I love horror movies. I think they are hilarious and I can’t give enough of them. They dumber they are, the better! They more alcohol, sex, and drugs they have, the better (because that means even more will die)!
However, I didn’t always use to love horror movies. As I child I was scared shitless because of them. Some of this might have to do with the fact that as five year old, my 10-, 12-, and 14-year-old cousins plus my 17-year-old uncle thought it was great to plop me down in front of the TV to watch Jason and Freddy slice and dice the public.
Anyway, I had these horrifying thoughts before I went to bed that someone was under my mattress and was going to stab me with a machete from under the bed (Friday the 13th) or that if I died in my sleep, I would surely die in real life (Nightmare on Elm Street).
I did eventually learn at the age of ten that if I laughed at these movies, my cousins and uncle would lose interest and allow me to move on to fun activities of playing football with them or tormenting my sister.
Then I hit middle school and became a fan of R.L. Stine and the Fear Street books. With my voracious appetite for books and overactive imagination, this proved a dangerous combination, as witnessed one summer day between my sixth and seventh grade years.
Julie, my BFF who I saw every day at gymnastics practice, was always over at our new house in the summer. And this particular evening, it was a Saturday, we had went to the movies, hung out at Noble Romans, and then came home. Being pre-teens we were not satisfied with going to be before midnight. So we sat chatting, playing solitaire and rum, before turning to building a house of cards.
We heard the noise as we were putting the finishing touches on the house. It was a creaking sound. A sound that sounded distinctly like footsteps down the hall to my parents’ room, my sister’s room, and my room. Well, we wrote it off as my dad going to drink from the milk carton, or my sister needing a glass of water. That is…until we heard it again ten minutes later.
It was one in the morning. And we were now paranoid beyond belief. I sprang into action like only a lithe, barely 80-pound, 12-year-old gymnast could and locked the door (Hey, this lock did keep my dad out much to his chagrin during my high school years and that even includes the time to he decided to kick my door and ended up breaking his toe). Julie and I looked at each and kept quiet, our ears trained for more sounds.
Time slowly crept by. Very slowly. We tried to resurrect the good time we were having with the house of cards, but it was in vain. Nothing could keep our attention from to the thought that robbers, that murders, that burglars might be in the house right under my family’s nose.
And then our bladders felt like they were about to burst. We held it for as long as we could, but after two in the morning, we decided we couldn’t do it and constructed a plan. I had heavy trophies from my tenure as a gymnast that stood two feet tall. We each took a trophy, laid it on the ground in front of us, and crawled on our bellies like they do in those army commercials the five feet to bathroom. Julie went and I stood guard. I went and Julie stood guard. And then we ran to my room and threw the lock.
No longer about to pee all over ourselves, we felt better. However, it was getting late, we’d had a long, all day practice and our eyelids were drooping. We neither one were comfortable going to sleep thinking prowlers might be in the house though.
We devised another plan.
The trophies were useful weapons. We decided we would hold them by the top and if we ran into a prowler, we would conk them over the head with the base of the trophy.
With our weapons and a plan, we slowly turned the lock on the door and tiptoed out into the vast darkness that was our house. We tiptoed into my parents room and checked the sliding glass door. It was locked.
Now we crept into the living room. The front door was locked, the other sliding glass door was locked, and the door into the garage was locked. So far no prowlers. We were beginning to breathe easier. However, we still had the basement left.
Our basement was the stuff nightmares were made of. It was big, it was sparse, and it had a fireplace in it that looked like a big demonic possession since the previous owners had never got around to building a hearth around it.
Julie and I neither one wanted to go down there. But a game of Rock, Paper, Scissor determined I was the unlucky soul to tiptoe into the belly of the beast.
I heaved the trophy over the shoulder, readying myself for an imminent attack and slowly, ever so slowly crept down the stairs. Halfway down the stairwell, the wall gave way and you could view the basement. I peaked my head around and saw…
THE SLIDING GLASS DOOR STANDING OPEN ABOUT FOUR INCHES!
I dropped my defensive stance, bolted across the fifteen feet to the door, shut it and locked it, then flew up stairs leaving Julie in my wake screaming for my parents!
Despite the open basement door, there was no one in the house, no massacred siblings, and nothing missing. My mom and dad were not concerned with the basement door left open overnight, but to appease the two chickens, they went through the basement to prove to us no one was in the house. It didn’t matter. We were scared shitless. My mom slept in the room with us that night.
And right as we were about to doze we heard the noise again.
“Is that it?” my mom asked.
“Yes,” Julie and I said in unison.
“It’s air conditioner kicking on,” she said and rolled over onto her side.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Pyscho Ex and His Tour of Campus!
Hidden, deep in the recesses of boyfriend’s past, every girl has a psycho-ex. Even I, someone who can count on one hand the number of serious relationships I have been in, have a hidden psycho, crazy ex locked away.
I’m not necessarily ashamed of this psycho ex – if it weren’t for him, I might not have been as good of friends with Steve – but I don’t tell this story mainly for lack of plausibility. And unfortunately every tale of this individual is true. And after the one night…I got rid of him and never looked back (and perhaps that’s why this story doesn’t bother me…had I stayed with him after this…maybe…just maybe…I would think back to this night with a sickening feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach and not with the laughing nostalgia reserved for only one of my fondest stories after a couple of glasses margaritas with girlfriends).
His name was Joe.* I met him at a Super Bowl party back in 2003. My friend Stephanie had a friend from high school that rented a house and was throwing a Super Bowl party. One of his roommates was Steve. Joe was a “friend” of Steve. I use that term loosely, but during the night of the Super Bowl I was under the assumption that were indeed quite good friends.
Anyway, I had a few drinks (but wasn’t anywhere near intoxicated) talked to him and he was a smart guy, not bad looking, and he had a six-pack stomach (Shut up!). We didn’t get into anything too complicated after the party wrapped, but we exchanged numbers and before he left, he gave me a kiss. Completely PG which was appropriate because I’d only known him for a few hours and we had “hit it off.”
During the next couple of weeks we talked on the phone and through instant messenger. He couldn’t come visit for Valentine’s Day but he did say that he’d like for me to be his girlfriend and he could come up the next weekend.
The next weekend was a home basketball game and I had season tickets with my friend Stephanie, Pandy, and Brandon (who was a friend, then a boyfriend, and back to being a friend). Stephanie was going to be home for the game, so I let Brandon know what was going on, and then gave Joe the ticket.
We get to Assembly Hall and file into the balcony (shitty seats, part of why Stephanie didn’t mind missing the game) and we sit Pandy, me, Joe, and then Brandon. The game is close – it was Davis’ second season coaching and we had reached the finals in the NCAA tourney the previous year. Tom Coverdale, a Hoosier fave was in his final season and we were a decent team.
Students who attend IU basketball games actually pay attention to the games too. You don’t sit and catch up. You don’t sit and talk about homework. You sit and talk shit about the refs, the other team, bitch about missed rebounds and three-point shots, and of course, CHEER your team on to victory. And we did win.
I know Joe is new to all of this, but I told him not to do Power Hour (or Century Club) before we left for the game. Its one thing to have a couple of beers before the game, but it’s another to be bombed out of your mind before the game even begins. And he was.
So we get to the game and a little bit after half time, he starts getting pissy with me for not talking to him. Hello! It’s an IU basketball game! There’s a reason we’re so hard to beat at home. Also, the crowd has been threatened with technicals before (True story against Ohio State).
With five minutes left, he starts talking shit about me to Brandon, talking loud enough for me to hear and getting me even more pissed as the clock winds down. Brandon is trying to calm him down. Out of all of my friends, Brandon knows exactly how a bad a move this is for Joe. But it doesn’t work. I’m fed up with him and can’t deal with him and with seconds left on the clock, the last time out is taken and I look at Pandy and ask her if she can drive a shift (Joe’s car is manual). I call Steve and ask if Joe can sleep there tonight because there is no way I am sleeping in an apartment by myself with this guy. I’d either kill him or call someone who would. Steve says no problem. And then I hang up the phone with Steve and walk out of Assembly Hall where we are met with a student group who is passing out condoms.
“We’ll need one of these tonight,” Joe says.
Pandy and Brandon start laughing. I catch myself before I tell him he has a snowball’s chance in hell.
Anyway, the four of us walk to my apartment (it’s the closest to the stadium). Brandon asks me if I need any help, but Pandy and I assure him we’re fine. He wishes us good luck and then leaves. Pandy and I take Joe upstairs and make the mistake of asking him if this is all of his stuff. He acts kind of bewildered for a minute, but I don’t get any complaints. He’s just so sad and pitiful. I tell him Pandy can drive his car over there, but he says not to worry about it, he’ll get it in the morning.
Pandy and I bundle him into my car, drive him to Steve’s house, and then head out for a margarita. After our drinks, we come back to my place and watch some movies. About midnight, I hear something outside my door. But this is an apartment complex at a college, so its very possible its either people coming or going.
But the noise, its kind of peculiar in the fact that I keep hearing it. And finally, Pandy begins to hear it too. We look at each curiously, turn the volume down on the TV a bit and that’s all it takes for Joe to get louder. Having heard the TV volume go down, he apparently knows he has our full attention.
I grab my cell phone and go and hide in my bathroom while I dial my friend Henry who lives close by. I’m hoping Henry can convince him to leave. But Henry doesn’t answer. I try Steve, and don’t get an answer. Kind of what I expected because I knew he was going to party with some more friends who were in town (Steve’s from around Cincy. Joe and these other friends all went to high school together). Brandon is also out too. I’m not about to subject any of my girlfriends to this, and the only other person to call is the Marine recruiter, ex-recon husband of my closest friend Rachelle who happens to be in Iraq at the moment. If I call Bill, the husband, I know he will seriously hurt Joe. And I don’t want that to happen. So Pandy I stay in the bathroom listening to what he says and trying not to laugh too loud. This was some of the stuff:
“How could you do this to me?”
“What is the matter with you? I thought you were perfect?”
“I’m so sorry, but you’re so perfect and I just want to be with you.”
“I want to be with you, please open the door so I can be with you.”
“Why are you being so mean, you were supposed to be so perfect.”
I have no idea what was up with him thinking I am perfect. I will be the first to testify that I am not! And I really don’t think I want to be with a guy who considers me perfect, drunken stalkering aside.
Anyway, after about an hour, he left. I didn’t really want to wake up by myself to hear him banging on my door and telling me I was perfect, so I spent the night at Pandy’s. I was awakened at four in the morning to hear “Wonderwall” by Oasis playing. I grabbed my cell and said hello. The voice of an operator came over the line and I hung up. No way in hell was I accepting that call!
Anyway, I go back to sleep and wake up at the proper hour of noon. Pandy and I make some small talk before I drive back to my apartment. On the way over, I call Steve and hear some interesting news from him.
Apparently my place wasn’t the only stop on Joe’s list. At Steve’s, he kicked the coffee table, punch their homemade bar and tried to go with them to the party they were going to. Steve told him no because he was too drunk and tried to put him to bed. Joe followed them out of the house then took off running the opposite direction. Knowing it would be a losing battle to get him, Steve and his friends took off for the party.
To give you some geography about our beloved Indiana University, Steve lived a couple blocks off campus on the Westside. I lived on the far Northeast corner. Indiana University is fourteen blocks from top to bottom. Meaning, if you live in where I live, it takes you at least forty minutes to walk to class (which is in the southwest corner of the campus, completely opposite where I live).
From what we learned from conversations with other friends, Joe apparently stumbled around, making his way to the library (which is in the heart of the campus) before he fell into the lake at the library. Cold, (it was February) he walked around trying to get into the buildings. But all the dorms were locked. Somehow he found his way to my apartment then (Joe omitted this part when he talked to his friends). After that, he stumbled to White Castle (a couple of blocks off the far Southeast corner of the campus) and had a few burgers. He then walked about seven blocks north then turned and walked about three quarters of a mile to a mile to arrive at Eigenmann Hall (one of the closest dorms to White Castle). Eigenmann is in the middle of the eastern perimeter of campus. He fell asleep at Eigenmann. He woke up in the afternoon, made his way back to my apartment and left.
When I got back to my apartment, his car was still there. Oblivious to his escapades last night, I called Steve and to figure out how he ended up at my place. Steve called him, but he didn’t answer. To avoid him, I went to lunch at Jimmy John’s with a friend, walking a few blocks to the restaurant. When I got back, his car was gone. Knowing the exact magnitude of his insanity, I checked my car for a note. But there was none.
So I went into my apartment and chilled then checked my schedule for the coming week. I found little notes he had scribbled to me. They said: Why? How could do this? Please, no.
Yeah. A little creepy.
So I called Steve and told him. That’s when Steve told me that he tried to warn me from the guy. Well, he told Stephanie that he didn’t think Joe and I were a good couple, but wouldn’t give us a reason why. Stephanie didn’t understand what his deal was, but she did tell me that Steve didn’t like us together. When we asked him why, he stonewalled us and wouldn’t say.
I found out later that Steve wasn’t exactly sure how to tell me his friend was actually crazy and really wasn’t even that close of friend since he had technically only talked to me a total of three times (all before we went out for the night, leaving still not-quite-twenty-one Steve home).
Anyway, the story doesn’t end there. A couple of days later I went to fill up my car. I opened the gas door and found a note. I’m really not sure why I didn’t keep the note, but I called Steve and then that evening I went over there and showed him the note. I could paraphrase what was in the note, but then I’d just be repeating myself from the earlier stalking and marking on my planner.
So just was crazy. But all was note lost as I gained one of my closest friends in college!
I’m not necessarily ashamed of this psycho ex – if it weren’t for him, I might not have been as good of friends with Steve – but I don’t tell this story mainly for lack of plausibility. And unfortunately every tale of this individual is true. And after the one night…I got rid of him and never looked back (and perhaps that’s why this story doesn’t bother me…had I stayed with him after this…maybe…just maybe…I would think back to this night with a sickening feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach and not with the laughing nostalgia reserved for only one of my fondest stories after a couple of glasses margaritas with girlfriends).
His name was Joe.* I met him at a Super Bowl party back in 2003. My friend Stephanie had a friend from high school that rented a house and was throwing a Super Bowl party. One of his roommates was Steve. Joe was a “friend” of Steve. I use that term loosely, but during the night of the Super Bowl I was under the assumption that were indeed quite good friends.
Anyway, I had a few drinks (but wasn’t anywhere near intoxicated) talked to him and he was a smart guy, not bad looking, and he had a six-pack stomach (Shut up!). We didn’t get into anything too complicated after the party wrapped, but we exchanged numbers and before he left, he gave me a kiss. Completely PG which was appropriate because I’d only known him for a few hours and we had “hit it off.”
During the next couple of weeks we talked on the phone and through instant messenger. He couldn’t come visit for Valentine’s Day but he did say that he’d like for me to be his girlfriend and he could come up the next weekend.
The next weekend was a home basketball game and I had season tickets with my friend Stephanie, Pandy, and Brandon (who was a friend, then a boyfriend, and back to being a friend). Stephanie was going to be home for the game, so I let Brandon know what was going on, and then gave Joe the ticket.
We get to Assembly Hall and file into the balcony (shitty seats, part of why Stephanie didn’t mind missing the game) and we sit Pandy, me, Joe, and then Brandon. The game is close – it was Davis’ second season coaching and we had reached the finals in the NCAA tourney the previous year. Tom Coverdale, a Hoosier fave was in his final season and we were a decent team.
Students who attend IU basketball games actually pay attention to the games too. You don’t sit and catch up. You don’t sit and talk about homework. You sit and talk shit about the refs, the other team, bitch about missed rebounds and three-point shots, and of course, CHEER your team on to victory. And we did win.
I know Joe is new to all of this, but I told him not to do Power Hour (or Century Club) before we left for the game. Its one thing to have a couple of beers before the game, but it’s another to be bombed out of your mind before the game even begins. And he was.
So we get to the game and a little bit after half time, he starts getting pissy with me for not talking to him. Hello! It’s an IU basketball game! There’s a reason we’re so hard to beat at home. Also, the crowd has been threatened with technicals before (True story against Ohio State).
With five minutes left, he starts talking shit about me to Brandon, talking loud enough for me to hear and getting me even more pissed as the clock winds down. Brandon is trying to calm him down. Out of all of my friends, Brandon knows exactly how a bad a move this is for Joe. But it doesn’t work. I’m fed up with him and can’t deal with him and with seconds left on the clock, the last time out is taken and I look at Pandy and ask her if she can drive a shift (Joe’s car is manual). I call Steve and ask if Joe can sleep there tonight because there is no way I am sleeping in an apartment by myself with this guy. I’d either kill him or call someone who would. Steve says no problem. And then I hang up the phone with Steve and walk out of Assembly Hall where we are met with a student group who is passing out condoms.
“We’ll need one of these tonight,” Joe says.
Pandy and Brandon start laughing. I catch myself before I tell him he has a snowball’s chance in hell.
Anyway, the four of us walk to my apartment (it’s the closest to the stadium). Brandon asks me if I need any help, but Pandy and I assure him we’re fine. He wishes us good luck and then leaves. Pandy and I take Joe upstairs and make the mistake of asking him if this is all of his stuff. He acts kind of bewildered for a minute, but I don’t get any complaints. He’s just so sad and pitiful. I tell him Pandy can drive his car over there, but he says not to worry about it, he’ll get it in the morning.
Pandy and I bundle him into my car, drive him to Steve’s house, and then head out for a margarita. After our drinks, we come back to my place and watch some movies. About midnight, I hear something outside my door. But this is an apartment complex at a college, so its very possible its either people coming or going.
But the noise, its kind of peculiar in the fact that I keep hearing it. And finally, Pandy begins to hear it too. We look at each curiously, turn the volume down on the TV a bit and that’s all it takes for Joe to get louder. Having heard the TV volume go down, he apparently knows he has our full attention.
I grab my cell phone and go and hide in my bathroom while I dial my friend Henry who lives close by. I’m hoping Henry can convince him to leave. But Henry doesn’t answer. I try Steve, and don’t get an answer. Kind of what I expected because I knew he was going to party with some more friends who were in town (Steve’s from around Cincy. Joe and these other friends all went to high school together). Brandon is also out too. I’m not about to subject any of my girlfriends to this, and the only other person to call is the Marine recruiter, ex-recon husband of my closest friend Rachelle who happens to be in Iraq at the moment. If I call Bill, the husband, I know he will seriously hurt Joe. And I don’t want that to happen. So Pandy I stay in the bathroom listening to what he says and trying not to laugh too loud. This was some of the stuff:
“How could you do this to me?”
“What is the matter with you? I thought you were perfect?”
“I’m so sorry, but you’re so perfect and I just want to be with you.”
“I want to be with you, please open the door so I can be with you.”
“Why are you being so mean, you were supposed to be so perfect.”
I have no idea what was up with him thinking I am perfect. I will be the first to testify that I am not! And I really don’t think I want to be with a guy who considers me perfect, drunken stalkering aside.
Anyway, after about an hour, he left. I didn’t really want to wake up by myself to hear him banging on my door and telling me I was perfect, so I spent the night at Pandy’s. I was awakened at four in the morning to hear “Wonderwall” by Oasis playing. I grabbed my cell and said hello. The voice of an operator came over the line and I hung up. No way in hell was I accepting that call!
Anyway, I go back to sleep and wake up at the proper hour of noon. Pandy and I make some small talk before I drive back to my apartment. On the way over, I call Steve and hear some interesting news from him.
Apparently my place wasn’t the only stop on Joe’s list. At Steve’s, he kicked the coffee table, punch their homemade bar and tried to go with them to the party they were going to. Steve told him no because he was too drunk and tried to put him to bed. Joe followed them out of the house then took off running the opposite direction. Knowing it would be a losing battle to get him, Steve and his friends took off for the party.
To give you some geography about our beloved Indiana University, Steve lived a couple blocks off campus on the Westside. I lived on the far Northeast corner. Indiana University is fourteen blocks from top to bottom. Meaning, if you live in where I live, it takes you at least forty minutes to walk to class (which is in the southwest corner of the campus, completely opposite where I live).
From what we learned from conversations with other friends, Joe apparently stumbled around, making his way to the library (which is in the heart of the campus) before he fell into the lake at the library. Cold, (it was February) he walked around trying to get into the buildings. But all the dorms were locked. Somehow he found his way to my apartment then (Joe omitted this part when he talked to his friends). After that, he stumbled to White Castle (a couple of blocks off the far Southeast corner of the campus) and had a few burgers. He then walked about seven blocks north then turned and walked about three quarters of a mile to a mile to arrive at Eigenmann Hall (one of the closest dorms to White Castle). Eigenmann is in the middle of the eastern perimeter of campus. He fell asleep at Eigenmann. He woke up in the afternoon, made his way back to my apartment and left.
When I got back to my apartment, his car was still there. Oblivious to his escapades last night, I called Steve and to figure out how he ended up at my place. Steve called him, but he didn’t answer. To avoid him, I went to lunch at Jimmy John’s with a friend, walking a few blocks to the restaurant. When I got back, his car was gone. Knowing the exact magnitude of his insanity, I checked my car for a note. But there was none.
So I went into my apartment and chilled then checked my schedule for the coming week. I found little notes he had scribbled to me. They said: Why? How could do this? Please, no.
Yeah. A little creepy.
So I called Steve and told him. That’s when Steve told me that he tried to warn me from the guy. Well, he told Stephanie that he didn’t think Joe and I were a good couple, but wouldn’t give us a reason why. Stephanie didn’t understand what his deal was, but she did tell me that Steve didn’t like us together. When we asked him why, he stonewalled us and wouldn’t say.
I found out later that Steve wasn’t exactly sure how to tell me his friend was actually crazy and really wasn’t even that close of friend since he had technically only talked to me a total of three times (all before we went out for the night, leaving still not-quite-twenty-one Steve home).
Anyway, the story doesn’t end there. A couple of days later I went to fill up my car. I opened the gas door and found a note. I’m really not sure why I didn’t keep the note, but I called Steve and then that evening I went over there and showed him the note. I could paraphrase what was in the note, but then I’d just be repeating myself from the earlier stalking and marking on my planner.
So just was crazy. But all was note lost as I gained one of my closest friends in college!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Domestication of the Hobgood Girls
Ok, so really we’re talking about Andrea here (I eschew all forms of domestication). But as I’m always up for a learning experience - or a chance to ridicule – I had no problem being a party to Andrea’s domestication that resulted in her cooking two whole chickens (and they were quite good).
You’ve already heard about the little experiment with hot oil and cold water that resulted in a mini-explosion and ultimately a good meal. And now we can talk about “stuffing the chicken,” That’s what she said!
Let’s get this out of the way real quick though. I am a “That’s what she said,” champ. So anytime you read over something on here that merits a “that’s what she said,” I will have been one step ahead of you. To prove it, I will use a (*) to prove it to you.
Now, let’s get to the story!
I was sitting at home minding my own business this evening (i.e. I was watching Twilight while reading The Three Musketeers – I’m good like that – and simultaneously daydreaming about either moving to Forks and finding a nice, handsome vampire to stalk me or being transported back to the time of the Sun King and pre-Revolutionary France when men were swashbucklers and so damn hot-looking with those fencing swords. And I need to buy a new copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel…mine has walked off).
Andrea comes in from a long day of work (Spring break for the kiddies means no evening meetings this week for me!) and unloads an armful of goodies. She begins banging away in the kitchen – a surefire sign that my help is not only needed but required – so I disentangle myself from my midnight trysts with D’Artagnan, turn the volume up on Twilight, and head into the kitchen to help her out.
“What are you making?” I naively ask. You’ll see why here in a second.
“Chickens,” she says and I direct my attention to the sink where two whole chickens are chilling in the there.
“Nice,” I say. “So…what are you doing?”
“I’m going to stuff this, Erin,”*
********* (God, that works so much easier than just coming out saying ‘that’s what she said’)
“God, I hate you,” Andrea says after I’ve properly made fun of her and pretty much beaten my favorite Office catch phrase to a bloody pulp.
I can feel this is going to be a special night and run out to my car where my purse is and my camera is kept. I feel some videotaping going on!
I turn the camera on, and more magic begins to unfold.
See, Andrea didn’t realize that when you buy a whole chicken, you buy the whole chicken. Breast, thighs, wings, and all of those nice disgusting, juicy inside bits as well. And those nice, disgusting bits…They are PACKED…CRAMMED into the chicken nice and tightly. Andrea begins digging, trying to remove the nastiness. The problem is that the chicken is still slightly frozen. She turns on the water and commands me to call mom.
I bring my phone over and Andrea instructs me to ask her if a whole chicken is like a turkey in the fact that it has all the gizzards and jiblets still inside.
Staring at the chicken and what looks well…this is what I say to my mom “Hey mom, does a whole turkey,” Andrea corrects me and says chicken, “I mean chicken have the penis and all that inside it still?”
“Oh my god,” says my mom dramatically. “I am not having this conversation with you,” after I’ve said penis. What can I say, I have a propensity for dirty thoughts and expressing them.
“No, no, no,” I say so she doesn’t hang up and try to get her to discuss all of the very delicious wobbly bits inside of the chicken.
While I’m talking, Andrea is pulling at the nastiness that just doesn’t look like it quite belongs in the chicken. Besides, she somehow needs to stuff lemons inside* (Inside of you…Inside of you…I need to be inside of you) of the chicken. I think about humming “Inside of You” from Sarah Marshall, but after I’ve told Andrea that it looks like she’s fingering the chicken,* I’d doubt she’d be nice to me. So I hold my tongue.
And the wobbly bits finally dislodge from inside the chicken*.
“Finally,” Andrea says and then begins scraping out the insides. “Had I known this was involved, I so wouldn’t have done this. Inger” she says meaning her fiancé’s mother, “Is a trooper. That woman is always cooking.”
Finally, both chickens are officially unstuffed.* and its time to clean the chickens off.
“Hold it up, make it dance the Happy Chicken dance.”
She gives me a dirty look and says “No,” in a voice that lets me know that while I may be her older sister, I am still clearly an immature moron.
Once the chickens are cleaned, she gets pepper and rubs it over the chicken* and does the same with the salt. While rubbing the salt she says “I’m double-teaming it*” because she is using both hands. I burst out laughing. Once this is done, she cuts up lemons to put inside the chickens and once again the chickens are stuffed.*
And after that was over, you simply make your little sauce/marinade stuff for the chickens to bake in at 395 degrees Fahrenheit or 200 degrees Celsius and…BOOM…chickens are done!
All in all, it wasn’t exactly a hard recipe, just well…touching jiblets…and insides…I can’t believe she did it for me because I’m not sure I’d do it for Derek Jeter or even Capt. Jack!
But the chicken was a definite success on a couple of levels. I got a nice little story and a very delicious meal out of it!
A stuffing like that sure left a smile on my face*
You’ve already heard about the little experiment with hot oil and cold water that resulted in a mini-explosion and ultimately a good meal. And now we can talk about “stuffing the chicken,” That’s what she said!
Let’s get this out of the way real quick though. I am a “That’s what she said,” champ. So anytime you read over something on here that merits a “that’s what she said,” I will have been one step ahead of you. To prove it, I will use a (*) to prove it to you.
Now, let’s get to the story!
I was sitting at home minding my own business this evening (i.e. I was watching Twilight while reading The Three Musketeers – I’m good like that – and simultaneously daydreaming about either moving to Forks and finding a nice, handsome vampire to stalk me or being transported back to the time of the Sun King and pre-Revolutionary France when men were swashbucklers and so damn hot-looking with those fencing swords. And I need to buy a new copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel…mine has walked off).
Andrea comes in from a long day of work (Spring break for the kiddies means no evening meetings this week for me!) and unloads an armful of goodies. She begins banging away in the kitchen – a surefire sign that my help is not only needed but required – so I disentangle myself from my midnight trysts with D’Artagnan, turn the volume up on Twilight, and head into the kitchen to help her out.
“What are you making?” I naively ask. You’ll see why here in a second.
“Chickens,” she says and I direct my attention to the sink where two whole chickens are chilling in the there.
“Nice,” I say. “So…what are you doing?”
“I’m going to stuff this, Erin,”*
********* (God, that works so much easier than just coming out saying ‘that’s what she said’)
“God, I hate you,” Andrea says after I’ve properly made fun of her and pretty much beaten my favorite Office catch phrase to a bloody pulp.
I can feel this is going to be a special night and run out to my car where my purse is and my camera is kept. I feel some videotaping going on!
I turn the camera on, and more magic begins to unfold.
See, Andrea didn’t realize that when you buy a whole chicken, you buy the whole chicken. Breast, thighs, wings, and all of those nice disgusting, juicy inside bits as well. And those nice, disgusting bits…They are PACKED…CRAMMED into the chicken nice and tightly. Andrea begins digging, trying to remove the nastiness. The problem is that the chicken is still slightly frozen. She turns on the water and commands me to call mom.
I bring my phone over and Andrea instructs me to ask her if a whole chicken is like a turkey in the fact that it has all the gizzards and jiblets still inside.
Staring at the chicken and what looks well…this is what I say to my mom “Hey mom, does a whole turkey,” Andrea corrects me and says chicken, “I mean chicken have the penis and all that inside it still?”
“Oh my god,” says my mom dramatically. “I am not having this conversation with you,” after I’ve said penis. What can I say, I have a propensity for dirty thoughts and expressing them.
“No, no, no,” I say so she doesn’t hang up and try to get her to discuss all of the very delicious wobbly bits inside of the chicken.
While I’m talking, Andrea is pulling at the nastiness that just doesn’t look like it quite belongs in the chicken. Besides, she somehow needs to stuff lemons inside* (Inside of you…Inside of you…I need to be inside of you) of the chicken. I think about humming “Inside of You” from Sarah Marshall, but after I’ve told Andrea that it looks like she’s fingering the chicken,* I’d doubt she’d be nice to me. So I hold my tongue.
And the wobbly bits finally dislodge from inside the chicken*.
“Finally,” Andrea says and then begins scraping out the insides. “Had I known this was involved, I so wouldn’t have done this. Inger” she says meaning her fiancé’s mother, “Is a trooper. That woman is always cooking.”
Finally, both chickens are officially unstuffed.* and its time to clean the chickens off.
“Hold it up, make it dance the Happy Chicken dance.”
She gives me a dirty look and says “No,” in a voice that lets me know that while I may be her older sister, I am still clearly an immature moron.
Once the chickens are cleaned, she gets pepper and rubs it over the chicken* and does the same with the salt. While rubbing the salt she says “I’m double-teaming it*” because she is using both hands. I burst out laughing. Once this is done, she cuts up lemons to put inside the chickens and once again the chickens are stuffed.*
And after that was over, you simply make your little sauce/marinade stuff for the chickens to bake in at 395 degrees Fahrenheit or 200 degrees Celsius and…BOOM…chickens are done!
All in all, it wasn’t exactly a hard recipe, just well…touching jiblets…and insides…I can’t believe she did it for me because I’m not sure I’d do it for Derek Jeter or even Capt. Jack!
But the chicken was a definite success on a couple of levels. I got a nice little story and a very delicious meal out of it!
A stuffing like that sure left a smile on my face*
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I'm Going to Break a Mirror and Hope for Seven Years GOOD Luck!
I don’t know what the fuck happened, what obscure deity I pissed off, but someone up there clearly hates me and likes to see me miserable. Either that or my guardian angel has quit.
Because it can’t be possible for someone to have this kind of luck.
And I haven’t broken any mirrors in the past seven years…but with my luck, I’m contemplating breaking my mirror and see if bad luck + bad luck = good luck.
Let’s see if I can take it from the top…
February 2007 – I quit the bank thinking I can get a new job anytime soon. Anytime soon becomes October. Somehow, I still made enough money to cover health insurance, cell phone, and Hacienda margaritas. Clothing though was a luxury I could not afford.
July 2007 – The ignition goes out on my car. Something I can’t afford seeing as how I’m unemployed. Thanks, little Saturn.
May 2008 – (I went nearly a year!) I start having more ignition problems. New keys are given to me, the ignition is taken to locksmith. No one can figure out the problem.
June 2008 – My new Venus quits working (But, knowing my luck, I bought the insurance and it sure paid off).
June 2008 – The ignition is being a bitch again. My dad offers me his Camaro convertible. Going 56 mph in a 50 speed zone, I get pulled over. And ticketed. I do the deferral program.
July 2008 – My engine starts acting up. The motherboard goes down in my laptop.
December 2008 – More engine problems. My Ipod Video gets stolen compliments of a drunken family member who left the garage door up.
January 2009 – I get another ticket (41 mph in a 40). Had I been going 39 mph, he would’ve only given me a warning (Thanks for telling me jerk-off). This cancels my deferral program meaning I will know have to pay for both the tickets on my insurance. By the way, they haven’t even tried to find who stole my Ipod. FUCKERS!
Also the relationship I decided to resume with my father (after he divorced my mother and went completely nuts) is ended after he gets pissed at my sister, calls my mom and starts telling her shit about me that is completely fabricated. I hadn’t talked to him, hadn’t seen him, why he chose to throw me under the bus is something that still is a bit foggy to me…
February 2009 – I get Mono
March 2009 – The ignition decides to go out YET AGAIN! The microphone in my cell phone also goes out.
YES! Yes! Can anything else possibly go wrong?
I know, I know. I have a job, I should be grateful. I’m not commenting on that.
Anyway, its not like other aspects of my life have gone stellar as well. Romance? That’d be a big negative. In the past six months, I’ve gone out with three guys more than once. One ended up being married on the second date (That was nice of him to omit the first time). The other one turned out to be a bigger workaholic than I am (and that’s saying something because I wouldn’t know what to do with all the excess time if I just worked a 40-hour week) and the other one was probably way too good for me. Anyway, no need to invite the kind of bad luck I clearly bring into someone else’s life.
And my ass is still the size of a barn.
So, if anyone has some good luck to throw this way – be it in life, love, or career, please feel free!
But for now, I am going to curl up with The Count of Monte Cristo and a man like Edmond Dantes – prison doesn’t even keep him from his love!
Because it can’t be possible for someone to have this kind of luck.
And I haven’t broken any mirrors in the past seven years…but with my luck, I’m contemplating breaking my mirror and see if bad luck + bad luck = good luck.
Let’s see if I can take it from the top…
February 2007 – I quit the bank thinking I can get a new job anytime soon. Anytime soon becomes October. Somehow, I still made enough money to cover health insurance, cell phone, and Hacienda margaritas. Clothing though was a luxury I could not afford.
July 2007 – The ignition goes out on my car. Something I can’t afford seeing as how I’m unemployed. Thanks, little Saturn.
May 2008 – (I went nearly a year!) I start having more ignition problems. New keys are given to me, the ignition is taken to locksmith. No one can figure out the problem.
June 2008 – My new Venus quits working (But, knowing my luck, I bought the insurance and it sure paid off).
June 2008 – The ignition is being a bitch again. My dad offers me his Camaro convertible. Going 56 mph in a 50 speed zone, I get pulled over. And ticketed. I do the deferral program.
July 2008 – My engine starts acting up. The motherboard goes down in my laptop.
December 2008 – More engine problems. My Ipod Video gets stolen compliments of a drunken family member who left the garage door up.
January 2009 – I get another ticket (41 mph in a 40). Had I been going 39 mph, he would’ve only given me a warning (Thanks for telling me jerk-off). This cancels my deferral program meaning I will know have to pay for both the tickets on my insurance. By the way, they haven’t even tried to find who stole my Ipod. FUCKERS!
Also the relationship I decided to resume with my father (after he divorced my mother and went completely nuts) is ended after he gets pissed at my sister, calls my mom and starts telling her shit about me that is completely fabricated. I hadn’t talked to him, hadn’t seen him, why he chose to throw me under the bus is something that still is a bit foggy to me…
February 2009 – I get Mono
March 2009 – The ignition decides to go out YET AGAIN! The microphone in my cell phone also goes out.
YES! Yes! Can anything else possibly go wrong?
I know, I know. I have a job, I should be grateful. I’m not commenting on that.
Anyway, its not like other aspects of my life have gone stellar as well. Romance? That’d be a big negative. In the past six months, I’ve gone out with three guys more than once. One ended up being married on the second date (That was nice of him to omit the first time). The other one turned out to be a bigger workaholic than I am (and that’s saying something because I wouldn’t know what to do with all the excess time if I just worked a 40-hour week) and the other one was probably way too good for me. Anyway, no need to invite the kind of bad luck I clearly bring into someone else’s life.
And my ass is still the size of a barn.
So, if anyone has some good luck to throw this way – be it in life, love, or career, please feel free!
But for now, I am going to curl up with The Count of Monte Cristo and a man like Edmond Dantes – prison doesn’t even keep him from his love!
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sorry Boys, but Men in Fiction are Just SO Much Better!
The sister and I rented Twilight this past weekend. Once it was over, Andrea turned to me an admitted that she was even taken in by Edward’s charms.
Ah, Edward…so damn perfect it hurts…and those vampire sex-scenes in book 4! All I can say is that if I ever wanted to be a fictional character it was definitely then! Honestly, though, do I need another excuse to embroil myself in fiction where the men are always the perfect blend of “sensitive sweetie” and “bad, bad boy,” always effortlessly hot, always smart and say the just the right things, and always, always, always fall head over heels for the heroine…
Oh reality, doth thou really mean to be so cruel?
Anyway, because of Edward and other fictional hotties, I decided to put together a list of favorite literary heroes (Sorry, Jack Sparrow, but know that you’ll always be number one in my heart).
10. Luke Brandon (Shopaholic): Any guy who can love the scatter-brained, fashion-obsessed, yet loyal and sweet Becky Bloomwood gets a gold star. And Luke gets several. He’s a smart, successful guy who started his own business and is a rising star in the marketing world. Not only that, but he’s a smart dresser and knows all about Prada! Yet his money and his wardrobe do not speak of a fashion snob or an arrogant jerk. It has an understated elegance that makes Luke so damned cute and even more lovable. And of course, he’s perfectly fine letting the honeymoon last for a year while you both backpack around Europe and Asia. SWOON!
9. Jay Gatsby (The Great Gatsby) – So what if the man dabbled in organized crime (The Kennedys did too), not many people go from poor and impoverished to spectacularly wealthy. And why did he do it? True, he always had a place in his heart for the nicer things in life, but he did it for a woman, the lovely Daisy Buchanan. We love the contradiction that is Gatsby as well. Sure, he dabbles in organized crime and bootlegging, but deep down, he’s still an innocent boy who has naively misplaced his love in Daisy, a married woman not near worth his attentions….so sad, Gatsby when so many other deserving women are nearby!
8. Westley (Princess Bride) – I’m a sucker for swashbucklers and pirates. And with Westley, you get the swashbucking, Dread Pirates Roberts who can handle a sword, beat a giant, and match wits with the most intelligent men in the world. Maybe it’s the storyline of men trying to prove themselves to their lady loves, but then there is the whole pirate thing. Or it could be the way he so debonairly beat Prince Humperdink while lacking the strength to stand (death does tend to slow a person down). Either way, he’s one man I would live with in the Fire Swamp until the end of time.
7. Rhett Butler (Gone With the Wind) – What’s not to love about the handsome, suave, debonair, scoundrel with a thing for lost causes. We love to see him try to win over Scarlet’s affections, love to see him fighting off the enemy, and you know that when he said “Frankly, my dear, I don’t have give a damn,” that you secretly cheered and wished he was real so he could move on to you. Not only that, but Rhett is smart and well-educated and a great father and stepfather. And the money and gifts he showers Scarlet with? Why wouldn’t anyone be gone with the wind from Rhett’s attentions and affections!
6. Edmond Dantes aka The Count of Monte Cristo (The Count of Monte Cristo) – Alexander Dumas knows exactly what women want, so its kind of a toss-up between D’Artagnan of the Three Musketeers or Captain Dantes. I chose the Count because I didn’t want Porthos, Athos, and Aramis upset and asking what about them. So the checklist for the count: Senstive? Check. Handsome? Check? Down-to-Earth? Check. Ambitious? Check. Moral? Double check! But nothing can be sexier than a tale of betrayal and revenge and that’s where Captain Dantes really begins to show his mettle. He survives prison to escape and with the help of an old inmate, finds a treasure of immeasurable value and fashions himself the Count of Monte Cristo. The rest of the story is a tale of a man who was beaten down to the lowest of rungs, only to spring back and get his revenge. The thing that I find the best about The Count is even though he was moral and good, he wasn’t that moral good and was able to get down with his betrothed before his incarceration and not brag about it! How’s that for gentlemanly ways! And okay…So maybe I have a thing for swashbucklers. But really, can you honestly tell me that if a man swung in from a chandelier to slay the bad guys, you’d find him repulsive?
5. Ok, they may have died long ago, but the world has not forgotten those gorgeous, muscular, sharp Greek men like Odysseus, Achilles, and my personal favorite, Hector. They were loved and blessed by the Gods and their actions and were put down in writing by Homer, freeing their spirits from the River Styx and thus finally immortalizing them (because really, these men are way too hot to be forgotten in death). True, there are many more, but the main ones, Hector, the loyal husband, son, and responsible future king of Troy, Odysseus, the sly, cunning King of Ithaca who helped deliver Achilles to the Greeks and taught us that we should look a gift horse in the mouth (because we might see enemy soldiers ready to sack our kingdom), and Achilles…the beautiful, arrogant, damn-near-perfect favorite of Athena’s…honestly…what’s not to love?
4. Joe Morelli (Stephanie Plum series) – Women love the bad boy, and no man is badder than Joe Morelli, secretive vice cop in Trenton, N.J. who can be a real thorn in our side when he keeps us in the dark. But with his looks and libido, women would gladly let him get away with murder if it meant a night with his skills that are legendary in The Burg. An even nicer bonus? Age has started to tame the once wild-man who claimed fearless bounty hunter, Steph’s, virginity in the pastry shop she worked at in high school. If only he’d settle down with us! Ah, Morelli with those swiveling hips and that nice tight ass, we hate to see you leave, but we love to watch you go!
3. Edward Cullen (The Twilight series) – You knew Edward would have to be on this list. It’s as my sister: “He’s like a creepy stalker, but a creepy stalker you want to keep around because he’s so hot, sensitive, and protective.” I thought the same thing when Edward admitted to watching Bella fall asleep, but with as accident prone as Bella is, is it any wonder that the immortal hottie would worry about his then very mortal true love? And let’s be honest, inviting that sexy vamp into our rooms every night to share a bed with us? Well, he wouldn’t exactly have to beg me. But, there’s so much more to Edward…he’s well-educated and graduated from numerous Ivy League colleges (what else are going to do when you’re stuck looking seventeen for the rest of time), sensitive, a musical prodigy (he’ll gladly write songs about you), yet strong and ready to protective you literally until the end of time. And if he loses you? Well, he just doesn’t see any sense in going on if he has to live without his true love. So romantic!
2. Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice) – If you haven’t heard of Mr. Darcy, I suggest you crawl out from under the rock you’ve been under and get in the know! He is the quintessential man! True, he’s wealthy and feels somewhat born to certain social graces which makes him a bit haughty and arrogant, but he learns from all of that. And anyway, isn’t it Darcy’s imperfections that endear him to us? How he says the wrong thing when he proposes…it humbles him…and still…once he falls for headstrong Elizabeth Bennet, he can’t help but show her his devotion and prove he is worthy of her. A woman could only be lucky. And of course, there is that whole lake swimming scene…Ah, lovely!
1. Sir Percy Blakeney aka The Scarlet Pimpernel (The Scarlet Pimpernel series) – The all time love of my life! There isn’t much this Renaissance Man can’t do. He’ll sweep you off you feet, entertain the King and Queen, tie a perfect cravat, and rescue The Dauphin from The Tower all in a day’s work. Incredibly built and muscular and skilled with a sword, you don’t have to worry about needing rescuing with him around! And if you do, don’t worry, because he plays an awesome spy with that cunning, intelligent brain that always seem to be one step of ahead of those “demmed” Frenchies. And once you’ve been rescued and secreted across the Channel, you’ll sit down to dinner with the King and Queen’s favorite English aristo, because really everyone loves this irresistible fop. And as if that wasn’t enough, the man is titled and rich, plus, he’s a perfect gentleman, an English mother’s fantasy! Oh, to be Lady Marguerite, if only for a day!
Ah, Edward…so damn perfect it hurts…and those vampire sex-scenes in book 4! All I can say is that if I ever wanted to be a fictional character it was definitely then! Honestly, though, do I need another excuse to embroil myself in fiction where the men are always the perfect blend of “sensitive sweetie” and “bad, bad boy,” always effortlessly hot, always smart and say the just the right things, and always, always, always fall head over heels for the heroine…
Oh reality, doth thou really mean to be so cruel?
Anyway, because of Edward and other fictional hotties, I decided to put together a list of favorite literary heroes (Sorry, Jack Sparrow, but know that you’ll always be number one in my heart).
10. Luke Brandon (Shopaholic): Any guy who can love the scatter-brained, fashion-obsessed, yet loyal and sweet Becky Bloomwood gets a gold star. And Luke gets several. He’s a smart, successful guy who started his own business and is a rising star in the marketing world. Not only that, but he’s a smart dresser and knows all about Prada! Yet his money and his wardrobe do not speak of a fashion snob or an arrogant jerk. It has an understated elegance that makes Luke so damned cute and even more lovable. And of course, he’s perfectly fine letting the honeymoon last for a year while you both backpack around Europe and Asia. SWOON!
9. Jay Gatsby (The Great Gatsby) – So what if the man dabbled in organized crime (The Kennedys did too), not many people go from poor and impoverished to spectacularly wealthy. And why did he do it? True, he always had a place in his heart for the nicer things in life, but he did it for a woman, the lovely Daisy Buchanan. We love the contradiction that is Gatsby as well. Sure, he dabbles in organized crime and bootlegging, but deep down, he’s still an innocent boy who has naively misplaced his love in Daisy, a married woman not near worth his attentions….so sad, Gatsby when so many other deserving women are nearby!
8. Westley (Princess Bride) – I’m a sucker for swashbucklers and pirates. And with Westley, you get the swashbucking, Dread Pirates Roberts who can handle a sword, beat a giant, and match wits with the most intelligent men in the world. Maybe it’s the storyline of men trying to prove themselves to their lady loves, but then there is the whole pirate thing. Or it could be the way he so debonairly beat Prince Humperdink while lacking the strength to stand (death does tend to slow a person down). Either way, he’s one man I would live with in the Fire Swamp until the end of time.
7. Rhett Butler (Gone With the Wind) – What’s not to love about the handsome, suave, debonair, scoundrel with a thing for lost causes. We love to see him try to win over Scarlet’s affections, love to see him fighting off the enemy, and you know that when he said “Frankly, my dear, I don’t have give a damn,” that you secretly cheered and wished he was real so he could move on to you. Not only that, but Rhett is smart and well-educated and a great father and stepfather. And the money and gifts he showers Scarlet with? Why wouldn’t anyone be gone with the wind from Rhett’s attentions and affections!
6. Edmond Dantes aka The Count of Monte Cristo (The Count of Monte Cristo) – Alexander Dumas knows exactly what women want, so its kind of a toss-up between D’Artagnan of the Three Musketeers or Captain Dantes. I chose the Count because I didn’t want Porthos, Athos, and Aramis upset and asking what about them. So the checklist for the count: Senstive? Check. Handsome? Check? Down-to-Earth? Check. Ambitious? Check. Moral? Double check! But nothing can be sexier than a tale of betrayal and revenge and that’s where Captain Dantes really begins to show his mettle. He survives prison to escape and with the help of an old inmate, finds a treasure of immeasurable value and fashions himself the Count of Monte Cristo. The rest of the story is a tale of a man who was beaten down to the lowest of rungs, only to spring back and get his revenge. The thing that I find the best about The Count is even though he was moral and good, he wasn’t that moral good and was able to get down with his betrothed before his incarceration and not brag about it! How’s that for gentlemanly ways! And okay…So maybe I have a thing for swashbucklers. But really, can you honestly tell me that if a man swung in from a chandelier to slay the bad guys, you’d find him repulsive?
5. Ok, they may have died long ago, but the world has not forgotten those gorgeous, muscular, sharp Greek men like Odysseus, Achilles, and my personal favorite, Hector. They were loved and blessed by the Gods and their actions and were put down in writing by Homer, freeing their spirits from the River Styx and thus finally immortalizing them (because really, these men are way too hot to be forgotten in death). True, there are many more, but the main ones, Hector, the loyal husband, son, and responsible future king of Troy, Odysseus, the sly, cunning King of Ithaca who helped deliver Achilles to the Greeks and taught us that we should look a gift horse in the mouth (because we might see enemy soldiers ready to sack our kingdom), and Achilles…the beautiful, arrogant, damn-near-perfect favorite of Athena’s…honestly…what’s not to love?
4. Joe Morelli (Stephanie Plum series) – Women love the bad boy, and no man is badder than Joe Morelli, secretive vice cop in Trenton, N.J. who can be a real thorn in our side when he keeps us in the dark. But with his looks and libido, women would gladly let him get away with murder if it meant a night with his skills that are legendary in The Burg. An even nicer bonus? Age has started to tame the once wild-man who claimed fearless bounty hunter, Steph’s, virginity in the pastry shop she worked at in high school. If only he’d settle down with us! Ah, Morelli with those swiveling hips and that nice tight ass, we hate to see you leave, but we love to watch you go!
3. Edward Cullen (The Twilight series) – You knew Edward would have to be on this list. It’s as my sister: “He’s like a creepy stalker, but a creepy stalker you want to keep around because he’s so hot, sensitive, and protective.” I thought the same thing when Edward admitted to watching Bella fall asleep, but with as accident prone as Bella is, is it any wonder that the immortal hottie would worry about his then very mortal true love? And let’s be honest, inviting that sexy vamp into our rooms every night to share a bed with us? Well, he wouldn’t exactly have to beg me. But, there’s so much more to Edward…he’s well-educated and graduated from numerous Ivy League colleges (what else are going to do when you’re stuck looking seventeen for the rest of time), sensitive, a musical prodigy (he’ll gladly write songs about you), yet strong and ready to protective you literally until the end of time. And if he loses you? Well, he just doesn’t see any sense in going on if he has to live without his true love. So romantic!
2. Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice) – If you haven’t heard of Mr. Darcy, I suggest you crawl out from under the rock you’ve been under and get in the know! He is the quintessential man! True, he’s wealthy and feels somewhat born to certain social graces which makes him a bit haughty and arrogant, but he learns from all of that. And anyway, isn’t it Darcy’s imperfections that endear him to us? How he says the wrong thing when he proposes…it humbles him…and still…once he falls for headstrong Elizabeth Bennet, he can’t help but show her his devotion and prove he is worthy of her. A woman could only be lucky. And of course, there is that whole lake swimming scene…Ah, lovely!
1. Sir Percy Blakeney aka The Scarlet Pimpernel (The Scarlet Pimpernel series) – The all time love of my life! There isn’t much this Renaissance Man can’t do. He’ll sweep you off you feet, entertain the King and Queen, tie a perfect cravat, and rescue The Dauphin from The Tower all in a day’s work. Incredibly built and muscular and skilled with a sword, you don’t have to worry about needing rescuing with him around! And if you do, don’t worry, because he plays an awesome spy with that cunning, intelligent brain that always seem to be one step of ahead of those “demmed” Frenchies. And once you’ve been rescued and secreted across the Channel, you’ll sit down to dinner with the King and Queen’s favorite English aristo, because really everyone loves this irresistible fop. And as if that wasn’t enough, the man is titled and rich, plus, he’s a perfect gentleman, an English mother’s fantasy! Oh, to be Lady Marguerite, if only for a day!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
How we get our rocks off - An afternoon of cookies, nut sacs, and bumping
It’s a lazy Sunday. God how I love them. The sister and I watched Twilight. Men, piece of advice:
WOMEN LOVE EDWARD CULLEN!
I.e.: You all should be Edward Cullen.
Even the sister wasn’t immune.
Anyway, the movie gets over, and Andrea says, “Let’s go somewhere.”
“Where do you want to go?” I say.
“Let’s get some cookies.”
“It’s 4:30,” I reply.
“The mall closes at 6:00. Let’s go,” she says.
So we hop in the car and we go. Somewhere around Lincoln Ave, we pull up next to a truck with “balls,” real actual balls. Seriously, the truck has a nut sack. It’s a bit disgusting.
Andrea points out the windows and shows me the balls.
“Oh, that’s just disgusting,” I say. “Why would you – oh,” I say as I glimpse the driver. “Well, he has no balls, so that’s why he put them on his truck.”
Anyway, we get to the mall and find that they close at 5:00. We made it with six minutes to spare.
“What if the cookie store is out of sugar cookies?” I say as we walk inside.
“Then its going to be on.” Andrea replies as we both think back to a couple of weeks when I was a the popular mall (She and I are getting cookies at the “unpopular” mall because it has the best cookie place) when Miss America was visiting and the cookie store ran out of sugar cookies. Andrea went in the next day for lunch and still no sugar cookies.
Luckily, there are sugar cookies. And since it is closing time they are considered “day olds” and we get them for half price. A dozen cookies for $3.49. And they’re great.
So we’re driving along, eating cookies and making fun of each other when we stop at a red light.
Seriously, there is some douche bag “bumping” in a black Mercury Sable. Yeah, a car that was cool circa 19-never.
I look at Andrea and say “Is he bumping in a Mercury Sable?”
“Hey, you’re grandma called, she wants her car back. And wants you to take your crappy stereo.”
The light changes and we drive, but once again we get caught by another red light. We start cracking up as the song gets to the chorus or something and the car says “bump, bump, bump.”
“I just want to kick it,” Andrea says. Then, “Do you have your camera?” Andrea asks.
“Yeah,” I say and begin to rummage in my purse. I turn it on, but the light changes before I can get a picture off.
“Did you get it,” Andrea asks as we pass the guy.
“No,” I say ducking down because I don’t want this douche to see me taking a picture of him and thinking that we think he’s cool or something because I actuality, we think he’s a loser and have to catalogue his “loser-ness.”
‘Well, hang on,” she says and slows up so he passes.
I get the shot.
For some reason we start quote Reno 911. “No, you faced your chest!” “That is a nice, tight, tit, tat.” “More like stumbled.” as we walk into the grocery store and buy dinner.
More inane chatter happened on the drive back, centered around a local road that is being widened and the house with front yards that will soon be replaced with four-lane roads, the ridiculous stop lights that will soon be put once the road is widened and then we get home and Andrea yells at me to get of the car with my “pink” teeth. Gross, I know, but damn the sugar cookie icing was good.
Anyway, that’s we get our rocks off on a Sunday.
Note: Once Twilight was over, we were talking about James and Victoria and the sequel. Andrea said “Well he got his rocks off tracking and killing people.”
“Did you just say ‘got his rocks off’” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Andrea.
“That is like….so circa 1980.”
Friday, March 20, 2009
A-Rod, the Britney Spears of Baseball!!!
Wow…
It’s a word I use in a rather sarcastic, snarky manner to convey to the other person that I clearly think there’s something wrong with them.
Example:
Joaquin Phoenix is going to become a rapper.
My response is: Wow.
And it was the one word I uttered when I came home early, turned ESPN and saw A-Rod standing in front of a mirror making out with himself.
Exactly.
Wow.
Ok, I have to say this and get this off my chest. A-Rod is the Britney Spears of baseball. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, A-Rod has more in common with Britt than he may with other baseball players.
Let’s see: Both are extremely well-paid. A-Rod does have more talent than Britt, but Britt’s a name, an image. Both are a bit of trainwrecks. For example, A-Rod and the whole stripper affair and Britt shaving her head. Both are fodder for tabloids because of their outrageous behavior. Both are divorced with kids. Both have enhanced their image with help: Britt used a plastic surgeon, A-Rod used steroids. And last but not least:
BOTH HAVE KISSED MADONNA!
See, I’m not as crazy as you think. So you can choke on that “wow” you know you said after I said A-Rod had more in common with Britney than he does with Derek Jeter or Albert Pujols.
Anyway, I’ve held my tongue long enough. Through the wife-swapping, the swapping saliva with Madonna, and the steroid-filled syringes, but I cannot keep quiet any longer. Someone needs to stop A-Rod.
He may not have shot anyone, but A-Rod needs a Pac-Man caliber babysitter because the man is just clearly not all there. Scott Boras, please get your client some help…STAT!
So, what am I finally opening my mouth about? Well, the interview and photo shoot that will be the cover story of Details next week. And I’m not too ashamed to say I will buy it. Because I will. And I will ridicule every single shot A-Rod took in it.
For those of you who have yet to see these pics…well…as stated above – A-Rod is standing in front of a mirror making out with himself.
After seeing a picture like that, it’s nearly enough to make me hang up my pinstripes and finally convert to the Cubbies. But the thought of Derek Jeter makes me change my mind.
And the “make-out” pic is only one of eight. While it’s obviously the most off the wall one, the others are still good.
Now, before I start explaining these photos to you, you must realize a couple of things about me. I love fashion. Vogue is my favorite, but Elle and InStyle make the cut as long as they have a hefty purse section. I like off-the-wall, outrageous fashion shoots too. I like to see the avant-garde on display in some totally ingenious shot. Not only do I take my fashion seriously, but I love my Top Model (and I would love to hang out with Miss Jay). The sister and I can accurately predict the bottom two and who is going home after we’ve seen the challenges and the pictures at panel. But enough about that, and more about A-Rod’s pics…
A-Rod is making $28 million this year. 1/28 of his salary would make me a happy person for life! He is anything but a pauper. However, in his picture he is posing on a mattress that may or may not be covered in piss stains with a random tire in the background. The only thing that’s missing from these photos to really add sparkle and charm is the random homeless man holding a mysterious brown paper bag (ok, you know it’s booze).
And it’s not like he’s modeling the clothes – he just has on some gym shorts and a sleeveless tee – to show some sharp contrast between rich and poor, decrepit and immaculate, chic and gauche. The photos are only A-Rod trying to be sexy, and judging from the pictures, he appears to think he has done a pretty good job of that.
For some reason I’m too Sexy by Right Said Fred is playing on repeat in my head…very peculiar.
Now, one photo shoot isn’t going to derail a career. In some cases a “scandal” has made someone a bigger star (Remember Miley and the Vogue/Annie Liebowitz photos and Paris and her sex tape/DUI?). And maybe if it hadn’t been for the stripper in Canada, his wife and the “Fuck You” t-shirt at a Yankees game, the sex with Madonna (Mrs. A-Rod’s sex with Lenny Kravtiz), and the steroids, people wouldn’t be ragging on A-Rod and his obviously narcissistic love for himself. This is why I have a few rules that I try to follow as a non-celebrity and would hope to follow as a celebrity:
1. If you set yourself up for public ridicule, don’t be pissed off when it happens (the ridiculing)
2. If you make a sex tape, it will be leaked to the public the minute the other party thinks they might be able to make a buck off the footage.
3. Naked pictures will come back and bite you. If they must be sent, make sure no easily recognizable features are in them.
4. It’s okay to lack intelligence, but make sure to surround yourself with intelligent people who can talk for you.
5. If you hire a publicist make sure she knows the difference of the meanings “stature” and “stature.” (I’d like to thank T.O.’s publicist for that one).
6. If you’re at a frat house or somewhere with a ton of people, you better know that some jackass is going to figure out a way to make money off of you if you wrap your lips around a bong a la Michael Phelps style.
7. Plastic surgery is like good grooming in Hollywood. So pony up to your new breasts and don’t say you grew two cup sizes overnight.
8. The more famous you become, the less privacy you have – and you never have near as much privacy as you believe you have.
9. If you have the money, hire a driver. Then you never have to worry about DUIs.
10. If you act like a jackass, a bimbo, or a moron, don’t get pissed if people don’t take you seriously.
If you feel you must make a sex tape, but still worry about it being leaking, say things to physically criticize the other person. Like “It doesn’t get any bigger?” “Is it in?” or “Wow two minutes this time instead of one! We should videotape all the time!”
Anyway, A-Rod, you would be wise to learn those rules. Scott Boras, you would be even wiser to duct tape A-Rod’s mouth, hire Super Nanny, and never let him out unsupervised.
Clearly the man was not blessed with common sense.
It’s a word I use in a rather sarcastic, snarky manner to convey to the other person that I clearly think there’s something wrong with them.
Example:
Joaquin Phoenix is going to become a rapper.
My response is: Wow.
And it was the one word I uttered when I came home early, turned ESPN and saw A-Rod standing in front of a mirror making out with himself.
Exactly.
Wow.
Ok, I have to say this and get this off my chest. A-Rod is the Britney Spears of baseball. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, A-Rod has more in common with Britt than he may with other baseball players.
Let’s see: Both are extremely well-paid. A-Rod does have more talent than Britt, but Britt’s a name, an image. Both are a bit of trainwrecks. For example, A-Rod and the whole stripper affair and Britt shaving her head. Both are fodder for tabloids because of their outrageous behavior. Both are divorced with kids. Both have enhanced their image with help: Britt used a plastic surgeon, A-Rod used steroids. And last but not least:
BOTH HAVE KISSED MADONNA!
See, I’m not as crazy as you think. So you can choke on that “wow” you know you said after I said A-Rod had more in common with Britney than he does with Derek Jeter or Albert Pujols.
Anyway, I’ve held my tongue long enough. Through the wife-swapping, the swapping saliva with Madonna, and the steroid-filled syringes, but I cannot keep quiet any longer. Someone needs to stop A-Rod.
He may not have shot anyone, but A-Rod needs a Pac-Man caliber babysitter because the man is just clearly not all there. Scott Boras, please get your client some help…STAT!
So, what am I finally opening my mouth about? Well, the interview and photo shoot that will be the cover story of Details next week. And I’m not too ashamed to say I will buy it. Because I will. And I will ridicule every single shot A-Rod took in it.
For those of you who have yet to see these pics…well…as stated above – A-Rod is standing in front of a mirror making out with himself.
After seeing a picture like that, it’s nearly enough to make me hang up my pinstripes and finally convert to the Cubbies. But the thought of Derek Jeter makes me change my mind.
And the “make-out” pic is only one of eight. While it’s obviously the most off the wall one, the others are still good.
Now, before I start explaining these photos to you, you must realize a couple of things about me. I love fashion. Vogue is my favorite, but Elle and InStyle make the cut as long as they have a hefty purse section. I like off-the-wall, outrageous fashion shoots too. I like to see the avant-garde on display in some totally ingenious shot. Not only do I take my fashion seriously, but I love my Top Model (and I would love to hang out with Miss Jay). The sister and I can accurately predict the bottom two and who is going home after we’ve seen the challenges and the pictures at panel. But enough about that, and more about A-Rod’s pics…
A-Rod is making $28 million this year. 1/28 of his salary would make me a happy person for life! He is anything but a pauper. However, in his picture he is posing on a mattress that may or may not be covered in piss stains with a random tire in the background. The only thing that’s missing from these photos to really add sparkle and charm is the random homeless man holding a mysterious brown paper bag (ok, you know it’s booze).
And it’s not like he’s modeling the clothes – he just has on some gym shorts and a sleeveless tee – to show some sharp contrast between rich and poor, decrepit and immaculate, chic and gauche. The photos are only A-Rod trying to be sexy, and judging from the pictures, he appears to think he has done a pretty good job of that.
For some reason I’m too Sexy by Right Said Fred is playing on repeat in my head…very peculiar.
Now, one photo shoot isn’t going to derail a career. In some cases a “scandal” has made someone a bigger star (Remember Miley and the Vogue/Annie Liebowitz photos and Paris and her sex tape/DUI?). And maybe if it hadn’t been for the stripper in Canada, his wife and the “Fuck You” t-shirt at a Yankees game, the sex with Madonna (Mrs. A-Rod’s sex with Lenny Kravtiz), and the steroids, people wouldn’t be ragging on A-Rod and his obviously narcissistic love for himself. This is why I have a few rules that I try to follow as a non-celebrity and would hope to follow as a celebrity:
1. If you set yourself up for public ridicule, don’t be pissed off when it happens (the ridiculing)
2. If you make a sex tape, it will be leaked to the public the minute the other party thinks they might be able to make a buck off the footage.
3. Naked pictures will come back and bite you. If they must be sent, make sure no easily recognizable features are in them.
4. It’s okay to lack intelligence, but make sure to surround yourself with intelligent people who can talk for you.
5. If you hire a publicist make sure she knows the difference of the meanings “stature” and “stature.” (I’d like to thank T.O.’s publicist for that one).
6. If you’re at a frat house or somewhere with a ton of people, you better know that some jackass is going to figure out a way to make money off of you if you wrap your lips around a bong a la Michael Phelps style.
7. Plastic surgery is like good grooming in Hollywood. So pony up to your new breasts and don’t say you grew two cup sizes overnight.
8. The more famous you become, the less privacy you have – and you never have near as much privacy as you believe you have.
9. If you have the money, hire a driver. Then you never have to worry about DUIs.
10. If you act like a jackass, a bimbo, or a moron, don’t get pissed if people don’t take you seriously.
If you feel you must make a sex tape, but still worry about it being leaking, say things to physically criticize the other person. Like “It doesn’t get any bigger?” “Is it in?” or “Wow two minutes this time instead of one! We should videotape all the time!”
Anyway, A-Rod, you would be wise to learn those rules. Scott Boras, you would be even wiser to duct tape A-Rod’s mouth, hire Super Nanny, and never let him out unsupervised.
Clearly the man was not blessed with common sense.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
George Jung and the Purse Addiction.
I have an addiction.
And, yes, like all addictions it is costly. Not only is it hard on my checking account balance, but it costs me my dignity too.
Purses.
Oh god…Just thinking about them…supple leather, designer monograms, chic creations, classic styles…my heart rapidly begins to pound. And then I remember it’s been nearly an entire year since I last fed my habit, and it wasn’t a near satisfactory hit because finding a decent Chloe (Oh my god, seriously the best, my fave, the pinnacle in my purse collection b/c I do own one, but I need another one, duh!) was as useless as looking for meaning in a Pauly Shore movie (Yes, that was a quote from Clueless, rather appropriate I feel.).
Anyway, I was talking to my vacay chica, Miss Moser the other night. Mexican rebels and violence have kind of shot our plans for an all-inclusive Puerto Vallarta vacay getting drunk all day and night (My goal would be to be called El Drunko – like my cousin – by the staff), but sobering up long enough to pet dolphins. Seriously, if I missed out on the whole “swimming with dolphins” thing, I wouldn’t be happy. That is definitely something I want to take advantage of if the opportunity presents itself.
So, we’re tossing a few ideas back and forth – Charleston, SC; Savannah, GA, Fort Lauderdale, FL…Maybe an all-inclusive in Jamaica or the Bahamas…We’re really not sure yet…But planning these kind of things…It’s what makes life worth living!
When suddenly, I get the itch.
Not an itch I can scratch, either. And no, sadly not the itch that an able-bodied partner of the opposite sex can help me scratch…Although, that is nice.
New York…New York…New York – the itch begins chanting (weird, I know) in my head. Not only that, but the itch is very specific about New York. Chinatown in Manhattan is the only place this certain itch will receive any kind of relief. It begins to tell me about the amazing shopping opportunities that are in store for me:
The purse woman sells exquisite fakes. She has a whole operation set up. I’m not going to go into details because if she gets picked up, then my whole scheme is up in smoke and my addiction will consume me, but know this: When in a Saks, Nordstroms, or other store where designer purses are for sale, I study the purses. I see where they are monogrammed at, what the zipper looks like, the markings on the inside, I really feel the purse, smell the leather…I might even taste it if that didn’t look way too weird, but the point is that when I have my heart set on a purse, I make sure I am only getting the best. I may be a cute, little, freckled Hoosier, but put me in front of an Asian purse-dealer in Chinatown and the vicious fashionista emerges.
And I know this sounds crazy, but look at it this way:
You’re a druggie and coke is your choice of drug. Do you want the shitty, water-downed stuff? Or do you want the George Jung high-quality shit that doesn’t even begin to boil until it reaches 160 degree Fahrenheit*?
*I know this from the movie Blow, not from personal experience. I swear!
Anyway, if I was that druggie, I know I would want the high-quality shit! And while something may look high-quality, that doesn’t always mean it is. You have to inspect it! Boil it, investigate it, do whatever you like, but you want the best for your money. And I am making sure I get the very best. Especially when it comes to my appetite for Chloe.
There is also my watch man down there. My parents have a friend that’s a jeweler and took their watches their to him get them sized and the jeweler was amazed that they bought the watches in Chinatown. Tag, Rolex, Cartier, the man has it. And I love it.
Sunglasses are something else I’m a little crazy about. I have my very own pair of Versace glasses and Yves Saint Laurent (to match the amazing Muse bag I got from the purse lady, and I feel like such a snob when I pair them together, it’s great!) glasses thanks to Sunglass Hut and Saks. But I like a cool pair of sunglasses as much as the next fashion snob. And the nice thing about living in a small Midwestern town is that really, not many people can tell the difference between a bad knock-ff and an original. So I’ll buy a cheap pair of Diors, Chanels, Prada’s, or Versace’s if the price is right and they’re cute enough.
Gelato is another thing that I love too! While technically not found in Chinatown, gelato can be found in Little Italy which runs perpendicular to Canal St (that means it intersects Canal St) and you can sit out under white Christmas lights, drink a bottle of wine, enjoy a plate of pasta, and then eat a gelato, an Italian ice cream. The Italians are so smart when it comes to the palate.
But no trip to Big Apple is complete until you ride the Q, R, W, or N train up to midtown and get off at the 59th Street station. You walk upstairs and then few blocks and at 57th is Carnegie and this divine cheesecake complete with strawberries and whip cream…Seriously an orgasm in your mouth. And unless you think about the calories and the width of your ass, cheesecake doesn’t have any bad after effects like pregnancy and diseases! You just need to make sure to stop by the park (And you all know what park I mean) and run! Then! Vamoose! The calories are gone!
Well…The run might last awhile…Especially once you factor in the wine, the pasta, and the gelato.
But, it’s New York! And you’re only there once! And now I’m going to go over to orbitz and start looking at when I can take a weekend trip!
And, yes, like all addictions it is costly. Not only is it hard on my checking account balance, but it costs me my dignity too.
Purses.
Oh god…Just thinking about them…supple leather, designer monograms, chic creations, classic styles…my heart rapidly begins to pound. And then I remember it’s been nearly an entire year since I last fed my habit, and it wasn’t a near satisfactory hit because finding a decent Chloe (Oh my god, seriously the best, my fave, the pinnacle in my purse collection b/c I do own one, but I need another one, duh!) was as useless as looking for meaning in a Pauly Shore movie (Yes, that was a quote from Clueless, rather appropriate I feel.).
Anyway, I was talking to my vacay chica, Miss Moser the other night. Mexican rebels and violence have kind of shot our plans for an all-inclusive Puerto Vallarta vacay getting drunk all day and night (My goal would be to be called El Drunko – like my cousin – by the staff), but sobering up long enough to pet dolphins. Seriously, if I missed out on the whole “swimming with dolphins” thing, I wouldn’t be happy. That is definitely something I want to take advantage of if the opportunity presents itself.
So, we’re tossing a few ideas back and forth – Charleston, SC; Savannah, GA, Fort Lauderdale, FL…Maybe an all-inclusive in Jamaica or the Bahamas…We’re really not sure yet…But planning these kind of things…It’s what makes life worth living!
When suddenly, I get the itch.
Not an itch I can scratch, either. And no, sadly not the itch that an able-bodied partner of the opposite sex can help me scratch…Although, that is nice.
New York…New York…New York – the itch begins chanting (weird, I know) in my head. Not only that, but the itch is very specific about New York. Chinatown in Manhattan is the only place this certain itch will receive any kind of relief. It begins to tell me about the amazing shopping opportunities that are in store for me:
The purse woman sells exquisite fakes. She has a whole operation set up. I’m not going to go into details because if she gets picked up, then my whole scheme is up in smoke and my addiction will consume me, but know this: When in a Saks, Nordstroms, or other store where designer purses are for sale, I study the purses. I see where they are monogrammed at, what the zipper looks like, the markings on the inside, I really feel the purse, smell the leather…I might even taste it if that didn’t look way too weird, but the point is that when I have my heart set on a purse, I make sure I am only getting the best. I may be a cute, little, freckled Hoosier, but put me in front of an Asian purse-dealer in Chinatown and the vicious fashionista emerges.
And I know this sounds crazy, but look at it this way:
You’re a druggie and coke is your choice of drug. Do you want the shitty, water-downed stuff? Or do you want the George Jung high-quality shit that doesn’t even begin to boil until it reaches 160 degree Fahrenheit*?
*I know this from the movie Blow, not from personal experience. I swear!
Anyway, if I was that druggie, I know I would want the high-quality shit! And while something may look high-quality, that doesn’t always mean it is. You have to inspect it! Boil it, investigate it, do whatever you like, but you want the best for your money. And I am making sure I get the very best. Especially when it comes to my appetite for Chloe.
There is also my watch man down there. My parents have a friend that’s a jeweler and took their watches their to him get them sized and the jeweler was amazed that they bought the watches in Chinatown. Tag, Rolex, Cartier, the man has it. And I love it.
Sunglasses are something else I’m a little crazy about. I have my very own pair of Versace glasses and Yves Saint Laurent (to match the amazing Muse bag I got from the purse lady, and I feel like such a snob when I pair them together, it’s great!) glasses thanks to Sunglass Hut and Saks. But I like a cool pair of sunglasses as much as the next fashion snob. And the nice thing about living in a small Midwestern town is that really, not many people can tell the difference between a bad knock-ff and an original. So I’ll buy a cheap pair of Diors, Chanels, Prada’s, or Versace’s if the price is right and they’re cute enough.
Gelato is another thing that I love too! While technically not found in Chinatown, gelato can be found in Little Italy which runs perpendicular to Canal St (that means it intersects Canal St) and you can sit out under white Christmas lights, drink a bottle of wine, enjoy a plate of pasta, and then eat a gelato, an Italian ice cream. The Italians are so smart when it comes to the palate.
But no trip to Big Apple is complete until you ride the Q, R, W, or N train up to midtown and get off at the 59th Street station. You walk upstairs and then few blocks and at 57th is Carnegie and this divine cheesecake complete with strawberries and whip cream…Seriously an orgasm in your mouth. And unless you think about the calories and the width of your ass, cheesecake doesn’t have any bad after effects like pregnancy and diseases! You just need to make sure to stop by the park (And you all know what park I mean) and run! Then! Vamoose! The calories are gone!
Well…The run might last awhile…Especially once you factor in the wine, the pasta, and the gelato.
But, it’s New York! And you’re only there once! And now I’m going to go over to orbitz and start looking at when I can take a weekend trip!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Hungover Phone Convo
Actual phone conversation:
Andrea: Did you tape Rock of Love?
Me: Yes. And?
Andrea: You did tape it?
Me: Yes. And?
Andrea: And?
Me: Tool Academy Reunion and Tough Love. The new one with the chicks and the dating dude.
Andrea: Oh great!
Me: Yeah, I totally forgot to tape them last night. But you know how you always wake up early when you’ve been drinking? Well, I woke up at six and remembered I hadn’t taped Rock of Love so I got up, went into the living room, and set everything to tape. Then I went back to sleep.
Andrea: I totally woke up at five then went back to sleep then woke up at 7:30 and thought: Erin better be taping Rock of Love. But then I couldn’t find my phone and went back to sleep.
Andrea: Did you tape Rock of Love?
Me: Yes. And?
Andrea: You did tape it?
Me: Yes. And?
Andrea: And?
Me: Tool Academy Reunion and Tough Love. The new one with the chicks and the dating dude.
Andrea: Oh great!
Me: Yeah, I totally forgot to tape them last night. But you know how you always wake up early when you’ve been drinking? Well, I woke up at six and remembered I hadn’t taped Rock of Love so I got up, went into the living room, and set everything to tape. Then I went back to sleep.
Andrea: I totally woke up at five then went back to sleep then woke up at 7:30 and thought: Erin better be taping Rock of Love. But then I couldn’t find my phone and went back to sleep.
Friday, March 13, 2009
In Trouble? Declare Yourself Your Own Country!
The below story...it justs...BEATS ALL! Take a read: Don't believe this actually happened? Visit the link below!
DUI defendant claims that he's his own country
EASTON, Pa. — A man accused of driving drunk said Pennsylvania courts have no jurisdiction over him because he's his own country. After seeing the paperwork that 44-year-old Scott Allan Witmer filed with the court claiming sovereignty, a Northampton County judge said Tuesday he cannot be released from jail until he gets a mental exam.
Witmer, who represented himself, said he believes police lack jurisdiction to pull him over. As he said in court: "I live inside myself, not in Pennsylvania." He said there is no victim in the crime and asked to go to trial.
Defense attorney James Connell, Witmer's standby counsel, said a challenge to the traffic stop would need to be filed as a pretrial motion.
http://www.ajc.com/business/content/shared-gen/ap/Feature_Stories/ODD_Country_Defense.html?cxntlid=inform_sr
Ok, I like the Nations app, but declaring myself my own country? A little crazy. And that's ME saying that!
But, it does kind of sound like a good idea. Especially when Witmer pointed out that he "lives in side [himself], not in Pennsylvania."
DUI defendant claims that he's his own country
EASTON, Pa. — A man accused of driving drunk said Pennsylvania courts have no jurisdiction over him because he's his own country. After seeing the paperwork that 44-year-old Scott Allan Witmer filed with the court claiming sovereignty, a Northampton County judge said Tuesday he cannot be released from jail until he gets a mental exam.
Witmer, who represented himself, said he believes police lack jurisdiction to pull him over. As he said in court: "I live inside myself, not in Pennsylvania." He said there is no victim in the crime and asked to go to trial.
Defense attorney James Connell, Witmer's standby counsel, said a challenge to the traffic stop would need to be filed as a pretrial motion.
http://www.ajc.com/business/content/shared-gen/ap/Feature_Stories/ODD_Country_Defense.html?cxntlid=inform_sr
Ok, I like the Nations app, but declaring myself my own country? A little crazy. And that's ME saying that!
But, it does kind of sound like a good idea. Especially when Witmer pointed out that he "lives in side [himself], not in Pennsylvania."
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Taylor's Tales of Trouble and Woe
I was having a bad day when I left the gym only to find my car wouldn’t start. I was having a horrible day when not even a week later, my Ipod Video was stolen (but I’ve gotten the last laugh now bitches! And I’m lovin’ my Ipod Touch you fuckers bought me!). When I got pulled over for speeding two weeks later, I knew I was just having a horrible fucking month.
But, I can thank my lucky stars because all of those problems were fixed fairly easily. A diagnostic test had my car fixed in 24 hours for less than $100 (which is good for engine problems). Insurance helped me get my new Ipod Touch. And I’m over the age of 25, so I just paid the ticket and won’t have to worry about my insurance going up.
And I didn’t even come close to this kind of bad time.
There are days that are just plain bad.
There days when I know I should’ve stayed in bed.
But then there are those days where you sit and think: Did that really just happen? Is this really my life? What it has been reduced to?
Before you go any further, THIS IS A TRUE STORY (As everything I write is, and while most of this stuff is QUITE fantastical, this story really is a cut above the rest). It needs no embellishment; it is sadly the tale of a boy named Taylor and the last tragic few days of his present.
Now don’t go skipping through my FB friends trying to find “Taylor.” Taylor is a name to hide the true identity of this poor soul who I know because his sister is a close friend of mine. And I know Taylor won’t be happy with this anyway when (and if) he reads this, but I would have my ass kicked if Taylor knew I put his real name in here. And I don’t think his sister would be too happy with me either, although I know she has laughed at Taylor’s misfortunes.
One weekend in the not-so-distant past Kayla (name also changed) couldn’t get a hold of her brother. She called him in the morning and afternoon to no avail. Her mother also could not reach Taylor and around 4 p.m. they begin to panic.
Had Taylor lived in town, they could’ve driven over to his place until he and his drunkenly comatose friends answered the door. But Taylor didn’t live in town. So they continued to call his cell – each call going straight to voicemail.
Kayla had Taylor’s best friend’s number and called him. The friend made some calls and found out that little Taylor had made a reservation at the ever-so-quaint County Lock-A-Way. Apparently he was picked up that morning for Public Intox and was still sobering up in the County Lock-A-Way.
Once sober and home, Taylor used his friend’s cell phone and called Kayla and let her know that he was fine, that his cell phone had been broken since Thursday and he had bought a new one. The new one was supposed to be delivered on Saturday but since Taylor wasn’t home (he was at County), he had to pick it up at the post office on Monday.
On Monday, Taylor reported to the courthouse (after picking up his new cell). He’s now on the deferral program and will have to attend alcohol training where I am told he will learn about alcohol, alcohol poisoning, alcoholism, and the effects of alcoholism on your loved ones. They also present you with this neat little wheel thing that will help you calculate how many drinks you how have consumed and roughly how drunk you are!
Note: I myself have not taken alcohol training. But I know people that have. I *have* taken defensive driving. My little speedy self then traded notes with my drunk friends and have came to the conclusion that both are a waste of time, that we know what we’re doing, and we know the consequences of our actions. And seriously, I’m not the person who has to be told what to do if my hood suddenly flies up. I’m going to cuss while I pull over to the side of the road. Not choose one of the other options: 1. Look through the small slit at the bottom of the windshield, 2. Put my head out the window, or 3. Use the rearview mirror and drive in reverse.
*Honest to god those were ACTUAL test questions.
Because of the ridiculousness of the course matter, I find it hard to believe that the State wants any of us to benefit from this material. It’s just a way for them to make a quick buck.
Now, Back to Taylor…
Then a few days later, Taylor and his roommates are watching TV when things start to get out of hand and Gatorade spilled all over Taylor’s Ipod Touch rendering it useless.
So, Taylor had to buy a new phone, has to pay for a time-wasting alcohol class, and has to buy a new Ipod (not really, but that will be kept on the DL, right Kayla!).
You would think this tale of trouble and woe would end there.
But you would be wrong.
Taylor’s bad luck continued into the next week when he was backing out of a parking spot at the exact same time someone else was.
Yes. That’s right.
Taylor wrecked his car.
He wasn’t at fault, but still…his bumper is now crunched to all fuck. And he was going to drive to Florida in his car in four short days for Spring Break.
So Taylor had to call his father who is nuts about money and his children making mistakes (although Kayla claims she has heard from his parents and her mom that her father was quite the hellion, he just managed to evade the strong arm of the law).
He wasn’t happy with Taylor, but he did say “Well, I guess shit happens.”
If I was Taylor, I might’ve added “Yeah, shit happens! Like you spend the night in jail, have your cell phone break, then your Ipod ruined, then fuck your car up!”
But Taylor isn’t quite as outspoken as me. Kayla might’ve said something like that though had any of this tale of woe happened to her during her college days.
And so that concludes Taylor’s Tales of Trouble and Woe.
As I stated before, this story needs no embellishment, it is simply one man’s struggle in the past eleven, twelve days. And since we all know bad things happen in three (Kayla told him the Ipod was canceled out, thanks to her quick wit), we hope Taylor’s troubles will take a turn for the better.
P.S. I went to start my diet on Monday, but I was kind of drunk when I decided that and completely forgot my Aunt was stopping by and how I have to feed her these really lovely, exquisite chocolates from this little shoppe called Stephen Libs. So the diet will be starting next Monday, March 16. I would appreciate it if you refrained from braining me with a brick.
But, I can thank my lucky stars because all of those problems were fixed fairly easily. A diagnostic test had my car fixed in 24 hours for less than $100 (which is good for engine problems). Insurance helped me get my new Ipod Touch. And I’m over the age of 25, so I just paid the ticket and won’t have to worry about my insurance going up.
And I didn’t even come close to this kind of bad time.
There are days that are just plain bad.
There days when I know I should’ve stayed in bed.
But then there are those days where you sit and think: Did that really just happen? Is this really my life? What it has been reduced to?
Before you go any further, THIS IS A TRUE STORY (As everything I write is, and while most of this stuff is QUITE fantastical, this story really is a cut above the rest). It needs no embellishment; it is sadly the tale of a boy named Taylor and the last tragic few days of his present.
Now don’t go skipping through my FB friends trying to find “Taylor.” Taylor is a name to hide the true identity of this poor soul who I know because his sister is a close friend of mine. And I know Taylor won’t be happy with this anyway when (and if) he reads this, but I would have my ass kicked if Taylor knew I put his real name in here. And I don’t think his sister would be too happy with me either, although I know she has laughed at Taylor’s misfortunes.
One weekend in the not-so-distant past Kayla (name also changed) couldn’t get a hold of her brother. She called him in the morning and afternoon to no avail. Her mother also could not reach Taylor and around 4 p.m. they begin to panic.
Had Taylor lived in town, they could’ve driven over to his place until he and his drunkenly comatose friends answered the door. But Taylor didn’t live in town. So they continued to call his cell – each call going straight to voicemail.
Kayla had Taylor’s best friend’s number and called him. The friend made some calls and found out that little Taylor had made a reservation at the ever-so-quaint County Lock-A-Way. Apparently he was picked up that morning for Public Intox and was still sobering up in the County Lock-A-Way.
Once sober and home, Taylor used his friend’s cell phone and called Kayla and let her know that he was fine, that his cell phone had been broken since Thursday and he had bought a new one. The new one was supposed to be delivered on Saturday but since Taylor wasn’t home (he was at County), he had to pick it up at the post office on Monday.
On Monday, Taylor reported to the courthouse (after picking up his new cell). He’s now on the deferral program and will have to attend alcohol training where I am told he will learn about alcohol, alcohol poisoning, alcoholism, and the effects of alcoholism on your loved ones. They also present you with this neat little wheel thing that will help you calculate how many drinks you how have consumed and roughly how drunk you are!
Note: I myself have not taken alcohol training. But I know people that have. I *have* taken defensive driving. My little speedy self then traded notes with my drunk friends and have came to the conclusion that both are a waste of time, that we know what we’re doing, and we know the consequences of our actions. And seriously, I’m not the person who has to be told what to do if my hood suddenly flies up. I’m going to cuss while I pull over to the side of the road. Not choose one of the other options: 1. Look through the small slit at the bottom of the windshield, 2. Put my head out the window, or 3. Use the rearview mirror and drive in reverse.
*Honest to god those were ACTUAL test questions.
Because of the ridiculousness of the course matter, I find it hard to believe that the State wants any of us to benefit from this material. It’s just a way for them to make a quick buck.
Now, Back to Taylor…
Then a few days later, Taylor and his roommates are watching TV when things start to get out of hand and Gatorade spilled all over Taylor’s Ipod Touch rendering it useless.
So, Taylor had to buy a new phone, has to pay for a time-wasting alcohol class, and has to buy a new Ipod (not really, but that will be kept on the DL, right Kayla!).
You would think this tale of trouble and woe would end there.
But you would be wrong.
Taylor’s bad luck continued into the next week when he was backing out of a parking spot at the exact same time someone else was.
Yes. That’s right.
Taylor wrecked his car.
He wasn’t at fault, but still…his bumper is now crunched to all fuck. And he was going to drive to Florida in his car in four short days for Spring Break.
So Taylor had to call his father who is nuts about money and his children making mistakes (although Kayla claims she has heard from his parents and her mom that her father was quite the hellion, he just managed to evade the strong arm of the law).
He wasn’t happy with Taylor, but he did say “Well, I guess shit happens.”
If I was Taylor, I might’ve added “Yeah, shit happens! Like you spend the night in jail, have your cell phone break, then your Ipod ruined, then fuck your car up!”
But Taylor isn’t quite as outspoken as me. Kayla might’ve said something like that though had any of this tale of woe happened to her during her college days.
And so that concludes Taylor’s Tales of Trouble and Woe.
As I stated before, this story needs no embellishment, it is simply one man’s struggle in the past eleven, twelve days. And since we all know bad things happen in three (Kayla told him the Ipod was canceled out, thanks to her quick wit), we hope Taylor’s troubles will take a turn for the better.
P.S. I went to start my diet on Monday, but I was kind of drunk when I decided that and completely forgot my Aunt was stopping by and how I have to feed her these really lovely, exquisite chocolates from this little shoppe called Stephen Libs. So the diet will be starting next Monday, March 16. I would appreciate it if you refrained from braining me with a brick.
Rice Crispies - A Deserted Island Necessity...Along w/ Jack Sparrow!
I would gladly live on a deserted island in the middle of ocean w/ a lifetime surplus of rum and of course, Jack Sparrow, as long as there were marshmallows and rice crispies.
Yes, I love chocolate…and OH MY GOD chocolate covered strawberries! Chocolate covered apples, but rice crispies just make me smile.
And they are so easy to make! A bag of marshmallows, six cups of rice crispies, a little butter, and you’re set! Just melt the butter and marshmallows then pour in the rice crispies!
Cooking is something I am only just now getting the hang, but baking, that’s something I haven’t minded doing b/c I have a bit of sweet tooth (hence my large ass). And when I went to college and didn’t have a kitchen in my dorm, I was a little sad. I couldn’t bake any cookies or my rice crispies.
One weekend I came home and mom asked me to go to the store with her. She should’ve known right there and then that taking me to the store was a bad idea, what with the time I spilled a relish tray for Christmas dinner and how I love to run down the aisles and punch all the boxes of food, but she ignored all that and asked me along. Maybe she thought I could act like a mature adult. Anyway, she thought wrong.
I bugged her for snack packs, tried to Entemann’s snack cakes to the cart, and slammed dunked the TP into the cart when she asked me to grab it for her. All of these antics were met with a deep sigh of a disgust and an eye roll. It was enough to fuel me on.
Anyway, we were at the checkout when I decided to pester her for stuff for rice crispy treats. She sighed, but relented and told me to hurry as she began to put the items on the conveyor belt for the clerk.
I took off at a sprinter for the cereal aisle an grabbed the rice crispies. This got another look of disgust as I hastily threw the cereal box onto the belt with the other groceries.
This look, couples with the quickness of the clerk led me to do perhaps that greatest thing I have ever done in the grocery.
It just so happened that the marshmallow aisle was located in a direct line with the checkout we were using. I sprinted down the aisle and grabbed the bag of marshmallows. My mom yells down at me to hurry up. I look and see that the cashier has scanned all of our items.
I stop running at the halfway point of the aisle, pull my right arm back and release the marshmallows in a perfect spiral pass right into the outstretched arms of Jerry Rice! Touchdown! Score! Rice and Young rock!
Only…
Rice didn’t catch the ball.
Curiously enough, the Jerry Rice that was currently scowling at me was a tiny white woman I called mom. And mom didn’t seem none to pleased with the Hail Mary I tossed right down the aisle to her.
Now, I know I’m a pain in the ass. I know I annoy and exasperate my mother , but she can take a lot of it. However, I know when to stop pushing the envelope. So, with my head hung low, I trotted up the aisle to the checkout lane.
“I cannot believe you,” she hissed at me. “You just…just..CHUCKED those marshmallows at me! I can’t believe it. They landed on the floor and of course the clerk looked at me and asked if I was going to pay for them1 Does your idiocy ever stop!”
“But, mom,” I whine, “it was straight to you! All you had to do was lean forward with your hands out and you would’ve caught!”
The fact that I seemed to think she might catch enflamed her even more. However, she did manage to calm down, after she told me I was trying her last nerve (which I have been trying ever since the tender age of five) and laugh.
So if a crazy, immature college kid make rice crispies, a drunk, immature employed adult can definitely make rice crispies! And there isn’t much better than making rice crispies after you’ve drank a liter of margarita with the sister, listened to the old Cranberries’ song Zombie while driving over and over again from the grocery store.
Then you stumble in, chuckling about it being “you head,” turn the stove on and then get to stirring the marshmallows and butter.
The problem comes when you need to put the rice crispies treats into a pan to cool. Being somewhat tipsy, you can tend to forget exactly how hot the rice crispies are and burn your hands.
Then you can distracted by you sister who entices you to start singing songs by the group America, talk about Land Before Time and start doing Sharp Tooth impersonations. The sibs think I was a dinosaur in a previous life because I do quite the Raptor impersonation (courtesy of Jurassic Park) and I’m pretty good mimicking the T-Rex (also courtesy of Jurassic Park). In fact, for Christmas one year, the Little Brother even bought me a t-shirt that he made especially for me. On the front it says “Putts,” which is an inside joke from Beverly Hills Cop 2, but on the back it says “The Raptor.”
Then because of America the group, we began talking about The Last Unicorn and singing the songs from that movie (America wrote the songs for the cartoon). And that led to us popping in our childhood favorite movie The Last Unicorn.
Yes, I do it own DVD. Do you have a problem with that?
Oh, and guess what! The rice crispies were still yummy despite all the drunken shenanigans that were going on (and if you don’t believe something like that ever happened, I unfortunately have documented evidence of its existence).
Which is why I know I would make good rice crispies on my deserted island with Jack Sparrow! I’d be drunk from all the rum, and of course, I’d be distracted!
I’d be with Jack Sparrow!
Hello!
Yes, I love chocolate…and OH MY GOD chocolate covered strawberries! Chocolate covered apples, but rice crispies just make me smile.
And they are so easy to make! A bag of marshmallows, six cups of rice crispies, a little butter, and you’re set! Just melt the butter and marshmallows then pour in the rice crispies!
Cooking is something I am only just now getting the hang, but baking, that’s something I haven’t minded doing b/c I have a bit of sweet tooth (hence my large ass). And when I went to college and didn’t have a kitchen in my dorm, I was a little sad. I couldn’t bake any cookies or my rice crispies.
One weekend I came home and mom asked me to go to the store with her. She should’ve known right there and then that taking me to the store was a bad idea, what with the time I spilled a relish tray for Christmas dinner and how I love to run down the aisles and punch all the boxes of food, but she ignored all that and asked me along. Maybe she thought I could act like a mature adult. Anyway, she thought wrong.
I bugged her for snack packs, tried to Entemann’s snack cakes to the cart, and slammed dunked the TP into the cart when she asked me to grab it for her. All of these antics were met with a deep sigh of a disgust and an eye roll. It was enough to fuel me on.
Anyway, we were at the checkout when I decided to pester her for stuff for rice crispy treats. She sighed, but relented and told me to hurry as she began to put the items on the conveyor belt for the clerk.
I took off at a sprinter for the cereal aisle an grabbed the rice crispies. This got another look of disgust as I hastily threw the cereal box onto the belt with the other groceries.
This look, couples with the quickness of the clerk led me to do perhaps that greatest thing I have ever done in the grocery.
It just so happened that the marshmallow aisle was located in a direct line with the checkout we were using. I sprinted down the aisle and grabbed the bag of marshmallows. My mom yells down at me to hurry up. I look and see that the cashier has scanned all of our items.
I stop running at the halfway point of the aisle, pull my right arm back and release the marshmallows in a perfect spiral pass right into the outstretched arms of Jerry Rice! Touchdown! Score! Rice and Young rock!
Only…
Rice didn’t catch the ball.
Curiously enough, the Jerry Rice that was currently scowling at me was a tiny white woman I called mom. And mom didn’t seem none to pleased with the Hail Mary I tossed right down the aisle to her.
Now, I know I’m a pain in the ass. I know I annoy and exasperate my mother , but she can take a lot of it. However, I know when to stop pushing the envelope. So, with my head hung low, I trotted up the aisle to the checkout lane.
“I cannot believe you,” she hissed at me. “You just…just..CHUCKED those marshmallows at me! I can’t believe it. They landed on the floor and of course the clerk looked at me and asked if I was going to pay for them1 Does your idiocy ever stop!”
“But, mom,” I whine, “it was straight to you! All you had to do was lean forward with your hands out and you would’ve caught!”
The fact that I seemed to think she might catch enflamed her even more. However, she did manage to calm down, after she told me I was trying her last nerve (which I have been trying ever since the tender age of five) and laugh.
So if a crazy, immature college kid make rice crispies, a drunk, immature employed adult can definitely make rice crispies! And there isn’t much better than making rice crispies after you’ve drank a liter of margarita with the sister, listened to the old Cranberries’ song Zombie while driving over and over again from the grocery store.
Then you stumble in, chuckling about it being “you head,” turn the stove on and then get to stirring the marshmallows and butter.
The problem comes when you need to put the rice crispies treats into a pan to cool. Being somewhat tipsy, you can tend to forget exactly how hot the rice crispies are and burn your hands.
Then you can distracted by you sister who entices you to start singing songs by the group America, talk about Land Before Time and start doing Sharp Tooth impersonations. The sibs think I was a dinosaur in a previous life because I do quite the Raptor impersonation (courtesy of Jurassic Park) and I’m pretty good mimicking the T-Rex (also courtesy of Jurassic Park). In fact, for Christmas one year, the Little Brother even bought me a t-shirt that he made especially for me. On the front it says “Putts,” which is an inside joke from Beverly Hills Cop 2, but on the back it says “The Raptor.”
Then because of America the group, we began talking about The Last Unicorn and singing the songs from that movie (America wrote the songs for the cartoon). And that led to us popping in our childhood favorite movie The Last Unicorn.
Yes, I do it own DVD. Do you have a problem with that?
Oh, and guess what! The rice crispies were still yummy despite all the drunken shenanigans that were going on (and if you don’t believe something like that ever happened, I unfortunately have documented evidence of its existence).
Which is why I know I would make good rice crispies on my deserted island with Jack Sparrow! I’d be drunk from all the rum, and of course, I’d be distracted!
I’d be with Jack Sparrow!
Hello!
Friday, March 6, 2009
MY ASS - The World's Eighth Continent!
I am tired. I am exhausted. My muscles ache. And yet my ass is still as big as a barn.
Before you rush to judgment, this wasn’t my first workout since the new millennia dawned. I workout six times a week (Remember the Propel), sometimes more! I do plenty of cardio, sit ups, Yoga, and now that its getting nice out, its running because Tom Cruise (the puppy named Mac) has gone nuts when I’ve came home and wanted to (and Mommy is a sucker for him when he wants to run even though she hates it).
Yet my ass is still considered the eighth continent. I can’t even shrink it down to the size of Rhode Island.
Which leaves me to the conclusion that no matter how much I work out, no matter how much I kill myself, and push myself to the breaking point, I won’t shed a pound.
And I’m not a big eater. I do have a soft spot for sour gummis but I don’t eat them everyday.
So I’m starting a new diet. Not low carb, not high carb, not low fat, not only trans fat, it’s called the No Food Diet.
The No Food Diet is the commonly accepted diet of anorexics the world over.
Some of the problems associated with the No Food Diet are dizziness, lightheadedness, a tendency to pass out, hunger pains, weakness, hallucinations, and in extreme cases, death.
The No Food Diet works by simply not eating. Without any food to extract any nutrients from, the looks for nutrition in stored fatty cells. Essentially, your body begins to eat itself.
The Zero-Caloric intake coupled with all of my exercise should FINALLY give me the negative-caloric intake needed to begin shedding my backside of the reservoir of fat known as my ass and hips.
My goal is go from a size 4/6 (depending on the store) to a size 0/2 (depending on the store) in three weeks.
As my friend, I need you to be on diet duty. No piece of food is to end up in my mouth.
Yes, I realize this is extreme and that a size 6 isn’t considered big by some, BUT I’m not exactly tall. Short people have less room to hide any excess weight, so when we do have excess, we end up looking short and squat.
But now thinking about this, I’m thinking about my body’s tendency to lose weight. What’s probably going to happen is that my ass either gets bigger or stays the same while I lose a cup size (and being a B-cup, I don’t have much to lose).
If this No Food Diet Plan of mine fails, that leave liposuction as my only means of ridding myself of the growth on my backside. Once the fat has been removed, I will then have it placed in my breasts in an effort to get back the cup-size I lost.
Now remember: If you see me eating (starting on March 9, 2009) please slap the food out of my hand and then with a brick, hit me upside the head.
It sounds drastic and desperate, I know.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
And nothing is more desperate than my ass being labeled the world’s eighth continent.
Before you rush to judgment, this wasn’t my first workout since the new millennia dawned. I workout six times a week (Remember the Propel), sometimes more! I do plenty of cardio, sit ups, Yoga, and now that its getting nice out, its running because Tom Cruise (the puppy named Mac) has gone nuts when I’ve came home and wanted to (and Mommy is a sucker for him when he wants to run even though she hates it).
Yet my ass is still considered the eighth continent. I can’t even shrink it down to the size of Rhode Island.
Which leaves me to the conclusion that no matter how much I work out, no matter how much I kill myself, and push myself to the breaking point, I won’t shed a pound.
And I’m not a big eater. I do have a soft spot for sour gummis but I don’t eat them everyday.
So I’m starting a new diet. Not low carb, not high carb, not low fat, not only trans fat, it’s called the No Food Diet.
The No Food Diet is the commonly accepted diet of anorexics the world over.
Some of the problems associated with the No Food Diet are dizziness, lightheadedness, a tendency to pass out, hunger pains, weakness, hallucinations, and in extreme cases, death.
The No Food Diet works by simply not eating. Without any food to extract any nutrients from, the looks for nutrition in stored fatty cells. Essentially, your body begins to eat itself.
The Zero-Caloric intake coupled with all of my exercise should FINALLY give me the negative-caloric intake needed to begin shedding my backside of the reservoir of fat known as my ass and hips.
My goal is go from a size 4/6 (depending on the store) to a size 0/2 (depending on the store) in three weeks.
As my friend, I need you to be on diet duty. No piece of food is to end up in my mouth.
Yes, I realize this is extreme and that a size 6 isn’t considered big by some, BUT I’m not exactly tall. Short people have less room to hide any excess weight, so when we do have excess, we end up looking short and squat.
But now thinking about this, I’m thinking about my body’s tendency to lose weight. What’s probably going to happen is that my ass either gets bigger or stays the same while I lose a cup size (and being a B-cup, I don’t have much to lose).
If this No Food Diet Plan of mine fails, that leave liposuction as my only means of ridding myself of the growth on my backside. Once the fat has been removed, I will then have it placed in my breasts in an effort to get back the cup-size I lost.
Now remember: If you see me eating (starting on March 9, 2009) please slap the food out of my hand and then with a brick, hit me upside the head.
It sounds drastic and desperate, I know.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
And nothing is more desperate than my ass being labeled the world’s eighth continent.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Why the F*** Must I Pay for Change!
I'm not a fan of change.
Well...I guess I'd throw caution to the wind if Derek Jeter knocked on my door with a three-carat diamond ring courtesy of Mr. Harry Winston.
But other than Mr. Jeter asking me to become Mrs. Jeter, I'm not sure there is such a thing as good change.
Note: This is not a political blog. I would never foist my political opinions on the few that do read this thing and I would thank you kindly if you did the same for me. Because we all have opinions (they're a lot like assholes, we all have them). My opinions are deep-rooted in upbringing and experiences and I'm not going to change them. I'm pretty sure you wont' change yours either.
And that's as political as I'm going to get.
So, let's get to the topic of the blog - change and how I must PAY for it! Literally.
First of all, I'd like to offer up a big "fuck you" to the Gatorade people.
Why?
Well, here we go, here's the skinny. I workout six days a week. Everyday I like to take a 1000 ml bottle of Kiwi-Strawberry Propel with me. This bottle can cost about $1.60-1.80 at grocery stores and gas stations. BUT at Walmart, those same 1000 ml bottles cost ONE DOLLAR!
But, oh no! Not anymore!
Propel has redesigned their bottles. I liked the way they looked and was all for the change. But there was something about the bottle I couldn't figure out. Oh right! When I went to get my 1000 ml bottle, IT WASN'T THERE! No, in its place was a 750 ml bottle that costs the same amount as the 1000 ml bottle. Seriously, Gatorade! Seriously Walmart! That little fucking bottle should only be $.75!
But is it? OF COURSE NOT!!!!!!!!
It's a conspiracy.
And what about Cup-of-Soup? Every so often they change their recipe (I have found that there are two different recipes that they use, and yes I LOVE Cup-of-Soup, Thank you very much!) and one of their recipes SUCKS! More bad change! Listen up Cup-of-Soup people - If it aint' broke, don't fix it!
And movies! Its hard to make a good sequel, but its even harder to make a good one if the cast doesn't come back. Examples: Predator 1 and 2, Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal, all the Batman movies before Chris Nolan took over, Terminator 2 and Terminator 3 (Ok, T2 was a GREAT sequel but 3 was missing James Cameron AND Linda Hamilton), I could exhaust this list thinking of all the crappy attempts at Hollywood to make a buck instead of placing something quality out there.
Another change I am not a fan of is Sam's getting rid of their floral shop with all kinds of loose flowers to make your own bouquet with and giving us some crappy stand with pre-made bouquets that are HIDEOUS!
And oh my god, Creed just stole a bag of blood!
Sorry, distracted by The Office (Creed fucking rocks).
Now, I am well aware of that there is a bit of good change out there. Like finding a shitload of quarters in your couch, enough to buy a pizza with or when the seasons change, you get out your winter coat and find an actual BILL in the pocket (True story, found a $20 in my pocket this fall).
If only all change could feel that good...
Well...I guess I'd throw caution to the wind if Derek Jeter knocked on my door with a three-carat diamond ring courtesy of Mr. Harry Winston.
But other than Mr. Jeter asking me to become Mrs. Jeter, I'm not sure there is such a thing as good change.
Note: This is not a political blog. I would never foist my political opinions on the few that do read this thing and I would thank you kindly if you did the same for me. Because we all have opinions (they're a lot like assholes, we all have them). My opinions are deep-rooted in upbringing and experiences and I'm not going to change them. I'm pretty sure you wont' change yours either.
And that's as political as I'm going to get.
So, let's get to the topic of the blog - change and how I must PAY for it! Literally.
First of all, I'd like to offer up a big "fuck you" to the Gatorade people.
Why?
Well, here we go, here's the skinny. I workout six days a week. Everyday I like to take a 1000 ml bottle of Kiwi-Strawberry Propel with me. This bottle can cost about $1.60-1.80 at grocery stores and gas stations. BUT at Walmart, those same 1000 ml bottles cost ONE DOLLAR!
But, oh no! Not anymore!
Propel has redesigned their bottles. I liked the way they looked and was all for the change. But there was something about the bottle I couldn't figure out. Oh right! When I went to get my 1000 ml bottle, IT WASN'T THERE! No, in its place was a 750 ml bottle that costs the same amount as the 1000 ml bottle. Seriously, Gatorade! Seriously Walmart! That little fucking bottle should only be $.75!
But is it? OF COURSE NOT!!!!!!!!
It's a conspiracy.
And what about Cup-of-Soup? Every so often they change their recipe (I have found that there are two different recipes that they use, and yes I LOVE Cup-of-Soup, Thank you very much!) and one of their recipes SUCKS! More bad change! Listen up Cup-of-Soup people - If it aint' broke, don't fix it!
And movies! Its hard to make a good sequel, but its even harder to make a good one if the cast doesn't come back. Examples: Predator 1 and 2, Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal, all the Batman movies before Chris Nolan took over, Terminator 2 and Terminator 3 (Ok, T2 was a GREAT sequel but 3 was missing James Cameron AND Linda Hamilton), I could exhaust this list thinking of all the crappy attempts at Hollywood to make a buck instead of placing something quality out there.
Another change I am not a fan of is Sam's getting rid of their floral shop with all kinds of loose flowers to make your own bouquet with and giving us some crappy stand with pre-made bouquets that are HIDEOUS!
And oh my god, Creed just stole a bag of blood!
Sorry, distracted by The Office (Creed fucking rocks).
Now, I am well aware of that there is a bit of good change out there. Like finding a shitload of quarters in your couch, enough to buy a pizza with or when the seasons change, you get out your winter coat and find an actual BILL in the pocket (True story, found a $20 in my pocket this fall).
If only all change could feel that good...
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Divorce: A 50/50 Chance of Becoming a Douche Bag!
Why is it that when people divorce someone always comes out looking like a douchebag?
My parents are divorced. It’s a fairly new development that started when I was 22-years-old. The divorce was finalized when I was 23, so all this pretty much happened in the past four to five years (And for those of you doing the math that means that at the time of this post I am 27-years-old which I am well aware of means I am getting old).
My mother may not be an angel 100% of the time – see “The Mystery of the Disappearing Toaster” – but we all have our moments. And she’s been there for her kids, never stopped calling, texting, or god forbid, stopped sending them forwards!
That last year I was in college wasn’t easy for me. My friends all know exactly how hard it was on me. My dad threatened to stop paying for my college (Yes, we’re a spoiled middle class family and I did get college paid for), he turned my cell phone off, told me it wasn’t his problem if my car died in the middle of BFE, went to Kevin’s high school soccer games and stood off from the crowd talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone before leaving at halftime, got mad at my sister for defending my brother and then at me for defending my brother and sister.
And then a couple of year passed and I simply stopped hating my dad. Now mind you, I didn’t love him, I just simply stopped feeling altogether. It was much better to not feel anything than to carry around this ball of ugly negative feelings. I also found out that all that hate that I had for him, it was yet another way he was affecting my life, that he was controlling me. It was true that in the previous years, he had been a good father, we had fun together as a family and a ton of good memories to supplement that time we had, but that was all over now. He was gone. It was as if our lives had turned into a bad sci-fi movie and some alien had inhabited my father’s body. Or had he become a life-sucking zombie. Either way, you have to eventually learn to let go of that person and move on.
And I had.
Then a year passed and he called for reconcile.
He came at me honestly and I relented, slowly lowering my defenses – bringing the pit bulls back from the electrically charged walls (of the Jurassic Park caliber), allowing my archers to put down their arrows, and telling the sharpshooters to come down for a drink as I lowered the drawbridge and opened the heavily barred door.
And slowly I began to know my father again and think that maybe his days of a douchebag were over.
BOY WAS I WRONG!
I’m not going to go into the specifics, but let me tell you this – he called my mother and lied to her, then got pissed at me because I was pissed at him for making shit up about me.
Why did he lie about me?
Andrea, MY SISTER, had pissed him off. Things were said that she wasn’t entirely happy about, so she told him she wasn’t comfortable with his girlfriend (who just so happens to be the entire reason my parents are no longer married; i.e. she’s responsible for his douchebageryness) and that pissed him off and caused him to lie about me.
This happened on January 17, 2009 which also happened to be the night of my father’s surprise birthday party for turning 50. He didn’t speak to us and I have not had a phone call or text from him since (He has since resumed communiqué with the brother and sister, but it is limited to say the least).
Another funny thing, during his escape from the Land of Douche Bag, he used to send 1 to 5 different forwards every other day. In honor of Michael Scott, we dubbed my dad The King of Forwards.
Anyway, I didn’t realize it, but a couple of weeks had gone by and I got a forward from my grandmother. Without even thinking about it, my eyes scanned the return receipt and I saw that it was sent to her from my father who had sent it to her, his girlfriend’s parents, and my brother.
Yes.
Not only was I caught off from texts or phone calls, but I was also caught off via email.
Like the Soup Nazi would say – NO FORWARDS FOR YOU!
What else could I do? I laughed! And then proceeded to call all of my friends and see if they could believe the ridiculousness of my father’s grudge (Remember: He’s mad because I’m mad that he lied about me).
Anyway, back to this whole business of one person in the divorce being a douchebag. To say my dad is a douchebag is a whole point of view thing. While 95% of everyone who knows my family may agree with me, I’m well aware of the fact that the other 5% may think I’m the douchebag (These percentages are guesstimates, in actuality it could be higher that I’m the douchebag).
And it’s entirely possible.
I do idolize Maleficent, the wonderfully evil sorceress who tried to kill Princess Aurora AKA Sleeping Beauty with a spell and a spinning wheel (Thanks to meddling Meriwether the death became sleep) and then she turned into a dragon and NEARLY killed Prince Charming (again with the meddling fairies).
It’s sad to see a family member comfortably settle down in the Land of Douche Bag, and it seems to happen to quite a few spouses after a divorce (Once again, the party who becomes a Douche Bag Resident is subject to POV), but it does happen.
Maternally and paternally, my family wasn’t the first or last one to crash and burn. Counting my mom, dad and their sibs, my family is 3 for 3 on that front. Which means that 3 people have become douche bags (and if they already had residences there, they became an even bigger douche bag). In fact, I even had an uncle’s ex that knew I worked at a bank try to tell my dad I was stealing his sensitive financial information.
This was total crap for a couple of reasons. One, I am an intelligent person. And being the intelligent person that I am, I know the bank tracks any information that my computer screen shows me. Two, knowing my dad is a vindictive cunt (sorry, sorry) I refused to cash checks from his company to his employees (this did happen a couple of times) because I know he’d be a complete douche about it. Three, even if I was a complete moron, we have training modules we have to do every year that deal with privacy and the sensitive nature of it, so I would’ve known that printing out his accounts and taking it to my mother’s attorney was illegal.
This same ex-aunt also tried to cuss out my sister because my mom supposedly was to do some favor for her. Cussing out my sister? Why? My sister never agreed to anything for that dried up, nasty bag. And now I’m sure the only thing my sister will agree to do for her is to shit in a bag, light it on fire, place it on her doorstep, ring the bell, and then wait for her to come out.
And that right there is the real tragedy of divorce - the dried-up, old husks people become once the dust has settled. Those that become the “douche bag” seem to be so negative and unhappy with their lives, that only thing they feel they can take any joy in is making everyone else’s life miserable too – even if the person was completely innocent (what else would prompt my sister getting cussed or my father lying about me).
They are both miserable people and have turned completely selfish from it.
Maybe this doesn’t always happen. I’d like to be positive and think that some can escape from the clutches of divorce without a stop off in the Land of Douche Bag, but I haven’t seen it happen yet.
And my immediate family isn’t the only one with Douche Bag-induced problems. Friends married to divorced-spouses also experience pain brought on from these selfish parties, and friends with divorced parents sometimes can’t get along with one parent.
But let’s be optimistic.
And consider this a warning:
If you marry, there’s a 50/50 chance it will fail. If it does in fact fail: DON’T BE A DOUCHE BAG!
PEACE!
My parents are divorced. It’s a fairly new development that started when I was 22-years-old. The divorce was finalized when I was 23, so all this pretty much happened in the past four to five years (And for those of you doing the math that means that at the time of this post I am 27-years-old which I am well aware of means I am getting old).
My mother may not be an angel 100% of the time – see “The Mystery of the Disappearing Toaster” – but we all have our moments. And she’s been there for her kids, never stopped calling, texting, or god forbid, stopped sending them forwards!
That last year I was in college wasn’t easy for me. My friends all know exactly how hard it was on me. My dad threatened to stop paying for my college (Yes, we’re a spoiled middle class family and I did get college paid for), he turned my cell phone off, told me it wasn’t his problem if my car died in the middle of BFE, went to Kevin’s high school soccer games and stood off from the crowd talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone before leaving at halftime, got mad at my sister for defending my brother and then at me for defending my brother and sister.
And then a couple of year passed and I simply stopped hating my dad. Now mind you, I didn’t love him, I just simply stopped feeling altogether. It was much better to not feel anything than to carry around this ball of ugly negative feelings. I also found out that all that hate that I had for him, it was yet another way he was affecting my life, that he was controlling me. It was true that in the previous years, he had been a good father, we had fun together as a family and a ton of good memories to supplement that time we had, but that was all over now. He was gone. It was as if our lives had turned into a bad sci-fi movie and some alien had inhabited my father’s body. Or had he become a life-sucking zombie. Either way, you have to eventually learn to let go of that person and move on.
And I had.
Then a year passed and he called for reconcile.
He came at me honestly and I relented, slowly lowering my defenses – bringing the pit bulls back from the electrically charged walls (of the Jurassic Park caliber), allowing my archers to put down their arrows, and telling the sharpshooters to come down for a drink as I lowered the drawbridge and opened the heavily barred door.
And slowly I began to know my father again and think that maybe his days of a douchebag were over.
BOY WAS I WRONG!
I’m not going to go into the specifics, but let me tell you this – he called my mother and lied to her, then got pissed at me because I was pissed at him for making shit up about me.
Why did he lie about me?
Andrea, MY SISTER, had pissed him off. Things were said that she wasn’t entirely happy about, so she told him she wasn’t comfortable with his girlfriend (who just so happens to be the entire reason my parents are no longer married; i.e. she’s responsible for his douchebageryness) and that pissed him off and caused him to lie about me.
This happened on January 17, 2009 which also happened to be the night of my father’s surprise birthday party for turning 50. He didn’t speak to us and I have not had a phone call or text from him since (He has since resumed communiqué with the brother and sister, but it is limited to say the least).
Another funny thing, during his escape from the Land of Douche Bag, he used to send 1 to 5 different forwards every other day. In honor of Michael Scott, we dubbed my dad The King of Forwards.
Anyway, I didn’t realize it, but a couple of weeks had gone by and I got a forward from my grandmother. Without even thinking about it, my eyes scanned the return receipt and I saw that it was sent to her from my father who had sent it to her, his girlfriend’s parents, and my brother.
Yes.
Not only was I caught off from texts or phone calls, but I was also caught off via email.
Like the Soup Nazi would say – NO FORWARDS FOR YOU!
What else could I do? I laughed! And then proceeded to call all of my friends and see if they could believe the ridiculousness of my father’s grudge (Remember: He’s mad because I’m mad that he lied about me).
Anyway, back to this whole business of one person in the divorce being a douchebag. To say my dad is a douchebag is a whole point of view thing. While 95% of everyone who knows my family may agree with me, I’m well aware of the fact that the other 5% may think I’m the douchebag (These percentages are guesstimates, in actuality it could be higher that I’m the douchebag).
And it’s entirely possible.
I do idolize Maleficent, the wonderfully evil sorceress who tried to kill Princess Aurora AKA Sleeping Beauty with a spell and a spinning wheel (Thanks to meddling Meriwether the death became sleep) and then she turned into a dragon and NEARLY killed Prince Charming (again with the meddling fairies).
It’s sad to see a family member comfortably settle down in the Land of Douche Bag, and it seems to happen to quite a few spouses after a divorce (Once again, the party who becomes a Douche Bag Resident is subject to POV), but it does happen.
Maternally and paternally, my family wasn’t the first or last one to crash and burn. Counting my mom, dad and their sibs, my family is 3 for 3 on that front. Which means that 3 people have become douche bags (and if they already had residences there, they became an even bigger douche bag). In fact, I even had an uncle’s ex that knew I worked at a bank try to tell my dad I was stealing his sensitive financial information.
This was total crap for a couple of reasons. One, I am an intelligent person. And being the intelligent person that I am, I know the bank tracks any information that my computer screen shows me. Two, knowing my dad is a vindictive cunt (sorry, sorry) I refused to cash checks from his company to his employees (this did happen a couple of times) because I know he’d be a complete douche about it. Three, even if I was a complete moron, we have training modules we have to do every year that deal with privacy and the sensitive nature of it, so I would’ve known that printing out his accounts and taking it to my mother’s attorney was illegal.
This same ex-aunt also tried to cuss out my sister because my mom supposedly was to do some favor for her. Cussing out my sister? Why? My sister never agreed to anything for that dried up, nasty bag. And now I’m sure the only thing my sister will agree to do for her is to shit in a bag, light it on fire, place it on her doorstep, ring the bell, and then wait for her to come out.
And that right there is the real tragedy of divorce - the dried-up, old husks people become once the dust has settled. Those that become the “douche bag” seem to be so negative and unhappy with their lives, that only thing they feel they can take any joy in is making everyone else’s life miserable too – even if the person was completely innocent (what else would prompt my sister getting cussed or my father lying about me).
They are both miserable people and have turned completely selfish from it.
Maybe this doesn’t always happen. I’d like to be positive and think that some can escape from the clutches of divorce without a stop off in the Land of Douche Bag, but I haven’t seen it happen yet.
And my immediate family isn’t the only one with Douche Bag-induced problems. Friends married to divorced-spouses also experience pain brought on from these selfish parties, and friends with divorced parents sometimes can’t get along with one parent.
But let’s be optimistic.
And consider this a warning:
If you marry, there’s a 50/50 chance it will fail. If it does in fact fail: DON’T BE A DOUCHE BAG!
PEACE!
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