Without fail, I watch the Miss America Pageant every year. It goes against every Northeastern-raised, short hair-having, skull sneaker-wearing bone in my body, but it's hard to stop once you start.
In high school, my marching band (something had to prompt skull sneakers at 24. I was a flag girl!) marched in the Miss America Parade when it was still in Atlantic City. At one point, I wouldn't have blinked at waving a silver flag at the crowd to a saxophone-heavy rendition of Semper Fidelis, marching on a boardwalk behind a convertible carrying a 20-year-old with Vaseline on her chicklet-shaped teeth.
I've always watched the Miss American Pageant, and I have to say that yesterday marked the longest I have ever watched the Country Music Television in my whole life. I can't even admit to a Dixie Chicks CD somewhere in my jumbled collection from college. It's never tempted me. The closest I've come to pageants is Little Miss Sunshine, and the closest I've come to the real South (excluding New Orleans and Miami, which I think are culturally distinct enough though geographically Southern) was a dive bar devoted to Patsy Cline in West Virginia. I was there for an hour. My two drinks totaled $ 4.25.
Last night was similarly brought to me by $4 of booze. Andre "Brut" (2006-- a good year), and a variety of cheesy delights that my friend and I assembled. We had a ball being bitchy, and as someone who was on hold with Verizon today for over an hour fighting about 30 dollars from 2004, I can assure you that I'm pretty good at that.
We noted the amounts of nose jobs needed, lipstick shade adjustments, faux-tanned muscle definition, and regional accent cover-up. How do people watch it with any level of remote seriousness? We jokingly blinked with emphasis at each other as we shouted out pageant buzz words: Leadership! Education! Prayers! THE CHILDREN!
Miss Pennsylvania, the representative of my driver's license was from Beaver, Pennsylvania, which made me snicker for a variety of reasons. And Miss Virginia was from Fairfax Station and Miss Maryland was from Hagerstown, so the two of them were closer to being Miss DC than Miss DC could ever be, considering all that hullabaloo that surrounded her tiara.
We decided out of 52 women, that we'd like to be friends with Miss "tap-danced her way into our hearts to a Prince song and had the balls to wear a white bikini" Georgia, and Miss "I'm a passable Beyoncé impersonator, but I look totally hot in lime green" Texas.
When BOR-RING Miss Oklahoma's mouth gaped in the fake-shock of her triumph, we chuckled at our two favs who rounded out the 2nd and 3rd places. They're probably better off not winning-- at least now they can have a cheeseburger and stop trying to cover up what they really mean with a charged lexicon of PageantSpeak. When Miss Georgia was asked "who would you rather sit on a plane next to, Bill Clinton or George Bush?" and she said "Bill Clinton" without even pretending to hesitate, I knew she was a goner.
But I think the familiar end of this pageant is what it needed, or else I might have felt bad if someone I might have liked in person won. Here I am sitting in my living room, all brave for being liberated and snarky and skully-shoed. And there they are, all out there in the open. Like freaking Chris Matthews, pageant judge, checking out a different kind of suit than he does on your average episode of Hardball,
I could never have done that. Kept my trap shut. Been called a "girl" until I was nearly 27 and had to answer questions and "show my personality" without actually having an opinion that would cause any sort of rift. Where else in the world does "personality" equal "muscle tone"?
But then again, if I had, I wouldn't owe money for the education I got at most expensive college in the nation, now would I?
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Shopping day
My lovely place of employment has given us a "shopping day" for christma-kwaanz-ukkah. Today is my day and thus far no shopping has taken place. Only sleeping, lazing, and making my eyes bleed by watching Tyra. Oh and dabbling in some English muffins and coffee.
What a gift today is though, TODAY IS MY OYSTER. TODAY IS FOR ME, and ME TYPE THINGS!
I could shop. I could go to the gym. I could clean my apartment and decorate more. I could drink in the afternoon! I could have lunch with the DK! I had even thought earlier this week that I would metro to PG Plaza to go to the Target there. I could buy yarn and finish up some gifties for various born and unborn-as-of-yet friends. I could go to the hardware store and buy things that I have to buy there. Don't we all have to always buy things at the hardware store? I could buy a Christmas tree! I could buy lights and ornaments!
I could...
But really, so far, these options have not taken me any further than my couch. And the warm, loving glow of TV. Ambition will only get you so far, until you remember that your couch is soft and it's rainy outside.
What a gift today is though, TODAY IS MY OYSTER. TODAY IS FOR ME, and ME TYPE THINGS!
I could shop. I could go to the gym. I could clean my apartment and decorate more. I could drink in the afternoon! I could have lunch with the DK! I had even thought earlier this week that I would metro to PG Plaza to go to the Target there. I could buy yarn and finish up some gifties for various born and unborn-as-of-yet friends. I could go to the hardware store and buy things that I have to buy there. Don't we all have to always buy things at the hardware store? I could buy a Christmas tree! I could buy lights and ornaments!
I could...
But really, so far, these options have not taken me any further than my couch. And the warm, loving glow of TV. Ambition will only get you so far, until you remember that your couch is soft and it's rainy outside.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
SSSSShhhhhhhh
I had a good time with my friends last Thursday. We watched Gray's. I made pizza. We had cake. We drank wine. It was nice.
Then, we watched the most glorious thing.
Do you have Comcast? Do you have digital cable? On-Demand?
Have you seen the video personals? In the Get Local section?
They are riotously funny. Get someone who's nervous with some drinks in them talking about what they look for in a partner and how they rate themselves is fascinating. Also, we had drunk copious amounts of two buck chuck.
Dating on-demand was the best thing on TV, and that was a night of some good programming. Though they definitely played safe.
For example: the "Naughty" section? " "No listings available." What about the "one of a kind" section? Same deal. "Beefcakes?" None.
The most uproarious section was entitled "hidden talents".
Our favorite was a sassy lady who did impressions. She had a great sense of humor about herself, and really trumped her techniques. Best impression?
A bus stopping: "Sssshhhhhh".
The doors on Star Trek "Shhh".
Betty Rubble: :::giggles:::
She had us all in stitches. I wish to meet her and tell her to "SHUT UP!" like a graduate of the Stacy London school of outbursts.
Another hidden talent was "sculpting naked cows".
Ooh and karaoke in deep corners of Virginia. Apparently, single Virginians love themselves some off-pitch Bohemian Rhapsody. Some Virginians come see this woman sing it EVERY WEEK.
There was Walter, who's hobbies include "playing tennis, listening to live music and doing some things" and wouldn't date a woman who would "mock him".
There was Diana, who was in search of "whatever" and "spending time with people she likes to spend time with" who dislikes when men say "racy things".
There was Alex, who was looking for a woman who "has a great body, but isn't superficial" and likes it when women look him right in the eye so he can see through them immediately, and understand their souls. Also he's an ass model.
Seriously, watch the personals. Marvel at the brave souls who are putting themselves out there on TV. [Insert perfunctory 'it's hard out here for a pimp' quip here. ] I could never do a personal ad, much less one on TV.
If I'm ever in that position, get me six cats and teach me to needlepoint.
Then, we watched the most glorious thing.
Do you have Comcast? Do you have digital cable? On-Demand?
Have you seen the video personals? In the Get Local section?
They are riotously funny. Get someone who's nervous with some drinks in them talking about what they look for in a partner and how they rate themselves is fascinating. Also, we had drunk copious amounts of two buck chuck.
Dating on-demand was the best thing on TV, and that was a night of some good programming. Though they definitely played safe.
For example: the "Naughty" section? " "No listings available." What about the "one of a kind" section? Same deal. "Beefcakes?" None.
The most uproarious section was entitled "hidden talents".
Our favorite was a sassy lady who did impressions. She had a great sense of humor about herself, and really trumped her techniques. Best impression?
A bus stopping: "Sssshhhhhh".
The doors on Star Trek "Shhh".
Betty Rubble: :::giggles:::
She had us all in stitches. I wish to meet her and tell her to "SHUT UP!" like a graduate of the Stacy London school of outbursts.
Another hidden talent was "sculpting naked cows".
Ooh and karaoke in deep corners of Virginia. Apparently, single Virginians love themselves some off-pitch Bohemian Rhapsody. Some Virginians come see this woman sing it EVERY WEEK.
There was Walter, who's hobbies include "playing tennis, listening to live music and doing some things" and wouldn't date a woman who would "mock him".
There was Diana, who was in search of "whatever" and "spending time with people she likes to spend time with" who dislikes when men say "racy things".
There was Alex, who was looking for a woman who "has a great body, but isn't superficial" and likes it when women look him right in the eye so he can see through them immediately, and understand their souls. Also he's an ass model.
Seriously, watch the personals. Marvel at the brave souls who are putting themselves out there on TV. [Insert perfunctory 'it's hard out here for a pimp' quip here. ] I could never do a personal ad, much less one on TV.
If I'm ever in that position, get me six cats and teach me to needlepoint.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Today was one of those days...
... and totally in a good way.
There was bounce in my step. If my hair were long enough, it would have swung rhythmically with my stride. I could faintly hear the theme song to "Stayin' Alive" as the soundtrack to my strut.
I thought at first it was my renewed interest in actually burning some calories post-holiday since I am still carrying around the 8 pieces of poundcake I ate while I was home, but I decided perhaps no.
Or maybe, I thought, it was the shoes.
New shoes! I bought four pairs when I was at home for Thanksgiving. Three of those pairs of shoes were necessary for work-appropriate fashion that didn't involve me still wearing business casual from the ankles up, and slip-on sneakers with skulls on them from the ankles down like my look circa October.
Three purchases were necessary, and I've worn already. One sensible, two mildly sensible (sort of--
flat is sensible. And metallics are the modern neutral, right?).
But then.
There was the impulse buy. A steal, no less, at a crazy sale price that made my knees weaken.
I bought grapey suede wedge heels. With a twee bow on the heel in matching grosgrain ribbon.
So wondrous, these shoes be, not one but TWO very nice ladies stopped me on the street to say so.
It made me wag my foot at all my female friends (and some poor, unprepared males too) and say "See? Don't you see?".
If you could package that, just about any lady would ask for a box of "excuse me, but where did you get THOSE SHOES?!" for Christma-Kwanza-kkuh.
Or for "Wednesday". Whichever.
There was bounce in my step. If my hair were long enough, it would have swung rhythmically with my stride. I could faintly hear the theme song to "Stayin' Alive" as the soundtrack to my strut.
I thought at first it was my renewed interest in actually burning some calories post-holiday since I am still carrying around the 8 pieces of poundcake I ate while I was home, but I decided perhaps no.
Or maybe, I thought, it was the shoes.
New shoes! I bought four pairs when I was at home for Thanksgiving. Three of those pairs of shoes were necessary for work-appropriate fashion that didn't involve me still wearing business casual from the ankles up, and slip-on sneakers with skulls on them from the ankles down like my look circa October.
Three purchases were necessary, and I've worn already. One sensible, two mildly sensible (sort of--
flat is sensible. And metallics are the modern neutral, right?).
But then.
There was the impulse buy. A steal, no less, at a crazy sale price that made my knees weaken.
I bought grapey suede wedge heels. With a twee bow on the heel in matching grosgrain ribbon.
So wondrous, these shoes be, not one but TWO very nice ladies stopped me on the street to say so.
It made me wag my foot at all my female friends (and some poor, unprepared males too) and say "See? Don't you see?".
If you could package that, just about any lady would ask for a box of "excuse me, but where did you get THOSE SHOES?!" for Christma-Kwanza-kkuh.
Or for "Wednesday". Whichever.
Monday, November 27, 2006
It was a sad, sad day.
I just found a few things about my Veronica Mars boyfriend, Jason Dohring. He's super-cute and when his character, Logan, says smarmy things, I lap it up like my rightful inner 15 year-old does ice cream on a proverbial Saturday night.
There are four facts about him below. Guess which one is a lie?
a.) He is married.
b.) His dad owns Neopets.
c.) He and Zach Braff and Peter Krause are Jake Gyllenhaal's REAL best friends. None of this Mattew McConaughey and Lance Armstrong nonsense.
d.) He's a scientologist.
Sadly, the lie is c.) but it's d.) that upsets me the most. Even though c.) involves ALL my Hollywood boyfriends. Suck.
There are four facts about him below. Guess which one is a lie?
a.) He is married.
b.) His dad owns Neopets.
c.) He and Zach Braff and Peter Krause are Jake Gyllenhaal's REAL best friends. None of this Mattew McConaughey and Lance Armstrong nonsense.
d.) He's a scientologist.
Sadly, the lie is c.) but it's d.) that upsets me the most. Even though c.) involves ALL my Hollywood boyfriends. Suck.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I'm a little tea pot
Tomorrow, my family is hosting Thanksgiving. We are 5 in my immediate family.
Around 5pm, TWENTY of our nearest and dearest are descending upon our humble abode, and that's only one side of the family with some family members missing.
My mother is making 5 desserts. Just in case. She feels like a bit of a failure for not making pound cake AND chocolate cake to accompany the medley of pies to be displayed.
So, I've been helping out as best I can, but apparently, not correctly.
As I was dusting tonight, I was using "too much pledge" and had to be reminded to "spray it ON THE rag" but not "near the floor" or slipping is eminent. You pledge with SIDEWAYS motions and with SPARINGLY spritzed amounts, dusting the surface first and THEN progressing to the items that reside there.
I turned around, and told her "you know, last week I told so-and-so that he was a control freak in a meeting. I meant it with love, and I'm telling you now. Also, with love."
Mom turned around and looked fake-shocked. This is a skill we all have perfected. The huffy, fake-shocked pout.
To back-peddle with a bit of humor, I told her the rest of the story: How so-and-so countered with "ring ring! ring ring! Hello Kettle? IT'S POT!"
Mom laughed. She said, "that's good. I'll have to use that one!"
And like that, Shifty saved me from being grown-up grounded.
And then for the rest of the evening, it was a joke. Mom would pick up the tea kettle and wag it at me while fake-chastising me to "watch out for the pledge on the floor!".
This is what happens when anal-retentive people have anal-retentive children. I had to pledge the whole house and arrange things in the medicine cabinets neatly, because my mother heard on Oprah that 60% of people dig through other people's medicine cabinets when they are visiting.
The labels are facing just so.
Like mother, like daughter I suppose.
Around 5pm, TWENTY of our nearest and dearest are descending upon our humble abode, and that's only one side of the family with some family members missing.
My mother is making 5 desserts. Just in case. She feels like a bit of a failure for not making pound cake AND chocolate cake to accompany the medley of pies to be displayed.
So, I've been helping out as best I can, but apparently, not correctly.
As I was dusting tonight, I was using "too much pledge" and had to be reminded to "spray it ON THE rag" but not "near the floor" or slipping is eminent. You pledge with SIDEWAYS motions and with SPARINGLY spritzed amounts, dusting the surface first and THEN progressing to the items that reside there.
I turned around, and told her "you know, last week I told so-and-so that he was a control freak in a meeting. I meant it with love, and I'm telling you now. Also, with love."
Mom turned around and looked fake-shocked. This is a skill we all have perfected. The huffy, fake-shocked pout.
To back-peddle with a bit of humor, I told her the rest of the story: How so-and-so countered with "ring ring! ring ring! Hello Kettle? IT'S POT!"
Mom laughed. She said, "that's good. I'll have to use that one!"
And like that, Shifty saved me from being grown-up grounded.
And then for the rest of the evening, it was a joke. Mom would pick up the tea kettle and wag it at me while fake-chastising me to "watch out for the pledge on the floor!".
This is what happens when anal-retentive people have anal-retentive children. I had to pledge the whole house and arrange things in the medicine cabinets neatly, because my mother heard on Oprah that 60% of people dig through other people's medicine cabinets when they are visiting.
The labels are facing just so.
Like mother, like daughter I suppose.
Monday, November 20, 2006
why was I so angsty as a teenager?
SERIOUSLY. WHY?
Home is glorious. I am at home now. I am sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop while my father reads the paper and has some Hershey miniatures. He's like clockwork. He'll have a lemonade (now that he's given up tea and iced-tea products for health reasons) and a bowl of pretzels in 4 hours and then hit the sac. It's so easy here.
And delicious!
I had a steak sandwich for dinner, and it was perfect. It was so nice to have it right.
Imagine: a world where you don't have to PREFACE that NO, SIR, I would NOT like mayo, lettuce, tomato, or mustard on your steak sandwich. Just steak, onions and goop that may or may not have once been a cheese-like substance.
It's a thing. When I come home, there's a list of people I have to see. Family. Friends. Franzone's Pizza. It's like home to me, that pizza place. I might want to have my funeral party there. Or my wedding, I can't tell.
Keep that in mind for the story I have regarding the chinatown bus and my trip back to the glorious Filth-a-delphia. It rocks.
here's a sneak peak.
Home is glorious. I am at home now. I am sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop while my father reads the paper and has some Hershey miniatures. He's like clockwork. He'll have a lemonade (now that he's given up tea and iced-tea products for health reasons) and a bowl of pretzels in 4 hours and then hit the sac. It's so easy here.
And delicious!
I had a steak sandwich for dinner, and it was perfect. It was so nice to have it right.
Imagine: a world where you don't have to PREFACE that NO, SIR, I would NOT like mayo, lettuce, tomato, or mustard on your steak sandwich. Just steak, onions and goop that may or may not have once been a cheese-like substance.
It's a thing. When I come home, there's a list of people I have to see. Family. Friends. Franzone's Pizza. It's like home to me, that pizza place. I might want to have my funeral party there. Or my wedding, I can't tell.
Keep that in mind for the story I have regarding the chinatown bus and my trip back to the glorious Filth-a-delphia. It rocks.
here's a sneak peak.
Monday, November 13, 2006
More delicious than a butterscotch krimpet
On Saturday night in New York visiting friends, I went to a lil old post-hipster dance party. It was like I died and had gone to heaven. It was better than a butterscotch krimpet, and having been raised in a Tastykake kinda town, I can assure you that translates into serious business.
It was Britpop night with more Justin Timberlake. It was cheesy 80's tunes with more Nirvana. It was $4-PBRs-worth-it to see a beautiful man in a police hat and the teeniest, tiniest kilt and fishnets. The bathroom was bright gold and my feet are still sore from all the bopping around. They played BREED right after Girls & Boys and before some Prince for crying out loud.
But Nirvana! I couldn't tell you the last time I have listened to Nirvana, especially in my "adult life". It was like 1992 had smacked my fushia legging-ed self with an old flannel shirt.
Hearing Nirvana made me haul out all my pre-2000 CD's when I got home. Has it been all these years really since I took down my Kurt Cobain poster? Since I listened to Kula Shaker while driving my 1987 Honda Accord? It feels like yesterday.
When I was dancing it's amazing how the words came back so easily (thanks, PBR!). Jumping up and down SCREAMING "we can plant a house we can build a tree!" was easier to recall than state capitols at Quiz Night. I think at the end of the night my throat hurt worse than my calves.
Which says a lot. Trust me.
So now high school Katastrophe is the soundtrack, and it's hard not to re-live some angst. And Tastykakes are on sale at CVS.
Trouble abound.
It was Britpop night with more Justin Timberlake. It was cheesy 80's tunes with more Nirvana. It was $4-PBRs-worth-it to see a beautiful man in a police hat and the teeniest, tiniest kilt and fishnets. The bathroom was bright gold and my feet are still sore from all the bopping around. They played BREED right after Girls & Boys and before some Prince for crying out loud.
But Nirvana! I couldn't tell you the last time I have listened to Nirvana, especially in my "adult life". It was like 1992 had smacked my fushia legging-ed self with an old flannel shirt.
Hearing Nirvana made me haul out all my pre-2000 CD's when I got home. Has it been all these years really since I took down my Kurt Cobain poster? Since I listened to Kula Shaker while driving my 1987 Honda Accord? It feels like yesterday.
When I was dancing it's amazing how the words came back so easily (thanks, PBR!). Jumping up and down SCREAMING "we can plant a house we can build a tree!" was easier to recall than state capitols at Quiz Night. I think at the end of the night my throat hurt worse than my calves.
Which says a lot. Trust me.
So now high school Katastrophe is the soundtrack, and it's hard not to re-live some angst. And Tastykakes are on sale at CVS.
Trouble abound.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
I don't know what to think
Someone found my blog by googling:
"I'm wasting my life away".
If you google that, I'm #3.
#3.
For wasting one's life.
Yup.
"I'm wasting my life away".
If you google that, I'm #3.
#3.
For wasting one's life.
Yup.
Monday, November 06, 2006
According to the air-heady-voiced twenty-something on the Metro
she LOVES! some things. The way she said "LOVE!" is unlike anything I've ever heard. It's written in pink, loopy lettering in the word bubble of her after-school cartoon special. It's fuzzy like fleece and soft like a baby's cheek. It smells like unicorns and tastes like strawberries.
She LOVES!
her neighborhood (Shaw)
hotels
chocolate
metro
In my brain, she also LOVES!
kitties!
lollipops!
Days of our Lives!
Satan.
She LOVES!
her neighborhood (Shaw)
hotels
chocolate
metro
In my brain, she also LOVES!
kitties!
lollipops!
Days of our Lives!
Satan.
Help me oh internets
So, say you lived in a wonderfully cheap apartment building. You love your apartment, but the neighbor above won't give you much rest (hello, VACUUMING BEFORE 9AM ON A SATURDAY MORNING).
You beg and plead with God to make her stop. You sleep with the air conditioner on even in the fall so that there's some white noise cover.
You shake your fist. Hourly. MUST YOU WEAR YOUR STILETTOS INDOORS?
You told her about herself already ONCE.
You practice conversations with yourself to figure out exactly how to come off like you mean business without sounding like a TOTAL bee-yotch for the NEXT time.
And then God smiles upon you.
A crooked, crooked, smile.
My landlady informed me that someone on the TOP (TIPPY TOP) floor is moving out. She knew I was only half moved in, and figured she'd ask to see if I wanted to move upstairs.
On paper, sounds PHENOMENAL. Same building, but the sunnier side. Same lay out. Same rent. Park view (over a smaller building, but still).
The catch?
That apartment is surrounded by old people who chain smoke in their places and that smoke travels up. INTENSELY. The smell of smoke pours from her kitchen sink, seeps through her closets, and stains her windows black. She spends $30 on candles a month to cover up the odor. She fabreezes herself before she goes to work. She has already had her couch cushions dry cleaned. She changes her sheets every 4 days so they don't reek.
I enjoy a cigarette socially every now and again. Usually after a blurry-fun night. But all the time? At least Stompy goes away sometimes.
I ask you. Which is the greater evil?
Stompy or Smokey?
You beg and plead with God to make her stop. You sleep with the air conditioner on even in the fall so that there's some white noise cover.
You shake your fist. Hourly. MUST YOU WEAR YOUR STILETTOS INDOORS?
You told her about herself already ONCE.
You practice conversations with yourself to figure out exactly how to come off like you mean business without sounding like a TOTAL bee-yotch for the NEXT time.
And then God smiles upon you.
A crooked, crooked, smile.
My landlady informed me that someone on the TOP (TIPPY TOP) floor is moving out. She knew I was only half moved in, and figured she'd ask to see if I wanted to move upstairs.
On paper, sounds PHENOMENAL. Same building, but the sunnier side. Same lay out. Same rent. Park view (over a smaller building, but still).
The catch?
That apartment is surrounded by old people who chain smoke in their places and that smoke travels up. INTENSELY. The smell of smoke pours from her kitchen sink, seeps through her closets, and stains her windows black. She spends $30 on candles a month to cover up the odor. She fabreezes herself before she goes to work. She has already had her couch cushions dry cleaned. She changes her sheets every 4 days so they don't reek.
I enjoy a cigarette socially every now and again. Usually after a blurry-fun night. But all the time? At least Stompy goes away sometimes.
I ask you. Which is the greater evil?
Stompy or Smokey?
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Lazy bones.
I am sitting at home with a pot of mac 'n' cheese balanced on my knee, enjoying the fruits of my cable bill.
This is one of my simple pleasures. Awful Kraft mac n cheese and watching equally cheesy TV. it's the cheese afternoon, brought to you by Viacom and Kraft.
I had seen some good stuff today. I saw many Mtv True life shows: "I'm a Jersey Shore girl", "I'm getting married", and right now I'm watching "I'm Obese".
I could eat the mac 'n' cheese through the first two.
The third made me put down my fork of processed, powdered cheese sauce covered white pasta and think about doing some yoga.
Yikes.
Actually, that's a lie. the "I'm a Jersey Shore Girl" made me gag a little too. I can say it. I was a Jersey Shore Girl. But I digress.
The woman on this show is breaking my heart. She used to weigh 615 and she can't do anything for herself. She doesn't seem to have any friends, and her legs look like tree stumps of thick oak trees.
I am immediately guilty for not having joined a gym yet, and go make some asparagus. Mmmm, asparagus.
After my asparagus, I realize that I just did exactly what Mtv wanted me to do. I was affected by its programming and changed my behavior.
That's crazy. I'm 24 years old, it's a.) a wee bit embarrassing that I still watch Mtv with the regularity that I do and b.) that it's old tricks still work.
Shoot.
This is one of my simple pleasures. Awful Kraft mac n cheese and watching equally cheesy TV. it's the cheese afternoon, brought to you by Viacom and Kraft.
I had seen some good stuff today. I saw many Mtv True life shows: "I'm a Jersey Shore girl", "I'm getting married", and right now I'm watching "I'm Obese".
I could eat the mac 'n' cheese through the first two.
The third made me put down my fork of processed, powdered cheese sauce covered white pasta and think about doing some yoga.
Yikes.
Actually, that's a lie. the "I'm a Jersey Shore Girl" made me gag a little too. I can say it. I was a Jersey Shore Girl. But I digress.
The woman on this show is breaking my heart. She used to weigh 615 and she can't do anything for herself. She doesn't seem to have any friends, and her legs look like tree stumps of thick oak trees.
I am immediately guilty for not having joined a gym yet, and go make some asparagus. Mmmm, asparagus.
After my asparagus, I realize that I just did exactly what Mtv wanted me to do. I was affected by its programming and changed my behavior.
That's crazy. I'm 24 years old, it's a.) a wee bit embarrassing that I still watch Mtv with the regularity that I do and b.) that it's old tricks still work.
Shoot.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
This post is brought to you by t-mobile
I'm stealing from a real live famous blogger, Que Sera Sera. I am SHAMEFULLY stealing her ideas because, hey-- they are good ones and it's Saturday and I am lazy. There is Disc 5 and 6 of Season 1 of Veronica Mars, Halloween costume detailing, house cleaning and run-taking to do. Oh, and then copious amounts of fun to be had!
So, I'll just give you a list.
Here, are some text messages that I find in my cell phone this very minute:
Whoops. Out of hair dye. See you at the party.
Is it wrong of me to love Forever 21?
Je suis arrive. and stuff.
1. Shake excess water from hands.
2. Push button and release.
3. Rub hands briskly under hot air.
4. Dryer stops automatically.
Eh. you don't think about it until you need one. Then you REALLY need one.
Awake and upright. Surprise! Still interested in dumplings?
Brock lifted my dress up. Hate him a bit. it's ok, he's pretty!
OMG [redacted] is at this party. Lying profusely. Yay!
I have no idea what that means. I can only presume you are drunk.
OMG you must make that soup. It is like a cheeseburger dressed in cream clothing!
So, I'll just give you a list.
Here, are some text messages that I find in my cell phone this very minute:
Whoops. Out of hair dye. See you at the party.
Is it wrong of me to love Forever 21?
Je suis arrive. and stuff.
1. Shake excess water from hands.
2. Push button and release.
3. Rub hands briskly under hot air.
4. Dryer stops automatically.
Eh. you don't think about it until you need one. Then you REALLY need one.
Awake and upright. Surprise! Still interested in dumplings?
Brock lifted my dress up. Hate him a bit. it's ok, he's pretty!
OMG [redacted] is at this party. Lying profusely. Yay!
I have no idea what that means. I can only presume you are drunk.
OMG you must make that soup. It is like a cheeseburger dressed in cream clothing!
Sunday, October 22, 2006
24
I think I may have had the best 24 hours ever.
Let me elaborate.
I got cable TV. Need I say more? I'm now free to watch things like "40 Dumbest Celebrity Quotes EVER!!!!!!!" and waste my whole life watching Food TV.
I ate a tasty dinner. I cheffed deliciousness for me and the the DK.
I put on a dress and footless tights. Purple eyeshadow and faux-hawked my hair. I took a cab with Runjit.
I drank VERY cheap booze at the Common Share. I think I had a gasoline and Red Bull. Who can care?
I danced to much amazingness at Brit pop night at the Black Cat.
This is a big one. Brit pop night is SERIOUSLY one of my favorite things about living in Washington. For those of us working for geeky or wonky places, it's our answer to MisShapes and NYC style revelry. I've been going since I was in college, and there's nothing better than putting on a ridiculous outfit, getting a little loose, and dancing. But dancing in all ridiculousness. Thrashing of arms, flailing of limbs, wiggling of heads, stomping of feet, and general silliness.
I'm so sore today. It's like battle wounds of a good weekend. And all that interpretive dancing about swimming that Shifty and I did to Pulp blaring in the background makes a girl feel like she ran a marathon.
I dragged my ass home drunk on the metro and ate leftovers and animal crackers while gulping down water and watching food TV. I woke up at 6am with an infomercial on and I dragged myself to bed in my clothes from the couch in my clothes.
I woke up, miraculously not feeling the affects of any of my fun. I made coffee and bummed around my apartment. I watched Giada Bigface make some stuff. I caught up on the celebrity gossip. I got some phone calls.
Then Shifty and I and our S.O.'s went for dim sum. To Hollywood East Cafe. Far away, in Wheaton. I have never experienced such a delicious meal of dumplings, nor have I ever experienced an MSG high THAT HIGH. Everything we ate had pork and shrimp in it, and we giggled, drunk on sodium about the follies of the night before.
Then we got into the car.
And went to Michael's.
Swoon!
I'm either dreaming, or I've died and gone to heaven.
In the past 24 hours, I've eaten delicious things, drank some beers, danced my little heart out, went to a craft store, and had a lot of fun.
Bring it on, Monday. Bring it on.
Let me elaborate.
I got cable TV. Need I say more? I'm now free to watch things like "40 Dumbest Celebrity Quotes EVER!!!!!!!" and waste my whole life watching Food TV.
I ate a tasty dinner. I cheffed deliciousness for me and the the DK.
I put on a dress and footless tights. Purple eyeshadow and faux-hawked my hair. I took a cab with Runjit.
I drank VERY cheap booze at the Common Share. I think I had a gasoline and Red Bull. Who can care?
I danced to much amazingness at Brit pop night at the Black Cat.
This is a big one. Brit pop night is SERIOUSLY one of my favorite things about living in Washington. For those of us working for geeky or wonky places, it's our answer to MisShapes and NYC style revelry. I've been going since I was in college, and there's nothing better than putting on a ridiculous outfit, getting a little loose, and dancing. But dancing in all ridiculousness. Thrashing of arms, flailing of limbs, wiggling of heads, stomping of feet, and general silliness.
I'm so sore today. It's like battle wounds of a good weekend. And all that interpretive dancing about swimming that Shifty and I did to Pulp blaring in the background makes a girl feel like she ran a marathon.
I dragged my ass home drunk on the metro and ate leftovers and animal crackers while gulping down water and watching food TV. I woke up at 6am with an infomercial on and I dragged myself to bed in my clothes from the couch in my clothes.
I woke up, miraculously not feeling the affects of any of my fun. I made coffee and bummed around my apartment. I watched Giada Bigface make some stuff. I caught up on the celebrity gossip. I got some phone calls.
Then Shifty and I and our S.O.'s went for dim sum. To Hollywood East Cafe. Far away, in Wheaton. I have never experienced such a delicious meal of dumplings, nor have I ever experienced an MSG high THAT HIGH. Everything we ate had pork and shrimp in it, and we giggled, drunk on sodium about the follies of the night before.
Then we got into the car.
And went to Michael's.
Swoon!
I'm either dreaming, or I've died and gone to heaven.
In the past 24 hours, I've eaten delicious things, drank some beers, danced my little heart out, went to a craft store, and had a lot of fun.
Bring it on, Monday. Bring it on.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Live blogging cable installation
1:00pm: my Comcast-given "window" begins. Any time now between 1 and 4pm a cable fairy will magically descend and let the food network come to my TV. I drool with anticipation (or was that the Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich?).
1:10pm: I fret. What if the cable guy doesn't know that there's no buzzer. What if I miss him? Should I write a sign? YES! A SIGN!
1:24pm. Write "Hello Comcast, I am so effing thrilled that you are coming so I can watch Paula Dean eat butter. call me! xxx-xxx. thanks!"
1:26pm: Realize that's abhorrently geeky. Change sign to "Comcast: please call xxx-xxxx. Thanks."
1:29pm: Can't find keys to go put sign outside. WHERE ARE THE KEYS? Under the bed? No. In hoodie? No. In door still? NO!?
1:37pm: Finally find keys. On table, in plain sight.
1:45pm: Decide to actually update blog. Write half a post about how I like some tunes and wish they'd be in a movie sometime. Some brief googling settles that. Who knew Grand National was on the Transporter 2 soundtrack? Delete post.
1:54: A CALL!
1:57pm: Charlie, the cable guy arrives. He's a nice enough fellow, calling me ma'am (which is totally freaky) and I try to make idle chatter with him but he'll have none of it. He is here to get in and get out. Knee pads and all.
1:59pm: Charlie realizes there is no cable jack. NONE. That he'll have to drill outside, through a lot of brick, by the window to get cable into my living room. Charlie almost doesn't believe me, he looks around for a cable jack that does not exist. Swears slightly under his breath. Takes apart my window and looks for the sea of other cables on the building. Finds them. Notes how far the box is away from my house.
2:01pm: Charlie sighs. Deeply.
2:05pm: I take Charlie downstairs through the laundry room. He inspects some wiring, and sighs again.
2:07pm: Charlie brings his truck around the back. I realize that the back alley was just repaved, so he cannot park right up against my building. Must park about 15 feet away. He carries heavy things to and fro while I fret about breaking apartment building rules, namely keeping the door open with a piece of wood, and letting him at least U-turn on the macadam.
2:11pm: Charlie starts drilling.
2:15pm: Charlie still drilling.
2:25pm: Sweet Jesus, poor Charlie! He's balanced perilously on a ladder and leaning into the drill with all of his might. He's drilling through a foot and a half of brick. He asks me if I could hand him his bag through the window.
2:26pm: I hand Charlie his bag and inspect the progress. He's halfway there. Apologize profusely to Charlie. Charlie shrugs. Charlie drills some more.
2:28pm: I have visions of my neighbors throwing darts at my picture; of them cursing my name. The noise is unreal. I have visions of Charlie, day dreaming about laying on the couch and watching football.
2:31pm: Charlie abandons drilling for hammering. Swears softly again. Hammering goes SUPER loudly. Take that, STOMPY!
2:34pm: Headache ensues. Embarrassment ensues. I hope no one has a migraine today. Or is home. It's too pretty a day to be inside anyway. Convince self that neighbors are not at home, but rather out in the world!
2:37pm: SUCCESS!!!!!! Sweet success!!!!!
2:41pm: Charlie gets the box and everything installed super fast. I offer him a glass of water and a banana, but he just goes for the water. I wish I had coffee, or a cheeseburger, or like, caviar for him.
2:42pm: Charlie calls up Comcast for the job and asks them to let the cable on through. Let it flow, baby, let it FLOW!
2:47pm: No cable. Charlie calls up Comcast again and is all "There's no juice!". Tina, on the other end of the phone sasses him. He tells her "C'mon boo-boo. Do your job now." I decide I like Charlie. He is sitting on a huge coil of cable sideways in the middle of my living room telling Tina about herself.
2:52pm. I handed Charlie a check, thanked him profusely, and am sitting on my ass watching Project Runway reruns.
There is a god.
1:10pm: I fret. What if the cable guy doesn't know that there's no buzzer. What if I miss him? Should I write a sign? YES! A SIGN!
1:24pm. Write "Hello Comcast, I am so effing thrilled that you are coming so I can watch Paula Dean eat butter. call me! xxx-xxx. thanks!"
1:26pm: Realize that's abhorrently geeky. Change sign to "Comcast: please call xxx-xxxx. Thanks."
1:29pm: Can't find keys to go put sign outside. WHERE ARE THE KEYS? Under the bed? No. In hoodie? No. In door still? NO!?
1:37pm: Finally find keys. On table, in plain sight.
1:45pm: Decide to actually update blog. Write half a post about how I like some tunes and wish they'd be in a movie sometime. Some brief googling settles that. Who knew Grand National was on the Transporter 2 soundtrack? Delete post.
1:54: A CALL!
1:57pm: Charlie, the cable guy arrives. He's a nice enough fellow, calling me ma'am (which is totally freaky) and I try to make idle chatter with him but he'll have none of it. He is here to get in and get out. Knee pads and all.
1:59pm: Charlie realizes there is no cable jack. NONE. That he'll have to drill outside, through a lot of brick, by the window to get cable into my living room. Charlie almost doesn't believe me, he looks around for a cable jack that does not exist. Swears slightly under his breath. Takes apart my window and looks for the sea of other cables on the building. Finds them. Notes how far the box is away from my house.
2:01pm: Charlie sighs. Deeply.
2:05pm: I take Charlie downstairs through the laundry room. He inspects some wiring, and sighs again.
2:07pm: Charlie brings his truck around the back. I realize that the back alley was just repaved, so he cannot park right up against my building. Must park about 15 feet away. He carries heavy things to and fro while I fret about breaking apartment building rules, namely keeping the door open with a piece of wood, and letting him at least U-turn on the macadam.
2:11pm: Charlie starts drilling.
2:15pm: Charlie still drilling.
2:25pm: Sweet Jesus, poor Charlie! He's balanced perilously on a ladder and leaning into the drill with all of his might. He's drilling through a foot and a half of brick. He asks me if I could hand him his bag through the window.
2:26pm: I hand Charlie his bag and inspect the progress. He's halfway there. Apologize profusely to Charlie. Charlie shrugs. Charlie drills some more.
2:28pm: I have visions of my neighbors throwing darts at my picture; of them cursing my name. The noise is unreal. I have visions of Charlie, day dreaming about laying on the couch and watching football.
2:31pm: Charlie abandons drilling for hammering. Swears softly again. Hammering goes SUPER loudly. Take that, STOMPY!
2:34pm: Headache ensues. Embarrassment ensues. I hope no one has a migraine today. Or is home. It's too pretty a day to be inside anyway. Convince self that neighbors are not at home, but rather out in the world!
2:37pm: SUCCESS!!!!!! Sweet success!!!!!
2:41pm: Charlie gets the box and everything installed super fast. I offer him a glass of water and a banana, but he just goes for the water. I wish I had coffee, or a cheeseburger, or like, caviar for him.
2:42pm: Charlie calls up Comcast for the job and asks them to let the cable on through. Let it flow, baby, let it FLOW!
2:47pm: No cable. Charlie calls up Comcast again and is all "There's no juice!". Tina, on the other end of the phone sasses him. He tells her "C'mon boo-boo. Do your job now." I decide I like Charlie. He is sitting on a huge coil of cable sideways in the middle of my living room telling Tina about herself.
2:52pm. I handed Charlie a check, thanked him profusely, and am sitting on my ass watching Project Runway reruns.
There is a god.
Monday, October 09, 2006
heffalumps and woozles
My upstairs neighbor is a force to be reckoned with.
I've had upstairs neighbors before. Loud ones. Upstairs neighbors who bounced basketballs at 7am and upstairs neighbors who, like Craig David, were Born to Do It.
But current upstairs neighbor takes the cake.
Let us call her Stompy.
I know it's a single female inhabitant. I know her name. I know she orders prints from snapfish.
I also know that she has a tendency to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, generally around 4am. She probably has gone to lots of concerts, because her TV is loud enough for the both of us to enjoy. I know she washes dishes only in the evenings, and she eats dinner roughly around 7. She wakes up, and probably goes to the gym, and then comes back and takes a shower. She wakes up before I do but leaves after, so that's the only guess I can properly make.
Doesn't that just make you feel uncomfortable?
It makes me uncomfortable that I know THAT much about her. It also makes me uncomfortable that I have to fill in the gaps in the story. I don't know her face, but I know how often she pees? Give me a break. Creepy! But, to my own defense, it fills the time while I'm staring at the ceiling laying in bed, swearing quietly to myself, wishing for her sudden purchase of thick, expensive wall to wall carpeting. There must be some good to this woman, though she stomps around mightily.
I imagine she's training injured elephants who have been shipped from Nepal who were mis-treated how to perform gallant tricks so that an organic, free-range circus can take them around the country and have them shake hands with disabled children. How can you hate an animal lover? An activist?
Maybe she has a life long dream of being in a revival of "42nd Street" and has been a self-taught tapdancer since the age of 7. She practices at night to keep her dreams alive and her apartment warm. At night she cries herself to sleep, but to dream of glimmering character shoes and bow-ties. That dream keeps her moving, and that moving keeps her going.
Or, she's plagued by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's ruined her life, and the only way she can cope properly is to rearrange the furniture on a daily basis. Her dining table has been in all possible corners and now is occasionally moved into the bedroom, just to shake it up a little. Her medication also gives her superhuman strength, so it's easy to lift those couches but her OCD makes it hard for her to select the proper locations.
She has 24-hour dance-a-thons for Easter Seals. Twice a week.
Perhaps she is a determined Catholic who wants to bring drifters back to the flock. She MUST know I gave Catholicism up for Lent in 2003, and has decided that the only way to get me back in touch with the Lord, is to irritate me to the brink of summoning Jesus, Mary and Joseph by name. Only after I take them in vain so many times will I properly feel Catholic-flavored guilt and repent. Become a nun. Decide that the noises from above are not from a neighbor, but from God himself. Give up sleep and food in favor of fasting and meditating upon said noise as divine intervention of syncopated footsteps and nonsensical creaking of floorboards as the modern burning bush.
Is a Republican and saw all my liberally-leaning mail and has decided to make me pay for my bleeding heart.
Is a Democrat and doesn't think I do enough for the cause. Isn't the relinquishing of my relationship until election day enough? Doesn't the DK do enough for the BOTH OF US?
Is Satan. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of silence. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.
Is Jake Gyllenhaal. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of self. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.
Is my mother, so she can guarantee that I can't sleep in.
(DCblogs, Express: kisses!!)
I've had upstairs neighbors before. Loud ones. Upstairs neighbors who bounced basketballs at 7am and upstairs neighbors who, like Craig David, were Born to Do It.
But current upstairs neighbor takes the cake.
Let us call her Stompy.
I know it's a single female inhabitant. I know her name. I know she orders prints from snapfish.
I also know that she has a tendency to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, generally around 4am. She probably has gone to lots of concerts, because her TV is loud enough for the both of us to enjoy. I know she washes dishes only in the evenings, and she eats dinner roughly around 7. She wakes up, and probably goes to the gym, and then comes back and takes a shower. She wakes up before I do but leaves after, so that's the only guess I can properly make.
Doesn't that just make you feel uncomfortable?
It makes me uncomfortable that I know THAT much about her. It also makes me uncomfortable that I have to fill in the gaps in the story. I don't know her face, but I know how often she pees? Give me a break. Creepy! But, to my own defense, it fills the time while I'm staring at the ceiling laying in bed, swearing quietly to myself, wishing for her sudden purchase of thick, expensive wall to wall carpeting. There must be some good to this woman, though she stomps around mightily.
I imagine she's training injured elephants who have been shipped from Nepal who were mis-treated how to perform gallant tricks so that an organic, free-range circus can take them around the country and have them shake hands with disabled children. How can you hate an animal lover? An activist?
Maybe she has a life long dream of being in a revival of "42nd Street" and has been a self-taught tapdancer since the age of 7. She practices at night to keep her dreams alive and her apartment warm. At night she cries herself to sleep, but to dream of glimmering character shoes and bow-ties. That dream keeps her moving, and that moving keeps her going.
Or, she's plagued by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's ruined her life, and the only way she can cope properly is to rearrange the furniture on a daily basis. Her dining table has been in all possible corners and now is occasionally moved into the bedroom, just to shake it up a little. Her medication also gives her superhuman strength, so it's easy to lift those couches but her OCD makes it hard for her to select the proper locations.
She has 24-hour dance-a-thons for Easter Seals. Twice a week.
Perhaps she is a determined Catholic who wants to bring drifters back to the flock. She MUST know I gave Catholicism up for Lent in 2003, and has decided that the only way to get me back in touch with the Lord, is to irritate me to the brink of summoning Jesus, Mary and Joseph by name. Only after I take them in vain so many times will I properly feel Catholic-flavored guilt and repent. Become a nun. Decide that the noises from above are not from a neighbor, but from God himself. Give up sleep and food in favor of fasting and meditating upon said noise as divine intervention of syncopated footsteps and nonsensical creaking of floorboards as the modern burning bush.
Is a Republican and saw all my liberally-leaning mail and has decided to make me pay for my bleeding heart.
Is a Democrat and doesn't think I do enough for the cause. Isn't the relinquishing of my relationship until election day enough? Doesn't the DK do enough for the BOTH OF US?
Is Satan. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of silence. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.
Is Jake Gyllenhaal. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of self. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.
Is my mother, so she can guarantee that I can't sleep in.
(DCblogs, Express: kisses!!)
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The first words spoken to me today by a living, breathing person were:
"Thank you, ladies back there for waiting patiently for the light to change, unlike THIS young lady who seems to be in a hurry!"
Gee, thanks crotchety capitol police officer, for pointing that out. You are TOTALLY right.
I was impatient.
I was in a hurry.
Haven't you ever, dear capitol police officer, ever woken up late?
I woke up at 7. I hit snooze many times. I woke up at 8:05 in a blind panic, because I had 25 minutes to be on time. Ok, not like I am EVER on time, but it's a jolt into your day.
So I hustled. I chugged my coffee. I skipped eyeliner (short hair = I've taken to wearing actual make-up, instead of just my standard blush/chapstick/one swipe of cream eyeshadow former technique).
I ran out the door, at 8:27, resigned to being late, but doing my best to be as LEAST late as possible.
I show up at your fine intersection of 1st and C, SE on my way to the subway. It's a very nice intersection. Sometimes there are cars. Sometimes, like this morning, there are not. I hustled along, minding my own business, until you pointed out my haste.
I contined on, rolling my eyes into my sunglasses right past you.
This made me huffy, because:
1.) I am not very good at being "in trouble". I obey rules (minus WRONG rules, like say, not being allowed to wear white after Labor day and no jaywalking when NO TRAFFIC IS PRESENT). I have never gotten a ticket, and I buckle my safety belt. I send thank you cards, and pay bills on time. Don't go against my grain here and point out how I am DISOBEYING. Because the light turned green JUST as I had taken my third step, and also you are a capitol police officer. You got right in my face and wiggled around like a good, topical political joke (ps isn't it like, DC martial law to make Mark Foley jokes? The ones I loved, which are hilarious, can be found here).
2.) I am an aggressive pedestrian.
I have no patience for people who have a comfortable, cushy drive from their mansion in McLean. I haul ASS to work and sweat on the subway and freeze while I wait for the bus. I am an urban scurrying machine. I don't appreciate being called out on being a good urban citizen. Guess what? I don't pollute as I stroll. Lay off.
I bet as your precious and rightful cars roll by you don't yell, "Thank you, kind pedestrians, this big ass-hat over here in the VE-HIC-LE had to just push on through because SOMEONE needs to get onto 66 while the HOV lanes are still open".
Doubtful.
I hear you yell at everyone in this fashion, congress-people and tourists alike. I suppose this is a good "welcome to the neighborhood" moment, because I will continue to cross against that red light to Capitol South if I am in a hurry and no cars are coming. And if you continue, I'll start yelling back.
But only in my head, because I am a giant wussy rule-follower.
Gee, thanks crotchety capitol police officer, for pointing that out. You are TOTALLY right.
I was impatient.
I was in a hurry.
Haven't you ever, dear capitol police officer, ever woken up late?
I woke up at 7. I hit snooze many times. I woke up at 8:05 in a blind panic, because I had 25 minutes to be on time. Ok, not like I am EVER on time, but it's a jolt into your day.
So I hustled. I chugged my coffee. I skipped eyeliner (short hair = I've taken to wearing actual make-up, instead of just my standard blush/chapstick/one swipe of cream eyeshadow former technique).
I ran out the door, at 8:27, resigned to being late, but doing my best to be as LEAST late as possible.
I show up at your fine intersection of 1st and C, SE on my way to the subway. It's a very nice intersection. Sometimes there are cars. Sometimes, like this morning, there are not. I hustled along, minding my own business, until you pointed out my haste.
I contined on, rolling my eyes into my sunglasses right past you.
This made me huffy, because:
1.) I am not very good at being "in trouble". I obey rules (minus WRONG rules, like say, not being allowed to wear white after Labor day and no jaywalking when NO TRAFFIC IS PRESENT). I have never gotten a ticket, and I buckle my safety belt. I send thank you cards, and pay bills on time. Don't go against my grain here and point out how I am DISOBEYING. Because the light turned green JUST as I had taken my third step, and also you are a capitol police officer. You got right in my face and wiggled around like a good, topical political joke (ps isn't it like, DC martial law to make Mark Foley jokes? The ones I loved, which are hilarious, can be found here).
2.) I am an aggressive pedestrian.
I have no patience for people who have a comfortable, cushy drive from their mansion in McLean. I haul ASS to work and sweat on the subway and freeze while I wait for the bus. I am an urban scurrying machine. I don't appreciate being called out on being a good urban citizen. Guess what? I don't pollute as I stroll. Lay off.
I bet as your precious and rightful cars roll by you don't yell, "Thank you, kind pedestrians, this big ass-hat over here in the VE-HIC-LE had to just push on through because SOMEONE needs to get onto 66 while the HOV lanes are still open".
Doubtful.
I hear you yell at everyone in this fashion, congress-people and tourists alike. I suppose this is a good "welcome to the neighborhood" moment, because I will continue to cross against that red light to Capitol South if I am in a hurry and no cars are coming. And if you continue, I'll start yelling back.
But only in my head, because I am a giant wussy rule-follower.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Per usual
When I need sleep the most, sleep won't come.
I got in bed at 10:45, thinking I could finish my book and roll over only to wake up at 3am all groggy-like to turn out the light and re-locate a soft thing to hug to lull me back to sleep. A penguin or panda, whichever.
The book I just finished, The Flight from the Enchanter was a fine read up until the last 50 pages. The last fifty pages were not magnificent. They made me angry a little.
After I had finished the book, I was a little like "hmmm, clumsy ending-- a bit freaky, though".
And then anger turned to all out, ridiculous, un-prompted new-house-what's-that-creaky-noise fear. A noise I could not blame on my intrusively loud upstairs neighbor
And then my tightly shut bedroom door pops open.
And now I'm sitting in my living room with all the lights on watching David Gregory booty dance on Conan O'Brien to some Chris Brown. Didn't he already do that?
You know you're home when you're scared in your house for the first time for absolutely NO REASON.
I just can't tell if it was the sight of the booty dancing or the book that has caused me to be awake this late AGAIN after being exhausted all day. And still, with the extreme tiredness. But the lack of sleeping.
:::sigh:::
I got in bed at 10:45, thinking I could finish my book and roll over only to wake up at 3am all groggy-like to turn out the light and re-locate a soft thing to hug to lull me back to sleep. A penguin or panda, whichever.
The book I just finished, The Flight from the Enchanter was a fine read up until the last 50 pages. The last fifty pages were not magnificent. They made me angry a little.
After I had finished the book, I was a little like "hmmm, clumsy ending-- a bit freaky, though".
And then anger turned to all out, ridiculous, un-prompted new-house-what's-that-creaky-noise fear. A noise I could not blame on my intrusively loud upstairs neighbor
And then my tightly shut bedroom door pops open.
And now I'm sitting in my living room with all the lights on watching David Gregory booty dance on Conan O'Brien to some Chris Brown. Didn't he already do that?
You know you're home when you're scared in your house for the first time for absolutely NO REASON.
I just can't tell if it was the sight of the booty dancing or the book that has caused me to be awake this late AGAIN after being exhausted all day. And still, with the extreme tiredness. But the lack of sleeping.
:::sigh:::
Monday, September 25, 2006
Double your pleasure, double your fun
I just got back from work.
Not day job, which I do not write about on the internet. (Haven't we all learned that lesson by now?)
OTHER JOB. Which I will.
Other job involves me wearing a very unattractive suit that would melt if lit on fire and which makes a rustling sound that makes a girl feel as unattractive as it gets. The pants are tapered, the jacket has shoulder pads are too boxy, and the shoes like that of your dippy middle school English teacher who liked sensible shoes with long flowy skirts. The pockets in the blazer are long but not deep, which doesn't make carrying a lot of necessities a good option unless you like to rock a mean cellphone bulge. The button-down shirt is tight around your neck neck and short at your sleeves. There is ring-around-the-collar on it like you wouldn't believe. No matter the amount of bleaching I put forth, it's still 3 years of sweat.
Catering is a serious business.
There are people who take it as such. People who get into the power of telling hundreds of lemmings (many of whom are college students) where to go, what to do and "HUSTLE". They know the way to lay the knives just so, that your way which was .5 millimeters off is just SO WRONG. They walk faster than you and heave deep sighs when you might not jump when told.
There are people who do this on the side of day jobs, because those jobs don't pay them enough money. There are two types of those people.
1.) young people who work for non-profits or are just starting out in the workforce and don't have much money. Apartments and beer and clothes not from H&M sometimes need to be paid for, but not when you make a laughably low starting salarty.
2.) people who don't understand why you would pass up the opportunity to make more money pretty easily (you carry things, walk around, get fed, clean up and go home). Many of these people were born outside the US and cannot believe EVERYONE doesn't hand people plates of food for $17 an hour. In some of these peoples' faces, is where you see the most gratitude for living in America.
There are other people who do it because friends of theirs do it, and why not get paid a very decent hourly wage to whisper your gossip into their ear than yell across a smoky bar.
There are people who do it because they are newly 21, and need to fuel their new relationship with alcohol now that they are finally out and proud.
And then there are people like me. Who just spent an irratingly high amount of money at Ikea and who might have to buy some leopard print new shoes. I have money in my budget for things, but not for EXTRA things. I spent all my recent savings on Gilbert chairs and Expedit shelves. C'est la vie when you move.
I've had this job since 2004 on the sly. It's always been good to me. It's there when I want it, ignorable when I don't. Tonight was one of a handful of "mandatory" dates. I went, begrudgingly.
Now there are a handful of people I enjoy seeing there, and our numbers are dwindling because people move on. It was more fun in the past when my roommates in college and I did it together. Out of 4 of us, someone was usually working with you, and it was fun to unwind together after being on our feet unaccustomed to that much action.
That is the main drawback. When you get home, it's impossible to shift modes. You just carried plates and trays and tables and chairs for hours. Always more than 4, never more than 12 hours at a time. Your hands hurt from heavy decorative plates topped with delicate china, and having to pinch them so other people can grab them from your shaking hands while balancing a handful of silverware and being told to smile. Your back hurts from lifting things; your shoulder blades from picking up trash and your lower back from picking up heavy boxes. Your legs hurt from walking so swiftly around people milling about, eager to catch a glimpse of DC celebrities and show of their biggest diamonds and smallest appetite. Your feet hurt because your heinous shoes cost $12.99 at Payless in 2004 and you are too stubborn to buy new ones.
Your pride hurts, just a wee bit, because you still need that second job.
I don't know when I can get rid of it exactly. The money is too good and too necessary. I have student loans and expensive taste. That's a dangerous combination.
Much like being very awake at 2am on a Sunday, with your feet in a tub of hot water and two advil swimming in your stomach.
On the upside, they usually let us take home the flowers.
Not day job, which I do not write about on the internet. (Haven't we all learned that lesson by now?)
OTHER JOB. Which I will.
Other job involves me wearing a very unattractive suit that would melt if lit on fire and which makes a rustling sound that makes a girl feel as unattractive as it gets. The pants are tapered, the jacket has shoulder pads are too boxy, and the shoes like that of your dippy middle school English teacher who liked sensible shoes with long flowy skirts. The pockets in the blazer are long but not deep, which doesn't make carrying a lot of necessities a good option unless you like to rock a mean cellphone bulge. The button-down shirt is tight around your neck neck and short at your sleeves. There is ring-around-the-collar on it like you wouldn't believe. No matter the amount of bleaching I put forth, it's still 3 years of sweat.
Catering is a serious business.
There are people who take it as such. People who get into the power of telling hundreds of lemmings (many of whom are college students) where to go, what to do and "HUSTLE". They know the way to lay the knives just so, that your way which was .5 millimeters off is just SO WRONG. They walk faster than you and heave deep sighs when you might not jump when told.
There are people who do this on the side of day jobs, because those jobs don't pay them enough money. There are two types of those people.
1.) young people who work for non-profits or are just starting out in the workforce and don't have much money. Apartments and beer and clothes not from H&M sometimes need to be paid for, but not when you make a laughably low starting salarty.
2.) people who don't understand why you would pass up the opportunity to make more money pretty easily (you carry things, walk around, get fed, clean up and go home). Many of these people were born outside the US and cannot believe EVERYONE doesn't hand people plates of food for $17 an hour. In some of these peoples' faces, is where you see the most gratitude for living in America.
There are other people who do it because friends of theirs do it, and why not get paid a very decent hourly wage to whisper your gossip into their ear than yell across a smoky bar.
There are people who do it because they are newly 21, and need to fuel their new relationship with alcohol now that they are finally out and proud.
And then there are people like me. Who just spent an irratingly high amount of money at Ikea and who might have to buy some leopard print new shoes. I have money in my budget for things, but not for EXTRA things. I spent all my recent savings on Gilbert chairs and Expedit shelves. C'est la vie when you move.
I've had this job since 2004 on the sly. It's always been good to me. It's there when I want it, ignorable when I don't. Tonight was one of a handful of "mandatory" dates. I went, begrudgingly.
Now there are a handful of people I enjoy seeing there, and our numbers are dwindling because people move on. It was more fun in the past when my roommates in college and I did it together. Out of 4 of us, someone was usually working with you, and it was fun to unwind together after being on our feet unaccustomed to that much action.
That is the main drawback. When you get home, it's impossible to shift modes. You just carried plates and trays and tables and chairs for hours. Always more than 4, never more than 12 hours at a time. Your hands hurt from heavy decorative plates topped with delicate china, and having to pinch them so other people can grab them from your shaking hands while balancing a handful of silverware and being told to smile. Your back hurts from lifting things; your shoulder blades from picking up trash and your lower back from picking up heavy boxes. Your legs hurt from walking so swiftly around people milling about, eager to catch a glimpse of DC celebrities and show of their biggest diamonds and smallest appetite. Your feet hurt because your heinous shoes cost $12.99 at Payless in 2004 and you are too stubborn to buy new ones.
Your pride hurts, just a wee bit, because you still need that second job.
I don't know when I can get rid of it exactly. The money is too good and too necessary. I have student loans and expensive taste. That's a dangerous combination.
Much like being very awake at 2am on a Sunday, with your feet in a tub of hot water and two advil swimming in your stomach.
On the upside, they usually let us take home the flowers.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Heaven is your boyfriend asking you...
"so, I really need to get my roommate to drive me to Michael's. You should come!"
SWOON!
SERIOUSLY!
There's nothing I like more than some craftiness. This whole lil blog here was for me to take pictures of my knitting and show them to my friends. I had fooled myself into pretending that people were interested in my fibrous habits. I had also fooled myself into thinking that I have THAT MUCH TIME on my hands to do enough knitting to show people things so that I'm updating my blog with the due tenderness it deserves.
Now that I live much closer to a kickin' yarn shop, and the temperatures are falling, I AM interested in getting into the cozy crafting. I'm totally into watching TV with a glass of wine with my needles clicking. It's the best 'me time' a girl could ask for.
So, of course, when your boyfriend needs to get some matting for a print he'd like to frame, those eternal words just made me swoon with delight. OF COURSE, I would LOVE for you to talk your dear roommate into driving out to Falls Church so I can tag along and buy yarn and buttons and beads and JOY!
I feel like that was a big moment in our relationship. A first date. A first kiss. THE TIME HE ASKS YOU TO ACCOMPANY HIM TO A CRAFT STORE. IN HIS OWN RIGHT AND SOBER MIND.
I think this all comes down to a repayment of karma for the World Cup. Because that wasn't fair, not having a boyfriend for that long. He just bowed out of all boyfriend duties because there was a ball to kick. I may have watched some matches because, HELLO, THERE ARE SOME GLUTES ON THOSE BOYS. But otherwise, no thanks.
So please, karma gods. Allow his roommate to not think he's lost his mind, or that I had a hand in persuading two boys to take me to a craft warehouse so that I might skip gleefully through its aisles of fake flowers, embroidery thread and paintbrushes. So I can run my hands over every skein of yarn, every pad of paper and every ream of fabric. It's my own version of being Veruca Salt, skipping in a red dress and tights throughout a craft store, touching everything and wishing for it all to be mine. Only I would be a teensy bit more polite, and probably not demand that my parents buy it all for me. But still.
Do not take this moment away from me.
It just wouldn't be fair.
SWOON!
SERIOUSLY!
There's nothing I like more than some craftiness. This whole lil blog here was for me to take pictures of my knitting and show them to my friends. I had fooled myself into pretending that people were interested in my fibrous habits. I had also fooled myself into thinking that I have THAT MUCH TIME on my hands to do enough knitting to show people things so that I'm updating my blog with the due tenderness it deserves.
Now that I live much closer to a kickin' yarn shop, and the temperatures are falling, I AM interested in getting into the cozy crafting. I'm totally into watching TV with a glass of wine with my needles clicking. It's the best 'me time' a girl could ask for.
So, of course, when your boyfriend needs to get some matting for a print he'd like to frame, those eternal words just made me swoon with delight. OF COURSE, I would LOVE for you to talk your dear roommate into driving out to Falls Church so I can tag along and buy yarn and buttons and beads and JOY!
I feel like that was a big moment in our relationship. A first date. A first kiss. THE TIME HE ASKS YOU TO ACCOMPANY HIM TO A CRAFT STORE. IN HIS OWN RIGHT AND SOBER MIND.
I think this all comes down to a repayment of karma for the World Cup. Because that wasn't fair, not having a boyfriend for that long. He just bowed out of all boyfriend duties because there was a ball to kick. I may have watched some matches because, HELLO, THERE ARE SOME GLUTES ON THOSE BOYS. But otherwise, no thanks.
So please, karma gods. Allow his roommate to not think he's lost his mind, or that I had a hand in persuading two boys to take me to a craft warehouse so that I might skip gleefully through its aisles of fake flowers, embroidery thread and paintbrushes. So I can run my hands over every skein of yarn, every pad of paper and every ream of fabric. It's my own version of being Veruca Salt, skipping in a red dress and tights throughout a craft store, touching everything and wishing for it all to be mine. Only I would be a teensy bit more polite, and probably not demand that my parents buy it all for me. But still.
Do not take this moment away from me.
It just wouldn't be fair.
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