How to lose your virginity in ten days. (Rated PG25)

For the late bloomers, virginity has always been more of a curse than a virtue. It is not fun to spend hot and cold nights huffing and puffing alone in a queen sized bed while everybody else is bumping uglies in every position imaginable (and some unimaginable) In such occasions, one whips up principles and dreams and mommy’s promises that if one is a good girl/boy until they get married or find their special one, one’s life will be full of proper honey, blue birds and paradise bells. Unfortunately, sometimes the dreamy prince charming might become more and more of a toad and the understudy turns out to be (cough) l-i-m-p. And then one becomes 25 and finds oneself on the fast road for sainthood unless one takes matters into their own hands.

 This ten day self-help program will help the needy with the how-to unlock their minds and their legs, and with who.

More on the effin Albanians

seems that my back has been appointed Albanian Complaint Department. yet another complaint was lodged there, this time on the #12 Bronx bus, full of aromas and noses from all countries. i was seated and reading a book (one of those pink affairs with half naked men on the cover i confess), when:

“i am fed up with that apartment. the area is good but it is falling down in pieces djy know. the super knows how to fix nothing. he don’t do nothing. he don’t know nothing. hell, he don’t even speak english. you go there, you complain and he shakes his head and do nothing. he’s Albanian. yeah an effin Albanian”

that of course, caused my antena to rise. the voice was this terrible loud drawl that must surely have come from one of the Bronx stereotypes, the tank top, tan, and made to the nines 40 sth year old woman. and she went on and on for about 6 stops:

The mole

“have you ever thought of taking that off?” my coworker asks me, pointing at the big brown mole on my forehead.

taking it off? it has been a part of me for longer than i can remember, a bump, a rise, a calling card, and occassional eww factor. in high school, you could never tell me from one thousand other ackward and overdeveloped teenagers with big hair, dreamy eyes and a penchant for studio head shots. our clothes were all the same, our heights were all the same, our giggles were all the same, even our poetry was all the same bad sentimental rhymes of teenageers everywhere. but if you asked for the girl with the big mole, they’d all point to me.

“you know, the one from 4/7 with the thingie on her forehead.”

“aha, she is right there, trying to weasel out of physical ed.”

and so i was.

RA (Readers Anonymous)

hi, my name is blete and i am reading addict. i realize that my addiction is currently controlling my life. when i can’t get my hands on a book, i will pilfer reading material of the unsuspecting subway passangers, sneak peaks at their newspapers and books. i am the horrible neighbour scouring garbage pails for bound book packs and i cannot bring myself to throw away any reading stuff that comes my way, even if it is orphaned dress care instructions. i hate IKEA manuals because they come in diagrams and pictures only. would it kill them to put a few written instructions here and there?

i never had a chance since i was in my mother’s womb. both sides of the family are addicted to this horrible affliction. my grandfather was from this village where apparently everybody had a bumpy nose because they read even when walking and did not see where they were looking. when i was 4, my wonderfully selfish grandfather took advantage of my young eyes and taught me how to read the newspaper. there i was, a young unpoisoned mind, playing with my dollies and dreaming of being a princess and he just used me without regard or care for my tender age.

Tears

I write like a little possessed bitch lately. My wrists are getting c.t.s. from bending over the keyboard all the time. I am in my reclusive, subdued mood, when I hate returning phone calls and tend to cry every five minutes. And there is no room in my little house for crying. There is not a single corner for tearshedding and hairpulling. I try to swallow my tears but there is no place for them inside my eye pouches either. It is overcrowded there too. So I write, about nothing and nobody but my little itchy-bitchy self, full of donuts and selfpity. Tears are morally corruptive, a sneaky weapon of the weaklings and women. Wait, I am one. I hate the way they sneak in when I speak to my father or when my sister hangs up on me. They sow my eyes shut and I always get a headache after crying like a lactating cow for an hour or more. But they taste salty and I like salt.

Sometimes, they come out right after I daydream about past touches and kisses in a cold Jersey room. There, I also understood the purpose of letting other people see my tears because I want them to see the hurt caused and think about mending, instead of looking for the nearest exit and thanking their lucky stars that there were no waterworks.

Sometimes, I watch myself in the mirror while crying. I have learned how my face moves during tearshedding and how to maximize the dramatic effect. You never know when I might have to convince some coldhearted creep and try to touch their frozen heart with my warm tears that taste so good.

The one thing I know is that I have to let them come out. My little precious body fluids must be let free to flow seductively down my cheeks and into the hollow of my neck like delicate springs or torrential rivers, depending on what caused them. And I always must sleep afterwards. If they are stopped from fully coming down, I know that I must prepare to pay a price.

I wonder how much water is there in a tear. it does not look like very much, but then there are so many feelings contained in it, that sometimes it might fill an ocean.

Manhattan in Smoke

Wednesday, I was going at the Spanish Textile Exhibition organized by the Spanish Embassy. I came out of the train in Grand Central, desperately looking for the bathroom, when I saw people sprinting upstairs. Stores were abandoned, restaurants were left unattended and everybody was frantic and confused. What happened? Somebody said the subway was on fire. Somebody said it was a terrorist attack.

 

Rose Recipient

My coworker got Red Roses today. They came in a wonderful package. They were red, awesome, and gave everybody a case of the envy bug. Personally, I had heard about such a blatant display of affection, but I had never experienced it firsthand. In direct violation to my cynical relationship judging, my heart was fluttering and my mind was already pulling together a dream when I was the Rose Recepient, and the envy of all my middle age coworkers.

As it is, the Rose Recipient sashays in the hallways, an inner smile playing on her lips while all around, envious and admiration looks follow her. She is the proper woman, the one who wants roses and allows romance on her terms, the one who goes to church and buys white thongs with a veil and a bow behind. I do not know who the most enlightened woman is, the uncontrolled feminist who scares  everybody, or the church lady who demands (and gets) roses for proper courtship. It just seems that the lines are blurring and they will quite possibly both end up living with cats and being a nuissance to great grandchildren.

What Song Should I Strip To? Ain’t Selling Tickets Yet!

Stole this one from Max. See Celulloid Blonde. She always has the coolest quizzes.

Your Stripper Song Is

by the Black Eyed Peas”Whatcha gonna do with all that junk All that junk inside that trunk. I’ma get get get get you drunk Get you love drunk off my hump ” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rs4_-xKTDP0You get a lot more than Seven jeans for your humps.

What Song Should You Strip To?

Impromptu with Aurela

Thursday I received the same email from three different people, one of which I had not talked to in about a year. Aurela was promoting her new CD (Tribute to Nexhmije Pagarusha and Vace Zela) that same night. And there was open bar 8-9. When have I ever turned down a free drink?

So I called my friends who called their friends and we all decided to go. Then the panic set in. I looked at myself in the mirror and I saw Bronx Nurse chic: capri pants, comfortable flipflops, striped shirt from Macy’s and pulled back hair. That certainly would not do, because the promotion party was hosted by Fadil Berisha and his slew of models and well dressed Albos would all be there. I knew that everybody would be showered, shaved, waxed, tanned, plucked, dressed and made up to the nines. I could not get home to change (that pesky little driving license again) so I opted to go shopping. I always have panic induced shopping whenever I have to go to a Fadil party and I always end up looking like an abstract painting by a dyslectic and colorblind Albino. Coupled with my Reubenesque proportions, I am not even a blip on the radar if it would not be for the fact that I always seem to break the bathroom door.

what to do in the city on a perfect saturday.

there are some perfect saturdays when the rent check has cleared and there is still money in the bank, there is no frantic calls from work, the sun is shiny and old friends resurface. sometimes one just sits by the window  in the Jersey transits, chaneling your inner Bond girl and asking oneself :”what to do, what to do…” the possibilities are just endless. here is what can do the trick to make the day perfect:

1. find a french bistro with not so snotty waiters. the one we went to was perfect, full of clean people and their dogs. please leave the dogs alone. some owners really do not want their dogs to be molested by well meaning passerbys. (my friend is the wors offender. while i watch her greet and pet dogs, i am always praying that she will not get arrested for dog molesting and, more importantly, i won’t accompany her as an accessory to the deed.)