I feel like the poor hipster's William Sapphire here, but someone has to do it.
Chillaxing, for those who don't know or couldn't figure it out, is the clever combination of the words, chilling and relaxing. As in, "We rolled a splif and are now chillaxing." It can also be a directive, as in, "Chillax! You're making me nervous."
My thorough 10 second google research reveals the first usage was in 2003, in the film, "Final Destination 2". According to the three people I polled (including myself), one person claims to have heard it first in Maine, another in the Georgia, and the third discovered it in the vast virtual chasm known as Facebook.
Ever wonder who actually writes Young Adult novels? I mean, what does Christopher Pike really look like? And Judy Blume, you don't know, could be that tranny sat next to you on the 1 train. Carolyn Keene, forget it, she had to be a freak.
Well, get ready to be jealous. I know one. Yes, a tranny, but also a YA novelist. His name is David Van Etten, and his book, All that Glitters, "drops" as the kids say, today. And besides from being a totally delightful yum of a read, it's also by far the most homoerotic teen book jacket I've ever seen.
I promised myself this week I wouldn't make another Palin joke.
Call it a Rosh Hash resolution.
The reasons for this pledge are aplenty, Highlights include:
1.My brain has turned into a 24 hour Palin pun generator, leaving my other obsessions to suffer.
2.Making fun of her ever rising bouffant, her sexy librarian style glasses, her rumored tattooed on lip liner- no matter how much I disagree with her politics- is no better than using Hillary's pantsuit as a punchline.
I've rationalized that this isn't a comedy bit. It's an observation. It's a cautionary tale.
It happened last night. I was, once again, reprising the thankless role of sultry benchwench at Malachy's on 72nd street. My interpretation of the part is an amalgam of Carla and Diane from Cheers, with a dash of Mae West, if you don't like dirty Irish bars or get uptown much. Thank God I went to acting school.
I noticed, as I delivered teeming pints of Bud, sloppy oozing pitchers of Stella, cleared decimated baskets of cheese fries, and most importantly, dropped checks, that I was winking.
It appears that I've subconsciously incorporated this bit of visual punctuation into my cocktailer schtick. This is, no doubt, Sarah Palin's influence/fault.
"Here ya go boys. These ones are on me." WINK
"Two shots of Jaeger. Did ya know my middle name is Yeager?" WINK
"Corned beef on rye? You betcha." WINK.
I look forward to November 5th, when hopefully I can have my brain back. Or at least part of it.
I always dream big in October. It's not the ambitious and aspiration waking kind, but more the REM technicolor nightmarish sort. The kind of sleep where you wake more tired than you went to bed.
October is transitions. It's sleeping weather finally, when you open up the windows and pull out the flannel pj's. It's the High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, my birthday, and Halloween.
So, it's no surprise that I'm dreaming in high def.
Last night, I found myself smack dab in the middle of pregnancy panic dream. You know the kind(or maybe you don't)- Omigod, I'm pregnant. When did this happen? I don't want to be pregnant and now it's way too late, since I'm 7 1/2 months along, to do anything about it. I cannot possibly give birth. I'm too much of a wimp. I don't even have my ears pierced, for Christ's sake.
There are many variations of this nightmare, which I've had throughout my life. There is the who is the father? theme for instance. Or how will I tell my parents? motif is another. The I'm-not-prepared kind is most frequent. Occasionally, I do indeed give birth in the dream, only to find it's not a baby, but instead a full grown adult or an inanimate object. But I perpetually digress.
Last night, a new version emerged. I was pregnant, very pregnant, I knew the father, that wasn't the problem. My parents would be thrilled since my brother is a priest and I am the only hope for progeny, And though I was horrified by how fat I had become and that, inevitably I would have to deal with the exit strategy for the monolith in my belly, it wasn't pain I feared. My twenties taught me I have an unnatural threshold for discomfort.
It was that I wasn't Jewish. I'm a pretty quick study, I reasoned in the dream, but there was no way I could do a legit Orthodox conversion in a month and a half. The father was Jewish with a capitol J and this was going to be a big with a capitol B problem.
I awoke from the dream, my flannel jammies soaked with sweat and twisted around my body. It made me miss my Yia Yia, the ultimate dream interpreter, who could decode any dream- no matter how strange- with equally esoteric solutions.
Me: Yia Yia, I dreamt all my teeth were loose and falling out.
Yia Yia: O-poh-poh. You better walk to school then.
Me: Yia Yia, I dreamt I gave birth to a fully formed grey man.
Yia Yia: What good luck!
I think last night's dream isn't really that much of mystery for a number of reasons, but still I could use some ancient Greek village wisdom.