PAIN IN THE GLASS.

I went to see comedian Mike Birbiglia at Town Hall last night.

As expected, he was awesome, and even more hilarious in person than on his blog and “This American Life”. He did a solid set, told his sleepwalking story as an encore, and ended with songs about oatmeal and God. He’s an extremely versatile performer, and I was completely impressed. Definitely money well spent.

But the highlight of the night was an encounter with another one of my audio crushes: the one, the only… Ira Glass.

Yes, I have an audio crush on Ira Glass. I know some people think his voice is annoying and nasaly, but I find it to be quite soothing. I decided to tell him so.

The interaction went a little like this:

My frient Trez spots Ira from a distance. He’s holding a bunch of ticket print-outs in his hand, and is waiving them about as if he needs someone to take them.

Trez, who is an infinitely bigger fan than I am, rushes over. She is wearing a bright orange vest, so she is hard to miss.

“I’ll take it, Ira!” she shouts as she runs toward him. He looks a bit startled, not realizing she’s referring to the tickets.

I finally locate them in the crowd. “Ira Glass?!” I shout. I toddle over in my platform heels and greet them with a smile. (I’m not going to lie, I was a little tipsy from my pre-show drinks. But no matter– I probably would have done the same thing had I been stone cold sober.)

Trez is blushing hard, so I decide to alleviate some of the potential awkwardness with… more awkwardness.

“Hi!” I exclaim, a bit too loudly. Ira looks at me, a little confused.

“Um, hi.” His voice is just as dreamy as I dreamed it would be. His glasses are pretty cool in person– almost theatrical. He seems a bit short, but I can’t tell if that’s because he actually is short, or because I’m wearing slutty stripper heels. I have an intense urge to tell him that I listen to him when I’m lonely because I find his voice to be really comforting, but I figure that would creep him out, so instead I say:

“I just wanted to let you know that I love listening to you because your voice is really soothing, you’re just really great, I love your show, and I wouldn’t be here tonight if it wasn’t for you!” Infinitely less creepy. Not.

Ira smiles tensely. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he wants to run away.

“Oh. Okay, thanks.”

I look over at Trez. She is bright red, and her eyes are tearing up. I figure that maybe it’s time to go. I awkwardly flail my hands around in the air, as if to provide some flourish to the end of our time together.

“Okay, so… thank you!” Ira nods his head politely, and wanders (escapes?) off into the crowd, away from potentially crazy stalkers in puff vests and stripper heels.

And this, ladies and gents, is my (American) life.

SPECIAL DELIVERY.

My mother sent me a care package today. Inside were the following:

-A Halloween card that doubles as a pink glitter kitty eye mask costume.
-A bag of sugar-free York peppermint patties.
-A bottle of hand sanitizer for my desk.
-A bag of Ricola throat lozenges.
-A bottle of Advil.
-A book called Why He Didn’t Call You Back.

If that doesn’t say, “Happy Halloween, Get Real, And Avoid The Swine Flu!”, I don’t know what does.

I love you, Mom. I’m not really sure why you sent me these things in one box, but I love you.

BITE ME BABY ONE MORE TIME.

Let me start off by saying that it is almost October. We are no longer in the height of summer, when the air is moist and flesh is exposed. I am wearing layers now, and spend most of my days indoors. And yet, I still have bug bites. Lots of them.

It’s no secret that mosquitoes love me: they were sucking on me like horny pubescent boys all summer long. If my bites were hickeys, I would have been the school slut. Turtlenecks couldn’t even cover this brand of affection: I looked like I had the shingles, and I don’t mean high-end roofing.

At one point during the summer, a single mosquito was trapped in my room. Try as I did, he simply would not leave. I shooed him, sprayed him, and clapped in hopes that I’d accidentally slap him to death, but to no avail: he was invincible. He’d sleep during the day, and then rape my supple flesh at night. I woke up feeling violated, but in the end, I could do nothing.

At first, it was just a tentative courtship: a bite here, a bite there. I’d scratch a little and go about my day. But then, one morning, I woke up with half a dozen red welts from that little sucker. He had the most unusual tastes: the inside arch of my left foot, the outside of my knee, the inside of my elbow, the very tip of my ring finger. I probably should have told him that the best juice comes from less bony spots, but I really didn’t want to be scratching my butt all day. There was even a little love nibble on the side of my face, which I’m guessing meant he wanted to take our relationship to the next level. (I obviously declined.) There was no telling how much blood would be shed before the summer was over.

And then, mysteriously, he disappeared. No goodbyes, just out the window into the great wide open. (Either that, or my roommate slammed him while I was out of the apartment.) My bites could finally heal, and I could stop tearing at my skin every five minutes. I felt, for the first time in months, like I was safe.

Wrong. These past few days, I’ve been waking up with welts again, and the handiwork seems vaguely familiar: ring finger, elbows, side of the face. I could be mistaken, but it looks like El Mosquito (or one of his vampiric clan) is back, and he’s got a taste for the likes of moi.

Well, I’ve got news for him: His days at Flesh Gardens are limited. I’ve got a tag on this sucker’s head, and he’s going to go down when he least expects it. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but mark my words: if Las Cucarachas can die at my hand, so can he. I busted right through little Miss Cocky Cockroach’s bronze armor with my Clorox disinfectant artillery, and don’t think that because Mr. Mosquito is winged and tiny I won’t do the same. I’m on a mission to save my flesh here: there is no other choice.

Except this:

It’s almost as sexy as my old bunk bed, but not quite. Maybe I’ll pretend I’m on an African safari and give it a try.

Take that, mosquito: no more suckling from this zipple.

TALK OF THE TOWN.

A Fegurgur Factor first, I am live blogging (yes, live blogging) from an undisclosed location in Queens. The following conversation is happening right before my very eyes (literally three feet away from me, at the next table over). The person they are talking about is — you guessed it– moi.

And… action.

INTERIOR SEMI-SWANK DINER – THE BOROUGH OF QUEENS, THE NUEVA OF YORK. NIGHT.

A slightly bookish (yet exotic) twenty-something WRITER sips a cup of decaf, tucked cozily into a corner table. She is minding her own business, nibbling at the remnants of her breadbasket, slathering things with Land O’ Lakes and love.

Nearby, two BUTTERFACE FEMALES*, also twenty-somethings, wolf down a sizeable cookie platter while texting their apparently hilarious friend, Pilar. The Writer eavesdrops a little (apparently Pilar loves the cookies here, has posted photos of them on her Facebook page and wants them at her wedding). The Writer watches the Butterfaces fumble about in their Louis Vuitton bags for a moment, then turns her attention to more important business. She reaches into her own bag and retrieves…

BUTTERFACE 1: Omigod, is she pulling out a laptop?

A big, silver mass emerges, a glowing apple pulsing on its lid.

BUTTERFACE 2 1: Ew, she’s pulling out a laptop.

The Writer ignores this comment and logs onto WordPress. Perhaps since the advent of the iPhone, they have forgotten what a word processing contraption looks like.

BUTTERFACE 2: Can you imagine going to a diner alone and, like, pulling out your laptop? I mean, you’re all alone.

They laugh.

BUTTERFACE 1: I know. Like, by yourself.

The laughter stops. They both look over. The Writer is writing. They observe her as if she’s a hippo in the river Seine.

BUTTERFACE 2: She kinda looks like Brian’s girlfriend. Look at her.

Done.

BUTTERFACE 1: Kinda. Yeah. But different.

Cookie crumbs tumble into their moderate cleavage.

BUTTERFACE 1: She’s alone.

They continue to look.

BUTTERFACE 2: Text Pilar!

And…scene.

(*Names have been changed to preserve the identities of these unidentified females.)

I mean, seriously– I’m right here. It’s not like I’m pulling a Harry Potter and sporting my invisibility cloak this balmy eve. I am facing them, could talk to them without even raising my voice if I needed to. We exchanged cordial smirks earlier in the evening, for crying out loud. You don’t talk smack about someone you smirked with. That’s just tacky.

But whatever. I’m smack blogging about them on the sly, so I guess we’re even. Girls will be girls, no matter how old we are. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles.

GO DOWN.

I have been having trouble sleeping lately- and by lately, I mean, oh, the past year. I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t seem to get in a good shut-eye session these days. Even on nights when I sleep a full eight hours by the clock’s count, I sometimes wake up feeling like I spent the night out boozing instead of snoozing. I can’t figure out if it’s just that the city’s too loud (I don’t live in the quietest neighborhood), or if I actually have some kind of problem. I’ve recently learned that I have an old-man snoring habit (I know- so sexy), which makes me think that perhaps obstructed breathing is the culprit; but I also wake up with a kinky neck (again, so sexy), so I’m wondering if my cheapo Kmart pillows are to blame. I thought of buying one of those nasal ease things, but again- too sexy. Since getting a doctor’s appointment in this city is like getting tickets to MJ’s memorial, and nasal strips likely won’t fit over my Chamorro nose anyway, I decided to do what I should have done a long time ago: I bought some new pillows.

Pillows are curious things, because they seem so simple, but can cost so much. I mean, should a bag filled with goose feathers really cost $200? If you’re going to charge me that much, you’d better throw in the bird, some stuffing, an apple pie, and a couple sides of mashed potatoes. There are obviously cheaper pillows, like the ones I’ve been breaking my neck on (Only $15 for a spinal dis-alignment? No way!), but, as I’ve learned, they quickly fall flat and leave me feeling like the hunchback of Notre Dame. So yesterday I sucked it up, hauled myself to Macy’s, and cozied up to the “natural filling” section of the pillow corner. Goodbye, synthetic pain in my neck; hello, goose down glory.

I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in the midst of a sale. (While the recession certainly blows, the one good thing about it is that there are a lot of sales.) Since the Macy’s bedding department is organized more efficiently than the Dewey decimal system, it took me less than five minutes to find the pillows for me: hypoallergenic, medium support, down surround, 50% off. I took them up to register and got ready to pay my dues.

When I got home, however, I approached my new bedfellows with trepidation. What if they didn’t work? What if they left me in worse shape than I started off in? What if I was in fact allergic to the down surround and ended up with Lisa Rinna lips in the morning? No matter: I had trekked all the way up to 34th Street to get those suckers, I had to give them a try.

It’s amazing how a simple swap of head support can transform your sleeping experience from Best Western to Hotel Bel Air. It didn’t even feel like my own bed. I sunk into my new pillows like a fat kid in some quick sand, and after a few minutes of tossing around, I was out like a light.

Despite a batch of 3:00 am love bites from a horny mosquito, I had a pretty good sleep. So good, in fact, that I turned off my alarm this morning and just lay there for an extra 45. I wouldn’t say that my problem is solved, but going down surround was definitely a step in the right direction. After all, soliciting a slumber isn’t so bad when your head is resting in the lap of luxury.

IT’S A CELEBRATION, B*TCHES.

Well, time sure does fly. It has been one whole year (and a few weeks) since The Fegurgur Factor sprang forth from my literary loins, and what a year it has been. My loins are aching just thinking about it (in a good way).

Many thanks to all of you who have been supporters along the way. I hope I’ve made you laugh, cry, and wet your pants doing both.

Here’s to another year of factoring the Fegurgur. Grab a drink, grab a glass– it’s on me.*

*You’ll have to pay for it, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Right.

HOLLA BACK GIRL.

The weather might suck, but one thing’s for sure: summer’s here. How do I know? Because the males of New York are telling me so, in all of their gentlemanly glory.

When I first moved here in 2007, I lived up in Washington Heights. If you’ve ever been up there, you know that it’s a colorful neighborhood, teeming with culture, diversity, and Gristedes. And, like the rest of New York, there are also lots of horny men.

Every day that balmy autumn, I was greeted with a symphony of hisses and whistles that could rival a cicada infestation.

“Tsst-tsst-tsst, girl,” they’d say, faux-drooling over my chest, legs, butt, and thighs. You’d think they were in line at a KFC: all I had to do was flash my chicken wings, and I’d be a combo bucket to go.

Strangely, this chorus of catcalls happened anytime, anywhere, and I could be wearing anything. Short skirt? Catcall. Long pants? Catcall. Full body cargo onesie with a ski mask and gloves? Catcall. (I never tried that last one, but given that this phenomenon continued well into winter, I might as well have.) Sometimes I had eye oogies and sleep drool still pouring from my orifices– they didn’t care. I could have been anyone, it seemed, as long as I had the basic bolt-ons. I’m guessing it had nothing to do with what I actually looked like– it had to do with what I had the potential to look like (most likely with the lights down low). Yes, it was marginally offensive, but one thing was for sure: those guys were going to boost my self-confidence whether I liked it or not.

Well, it’s skin-bearing weather again, and although I don’t live up in the Heights anymore, the feminine affirmations are being slung my way once more. It’s not like I wear particularly revealing clothes, either: an accidental inch of flesh above the knee or some red lipstick usually does the trick.

Though the feminist inside tells me to sneer, vomit, and reprimand these men for their crossing of boundaries, another part of me would probably miss the cats if they ceased to call. I can’t blame them for exercising their knowledge of odds: it doesn’t take a genius to know that the more bait you cast, the more likely you are to snag a fish (no pun intended). The callers not only herald the start of a new season, but also remind me of just how creative a compliment can be. Some of my personal favorites from this season and last include (in no particular order):

“Can I lick your ass?!”
“Bootiful.”
“Yo, if I owned that car, would you hop in for a low-low?”
“Marry me, mami.”
“Get over here, Cinderella! All in your skirt, Cinderella!”
“Quit lookin’ at me with them eyes! Ahhh! Quit it!”

With gems like those, who wouldn’t feel once, twice, three times a lady?

Well, me. But God bless them for trying.

LEGG UP.

Long before Soulja Boy told ‘em, there was a time when the Butterfly, the Tootsee Roll, and Da Dip ruled the dance floor. Back in middle school, I used to break it down in satin palazzo pants and baby tees, bumping and grinding as best as a little (half-)white girl could. There was a freak train pulling into the station, and I was gonna ride it—even if I hadn’t had my first kiss yet.

Well, it looks like I can finally relive those days when my hips were supple and indiscretions high. My friend Mac recently shared this ditty with me, and my booty started poppin’ á la Orville Redenbacher. Just like old times.

And although it may be offensive to gimps, it provides step-by-step instruction and lovely closed captioning for the hearing impaired.

Enjoy. This time, it’s okay to get Stanky.

BUNKY EXPEDITION.

When I first emigrated from California to the city a year and a half ago, I had grand visions of blossoming into a woman. Being an only child who had never left her home state, I thought of New York as that distant Mecca where children became adults, where the soft-willed were somehow hardened by a relentless pounding of the pavement. It was a chance to seize my independence, to pull an Obama and put childish things aside. Oh, the audacity of California youth.

A year and a half later, I’ve definitely grown up a bit (my proliferating collection of Chanel anti-aging serums can attest to that), but there’s still one little thing that prevents me from being one of the big girls. It’s the bane of my New York existence, the scarlet letter I don each night, the antithesis of all things sexy. Yup– it’s my bunk bed.

Okay—to be completely fair, it is not actually a bunk bed. It is what New Yorkers call a “loft bed,” one of those handily crafted (and heavily euphemized) furniture pieces specifically designed for city living. A desk resides below it instead of a human being, and it nearly doubles the square footage of the box I call my room. Since an ill-placed radiator prevents the use of a regular bed, this is pretty much the only option. And it was free, so I guess I really shouldn’t be complaining.

But let’s face it: it’s pretty hard to feel like an adult when you’re sleeping like a kid at summer camp. Sure, it sounds fun at first (“A tree house! A love lair! My very own cushion fort!”), but the excitement wears thin as soon as you realize mid-REM bathroom breaks could easily land you in the emergency room (I dare you to tackle that ladder drunk).

And the logistical woes don’t end there. Nightstand essentials (iPhone, lip balm, reading materials, contraceptives if you’re lucky) must also be packed up before the traipse to the top. Eating and drinking are pretty much kyboshed: bringing up a cup of chamomile is completely out of the question, as one false move could end in wet sheets and/or second-degree burns, and there is no place to put your dirty dishes. Any unnecessary detours from dreamland are avoided at all costs. So in many ways, it’s a lot like camping. Thank God I like camping.

And then there is the issue of man love. Trust me, there’s nothing sexier than whispering, “I want you to mount my bunk bed…” to that special someone. But once you two get up there, it’s another story. The bed sounds like it’s going to break when one person mounts it; imagine what it sounds like when two people are mounting each other– the A train makes less noise. You never know when the thing is going to collapse from under you and take your lovemaking to another level (quite literally).

But alas, all things must come to an end. With my move to a new apartment, there comes not only an expansion in square footage, but also the capacity for—you guessed it—a regular bed.

As my friend JaJa dismantles the bunk this afternoon and I prep its appendages for recycling, I can’t help but wonder if I will miss it. Despite its imperfections, it did its job, and provided a unique living experience for my first year in New York. It was always a conversation starter (albeit a slightly embarrassing one), and was a great drying rack for my delicates when the shower ran out of room. Many secrets were shared in its recesses, and many blogs were written in its womb. I may have been its Hester Prynne, but it did turn out to be a pretty reliable bedfellow: tall, (kind of) strong, and hard like galvanized steel.

What more can a girl ask for? Not much. But it’s high time I became a woman.

RINSE AND REPEAT.

Last night I came home to what every girl hopes for after a long day at the office and a sweatfest at the gym. A tub filled with Mr. Bubbles? A full-body rubdown with aromatic oils? Hot sex on a platter with an extra helping of man love?  No, no, and unfortunately, no (although I do hope for these things on a daily basis). It was better than all of those things combined. It was, for lack of better description, a cold shower.

Once reserved for testosterone-riddled adolescents and wartime atrocities, the cold shower is making a comeback in an ex-tenement apartment complex near you (namely, my own).  For reasons unbeknownst to me, the hot water was off and it showed no signs of resuscitation. I could have called the landlord, but instead I did what any sane New York woman on the verge of smelling like post-workout Richard Simmons would do: I cursed the heavens and climbed on in.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those girly girls who can’t go a day without showering and/or grooming. I went a full nine days without bathing last summer when I trekked up Mt. Whitney, and if I lived in France or some other pro-body hair region, I’d leave my Mach3 Turbo to the boys.

But taking a cold shower when it’s 30 degrees outside is another story- it feels more Titanic than titillating. Although my friend Il Barbarossa claims that some European cultures believe cold showers can increase one’s immunity to disease when taken after a workout (a worthy explanation for the thermal boot camp I experienced at the Russian baths), it wasn’t something I was raring to try. But alas, necessity drove me to it.

If you too somehow find yourself waiting unwittingly for a shower that never heats, have no fear: I have created this handy field guide to showering al frió. Just (brace yourself,) rinse, and (don’t) repeat. Happy washing.

1.   The name of the game here is Speed and Efficiency. Get your body wet really quickly, then immediately turn the water off. This not only saves water, but it also saves your 2000 parts from impending frostbite. I also found that the initial shock of the cold actually warmed my body up in between water spritzes. Score!

2.   Defer to what my friend’s grandma once lovingly referred to as the “PTA” (P**sy, T*ts, and A**) bath. Having camped my whole life, I am no stranger to the magic of a PTA bath in the wilderness. Last night, I took that knowledge and applied it to my urban conundrum: although expanded to include the hair (which was greasier than a Jack In The Crack value meal), it still just focused on getting the key body parts under control. Again, speed and efficiency are key.

3.  Only use a little bit of shampoo and/or body wash. You know how they say “dime-sized” dollop of liquid? Well, I suggest you take that to heart when attempting a lather in sub-zeroish conditions. The more stuff you rub onto your body, the more time in the cold it’s going to take to get it off. Take if from me: I used about a quarter-size too much of the Dr. Bronner’s Magical Peppermint Soap, and my lady parts were not feeling too magical after the five minutes it took to remove it.

4.   If you have long hair, flip it over (i.e. bend over) and wash it upside down. My mom used to wash her hair this way because she didn’t like getting shampoo suds all over her freshly rinsed body. In my case, it kept my frozen hair water from leaking into every nook and cranny.

5.   Do some imagery work. This is the point where you can no longer avoid the fact that the water is indeed freezing, and that you will inevitably have to douse your head and body in it as a grand finale. Now is the time to imagine jumping into a tranquil pool of water; or, better yet, that you’re on fire and the only thing that will save you and your hard-earned looks is a blast from a fire hose that is being operated by impossibly hot firemen/women. I chose the latter.

6.   Bundle up in a fluffy towel and pretend you’re an Eskimo in an animal hide.  

7.   Just in case my mom was right and going to sleep with wet hair does in fact cause pneumonia, blow dry it before you hit the sack. I did, and guess what? No pneumonia.

8.  Sleep tight, don’t let the beddy bugs bite.

Oh yeah—and call the landlord.