Flight Time

No one impresses me more than people who look at spreadsheets on planes.  I watch them as I pick stray pieces of tobacco off my Fruit Stripes gum. This is what real people look like.  This is what real people look at.  Long numbers with letters and dashes in them that are sorted into columns and then rows.  And they mean something!  They mean so many things.  And they are on pages and these pages were obviously printed off one of those big printers that goes really fast.  These pages are in notebooks and if these pages got mixed up – like if the person reading them dropped these pages and they got all out of order – that would fuck that person up.  Because all of the columns with the numbers and the rows have to be in order you see?  Otherwise it doesn’t make any sense.

And It has to be done now.  Otherwise SOMETHING is going to happen.  And I don’t know what that something is, but they know.  And they don’t want that thing to happen.  Or they do.  Or I don’t know cause I’m not in that world.

These are the real people of the world.  They never find donuts in their backpacks.  They don’t congratulate themselves every time they buy stamps.  They eat apples and have tailors.  They get haircuts and bags for their yoga mats.  They drink coconut water and use hand cream.  They have a plumber they could recommend to you.

Every once in a while, one of the spreadsheet people will catch me staring at them.  I play it cool.  Let them think I’m one of them.  I lean back and pop my Fruit Stripes into my mouth.

“Tell me about it…” I say with a wink.

Then I pull out my list of Cosby episodes I can remember by heart, and I get back to work.

Merry Christmas From The Miller

Well, here we are again!  Another year another dollar.  Is it just me, or are the years going faster and faster these days?

First and foremost, I am so sorry for being so terrible at keeping up with those I hold nearest and dearest.  But I hope My Annual Christmas/Holiday Newsletter will cover some of the ground I have let fall through the cracks.  It has been an incredible year for me and me.  I have no interest in writing a novel, so let me just bullet point the major activities of my zany, lovely life.  So here we go:

Well, it was just this February when the day I always knew would happen happened.  I realized the lines on my forehead would never go away.  Even when slack faced.  Like someone was constantly standing behind me, stretching dental floss across my cranium.  I can’t help but be thankful that the wait for that one is over.

And around a month ago, I finally made the big decision I’ve been waiting to make for years.  I decided to never get a dog and never dress that dog in a Santa Hat or a rain coat and take pictures of it.  I have so many people who have stood by me during this decision.  Too many to thank here.  But I have to throw a shout out to my upstairs, Russian neighbor who shouted to me from her window last Thursday “YOU DRINK TOO MUCH!” It takes a village.

I took a picture of my guitar.






And I also took a picture of an artsy mailbox in Queens.






But enough of me.  What else has been going on in the world?  Back in September, a friend of mine posted a picture of a bread she baked on Facebook.  I enjoyed a good two weeks of feeling superior about my life.

July 14th, I had a threesome.  And while it was my first, it was also my favorite.  I’m not going to bore you with all of the details and videos.  Just know it was a hell of a time.  And I must say, I am much, much, like a hell of a lot worse in bed than I thought I was.

Just two weeks ago, I took a picture of myself with my own computer.  I am looking away like someone else is taking it, and I’m not alone in my own room at 8:30 p.m.





“Oh what was that you said?  I didn’t quite hear you?”





Sometimes, late at night (or 8:57 pm) I like to make out with my own foot.





Lastly, but not leastly, I had this amazing…oh wait?  what was that?





Oh sorry, that was just me looking at my computer in a hot way with old photos behind me…

Oh My God!  So Embarrassing…all my shit out there like that…gross!  Don’t even write me to tell me how pretty I am, or do, or whatever, I don’t even care.  Sick.

Happy Holidays From The Miller!!

love, margaret

The Deal

My first drug deal was my last drug deal but not because I wasn’t good at it.  And no, I was not the dealer.  I was the dealee.  I had a friend visiting from out of town and I wanted to impress him.  I had only been in New York a year and a half and I wanted to seem as big-city as possible.  Like “This is how we roll here.  The is how we takes care of our biznass.  We smoke a fatty and then drink a couple of Zimas and watch Titanic on VHS.  Can you seriously not handle that?”

I called my friend Stephanie (one of my three friends who smoked pot) and got the number of a delivery service.  I was shaking uncontrollably as I dialed the number.  An ambivalent voice picked up on the other end.


“Hi!!  How are you?”

“What do you want?”

“Umm…I don’t think I’m supposed to say over the phone.”

“No.  How much do you want?”

“Like in pounds or…?”

“I gotta go.”

“No no no!  Umm, sorry I’m just not good with the metric system…half a pound?”

“Jesus.  How much money do you have?”


“Be there in 30 minutes.  Red Taurus out front.”

“Oh great!  I’ll see you so soon then.  Sorry, it’s just like…my friend is here and…”

He hung up the phone.  I looked at my friend triumphantly.  “Well, I guess it’s about time to start chillin’ the Zima!”

30 minutes passed so I went out to the front of my dorm.  I wasn’t there a minute before a Red Taurus pulled up.  I knew how this was supposed to work.  The idea is to make people think you know this person.  So I walked up to the car and knocked on the window.  He rolled it down half way.

“Andy!!  Oh my god!  How handsome are you?  Accounting school is treating you well!”

I decided to make him classy.  Why would an accountant be selling weed?  No reason.  “Jimmy, let’s move along,” is what the undercover cop would say to his partner.

“Holy Shit, just get in the car.”

“In the car?”

“Get in the car!”

I did as the nice, young man said.

“I like your car.”

“Do you have the money?”

“Oh yeah.  Here.”  I handed him the cash.  He handed me a small vile of weed.

“Thank you.”  I said.  Then, after a long pause, I looked over at him.  “Now, what do we do?”

“You get out of the car.”

“Oh right.  Yeah, I guess that’s it then.”

Then came the best part.  I leaned over and I hugged him.  And not a little hug.  Like, a lengthy embrace.  Why did I do this, you may be asking yourselves.  For the cops.

“You know Jimmy, I’ve been on the beat a while.  And even though that girl said the driver of that Red Taurus was an accountant right into the window, and even though you’re gonna call me crazy, tell the boys down at the station I’ve lost my knack for the streets, I’m gonna ask you to turn this undercover cop car around and follow up on the situation.”

They would turn the car around and subsequently see our embrace and be like “Nevermind Jimmy.  Those guys are obviously in a long term, committed relationship…I guess the divorce is hitting me a bit harder than I thought.  Move along.  Let’s see what else this night has to offer.”

sleeping with a 30-year old…an owner’s manual

I slept with a 20-year-old not too long ago.

And okay, he might have been 19.  I didn’t catch an I.D.

He was a friend of a friend of a friend who was in New York for the weekend.  We went out with his friends and my friends and their friends.  We had like a drink or 9 and somehow ended up back at my apartment.  Hand to God, it never crossed my mind for one second that we would hook up.  He was absolutely beautiful.  In fact, maybe the most beautiful man I have ever slept with.  But he was 20.  I can’t sexualize a 20-year-old any more than I can sexualize a tree.  Sure, a tree might be beautiful – the most beautiful tree I have ever seen – but it would never occur to me to fuck a tree.

I’m 30.  And my general rule since 25, is to never sleep with anyone under the age of 39.  I mean, don’t waste my time, you know what I’m saying?  If I ever slept with anyone as young as 33, it would promptly be followed by a call to a friend.  “Holy Shit girl, you will not believe what I just did…”

So, I’m sitting in my living room with this gorgeous kid and he says to me “You know,  I’ve always wanted to sleep with an older woman.”  I quickly responded,  “You totally should.  I’ve slept with older women before, it’s great.”  As I buried myself into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, he glared at me with an unmistakable desperation.

It took me 45 seconds to get it.  “Holy shit.  He’s talking about…me!!”  I am the older woman.  I am the novelty act.  I am the frat house story.  I am the trump card during his next game of “I NEVER.”  My vagina is now old enough to be a tourist attraction!  I could possibly sell T-Shirts.

But more to the point, this kid wants to sleep with me and he wants to sleep with me now.  I protested for around 10 minutes.  And then it occurred to me…why am I being such a bitch?  Who am I to deny this young chap a roll in the hay with an experienced woman?  I could teach him a thing or two.  Would it really kill me to see him with his shirt off?  Would that hurt me in some way?

Finally, after shoving the last spoonful of Chunky Monkey into my face, I said very audibly “Oh fuck it!”

Now, let me say before continuing, that I actually really like this guy.  He’s beautiful and funny and sweet and sexy and I have no doubt that he will one day be an amazing lover.  But for now, I thought I might just give a few quick tips for 20-year-old guys out there who want to fuck “older women.”  These rules do not necessarily apply to other 20-year-old girls you are currently sleeping with.  These sweet girls have more time on their hands.  But, for the rest of us…


1.  Assume that sexual satisfaction is in any way related to the number of positions you can pull off in a 2-minute period.  In the history of sex, no woman has ever said to any other woman  “He was okay, but he honestly only did me in 3 positions.”   It’s not a gymnastics competition.  No one is filming. (at least not at your level)  I know the thought might cross your mind:  “I should probably get the backside of her knee on the backside of my neck.”  Just let that go.  That is painful for everyone involved.


2.  Blow.  Anywhere.  Ever.  I don’t give a shit what you read.


3.  Ask yourself if you ever craved having your face rubbed into cheap carpeting for over a minute.


4.  Say “I can’t believe this is happening!”  Trust me.  We can’t either.


5. Mistake laughter for an orgasm.  I get it.  They are sort of similar.  But if you are ever in a situation where you are trying to figure out which is which, you need to stop what you are doing immediately.  Both mean the evening is done.

I wish lots of well to my young friend.  I was once 20 too.  It’s a bitch man.  It gets better.  Trust me, it gets so much better…


Pedro is a nice man who lives two floors above me.  He’s sweet and and has a fascinating history.  He was a young boy in Spain during the Spanish Civil War.  He escaped to Paris, leaving his parents and family behind.  He landed in France just at the dawn of World War II.  He witnessed atrocities you and I can only hope to never imagine.  Although he will force you to imagine these atrocities every time you leave your apartment to buy dish soap.

“The children were crying on the train.  Hungry and alone.  They ask for nothing, and receive the dust of the dead in return…”

“Yeah, that’s really, really….bad.”

“Sometimes when I sleep, I still hear the gunshots.  The drum beats of a human darkness I cannot unknow…”

“I just need to get some soap…”

It’s not that I’m an evil person.  But you have to understand, this is what happens to me every time I leave my apartment…for four years now.  It’s like waking up every morning with your DVD player cued up to the shower scene from Schindler’s List.  And you have to watch it because what are you, an ass hole?

The other night, I went out for something to eat and Pedro chose to walk with me.  The subway passed overhead as we were walking down 31st street.

“11 cars on that train.  9 of them explode.  Dead!  ALL DEAD!”

I nodded and took a sip of my milk shake.

“That sounds like a freakin’ disaster.”

I was annoyed.  I’m just trying to get some fries here, dude.  We got home and I quickly said goodnight to Pedro.  I was sitting on my couch, eating my fries, when I realized something about myself.  Something that made me reconsider my entire relationship with my upstairs neighbor.  If I ever, EVER saw someone get killed, it would be the 6th thing I ever said to anyone I met for the rest of my life.  You know what?  If I ever saw someone lose a limb, three days wouldn’t go by without me bringing it up anecdotally with the start-up line “Holy shit!  Do you know what happened to me one time?”  I went to a museum last week and I’ve told at least 150 people about it.

“It wasn’t just the artwork itself…it was the exhibition.  It was like walking through a story.  Here, let me show you my Hipstamatics.”

God help those around me the next time I need stitches.

The Dentist

A hole has been growing in my back molar for some time now.  Hole might be a modest term.  Chasm might be better.  It never got to the point of hurting, and I never got to the point of being a person with dental insurance or a couch.  But something happened to me Monday morning.  One of those quarterly bursts of inspiration where I start my day planning a trip to Africa to teach AIDS orphans and then eventually settle on buying fruit.  After Googling ‘African Babies’, I called the dentist and booked an appointment.

It wasn’t just the chasm in the back tooth.  I was also very aware that I probably had at least 5-10 other cavities.  I wasn’t too embarrassed.  I brush 3 times a day.  I floss.  It’s just my ridiculous parents and their particular lineages that forced me to inherit pussy tooth enamel.  I’m a beautiful woman and I have nothing to be ashamed of…

I went into the dentist’s office that very day for a 1 o’clock cleaning.  The dental hygienist was nice enough.  She said it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, which was a funny thing to say because I hadn’t said anything about how bad I thought it was.  After the cleaning, she brought me into the other room where I braced myself for the actual dentist.  “I’m a woman. I’m a woman. I’m a woman!”  A mantra which might have been more appropriate in my gynecologist’s office.

The dentist came in, barely looked at me and went straight to the X-Rays.  Finally…

“Umm…so you have some cavities.  A couple of really bad ones.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.  I’m really, really sorry about that.”

“Let me take a look.”

He performed his initial examination with only one “Oh my!”

“I haav puthy toot elamel!” I screamed with the sucky thing still in my mouth.

He took the sucky thing out of my mouth and sat back in his chair just looking at me.  He just fucking looked at me and waited for me to come up with some explanation for why my mouth sucked so much.  (Zing!)  Under duress, I came up with a reason.  I swear to God, here is what I said:

“I’ve been in Africa!”

I’VE BEEN IN AFRICA!…is what I said…

“Africa really?  What were you doing in Africa?”


“Oh nice,” he said with a smirk.  He didn’t believe me. This bastard wanted a fight.

“Yep!” I sput out through gritted teeth. “A really beautiful experience!”

“So…where were you?”


“Kenya?  Amazing.  And what were you teaching?  English?”

He wanted a fight?  Let’s fight.  Bitch.

“No.  I wasn’t.  I was teaching the Kenyan language.”

“You were teaching the Kenyans their own language?”

“Well, we teach English here don’t we?”

“I suppose we do…”

“…it was, like,  mostly grammar and one course developing prose pieces…a little poetry…a little poetry sprinkled in there too.  It is an ELEGANT language.  Absolutely pitch-fucking perfect for…emoting.  The Kenyan language.  The language they speak in Kenya.”

“The language they speak in Kenya?”

“The language they speak in Kenya.”

He looked at me with absolutely no expression on his face.

“I have pussy tooth enamel.”

The Mature Friend

Yesterday, I dragged Dawn to an outdoor, temporary hipster bar in Carroll Gardens.

It’s one of these places that is completely unique to New York.  Where, because they let you sit outside next to a stagnant canal off the Hudson and jam house music into your ears, they feel they have the right to put a Michael Jackson stamp on your wrist upon entry.

But I jest.  It’s honestly a fantastic place and I have a deep fondness for the couple that run the bar, so we chose to make the trek out to Brooklyn.  We grab a couple of free drinks and set up two chairs next to the dance floor.   It didn’t take long for both Dawn and I to notice a disturbingly handsome bartender.  Like disturbingly handsome as in…you consider it a gift to have him walk by you.  Talking to him is not the goal.  Sitting where he is in your sight line is the goal.

Dawn and I immediately started talking about how handsome he was.  Off the cuff, I said “He is way too good looking for me.”  And then I looked to Dawn for that immediate reassurance that only a true friend can offer you.  “Are you fucking kidding me!” she was supposed to say.  Instead she nodded and took another drink of her beer.  Which forced me to press the issue.

“You think he is too good looking for me?”

“That guy is too good looking for anyone!”

Okay.  I could take that.  It was true.  The woman that landed that guy would honestly be the woman Leonard DiCaprio just broke up with.  But then Dawn pressed the issue.

“I mean Kenrdra couldn’t even land that guy.  You know what, I don’t even think Leanne would be able to land that guy.”  

Kendra and Leanne are two of our best friends.  Obviously, now I started to get offended.

“So I’m not even one of our good looking friends?

Dawn thought about this for a second and then took sip of her beer.

“You’re like the mature woman of our group of friends.  Like, you are definitely, probably the best in bed.  But you are like a mature woman.”

And then she added for emphasis:  “Like a mature, sexy woman.”

“I’m younger than all of you!”

She sipped her beer again.  “Yeah.”

“We Are A No Gun Family”

A while ago, I took the kids to Yoga.  When I say kids, I mean the two I babysit for (Pilot and Ever) and Pilot’s friend Frankie.  When I say Yoga, I mean that they have fucking Yoga for five-year-olds in New York.

Frankie is a feisty young lady who says “Please” and “Thank You” with a dimpled grin.  I’m not kidding here, she asks me how I am.  She asks me how my day has been which Pilot and Ever have never done one day in their greedy little lives.  I actually find myself wanting to please Frankie.  I’ll say things to her like  “I know I’m paying $1400 for a two bedroom in Queens…and before you say anything, I know I should make the jump to the East Village.  But when you advertise for a cozy loft, don’t show me a closet with used mouse traps.”

Frankie will look at me and appropriately respond “You’re such a nice lady.  I love you.”

I have to admit that sometimes I grow frustrated with Pilot and Ever.  They take me for granted.  They have grown tired of me.  Sure, once I was the hot new thing.  But 5 years later…I can see the glaze in their eyes when I walk into the room.  They even go as far as being emotionally abusive.  The other day, when I was a little slow getting Ever’s shoes on he says to me “You can’t do anything!”  I quickly retorted “YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING!  ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW!?”  Pilot lets me know every time I gain weight and every time I choose the wrong block to catch a cab.  And then Frankie comes onto the scene and I bathe myself in the love and attention she effortlessly offers.  It’s intoxicating.

So after Yoga, I took the kids back to Pilot and Ever’s house to wait for Frankie’s mom.  Frankie was brushing my hair when the buzzer rang.  Frankie’s mom came up and the kids had a “show” they wanted her to preview.  Which they hadn’t even rehearsed or anything, but they set up two chairs as an “audience” so we could sit for 20 minutes and watch them talk about when the costume changes should happen.  Just when I’m about to blow my brains out,  Ever rushes into the room.  He’s holding a toy gun that shoots “lasers” by means of a laser-type sound.  Ever points his gun at Frankie’s mom and says “I’m going to shoot you!”  

Frankie’s mom very quickly stopped him.  “Ever, we are a no gun family.  So please do not point that gun at me or my daughter.”

Ummm…what the fuck did you just say to my kid?

Ever was immediately crushed.  He aimed at Frankie’s mom’s head but then seemed to lose his nerve.  He started crying and ran back into his bedroom.  I quickly followed him.  He was laying on his bed bawling.

“Hey pal.  What’s wrong?”

“My….my….my….gun didn’t work!”

“Oh sweetheart, it didn’t?”


“You wanted to shoot Frankie’s mommy?”


“I know honey.  And then you couldn’t shoot her?”

“NO!!  My gun didn’t work!”

“Should we get you a new gun?”

“Yeah!  And then I can shoot people?”

“Okay.  Okay.  We can get you a new gun.”

“And then I’ll shoot all the people?”

“Of course you can!  You can shoot all the people.”

Ever looked up at me and wiped the tears from his 3-year old eyes.  I realized in that moment, for better or worse, this was the kid I was going to spend the rest of my life loving.  We have our problems, but we chose to go through these years together.  Frankie was cute.  And her mom was a reasonable lady – I actually hate guns myself.  But let me tell you something…when you make my kid cry with your psycho-liberal agenda that embarrasses a 3-year-old instead of just letting said 3-year-old assassinate you and then feigning your own prolonged death…you have bought yourself an enemy.

I looked at Ever’s wet face and I said to him…

“Sometimes people are bullshit.”

Turning Dirty

I flipped a decade on Saturday which is actually a really exciting thing.  It brings me to my checklist:

Things I Did In My 20’s:

Went to Spain.

Learned the exact time my microwave takes to cook a Hot Pocket.  (To the second)

Slept with a woman.

Read The Odyssey.

Read a full issue of The New Yorker.

A bartender.

Drove across Texas.

Drove across the country.

Skinny dipped in the Atlantic.

Drank a Stella or two. (42,381)

Fell in love with a man from Uruguay. (A bartender)

Lived in my mom’s basement.

Lived in Ireland. (once)

Snorted Cocaine. (twice)

Went vegetarian – Went back.

Voted for the first black president.

Faked an orgasm. (81)

Ate an entire Papa John’s Large Sausage Pizza in one sitting.

Kept a Beta Fish alive for 4 years. (After a very public suicide attempt)

Learned the exact time it took to fake an orgasm.  (To the second)

Things I Did Not Do In My 20’s

Jon Stewart.

How Fucking Loud Do You Need To Clap??

Okay, I wrote a post a few weeks ago about the fact that on this blog site that I write on…you can see what google searches land people on your blog.  For the past three weeks, the number 1 search that has led people to astoriachick.com has been “How To Make a Really Loud Clap.”  Over 100 people have come across my blog this way.

I have one post entitled “I Can Clap Really Loud” that has nothing to do with the actual geometry of how to clap really loud.  It’s not a science-y piece.  And so I feel bad for all of these people who really want to clap loud and think somehow that my shitty blog will help them.  But also – why the fuck would you really need to clap really loud?  Loud enough that you would have to google pointers on the subject?

Are you an explorer?  Do you go into caves where there are jumpy scorpions and the distance your clapping sound travels is in direct proportion to your chances of coming out alive?  Are you an avid theater-goer who is afraid that the performers and crew of any given production will not hear your enthusiasm for pithy dialogue?  Are you a white guy in a movie where a black guy makes a speech at the end of the movie and you want to be the guy who claps first – causing all of the other white guys to clap at the black guy?

Jesus people, take a look at your lives.  There are better things to do.  I’m not even kidding, Kate Middleton went to the grocery store today.  I just saw the pictures on TMZ.