- Arriving home to find a wicker basket wrought with pink ribbon full of soft, wriggling, white puppies on my doorstep (for me to keep and be nice to, don't get any awful ideas).
- Singing karaoke (current song idea: "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse, past songs include "Stolen Car" by Beth Orton) only to be discovered by record company and brought to fame, fortune, and total skinniness.
- Turning my knitting habit into some sort of arts and crafts themed bar/bookstore on H street with a greeny-blue decor, hodge-podge tables and hilarious drinks.
- Meeting a celebrity while riding public transportation (movie star/ musician preferred) and having them be instantly charmed by me, but sweetly decline because i have a "boyfriend".
- Starring in MTV faux-reality show about being self indulgent, the trials and tribulations of living in a warm place, being thin, and surviving.
- Like Marge Simpson, I close my eyes and think of items I'd like to purchase.
- Dream up situations where the offender finds me walking down the street with a single perfect tear rolling down my cheek and suddenly realizes how awful it is to wrong someone so attractive, and then something dramatic happens (catch up with me with a "Breakfast at Tiffany's" style kiss in the rain, apologize profusely and hands me a large check, tells me I won the lottery, has pizza, etc.)
Friday, March 23, 2007
Since I've become a whiney asshole
Here is a list of day dreams I play out in my head when I am upset.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
it's in the air.
As a Taurus, it's in my nature to stand at an impasse with my arms folded and bottom lip out refusing to budge. I am completely resistant to change. I am the champion of the way things were.
Even when I left my old terrible job, I felt guilty somehow that I was letting them down for leaving and thought about changing my mind. Just to keep things the same.
I moved to a new neighborhood. It's a very nice neighborhood and I like living on the Hill in its own right, but the 42 bus doesn't go here. I used to live and die by the 42 bus. The orange and blue lines are somehow not as successful a lifeline. The 42 always took me to happy places with butterflies in my stomach. Now I long for those days before the butterflies turned to wasps.
I complained about my stompy upstairs neighbor. I bemoaned her awfulness to everyone and anyone. But now that things are too quiet for me to bear, I sort of wish for her squeaky, thunderous warning signals that someone else was here, living and breathing right above me, so I wasn't completely alone. Just quiet in my own little box of an apartment and she (less quiet) in hers.
I miss the whizzing mechanical hum of stability. Right now everything could change, and I don't know how else to kick and scream and say NO. I am fighting for last week, last month, last year. If I could frame my pace before any missteps I would. I saved pieces of paper documenting what last felt normal. People can't leave. People can't give up. People can't die. People can't change. That much. Time is so short yet so slow. How do people reconcile?
Because I can't. I can't even deal with how I rearranged my refrigerator for Christ's sake. I've been growing out this damned pixie cut for months and I'm sort of grateful you can't really tell.
But all around me it's looming large. Faces are in my head of people who are gone, and people who might be next. People who are shrugging their shoulders and threatening to go, and people whose shoulders are bent from hanging on.
And I'm just sort of here, with my arms folded waiting for the hubbub to die down before I try and put things back where they belong. Asking me to change against my will is difficult. I never go down without a fight. It's in my nature to ride out storms with my chest puffed out for what I want.
The trouble is other people. And what they want.
Even when I left my old terrible job, I felt guilty somehow that I was letting them down for leaving and thought about changing my mind. Just to keep things the same.
I moved to a new neighborhood. It's a very nice neighborhood and I like living on the Hill in its own right, but the 42 bus doesn't go here. I used to live and die by the 42 bus. The orange and blue lines are somehow not as successful a lifeline. The 42 always took me to happy places with butterflies in my stomach. Now I long for those days before the butterflies turned to wasps.
I complained about my stompy upstairs neighbor. I bemoaned her awfulness to everyone and anyone. But now that things are too quiet for me to bear, I sort of wish for her squeaky, thunderous warning signals that someone else was here, living and breathing right above me, so I wasn't completely alone. Just quiet in my own little box of an apartment and she (less quiet) in hers.
I miss the whizzing mechanical hum of stability. Right now everything could change, and I don't know how else to kick and scream and say NO. I am fighting for last week, last month, last year. If I could frame my pace before any missteps I would. I saved pieces of paper documenting what last felt normal. People can't leave. People can't give up. People can't die. People can't change. That much. Time is so short yet so slow. How do people reconcile?
Because I can't. I can't even deal with how I rearranged my refrigerator for Christ's sake. I've been growing out this damned pixie cut for months and I'm sort of grateful you can't really tell.
But all around me it's looming large. Faces are in my head of people who are gone, and people who might be next. People who are shrugging their shoulders and threatening to go, and people whose shoulders are bent from hanging on.
And I'm just sort of here, with my arms folded waiting for the hubbub to die down before I try and put things back where they belong. Asking me to change against my will is difficult. I never go down without a fight. It's in my nature to ride out storms with my chest puffed out for what I want.
The trouble is other people. And what they want.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
My pride, served on a silver platter
Today at Trader Joe's, I got carded buying Two-Buck-Chuck. I handed over my license to the fellow ringing me up, and after taking one look, he told me, "Huh. I used to work in Devon". And thus, we begin to shoot the Pennsylvania shit.
It's a game I like playing.
He grew up in Norristown, where half of my delightful Italian molto mafioso family lives. He knew the ancient department store where my grandmother would take us shopping. He knew the random bar across the street from her house. He knew the zoo, and the slightly creepy Christophe Columbus memorial my great Uncle Frankie helped fund. It was a pleasant, breezy conversation.
And then he said:
"So why don't you have a DC license?"
I just don't. This is something I have often wondered about. I move around a lot here. Apartment to apartment, job to job-- it just doesn't make sense. I'm 24. Pennsylvania is still "home".
So I told him, "Well-- I went to GW, and now I work around the corner, so I guess I just never really left." Which sort of hung in the air. Bitter, almost. Without intentionally meaning to sound anything specific, out of my mouth came bitter.
I've lived here for seven years and everything is a bit the same, though at least now I live in a different quadrant. Not that the same, is bad. But it's the SAME. I've spent my days in Foggy Bottom on and off for 5 of those years. I take the same subway. I wear the same clothes. I have a lot of the same friends. The only passage of time is the length of my hair and the addition of shoes.
Check-out guy said, "Oh. Wow. You must like it here, then."
I said "yeah" and heaved my backpack over my shoulder and carried out my things. At least this city has water ice now. A transplant of my breed needs water ice to live, since we don't have acceptable substitutes like New York's Tasty Delite. (Or a FREAKING Wawa. What I wouldn't do for a Wawa hoagie sometimes.)
I walked up Pennsylvania Avenue, thinking about the interaction. What a pleasant fellow. I wonder which high school he went to? I wonder if he knows that the Dunkin' Donuts at the corner by my aunt's house on the main thoroughfare is being rebuilt. Did he also see movies in high school at the Oaks 10 theater when it was still new and big before the King of Prussia 16 moved in?
Walking along, eager to taste my TJ's treats, I opened a bag of pretzels and took a handful, pleased with myself, and began to munch. I am easy to talk to! I bought healthy things! I had a breezy conversation with someone from back home. Water ice! Zeps! Steak sandwiches! Valley Forge Park! South Street!
And then, reality smacked me in the face.
And by reality, I mean the cold, hard pavement, because I had lost my backpack-heavy, high-heel wearing balance and had fallen flat on my face.
I laid there sprawled out on the concrete, my weeks' worth of groceries heavy on my back and my one grocery bag tossed a foot ahead of me on the sidewalk. I lifted my cheek from the ground, rubbed my fingers against my scraped palms, and began to cry in a way where you are trying REALLY hard not to be that crazy girl with a backpack laying face down on the sidewalk, but what can you do? You look crazy, and for the moment you are. My ankle hurt. My knee is bleeding. I had hit my head and my hands were scraped.
I felt like I was down for an hour, but it was probably about 20 seconds. I pulled myself up and reached out for my bag. A passer-by asked me if I was ok, and I nodded with my eyes closed in embarrassment and lips pursed in anger with tears rolling down my cheeks.
It took the walk to Foggy Bottom to calm myself down. So then, I suppose, I was the crazy girl walking and crying with bags. Like walking with tons of bags and crying isn't just CODE RED for crazy.
I can't tell if I was in shock about the fall and the throbbing of my knees and ankle, or whether or not it was the stark realization that sometimes I still feel like my lost 18-year-old self; standing on a corner in Foggy Bottom wondering if this was, in fact, the right place.
It's a game I like playing.
He grew up in Norristown, where half of my delightful Italian molto mafioso family lives. He knew the ancient department store where my grandmother would take us shopping. He knew the random bar across the street from her house. He knew the zoo, and the slightly creepy Christophe Columbus memorial my great Uncle Frankie helped fund. It was a pleasant, breezy conversation.
And then he said:
"So why don't you have a DC license?"
I just don't. This is something I have often wondered about. I move around a lot here. Apartment to apartment, job to job-- it just doesn't make sense. I'm 24. Pennsylvania is still "home".
So I told him, "Well-- I went to GW, and now I work around the corner, so I guess I just never really left." Which sort of hung in the air. Bitter, almost. Without intentionally meaning to sound anything specific, out of my mouth came bitter.
I've lived here for seven years and everything is a bit the same, though at least now I live in a different quadrant. Not that the same, is bad. But it's the SAME. I've spent my days in Foggy Bottom on and off for 5 of those years. I take the same subway. I wear the same clothes. I have a lot of the same friends. The only passage of time is the length of my hair and the addition of shoes.
Check-out guy said, "Oh. Wow. You must like it here, then."
I said "yeah" and heaved my backpack over my shoulder and carried out my things. At least this city has water ice now. A transplant of my breed needs water ice to live, since we don't have acceptable substitutes like New York's Tasty Delite. (Or a FREAKING Wawa. What I wouldn't do for a Wawa hoagie sometimes.)
I walked up Pennsylvania Avenue, thinking about the interaction. What a pleasant fellow. I wonder which high school he went to? I wonder if he knows that the Dunkin' Donuts at the corner by my aunt's house on the main thoroughfare is being rebuilt. Did he also see movies in high school at the Oaks 10 theater when it was still new and big before the King of Prussia 16 moved in?
Walking along, eager to taste my TJ's treats, I opened a bag of pretzels and took a handful, pleased with myself, and began to munch. I am easy to talk to! I bought healthy things! I had a breezy conversation with someone from back home. Water ice! Zeps! Steak sandwiches! Valley Forge Park! South Street!
And then, reality smacked me in the face.
And by reality, I mean the cold, hard pavement, because I had lost my backpack-heavy, high-heel wearing balance and had fallen flat on my face.
I laid there sprawled out on the concrete, my weeks' worth of groceries heavy on my back and my one grocery bag tossed a foot ahead of me on the sidewalk. I lifted my cheek from the ground, rubbed my fingers against my scraped palms, and began to cry in a way where you are trying REALLY hard not to be that crazy girl with a backpack laying face down on the sidewalk, but what can you do? You look crazy, and for the moment you are. My ankle hurt. My knee is bleeding. I had hit my head and my hands were scraped.
I felt like I was down for an hour, but it was probably about 20 seconds. I pulled myself up and reached out for my bag. A passer-by asked me if I was ok, and I nodded with my eyes closed in embarrassment and lips pursed in anger with tears rolling down my cheeks.
It took the walk to Foggy Bottom to calm myself down. So then, I suppose, I was the crazy girl walking and crying with bags. Like walking with tons of bags and crying isn't just CODE RED for crazy.
I can't tell if I was in shock about the fall and the throbbing of my knees and ankle, or whether or not it was the stark realization that sometimes I still feel like my lost 18-year-old self; standing on a corner in Foggy Bottom wondering if this was, in fact, the right place.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Selected Haikus on the Oscars
Jennifer Hudson
the new "it" girl for the year,
minus that jacket.
Oh Jessica Biel,
Wearing a belt, but no bra--
I know of your kind.
So, Pan's Labyrinth
You were so brilliant, yet I
still sleep with lights on.
Nicole and Gwenyth,
Have you heard of "Locks for Love?"
Ample for ten kids.
You, Ryan Seacrest--
I'll double what they pay you,
If you just shut up.
Penelope Cruz,
Wrongfully a Mexican
For five full minutes.
Abigail Breslin
Secretly, I wish you won.
Over-achiever.
Ms. DeGeneres,
Infinitely better than,
Yup-- Billy Crystal.
Beyonce, diva--
you want to cut Jennifer,
Shameless fake smile.
Oh my dear Leo,
From under what rock do you
Crawl looking so fine.
Al Gore wins cool points.
You don't see Dan Quayle here,
That couch potato(e).
the new "it" girl for the year,
minus that jacket.
Oh Jessica Biel,
Wearing a belt, but no bra--
I know of your kind.
So, Pan's Labyrinth
You were so brilliant, yet I
still sleep with lights on.
Nicole and Gwenyth,
Have you heard of "Locks for Love?"
Ample for ten kids.
You, Ryan Seacrest--
I'll double what they pay you,
If you just shut up.
Penelope Cruz,
Wrongfully a Mexican
For five full minutes.
Abigail Breslin
Secretly, I wish you won.
Over-achiever.
Ms. DeGeneres,
Infinitely better than,
Yup-- Billy Crystal.
Beyonce, diva--
you want to cut Jennifer,
Shameless fake smile.
Oh my dear Leo,
From under what rock do you
Crawl looking so fine.
Al Gore wins cool points.
You don't see Dan Quayle here,
That couch potato(e).
Monday, February 19, 2007
Done. With. It.
Right now is one of those times where I hold up the white flag. This is me surrendering, people.
I, Katastrophe, am not cut out for apartment living. I am just not.
Upstairs neighbor (remember her?) is HAMMERING THE FLOOR. HAMMERING THE F-ING FLOOR. In my day dream, it's called "securing your new THICK, THICK wall-to-wall carpeting that will block your stomp foots and your boyfriend's vocal boom" but I doubt that is true. She's probably doing it just to be irritating because I've complained about her behavior and she's been gone for the weekend so she has to get her digs in. But seriously-- it's not human to wear high heels and clomp around your not-so-carpeted-should-be-carpeted bedroom floor at 6am. It is not human to listen to your TV that high or to let (make?) your linebacker-who-let-himself-go boyfriend stay over every freaking night. Doesn't that stort of immature bad girlfriend behavior fade when you start getting wrinkles?
Outside, in the back of the building (which my bedroom faces) the owner of the building is ice-picking the parking lot free from its wintry tyranny.
Inside the lobby (right outside my front door) the landlady is vacuuming, making sure to bump into all the corners that she can.
It's been like this since 10am.
Is it impossible to have a QUIET apartment and not pay 1600 for a one bedroom? A federal holiday is a precious thing, and I'm wasting it sitting around thinking about how MAD I AM. It's not like I don't pay a pretty decent amount of money for this place. I know some of that is being on the first floor-- but I am just losing it here, and I am not an angry person. I am mad at being mad.
My man-friend has never had a loud apartment. Yeah there was street noise, but that doesn't bother me as much. He never hears a peep from anyone else ANYWHERE. But he always lives somewhere swank and shares the place with a friend. I'm trying to afford my own space, and my budget is different.
Tell me of apartments available on the Hill, because complaining a lot often gets you out of leases. Tell me of how I can get this stompy fool to move out. Tell me how you cope with this, because all my own answers are falling short and I am about two weeks away from hammering my ceiling back and starting a serious war, instead of going through management and trying to be polite.
Being nice only gets you so far.
I, Katastrophe, am not cut out for apartment living. I am just not.
Upstairs neighbor (remember her?) is HAMMERING THE FLOOR. HAMMERING THE F-ING FLOOR. In my day dream, it's called "securing your new THICK, THICK wall-to-wall carpeting that will block your stomp foots and your boyfriend's vocal boom" but I doubt that is true. She's probably doing it just to be irritating because I've complained about her behavior and she's been gone for the weekend so she has to get her digs in. But seriously-- it's not human to wear high heels and clomp around your not-so-carpeted-should-be-carpeted bedroom floor at 6am. It is not human to listen to your TV that high or to let (make?) your linebacker-who-let-himself-go boyfriend stay over every freaking night. Doesn't that stort of immature bad girlfriend behavior fade when you start getting wrinkles?
Outside, in the back of the building (which my bedroom faces) the owner of the building is ice-picking the parking lot free from its wintry tyranny.
Inside the lobby (right outside my front door) the landlady is vacuuming, making sure to bump into all the corners that she can.
It's been like this since 10am.
Is it impossible to have a QUIET apartment and not pay 1600 for a one bedroom? A federal holiday is a precious thing, and I'm wasting it sitting around thinking about how MAD I AM. It's not like I don't pay a pretty decent amount of money for this place. I know some of that is being on the first floor-- but I am just losing it here, and I am not an angry person. I am mad at being mad.
My man-friend has never had a loud apartment. Yeah there was street noise, but that doesn't bother me as much. He never hears a peep from anyone else ANYWHERE. But he always lives somewhere swank and shares the place with a friend. I'm trying to afford my own space, and my budget is different.
Tell me of apartments available on the Hill, because complaining a lot often gets you out of leases. Tell me of how I can get this stompy fool to move out. Tell me how you cope with this, because all my own answers are falling short and I am about two weeks away from hammering my ceiling back and starting a serious war, instead of going through management and trying to be polite.
Being nice only gets you so far.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Things people have googled to find my blog
all together now:
"strutting like my daddy"
[ i have no idea how that came up. I don't write about strutting (or, struting, as my searching friend put it) and I haven't called my father 'daddy' since I was like 5 ]
"proper bathroom ettiquette"
[i wrote a post about this like, a year ago. it is still something very near and dear to my heart, especially since ladies know what kinds of shoes we all wear and then you know that Carol So-and-So over in Finance totally had a burrito for lunch. And that is gross and weird.)
"...calories in Andre Brut champagne"
[I love Andre. It's the two buck chuck of champange, only not as good. But cheap! And plentiful!]
"is Giada de Laurentis a midget?"
[yes.]
"ladylike belch"
[My boyfriend thinks that my burping is less of a 'belch' and more of a "blooorrrppppp". Whenever I burp (which is an embarassing frequency. I must be VERY attractive, since I burp with such reckless abandon and he only looks the more triumphant each time). SO attractive, perhaps, that I had a problem with a short haired ladies fetish site stalking my flickr and my blog. That actually didn't make me feel pretty. It made me feel pretty gross. ASK ME ABOUT THAT SOME TIME. I DIDN'T LIKE THAT VERY MUCH. ]
"strutting like my daddy"
[ i have no idea how that came up. I don't write about strutting (or, struting, as my searching friend put it) and I haven't called my father 'daddy' since I was like 5 ]
"proper bathroom ettiquette"
[i wrote a post about this like, a year ago. it is still something very near and dear to my heart, especially since ladies know what kinds of shoes we all wear and then you know that Carol So-and-So over in Finance totally had a burrito for lunch. And that is gross and weird.)
"...calories in Andre Brut champagne"
[I love Andre. It's the two buck chuck of champange, only not as good. But cheap! And plentiful!]
"is Giada de Laurentis a midget?"
[yes.]
"ladylike belch"
[My boyfriend thinks that my burping is less of a 'belch' and more of a "blooorrrppppp". Whenever I burp (which is an embarassing frequency. I must be VERY attractive, since I burp with such reckless abandon and he only looks the more triumphant each time). SO attractive, perhaps, that I had a problem with a short haired ladies fetish site stalking my flickr and my blog. That actually didn't make me feel pretty. It made me feel pretty gross. ASK ME ABOUT THAT SOME TIME. I DIDN'T LIKE THAT VERY MUCH. ]
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
When the moon hits yer eye
Today, at work, since we weren't home in sweatpants like we had all PLANNED, we ordered pizza. Ordering lunch to be delivered at work is pretty indulgent. No fetching, no wind, no winter, no scarf that smells like breath over my mouth and nose.
We placed a Papa John's order at 12:15. We called to confirm. They said about an hour.
We were overjoyed! PIZZA! On a cold day! The fat will keep us warm! Pepperoni will keep us alive! With the coupon it was like $4 each with a generous tip for the delivery person.
We sent around emails being thrilled! Hurrah! Pizza jokes! Pizza face! Pizza, pizza, pizza!!!!!!
So we waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Until we said "F this" and threw in the towel.
We called the store. And called and called. The phone kept ringing and ringing, and eventually we had Papa John's CORPORATE cancel our order because we were starving NOW. And while we realize that ordering out on a day where everyone and their MOTHER probably wanted to order in, and cancelling was crappy, we waited well over 2 hours. We were defeated.
So everyone else went to Subway and I had low-fat split pea soup that has lived in my desk since about October. The moment was gone. Gone was my desire to eat something crazy fattening and different. I was going to punish myself with a boring lunch for tempting fate. It was only right.
Also I didn't want to go outside. If all was right with the world and I was home in soft pants, I wouldn't have gone outside anyway. I abide by snow day rules on rightful snow days.
When everyone returned, we chatted about a friend's brithday and then how everyone is finding my seventeen-year-old vocabulary coming out out of our twenty (and thirty!) something mouths. Totes. Betch. W00t! OMG!
Then we went "back to work".
At 3:15 our pizzas arrived.
Fate is cruel.
We placed a Papa John's order at 12:15. We called to confirm. They said about an hour.
We were overjoyed! PIZZA! On a cold day! The fat will keep us warm! Pepperoni will keep us alive! With the coupon it was like $4 each with a generous tip for the delivery person.
We sent around emails being thrilled! Hurrah! Pizza jokes! Pizza face! Pizza, pizza, pizza!!!!!!
So we waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Until we said "F this" and threw in the towel.
We called the store. And called and called. The phone kept ringing and ringing, and eventually we had Papa John's CORPORATE cancel our order because we were starving NOW. And while we realize that ordering out on a day where everyone and their MOTHER probably wanted to order in, and cancelling was crappy, we waited well over 2 hours. We were defeated.
So everyone else went to Subway and I had low-fat split pea soup that has lived in my desk since about October. The moment was gone. Gone was my desire to eat something crazy fattening and different. I was going to punish myself with a boring lunch for tempting fate. It was only right.
Also I didn't want to go outside. If all was right with the world and I was home in soft pants, I wouldn't have gone outside anyway. I abide by snow day rules on rightful snow days.
When everyone returned, we chatted about a friend's brithday and then how everyone is finding my seventeen-year-old vocabulary coming out out of our twenty (and thirty!) something mouths. Totes. Betch. W00t! OMG!
Then we went "back to work".
At 3:15 our pizzas arrived.
Fate is cruel.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Staff Meeting Haikus
these were all taken from what people said or looked like during a staff meeting:
a death stare he gives
daggers shooting from the eyes
eyebrow arch. contempt?
No news is good news
have you heard any mention
of the millions due?
this is my blank check
if i seem extra bitchy
waa- my deadlines
slowly passing time
a bit of a problem here
come out of the shoot
the puppet master
the camera just loves you
smile pretty for me
bullishly stubborn
disbelief takes form of fist
beating on forehead.
it's lonely here, at
parents without state partners
pony up, casserole.
a death stare he gives
daggers shooting from the eyes
eyebrow arch. contempt?
No news is good news
have you heard any mention
of the millions due?
this is my blank check
if i seem extra bitchy
waa- my deadlines
slowly passing time
a bit of a problem here
come out of the shoot
the puppet master
the camera just loves you
smile pretty for me
bullishly stubborn
disbelief takes form of fist
beating on forehead.
it's lonely here, at
parents without state partners
pony up, casserole.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Love thy neighbor
Like any good district resident, I spend a lot of time hating on the suburbs.
It's pretty easy. People from "out there" come "in here" and mess everything up. Traffic. Standing to the left on metro escalators. Crowding the sidewalks yelling "woooooooo!" coming out of the bars that would make me rather take my twenty dollar bill and swallow it, rather than enter. The suburbs are these ominous glistening towers of Harris Teeters and Targets where people live who want to afford home ownership.
I venture out into the suburbs sometimes, though. As a lady without a car, if you have a friend with a car who is going to Virginia to buy things, it's urban law that you MUST accompany them and MUST buy as much as you can such that getting to your ground floor apartment is a challenge. It's nature's will. If someone is going to Target, I must travel to the great unknown with them. Who doesn't ALWAYS need something at Target?
This past weekend, I was in Virginia both days, and as much as I hate to admit it, both were for good things.
Good thing the first:
The Cat Empire concert. At the State Theater. Man oh MAN was that a good show. Take 6 Aussies (5 regular band Aussies and one PAR-TIC-U-LAR-LY hot singer Aussie) and have them beach-jam-band-slash-Cuban-jazz their way into your heart and see if you don't tap those hipster-flats you're wearing. Dueling trumpets are something that I had not properly prepared myself for. Listen on myspace, it's worth it. Close your eyes and revel in the 5 + 1 who are awesome and surprisingly do not have a guitar amongst them.
The prize of the evening was the keyboard player. He was an amazing musician for sure, but was one of those band members who takes himself a bit seriously and John-Mayer-grimaces in some sort of painful orgasm of his own musical brilliance.
That aside, the State Theater is kind of an odd venue for this show. And there was an odd crowd. The crowd was like, 50-year-olds. But for every 50-year-old, there were two 16-year-olds. And then we twenty-somethings filled in the gap. Lots of people sitting down at tables, eating hamburgers like civilized people. And the 16-year-olds were crowd surfing. It did not compute.
Nor did the angry table-sitter who shoved the guy standing behind me to get out of his way, and the guy behind me managed to spill half his beer on me and my friend. I expect beer poured on me other places, not ones with table service. Apparently, standing and dancing was not allowed. At a concert. How Virginian of him!
Good thing the second:
The Italian store. Sweet Jeebus it's like going home! Everyone messed around with sandwiches of thinly sliced cold meats. That's delicious and all-- but child's play. Sausage and pepper sandwiches are where it's at. We waited a while for our lunches, but it was well worth it.
We ate in about 6 minutes outside in the balmy 38 degree weather before driving off to the Harris Teeter where we and all of Arlington fought for the last yellow onions in the behemoth store. I know Sundays are rough, but EVERYONE was at this store, and everyone was being pushy. I stopped saying "excuse me" when I was playing supermarket cart chicken, and instead just did what I had to do. My poor man-friend's deli meat took TWENTY FIVE minutes to arrive. TWENTY FIVE.
But I would say for the most part that I've had enough Virginia for a while, thankyouverymuch. You people have a lovely state with delicious sandwiches and tall buildings, but a girl cannot exist on sandwich or building alone.
It's pretty easy. People from "out there" come "in here" and mess everything up. Traffic. Standing to the left on metro escalators. Crowding the sidewalks yelling "woooooooo!" coming out of the bars that would make me rather take my twenty dollar bill and swallow it, rather than enter. The suburbs are these ominous glistening towers of Harris Teeters and Targets where people live who want to afford home ownership.
I venture out into the suburbs sometimes, though. As a lady without a car, if you have a friend with a car who is going to Virginia to buy things, it's urban law that you MUST accompany them and MUST buy as much as you can such that getting to your ground floor apartment is a challenge. It's nature's will. If someone is going to Target, I must travel to the great unknown with them. Who doesn't ALWAYS need something at Target?
This past weekend, I was in Virginia both days, and as much as I hate to admit it, both were for good things.
Good thing the first:
The Cat Empire concert. At the State Theater. Man oh MAN was that a good show. Take 6 Aussies (5 regular band Aussies and one PAR-TIC-U-LAR-LY hot singer Aussie) and have them beach-jam-band-slash-Cuban-jazz their way into your heart and see if you don't tap those hipster-flats you're wearing. Dueling trumpets are something that I had not properly prepared myself for. Listen on myspace, it's worth it. Close your eyes and revel in the 5 + 1 who are awesome and surprisingly do not have a guitar amongst them.
The prize of the evening was the keyboard player. He was an amazing musician for sure, but was one of those band members who takes himself a bit seriously and John-Mayer-grimaces in some sort of painful orgasm of his own musical brilliance.
That aside, the State Theater is kind of an odd venue for this show. And there was an odd crowd. The crowd was like, 50-year-olds. But for every 50-year-old, there were two 16-year-olds. And then we twenty-somethings filled in the gap. Lots of people sitting down at tables, eating hamburgers like civilized people. And the 16-year-olds were crowd surfing. It did not compute.
Nor did the angry table-sitter who shoved the guy standing behind me to get out of his way, and the guy behind me managed to spill half his beer on me and my friend. I expect beer poured on me other places, not ones with table service. Apparently, standing and dancing was not allowed. At a concert. How Virginian of him!
Good thing the second:
The Italian store. Sweet Jeebus it's like going home! Everyone messed around with sandwiches of thinly sliced cold meats. That's delicious and all-- but child's play. Sausage and pepper sandwiches are where it's at. We waited a while for our lunches, but it was well worth it.
We ate in about 6 minutes outside in the balmy 38 degree weather before driving off to the Harris Teeter where we and all of Arlington fought for the last yellow onions in the behemoth store. I know Sundays are rough, but EVERYONE was at this store, and everyone was being pushy. I stopped saying "excuse me" when I was playing supermarket cart chicken, and instead just did what I had to do. My poor man-friend's deli meat took TWENTY FIVE minutes to arrive. TWENTY FIVE.
But I would say for the most part that I've had enough Virginia for a while, thankyouverymuch. You people have a lovely state with delicious sandwiches and tall buildings, but a girl cannot exist on sandwich or building alone.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
now with more $4 champagne.
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?
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?
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?
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