Friday, September 30, 2005
Dear skinny girl who wears clumpy eyeliner,
Hi, my name’s Mindy Raf. You probably don’t remember me. We bumped into each other on the street this morning. Well, actually, you bumped into me. I was the brunette in the red sweatshirt, and you were the redhead with the really pointy shoulder bones. Wow, you’ve got some really pointy bones! I know our shoulders just brush up against each other, but your bones kind of jabbed me and now I sort of have a big bruise on my shoulder. Yeah, it was painful. I guess my point is that you’re dangerous and really unpleasant looking.
Remember when I looked back at you in pain and said, “I’m sorry, excuse me” even though you were the one who bumped into me? Well, I do. I also remember how you answered back “you’re excused” (in a voice that implied talking was a lot of effort) and then rolled your poorly outlined eyes before walking away; jerking your protruding pelvic bone from side to side.
Anyway, I have two really important questions for you:
1) Does it hurt to walk? Seriously, it can’t be easy with all your bones grinding into your skin like that. Ouch!
2) Now that you know how dangerous you are, are you prepared to do what it takes to protect others from similar encounters?
I’m sure your answers to those questions are “yes!” and “I am!” so I’ll continue.
As I was icing my shoulder shortly after our brief run-in, I realized that really skinny women, like you, are a major threat to society. So, here’s what I propose:
I think all dangerously boney women should be required by law to wear protective padding when they’re out in public. I think the world will be a whole lot safer once you, and the rest of your kind, are completely padded and plush. I know what you’re thinking, “mindy, I won’t look hot with a pair of extra thick shoulder pads and a couple of throw pillows taped to my sides.” I know, but think of all the lives you’ll be saving. And please don’t go arguing, “mindy, I can’t wear protective padding it will hide my hot figure!” Nice try babe, you and I both know that you have NO figure to hide. Let's face it, you’re a walking, talking sharp object. You’re a make-up wearing Swiss Army Knife. You’re not human! You’re a vagina on a stick.
Anyway, I hope you have a great day, and remember to get rid of that eye make-up you’ve had for more than a year.
X’s, O’s, and hugs galore,
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Bob Castrone and Brian Levin are funny. They put together a comedy video website which they'll be updating twice a week. (I think monday and thursday) It's funny. It's called The Post Show. Go check it out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Anyone have an acoustic plug in guitar they're looking to get rid of? I'm heading out of town to do some shows and my guitar doesn't have a plugin. I'm not looking for anything fancy, and I'm not operating on a huge budget, but if you know of anyone wanting to get rid of a guitar and make some cash, let me know.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sorry about the lack of quality updates, but I'm re-designing my website (whoo hoo, no more sketchy skewed pictures and crappy html on WordPad) and trying to spend as much time outdoors before the darkness comes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I hate winter.
Who lives in LA and wants to do a winter sublet switch with me? New York is so nice and cozy in the winter, especailly in January and February. It's just beautiful.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And now I will leave you with a conversation I overheard this morning between two women wearing sparkly green eye shadow at 8AM.
Girl 1: If I’m being vegetarian does that mean I can’t have sushi?
Girl 2: No, you can have sushi but it has to be a vegetable one.
Girl 1: So I can have salmon avocado?
Girl 2: Yeah.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Pac-Man, a plug, and a pic
Play my Pac-Man plug & play that I won at Liam's Comedy Benefit raffle.
I felt silly winning a prize at a hurricane benefit, but I'm totally bonding with my plug n play! I was bad at Pac-Man when I was a kid (like 45 seconds), and I'm still terrible. I find the game extremely stressful and chaotic, and I'm not a video game person, but every time I watch the crap that's on TV when I can't sleep (or any other time for that matter) a part of my soul shrivels up and dies, so this is better.
My friend Derek is an amazing singer and musician and his band is on tour and playing in NYC this Thursday. I know people are always like, "go see my friend's band they rock" and then you go and it's a bunch of guys playing [name of lame band] cover songs who think they're [name of cool band]. But, this is not the case here. His band IS good; really talented guys and really fun to watch.
They're playing at 8pm at the living room
Thanks to a party involving sushi/sake/wine/beer and more sake, there's this:
because everyone's always saying,
"why aren't there more pictures of Jewish girls wearing leashes on the internet?!"
Friday, September 23, 2005
A message from Becky Beckkerson, the hottest girl ever
It’s Becky Beckkerson the hottest girl ever and I just signed up for flickr! I know! Are you, like, dying right now? Whoo hooo! Pics, pics, pics baby! Flickr is so totally amazing it’s not even funny!! I have, like, thousands of cool pics on my digital and I have nothing to show for it. Now I can upload all those pics to the internet and put them on my flickr page! Shut up. I’m not kidding.
Ok, so I’ve spent the last 6 hours sorting all the pics into fun categories (aka “sets” LOL) and labeling them all so that you guys can peruse with ease.
These are some of my favorite sets:
Me and my hot boyfriend
Me and my hot boyfriend on the couch
Me and my hot boyfriend shopping
Me and my hot boyfriend at a party
Me and my hot boyfriend in a car
Me and my hot boyfriend in a bus
Me and my hot boyfriend drinking coffee
Me and my hot friends
Me and my hot friends on the couch
Me and my hot friend shopping
Me and my hot friends drinking coffee
Me drinking coffee
Me watching tv
Me in a towel
Me in my jammies
Me in a little mini dress
Me all dolled up ready to go out
Me tanning at the pool
Me in the pool
Me standing by the pool
Me jumping in the pool
Me climbing out of the pool
Me in a beach towel
Me with wet hair in a bikini
Me with dry hair in a bikini
Me with a towel in my hair in a bikini
Me in a bikini with my dog
My dog sitting on the couch
My dog sleeping on the floor
My hot boyfriend an my dog
My hot boyfriend and his dog
My dog and my hot boyfriend’s dog sitting on the couch
Me in my brand new heals
Me in various sundresses
Me in an ankle length sun dress
Me in a mini sun dress
Me looking in the mirror
Me taking a picture of myself taking a picture of myself in the mirror
Also you guys, I wrote comments underneath some pics so you guys know what’s up. Like this one:
“Oh my god I can’t believe my boyfriend took a picture of me in nothing but a white tank and a thong! I’m going to kill him! So totally embarrassing!”
Anywhoo, I’m STILL uploading. LOL! Let you know when I’m done!
Luv ya all like a sister,
(unless I've slept with you)
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
This is what i got today
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd
THE HURRICANE BENEFIT SHOW
at Mo Pitkins' House of Satisfaction
34 Avenue A
Take the F train to 2nd Ave.
INFORMATION: (212) 777-5660
DOORS OPEN: 7:30pm
SHOW STARTS: 8:00pm
I’m on four hours of sleep for the past two days. I just attempted to swat a fly that wasn’t a fly at all, just a dark spot in my vision. I have to stop working late nights AND early mornings. [insert hack street walking joke here]
Monday, September 19, 2005
An open letter to 36B
Hi, my name is Mindy. We sat next to each other last night on flight 1623, St. Paul to LaGuardia. I was the brunette in the gray tank top who looked as if she was about to throw up.
I'm sure you thought my greenish-yellowish complexion was from the turbulence, or from the hour old beef nachos that permeated the air from seat 35C, or maybe you thought the cause of my nausea was the woman in 34G who decided that removing her polish and re-painting her fingernails 30,000 feet above sea level was a good idea. Nope. None of the above. It was you. Yes, you.
You see, dead skin makes me ill. I think it's disgusting. So, watching you flick your skin bits in my direction while simultaneously forming a pile of cuticle skin on your denim clad thigh last night was, to say the least, excruciating.
I respect the fact that humans exfoliate naturally and that some like to aid the process with expensive creams, small cheese grater things, and hand tweezers. I will even admit that I use some of the above to keep my feet smooth and touchable and my hands groomed and ladylike. Yet, I do these things in the privacy of my home: in a bathroom, over a garbage can, in the shower, sans flight attendants and passengers who might write about me in their blogs.
I tried to inform you of my disgust a number of times, but you just kept on picking. Remember when I held my magazine up and formed a barrier between us? Or when I fake sneezed on your hand causing you to get up and go to the bathroom? Or when I bitch slapped you across the face and screamed, "DEAD SKIN MAKES ME ILL!?"
What is wrong with you? First you start listening to your iPod before we reach cruising altitude and then you pick off a pound of your own skin three inches away from me!
I've always wanted to make a citizen's arrest and I regret that you now wander free.
The whole flight was agonizing and unsanitary and I think you should send me money or food for my pains.
Please e-mail me for my address, a list of non perishable foods I enjoy snacking on, and my direct deposit information.
Seek help you sick, thick cuticle covered freak.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Outta town bitches
So sorry this site has been so unfunny and not the least bit entertaining lately.
I'm working on some stuff, and doing this thing, and then heading out to do a thing with some peeps and some stuff and couple of things.
Please stop reading this if you live on the east coast. Go outside, enjoy the hot damp air because soon it's going to snow and get so cold that you'll write on all your notebooks— in black permanent marker— "NOT ANOTHER WINTER IN NEW YORK!" You will. Then one day you'll look back at your declaration and remember how the ink mixed with your salty, sad, cold, tear drops and smudged together New York, and you'll stare at that notebook page for like 3 minutes and think to yourself, "when was I ever in Newark?"
That's my temperature today.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
I'll do btich work
I’m convinced this illness is due to the adorable, yet germ-filled babies I take care of everyday. I think I’m through taking care of adorable, germ-filled babies. Anyone out there know of any jobs available that don’t involve germ-filled babies? I need it to be flexible so I can go on the road this fall, and fun, perhaps one that involves writing, creative thinking . . .oh screw it I’ll do bitch work, I will, just don’t make me go back to the babies. Please, don’t make me go back to the babies! They’re evil. They’re manipulative. They’re contagious. They’re like that 'really hot girl' with genital warts fliritng with all your friends at the bar. They look at you with these big innocent eyes and they wrap their little hands around your fingers, and then they mumble incoherent magical things that only they understand, and then they rest their fragile, little heads against your neck and WIPE THEIR NOSES ALL OVER YOU! Then, just to spite you, they start crying at a decimal so high you contemplate shoving both your arms down your throat and into your gut so that you can properly tie your tubes together. You soon realize this is not an option and that sterilizing yourself will not stop the crying, so you feed them. You don’t even know if they're hungry, but you do know that they can’t cry and drink that nasty smelling formula at the same time. So you feed them. It’s beautiful really. They’re propped up against you and you’re holding the bottle and they’re drinking the “milk” with their little lips and their hands are clasped over as many of your fingers as they can reach, and you can feel them breathing, and you have this quick Zen-like maternal moment. They finish the food and look a bit sleepy, and you sit them upright and burp them. They burp a little baby burp and you feel proud. I did this, I fed this baby and I burped it. You hold them close to you and burp them again then hold them up and look into their huge, innocent, inquisitive eyes and then they THROW UP ALL OVER YOU! It’s in your hair, on your neck, down your shirt, on your cheek: chunky, smelly, sticky, baby barf. Then the mom comes back from her Pilates class glowling with sweat and decorated with a smile.
Mom: oh, did he get sick?
Me: Yeah, a little bit.
Mom: Yeah, I was afraid that would happen.
Me: Oh, really?
Mom: Well, he usually just spits up a lot, he never throws up that much, but he’s just getting over the Flu so . . .
Me: Uh huh. (
I wonder if the daycare has rules about using the word cunt around the babies)
Me:Well, you know you’re really not supposed to bring the kids in when they’re—
Mom: That was the best pilates class! You should take it!
I work at a job that won’t provide me health insurance, yet ALL of my doctor bills are from visits due to working that job.
Is that ironic, or just really shitty?
I have a fever.
Vote for Weiner.
Ha, ha Weiner.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Every time I see his ad on TV and hear him say, "I'm Anthony Weiner . . ." I shout out, "ha ha, Weiner!"
I know it's sophomoric, but I can't help myself. It's this uncontrollable, audio spasm "Ha ha, Weiner!" every time I hear his name.
Last night I was asleep in my room and apparently I rose from my bed during the commercial, shouted out "ha, ha Weiner!" and went back to sleep.
Then this morning some newscaster dude said, "Well it looks like Weiner is on a roll" and I lost it.
I wish I could justify my infantile behavior; proclaim that it's due to absolutely no sleep and a crazy week, but that's not true, I'm just immature.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
I know. Ooops.
I wish I could write something super cool like, "my week has been totally unbloggable. I can't begin to explain, you guys just wouldn't understand!"
But that's really lame, and not entirely true, so instead I'm just gonna post some pictures of my family.
More specifically, a trip we took a couple years ago to New Orleans.
See it didn't matter whether it was the Oprah show displaying horrific image after horrific image coupled with sentimental music, or CNN, or Fox news or ABC etc. All the footage looked the same and all the victims were basically saying the same thing.
"I’m looking for my family" "I've been separated from my family" "I don't know where my family is" "I need to find my daughter" "No, I don't know where they are" "I don't where she is" "No, I'm not with my family" "No, I need to find my family" "I can't find my family" "I can't find my baby" "I can't find my daughter" "No, there not with me" "No, I don't know where they are" "I was separated from my mother" I'm looking for my family" I'm looking for my family" I'm looking for my family"
And I sat there, watching TV in my apartment in New York, and I felt incredibly lucky because my family is safe and completely within reach.
So if you're sitting and watching TV in your comfty apartment, it seems kind of silly to complain about anything.
It seems wrong to be upset about money, or air conditioning not working, or break ups, or how long it takes for the R subway train to arrive on the weekends, or how much you hate your day job, or how much you hate the construction worker on 43rd and ninth who tells you that you 'get him wet' even when you've made it a point to walk on the opposite side of the street.
It seems kind of silly to worry about anything like that at all.
Especially when you know that your family is alive and well, that you can call them anytime you want;that you can hop on the plane and see them anytime you want because you know where they are,
and you know that they're safe.
Friday, September 02, 2005
this is what i got today
Couple of weeks ago I ordered food from Better Burger. Although I think the name is pompous and I loathe "it's good for you!" gimmicks, their burgers are really good and they have super cool stuff like karma ketchup. They also have a great combo deal where you can get a burger, two sides (veggie chili, smashed potatoes), AND a smoothie for like ten dollars.
So I order the combo and the delivery guy comes over, and I pay, and he hands me my receipt, and it's WET. Not soaking wet as if it's been in the rain or pressed up against my smoothie, but a little damp. "What could this be?" I think to myself as I sanitize my hand by wiping it on a napkin. Yet, the smell of cooked cow drowns all thought, and I devour my food in just one commercial break.
Fast forward to today. I'm walking down 10th avenue and I see a delivery guy for better burger bicycle right up next to me. We wait at the crosswalk side by side. He's got three better burger bags hanging on each arm and a bunch of folded up pieces of paper in his mouth. Pieces of paper that look exactly like CUSTOMER RECEIPTS!
So, what was that inexplicable wetness on my hand that day?
Delivery man saliva.
Now you know, and now you're aware of the kind of shit that goes on in this sick city. You're welcome.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Did some simplifying yesterday. Decided to donate lots of old clothes and things I don’t really need that are just taking up space in my tiny little room. As I was throwing things away, I found a bunch of old notebooks with really bad stand-up jokes, angst ridden journal entries about boys, and a lot of unfinished to-do lists.
One list went up to twenty, and had only two things checked off. Two! I guess two of out twenty’s not bad for the early stages of a to-do list. Yet, sadly, this list was dated August 2003.
Here are some of the things that were NOT checked off:
Go to Gym
Call Mom back
Make wax appoint
Buy new toothbrush
Here are the two things that were:
Go grocery shopping
According to this list, in the past two years, I have:
worn dirty clothes
used the same toothbrush
severed all communication with my mother and all people via e-mail
stopped working out
stopped all pubic hair maintenance
continued something that I wanted over
“End it” what the hell did I mean?
I really have no idea.
What did I want to end in August 2003?