Gotta Love National Passive-Aggression

"When Napoleon seized the Netherlands in 1810, he demanded that all Dutchmen take last names, just as the French had done decades prior. Problem was, the Dutch had lived full and happy lives with single names, so they took absurd surnames in a show of spirited defiance. These included Naaktgeboren (born naked), Spring int Veld (jump in the field), and Piest (pisses). Unfortunately for their descendants, Napoleon’s last-name trend stuck, and all of these remain perfectly normal Dutch names today."

Saturday night's alright for bloggin, Saturday night's alright

I thought I would update my two readers who don't live with me on my life in hopes that they will do the same:

I went as a pair of curtains on Halloween. The next day I went to sausage hung over. I partied with Planned Parenthood when Obama won. The next day I went to my first interview at Victoria's Secret hungover. I got two seasonal jobs in one week. I work now at Victoria's Secret in Herald's Square in PINK and the Italian Intimissimi division. I don't fit in. I've never seen another person there read a book. I also got hired at the Bare Escentuals up by school. I still haven't figured out how to spell their name. I haven't worked there yet, but will have my first day of training after T'day. I quit sausage. Every so often NYCMale still sends me desperate e-mails. I still respond but still have not gone out with him. I went to Actorfest and flaked on an audition that that got me at The Network. Stellar move. I'm going to spend Thanksgiving upstate with my bro, sis, mom and grandpa. That will be nice. We are having a rib roast. The roommates are good. The library is good. We have creepy pictures of Macbeth and King Lear hanging on the walls. I recommend reading Steve Martin's Shopgirl. It won't take you more than 24 hours. I recommend you both come back to New York. I swear it's funner here than it's ever been--as evidenced by my being at home bloggin' at 10 pm on a Saturday night. Hm. I can't think of much else to say. I'm gonna go to bed now.

Smoke Signals are for Suckers

Today is the perfect example of why I've always wanted and still believe in the necessity of the Land Line.

Last night I lost my phone. Today our internet doesn't work. This morning I called (from Corinne's phone) the woman at whose house I left my phone about trying to come get it. How does she call me to let me know when is a good time for me to stop be? It's too bad there isn't some other number this woman can call to reach me. I suggested she call and leave a message on Corinne's phone and that Corinne could e-mail me when she does so. Two problems with this solution: Corinne can't check her phone at work. Also, I can't check my e-mail since our internet stopped working. How do I fix the internet when I can neither get on the internet to find a solution, or call Time Warner for them to tell me how to fix it?

Also, I was supposed to go to an audition for The Network (an acting thing) today. But I'm not because I'm completely unprepared. How do I tell them that? I can't call them. I can't e-mail them. But I also can't just not show up. So I'm sitting in the "internet bodega" down the block. I just finished reading Shopgirl last night, and decided to take two-thirds of Mirabelle's sage advice about how to tell a convincing lie: 1. It must be partially true, 2. It must make the listener feel sorry for you, 3. It must make them not want to ask question. I decided to include in my excuse (which was decidedly not "my unpreparedness") the pitiable and true fact that I have more or less lost all ways of communication with the world. I toyed with including some of my winning self-deprecating charm by adding "I know it sounds like I'm lying, but this is too pathetic to be a lie."

Then I realized two things: 1. I shouldn't do that, and 2. That is the ultimate of all possible titles of my memoires:

Too Pathetic to Be a Lie: The Alice Yorke Story

Appearing everywhere in hardcover as soon as I get my sorry ass in gear.

Vote! (For my mom!)

Don't Stop Voting Now!

My mom posted a slogan on this website. Vote for it! It's something a professor she and my dad had in college used to say. My dad really took it to heart.


Update:

There are some weird slogans on this website. Some people seem to do nothing but think of weird sayings, and then post variations on them. User RAMZKIE, for example, muses about swallowing pride ("I Can Swallow My Pride, But Not Yours?"), promises ("Promises Are Meant To Be Swallowed, And Spit It Out.") , and religion ("Catholic Is A Religion Of Fake, Not Of Faith."). This is the link to all his slogans: Ramzkie Just go see for yourselves. Caution: There are a LOT.

Smart Girl's Guide to Being Broke?

Today I found myself crying on the street because the owner of the diner where I got lunch made me take money out of an atm instead of paying with my card.

When I got back to my sausage station, at least three employees offered me tea. They told me that it was free to employees and demonstrators, but I think they were doing it out of pity from having seen me cry. They didn't offer me any before I went on break.

Then Cher's "Shoop Shoop Song" and Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly" came on. I danced away my troubles when "Footloose" played.



The Smart Girl's Moral of this Story: Just dance your blues away.

Alice in What-the-Fuck-Land

(Author's Note: Names have been changed to protect the possibly-herpes-infected.)

This morning I woke up extremely disoriented to my phone ringing. It is dark out and there is a little noise on the street, but that's not really a good indication of what time it is. I pick up almost immediately, just to get it stop ringing, noticing only that the call is not from someone in my address book. "Hello?" "Alice!" says a man's voice. Oh god, please don't let it somehow be NYCMale. "Yes?" "You don't know who this is, do you?" "No," I say, if possible, more warily than before.

It turns out to be Petruchio (that's what I'm calling him because a picture of King Lear is the first thing I saw when I was searching for a man's name, and since that picture is way creepier than the real person is, I went with the name of a befitting Shakespearean character he portrayed once), a guy who I spent four years of college with, who has seen me at my drunkest on two occasions. After confessing to me that he always thought I was rather, ahem, fetching, he made a bet on my chastity with my ever good friend Erica. He lost. Several weeks ago when Erica came to visit, I reminded her that she should get her $50 from him, so we called him and made him agree to take us out to dinner.

Last night he calls and says "I'm drunk dialing you!" and then immediately starts apologizing, saying "You were asleep. Oh man. You were sleeping." I assure him that it's fine. He explains that he was looking through his phone book and thought he'd call me. He asks where I live. He mentions losing the bet. He says something to the effect of "I don't know where you're at" or "what you're up to" which I can tell has nothing to do with my location or what I was doing at the moment (given that he knew those two things) but was more a comment of my relationship status (god, doesn't he check facebook?). I try to invite him to the party on Saturday, but instead he asks to take me out to lunch. I say sure. He says that he'll call me tomorrow (today) around noon.

Then he asks if it's too late for a late-night visit from Petruchio.

I say yes.

The whole phone call lasted less than two minutes. And then all my subsequent dreams were about telling people about the conversation. And then one where he and I were eating baklava together.

It's 1.30. He hasn't called. I don't think I'm getting a free lunch today.

This is my life. I guess it sounds pretty exciting sometimes.



Oh, did I ever mention what time it turned out to be when he called? 4.30 am. I had been figuring it was maybe 1 or 2. But no, 4.30 am. Oh you crazy Petruchio, you.

Election Emotion

Yesterday I cried when I heard about Obama's grandmother dying.

Tonight I'll cry again, no matter what the outcome. And if the outcome doesn't come tonight, I'll cry even more.

In January, when I listen to Obama's inagural speech, I'll definitely cry.

And just now? Just now I cried listening to the testimonials of first time voters, many of whom recently became legal citizens. It made me remember how proud we should be that we get this opportunity. Even if we don't like the outcome, at least we have the chance.

So yes, I am proud to be an American. Where at least I know I'm free to bitch (and cry) about whatever I want.

Happy Belated Halloween

Because there was no Halloween at his house, he gave us this video as a treat. I'm serious: http://www.brucespringsteen.net/news/index.html

Also, I hope to one day play the harmonica half as bad-assedly as the Boss does.