacked upside the head with a bag of medical waste. Having your stomach cut out because you're an out- of-control moron isn't something I'll celebrate (but here--have a cookie).

3. The dread of Monday

I was listening to NPR yesterday; they had on a writer for the Wall Street
Journal. His article was about the dread of Sundays. The whole article
was about "why do people dread Sundays?". The premise is the dread starts in
childhood--weekend's over; school's on Monday. Shows on TV that remind us
it's Sunday. People are in denial it's Sunday and act like it's Saturday.
This is why people hate NPR (don't yell at me; I'm just stating a fact).

I must leave--nothing more to say.

Our national nightmare is over... (a.k.a. Bare Essence Le Fig)

Sorry to be such a drama queen...

This is the first year Rob and I did our taxes and I didn't feel like crying out to the gods of
the I.R.S., "DAMN YOU! WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?" (okay, it's never been that bad; I just like a little dramatic flourish).

Okay--it's a wash.

Now I can finally get back to the business of getting back to me. The tense and sick Le Fig was a bit much. Rob and I celebrated our victory over tyranny (See? I told you I love drama) with a stop at Starbucks; had a vanilla expresso
latte--oh so lovely. We spent the rest of the afternoon buying vitamins (flaxseed oil and calcium) and going to Kmart to find Matthew Morris monochromatic blue ceramic dishes (no luck). I'll do a little domestic work, then chill for the rest of the evening in a attempt to psych myself up for work.

Later.

On the side of my bed

I've been out of commission since yesterday.

Monday--went to the gym; came home with a sore throat. Woke up the next day, coughing, feeling rank. Went to work--BIG MISTAKE. By 11:30, I was out the door and frightened that I wouldn't make it home. On the ferry, I was dizzy and had the shakes. Luckily, I got home in one piece. Draped on the bed; shakes, fever, vomiting. I haven't felt this ill since I had food poisoning on my honeymoon weekend (beware of shrimp--1/2 price).

My darling came home early--brought crackers and seltzer (such a sweetheart). Took care of me all night; cleaned the apartment, brought me water and ice packs. Nurse/husband--who could ask for more?

Today I'm at home resting. I'm weak and dehydrated. Sipping water; actually ate something. Taking it easy. Rob's home with me today. He's also not feeling great, but he wanted to stay home to keep an eye on me.

The great thing about this morning--we both woke up to watch "Nigella Bites", one of our favorite shows. It put me in a good mood for the rest of the day. Right now I'm watching a "Project Runway" marathon.

Damn--reality t.v. is addictive.

Slow boat to hell

It's my usual morning: coffee, bagel, try to psych myself for work.

In my down time, I find the thing that takes me out of my funk is talking to the Modfather about houses. We are moving next year; not a moment too soon; this neigborhood is a piece of crap.

I'll probably sound like a snob (oh, what the hell), but I grew up on the upper East Side, so living here is a bit of a letdown. When I first moved here, S.I. showed promise, but with the influx of trash that's moved in, it feels like a housing project.

Want more info? Let me explain...

My downstairs neighbor with two kids (no husband, of course) yells and screams at her little bastards ("I'm gonna kill you fucking kids!"; her words not mine).
Then there's the cunt that lives next door (the bitch never met a complaint she didn't like). Let me also add that she has her crackhead-drunk-walking-breathing-piece of shit daughter living with her (and the crackhead's boyfriend, too). They yell and scream all day long. Are they even supposed to live here?
Probably not; but my landlord wouldn't care if Buffalo Bill was living here,
as long as he paid the rent--"it puts the check in the mail on time or it gets
the eviction notice" (sorry about The Silence Of The Lambs reference).

Oh, what a slice of fucking heaven.

It's obvious that the Modfather and I are so much better than this.

I can't wait for the suburbs.

If I knew you'd be a writer, I'd have kept my mouth shut.

We all have that little voice inside our heads. The voice that inspires us to move forward; or the one that discourages us, makes us admit defeat
before we have begun.

So what voice do I have inside my head you ask?

MY MOTHER.

I'll be in a store trying on clothes and that voice (think yenta):

YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WEAR THAT, ARE YOU?
THAT MAKES YOU LOOK FAT.
THAT MAKES YOU LOOK TOO BIG (a.k.a not flattering on the hips--thanks, Mom)
THAT'S JUST NOT FLATTERING.

You catch my drift.
Most of the time I'm fine and Jim Dandy, but there are those times when I really want those pants...

OH, NO--YOU'RE NOT WEARING THAT!

Okay, okay, I'm taking off the pants... I'm walking away... My hands are in the air... I'm walking away...

So, aside from a lobotomy there is precious little I can do.

I only wish my little voice gave stock tips.

Trompe Le Fig

Greetings:

I spend most of my day avoiding contact with people. Okay--it's not that I am an angry hermit (too cute for that). There are two factors at play here

1. I am a FREAK magnet. Let me explain....

Every train, bus, boat, pedicab and morning constitutional is accompanied by some gold toothed, drunk, smelly,  piece of shit that has to tell me their life story: great; you used to be a drug addict--now you're clean. Found God? Gonna tell me in three easy steps. (if there is a God, please kill me now!). If the freak job isn't popping off about God, it's a guy with B.O. plenty, trying to make time with yours truly.

This, my friend, is why I always carry a book (and a bell and a damn
candle, if it would do something!).

2.Work

You know what? I'm not even in the mood to be creative about this;
when I think of something funny I'll get back to you.

Later, lovers of folly

Happiness Is A Pink iPod

Greetings:

I'm happy to say that the day's over. Work was the usual; it's Monday ('nuff said).

Rob and I didn't go out for Valentine's Day; for us every day feels like Valentine's Day.

Okay--with that said ROB GOT ME AN iPod!!!!!!!!
I HAVE A PINK iPod!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Let me give you the Le Fig iPod Top Ten

1. Mambo Sun - T. Rex
2. The Drowners - Suede
3. Miles From Nowhere - The Smithereens
4. I Look Alone - The Buzzcocks
5. She's So High - Blur
6. Hollywood - Madonna
7. Boogaloo Down Broadway - The Fantastic Johnny C
8. The Have Not's - X
9. Coffee And TV - Blur
10.A Lack Of Color - Death Cab For Cutie

LISTEN - LEARN - ENJOY.

Love,
Le Fig
X

What Would You Do For A Klondike Bar?

So kittens and love bunnies--have you gotten your special someone a gift yet?
Valentine's Day is almost here and you know that the Duane Reade chocolate and
"Love Gorilla" doll just won't do, so what does one do?

For me, the answer is simply get my loved one the best cake in town. The Whole Foods three-level chocolate cheesecake. Now the only problem is getting it.
I go to pick one up on Friday evening (a little surprise for Rob); to my surprise, it's a madhouse. Every Lower East Side/Chelsea/Manhattanite prick and sundry were there. My first inkling this would be tough was the woman who pushed her way in front of me to get to the crab dip (it's crab dip; it's not going anywhere). As I deftly make my way past the free-range chicken and gluten-free bread; I find myself at the bakery counter. My luck--all three monstrous lines are located right in front of it. I squeeze my way past; I briefly get to glance at the fruit tarts before I hear, "Miss--Miss--Miss--excuse me, Miss". Before "Miss" number five, I turn my head to gaze at a woman who (shall we say) has a passing resemblance to Anna Wintour (in looks and "charm"):

"Don't cut the line".
"I wasn't going to", I replied .
"Whatever", said faux-Anna, "don't cut the line!"
(Okay mistress of the organic market--I'll be a good girl.)

When I finally get the counterperson's attention, I ask about the status of the golden cake.
"Nope--not in", she replied.
"Will it be in on Monday?"
"No but we have a lovely bee cake."
(Bee cake = $7.49 for a mini chocolate cake with a decorative bee--f**k you, Whole Foods)

Down but not out, I figured I'll get Rob some organic chocolate; before I was able to seal the deal, a woman with two three year olds are whining, crying and falling behind their mom. When the woman to my left calls attention to this, it prompts the "Mother Of The Year" to give off this icy stare and state "oh, mind your own business". An angry war of words ensuses and like anyone else, I make haste.

Sad--with no cake (no dignity, either), I walk about four blocks; to my surprise, I find a cute cafe filled with pastries, homey and smelling sweet. I ask if they have any lime bars--"of course", smiles the counterperson. He picks it, bags it and I am done!

So did Rob like it? Loved it. Mission accomplished.

Funny--Whole Foods, for all it's "earthy goodness", it's a real viper's nest of Manhattan ugliness.

Now let me see if I can find a lemon bar.

Happy Valentine's Day.

(Post-script--notice: TWO blogs in one day!)

Time For A Change (Structured Le Fig)

It has come to my attention that I am "lacking" in certain areas. No, nobody said anything to me--this falls a under self-realization that I'm really good at making excuses for myself. I feel this is the year to take greater responsibility; to stop saying "next year I'll do it". The keyword here is STRUCTURE (sorry, if this sounds like some sort of Dr. Phil crap; I'm trying to sort this out for myself).

Most people know this blog for its' humorous content, so I apologize if you're taken aback by the more serious nature of this posting. It's been swimming around in my mind and I thought I'd share it on here (as you do).

I promise the next one will be funny.

One litlle post-script: all this self-reflection becomes much easier once you get rid of the losers and users in your life. You know who you are.

'Bye.

One for the chunks--second for the remainder

Do you want to know the meaning of the word "unpleasant"? My first thought would be to say being stuck on a train station with a homeless man, his cart, toy gun (looked real enough), staring at me and grumbling with his ski cap jauntily tilted to the side, Addabisi-style.

The real meaning of unpleasant for me was at work. My boss decided to "lay down the law": unbeknownst to me, people have apparently been "stinking up the joint". Her solution? Light a match. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. There are a lot of things I've had to hear at work, but that, for the love of Pat, Mike, Mary and the rest of yer Irish clan, was too much for my fragile senses. I learned long ago, when working with men, they pee on the seat; they lift it up, don't put it back down and generally make a regular bathroom smell a possum exploded.

And that, my friend--that's life. Now I shall go and wash the ick off me.

Let my thoughts churn like butter and become the Land O'Lakes of your mind (a.k.a. Chick'n 'N Beer)

How many of you ride the trains every day? Don't you just love the abusive relationship we're in? They raise the fare--the service is still shitty and oh, by the way--nothing you can do about it. Why would I bring this sore subject up? Let me tell you about this morning's commute...

Like everyday, I run with the rest of the cattle for a train car with a seat. I make my way in to find guess what? 3 homeless men slumped in various states of dishevelled (actually, smelling of beer, urine, chicken and feces with fried chicken strewn everywhere). Half eaten chicken, whole chicken, chicken gizzards, fried chicken feet--obviously, it doesn't take Carnac to figure out these are not homeless vegetarians. They didn't even have the fucking decency to get sides. A little mashed potatoes to cover up the smell of poo.

I, along with the other commuters, feel we must get out of the chicken/doody experience. By the 5th car, I'd been able to get the KFC Experience out of my nose. This, my friend, is what I pay $2.00 a ride for.

Have a chicken wing and a laff at my expense.

Reading is fundamental...just not out loud

Greetings, snow bunnies and ski bums...

What's going on? Me, I hibernated this weekend (you know, snow and all). I'd like to work out tonight after work; I fear I'm developing a sore throat.

Sorry...I'm distracted from my thoughts. There's an idiot sitting next to me, reading the paper OUT LOUD (little known fact--the first sign of mental retardation is reading out loud).

My goal for the week: exercise every day, except for Monday (!), eat right (I'll start tomorrow), find excitement at my job (who am I kidding?), the guy's reading again...I'm too distracted.

I'll get back to you later...bye...