As a former catholic school girl I’ve always had a morbid affection for the concept of confession. It is in this vein that I have decided to institute a segment called ‘Confession of the Week’. Unlike the Catholic Church, my confession has no rules, no penance, but there could be some serious repercussions if my mother finds this website.

That having been said, here you go:

Oh man, this is harder than I thought. My fingertips hover ever so slightly above the keyboard wishing to speak of different words than those which my mind currently dictates. Godspeed fingers, the people want to know.

I LOVE Q-TIPs.

Okay, there I said it. But hold off, cause here’s where the perversion comes in. Earwax is a pesky problem, a problem which I know nothing about since I q-tip so excessively. You see, I Q all the time, everyday, sometimes more than once a day. I find it to be quite an erotic activity. I’ve never incorporated it into the sex act but just the thought of it gives me goose pimples. How could I possibly broach the subject with the potential mate…who probably only Qs when his ear feels itchy, ick. Perhaps I could try the ‘fresh out of the shower’ seduction so it doesn’t look so out of place. Up on the bathroom sink, toothbrush in one hand, q-tips in the other. Mmmm. On the other hand if I divulge my perversion it leaves the floodgates open for all of his, and frankly other people’s potential perversions frighten me. He could show up at my door with a hula-hoop, his mother’s nightgown, and jar of crisco….and there would be nowhere for me to run.

I don’t think my q-tip thing is entirely nonsensical. I mean, we stick our tongues in other people’s ears all the time (well, I don’t), but you get the point. I’m sure I’ll find someone someday who will indulge my pervy obsession just once. Who knows maybe I won’t like it, maybe my body will take an orificial preference to the bigger “q-tip”. I doubt it.

I have never been one for the pursuit. I have a horrible habit of doing just the opposite of that which I desire, exercises in restraint if you will. I have mastered the disinterested look and made it into a fine art. You may look at me and think, ’she’s looking right through me, am I chopped liver?’. But you’re not chopped liver, in fact you’re probably as scrumpious as a bag of O-R-E-Os…but goddamn if I’m gonna let on.

Apparently this plan is not working out so well for me.

It doesn’t get me dates. It doesn’t get me looks. I don’t even get hollers from the construction workers.

So I’ve come up with a new plan. We’ll call it the Proactive Mind Bending Plan. Here’s how it works: I’m going to stare at guys and fill my head with the most lascivious thoughts. Then I will beem those thought rays to my target. He will be over come with emotion and intense desire that he’ll move in closer for inspection. At this point I’m not quite sure what happens but I figure I can wing it.

I tried it out on the subway this morning. The problem was that someone stood between us so my mind bending rays could not make a direct hit. It may have had a slight impact though. First of all, he got off at the same stop as me (coincidence?…no way), then he walked the same way as me for 3 blocks (I know, amazing!) and he practically bumped into me as he was turning the corner (crazy, huh?).

I’ve got to iron out all the details but once I do you’ll be able to pick up the book on Amazon.

I have a serious secret crush on Brian Greene, the professor at Columbia that teaches String Theory/Quantum Mechanics. Here’s why I have a crush on him. Aside from the fact that he looks like David Duchovny (who, by the way, is a former nominee of Secret Crush of the Week after I had a dream of him washing my hair in a steamy bubble bath), Prof. Greene is also a brainiac and a New Yorker. So theoretically I could, you know, sit in on one of his classes and maybe, well, take really good notes then take the final exam and impress him so much that he would like to, perhaps, discuss it over dinner. At dinner I would say things like, “yeah man, quarks are sooo cool, I mean like, remember when everyone was just talking about protons, neutrons and electrons…hahaha” or “you know, empirical evidence is sooo overrated!” After dinner he would say, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” at which point I would look deeply into his eyes and do that pouty thing with my lips, “uh huh?”, and he would ask, “you know, I noticed when I was trying to record your grades that your name wasn’t on the class rost….” This coincides with the moment I wake up, notice my TV is on PBS and I’m sweating like it’s a boys’ lockeroom.

I repeat this is a test. Do not panic. Do not worry. More importantly do not expect anything witty, scintillating or, as my therapist would say, any oversharing moments for which I will be humiliated for years to come. This is me just testing the mic, so to speak. Exercising my voice. And trying not to stick my foot in mi boca. Take Ralph Fiennes, for example. Now when did he change his name? Honestly folks. Just because I don’t read People or watch E! must I now be made to feel stupid for mispronouncing the characters in Revenge of the Sith?! As if stumbling over reciprocity and solicitousness weren’t bad enough. Now I have to worry about Hollywood trumping me up as well?

I repeat this is a test. Maybe more of a warning. I have nothing meaningful to say here. And if meaning were to find its way into this, it would probably only be meaningful to me. But I would still have to pay $200 an hour to uncover the meaning. And it would take years to decifer. So lets just say there is nothing meaningful here and save me the time and money. After all, I am only on 7th grade in terms of working though my school yearbooks. I am just not sure how long it would take me to uncover the true meaning of this blog post. If I had to.

So this is a test. Although I now remember that I am a really poor test taker. And that saying the words this is a test causes me to reach for the Zolaft. Having flunked my driver’s test 6 times, I think I reserve the right to have a little bit of anxiety. In fact, maybe I should restate the above because I am suddenly having the feeling that I am flunking this test. How about this is a means by which individuals are compared and judged? But that sounds a little harsh. Being judged reminds me of living with my parents and that is actually something far worse than my own mounting anxiety. Because then there is my anxiety compounded with my mother’s. And that is the whole reason I am in therapy. So let me try that again. This is a procedure that ascertains effectiveness, value, proper function, or other quality. There, I think that sounds a little better.

Please do not be alarmed. This is only a procedure that ascertains effectiveness, value, proper function, or other quality. Nothing to be ashamed of. We are just ironing out the kinks here. You are not being judged. Well, ok, you are, but we won’t think the less of you for it. We are just trying to see how effective of an audience you are and of what quality. That way we can place a value on your comments and then we can all begin to understand our proper functions. Ahem. Testing 1-2-3.

Imagine if you will that you have been given the opportunity to switch bodies with someone for a day and for some godforsaken reason you picked me. To save you the time and trouble of a wasted body-switch-wish I shall give you a preview of what to expect.

At approximately 6am your alarm will go off. You will hit the snooze button and wonder where the hell you are… and not because you’re me, or I’m you, but because that is precisely what I think to myself each and every morning. Then you will wonder whether you hit the snooze button or the off button. You will be so concerned about oversleeping that you will reset your alarm for 10 minutes in the future. At this point you are already awake so you just turn the damn thing off (of course you don’t reset it for the original earlier time so the next morning when you think you’ve got 4 snoozes, you’ve actually only got 3 and you will oversleep). Then you make my bed (you’d better, because if I get back and that bed’s not made…). I will skip all the hygiene particulars, but please for godsake brush my teeth, and if you know anything about make-up could you show me some pointers.

This is where the fun starts.

Now, you’ve got to run and catch the shuttle to the subway. Don’t miss the 8am one ’cause it throws the whole schedule off. Once on the subway notice how nobody looks at you. How you might as well be invisible. How the thought comes to mind, “well, if I were the last woman on earth then I’d be looking pretty damn good,” and you find yourself scowling. But the upside is that you’re the only woman on the train not reading a book with an over-designed cover containing ’sisterhood’ somewhere in the title. You are either reading a heady super-intellectual novel or the train evacuation information for the 500th time, you know though that if the train were to get stuck in the tunnel you’d be the first one kicking at the windows saying “how the hell do we get outta here?”.

Once you emerge from the subway at 33rd street you find your place in the steady stream of people until you hit 34th. There you will find the disjointed tourists who don’t understand how to exist inside managed chaos. These tourist folks love to walk in horizontal lines of 5-6 across like bouncers assigned to crowd control. You’ve learned by now that if they are walking toward you in this formation you are absolutely under no circumstances to look them in the eye, but charge forth breaking through the imaginary chain binding their polyesther-clad fannies. They will curse you, “gawd, new yorkers are sooo rude”. But you’ll get a special thrill knowing that someone finally noticed you.

After work it will be all the same in reverse, except of course you’re not walking backwards.

Once home, you’ll cook a nutritious dinner for your son and pour yourself a glass of wine. Afterwards you both get into your comfy clothes. You: undie-shorts and a tank top. Your son: his bvd’s, since the heat’s kicked up he’s taken to running around in nothing but his chonies. You two are quite an attractive site. You imagine if you were dating and the guy came over and saw this, would he run for the hills or pull his pants down and join in? Who are you kidding, he’d run…and if he didn’t you’d probably find a way not to like him.

When you finally climb into bed you are reminded why it’s great to be single: sleeping diagonally.

This concludes the tour of Meme. Thank you for visiting, come back anytime!