Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

Tom received a new pair of underpants for Valentines Day. I purchased him an organic fabric contraption called " The Woodie ." The selling point for me was The Woodie's alleged softness and high quality stitchery.  The Woodie Until Tom came out of the shower sporting The Woodie, I was unaware that its architecture included a penis compartment. I don't mean a penis alcove or a penis corner. I mean a separate room dedicated to entirely to the penis.  Tom was a little leery of the full-featured nature of The Woodie. He considered how the whole operation would fit into his jeans and spent more time than usual tucking and jiggling. He talked at length about left sides and right sides and his general expectations for The Woodie's imminent field test, otherwise known as "Thursday." All day, I waited eagerly to hear how The Woodie fared. Regrettably, the investigative reporting proved sparse. Principally, Tom described his field test methodolog...

que la vida es un carnaval! Most trips down the road to Damascus begin with a groupon for salsa lessons. It is a fact that Tom and I can make Jesus cry with our love of the dance, but only so long as we score a deep discount vis-á-vis industrious online shopping very late at night. At our first class, I received perhaps the finest left-handed compliment ever when our wiry instructor Oscar noted, "Even with all your weird little kicks, you still manage to stay on the beat." Tom on the other hand was turning regular DVDs into Bluerays with his grace and style. Oscar couldn't take his eyes off him. Tom is a star in Chelsea. Taking the Salsa in our 'hood involves certain complexities namely there are no "gentlemen" and "ladies." There are "leaders" and "followers" and whenever the teacher bellows "Switch partners!" you have to scurry around trying to remember who is eligible for the job. The salsa class demograph...

Style matters when it comes to the Dance Battle Friday: Tom and I went to the theater and saw Silver Linings Playbook. I came away mighty inspired by the Dance Move whereby a crotch was thrown squarely into the face of a crouched sexy man. (Spoiler alert, there). In that phantasmagoric moment, I knew there would be a Kinnect Dance Battle in my future. I vowed to line up some worthy foes. Saturday: I bided my time, went through my closet, readied a headband. Carbo-loaded on whiskey beneath a decadent forest of fake pine boughs, sparkling glass icicles and baby dolls strapped firmly to the ceiling. Sunday Morning: At the crack of noon, I hit the streets, on the way to brunch with Ron, Gina and a posse of onlookers. Ron sat across the big round table in a flannel shirt and tough-guy jeans and talked about jack hammers and building permits but i was not fooled. I know Ron has a bachelors degree in ballet and he can jump in the air and kick his legs really fast. That i...

So far, in 2013: Campbell Apartment With no introductory small talk of any kind, I informed two strangers at the very fancy Campbell Apartment on 42nd Street that I have nightmares about losing my cell phone. Both muttered sympathetically and may have considered patting me on the shoulder had I not darted off with their cocktail menu. I heard a distinguished gentleman call a mouse in a mouse competition an "ivory satin buck" and describe this mouse as being "racy," "manly," "hairy of foot," and "in lovely condition." A client mentioned he once was arrested for pushing a wrecked Suburban SUV over the border in Tijuana. I met three random Italians and said to each the only Italian phrase I know: "The chair is upholstered in corduroy." One was impressed, two were not. Over some Caribbean chicken, a doctor we know brought us up to speed on his latest research investigating the impact of penis size amongst gay and bisexu...

"Aunt Stacey, what does drunk mean?" The Highline, featuring drunk people railing. It all started innocently enough. Jack and I, up on the Highline on a Saturday afternoon. He wanted me to unfold the kick scooter I had slung over my shoulder. I told him that the sign by the staircase clearly stated: No alcoholic beverages; and  No bikes, roller skates, skateboards or letting your nephew stand on the front of your kick scooter while you weave in and out of tourists at top speeds like it's a crosstown sidewalk. So naturally the kid's next question is, "What is an alcoholic beverage?"   "Beer," I answered. "Why can't you drink beer on the Highline?" "Because they don't want drunk people running around up here," I replied. ( You can see where this is going.) Jackson. When Jack popped me with the grand finale "define drunk" query, I was flummoxed. I certainly did not want to see m...

Last Saturday started early with a little festive cheer at Swedish Club. I decided to bring a mini-Christmas tree to ignite the holiday spirit. At the end of the party, I suddenly realized I had a partner for the evening. The mini-christmas tree and I took the subway downtown to catch Kent's band, Marlowe Grey , at the Mercury Lounge .  Me and the tree salmoned through the middle of the crowd, all the way up to the front by the stage. I cleared a path by stabbing people in the ass with boughs of evergreen. We missed Kent's band, but got there just in time to watch the next act set up and hear Adele predict, "That Asian chick up there in the jumpsuit is gonna fuck shit up." Tom rocks the selfie. Upon the conclusion of the jumpsuit excitement, Tom, Darcey, Kent, the mini-Christmas tree and I dipped out for a slice of pizza before Hank and Cupcakes took the stage. It was great pie, but I forgot the mini-Christmas tree on our table! Oh the non-horror.  ...

a few of my citizens enjoying their repast "Yabba Island Grill is the perfect spot in town for the grandchildren, grandparents and the kid in all of us! " Whatever, bitches, I'm the mayor here. I deserve the job, my darling coffin-dodgers. I bellied right up to that YabbaBar and enjoyed a YabbaRita. It was majestic and fluorescent. And then I came back the next day and stuck with bottled beer.  Two check-ins in two days, you can dribble your awe near the tips of my closed-toe shoes. My mayorship commenced just after Suzanne's informative discourse about a place called Vergina's, an alleged restaurant right across the street. Several pudgy dudes also listened with keen interest to Suzanne say "Vergina" early and often while "You Take My Breath Away"lilted from the bar surround sound and melted our hearts. It is possible I bellowed "I am your Mayor" with a flourish of spirit fingers to the bar area in general. Mostly my ...

After 13 days without lights, electricity, heat and hot water, your house becomes a pigsty of mystery. When the lights finally flicker to life, you get to see your wonderous cluster fuck of a living situation bathed in glorious incandescence. Hurricane Sandy: Accuweather Power Outage from Space In our house, clumps of dried leaves had rubbed themselves with great vigor into every square inch of carpeting. Understandable. When you cook pots of coffee, 10 pounds of freezer waffles and a 50-pack of half de-thawed mini party weenies on the grill, that's a thousand trips in and out the backdoor. I didn't even notice our indoor nature fest due to the pitch-black-darkness problem and the working-during-daylight problem. But even if I had noticed, it wasn't like anything was going to happen. Vacuums do not run on D-batteries. We found a fleece jihad in the bedroom. Rejected items littered the perimeter-- goggles, a broken pole strap, half a trail map and a pile of...

Bryant Avenue by 167th Street, but not in 1955. Pop grew up on Bryant Avenue in the Bronx: "I never saw a real tree until I was maybe 13. There was this large vegetation out front our building that I thought was a tree. But then my mother broke the news. It wasn't a tree, just a big bush."

I bought Tom a gift online at Fab.com .   Thursday Morning: A kind of large box arrives and Tom pounces on it with a pair of scissors and single-minded intent. He loves a gift. In short order, Tom reaches into the box and pulls out one pair of electric purple underpants on a hanger. He takes the hanger, with the dangling underpants, up to the closet and hangs it next to his work shirts. Friday Morning: Tom forgets about his new hanging underpants until after he's already pulled on an old pair and has both legs in his jeans. Go-to drawer habits are hard to break. Tom decides he will be late for work if he disrobes to switch up his underpants. But he wants to wear his new ones at the first possible occasion-- meaning Saturday in new york city. So he unclips the underpants from the hanger and throws them in one of the bags we take with us to the city. Saturday Morning: Tom cannot find his purple underpants. He settles for an old pair after finally conceding tha...

My nephew Jackson and I were hanging out by a garbage truck. Watching it parked by the curb. Its dusty green exterior not glistening at all in the sunshine. This is how we roll. Every five minutes or so, a very African American twenty-something guy walks by us carrying a bunch of empty produce boxes and tosses them in the back of the truck. He wears I-work-in-a-kitchen checked pants and a white T-shirt. At some juncture, I have about enough of the starry-eyed garbage-truck gazing, so I suggest to Jackson that we consider moving on. The kid looks up at me and asks, "Can we just stay here until the white guy goes by one more time?" I am momentarily confused. Only one guy keeps going by and he is most assuredly not white. Then I realize the guy has on a white T-shirt.

All I hear is a huge crash. Like huge. Some thrashing around and Tom shrieking like a little girl with a vile potty mouth. I sprint into the livingroom. Tom stands amidst an explosion of broken glass. Some blood trickles off his cheek at a non-fatal velocity.  Alex the Cat hovers nearby, puffed up like one of the more gigantic Uggs spaceboots. It all began innocently enough. Apparently, Tom was just lushing on the sofa watching the prequel to Planet of the Apes , starring James Franco. Alex nestled on his lap, sound asleep. Suddenly, an Ape lets out a wild Ape wail. Alex, in a singular apoplectic freakout, pops straight up in the air and lands on top of Tom's head. His claws cling to Tom's face and he perches up there like a demonic hat. With some quick battle reflexes, Tom yanks Alex off his head. The cat lands on a glass bowl and smashes it into a million pieces. Luckily no one was injured beyond:  the Lord, whose name was definitely dropped ...

"I'm much better than your father at mini golf. He chokes in the clutch."

We stood in the middle of the festival, people dashing all around us eating ice cream with sprinkles. My nephew Jackson gestured for me to lean over so he could whisper in my ear. He said he wanted to take a look at the garbage truck. Of course I agreed. I'm his yes-aunt. We shoved past some kid getting his face painted up like spiderman and dodged the line to the bouncy house on the way behind the food carts. To stand before the garbage truck. Gazing at it. Parked there. Kind of smelly. Parked there. Silently. After awhile, I made a shimmy like I was about to head over to the giant lollipop booth, but Jackson clutched my hand in his tiny vicelike grip and told me that this garbage truck had a dual ops compactor. And he would just like to watch it a little longer. Parked there. Silently. Jackson is into front loaders, rear loaders, side loaders, pneumatic collectors and grapple trucks. He will gaze at you with a very disgusted expression if you mix up a dumpster...

Seats right in back of me. One Asian guy flirts with the other Asian guy. "I got us a room in a nice hotel. Here's a picture of our room." "No, there's only one bed. They may be able to get us a room with two beds. We can ask. I mean. If you want." "Hey! There's no pocket on the seatback!" "You CAN't sleep on the soFA! It will be LUMpy!" "We'll go down and have at least one drink at the bar in the lobby. But you have to dress nice. Do you have a nice shirt I can borrow?" "Are those your headphones? I have nicer headphones. Do you want to use them? You take this here and you stick it in your ear. Just slide it in there." "Can I split the headphones with you? I use the one earbud and you use the other one?"

Probably one of my finest unsisterly moments transpired during the fight over the slingshot with my little brother. Nutchie had the slingshot in his vice-like grip. I had the sling. My brother yanked to. I yanked fro. Then I guess I got bored. "Whatever. you can have it." Five stitches on the forehead for the Nutch.

Today I encountered the self-check out at the acme supermarket. It was wonderous. Tom marched right up to the sleek contraption and started scanning yogurt cups like Herr Badass. Even though my hands started to sweat a little bit, I definitely saw a place for myself in the action. Tom totally dominated the scan pad. Every time I tried to siddle over with my boxes of Kashi Mega Crunch, he would accelerate his swiping to sub-teriyaki speeds. But my noob ass could not be  thwarted. I timed my thrust and got my barcode in there first. Eureka! How you like me now, Fast Hands?

Mom, Dad, Tom and I roundtable Mom's declaration: "Dad has the clap?" "Yes." "No I don't have the clap." "He sleeps on his back with shorts on and he's going like this, clap clap clap, with his legs. It's really loud." "Your mother exaggerates. I was just dehydrated." "Maybe duct tape some throw pillows to his knees." "You could just duct tape my legs together." "That would be easier. Except when you have to get up to go to the bathroom." "He can just hop like a frog." "If Dad puts cymbals between his knees he can join a monkey brass band."

Attended a one-man-show called "Hoaxocaust" last night. I'm glad I went; the production, hopefully a work-in-progress, has given me cause to limber up my floppy brain cells. Although probably not in the way that the playwright intended. The whole affair was a fiesta of cognitive dissonance. Let's start with two statements made by the production team in a Q&A after the performance: 1)  The play was written in part to highlight that only a paltry few know enough facts to successfully argue the holocaust happened. 2) The play's holocaust content is tailored for a "graduate-level" audience— who presumably know enough facts to successfully argue the holocaust happened Thus, we can conclude: The target audience of this play is those paltry few. So there is a rather obvious problem with the producer's stated goal: "We are hoping to show this play to a broad audience." But here's the more important oxymoron: If I...

There are two gigantic problems with this sms I just got from my mother, and I'm not even counting that she always signs her texts. 1) Ruthless and brazen newsflash! She has been selling my historic mementos and possibly treasured personal effects. 2) Her advertisement describes attire I wore at one point in my life as "vintage." Vintage? I just graduated from high school a couple years ago, give or take twenty!!!! And here's one more thing I just thought of: 3) She wrapped up a big box of my old track and cross country trophies and gave them to me for Christmas. Now I know why: She couldn't sell them, probably even after substantial mark down.