Take a Memo

I FUCKED UP

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 03:35:00 +0000

I have known for quite some time that I am a bit overweight. I say "a bit" because I don't quite appear FAT or OBESE in anyway. However, I know that my lifestyle over the last several years has left me heavier than I have ever known.

I knew something was wrong about a month ago. I started feeling tired for no reason, started feeling "large" if there is such a thing.

So I scheduled a physical exam. I knew my fears were correct when even the under-educated (albeit sweet) nurse expressed concern.
"Are you here for your blood pressure?" she asked.
"Yes, why?" I replied, alarmed.
"The doctor will talk to you."

Well FUCK, I thought. I knew that technically the nurse wasn't supposed to give me that reaction no matter if it said I was about to die a horrible death. But I knew she did because she was so concerned...I'm sure most 29 year old patients don't have the blood pressure reading I had just given her.

I spoke to my Doctor about the pressure. About the stress at work and about my terrible diet - full of carbs, salt, and cholesterol. He told me to watch my salt.

Then came Sunday.

On Sunday, while visiting my 93 year old grandmother and almost-96 year old grandfather, my doctor called me. My triglycerides were off the charts. As high a range as they can be. For someone my age, they were in the stratosphere. I freaked the fuck out. But I had to calm down for the sake of my grandparents. My Grandmother especially, cannot take news like this. So I sucked it up and pretended as though nothing was wrong. But something was/IS.

I admit that I have known my diet and alcohol (and, yes, for awhile, drug) intake was bad. But I never thought it would mean this. I thought I was being reckless; thought I was having "fun." But in reality, I was slowly killing myself. I was always afraid of ODing, but what I should have feared was having a stroke or a heart attack.

I am 29. Repeat I am 29. From here on out, I have to follow a strict low sodium, low fat, and low carb diet. While that sounds like everyday behavior to some girls, it's not for me. For me it is a complete turnaround in lifestyle, a complete surrender of everything I have lived for years.

The funny thing is, I am perfectly willing to turn my health around. In fact, I have already lost about 4 lbs. since going to the Doctor on Friday. Tomorrow, I plan on wearing a dress to Fashion Week that I didn't think I could wear anytime soon. The plus side to all of this is that I will probably fit into that Size 6 wedding dress next Spring.

But the hard/scary part is that I couldn't just do this my fucking self. I couldn't just work to lose the weight a year or so ago. I had to wait until my Doctor was telling me that I could stroke out soon or have cancer 10 years from now to do something.

So, here's the thing. If you are overweight (and I am by only about 30 lbs overweight - I am not morbidly obese), go see your Doctor. Get a blood test and test your blood pressure and make sure you are healthy. One can be overweight and healthy, but one can be overweight and very unhealthy. You don't have to be OBESE to be unhealthy.

I am working to change my lifestyle and feel good about it. In fact, I already don't crave pizza and chinese the way I once did. I now see those types of foods as dangerous and deadly. Never thought I would.

Anyway, it took a while to get there. It took many years of thinking I was "young" and not giving a shit to come to this point. But here's the truth:
What you eat at 22 does effect the person you will become at 28. What you drink at 23 does effect the person you will become at 29.
What you do at 29 does effect the person you will become at 30. I'll be 30 next June. And I'll be a hell of a lot thinner and healthier.

Only In New York

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Thu, 14 May 2009 23:56:00 +0000

I get in the cab this morning and the driver hands me a green bracelet.
“What’s this?”
“It’s for you. Wear it and get good health, stay beautiful. I will explain it to you…”
He puts on a song sung in Hindu and starts translating for me:
“Our eyes met from across the room –
She was beautiful, an angel.
I’ll never forget the night I met the girl in green.
My heart is on fire,
Like a fish without water.
I’ll never forget the night I met the girl in green.”
Then he pulls out a packet of bindis and says, “pick out your favorite color.”I pick orange and he pulls the cab over and puts it on my forehead.
“Now we are married! You will remember me forever. You are going to work today and will tell your friends
And you will all laugh about this. You came into my cab looking sad and now you are smiling.”
I tipped him $3.

Here Comes the Bride

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 00:10:00 +0000

Yup, I got the ring. Well, first I found the right man and then he was smart enough to pop the question. I was smart enough to say “yes.” It’s been about four months since we became betrothed and now we are faced with the dreaded and inevitable task of – gulp – planning a wedding. And while I have long been known to be an attention whore, the thought of professing my love and devotion to someone in front of a live, familial audience fills me with absolute panic and terror. To top it off, I just cannot justify spending thousands of dollars on a wedding, on a party that will last a few hours, on a soiree in which I will spend the majority of the time worrying if my guests are having a good time. (Full disclosure: As a publicist, all you do is throw events and parties and work your ass off to make sure everyone is happy and having fun and it is just dreadful; it’s my least favorite part of the gig.)

Don’t get me wrong – I am not dreading getting married. In fact, I can’t wait to be Mrs. Wahoo and, yes, start having a family. But the wedding thing? I dunno, I was just never the little girl who fantasized about her wedding day. Yes, Freud, it probably does stem from my parents’ divorce and how I grew up with very realistic expectations of love and am always very cautious about matters of the heart. But now I am very much in love, very much ready to commit my life to one person, one man who I feel betters and enhances my life. A man who I want to be the father of my children and who I want to grow old with. But $5,000+ on flowers? No fucking way.

So why not just elope you say? Well, two reasons.

1. My family. I always scoffed when my friends would bend to their parents’ wishes when it came to planning their weddings. But after hearing how happy my mother and grandmother are about this engagement/wedding, I just feel like I owe it to them to give them one. I often think about how I would feel if I was a mother and my daughter was engaged – I would probably want to see her get married too. So that’s the heart of the dilemma – I think they deserve a wedding – my wedding. I am my mother’s only daughter and my grandmother is 90 and may not live to see the weddings of her other granddaughters, who are 18 and 12.

2. A groom who wants a wedding. Ella’s fella would really like a wedding – a church wedding with a reception. And why should I deny him this? Hell, he asked my parents’ for my hand in marriage. It’s important for him to get married in a church (he’s religious, a trait of his that made me fall in love with him). It’s his wedding too, not MINE. If I can’t compromise now, I probably shouldn’t get married at all.

So the real problem now lies in having a NYC wedding. It’s so unbelievably expensive. An editor I know – who got engaged at roughly the same time I did – is getting married this August for about $11,000. But where is she getting married? DELAWARE. What can we get for $11,000 in NYC? Um, vows in a church and, if we are lucky, a reception at Ellen’s Stardust Diner. No, seriously. That’s how expensive it is to get married in this town.

So, we’re working on figuring it out. Trying to find a place that won’t bankrupt us before we even tie the knot. If anyone has any suggestions, I’d love to hear them.

THANK YOU

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 05:26:00 +0000

to this country...

for renewing my faith in democracy.
for renewing my faith in equality.
for renewing my faith in hope.
for renewing my faith in america.

for denouncing my fear of bias.
for denouncing my fear of racism.
for denouncing my fear of hipocracy.
for denouncing my fear of regression.

god bless you.
god bless me.
god bless us.
god bless america.

obama january 2009...

Palin-digestion

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 01:58:00 +0000

I am a registered Independent because I really will vote for whoever the best candidate is.

But McCain has lost my vote by nominating a woman in such a cheap manner. He did so to show that the Republican party can be "liberal" by finally embracing someone with ovaries. However, what is masked behind this facade of equality is the fact that Palin is a radical conservative who believes in denying a woman's right to choose, who has no respect for the planet or its threatened species, and who governs in a fashion akin to being student council president in junior high.

As a feminist, I long for the day when a woman will sit in the White House in a strong capacity....but i won't cast a ballot for a woman just because she's a woman. and that's just what the mccain campaign is trying to make happen - all while trying to hide the fact that she is nothing more than a conservative sheep in lipstick.

Rock My Vote

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 03:50:00 +0000

When I was growing up, there was no greater political hero than JFK. For one, he was Catholic. And for all those nuns and dedicated secular teachers in my grammar and high schools, he represented the greatest achievement of all - that a serious follower of Jesus Christ could become President. Plus, for my younger generation of teachers not of the cloth, he represented their generation, finally taking reigns of this impossibly powerful country of ours.

I am 14 years younger than Barack Obama. However, I have never felt more akin to a political candidate. He’s young, still rather handsome. He has young children and a very attractive wife. He’s not as experienced as perhaps he should be. But you know what? Neither are most great leaders. Neither are most of those who actually end up making a difference.

I'm a registered Independent. While I have always voted for a Democrat in each of the Presidential campaigns I was legally allowed to vote for (shit, is this really my third??? I am fucking old.), I have tended to vote Republican in my city and state elections. (Go Bloomberg!!! Who should, seriously, be Mayor of NYC for his entire fucking life.) And so, I am not voting Barack because I am a Presidential Democrat.
So why am I?

1. He’s young and idealistic. He’s the next Kennedy and Clinton all rolled into one. Kennedy was a Christian and Clinton was black (oh, come on, he really almost was). I want someone who is still hopeful, still patriotic enough to aspire to be President – not do so because it was the next best job his Daddy could get him. (Come on now Republicans, even if you support G.W., he never showed even the slightest spark in wanting to be President.)

2. He’s black. Yes, I said it. I am voting for Barack Obama BECAUSE he is black. No, I probably wouldn’t vote for him if he weren’t the best candidate, but the color of his skin is a strong selling point for me. I think it is damn well time that this country start to expand its presidential pool and look towards blacks, minorities, and women as viable candidates. Most of the rest of the free world has already elected women and minorities to the highest cabinet positions. Why should we be confined to a white elite?

3. He will not deny my right to choose. I never intend to get an abortion. At this stage (and this romantic interlude) of my life, it wouldn’t be fair and/or justified. However, 4 and plus years ago, I don’t think I would have chosen to have a child. And I think that is my right. Many women in my life – both elder role models and peers – have had to choose an abortion for whatever reason they had at the time. And, no, I have never met a woman who was happy about the decision. Who wasn’t more torn apart than any fucking supreme court judge who had to cast a vote either for or against the right. John McCain went on live television and said that he would appoint judges to overrule Roe vs. Wade. I cannot, simply cannot, allow someone to enter the White House who will do such a thing.

4. He represents the next generation. No, George Bush is not very old. However, as most people will concede, he is very much his father and Dick Cheney’s President. Barack is extremely young by most political standards. He has admitted to using both pot and cocaine. Why? Because he refuses to be a pawn for the older generation. Yes, I am sure he regrets this, but most of us who will vote for him don’t care. We all used pot and cocaine – if not more. While Clinton was always cool with his deep-South roots and sax playing, he couldn’t even admit to inhaling pot. And that was a disconnect. Barack is who my generation is. A generation who very much valued our ultra-expensive and ultra-valued education but who still ventured and had a bit of illicit fun every once in awhile. He represents every kid who finally left his small town for a big city college (only to find himself overwhelmed and a bit out of his league); every kid who finally left a big town for a small college (only to find herself aching for something more); and every kid who couldn’t ever find the money of strength to leave for college (only to find that what was at home meant so much more).

5. He just seems to be like you and me. Yes, Obama is following his party’s politics. Yes, Obama is going to fall victim to what his delegates say. However, I really do think that the man is exactly who you and I would be if we suddenly felt ourselves thrust in the political spotlight. Yes, he is a Democrat pawn, you can argue. Yes, he isn’t really ready to be President. But who the hell is? Was Washington? Was Lincoln? Was the beloved JFK? No. No one ever is. It’s the hardest, most self-destructive job in the world. It’s a no-win situation no matter what political side you are on.

However in this election year, I am in favor of the idealist. Of the candidate who has dreamt more than he has made deals. Of the candidate who is championing rather than challenging. Of the candidate who will lead us into the future rather than parade us into the past. I am for Barack Obama. Not for his party ties but for what he will bring our nation – hope, faith, intelligence, and humanity.

Apology Accepted

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 07:51:00 +0000

“I’m sorry.”
It’s all I ever wanted him to say.
A few months ago I finally got the apology that I always thought I deserved, later struggled to justify, and finally declared I was entitled to.
I know that I am not easy to love. No woman (or man) really is. I know that I pushed men away both conscious and unconsciously. But I’ve also always known that it was – 95% of the time – the other party that caused me to behave so badly and irrationally.
The apology up for discussion came from The Musician. One of the more important men in my life, he is the one ex who has had the greatest impact on me. He came from money, yet never admitted it. He wanted to save the world, yet was always uncomfortable actually living in it. He wanted to be a struggling artist, yet refused to admit that art can thrive (honestly) without poverty.
Rather than embrace his upper-upper middle class upbringing, he wholeheartedly rejected it by joining the Peacecorp and moving to a ghetto town in northern New Jersey. He could never understand how much I wanted to work for a living and establish a more solid financial foundation than my parents ever could. I didn’t dream of money but rather upward mobility; a goal he could and never would quite grasp. He wanted to live a life of servitude and struggle in the hopes of both apologizing for his family’s good fortune and justifying his own artistic expressions. He hated me for working my ass off at a (semi-) corporate establishment. He hated how his father praised my successes as he struggled to cope with his son’s lack of. He hated how much I had to work for what he already had.
It tore me apart when we finally broke up. Yet throughout the entire relationship I always felt the same way: I was wrong for wanting to be successful while also believing that I could still be creative.
When he wrote me this past Fall and apologized I nearly fell off my chair in shock. I never thought he would come to admit that he had been selfish and ignorant. And, perhaps most importantly, I never thought I would finally be given the acknowledgment of not necessarily being right, but at least not being wrong. He told me he was sorry for the way he treated me and for the way he made me feel for trying to succeed. I forgave him. And it felt good. However, what has felt better is that I cannot remember a single thing about myself when we were together.
This is a breakthrough because – for years – I punished myself for not being what he wanted. I would stay up and scowl at my own personality for not seeing what he needed and providing it. Rather than just settling for the realization that we weren’t good together, I tormented myself for not trying hard enough to satisfy him. I thought that because he was so unsatisfied with who I was that I had made a mistake somewhere along the line and become someone that could easily be tossed aside.
I did what too many women do: I began to believe the excuse that he used to get out of the bad relationship.
It’s sad to admit, but there’s a line from “Pretty Woman” that really does hold true. And that is, “The bad stuff is easier to believe.” This is why it was easier for me to accept the breakup, because I just swallowed and digested that what I did was wrong. But recently, when he apologized, I was finally granted permission to believe that who and what I did was fine and ok. I was finally able to embrace the me that he never allowed me to be.

Work It

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 06:34:00 +0000

I worked at XX from September 17, 2001 until November 16, 2007. 6+ years of my life. A longer tenure than high school or college, a longer span than any intimate relationship or serious commitment held prior.
If there’s one piece of advice every young professional should receive, is that he/she shouldn’t spend more than two years at a first job. When you do you never understand your full potential, never truly know if you are doing a good job at your profession or if you are simply doing a good job where you work. And there is a BIG difference.
I recently left the only grownup job I have ever known with mixed results. On the one hand, I was miserable at my previous company – aching for more responsibility, yet not seeking such an important role there. Quitting was one of the most rewarding days of my life – the day I finally let go of the hold of an ultra-controlling boss and the day I finally decided I was in charge of my own professional fate. It was freeing, satisfying, and undeniably ego-boosting.
It has now been two months since I left said job and I am now settled into the new one – the one my current bosses OFFERED me (this was a first for me, as I previously only interviewed as an entry-level candidate). Much of me loves it – loves the newfound responsibilities and excitement that accompanies this role. Yet the other half of me is worried that I have still not found – or accepted – my real calling. After all, I am a publicist once more, working in a profession I said I would never do again.
Most – if not all – days, I enjoy it. But every so often, like today, I am filled with this overwhelming feeling that something is amiss. That my creative side is being quelled in favor of a career that I may or may not even want. It’s a tricky predicament, a confusing and anxious sentiment that I can’t quite come to terms with yet.
And that’s why I urge young people never to stay at a company for more than 700 or so days, as you will ultimately find yourself confused, exhausted, and unsatisfied. Miles away from the dreams you had when you first finished college.
In other words: I get a paycheck; I like my job; but I have not yet discovered what it is I am supposed to work as/for during my life.

Was Lost...Now FOUND

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 07:48:00 +0000

No, I'm not dead, but I have been incredibly awful about posting.

Not entirely sure why…but here’s my attempt at an explanation.

Ever since I got my new job, I have not only been caught up in actual work (during my tenure at my last gig I was so fucking bored that I would spend most of my time bullshitting online and/or commenting on gawker) but have found myself less inclined to write. That saddens me a bit. I'm happy that I have found something to keep me properly entertained - and PAID - all day, but am disheartened at the fact that I have no overwhelming compulsion to air my dirty laundry and say my peace via this blog.

Some of me sees nothing wrong with this - chalks it up to finally being satisfied on a daily basis and free of the desire to seek something more.

And yet, that's exacly what the other part of me is sickened by - the thought that a demanding job is leaving me free of seeking something more.

It's true that I come home much happier than I did before, end my days without feeling that I may have wasted my day. Yet much of my recent time as a copywriter left me hungry to write the prose dictated by ME - not that which was demanded by a client. And now that no one is insisting I write, I feel less inclined to search for what it is I am really yearning to say.

Practically speaking, I haven't been able to blog. Ever since I moved into Mr. Ella's apartment I haven't had an internet connection. But now I do. He bought me a laptop this Christmas and now I have no technical excuses. If I want to blog, I can. So you can’t blame me too much for being absent – it’s been a full 4 months since I’ve had a computer at home (and no, I never blog at work).

But I cannot stop there. After all, there are two other excuses for me not writing.

Number One: My future father-in-law is likely reading this.

So here’s the deal. When I was published in Time Out New York, my proud (and somewhat overzealous) boyfriend told his parents about my column. His father ended up reading my article which, in and of itself, isn’t all that bad. However, whether you read a hard copy or an online version of my article, you are left with an address that sends you to this blog. Because it’s always been an anonymous blog, I had no problem listing it in the byline. But I never thought it would be read by anyone as important as my (hopefully) future father-in-law. Now while most of my recent posts have been tame, many of my earlier ones are extremely explicit – written when I was writing for a completely faceless and nameless audience. Knowing that people know who I am has rendered me
near-silent, unsure of whether I can truly post the intimate thoughts I really want to.

Number Two: My private life is much more precious to me.
For the first time in - ok maybe - ever, I am absolutely, 100% in love. This blog was created – in a large part – to write about experiences that (while I am not ashamed of) were never important enough NOT to write about. But now I find myself in a relationship, a real grownup relationship that is becoming so sacred, I don’t really want to discuss the intimate details. However I worry that such prose is precisely what my (albeit few) readers expect, and that without hot and heavy stories about sex, they will find themselves bored and with little reason to come back. After all, my voice thus far has largely been appreciated for the candor in which I have approached my sexuality, the frankness in which I have shared stories that most of us keep private.
Now that I don’t have such tales, what should I write about? Politics? Celebrities? Religion? I’d like to, but I’m not sold on the fact that anyone will be reading.

Just Calm Down

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 05:02:00 +0000

Change has never been easy for me.

When I was 7, my parents engaged in a messy divorce, one which often pitted me in the center of their battles, one in which they all-too-often forgot I was just a child. It was then that my panic attacks began. The first one that I can recall was during the spring of 1988, when my father took my brother and I to Disney World for a "family" vacation. I say "family" because it was his way of re-defining our family, of showing us how we had to accept that it was he, me, and my brother that were now a family (one that was separate from the family we had with our mother). And so there I was, in the Happiest Place on Earth - in Epcot Center to be exact - having the first panic attack of my life. I remember it coming on suddenly when this jazz band started to play in some restaurant. I got up, ran into the ladies' room and felt like I couldn't breathe. Finally, after nothing I can recall, I left the restroom and rejoined my father with sweat and barely-dried tears dripping down my cheek. We didn't speak a word.

My next panic attack came about 2-3 years later while spending the night at my friend Pauline's. Pauline (who I have written about before here, as I lost her in a car accident when she was just 16 and I was 15)lived across the street from me. After my parents' divorce, my father retained a friendship with her parents (partly because he wanted to keep an eye on my mother...or so I think). Regardless, Pauline and I had just spent the whole day having fun in her basement...watching Dance USA (or whatever the fuck it was called), eating pizza, and then braiding each others hair. Around 11 that night, we awoke to the sound of my father in her parents' kitchen, laughing loudly. Hearing my father's voice while falling asleep - in the first place other than my childhood home I had ever heard it since my parents got divorced - suddenly made my heart palpitate. I instantly jumped out of bed, clutching my chest and crying hard, contracting every muscle in my body. I can still see Pauline holding and comforting me in her post bed, telling me that it would be ok...that her parents had gotten divorced too and that everything was going to be alright. And I believed her.

I can go on and on about the panic attacks I have had since that night with Pauline. They manifested again when I began high school, when I entered college and then again a few years after college when I received a promotion that catapulted me into full adulthood. They were horrific, crippling dark times in my life, times marked with an early adolescent addiction to xanax, multiple suicide attempts, and, not surprisingly, substance abuse.

Now, however, for the first time in my life, my anxiety-filled tendencies are affecting someone else more than they ever have before. Throughout the course of the last month, I moved out of my studio apartment and into the apartment of the man I love. And then, just this past Tuesday, I quit my job of six years and am about to embark on a new and uncertain journey, one that both terrifies and entices me. As a result of all this change, I am, displicably, a shell of the woman he fell in love with. I am constantly on edge, too tense to be touched, yet too afraid not to be. I am on an emotional rollercoaster, yet never fully aware of my ups and downs.

As a result of all this emotional bullshit (and trust me, I know and believe it's bullshit), he's frustrated and (almost) constantly angry with me. And I can't blame him. I'm frustrated with me. I'm sick and fucking tired of this irrational anxiety, of this unjustified angst.

In the past, men have tried to comfort me when my anxiety came to a head. But he doesn't. He tells me (but not quite in these words) it will be ok if i just shut the fuck up and deal, grow up and move on and become an adult. He tells me to suck it up and live and stop worrying so goddamn much. And - just as I did years ago with the best friend I miss so much sometimes it makes me puke - I believe him.

Time Out, New York

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Sun, 21 Oct 2007 05:55:00 +0000

I’ve gotten quite a lot of emails as to why I haven’t made one mention of my recent column in Time Out New York. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say. “Vote for me!” seemed a bit tacky. “Read my column!” sounded a bit desperate. So I said nothing.

Yes, I am proud of it. After all, I’ve never been published in anything with that high a circulation before. But to be frank, I didn’t think it was my best work. It wasn’t full of sarcasm; it wasn’t dirty; it wasn’t as comprised of my personal experiences as I would have wanted it to be. Julia Allison picked the topic – which was totally fine by me as it is, after all, HER column – but it was a topic I didn’t really know how to explore. It’s not as though I have never waited to have sex with someone, but I have never really actively engaged in a serious level of restraint with someone I really, really cared about.

(Note: My column actually ended with the sentence “Good things don’t necessarily come to those who wait to, um, well, you know what I mean.” In print it read, “Good things don’t necessarily come to those who wait.” But it was edited for space, and I understand that [hell, I am a former publicist].)

But I want to go on record to say that I do not hate Julia Allison. My comments on Gawker have definitely been sarcastic, bitchy and non-complimentary, but it’s not because I personally hate the woman (I have always assumed that Gawker comments were something of a roast, not something said to personally attack someone…I have since come to see that I am wrong). In fact, I don’t even know her. I guess those comments stem from the fact that I see someone getting a ton of publicity for just being rather than for writing. And, as someone who wants nothing more than to be a published author (especially one with a weekly forum read by thousands of New Yorkers), I guess I am just jealous. There, I said it.

Many of the people who have emailed me have inquired about the poll that pitted myself against Julia. (I won 800+ votes to 300+ votes.) They have asked why I have not replaced her as the TONY columnist since I won. I have no answer for this. I didn’t even know there was going to be a poll. While I am flattered that so many people have emailed me to say they would rather read my work each week over Julia’s, I do recognize why she has – and deserves – her position. In addition to being a writer, Julia is a “personality,” a media star who commands the spotlight and rightfully gets it. I admire her for that.

I do not aspire to be such a public person; I just want to write. But I do not condemn someone who puts herself out there in order to receive attention and a following. However, if that is what it takes to be a columnist in New York, then I probably will never be one. I want people to connect with me through my words, through the thoughts that stream out of my head late at night after a shitty day of work or early in the morning when I am hungover and regretful or in the afternoon when I simply need to express my angst. (I’m not implying that such things don’t drive Julia to write. I’m just speaking for myself.)

Yes, I am happy that I won. Happy that people like my writing (especially a piece that I think didn't reflect the best of me) and want more of it. But I don’t want this experience tainted with the misunderstanding that I hate another writer or that I set out to rid someone of her gig. That is NOT the case.

If anything, this experience has taught me that people do want to hear what I have to say. And that is invaluable to me. Now I just have to find the right forum in which to say it.

Happy Hoe-lloween

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Wed, 10 Oct 2007 15:36:00 +0000

It’s that time of year again. Time for women to choose what kind of “slut” they want to be for Halloween. There’s no such thing as a scary witch; you’re a “sexy witch.” You can’t be a zombie nurse; you have to be a “naughty nurse.”

I guess as a result of one too many skanky schoolgirls and i-put-out police officers (my costume of choice two years ago), costume manufacturers (or “dress up pimps” as I prefer to call them) have really begun to outdo themselves. If you’re in the market to look like a trick rather than a treat, here’s some suggestions for Halloween 08:

The Dirty Martini
If you want a costume that makes your tits look like they have gangrene and your nipples look inflamed and chapped, this is the number for you.

A Gangbang Ghostbuster
Was your boyfriend a total nerd who lived in his parent’s basement in 1986? Well, fulfill his fantasies 21 years later with this ridiculous outfit.

Christy Creams
Lovely. At least morbidly obese teens have a new jerkoff queen.

Money Honey
What man really wants an honest woman on Halloween?

Foreign Exchange Student
This one actually reads “she loves the USA so much that she’ll do anything for a green card!” I know this was a plot for something I watched on Spice once.

The Judge Judy
There’s also a “Sexy Prosecutor” and “Sexy Defense Attorney” for a trio of skanks.

Stud Finder
With cones for your cones…

Ok, I could do this all day. I have to stop. I'll leave you with my personal favorite, what the classiest girl at the party will be wearing:

The Happy Endings Health Spa Costume
$30.00 for a cheap piece of silk. Lotion (and elbow grease) not included.

Was It Good For You?

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 19:02:00 +0000

When you slut around, hopping on and off man after man (and the occasional woman), it’s easy to think you are great in bed. After all, most of the sex us promiscuous girls have is made possible via heavy alcohol and/or drug use which clouds your memories (and makes you feel like a porn star during the act).

For the past several years, I’ve been eager-beaverin’ it all over town (and other towns), with lots of wham, bam, thanks, dude/ma'am/dude and dude/dude and ma'am sex. Orgasms were had by all parties – or at least things felt good until we both passed out – and all was joy in slutville.

Here's my problem.

Now that I’m in a long term, committed relationship, and having regular sex with someone for the first time IN SEVEN YEARS, I’m beginning to think I’m not such an amazing lay after all.

Don’t get me wrong, our sex life is very, very good. Orgasms are frequent and often multiple. The fact is for the first time in my life, I actually have a sexual RELATIONSHIP that requires as much tending to as an emotional one. And it's draining my available bedroom resources. Fast.

Now I want to be acrobatic. Tantric. A mind-blower. I want to turn him on as much as I did the first night we were together, every night.

So I bought a book. Toys. Videos. Manuals. I might even hire a whore. I’m studying up. I’ll let you know how it goes. And comes…

Sex While In My City

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 05:14:00 +0000

When I was in college, I thought Sex and The City was such a brilliant concept. While I didn't necessarily love the columns or the book they inspired, I did fall madly in love with the television show. It was new. It was fresh. It was boldly going where no clinically depressed, sex-obsessed woman had gone before. But, as is often the case, the liberation of womens' inner secrets gave way to more confusion and more angst.

I'm all for being frank and honest. But now there is a whole generation of women - largely in New York City - who find no topic or moment of self-doubt off the conversation table. As a result, I think we are back to square one - a sex more confused than ever before, struggling to find the balance between our inner Carries/Samanthas/Mirandas/Charlottes.

Today, men know too much. Now they know how filthy we talk about sex when we are together. They can sense our batshit-crazy behavior before we even pull it. But what's worse is that they judge us before we even meet. They assume:

- we all spend thousands of dollars on ridiculously over-priced shoes
- we all aspire to have our weddings announced in the New York Times
- we all over think every little fucking thing with our girlfriends
- we all talk about our lovers' penis sizes
- we all categorize men by their job/age/socio-economic class/religion

But the truth is:
- most of us buy shoes at Nine West and Filene's
- most of us are nervous about getting married and certainly don't want to see our faces splashed across some newspaper when we do it
- most of us don't piss and moan about every little thing men do…in fact, it's only when men majorly fuck up (cheat, lie) that we turn to our girlfriends
- most of us don't even know how big our lovers' penises are and we certainly don't share that info, just like we don't want men describing the hue and circumference of our nipples to their friends
- most of us look past status, age and creed in the hopes of finding someone who just makes us happy

The SATC phenomenon has also resulted in a proliferation of opinion, public opinion, about the battle of sex and love wills between men and women. I admit that most of the time these “columns” make me ill. I think they are inspired by watching TBS reruns of the show in question and re-hashing uninteresting dilemmas just to prove a point in the face of the exes that read them. And yet I still want my shot at airing my relationship laundry. As much as I mock and taunt those who write this type of shit while in my safe cavern of anonymity, I still think I have something to say. All I need to know is that some people want to listen.

Piss Off

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Sat, 29 Sep 2007 00:15:00 +0000

Every once in awhile, I feel the need to bore other people with a litany of items/people/places that I can’t stand. Why? Because I no longer pay for therapy.

So here, in no particular order, are a bunch of things/people that bug the shit out of me. I hope they inspire hate in your hearts too.

1. This Shoe Style

I would rather fuck Harvey Keitel than look like Holly Hunter in The Piano. Can somebody seriously tell me why designers are recreating the shoe wardrobe of Jane Eyre? I get the suppressed male fantasy of wanting to screw a Salem witch, but this is just ridiculous. They aren’t sexy and they sure as hell don’t look comfortable. Yes, yes, I’m sure my ass will cave and buy a pair because I work at a sorority house, but I will hate myself with each step I take.

2. The Never-Ending Summer

It’s almost October and it was close to 90 degrees in NYC this week. This needs to stop. First of all, I am sick of wearing the same clothes I have been sporting for 5 months. Secondly, I don’t like to sweat unless I am in bed. Summer is cool for about 2 months and then, by July, I am sick of it. Autumn is so beautiful in New York. The leaves, the roasted nuts (seriously, if you live outside NY and have never had NUTS4NUTS, you should cry yourself to sleep tonight), and the sweaters that hide my fat stomach. I want all of these things…now.

3. Melted Butter

Ok, I’m not sure if anyone will relate to me here, but there is something happening to me each morning that blackens my heart before 9:30 AM. Each morning, I order a toasted sesame bagel with butter on the side. The FUCKING ASSHOLES put the butter in with the steaming hot bagel (not with the coffee or peaches ‘n cream shake) so by the time it gets to me, there is butter DRIPPING everywhere. I know this is a very Seinfeld/Curb Your Enthusiasm thing, but it drives me insane.

4. The Sex and The City Movie

Seriously, someone tell me why? Well, I know why…it’s because the women can’t find any steady work now and need to make money somehow. (Yes, I know SJP is the spokeswomen for, like, everything…HEY, my computer just changed “spokes whore” to “spokeswomen” - WTF - but still, she needs to prove she can still act in something.) Anyway, mark my words that this film is going to be panned and will soil whatever is left of the series’ honor. I literally grew into adulthood watching this show and it was painful to watch even back then as I kept thinking that “Wow, this is going to be my miserable life in my 30s. It will be filled with nothing but heartache, desparation and terrible clothes.” Now, I am finally hopefully (after meeting Mr. Right and getting over my Mr. Big) that my life won’t be awful during the next decade, and this movie is going to come along and shit all over how fabulous I think my 40s will be. NO THANK YOU. (And note to Jennifer Hudson: not a smart followup to an Oscar, my friend.)

5. Celebrity DUIs

Keifer Sutherland is just the latest douche driving his drunk ass around. Listen, I know that DUIs will always happen. But they are supposed to be limited to moron guidos in NJ and LI who need to learn their lessons before they even turn 21. (That’s not a good thing, but those are the only types of dickheads that have an excuse.) If you are a millionaire, you have absolutely NO EXCUSE for getting behind the wheel while intoxicated. Call a cab. No, better yet, CALL A FUCKING HUMMER. You have the money. Someone is going to die because of this carelessness and it really pisses me off.

6. The View

Why is this show still on the air? Watching The View is like being forced to sit with all the old, bitter divorcees at a wedding. All they do is piss and moan and argue about BULLSHIT. At least when Rosie was on, they debated things with substance from time to time. Now it just gives men justification for trading in their old crusty wives for something younger and quieter.

7. Celebrity Scents

Usher. Diddy. Mariah. Why do I want to smell like these people (or smell like something that attracts them)? This trend has got to stop. Your fragrance is the most personal part of your beauty/grooming routine and to stoop to this level of tackiness is just plain sad. If you like these people, invest in their music. See their movies. Don’t fall victim to marketing hype. After all, do you think that Britney has even smelled her latest fragrance? CAN she even smell anymore?

I have a ton more, but I have aggravated myself with just these seven. But, just so you don’t think I don’t hate EVERYTHING, here is a quick list of things/people I LURVE:

1. The Girls Next Door - This show does not get old to me. I love these hoes and want more! Especially Holly.
2. Puppies - Any puppy, all puppies. I love puppies! Come on, admit it, you do too.
3. QVC - Yup, I said it. AND I just bought diamond earrings from them last week. They are beautiful. And, yes, REAL. Screw you if you want to laugh. There is nothing more fabulous than being drunk on Merlot and ordering diamonds with your cellphone.
4. Pickles - Pickles just rock.
5. Blueprint Magazine - Yes, I am getting old and domestic. I like reading about home furnishings and studying recipes that I will never make.
6. Jenna Fisher - She’s Pam on The Office and she is just plain awesome. Adorable, self-deprecating and hysterical.
7. Dlisted.com - Funnier celeb gossip than Perez Hilton. HANDS DOWN.
8. Jeopardy! - Still awesome after all these years. Even if Mr. Ella is always better than me.
9. My Old College Roommate - She wrote me a very sweet email today telling me how much she enjoys my blog. Plus, she would leave the room and sleep elsewhere when I had to get my sex on during the late 90s.
10. The Color Purple - No, not the book, movie or musical. Just the color.

The Big Move

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 22:18:00 +0000

In three weeks, I will be moving in with my fella. Anyone who knows me knows this is a big fucking deal. Ella has never lived with a fella and really loves her time alone. But, the stars seem to be aligned (plus, paying two rents is pretty stupid at this point) so I am taking the co-habitation plunge. I’ve been spending a lot of time cleaning up my place and packing my things, which is filling me with tons of emotion. After all, this is MY place, MY first place, the place where I set up shop as a full-fledged adult 5 years ago. And now, this particular chapter is coming to a close.

I decided to move out of my parents’ house in 2002 after my ex from college and I decided to end our relationship. He had done a pretty good job of stomping on my ambitions (he’s from an affluent family and found my desire to make money disgusting…I found his lack of ambition to be a complete turn-off) and within a month of our breakup I decided it was time to start MY LIFE. And so, I marched into Citi Habitats and took the first place they showed me - a fully refurnished apartment in Alphabet City. For a girl who suffered panic disorder from the age of 11 this was a huge turning point. Not only was I going to leave the comfort of my parents’ home, but I was going to live ALONE in the East Village. HOLY SHIT…

As I’ve been packing, many memories have been flooding my head. Here’s just some:

1. My First Night - Sometime in September 2002, I spent my first night here. I remember walking home from work and stopping at 7A to have dinner - ALONE. I ate, read the Village Voice and went back to my apartment for the first time. I took a shower, laid down on my futon (minus frame…I never did get the frame) and read a book (I think it was More…Now…Again by Elizabeth Wurtzel). I had no TV, no stereo (this was before iPods…holy fuck) and just stared out the window at the Empire State Building. I was here. In New York City. Living the dream. On my own. It was overwhelming.

2. Fourth of July 2005 - July Fourth has always been my second favorite holiday. I always spent it in the Bronx, with friends and family, and - for the first time (with the exception of my year in Disney) I was alone. I got a 6-pack and some Camel Lights and sat on my fire escape, watching the fireworks from afar. Tears started streaming down my cheeks as I saw them light up the sky. Once again, I thought, here I am in New York City…on my own…needing no one….wanting no one…enjoying life, my life.

3. Sex, Drugs and Rock ’n Roll - I never partied or slept around in college. In fact, I was pretty prudish (if you can believe that). All that changed when I moved into this apartment. I felt liberated, in control, and free of all the trepidation that had held me back before. After all, if I brought a man or an eight ball here I was bringing it to MY APARTMENT…so I set the rules. And so, this apartment is where I re-discovered my sexuality (with men, with women, with multiple partners) and re-claimed the youth I didn’t get to experience in college. Living alone set me free and helped me define MY LIFE, MY LIMITS, MY NEEDS. There is no price you can put on that.

4. Writing - Whether it was 9 am or 9 pm, this apartment has always served as the ultimate place for prose, the place where I have always retreated to in order to collect my thoughts. It’s where I’ve written all of this blog, where I’ve written all the chapters of my (hopefully published one day) book. It’s the place where my thoughts are free to roam uncensored and uninterrupted. And this is the only thing I will miss.

Sometimes I wonder if I should really be leaving all these fond memories behind. Am I ready to give up my personal space and share it with another? I think the answer is yes. After all, I can still dine alone; don’t want to spend another 4th of July by myself; and love partying with my beau. Plus, we met as a result of this blog. I finally met a man who loves to read what I write more than I do, a man who encourages me to write more than any other man I’ve ever known. And so, while he may be in the other room as I write these thoughts in the near future, he’ll leave me alone as I do it. That’s the reason I know it will work - because he understands that the time we spend apart is just as important as the time we spend together.

Emmy Schmemmy

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 04:39:00 +0000

For once, I actually WISH I had gone to my fella’s place to WATCH FOOTBALL. What was this abortion of a show I just spent hours watching? I know I usually write about sex, so I think I can get away with blogging about this because I feel like FOX just fucked me and everyone else who tuned in…

First, the LOWLIGHTS:

1. The censorship. In the past, every awards show has suffered the wrath of being live and with brass balls has aired the verbal faux pas and/or simply bleeped out just one word. But not FOX. The channel that made its mark with the sexist (albeit hysterial) Married…With Children and other wholesome family values programming like Temptation Island and Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire decided instead to fade to black and deprive the public from words and sentiments that don’t fit the conservative viewpoint of its stockholders. The cut Ray Romano, Sally Field and - I believe - David Chase off in such an insulting manner that I’m surprised they didn’t have Joely Fisher wear a burka instead of her very revealing gown. But wait…Joely stars on a FOX sitcom…so jokes about nipples and breast milk were more suitable than statements about war. I’m surprised they didn’t edit Al Gore’s entire acceptance speech. Between this and their blatant dismissal of the democratic party’s response to the President’s speech the other night has me questioning whether I will ever tune in to FOX again.

2. James SPAYDER and not James GANDOLFINI? Are you fucking kidding me? I like James Spayder. Actually, NO, I love James Spayder (Secretary is one of the best movies of all time) and I think he’s an amazing actor. But his campy performance does not even remotely measure up to the god-like work of Gandolfini's. He was robbed of this award and I can only hope that the Golden Globes redeem this fuck-up come January. What Gandolfini has done over the past whatever many years has been thought-provoking, disturbing, and, above all, moving. Not honoring him is a disservice to the medium of television.

3. America Ferrera. I’m rather biased here because I am not a fan. I’ve seen Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants and suffered through 5 minutes of the horrific Ugly Betty and do not understand why she is continually honored. My only thought - and I know this sounds terrible - is that she is being honored so that the entertainment industry can say they salute latinas and minorities in general. She does not possess the comedic gifts of those she consistently defeats for the awards. And that is not a white/non-white issue, but simply the truth.

4. The Brits. I LOVE Helen Mirren. I aspire to be as sexy as she is when I am over 50 (or is it 60). I also love Ricky Gervais. His appearance on The Tonight Show several months ago was more brilliant than most of what is on broadcast television. But, dammit, I want Americans to win during American award shows. Ok, ok, Ricky won for an HBO show, but Helen won for a show that is a true import, and not something produced in America. I’m not sure who should have won in Helen’s category because I have not seen any of those performances, but if you ask me, both Charlie Sheen (yes, I admit, I LOVE Two and a Half Men) and Steve Carrel were robbed.

5. The Westerns. I love Thomas Hayden Church and Robert Duvall. They both excel in their craft. However, honoring the western genre has to come to an end. I don’t know anyone who has seen Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee or Broken Trail. Yes, the western is a true slice of Americana, but it is a recycled genre that is in no way paving new ground on television. The stories are pretty much the same, movie after movie, and I think it’s time for a boycott. I mean, seriously, does Aiden fucking Quinn do anything but period pieces anymore?

6. The Jersey Boys Tribute to The Sopranos. To put it simply, that was the gayest tribute I could imagine. I’m sure The Jersey Boys on its own is entertaining theater, but if you really wanted to honor the greatest television show of all time, all you had to do was show highlights. Watching Carmela and Tony fight over “You’re Just Too Good To Be True” was both creepy and awkward. Thank God the entire cast came out at the end for the tribute they so deserve. (I have to ask though, was Drea DeMatteo there? I didn’t see her.)

7. Ray Romano. I admit, and I don’t care how cheesy I am, but I do enjoy watching Everybody Loves Raymond. In fact, I also like Ray Romano’s standup. However, having him come out to do a set was weird and uncomfortable. They announced he was coming out to give an award and then he kept going and going. You couldn’t help but think he was fucking up and not supposed to be continuing. But the saddest part of the whole thing was realizing he was just there to promote Patricia Heaton’s new FOX show. So FUCKING LAME.

8. Kanye West. “KANYE WEST DOESN’T CARE ABOUT SELLING OUT.” Here’s the thing - white boys, black boys, white girls, black girls, and every other shade/sex LOVES you. We are going to buy your albums because you create some of the best music around. So why, why, do you have to act like such a douche? Sure, the little “Do You Know the Lyrics?” skit was kinda cute, but only because Rainn Wilson is so fucking brilliant. Please, Kanye, just stop with the promotional bullshit. We all know you and Fitty are fucking around with this whole “selling albums war” and that you are trying to garner press by pretending to really care about an MTV award. But you don’t need to do this. Just perform. You can rest your laurels on your talents alone. And not many people can do that nowadays.

9. Mary Louise Parker. I LOVE her and I LOVE Weeds. But why was she acting like such a BITCH all night? From the red carpet to presenting an award, she looked not just stoned (which, ok, cute, is maybe in character) but annoyed to be there. Pop some Wellbutrin or something next time sweetie, because your attitude was disgusting.

10. Tony Bennett and Christina Aguliera. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. That was so friggin’ boring. Nothing really more to say. However, I do commend you, Christina, for NOT announcing your pregnancy and keeping it quiet. It’s classy to keep your private life private in this day and age.

11. Not announcing John Goodman’s win. YES, JOHN GOODMAN won for his guest appearance on Studio 700 (or whatever) on the Sunset Strip. However, they FORGOT to announce it during the telecast. If you know ella personally, you know that her favorite show of all time is Roseanne. So I absolutely ADORE John Goodman and am so happy that he finally won an Emmy. (Honestly, he never won for all his years playing Dan Connor [although he did win a Golden Globe].) It’s a shame they didn’t announce his win just because he wasn’t there.

12. The Amazing Race. Come the fuck on. 4 years in a row this bullshit show has won. Please raise your hand if you watch it. I know NO ONE (except my douchebag ex-boyfriend) who watches this. Why do they keep awarding it??? WHY????

The HIGHS
1. Tina Fey. Tina Fey. Tina Fey. First of all, her AMEX commercials are hysterical. Her acceptance speech - pure brilliance. Only recently (thanks to mr. Ella) have I been tuning into the comical work of art that is 30 Rock. It is genius and it is all thanks to this WOMAN. As a person with a vagina that has always dreamt of being a comic, she inspires me.

2. The Macy*s Commercials. I have to say, I usually change the channel when commercials come on, but the Macy*s commerial (the full-length one) after the first break held my attention. Kimora. Martha. Donald. Jessica. Emeril. Etc. It was funny, entertaining, and pretty fucking brilliant. I still won’t be shopping at Macy*s (I’m too pretentious) but that spot is what commercial advertising is supposed to be.

3. Ryan Seacrest. I’ll be the first to admit that I can’t really stand this little ‘mo. I think it’s just because I wish he would come out already (although his little Tudors sketch seemed like a bit of a homo confession to me), but I have to say, I think he did an amazing job as host. He was pretty fucking funny and by being a bit self-effacing, I thought he shut up all the critics (including myself) who shook their heads when he was given the job. I actually think that by NOT trying to be the star of the show he was one of the best hosts they have had in a long time. He pretty much cemented himself as a cultural icon tonight by being a cultural observer. Kudos.

4. The Opening Number. Just hysterical. Anything Seth MacFarlane does is genius and this was no exception. It was entertaining, it was funny and it set the tone for the night. While I don’t agree that the tone should have been as trashy and FOX-like as was, it was very, very funny and I think it was one of the better parts of the evening.

5. Jeremy Piven. Ok, I think Rainn Wilson shoulda won because he is truly the most brilliant comedic actor on television since Jason Alexander. However, I love me some Jeremy Piven…in all his trashy glory. And, if Rainn had to lose to anyone, it should be to Jeremy.

6. Elaine Stritch and Stanley Tucci. Two of my favorite comedic performers of all time on one stage. Just fucking fabulous. I absolutely ADORE Elaine Stritch and think everyone should take as much advantage of her as they can as she enters old age. She is irreverent, inappropriate, and just plain god-like. As for Stanley, he was not only the best part of The Devil Wears Prada, but is a friend of mr. Ella’s. So he deserves all the accolades he gets…even if they are on Monk.

7. Katherine Hiegl’s correction of her name. I’m not a huge fan of Katherine’s but that’s just because I can’t watch the shitfest that is Grey’s Anatomy. I’m sure I will love her more as soon as I see Knocked Up. However, I noticed that they mispronounced her name and then saw that she mouthed (to whoever she presented with) “they said my name wrong.” I didn’t think she would do anything about it, but when she got up there and brazenly said, “it’s ‘HI-GUL”,” I thought it was fabulous. Ella has a last name that is near-impossible as well (in fact, mr. Ella struggles to say it right…haha), so I really appreciated her move.

8. The Sopranos win. THANK GOD. James Gandolfini, Edie Falco, Lorraine Bracco, and Michael Imperioli were fucking ROBBED of their respective awards. But thank god the academy awarded this show with exactly what it deserved. It still makes me sad to think I will never see another new episode of The Sopranos again. Every moment of every episode of that show was like good sex/good blow/good food. It was like a weekly extension of Goodfellas - the BEST MOVIE EVER MADE - and I hate that it is now off the air. However, I have recently found that going back and watching any old episode is like a gift being re-given all over again. When you know what is going to happen to so many of the characters, you care even more. That’s what makes the show so relevant, so important and so everlasting. Each time you watch an episode, you learn something new, feel something new, and gain something new. It’s not TV, it’s not HBO, it’s as close to live back-in-the-day Shakespeare as we will ever get.

9. Heidi Klum and Seal. Rather than closing on The Sopranos, I thought I would end on the most beautiful couple in all of Hollywood. I swear that whenever I see these two, my belief in true and everlasting love is reaffirmed. No matter where they are or what they are doing, they always look like honeymooners. They cannot keep their hands or gazes off one another and you cannot help but feel the love between them. It’s so raw, real, and moving that it overshadows most anything else broadcast. I absolutely live for seeing these two together and, at the end of a night with many a disappointment, they shine and blind you with what’s really important…not an Emmy, not an acceptance speech but LOVE.

Self-Medicating

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Sat, 15 Sep 2007 02:38:00 +0000

Today started like any other morning. I kept re-setting my alarm until I finally couldn’t avoid getting out of bed one minute longer (seriously…I have to be at work at 9 and I get out of bed at 8:32 or so). Managed to find something cute to wear, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and started to head out the door. I usually grab the doorknob without looking and slam it shut behind me. And that I did. But this morning, fate decided that my left middle finger should stay in between the door and the door frame. I looked back to free it and saw blood everywhere…all over my hand and covering the doorknob.

Sadly, I wasn’t even hungover so I had absolutely no excuse for this fuck up. I raced back into my apartment and ran my finger under water in my bathroom sink…all the while watching a good chunk of the tip of my finger blowin’ in the (wet) breeze. I managed to curb the bleeding, wrap it in three band-aids and hop into a cab to go to work. Got there and the throbbing pain was just too unbearable for words. Finally some co-workers with sanity convinced me to go to the ER.

Walked over to Beth Israel (where I really should have my own wing as I have had wrist and double hip surgery there over the last several years) to the ER. They gave me an x-ray (normal) and then (fortunately) just cleaned it up (no stitches). But then, just when I thought the coast was clear, this cute little blonde nurse came in with a needle to give me a TETANUS SHOT. Ok, ok…I know it’s a good thing to get one of these bad boys (I can now walk in fields barefoot and not worry about rusty nails…‘cuz, you know, that’s what New Yorkers do) but, um, is it necessary for these shots to leave such a painful impression? I am sitting home on a Friday night with an arm that is THROBBING in pain (after 5 drinks, mind you) and can barely move. What the fuck?

So, yeah, I was gonna give you all a good story but I’m in way too much pain to muster up something sexy and interesting. This sucks. Plain and simple. I think I’m gonna go shoot myself with a nail gun. At least I won’t get tetanus…

I Know...I Know

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Thu, 13 Sep 2007 02:00:00 +0000

ella misses you.
ella misses writing on her blog.

so, she is making a new year's resolution very early and is vowing to write at least three times a week now.

i've been insanely busy with work and freelancing stuff.

then mr. ella and i went to new orleans for a week. just got back sunday.

so much has been happening and i have a lot to say.

so i promise you, you will see updates this week and we will be back to our regularly scheduled blogging beginning over these next few days.

i had been feeling a bit uninspired as of late, but going to new orleans has reignited my flame.

i vow to you all that i will be posting every few days.

today does not count.

come back tomorrow. i'll have a good story for you.

love,
ella

Ain't That a Kick in The...Ass

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Sat, 11 Aug 2007 22:58:00 +0000

Today I watched the film American Psycho for the first time. Yes, I know, everyone in my generation has either seen the movie or read the book or both. As a strange rule, I tend to stay away from watching movies starring Chloe Sevigny (long story) and usually skip reading fiction that is critically acclaimed. Reading a brilliant work of art - which I imagine this book is as the movie was full of spectacular dialogue and an ingenious plot - used to fill me with awe, but now that I am a lazy, generally unmotivated writer (with dreams of success), it fills me with jealousy towards the author.

I always tell people that I have two goals in life: to be a mother and to be a published author. I have yet to achieve either of these, but the potential to be a mother seems to be on the still-slightly-distant-yet-visible horizon. However, the ability (or perhaps just…I hope…the drive) to write a book continues to seem beyond my reach. In other words, I think I may have found my babies’ daddy, but I haven’t yet found the way to impregnate my will to write.

Fortunately, I seem to be having quite a few kicks in the ass lately. For one, the satisfaction I get from writing this blog is more of a rush than I ever thought it would be. (I know, you’re thinking, then why the fuck do you hardly write on it much anymore. The answer is really two-fold: one, I am finally in love and that has been a bit of a distraction. Two, I write all day at work and am getting to a point where I hate my job so much that the thought of spending my spare time writing seems overwhelmingly exhausting.) Secondly, a former classmate of mine recently published a shitteous “chick lit” book that is really (truly) not very good and is, of course, being optioned right now. When I saw said classmate at my 10 year high school reunion, she made it a point to rub her success in my ego in a way so devilishly blatant, my mouth (and the mouth of my good friend, J) fell open during the conversation.

HER: “Oh, so I hear you’re a writer too.”
ME: “Yes, well, I am a copywriter now.”
HER: “Is that what you want to do forever? Write copy?”
ME: “No, b-…”
HER [cutting me off]: “Oh, so you want to write a book TOO?”
ME: “Yes, I am working on one.”
HER: “Oh, really? Ok, so you have an agent?”
ME: “No, not yet.”
HER: “Well, you need one, you know.”
ME: “Yes, I’m aware. My friend has written 6 books so he’ll help me when the time is right.”
HER: “Uh-huh. Well, good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.”

Now, I’m not sure if this exchange sounds as condescending as it actually was, but believe you me, my friend saw me fighting back the desire to slap this bitch right across her smug face. However, I left the reunion with a renewed sense of ambition, an I’ll-fucking-show-you-how-to-write attitude. I was determined to use her belittlement of me as my creative catalyst. That was April. I haven’t written a single page.

The last - and hopefully final - kick in the ass came just about 20 minutes ago after I went to Wikipedia to learn more about American Psycho and it's author, Bret Easton Ellis. It was there that I learned that the book ends with a description of a sign that reads: “This is Not an Exit.” Upon reading these words, my heart sank to the floor. My pulse started racing. I also discovered that these infamous last words have lingered in the minds of nearly everyone who has read the book. It has inspired songs and even a documentary about the author called, you guessed it, “This is Not an Exit.” I’m still reeling from the blow.

Here’s why. In 2005, I was at the Mercury Lounge watching my then-drummer-boyfriend play a gig with his band. I was incredibly high on cocaine and vicodin (the combo was the result of the two broken hips I had…breaks that had yet to be discovered by my doctors and were thus causing me to take large doses of prescription pain killers to get through the day/night while I still simultaneously indulged my love of coke and booze) and feeling insanely depressed and trapped in a life I no longer related to, a life I wanted out of - NOW. I wanted to walk away from everything - my job, my going-nowhere relationship, my addictions, my injury - but I could barely take a step forward, literally.

It was during the last song that my blurred vision managed to focus on something next to the stage: a bright, glowing red sign that read “This is Not An Exit.” I read the words over and over again and started to cry. The closest thing I’ve ever had to an epiphany showered down upon me as I had been wanting to do something with all the things I had been writing about my self-destruction and downward spiral. I vowed right then and there that I would get it all down in one book, one memoir that I would christen “This is Not An Exit.”

Obviously, I never did what I was so determined to do that night. I have about 75 pages of it written, but they are stuck on a laptop that has been broken for over a year. One that I probably could have fixed by now but haven’t. And while it’s true that I haven’t been working towards my literary goal for well over two years, I always had that title seducing me, calling out to me in the middle of the night to write about my pain, my pleasure, my life. It was the one thing that still gave me (albeit little) hope. But today, that title has been taken away from me. Claimed by another author in a way more significant than a title ever can be, as the finality of another author's masterpiece. It’s no longer mine.

I think this is the swift kick that I’ve always needed. It's not merely a drive to prove I can out-write someone or make it to this invisible finish line I’ve set up for myself. It's because it may be the first time I recognize that I might just have the potential to write something powerful, moving and lingering. For the first time in my life, I have something in common with a literary genius - a moment, at least I suppose, in which we both looked at the same inanimate object and saw something deeper, something much more significant than a sign on a wall. We saw inspiration. And I think, as a result, I just re-discovered mine.

Spank You, Cum Again

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Sun, 05 Aug 2007 00:03:00 +0000

I blame my parents for one of my more violent fetishes. As a child, whenever I was bad, which, to be honest, wasn’t very often, I would get a really hard smack on the behind. I remember cringing at what was about to happen, feeling the sting and lingering burn and then, after it was over, unclenching every tense muscle in my body. I wasn’t sexually stimulated by this, but the release afterward was refreshing, slightly invigorating even. I would feel very ALIVE and very conscious of my body before, during and after the pain, and that has definitely stayed with me in adulthood.

Now, I understand that most women enjoy of a bit of slap and tickle during foreplay and/or sex. A random spank on the ass here and there is very common between partners these days. However, that is not enough for me. I like full-on, high momentum spanks, administered over and over again at an extremely rapid pace. This is not a Cinemax-ouch; this is a triple-X caliber beat down.

The first time I got spanked, really spanked, by a man I was a bit put-off by it. Quite frankly, it fucking hurt. Because I was so taken aback by the intensity of the pain, I couldn’t focus on anything but just that even after it was over. So I didn’t try it again for some time. Fortunately, the next time I engaged in a serious spanking (complete with paddle and tied wrists), I was suitably drunk enough to enjoy the complete experience. As I freed my mind more and more, I began focusing on the relief my body felt when it was over, allowing the juxtaposition between pain and pleasure to truly take over. It was then that it occurred to me that anything that feels good actually feels even better when it is served with a heavy dose of hurt as an appetizer.

Indulging my desire for a good spanking has been very easy for some men and extremely difficult for others. Some men can’t handle inflicting genuine pain on their partner, listening to her (literally) cry as her skin grows dark shades of red. I always try to explain to these men that I’m not trying to be abused, not trying to punish myself. While I’m sure there is a little bit of that below the surface, the truth is I really just like to make the good things that follow even better. After all, if you don’t experience pain, how do you know when you are feeling pleasure?

Under Ella, Ella, Ella (hey, hey, hey)

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 03:51:00 +0000

Yes, little ella has had (and continues to have) her share of the freaky shit. But when it comes right down to it, she has to admit: she likes it missionary-style.

Yup, straight up, man-on-top, chick-on-back sex. Now, I know this sounds vanilla, but really, it’s not. In fact, I’ve never had any complaints when I’ve asked a man to get on top…

This is not to say that I don’t enjoy other positions. No, no, no! Not true. However if I want to really enjoy it, this is usually the shape sex takes form. Let me break it down for you, position by position:

1. Me on Top - Ok, I admit, I am finally, finally starting to enjoy this. But here’s the problem that I have encountered (and that other women have discovered too). In porn films (and face it, that’s where most of us get our sex ed), the woman is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer. Now, while this may look sexy on screen, it’s not really what one should be doing the entire time. No man ever really told me this. Fortunately, I recently discovered on my own that lots of strong back and forth motions interspersed with bouncing is far better. However, because this revelation is still new - this is not my favorite way to play.

2. He Holds You, You Wrap Around Him, As He Stands - Once again, this is hotter on film between professional orgasm fakers. In reality, it's fun for about, oh, I’d say 45 seconds and then you want to puke and he is winded.

3. From Behind - Ah, the ideal way to fuck (at least according to most men I know). Now, I know that this can be a pleasurable configuration - very much so - but I swear that most men have no idea how to do it properly. To me, it’s a close second to grasping the intricacies of anal. Most men just get behind and mount like dogs. While I’m sure many women can handle this just fine, I think men should realize that their partner needs to be sized up and treated fairly gently before they start thrusting like a Doberman. The fact is, there are many women out there who, while we can totally get down and freaky, require a bit more coddling and preparation before the big charge. In closing, this is why this position is also not my favorite.

4. On Your Sides - Awwww, here we are, making love. We can look in one another’s eyes and feel like one being. EH. WRONG. 9 times out of 10 this position results in serious slippage and a constant readjusting of legs until, yeah, those parts are perfect but the rest of you (particularly your calves) start falling asleep.

I have more examples, but I’m tired…

This brings me to my original point. I enjoy missionary-style, straight up WASP sex. But it’s never boring and never white bread. Legs can still be wrapped around shoulders and backs. Nails can leave marks. Throats can be clutched (yeah, I said it).

Most men think it sounds dull on paper, but if you find a girl that moves along with you or - better yet - in REACTION to you - the mission(ary) is accomplished.

Kisses,
~ella

Push, Push In My Bush

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 03:17:00 +0000

One of the biggest insecurities I have about my body concerns my Netherlands, my little landscaped princess down below. Yes, I am talking about my pubic hair, my bush, my trimmings, my enchanted forest, whatever you want to call it.

For the past several years, my girl has been as naked as the day I was born, completely shaven and bare. Now while this may sound intriguing and heavenly to my male readers, my female readers might agree that it is stressful and somewhat hellish to keep your girl stripped of any strands. Well, at least I have always found it to be.

When I was younger, I would sneak peeks at the unscrambled Playboy channel or flip through my stepfather’s Hustlers to admire the forms of the females I so longed to be. In addition to having the breasts I coveted (which, thankfully, I received), they also had glorious triangular wefts of pubic hair signifying that they were, in fact, full grown women. I remember rejoicing the day I noticed that I was starting to sprout such decoration, excited that I was finally about to grow up as I had always hated, truly hated, being a child. (In fact, my high school yearbook quote read, “My mother always loved children. She would have given anything if I had been one." - Groucho Marx…and yes, that pretty much sums up my childhood.)

I was always wise enough in my early years to keep it to a close and controllable length. Never letting it get out of control and wild. I would shave my inner thighs and any other area that would reveal itself in a bathing suit. I thought that was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

Years ago, when I was with the second man I have ever slept with, he told me that he was surprised I had “so much hair.” I was mortified. I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. Apparently, I was.

So I shaved more. Shaped it into a strip that he found sexier and that made me more comfortable. Although it was a bitch to keep up with.

Two years later (while a junior in college) I was in bed with another lover when he said to me, “You know, it would be so much hotter if you had less hair there.” I thought what I was doing was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

So I shaved more. Started to shave all the hair off the lower lips while keeping a small strip along my pelvic bone. He found it sexier and that made me more comfortable. Although it was even more of a bitch to keep up with. (And, as any woman will tell you, once you start shaving something…you can’t stop.)

Several years later (finally out of college), I had a lover tell me how he really loved it when a woman had no hair at all. Again, I thought what I was doing was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

So I went for a wax. A complete, no-strand-left-unpulled-from-the root wax. And it was the single most painful experience of my life. I bled. I cried. I screamed like I was being tortured. Because, frankly, I was. But he found it sexier and it made me more comfortable. Fortunately, he lived across the country, so I didn’t have to wax it off often.

Whenever said man would come to town, I would head to the spa and put myself through a dreaded, rigorous session in which they would TEAR MY PUBIC HAIR OUT AT THE FUCKING ROOTS. Finally, after a year or so of putting myself through this, I refused. And no, he didn’t force me, per se, but when you hear a man tell you how much he longs to see you “bald” you want to do what you can to please him.

And so I adopted the habit of shaving all my hair off. A habit that I have been keeping for well over a year. Now, I admit that I do like the way it feels when I am clean shaven. It’s sexier during oral and does feel “cleaner” during certain times of the month. However, it’s a bitch to keep up with.

I refuse to go get waxed. It hurts so fucking much. I decided awhile ago that if a man wants me to do it, he will have to endure the same. I’ve also tried permanent hair removal. But imagine, if you will, a rubber band heated to the boiling point snapping at your cooch. That’s the perfect fucking analogy.

I’ve been keeping up the shaving but you can’t shave more than once - maybe twice - a week unless you want to run the risk of painful and unsightly ingrown hairs.

My current boyfriend said something to me the other night that no man has ever said before. “Why don’t you grow some of it in?” I was perplexed. He can’t really mean that, I thought to myself. I recounted all the other things men had said to me - about how any hair at all isn’t “clean” or “sexy.” I was speechless.

But I don’t think he asked me to because it’s something he necessarily wants. But it’s not necessarily something that bothers him either (yet another perk of dating a man who came of age - literally - in the late 70s and early 80s before the brazilian and brazilian+ looks were born). It’s because I think he realizes that the reason I have no hair there wasn’t a choice I made for myself, but rather something I kept doing to satisfy someone else. A ritual I agreed to in order to please others and put them more at ease, all the while sacrificing my own comfort.

So I’m going to try it. I’m not talking about going full-on amazon (that’s actually not the look I want for myself anyway). I’m just talking about finally looking a bit more like those mature, insanely desirable women I admired so long ago. The pinups and the porn stars who didn’t look 14 years old. The women who looked like women. With big breasts and a post-pubescent body in every sense of the word.

And, if it turns out he doesn’t like it, well, we’ll both be dripping in hot wax very soon.

Back from the Dead

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Mon, 16 Jul 2007 01:17:00 +0000

Half of you hate me. Half of you will never read this because you thought I had given up on this thing. The truth is, tonight is the FIRST night in WELL over a month that I have had a laptop at home. While I do have an office at work, there is still a lack of privacy that makes it non-conducive to blogging. And the same goes for when I’m over the boyfriend’s place.
But I promise - PROMISE - that I am back now.

So what is it that I’m going to write about? I have not a fucking clue.

Much more to come.
~ella

The Real Revenge of the NERDS

noreply@blogger.com (ellagood) — Mon, 25 Jun 2007 23:18:00 +0000

Fine. I have forced myself to stay at work late – which I HATE doing – to update this with something. My internet is down at home and I really, really can’t blog here. It’s not very private and I don’t want the 20 or so gawker readers who work here to catch on to me. Here’s the shit I’ve been going through…

My laptop broke almost a month ago. I brought it to Circuit City in Union Square and – although I was promised it would be repaired in 2-3 days – it has been ALMOST TWO WEEKS.

Now, I know what’s happening over there. They are looking at dirty pictures of me. Me alone. Me with women. Me with men. I know that’s what taking them the fuck too long. Trust me, if you saw these Firedog dudes (they are even more pathetic than Geek Squad guys) you would agree that they cannot possibly fix a thing when encountered with the site of a nipple.

So now I have to come to a decision. There are a few options here:

I can call the Manager and rip them yet ANOTHER new asshole.
I can sleep with one of you for a new computer.
I can go back to the horny Firedoggers and actually SHOW them my tits, up close and personal.

Your votes please.

Thank you,

ella