Culture Cube

Let's Get Right To It

2011-11-18T18:50:00.002-05:00

I’m unemployed. Yes, that’s right; I have been without a job for one full week now and I have about 10-ish days left to go. The good news is that I am willfully unemployed as I have accepted another position at another joint in Boston where I somehow tricked a group of, by all accounts, intelligent people, into hiring my dumb ass, giving me a fancy title, a full staff and an office. The bad news is, in the meantime, I’m so fucking bored I can hardly see straight. This goes against everything I once believed so deeply about myself...that I’m a lazy bag of bones who would love nothing more than to one day never have to work again, but alas, I no longer think this is the case. And I hate myself for it because I fear this can mean only one thing. I am an official adult who (starting to gag...yep, full gag coming on) enjoys her job. Ugh.

Anyway, the list of things I have done to combat said boredom is starting to freak me out. All of my laundry is clean and neatly folded; I’ve been to the tailor and the dry cleaner twice; I’ve grocery shopped (my refrigerator usually consists of a carton of soy milk, an avocado, and during a bountiful week, maybe some leftover Thai); I cooked vegan Sloppy Joes (what.the.fucking.gross.); I’ve given George Michael 3 baths and a haircut; stepped up my running routine - you all have a free punch redeemable at the entrance of my fat mouth for being such a white girl with that statement; vacuumed my windowsills and every other square inch of this apartment; called my grandmother; undertaken a minor but also quite sophisticated plumbing project and finally invested in a new phone after dropping mine outside a CVS last December, shattering the screen and keeping it held together with scotch tape for an entire fucking year. Who am I?!? What have I become!?!?! Someone send a case of Fuzzy Navels, a Benetton tube dress and some caramel flavored condoms my way stat. This ship is sinking fast and if I’m gonna go down, it best be on the Myrtle Beach Booze Cruise and not one of those fucking Disney Family Adventure shit shows.

The laundry room in my apartment building is, like many apartment buildings, located in the basement. The difference between your basement and my basement is that I’d be willing to bet that your basement was built sometime after the turn of the century where as mine was most likely a Revolutionary War bunker, is most definitely haunted and houses a large sink that I’m convinced dispenses congealed animal blood as opposed to actual water. Of course, this hasn’t stopped me from making out in the basement - not once, not twice, but three times and then finding a missing boot and an earring down there after the fact. I also once found a pair of my high heels in the recycle bin post random makeout in the lobby of my building. I decided it was probably a good place to store them during the deed...but that’s a story for another time. Okay, no it’s not. I made out with a guy I deemed too sketchy to bring into my apartment, but totally safe enough to roll around with in the elevator for a few minutes before asking him to get out so I could hitch a ride up to my pad. Brilliant. Just for the record, I have made out in my bed before. I think.

Moving on, and as I had nothing better to do last Monday afternoon at 3pm, I figured I would finally use the laundry room for a different kind of spin cycle and see if this Preemie Baby Placenta scented Tide I’ve had stashed under my stove for two years was worth all the hype. I gathered up my most delicate of delicates (so like, jeans and t-shirts and a sock), and headed down to the basement with George Michael trotting right alongside me.

George loves a good adventure and since the laundry room is full of all kinds of crazy, I usually let him come down to hang out while I attend to the 35 quarters required to turn on the washing machine - its power capacity only rivaled by that of my electric toothbrush. We made our way to the bunker and I began the usual sorting, pulling other people’s clothes out of the washer, seeing if there’s anything I like in their load (one can never have too many navy blue washcloths or moth eaten boxer shorts!), transferring to the dryer without their permission and then dumping a bunch of detergent over everything before busting out the fire proof safe full of $1,000,000 in quarters. As I was too preoccupied with shoving my neighbor’s Thanksgiving themed dishtowel down my sweatpants, I had momentarily neglected to keep an eye on George Michael, and sure enough, when I was ready to Bounce (get it!?!? Laundry product placement! Hit me up, Bounce. There’s plenty more where that came from, big guys!), he was nowhere to be found. I called him; he didn’t come. I looked down hallways and in the breaker room; he wasn’t there. I threw a pair of my neighbor’s underwear on the floor for the taking...not even a sniff. He was completely missing in action. Feeling a hint of panic begin to set in as, despite the fact that he was born to destroy me, this dog is the only thing that evokes any sort of emotional reaction in me whatsoever, and should he ever leave, I will immediately crumble into a pile of ash, empty tins of lip gloss and press-on nails, I did the only thing I knew to do. I sat on the stairs, drummed up my sweetest, most obnoxious toddler voice and yelled out, “Treeeeaaaat!!!”

...

.....

.......

And there he was. My love, my little monkey, my Georgie.

With a fucking mouse in his mouth.

Now, I’ve seen a rodent or 12 in my day. When I was a kid, I have a vivid memory of my mother coming into my bedroom late at night with blood all over the front of her nightgown after our dog, Henry, caught a rat in the kitchen, murdered it and then delivered the kill on my mother’s stomach while she slept in bed. She woke me up so that I could sweep the dead rat into a plastic bag because she was too scared to do it herself. Ah, a mother’s love...

I had a garden level apartment in 2006 (“garden level” is fancy speak for “in the alley”) where the only place I could get cellphone reception was by my living room window which overlooked a large rat den that I became quite familiar with over the course of my lease. Like, I could tell them apart and stuff. Not my finest hour...or annual compensation package.

And a few years ago, I was peeing at a friend’s lake house when a mouse ran out of the shower and made a mad dash for my feet before I was able to drop the lid, stand on top of the toilet with my XL tankini bottoms in hand and scream bloody murder until my boyfriend came to rescue me. My other friend heard my shrieking and thought someone in my family had died. No, it was much worse than that.

All of these events pale in comparison to watching George Michael chew on a dead mouse, blood squirting out the sides of his mouth, the sound of tiny bones breaking and popping through flesh permeating my eardrums while I began to softly squeal and slowly back away from the little dog who was now more than happy to follow me up the stairs in the hopes that I had a Cool Ranch Dorito in my pocket.

I know my neighbors have seen me at my best (lie and never) and very worst (truth and daily). But I think none of them were quite prepared to see me dominate four flights of stairs in approximately 7 seconds while being chased by a dog that could fit in a fucking Kardashian carry all, only pausing to yell, “Drop it! You’re an adopted lunatic asshole! I hate you!!”, before diving into my apartment and slamming the door in his face. One neighbor in particular (he actually moved out two days ago...hmmm...weird), who lived across the hall from me has come to my aid on several occasions. There was the time I got trapped in the elevator and he had to pull me out in my pajamas but only after I made sure he got my Slurpee first, there was the second time I got trapped in the elevator and he decided it best to call the landlord then go through that mess again. There was the time I left my keys on the train so I woke him up at 1am for my spare set, the time I blew our circuits when I was drying my hair, while listening to my iPod, with the TV, both airconditioning units, and all my lights on and he came over to reset my breakers. There was that other time when I thought I heard a burglar in my house so I asked him to go look but it was just George caught under a blanket randomly bumping into things. And finally, the time when my boyfriend got stuck in the elevator and we pulled him out but not before he insisted I get his bottle of whiskey out of his coat first.

Sure enough, my poor neighbor was home, heard the commotion and came out to assist me (or kill me. either/or). I cracked my door open while he blocked George Michael from alternative escape routes as I threw candy corns in the hallway to entice him into dropping the mouse. After a few minutes, 20-30 candy corns littering the common area, and my neighbor instructing me to “aim for his mouth! Or maybe his eyes! Yeah, try to hit him right in the eye!”, our efforts paid off. George dropped the mouse and ate some candy while I snuck up behind him with a garbage bag, scooped him up (not like, in the bag. I didn’t want to suffocate him. Not yet, anyway. Just sort of wrap it around his body so my hands wouldn’t touch his freshly infected AIDS fur) and rushed him to the bathtub where I doused him in hot water for the better part of an hour. I also brushed his teeth. Twice. And forgot about my neighbor. He told me the next day that he had cleaned up the mouse. Oops. So, I bought him a cookie. I just forgot he already had moved out.

I’ve taken to calling George by a new name - George Mouse Mouth Michael - and he is forever banned from the laundry room. Me, however, that’s harder to say. If I don’t get back to work soon, it’s quite likely I’ll drag some bum down there again for a little afternoon delight...and then slip a 10 spot in his pocket for wrangling up any loose vermin by way of the blue cheese dressing matted in his dreads from our earlier dinner date at the Outback Steakhouse dumpster.

Hey, what was the point of this post again? Oh yeah...I’m outta work and fucking bored. Any of you play Words with Friends? It’s my new jam since I’ve come to realize I suck at Fruit Ninja (like most anything else that requires the most basic eye-hand coordination). Yes, I know I’m late to the party, but remember my old phone that was made out of scotch tape?

I’m Culturecube. Bring it.

Round II

2011-08-12T17:06:00.001-04:00

Completely Normal Activity For a Woman Turning 32 in 6 Days.

2011-07-09T22:47:00.000-04:00

My favorite part of this is when I accuse George Michael of "ruining it" at the end. Because, yeah.

Friday Night

2011-05-20T21:14:00.004-04:00

I was supposed to go out to meet a friend for drinks this evening. And then I came home and decided I would slip into a new comfy pair of yoga pants I bought a few days ago (which I did not actually buy to practice any yoga in but rather to sit on my ass on Sunday afternoons because the pair I used to wear for that weekly activity got eaten. And I think we all know who is responsible for that mishap). After I put the pants on, I thought I should go to 7-Eleven for a pre-drink snack to get the belly lined up with cheap carbs and saturated fats. I met a nice old man in 7-Eleven who asked me if I knew how much a single banana cost these days. We both scoured the bananas for price tags, but couldn't figure it out - so I apologized and began to walk away when he shouted after me, "Hey, lady! You may look decent these days, but I can tell by the shape of your body that you're not getting enough potassium. And you're goin' downhill fast, honey." Soooo....not the nice old man I initially credited him to be. With that, I bagged my Coke and my Healthy Life Rice Cracker Mix (that's right - Healthy Life brand, you withered little bastard) and came back home. Nothing goes better with a snack then some mindless television and wouldn't you know, I found The L Word on my Showtime on Demand. With that, I have canceled my drink plans and can currently be found couch bound, with crumbs all over my lap and four episodes deep into a ten episode season show about cool lesbians living the high life in Los Angeles.

I'm not a lesbian but I like them a lot. Because this show clearly proves that they all have great hair and rad jobs at movie studios and art galleries. Lesbians of the internets, if you're looking for a strange broad with hair that is at the total mercy of the outside dew point (best if we hang on the 65% and below days), won't be able to have sex with you but does have a job that found her at a garden party yesterday with a bunch of 80 year-old women shoving tea sandwiches in her purse when they got distracted by a tulip, and later, in the same day, ran into a lamp post and simultaneously broke her shoe when she was trying to look sexy upon catching the eye of a bike messenger (seriously, fucking grow up, Allie), get in touch! Teach me the ways of your hip lesbian world - or at least how to properly apply the Toni & Guy pomade.

Man, I'm getting old and lame. Tomorrow night I'm hosting a dinner party. Worse, when I invited my guests, I referenced it as such - a dinner party. I mean, damn. I used to invite people over to get fucked up on spiked Orange Crush and Hot Pockets. And now I actually put stuff in a pot and spring for the boxed wine. I guess it's the same invite in a preppier costume, but I'm not liking the domestic 30-something that I see emerging here. So hurry up, lesbians and bike messenger boys. Come style me right (gals) and whip me into shape (boys) before I turn into my worst nightmare. A normal woman.

Wherever this particular Friday night finds you, I hope it finds you well. Party on, people.

2011-05-08T18:58:00.004-04:00

If I were to list my top five favorite things in this world, people included, it would go a lil' somethin' like this:

1) Crab rangoon

2) Quarters

3) George Michael

4) My bathtub

5) Breakfast burritos

Oops...guess no actual person(s) made the final cut. Oh well. People come and go. Quarters are forever.

Last week I had an early meeting at the office. It was my job, the day before, to call in the standard coffee and bagel order to be delivered promptly at 7:45am the following morning. I've done this dance a million times over. I know the drill. Coffee and bagels for 5 and try not to jump through the phone when the woman on the other end asks if you'd like "all the fixins". As if sugar, milk and cream cheese have any right to be called fixins. A true, blue blooded American knows that proper fixins can only be found at a Golden Corral buffet or in your grandmother's medicine cabinet in the form of Hydrocodone and Xanax to crush up and sprinkle upon your morning mug of lukewarm Coors Light. Don't get a girl all excited only so she can find out that your idea of fun is a few packets of Splenda and a stir straw.

Anyway, I guess I was feeling pretty frisky when I phoned in because for some reason, after I confirmed the basics, I felt compelled to get it on with a breakfast burrito. As previously stated, I love, love, love a good breakfast burrito. Thus far, Boston has proved a big disappointment in this area as I have yet to sample one here that I have any real desire to visit again. Generally, it seems the concept is unnecessarily complicated when simplicity is what ultimately always reigns supreme. I don't need bell peppers, jalapenos, fancy cheese, steak tips or chorizo in my breakfast burrito. While all of these ingredients certainly have their place, it is not inside of my standard flour tortilla with scrambled eggs, a slice of Kraft yellow and some crumbled Jimmy Dean. If you live in the Boston/Cambridge area and know where I can find such a burrito, please email me immediately. I'll trade you George Michael or my neighbor's exotic slipper collection that she insists on displaying in the hallway as opposed to her closet.

So like I was saying, just as I was about to wrap it all up, I figured I would inquire about the breakfast burrito situation with the caterer on the other end of the line. If they did offer such a treat, I could easily slip it in with the order and then eat it after the meeting. The perfect plan.

Me: Um, you know, now that I think about it, do y'all have breakfast burritos?

Lady (such a cheery thing): We sure do!! Can I interest you in an order?!?

Me: Yeah - that would be great. Add on the breakfast burrito.

Lady: Super! What a yummy way to start the day!! We'll have everything there by 7:45 tomorrow! Fixins included!

Me (what I wanted to say): For the love of God, I'm going to get off the phone now, come to wherever it is that you are and forcibly remove that word from your vocabulary with my (unattractive, but often useful in situations like this) enormous, pummeling man hands.

Me (what I did say): That's fine. Thanks. If you could just email me a receipt, I think we'll be set.

Lady: Will do!!! Thank you so much for your loyalty and continued patron...

Me: Nothing because by this point, I'd hung up on her.

I went along with the rest of the afternoon...yelling for Assistant Whitney to show me how to load a picture to Facebook, coming up with a new nickname for my friend John (he also happens to be gay so I landed on Jomo - which is short for Johnmosexual. Big hit!), drawing a face and putting jewelry on the grapefruit I brought for breakfast but had no desire to eat, and oh, some work. Yeah, I did some work too. And then, around 3pm, I opened my email to find the receipt for the meeting in my inbox. Let's just say I was a tiny bit taken aback when my eyes fell upon the total cost of $280 for a meeting with 5 people in attendance. Something had gone terribly wrong. Anyone care to take a guess what that might have been?

After a quick scan of email, I noticed that instead of one unassuming breakfast burrito that I planned to enjoy all by my lonesome in the privacy of my cube, I had been billed for 50 "Supreme n' Tasty" breakfast burritos. Sweet.

Okay, so no big deal, a simple mistake that could surely be corrected with a simple phone call to the catering company. I did a few short breathing exercises in anticipation of what I knew would be another peppy and grossly enthusiastic conversation and got on the horn.

Lady: Good afternoon!! How I can assist you with your catering needs today!?!?

Me: Hey, this is Allie. We spoke earlier about an order I placed for tomorrow morning.

Lady: Allie!! Hi!! We sure did!! What can I do for you?!? A variety of fresh pastries or some soy milk we need to add on for the hungry bunch?!?

Me: Uh, no. I was calling because it looks like there was a small error on the invoice you mailed over. I ordered a breakfast burrito but have been charged for 50. Can y'all just correct that and resend?

Lady (clearly on script): Oh, Allie. I'm so very sorry if there has been a misunderstanding between us. As you know, we are a catering company. So we do large food orders only. When you said one breakfast burrito, I naturally assumed you meant one order...which consists of 50. You understand, right?

Me: Ummmm, no. Not really. But, okay. Can you just cancel that order then? I don't need that many.

Lady (needs to update the script): Oh, Allie. I'm so very sorry. As you know, we are a catering company. Since we're dealing with a bulk order of breakfast burritos, we've already begun prep and simply cannot cancel the order with such late notice.

Me: It's 3pm. The meeting is tomorrow at 8am. Y'all are already cooking these things?

Lady: We put a lot of time into our food. So, yes. Yes, we are.

First of all, am I the only idiot in the room who didn't know that catering companies (which, in my defense, the name of this place has the word "restaurant" in it. In no materials I could find was the word"caterer" or "catering" mentioned) can only make things in batches of 100 or more? Sure, when I think about it, it kinda makes sense. But, please, honey...you really thought I wanted 50 burritos for a meeting with 5 people in it?? Do you think I'm carbo loading a bunch of teenage boys so we can fuel up and kick ass at the small town football game later??

Since I am mature and accept responsibility for my mistakes, I went into full panic mode and began to devise a plan so no one would ever have to find out I was trying to sneak one by Big Brother when karma decided to intervene and punch me in the face.

I arrived at the office promptly at 7:45am in the morning and as soon as I entered the building, I was knocked over by the delightful, and not at all nauseating, smell of room temperature eggs. Not only that, but the delivery boy had included two large picnic table cloths, several sets of oversized tongs, and three festive, Mexican themed platters on which to display the burritos. After I got over the horror of envisioning a bunch of suits showing up to my meeting to find the boardroom looking like the exploded innards of an obese donkey pinata, I quickly loaded everything onto a dolly (I'm not fucking kidding you. This shit had to be transported on a dolly) and took in up to my office. I had fifteen minutes to hide my stash, set up the coffee and bagels and squirt on my signature scent, Debbie Gibson's, Electric Youth, to mask the stench of burrito that had done a superb job of seeping its way into the cotton blend of my sensible and professional Banana Republic button down.

With so little time, I knew I only had one option for the burritos. I had to hide them under Jomo's desk in the very back corner of the office. I carted everything over, threw his personal belongings out of my way and mostly into the common hall area, shoved the goods beneath his chair, tossed some paper on top and then went back to my desk to email him.

Dear Jomo,

When you get to work today, you're going to notice some burritos under your desk. Don't ask stupid questions and don't move them until I say you can.

Love,

Allie

And with that, I had cleaned up the crime scene and pulled off the meeting without a hitch.

I wish I could say that I learned some sort of lesson and I will never make such a stupid mistake again. Afterwards, with John's help, I took the burritos to a staff lounge on another floor where, within 15 minutes, they were all gobbled up and gone. I got away with it and lots of people had a delicious breakfast burrito on the house which probably made them happier, nicer and fatter people that day. I see nothing wrong here.

Several years ago, I was on a work trip in Miami Beach for a week. My place of employment had put me up in a posh hotel with the most glorious minibar I had ever seen. It was both a refrigerator and a full size pantry of fun snacks and treats. As I'm sure was true for you as well, when I was a child, removing anything from the minibar was strictly prohibited when on family vacation. I firmly believe that this has had a significant impact on me as an adult. When I see a minibar, I have to eat stuff out of it. If I were in a hotel room with a 7-Eleven located in the fucking bathroom, and I could go in there and buy Cheetos and a Coke for a total of $1.50, or get the Cheetos and the Coke out of the minibar for $7.00, I would, no question about it, go the route of the minibar. I love them so very much.

A week in Miami is quite a long time for one to be in the same hotel room night after night. By the time we left for home, I had eaten every last item and drank every last drink out of the minibar. There was nothing left except for a few nips of gin (I prefer vodka) and a granola bar (because, yeah right. Like I'm eating a granola bar).

I returned to work and settled back in to the same 'ol routine after getting over no longer being able to flaunt my tight ass in a gold thong on the beach everyday while shoving street tacos in my mouth and simotaniously blowing kisses to cute Cuban boys...a sight not to be missed. Trust.

And then, one afternoon, my boss stopped in to review the Amex bill from our time away in Florida. It seemed my minibar affair had not been a cheap one at all. Rather, she was a high profile vixen with expensive taste and her services had cost us something like...oh, I don't know...$450??

There is no way out of that awkward and embarrassing conversation with your boss when you must admit to an addiction so strange and twisted...and then leave them no option except to politely ask that next time you travel on the company dime, it would be helpful if you could buy your Dorritos and Bloody Mary mix at the corner store, or even pack them in your bags if they're such a dire necessity, instead of raping the minibar in your hotel room. Check and check, sir. You can expect nothing less from me! Unless, of course, there's a breakfast burrito involved.

This shit never ends. And that's what you have to accept when you invite me, or more accurately, I break the door down with a sledge hammer and catapult my way into your life. It's a lose/lose, baby. Get used to it.

Hope y'all had a lovely weekend and a Happy Mother's Day. If you've got one and you like her, be sure to give her a buzz today and let her know, that despite the accident she and your father had when they conceived you, you're still quite grateful to them for deciding to "keep it" and at least say to your face that they love you even if, behind your back, they're quietly sobbing as you kidnap the remote control and deviled eggs during holiday visits and drink all the nice wine before passing out in their bed.

And in the spirit of Mother's Day, while I do loathe humans who refer to themselves as parents of their pets, I couldn't resist sharing the closest thing I gots to a real little guy. A few days ago, George Michael and I had our first family picture taken by my good friend, Catherine. Look how cute we are!

And then look what happened when he thought the session was over. A more accurate depiction of our relationship.

How Could I Know, My Morning Jacket - it has been getting the best of me lately. Maybe it'll stir you up a bit too.

Later.

P.S. I still haven't gotten over the Twitter fight we're having. Come on.

Seriously?

2011-05-02T16:53:00.000-04:00

I have a Twitter account and only 7 of you are actually following me? And I've had to individually email each one of those 7 to force them to do so? For real? Really?

Look, I'll be back later tonight or tomorrow. In the meantime, do mama a favor for once and follow me. I need more fake friends so I start dumping my real ones. Thanks.

To Do

2011-04-14T23:34:00.002-04:00

I had a doctor's appointment at Planned Parenthood after work tonight. Don't worry, mama ain't a mama, but Planned Parenthood is like the drive-thru of anything and everything vagina. In and out, quick and easy, and pun absolutely intended. I switch birth control each year mostly because I'm easily bored and just want to try new drugs. One might call that a "unique hobby" and I might call one who feels compelled to care a "unique asshole". I've tried knitting and book clubs. They're boring. I like playing with medication and eating Chinese food in my bathtub. Different kicks for different chicks, you dig? So instead of calling my real doctor and having to wait 6 weeks before I can see her, and then upon seeing her, having to answer stupid questions like, "Any big life changes we need to talk about today? Are you sad? Tell me what makes you sad." or "You've gained weight since your last visit. Have you considered adding a brisk morning walk to your workout routine?" Instead of having to deal with that shit (the answers to those questions always being the same, 1) You make me sad and, 2) No, I haven't considered that. Also, I won't.) I go to Planned Parenthood where you make a same day appointment, whiz through the standard exam, get asked if you're currently banging someone who shoots with needles and if you need 75 complimentary condoms in your to-go bag. You answer correctly (no and yes...or is it yes and no? I can't remember the correct order exactly, but you've got a 50% chance of hitting the bulls eye so just spit something out and hope for the best) and they'll hook you up with patches or pills or rings or whatever else your warped little ovaries desire. 30 minutes later, you walk out the door and hit up the Chipotle around the corner for a burrito the size of a real-life baby and the only baby shaped thing you'll have to handle for a long time to come. Everybody wins!

Anyway, the reason I bring up the visit is because getting to the particular clinic I fancy is a pretty long train ride from my office. I hopped the T around 6pm to make a 7pm appointment about 20 minutes into the trip, I realized I was bored to death by everything on my iPod and that book I've been reading wasn't doing much for me either (probably because I'm not reading a book...). I started looking at other stuff on my phone - like 100 pictures of George Michael doing nothing, or 100 pictures of food stuffs I should've never been eating (I orally assaulted a White Castle on a recent road trip), or 100 pictures of shirtless gay guys dancing (I don't know), and maybe one picture of me pretending to breast feed a bag of chips. When that strangely exciting, and simultaneously really depressing, activity was exhausted, I remembered I had created a to-do list for the upcoming weekend. The fact that I even put a to-do list together, much less recalled its existence is beyond out of character. I don't do lists. I don't do calendars. I don't do anything that might actually be helpful to the order of my life. I prefer chaos and mayhem. Or, maybe that's not true, but it's the only way I function and understand my place in this world, so I roll best with instability. I imagine my brain to look like the insides of a hoarder's garage. There's stuff everywhere, 99% of it completely useless, but I know everything that's hanging around, where it came from, and how to find it. You can come in and try to teach me how to purge and file and clean and organize, but the second you leave, I'm pulling it all back out and throwing in a new collection of stuffed animals and old VHS tapes just because I can. So lists and the like are generally lost on me. This list was likely created during a meeting to trick people into thinking I knew what we were talking about and I'm sure I said something like, "Hey team, just logging some info for my follow-up matrix graph worksheet spreadsheet matrix." Something like that...

What I loved about this list when I first saw it again was how absolutely pointless and seriously juvenile it is. If these are the things I have to remind myself to do this weekend, if these are the tasks that are central to the being that I am, then the issues run much deeper than originally thought.

So I have a haircut appointment tomorrow. And after that I have to get my bikini and legs waxed. Awesome that a decent portion of my most urgent needs revolve around my excessive body hair. I also quite enjoy that at some point this week, I thought the perfect gift for my friend's upcoming birthday was a mask. I have no recollection whatsoever of coming up with the mask idea, or seeing a mask, or her ever saying in the entire time I've known her that she has any desire to own a mask. But I think we have a winner.

I most definitely am considering the purchase of a goldfish. I think the question mark just means I haven't decided if I'll get him this weekend or next weekend. But yeah, I'm getting a goldfish. And no, I don't really know why. I have decided I'll be calling him Rose.

Finally, since I obviously listed stuff in order of its importance, I noted my taxes. Which I still haven't done and reminded myself again today to do by writing, in black Sharpie on both hands, "TAXES!". It's almost midnight now. Safe to assume the reminders didn't work.

If I were to make a separate list of the 24 hour period that began at 7pm tonight and will end at 7pm tomorrow, it would include a trip to Planned Parenthood followed by a trip to Chipotle followed by the updating of a blog that 3 people read (me, someone that got here on accident, me again) followed by waxing my bikini line and finally, buying a goldfish. Oh, and not doing my taxes. This is the list I should start referencing more often than not. If for no other reason to be reminded that I need some new hobbies. Which I will start seeking out just as soon as I pick up Anna's birthday mask.

Happy Weekend. I like Mobb Deep - Shook Ones, Pt. II. Do you?

Later.

My Girl

2011-04-11T22:35:00.008-04:00

I have a full-time job. With health insurance. And a steady paycheck that is directly deposited into my checking account every two weeks. I have a desk with a computer on it. I know; I don't get it either. And here's the cherry on top of my 9-5 sundae with shredded file sprinkles and whipped cubicle cream...I have, for lack of a better word, an assistant. Actually, it is quite a disservice to call her an assistant when the more appropriate and fitting title is Allie's Whole World, Both Professionally and Personally, Would Fall Apart Without Me Life Manager.

Whitney is ten years my junior and about twenty years my senior in every developmental way imaginable. She's smart, organized, never loses her cool, manages stress by actually addressing it, she's a home owner, she and her husband just refinanced their mortgage (I have no idea what that means but I do know adults do it), and she's already filed her taxes when there are still 3 days to go until she actually has to do so! She is everything I am not and thank Rebecca Black because I simply don't know how I would get by...

It was decided long ago that I needed help when, while working in an Excel document, I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to delete a row of data. I know it's bad...I do...but you have to recognize that, 1) I have no understanding of anything that happens inside of a computer and, 2) they didn't teach Excel and Power Point and whatever else is living inside of a keyboard when I was in school. Or they did and I was too busy failing out to show up for that particular session. Whatever. Anyway, when my boss, kindly but with some genuine concern, basically asked what my fucking problem was, I recanted the following story.

My first job out of college, I was hired as a grant writer for a small non-profit. Part of that job, aside from just writing (which is all I thought I had to do at the tender and naive age of 22) unfortunately entailed tracking grant cycles, evaluation schedules, etc. I figured I could handle that enough...in my own database stored within my imagination, of course. So one day, my supervisor asked me to bring in a copy of my grant tracking...the copy that was obviously was being kept in an Excel sheet I had been updating on a regular basis. Well, as we now know, I wasn't doing that. Because I didn't have a fucking clue as to how to use Excel. So, in about 45 frantic minutes, I got in there, threw in all my prospects, deadlines, projections and evaluations. And you know what?? On the computer screen, it looked pretty good! But here's the thing with Excel...it may look nice on the screen, but when you print it all out, it can be like, 50 pages long with 1 column on this page, 2 random rows popping up on another, a title mysteriously appearing in a totally different spot than it was supposed to...it's that whole, crazy formatting bit. That word meant nothing to me...kinda still doesn't. What I thought would be a 3 page, beautiful Excel synopsis of my work, turned out to be thirty pages of disaster and mess. Naturally, as my denseness allows for much ignorance and therefore much bliss, I assumed this was what was supposed to happen when you printed Excel documents. Then I went further in assuming that everyone must just tape the pages together until they fit all pretty and stuff. Like a big, fun puzzle game! Hehehehe! How neat! A puzzle game! Yay!

I got down on the floor, laid out all the pages and used a roll of scotch tape to meticulously stick each page together until it shaped itself into this enormous spreadsheet that I then proceeded to roll into a scroll and deliver to my supervisor's office. To this day, I can still see the look of sheer terror and disbelief on her face as I proudly unrolled a scotch tape Excel scroll onto her desk with a huge smile on my face. I...I just...I just can't even believe I was/ever have been employable.

So back to my present day boss and my inability to delete a row of data and his inquisition as to why and my above story and final plea, "I will never be able to do this. I've tried. I can't. Please send help."

A few months later, the clouds parted and a sweet little stork dropped a Tumi briefcase at my feet with my very own Whitney inside. And my life was forever changed.

It is unfortunate for Whitney that her broad skill set is limited to dealing with my dumb ass. We typically have slight variations of the same conversations each day:

Example 1:

Me (yelling for her from across the office - she sits maybe 10 yards away): WHITNEY! HELP! POWER POINT!

Whitney: I'll be right there.

Me (after she calmly makes her way to my desk while I'm pounding on the keyboard and throwing papers around in a panic): HOW DO I MAKE A BULLET?!?! WHERE'S THE BULLET?!?! THERE'S NO BULLET ON THIS THING!!!

Whitney (inserting a bullet point): It's okay. I'll take care of it. See? All better.

Me: Thank you, Whitney. I love you.

Example 2:

Me (emailing Whitney): Subject: HELP! EMERGENCY! HELP!

Whitney: I'll be right there.

Whitney (arriving at my desk): What's wrong?

Me (pounding on the keyboard and throwing papers around in a panic): HOW DO I DIVIDE IN EXCEL!?!? WHO EVEN DOES THAT ANYMORE!?!? DIVIDING!?!? IS THIS FUCKING MIDDLE SCHOOL?? HELP!!!

Whitney (inserting a formula, dividing): It's okay. I'll take care of it. See? All better.

Me:

Example 3:

Me (standing up and flailing my arms wildly until Whitney sees me): HELP!!! HURRY!!! OH MY GOD!!!

Whitney (professionally getting up from her chair and quietly coming to my aid): What happened, Allie?

Me (pounding on the keyboard and well..you know): THE PRINTER WON'T PRINT! I HAVE A MEETING! I'M GONNA DIE!

Whitney (adjusting print settings, hitting print, things printing): It's okay. See? I fixed it. You'll be fine. Don't worry.

Me: Thank you, Whitney. I lo..

Whitney (walking away): I know. Thanks.

You're probably wondering why Whitney doesn't loathe me, talk shit to her husband and friends about me, curse and hate me...and to that I would say, I wonder the same thing too. She should despise me. I know what I'm like to live with - a total pain in the ass. I get that and I believe with every ounce of me that Whitney deserves sooo much more. In time, she'll absolutely be the woman telling women like me to shut the fuck up and get it done. But by some fluke in the cosmos, I ended up with her today and by an even greater fluke, she actually does like me. Yeah, it's true, she likes me. And I like her.

Aside from my daily meltdowns, we have a very friendly relationship. We find the same people annoying, we find the same people cool, we have the same outlook on most every issue we've ever talked about, we have honest discussions concerning work and her future and mine...we're buds. We balance. Well, to the extent that I entertain her while she manages almost everything I do...sure, we totally balance.

The other day she was showing me a new, fancy vacuum cleaner she was purchasing on Amazon. Wouldn't you know, when she pulled it up - it was the exact same vacuum cleaner I own (let's just ignore how lame it is that we were getting off on discussing home cleaning products).

Me: "Oh my god. You're going to love that thing. It's awesome."

Whitney: "I've wanted one forever. I can't wait to get it."

Me: "What are those other things you have in the cart with it?"

Whitney: "Vacuum cleaner bags."

Me: "What?"

Whitney: "Allie, you have vacuum cleaner bags, right? You have to change those things. Tell me you have some."

Me: "I don't have some. I don't know what those are! I don't know what you're talking about!! HELP!"

Whitney: "How long have you had your vacuum cleaner?"

Me: "Um, 2 years, I guess?!?"

Whitney: "Go get your credit card right now. You need to take care of this."

Me: "Okay. But what do I do when I get them?"

Whitney: "I'll have to come over and teach you. Just go get your credit card."

And that's where the Life Manager part kicks in. Not only does she keep me in check at the office - she keeps me in check at home as well. Who knew anything about vacuum bags!?!? I'll tell you who...Whitney. Whitney knows vacuum bags.

Whitney has also been helping me with my diet lately. And a few months ago, I decided it would be funny to start sexually harassing Whitney too. Hold on...these things will come together in two shakes. Let me start by explaining the harassment part right quick. We work for a non-profit organization. Our HR department consists of 1 part-time employee. Most of us are friends with her. You know that corporate environment you likely exist in day-to-day? Well, we don't operate like that. We roll pretty loose. And while that might be fun and all, take comfort in knowing that even as a corporate slave, you'll always be much, much richer than we'll ever be in our wildest dreams as non-profit worker bees. Because of the somewhat laid back, casual pace of our office...we can maybe joke around a bit more than what might be acceptable at your office...or any life situation in general, I guess. Okay, the more I'm trying to preface this, the more I realize it's never going to sound appropriate...so whatever...yes, I sometimes call Whitney "sugar tits" and "sweet ass". And maybe, one time, I told her it would be in her best interest to wear more pleather to work. I, of course, fell out of my chair laughing myself to tears, while Whitney just walked off and said, very rightly, "You're absurd."

This past weekend, while Whitney was off the clock and therefore had no obligation to deal with me at all, I sent her an email which was nothing more than me just freaking out, as usual, because I couldn't figure out how to roast a beet. I considered this to be Whitney's problem since she was the one that told me I needed more beets in my diet and to that end, I felt entitled to her attention and her proposed solution for the trouble she had brought on me by recommending such a stupid vegetable.

Three long hours (inexcusable!) after I emailed her, she replied with the roasting instructions. I replied to that email via text. I'm including a snapshot of our conversation, and our wonderfully dysfunctional relationship, below (and yes, I was asking her about wheat gluten. It's complicated).

There you have it. The consummate professional and her Life Manager. So, for Whitney, who will likely never see this here blog, I dedicate the most classic office jam of all time. Someday, we'll hold hands and skip our way to the big time, baby. Until then, don't forget the short shorts.

Hola

2011-04-08T14:37:00.003-04:00

So, where were we? This morning George Michael stole a throw pillow off the couch while I was in the shower. He smuggled it under the bed and basically ate and ingested 80% of it as I blowdried my hair straight (I have more curly hair up there than an entire parking lot full of unkempt Panic fans has "down there". Did you get it?? Hmmm?? I'm taking about pubic hair. They have major pubic hair. Like, it starts at their belly button and goes to their knees. Trust me on this...I climbed out of that mess a time or twelve in my twenties.) Anyway, this is how I cracked the case of the Missing Pillow a few minutes later.

That's a large piece of synthetic stuffing trapped in George Michael's beard. And this is how the majority of my personal possessions meet their death. George's obsession with eating everything except dog food has made for many an inconvenience and embarrassing moment. There was the time I had to take him to the vet because a plastic Halloween spider ring got stuck in his ass, or the first slumber party I had with my most recent special friend when we found his underwear shredded beneath the kitchen table the next morning, or the night he puked up a piece of boot and a tampon wrapper that belonged to a dinner guest I was hosting. The list is endless and mostly too inappropriate to put on this good 'ol family friendly blog. The point is, George is actively trying to destroy my life. And like most men I allow into my home, I continue to let him do so. You don't have to give me a lesson in the dynamics of a healthy relationship. I'm the walking handbook, baby.

Segueway.

I'm done, everyone. Done with dating. You heard right. Never again during my ride on this earth will I subject myself to another miserable date which leads to another dysfunctional and crazy boyfriend which leads to another 2-4 months of intense break-up daylight drinking in last night's mascara which leads to another miserable fucking date. I'm not bitter. I'm tired. And don't tell me about your relationship and how happy you are because guess what? I don't believe you. If you think you are now, let's touch base again in six months. I can already tell you everything you'll say and everything you secretly think and everything you fear will eventually pull the rug out. There is no need for us to all gather at the neighborhood bistro for Sunday brunch while you delicately pick at your fruit cup in a J. Crew sundress and pat your boyfriend on his seersucker suited knee and talk to me about what y'all just picked up at Crate and Barrel yesterday and your plans to plant tomatoes and squash in the garden this summer because I'm not buying it. Behind closed doors you two are just as whacked as I am. And I know this because I've turned that same key myself. The difference between you and me is that I'm done fooling. It's hard enough trying to trick the outside world into believing I'm a normal, sound minded woman who never forgets to fully remove her pantyhose before passing out or has just mended her 6th iPhone (three of the previous having fallen in toilets, one left in a cab, the final peed on by a cat) with 7 pieces of scotch tape or still eats 30 cent ramen noodles for dinner at least three nights a week because I'd rather spend money on a hot pink mini sequin dress to wear while I watch tv and curl my hair. Seriously. I'm not lying.

It's been a full time job trying to do normal. There ain't no way I can swing it for two whole people again. I'm a mess. A total mess. And I think I'll just stick to cleaning up after myself from here on out. Hiding your garbage so we both can play cute at a cocktail party for a few hours is more than I can do anymore, old man.

A few weeks ago I reluctantly accepted a drink invitation from a guy who asked me out while I was shopping one afternoon. He got my number when he gave me a rice krispy treat (I wish I were making this up. I do tricks for treats). After two drinks and some polite and boring conversation, I put a $20 on the bar for my tab, a $10 so he could buy another for himself, and told him I needed to go home so I could take off my pants, get in my bed and watch Murder She Wrote on my computer while George Michael likely destroyed said pants somewhere nearby. That plan sounded so much more enjoyable than dancing the exhausted jig for one more painful minute. And with that, I left.

I know we're supposed to be funny round these parts. But in case you haven't gathered, I'm in the midst of the dreadful break-up. Not bitter. Just tired. And sad. Once again. Sigh...

Let's all go listen to Cults - Go Outside and cheer up, shall we? Yes, let's do that.

Peace.

Pink Slip

2011-01-06T09:50:00.002-05:00

I just called into work and took a personal day because I stumbled upon a Golden Girls marathon on the Hallmark channel.

That is all. Thank you.

2011-01-02T15:20:00.000-05:00

When, on a daily basis, I wonder where it all went so wrong, I need only reference this picture of my family and me...posing on a fucking chuck wagon...to remember the answers.

Sweet Lord.

2010-12-29T19:54:00.000-05:00

Today was my first day back in the office since taking off for Texas on the 22nd. Naturally, what was the first thing I decided I needed to do when I got to work...when I arrived at 11am (peeps are still out...it's cool...I think)? I needed Chinese food. And I needed it badly. I usually order in at work about once a week. And seeing as I have been gone for nine whole days...make no mistake, I literally woke up in the middle of the night last night thinking of Chinese food and how desperately I needed it in my belly as soon as physically possible.

So, at 11:30am - allowing for 30 minutes for delivery so I could eat at exactly noon - I called my trusty Chinese joint...fittingly called, The New Ho Toy. Tell me about it, sister. Tell me about it.

My conversation with the woman who answered the phone went as follows:

Lady: New Ho Toy. You calling from [place of employment]?

Me: Yes, I need to place an order for delivery, please.

Lady: Okay...what you want?

Me: Um....hmmm....I forgot what I wanted...um...I thi...

Lady: I know what you want. Lo Mien, egg roll, large order crab rangoon.

Me: Um, yeah. I guess you're right.

Lady: The usual. Hahahahaha!!!

Me: ha (mortified that this woman now knows not only my voice, but my order, by heart) ha ha.

Lady: How was holiday?

Me: Fine?

Lady: You back in office, no?

Me: Yes?

Lady: Okay! We see you soon, funny lady!

Me: Huh? Um, okay....

So, this is awesome. I feel good about myself. A perfect stranger is now my new intimate BFF.

And she's making fun of me.

And of course, that won't stop me from ordering again next week.

God, I'm a loser.

Happy New Year, everyone. Here's hoping that this time next year I'm not chumming it up with some lady on the phone as we discuss crab rangoon. The problem is...I bet I will be.

And just because, here is a picture of GM when he was a baby. The shaggy, smelly, fatty love of my life. Sigh....

Peace.

Friday Quiz

2010-11-05T12:35:00.001-04:00

Please tell me how you would best describe the leg coverings of the gentleman standing between these two lovely ladies:

1) Those are just his legs, right? Same color.
2) Pajama pants
3) A skort
4) A towel
5) Basketball shorts

Thank you. Your input is appreciated.

Happy Friday.

'Hood Rat

2010-11-04T20:41:00.004-04:00

I live in a very neighborhood-y neighborhood. I always see the same people out and about...saying hello to each other way too early in the morning...stopping on the street corner to talk about the neighborhood association's next big kegger (knitting club) at the local firehouse...chatting about the weather and who should take lunch to some old person who can't leave the house (Blah. Old people. Boring.) next week. Really, it's obnoxious.

I know I'm not a very "warm" person. I think we've openly discussed my hesitance to make new friends and acquaintances. And this isn't because I believe I'm better than anyone (well, that's not entirely true). It has more to do with the very real understanding of my own lack of normal social skills and general freak-like existence. I'm weird. Not in the cute way. The few people that I do allow behind the closed and barricaded doors of my heart (lifted that line right from an old high school journal. Gorgeous!) are either 1) not yet diagnosed but obviously mentally ill or, 2) being paid. By me. And when I say "me", I really mean, "I'm 31 and last week I had to ask my parents for a loan so my rent check wouldn't bounce because I accidentally spent $100 on eyeshadow and a Reba McEntire costume". See? I'm horribly fucked up. Just reading this blog means you're too psychically close and likely to contract something.

So imagine my reaction when over the last two weeks, three different neighborhood people have actually waved at me while walking from my apartment to the train in the morning. Who are they, you ask? Well, let's break it down:

1) The guy who works at the hardware store around the corner. We began interacting about a year ago when I started going into the store to request tools. To borrow. Not pay for. Every month I stop in for the temporary loan of a hammer (George Michael ain't gonna discipline himself) or a screwdriver (and neither am I. Hey-O!!!!). Finally, about three months ago, he kindly inquired, "Do you think you should just buy a hammer? They're like $10" and I replied, "Why buy the lamb...or the duck...or what is it? I forget...a cow, you say? Oh, okay. Why buy the pony when I get the milk for free, sucka?" And I guess he liked that because he's started waving at me outside the storefront just as I'm emerging from the coffee place with my regular order of cinnamon cream (just ask the Starbuck's peeps for a water cup. Then go to the condiments bar and throw some of the free heavy shit and a splash of spice in that little guy and you gots your mornin' fix for free!) each day.

2) The man that works at 7-Eleven. I know we've also discussed my addiction to this way too convenient convenience store. It's gotten to the point that when I go in there now - and if I don't end up at the counter with the usual suspects (Orbit Bubblemint gum, A&W Diet Rootbeer, Doritos, and Equal), he'll ask me if the shelves need restocking or, as in the case of last weekend when I bought contact solution...even though I don't wear contacts...I got, "Who might the lucky guy be, eh?? You need anything else for Mr. Lucky??" Oh, shit. No. And please, please, please do not elaborate on what your definition of "Mr. Lucky" is. Because I think you just permanently broke my vagina with that one.

3) The ladies that do my nails every week. I saw TWO of them on the street the other day within about 5 minutes of each other. And both of them, from almost 50 feet away, started waving and actually hollering at me. "Hiiii!!!!! You coming in for nails soon??? Bikini??? You have no bikini in weeks!! Come get bikini!!!!!" And because I have no filter and no shame (dignity went down the drain years ago...probably around the same time my mom caught me slow dancing and making out with a sewing form in my room circa age 10), I yelled out right back, "I know! Get the table ready, sister - I'm all up in it come happy hour time! Wait...not that kind of happy hour. Y'all aren't that kind of joint, right? We're two girls! Gross! I mean, not gross! I mean, I'll see you at 5 for some hot and heavy bikini time! Fuck, I didn't mean that either! Ugh..."

I guess it brings me some pleasure to report that after 1.5 years in the same 'hood, I finally got some friends. Some interesting friends, yes. And while not the kind of friends that want to come over on Friday to make up dance routines and braid my hair, they are new freak friends nonetheless. Just like me. And I can roll with that.

Take it easy, dudes. And if you're down for braiding my hair this Friday, please drop a line. Remember, I pay for it.

Peace.

Not Dead. Yet.

2010-10-20T20:12:00.004-04:00

I know I've been totally M.I.A. but no one reads this fucking thing anyway so I haven't been giving much thought to blogging lately...but rather spending a whole lot of my free time making out. With the same person. A concept I'm actually enjoying at the moment.

The roofies are working nicely as he is still into hanging out despite the fact that in the short amount of time we've been doing so, George Michael has destroyed multiple pieces of his clothing, I can't prove it, but I'm sure, somehow, some way it was I who lost his debit card on accident last weekend, and I have most definitely insisted we watch back-to-back viewings of the Gourmet Express infomerical at 3AM.

Hot.

Here are three things I will tell you about him (first and last time - Culture Cube policy is generally not to speak of real life dating happenings):

1) He is a researcher (smart)

2) He wears cute tennis shoes (stylish)

3) He also draws (sigh...)

Anyway, I plan on catching up with you pretty kitties and posting this weekend when I'm desperately looking for any excuse not to play hostess with the mostest for some last minute company I'm expecting.

Did I tell y'all I gave my boss a blowout the other day? At work? Let's talk about that next time because it pretty much was a moment when I contemplated killing myself.

I'm outta here.

Eh. You Again.

2010-09-26T14:06:00.010-04:00

I don't get sick. Period. It just doesn't happen. This is not something that I usually brag about as I'm convinced it means I will avoid a lifetime of minor illnesses only to get taken out by the big guns - cancer, massive organ failure, getting eaten by a Grizzly Bear while on a camping trip* I pretended to be excited about because I'm dating an outdoorsy type and it's still in the early stages so this is when I try to convince him I'm a good sport because he's attractive and I want to make out - at a point further down the line. I'm not trying to be morbid or dramatic, but I'm about 110% convinced that I will die young and my passing will be epic. No stroke, no heart attack - I promise you, I'll either be eaten or explode. I'll probably be on the news. Maybe get my own Wiki page. And it's about fucking time. But until that day comes, no kitty cat upper respiratory infection shall penetrate this iron vessel. Or that's what I used to think. That's what I used to think before my whole head and chest got rocked - like, prison style banged by a nasty infectious gangsta known on the yard simply as Lil' Germ. He's been all up in me for about a week now and shows no signs of slowing down until a new bus load of fresh, clean meat shows up to play.

Last Sunday, my friend, John (pictured with me below as we posed with the new staff vending machine), called to see if I wanted to grab dinner. He said he wasn't feeling well and was craving a big bowl of hot soup. So we decided to hit up a local ramen joint and get down on some noodles. Naturally, since I cannot keep my hands to myself and without fail, think that everyones meal looks better than whatever it is that I ordered, I helped myself to slurp after slurp of his soup - despite his advice to stay away. Sure enough, almost exactly 24 hours later, my chest cavity ran into Lil' Germ alone in the showers and dropped the soap.

I don't know how long this is going to last - it's not letting up - just moving around to different parts of my body. My nose, throat, ears, and chest have all been assaulted thus far so I'm hoping it soon realizes that I'm nothing but used goods and relocates to the Hell it deserves to burn in for eternity since I have now missed out on the following activities due to its viral raping:

1) Annual Fluff Festival
2) A date (with a gay man...whatever...the better question is, when did you get so fucking nosey, Babs Walters?) to Kings of Pastry
3) A favorite brunch in all of Boston, duck confit hash, at the Ames Hotel
4) My favorite late night menu in all of Cambridge, featuring fried grits and hush puppies, at Hungry Mother
5) A dog birthday party on the Common that George Michael got invited to. Actually, I didn't mind missing this. See, I take George to the park every morning where he and a bunch of other dogs are allowed to run off their leashes. We usually stay for about half an hour and inevitably, people try to talk to each other - and me - not knowing or more likely, not caring, that I have no desire to talk to anyone at 6:30am in the morning - let alone a bunch of dog people who like to talk about all things dog. I forgot what we were saying...oh...the dog birthday party. Well, I want to continue to take George to the park because he loves it. He absolutely loves it. And I love him. So everyday, I swallow my attitude and play nice with the dog people so George can run around like he's hopped up on crack and candy beans. And occasionally, one of these weird dog people will invite us to some weird dog activity and I feel like if I don't participate, it'll make our morning visits forever awkward. There was a dog birthday party in the Common on Wednesday night. We didn't go. We (or he) did go to the dog slumber party a few weekends back. Take it from me, picking up your dog from a slumber party and realizing chances are high to definitely yes that he got laid the night before and you did too (did not at all) does wonders for the 'ol self-esteem.

Woah. What happened here? Oh, that's right...I got sick of talking about being, well, sick...mix that up with a shot of ADD and next thing you know we're talking about animals nabbing tail (get it? tail? hehehe).

And my new computer! Yes, everyone, I traded in my laptop from 2004 that didn't even work and served as more of a prop so that when people came over they would think I was the kind of smart person who uses a computer and doesn't just keep it for a coaster in the morning while drinking coffee or a thing to sit in front of and pretend to be reading when really you're looking over it and into your neighbor's window because it looks like they have HBO and you heard Entourage was like, so fucking good, bro! this season.

I have a bit of a "project" I'm working on at the moment. It wont materialize until January 2012 - but it will require a lot of attention and research between now and then - and since my boss caught me watching hoarding shows on my computer the last time I claimed to be researching something - I decided it was time to invest in a new piece so that I could do the majority of the leg work attached to my "project" from home. What is this "project", you ask? Well, I can't tell you that right now. But I can say it is probably the coolest thing I've ever done/will ever do in my life and when everything is a go - I'll definitely share all the glorious details. That being said, that's not what we were saying. We were talking about this new computer. Once I decided I was ready and willing to invest in it, I bopped down to the Apple Store and had this conversation with a guy named Nick Cannon (you know I didn't let that one go):

Nick Cannon: Hey there! Can I help you find something today?

Me (looking at his name tag): That's funny that your name is Nick Cannon.

NC (silent for about 5 seconds and then annoyed): Can I help you?

Me: Well, Nick Cannon, I need a new computer. And I like this silver one.

NC: Cool - so we got a MacBook Pro fan on our hands! Video, graphic design, editing and production kinda gal, right?

Me: I really have no idea what just came out of your mouth.

NC: Okay, can you tell me a little bit about your computer needs?

Me: Hmmmm...internet and I want it to look cool.

And the rest is history. I did have to wait a few days to pick it up because they wanted to put stuff on it or sync it or something else I didn't really care about. I simply remembered that I was to come back on Wednesday and when I turned it on, it would start dancing for me or showering me with money or spraying whipped cream directly into my mouth - all the things I expect it to do for being a small box that costs as much as my monthly rent. So, when I did indeed arrive at the scheduled time, and didn't see Nick Cannon anywhere in the store, I approached another associate we'll call Not Nick Cannon:

Me: Hi. Is Nick Cannon here?

NNC: Aw, Nick! Nick's crazy, right?!?

Me: ???

NNC: Oh, sorry - it's just that Nick is like, wild, man! Totally nuts! He's out today. Can I help you with something?

Me: Nick Cannon told me to come in today to pick up my Mac Bro Book.

NNC: ???

Me: Mac Book Bro.

NNC: ???

Me (pointing to the display table): It looks like that one.

NNC: Right. Um, did you know about our free training classes for beginners every night at 6? Just if you're interested.

Me: Is it required?

NNC: Well, no...

Me (wiping nose across the back of hand): I really can't. I'm supposed to go to a dog birthday party tonight.

* I've been camping once. When I was forced to at summer camp at the age of 8. While we typically slept in beds inside of cabins, one night of the term, they took us out on a real camping trip - where we slept in tents, on the hard ground. Because nature has always been out to get me, I was fast asleep when I suddenly awoke to something lodged in my ear canal and going fucking crazy trying to escape. I immediately started banging on my head, shaking it furiously, but nothing worked - whatever it was was not getting out - just flipping out - inside my ear. I finally decided to wake up my counselor to see if she would be able to help me. Again, I was eight years old. There was something trying to kill my brain by way of my ear. I was crying, it was the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere and I was scared shitless. My counselor, who was supposed to be a loving, supportive, comforting mentor at camp, was more of a 19 year-old drunk sorority girl looking to score in the woods with the guy counselor a few tents over - and quickly sent me back to bed telling me I was having a nightmare and it would be rude of me to scare the other girls with my silly story. So I did as I was told and laid on the ground with a fucking creature in my ear all night long until I could get up in the morning and try again to convince my hungover counselor of my ailment. Sure enough, after much pleading, she poured "rubbing alcohol" (Fuzzy Navel wine cooler backwash) in my ear and a huge ant came swimming out. For the next three years that I attended that summer camp, I made sure to get sick on the one overnight getaway in the woods. I got to watch TV and eat popsicles in the infirmary while those chumps were peeing in holes and sleeping on dirt. And that is why I do not camp. Thank you. Goodnight.

VENDING MACHINE!

2010-09-20T15:28:00.000-04:00

You know how a lot of offices have free snacks and drinks and lunches and stuff for everyone to munch on throughout the course of the day? Well, my office doesn't. And if your office does, I hate you. Early in the summer, my friend took it upon herself to start a petition requesting a vending machine for the building. This was one of the projects I took most seriously these last three months. Anyway, after much debate over contents, location, and whether or not we would even be able to get it - our new staff vending machine arrived today. We are happy. And I'm about to get really fat. I can't wait...

Journal Time

2010-09-17T15:36:00.001-04:00

I’m not in the mood to really talk about this in much detail. The material speaks for itself. Let us all just remember that I was 17 when I wrote this “poem” and very much in tune with matters of marital infidelity, alcoholism, single parenthood, mental illness and domestic abuse.

I kind of messed up on scanning the full page – so please allow me to provide the full transcript below. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…

Love Today

I saw a woman crying
as he said his last goodbye
their love was truly over,
all his feelings had finally
died

(See how the word “died” is intentionally placed alone on that line? So poignant.)

The motel is dark and lonely
and they are together
once again. As his frightened
wife sits waiting, just
wanting it to end

The alcohol has killed her,
a prisoner to its pain, she
lives her life w/o him as
she slowly goes insane

He promised he’d be different
but he hits her to the floor. As she reaches for her
child, she knows it’s like before

They say that love is kind
they say that love is true
they say love is forever
and will surely come to you.

But love today is scary
never knowing quite for sure,
if your love will crumble at
your feet or last forever
more.

As the promise of eternal
love is shattered once again,
people keep on searching
for the love w/o an end.

God, help us all. I mean, holy motherfucking wow.

Happy Friday, everyone. Your Song of the Day is Sleigh Bells, Rill Rill. I saw these cats live a few months ago and there’s just no other way to describe it, this song is downright sexy. Enjoy.

2010-09-15T13:06:00.005-04:00

Good morning. This is an upside down picture (I think? I can't tell what that is to be honest) of the side zipper on the hip of my pants. And also a mole I didn’t know about.

Like many, my least favorite part of getting ready for work is having to figure out what I’m going to wear. For that reason, I tend to mentally pick out my outfit the night before so I can quickly throw on something that’s clean (i.e. been Febreezed since last wear) and decent (i.e. not my favorite halter top) for the office when I’m already running 15-20 minutes late because Ellen had the cast of Jersey Shore on and damn you if I’m going to miss that.

Anyway, yesterday morning I went to put these pants on when I realized the zipper had become detached from the…zipper (??). Too lazy to try and figure something else out, and because I was pairing the pants with a shirt that was designed to be worn untucked and therefore would cover the broken zipper, I safety pinned the top together and went along my merry way.

The problem started when I actually got to work and sat down. See, about a month ago, I consumed approximately 600 Pringle chips over the course of maybe 10 days. And my pants have had enough of my shit already. So, when I sat down in my chair, the safety pin popped off…I fixed it…it popped off…I fixed it…it popped off. And repeat. Finally, I decided I would just lose the safety pin altogether and only put it back on when I needed to stand up and walk around.

But once the safety pin was off for good, I kinda liked the more loosely fitting pant and eventually, just stopped putting the pin back on entirely when I would stroll around the office to work (go over to my friend’s desk to play with his drumsticks on the floor, participate in a security training video and then demand the staff person who arranged it buy me coffee for my acting contribution and prank call my step-sister – you know, that sort of work stuff).

It wasn’t until I was walking down the hallway to go listen to Willow Smith’s new jam on my friend’s iPod that a coworker, that I do not know well at all, stopped and said, “Are you limping? It’s like one of your legs is dragging or something.” Turns out my pants were pretty much falling off, but I was so enjoying the baggy fit, that I didn’t even notice or care that I was practically stripping at work. Needless to say, when people you don’t know have to question your mobility skills because you refuse to properly dress yourself, well….I don’t know why I said “needless to say”. People think I have a broken leg. And I don't. So there's that.

(Yes, those are white pants after Labor Day. I think that rule is lame and really only applies to weddings. Except for my wedding. Wear whatever you want as I certainly won’t be in white. I’m thinking “My twenties are a total blur cream” meets “No, this man is not drugged and just ignore those handcuffs he has on. We’re kinky like that”).

Finally, and for reasons that are a waste of everyone's time, my dad and my step-mom regularly send me bars of soap and boxes of coffee beans. I really love the soap and I really love the coffee – and they do too – so basically, boring story already too long, whenever they order some for themselves – they order some for me. I receive shipments of both approximately once every six weeks. I got a text message from my step-mom earlier this month asking if I needed coffee as she was about to order some for herself. I have posted part of that conversation below. Please see my step-mom’s final reply. Just tell me how you would have handled the word “retardundo” because I still haven’t come up with anything.

Have a great day, everyone. I think you're pretty. Pretty retardundo, that is! Hahahaha! Gotcha!

Journal Time (and Brow Talk!)

2010-09-13T14:10:00.003-04:00

Hi. I’m back from my “vacation” to DC, New York and Connecticut. But you really don’t care that much, do you? Ehhh…neither do I. In fact, if you were sitting in front of me right now and there was an awkward silence because you and I don’t really know each other – and so, to fill that silence, I said “How was your weekend? Do anything fun?” And you replied “Actually, I was on vacation last week. It was nice. I went to DC and New York and…”

That’s about the point where I would zone out and stop listening to you because, 1) the details of your vacation are of no use to me and, 2) there are like, 3 bagels in the office kitchen right now left over from a morning meeting and I swear to God, if your little story goes on much longer, and those 3 bagels are gone by the time I get in there, I will fucking cut you with the cream cheese knife. The onion cream cheese knife. I won’t even fucking think about it. It’ll just happen. So stop gabbing and let’s do this.

It’s journal time, my loves! Remember a few months ago when I unearthed one of my journals/sketchbooks from high school? I’ve been trying to forget about it as well, but the thing is, um, I just can’t forget about it. It’s like that old guy that used to live next door to your grandparents and would always invite you over to play ring toss…but only when your grandparents weren’t at home and the “toss” thing was actually his pe…whatever – that’s a story for my next NA meeting and kind of beside the point. The point is that often our most painful memories are the ones that sit at the forefront of our minds. Even when they’re dormant, they’re still very much present and easy to wake with just the slightest mental stir. That’s what this journal is like for me. My own personal raging case of mental herpes.

Who is in the mood for a still life? Have no fear! You’ve come to the right place. It appears as though the artist might have been a wee bit uninspired during this particular creative session as she (or he – who knows for sure – it isn’t signed) decided to simply trace the outline of her (or his!) own man hand and then shade it in a bunch so as to trick the instructor into thinking she had a real life model sit for the masterpiece. Look, I don’t know who this chick is, but I like her style. No doubt she got an “A” that day if for nothing more than being a crafty devil with an eye for all that is true beauty.

When I was thumbing through the journal this morning looking for the perfect sketch to post for y’all I was delighted to find a copy of my senior picture stuck between a couple of the pages. I graduated with 50 people. Because our class was so small, each senior was given an entire page in the yearbook for their photo (and senior quote!*) to be printed. Even better, we were allowed to have these photos taken out of our uniforms and in a model pose of our choice. I should preface by saying that, until yesterday, I hadn’t seen this picture in about 7 years. I should also make very clear that there was a time when I very much believed this was the most beautiful picture I had ever taken – I thought I looked fucking hot.

Well. Um, no.

Where should we begin? Better yet, let’s skip some of the minor offenses – such as the full length, short sleeve and collared GAP denim dress I chose for the event, or my hair, which is totally fried since this was during a period when I was literally getting it capped and bleached in a woman’s barn out in Weatherford, Texas on a monthly basis (I promise you – it was a barn. A real barn. There were chickens and cows in the “parking lot”), or the classic senior pic “chin propped on hand” move that was way cool back in ’97 – let’s skip ALL of that and cut right to the pièce de résistance. The eyebrows.

I have a minor obsession with eyebrows. Hold on, that’s a lie. I am beyond obsessed with eyebrows. Until a few years ago when I finally learned that eyebrow shaping is something best left to the professionals, I could sit in front of a magnifying mirror for hours and fuck around with my eyebrows. As you may or may not recall, in the late 1990’s extremely thin eyebrows were like, THE thing to do. I remember being in love with Gwyneth Paltrow’s eyebrows and constantly trying to recreate that look on my own face. Here is a pretty good picture of what her eyebrows looked like back then.

And here is how I interpreted that look. Try not to be blinded by the halo of golden sunlight that is perfectly framing my angel face. I'm like the Virgin Mary. Only after she lost her virginity on a golf course at 2am...oh wait, another story I'm saving for NA. Back to the 'brows:

I don’t even know what to call those things and the fact that they are forever preserved in the pages of my yearbook is less than pleasing. It is also worth mentioning that my name, which appears beneath this picture, is spelled incorrectly. Again, I graduated with 50 people. One person had their name misspelled. That should answer any questions you may have had regarding my popularity. Actually, after the sketches, you probably had a pretty accurate idea to begin with.

Happy Monday, all.

*The senior quote is more offensive than the picture. I simply could not contain the drama. Let’s just save that for another day.

Vacation Update

2010-09-06T10:47:00.003-04:00

I wonder if I should really be calling this week I'm taking off a vacation. I'm actually just hanging out with various family members in various parts of the East Coast. My parents recently purchased their 4th house in 6 years. You know how I think I have ADD? Well, I'm pretty sure my parents do too. In the past six years they have moved from the city to the suburbs (because their dogs were diagnosed with "depression" and needed more yard to run around in), the suburbs to the city (because the suburbs were too far away from everything."Everything" being my mom's yoga classes which she promoted through business cards that had her name on them with the slogan, "Yoga, Pilates and Chopin". See, she would play orchestral music during class - or at least she did until her students started begging her to quit playing orchestral music during class - which kind of put the squash on the whole business card thing), back to the suburbs (because my step-dad took up wood working and needed a basement for his projects. To-date, he has made a mini candlestick and an eagle claw), and finally, back to the city (because the suburbs made them feel old and there were "Republicans coming through the drinking water!").

Anyway, I'm in DC, where my parents live, until tomorrow when I leave for New York to go see my step-brother and his wife who just bought themselves a new pad in the Big Apple. At this very moment, I'm sitting in my mom's office while she and my step-dad are hanging pictures downstairs in their new living room. My mom is singing If I Had a Hammer while my step-dad is backing her up with, "Ooooh yeah, bop ditty bop bop, ooohhhhh! Give me that hammer!"

I should probably get on the road sooner rather than later. And yeah, I should definitely stop calling this a vacation.

Later

2010-09-01T12:12:00.000-04:00

So here’s the deal, people. I’m getting out of town for a little work and a lot of pleasure this week/weekend/next week. I hope by the time I return you’ve quit this silent treatment act you’ve been pulling. I don’t like it. Not one little bit.

While I am most excited about my pending vacation, I’m getting more excited about my trip home to Texas in October. One of my oldest friends* is having a baby (out of wedlock. Just kidding! No she isn’t…or is she? She is. No, she’s really not. Shhhhh…she really is) and my friends and I are throwing her a baby shower. At a bar. Not only can I simply not wait to be in the same room with so many of the most awesome people I know for the first time in a long time seeing as I haven’t been home since last December, but this trip also happens to perfectly coincide with the Texas State Fair!!!! For those of you who are unaware, the Fair is the largest of its kind in the country. There are rides, a petting zoo, the World’s Fattest Pig, butter sculptures and endless amount of fried food. And we’re not talking about your typical fried delights – like chicken or donuts – no...not even close. We’re talking next level crazy shit like fried grilled cheese, fried bacon, fried Frito pies and last but not least…a front runner for the 2010 Title – fried beer! It’s going to be awesome. And while I get that everyone likes to sit around and shit on Texas all of the time – this is a perfect example of why I love my home state so very, very much. Say what you will about how crazy you think us all to be – but we know how to throw a party (and electrocute a lot of people…whatever…neither here nor there).

Enjoy my time off, playas. I’ll miss you.

*We’ve been friends since we met at the pool one summer when we were both about 8 years old. She was transferring to my school the approaching fall and I guess our moms wanted us to hang out or something. That part is a little foggy. What I very clearly remember is that while taking a break from swimming, we decided to split some mozzarella sticks from the snack bar. True to form, I was inhaling my share of the order when I began to choke on a cheese stick. The look of horror on my friend’s face as I proceeded to reach down my own throat and pull out a mangled string of mozzarella is one that has stuck with me for the 20+ years since the event. Once she got over being totally disgusted, she started uncontrollably laughing at me. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Cheers to us, Liz. Happy Wednesday to all of you.

Oh, You Again...

2010-08-27T14:30:00.002-04:00

Hey there, pardna’. Guess what? It’s Friday! And because it’s Friday, and also because it is an absolutely beautiful day in Boston today, I decided to walk to the Clover Food Truck – a delightful vegetarian dream that used to live over by MIT but has been hanging out next to South Station since May-ish (my neck of the woods) – for an egg and eggplant sandwich.

I guess everyone else had that very same idea. I also just realized that everyone is wearing jeans today. Not me. No, sir! I wore a skirt...because I'm my own person!

Here is the sandwich being encased by my enormous man hand (I hate these freakish things attached to the ends of my wrists – they’re seriously fucking huge). It was delightful. I had an order of rosemary french fries as well but I ate all of those on my walk back to the office and forgot to take a picture until after it was too late. Oops.

Speaking of your mother, what are y'all up to this weekend? Me? Oh, just going to the beach and reading this book.

I’m actually in an art theory book club – this is our current selection (shut up – maybe we just have a different understanding of “theory” and “art” than you do, Mr. “Technical College Degree”. Fucking show off).

I’m so excited about this book. The author spent a full year (I believe) immersed in all things Celine Dion to try and better understand her immense global popularity. If you want to know more, you can read about it here.

And how’s this for a deal? I will send/gift this book the first person who emails me at culturecubeblog@gmail.com for your own reading enjoyment – as long as you promise to pass it along to someone else when you’re finished.

Lastly, if you have a free moment, please tell me the name of the last song you listened to. Not necessarily the same as a recommendation – just the last thing that was bumpin’ on your stereo. I’m looking for some new jams and need your help. Here, I’ll go first – Die Antwoord, Fish Paste. It's weird and essentially about putting your mother's vagina in a mayonnaise jar. Fun! Wholesome! Okay, now it's your tun.

Have a great weekend, all. And by the way, you look very pretty today. I can tell you all feel the same based on your overwhelming response to the picture I posted below of me with a bag on my head. So beautiful you're practically speechless.

Later.

2010-08-26T11:22:00.000-04:00

Hi. On Tuesday night I attended a going away party for a friend who is moving to New York because she got a fellowship and will be working on her PhD in Urban Education. I have smart friends. And I don’t know why. My thought is that they let me tag along because my stupidity entertains them…sort of like a circus monkey. Some circus monkeys wear costumes that often include hats. This circus monkey forgot her umbrella – despite knowing that the entire northeast, until today, was in the midst of a three day shit storm. So, I had to make my own hat for the walk from my office to the bar for celebratory/farewell cocktails. If you’ve ever wondered how hot I am ('cause I am) this is me. With a bag on my head.

You’re welcome. Oh, and my real life favorite circus monkey is Whiplash. Whiplash rides a dog every year during the opening ceremonies of the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo. I pretty much thought he was the coolest thing ever when I was a kid...and I kind of still do.

Lastly, I took a personal day yesterday and spent my time cleaning and doing laundry. Here is my house looking most beautiful. I lit those candles just for you.

That is all. So long.

Hey

2010-08-23T16:57:00.006-04:00

Well, nice of you to finally stop by, Carrie Underwood. I know you must be super busy and stuff. It’s no big deal. I haven’t been sitting here this entire time waiting for your dirty mug to show up so I could have someone to talk to…so really, don’t worry about it. Even though while I’ve been waiting, you’ve probably been running around town chatting with “real people” or “working at a professional job” or “doing things in general”. Hmmmm…that’s cute. Let’s just pretend for two minutes that you’re not an asshole, asshole, and get this over with, okay? Okay.

I slept in my swimsuit last night. That really isn’t interesting as I think everyone sometimes sleeps in their swimsuits. I mean, I used to wear a joke baby blue Speedo that belonged to my ex boyfriend when I ran out of underwear on work days, so whatever – spandex is cool. I dig it. But what makes this story a little more interesting is that my swimsuit has two thin spaghetti straps that come up from the breast area and tie around the neck. I was self medicating last night with NyQuil since by the time 9pm rolled around I had already spent the previous hour making up a dance routine in my swimsuit in front of the mirror* (God, I wish I could pretend at least part of this was a lie), so I was totally awake and bouncing off the walls which meant I needed to knock myself out fast with over the counters in order to get in a full 8 before 6.

I’m trying to think of the best way to describe this...um…NyQuil is like, totally next level in terms of the crazy shit. One swig of that jam and you’re not going anywhere for a loooong time. Not only that, but let’s just say a burglar broke in, or there was a family emergency and your family was trying to call you over and over again, or your dog fell off the bed (that didn’t happen…last night, anyway), or your swimsuit that you were sleeping in started to rub back and forth along the sides of your neck as you tossed in bed throughout the night….let’s just say one of those things happened - something that might normally scare, worry or physically hurt you - well…when you’re doped up on NyQuil, those things don’t matter so much anymore because I'm pretty sure you're fucking dead for at least 30 minutes in there somewhere.

Needless to say, when I woke up this morning, it looked like a couple of boy scouts mistaken my neck for each other's penises as it was rubbed so raw it was majorly painful to touch. I must have tied it too tightly or George Michael tried to strangle me because wow…yeah…

I had a meeting first thing upon arriving to work today and I took great care to pick out a collared shirt that I felt appropriately covered the base of my neck. I even wore a necklace that is kind of over the top (it’s made out of babies, sooooo…) and sits a bit lower on my chest to distract from the upper neck area. You know it’s all going to shit when despite your most concerted efforts – someone that you work with – who in theory has a mutual respect and admiration for your commitments and dedications to the field you both so passionately believe in – feels the need to say before the meeting, “Totally not a big deal if it is…but if it is…your hickey is showing.”

Sweet Mary. What do you take me for? I haven’t had a hickey since May! And you sure as Hell never noticed that one, did you, honey?? A professional (hooks) is a lot of things…but there is one thing she is not…and that is sloppy. I’ll work a Cover Girl concealer stick ten times from Tuesday before you’ll ever catch on to my Sunday night shenanigans come Monday morning. Oh wait…I already told you about the dance routine.

Sigh…

Your Song of the Day is Thoa, Bag of Hammers. Come back soon. That was too long and I missed you mucho.

* George Michael, Freedom

UPDATE: Dan, over at Blogonoscopy, who after the recent shaving of a monster beard now looks like a 35 year-old version of Macaulay Culkin, was "kind" enough to correct my spelling of Thoa. It's Thao. My apologies, everyone, for the minor slip of key stroke. Let's all thank Dan for righting our wrongs and busting our balls.

Who Needs a New Roomie?!?

2010-08-04T16:14:00.002-04:00

I’ve been working a lot lately. And by “working”, I mean, “drinking” while in the vicinity of my work place. Summer, especially in Boston, a city which 7 months out of the year is freezing fucking cold, brings everyone out of the woodwork for any excuse to mingle and get their party on. And since a large component of what I get paid to do (Monday through Friday, at least…a whole different pay scale and set of safety words come into play on Saturday night) is basically hang out with people at open bars while cramming shrimp poppers into my mouth, I have been recently existing in a pretty constant state of hangover, personal neglect and ramen noodle consumption.

Last Friday night, after spending all four of the previous evenings at work engagements, I found myself stumbling home at 9pm, four glasses of wine deep after a cooking demonstration in which I most definitely asked for samples and for some reason, at some point, referred to myself in front of a small crowd of people as, “fun, funky and fresh!” (fucking shoot me). Delirious not only from the week itself, but the free and flowing vino as well, I walked into the vestibule of my building, saw a large package addressed to me and brought it upstairs into my apartment to open up. Now, before I continue, there are a few points I should mention. 1) Eight tenants live in my building. I am a firm believer in the “I don’t care if we’re neighbors, I don’t want to know you” policy. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize everyone that lives there, they recognize me, and I fake smile/keep my clothes on while taking out the trash more than I would like. 2) The girl that lives directly above me has the same three letters at the beginning of her first name as I do in my last name. Like, pretend her first name is “Donna” and my last name is “Dontchawishyouhadsomethingbettertodorightnow”. It works like that. Get it? 3) I just had a birthday (I haven’t mentioned it before…I don’t like to draw attention…but yes, the gift to this world that is me, recently celebrated 31 years of bringing happiness and harmony to Earth. You weren’t invited to the party because you neglected to send gold, frankincense, or myrrh before the Evite dropped. Sadly, this means you’ll probably have to go to Hell someday. I hope you learned your lesson. But, even if you did, it’s still too late. So sorry for your loss…of eternal life, sucka). Packages were showing up from friends (and people who didn’t want to burn) earlier in the week, and while I usually am not on the lookout for packages, due to the joyous circumstances, when I quickly glanced at the box and the edge of the address label, I assumed it was a tardy birthday gift for yours truly. So I took it.

Well, well, well. Shortly after entering my apartment picking up the remains of a third, yes third, bra that George Michael somehow managed to retrieve from a fully-packed suitcase (its unpacking a chore I’ve been putting off since returning from a recent trip…three weeks ago) and destroy/ingest sans the underwire which was lodged in a big knot in his beard, I grabbed a pair of scissors, sat down on the couch and tore into “my” present. As I’m sure you’ve now gathered, this actually wasn’t a present for me at all. Since I had only barely glanced at the label, I didn’t know until this very moment that I was getting a backstage pass to my neighbor’s sex den via discreet and convenient mail order. And wow, I do dare say, I think it quite the show. Upon peering into the large box and pulling out the first of its contents, I realized that in my hand, I held one bottle out of a shipment of twelve that was marked “Daily Erotic Erectile Enhancement Supplement”. Not only was I in procession of a year’s worth of some kind of pill for your penis, but there were three DVD’s (which I honestly did not watch…probably because when the picture on the DVD’s featured the image of what looked like a cross between an ant penis and a vagina throwing up morphing into a baseball bat with veins on it, I was so afraid that I immediately shoved them back inside the package), twelve syringes…not the needle kind, but the kind they give you when you get your wisdom teeth taken out so you can squirt water into the holes in your mouth (I think we can all make our own squirting/hole jokes now. Let’s do, and not say we did), and two containers of liquid that, after reading the instructions, I learned were for the purposes of spraying on one’s genitals because the liquid was “infused” with “pheromones” to attract “female mates” when the “time was right for love”. And finally, because I already had pulled everything out so why the hell not?, I looked at the purchase receipt. It seems my neighbor, who at first look appears a kind, mousey librarian type, is actually quite a naughty biology teacher who is able to fork over $1,200 for her bedroom pleasures. Meanwhile, the largest contribution I’m willing to make to a potential slumber party playdate is 1/3 the cost of your condom and maybe, just maybe, the redemption of some rollover minutes for that cab I’m going to call you in about five. So stop saying the word “cuddle” and let’s get this done, darlin’.

Anyway, the next day, after I called several friends to tell them about my exciting find, I taped up the box, with not-at-all-obvious blue painter’s tape, and snuck it back downstairs for her eventual retrieval. Since there are only eight of us in the building, I have seen her several times this week before work in the morning and I have had this gut feeling whenever we make eye contact that we both know what shook out. That could be because I have an amazing gut instinct about such things, or it could be because when I saw her on Monday, I had an enormous piece of blue painter’s tape stuck to the canvas bag I was carrying, the same one that usually houses the painter’s tape, but that I wisely decided looked better with the hippie motif I was working that day than one of my regular purses. As usual, a brilliant mind on its A game!

So far, during the last year I have resided in this apartment building, I have pissed off a neighbor for cleaning and singing too loudly in the middle of the night, banged on another neighbor’s door (who also happens to be my dog walker), drunk at 2am because I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft and needed her spare set to get into my pad (and my date), created two messy chip trails of the Combo and Dorito variety leading through the entire first floor, into the elevator and directly to my door, accidentally propositioned another neighbor…who turned out to be gay…whoops!, dropped an entire basket of laundry out of my window and onto the porch below me...and then left a note asking the tenant to retrieve it all and bring it back up at their earliest convenience, and now, opened mail that isn’t mine (a federal offense, of course). Soooo…you know that gut feeling we were just discussing? Yeah, it’s kicking in again and very loudly suggesting I begin scouting out a new place to crash as it’s quite likely there’s an eviction notice painter-taped to my door this very moment.

Happy Thursday, guys. How do you feel about The Cloud Room? I happen to think they’re kinda hot. You may too. Slip on When Dogs & Wolves Split for size and get back to me.

Peace.

The Return of Subway Do Me Boyfriend! (And My Miserable Fails).

2010-08-03T11:38:00.004-04:00

Quickly, do y’all remember Subway Do Me Boyfriend? He’s the guy I occasionally catch myself riding the train with during my work commute. He is also the man that I am so totally crazy about, when our paths do cross, I literally cannot move, my palms get sweaty, I fidget with my hair, my throat dries up – he completely and totally paralyzes me…with love (someone hand me my journal).

Anyway, I actually haven’t seen him since April. Yes, I remember the month. I also remember what I was wearing (nothing, obviously) and what he was reading (Kafka – he’s a genius! Or a middle school English teacher. Either/or). So, for a little while there I began to think he might have gotten a new job and was therefore taking another route. Like I have mentioned before, on average, our commutes (and someday, our bodies) were overlapping once every 10 days so. April was like, 12 days ago. It just wasn’t making sense.

And then, today, I hop the train at 10:15, because I like to be punctual when it comes to getting to work by 9, and there he was (cue doves, rainbows and my vagina)!! We actually ride the T to the same station where we both get off the train and then take a bus line to our final stop. Naturally, I did what any sane girl would do while we were both waiting for the bus – I snuck behind him and took his picture so I could show my friends at work who have heard me ramble on about this guy since last July (No, I’m not crazy. You are, you freak). And so, since you’ve listened to me for this long, I would like to share him with you too. Friends and enemies, here he is, the one and only Subway Do Me Boyfriend:

Look at that posture, the incredibly hot casual dress, the flip flops, the arms...oh, God, it's just all too perfect. Now, you may also recall that the last, and only time, we’ve ever spoken was when I was carrying a box of sticky buns in my arms for an early morning meeting, he said hello and I responded with, “I have sticky buns in my box”. So…that didn’t go quite as planned. Of course, when we eventually did get on the bus this morning, he made a point to come and stand directly next to me. And of course, when we were getting off the bus, he said hi to me. In case you’re wondering if I could possibly top the patheticness of our last exchange, have no fear because I sure fucking did when I replied…”You’re welcome” before high-tailing it out of the T station as I was so mortified and on the verge of vomiting that I nearly flung myself into moving traffic – as it would probably feel better than the internal torture I was enduring – upon getting outside. “You’re welcome”? Did I really say “You’re welcome”??

“You’re welcome”?!?! What in the fuck??? What in the fuck does that mean???

I quit.

I’ll be back tomorrow. This blog has gone to shit, right? I know, I know. We’ll whip it back into shape soon enough.

Later.

My kind of sporting activity

2010-07-09T16:36:00.001-04:00

My weekend has been kicked off to a wonderful start thanks to a friend who left these two tasty treats on my desk this morning.

Allow me to introduce Pringles Honey Mustard and Pringles Mozzarella Stick with Marinara Sauce. Um, holy shit...that's all I can think to say. They were opened at approximately 9:45am - and with the help of several breakfast buddies – they were gone by 10:15am. It was during this heavenly chow down session that we decided we would be hosting…wait for it…it’s really good…you’re gonna be soooo jealous…okay, here it is…the Official 2010 Pringles World Cup!!!

The games will be played as follows (based on 24 competitors – all ordered today and en route to Pringles World Cup HQ as I type this). Oh, and I’m copying the rules verbatim from my friend’s email. So don’t ask me why she refers to us as “humans” over and over and over again. I mean, we are (kind of, sort of), but weird, right? Yeah, so is she.

Each human participant will be assigned a Pringles Team. This will be random, and decided via raffle on Monday.

The Pringle canisters will be covered and labeled A, B, C, D, E, F, G, etc.

Then the Pringles flavors will be put into groups of 3 and taste tested by all humans. Each human will rate them in order first place, second, third.

First place gets 5 points, second place gets 3 points and third place gets one. The top 2 move on to the next round until a final champion is crowned Pringles World Cup 2010 winner!

Are you as excited about this as I am?? I’ll post results here as they come in. And if I draw Baked Potato Pringles in the raffle – I’m going to be super pissed. Baked Potato is like the America of the World Cup. We’ll totally lose. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Pickle or Seven Layer Dip.

Happy Friday, all & wish me luck!

Note to Self

2010-07-03T18:01:00.000-04:00

When a stranger kindly stops you on the street to compliment your dress - and because you're made uncomfortable by compliments you attempt to deflect by replying, "Oh, thanks. I like it, too. Mostly because it's really versatile and I can wear it all the time - even to bed. Seriously, I slept in this thing last night. Still haven't changed. Or showered." you've gone too far. Way too far.

A simple "thank you" will work just fine.

That is all. Bye.

P.S. I've decided "beef medallion" might be the grossest name for a foodstuff ever. Okay, bye. For real this time.

2010-06-29T16:57:00.007-04:00

I don’t follow a lot of TV. The discipline required to 1) remember what day/time a certain show is on and, 2) actually commit to making it home to watch is just too much responsibility for a woman such as me. That woman being one who still can’t differentiate north from south and recently called to wish her dad a Happy Father’s Day two weeks before the holiday on what was actually her mother’s birthday – which she forgot about entirely until two days after that fact. To put it succinctly, I’m an idiot. Also, I don’t possess a DVR as I take serious issue with paying more than a $40 monthly cable bill (I mean, it’s TV – I can think of so many other things I would like to spend my money on besides 1000 channels of shit that will inevitably lead to a fatter ass because it’s planted on my couch all night mindlessly flipping through a variety of cooking and outdoor shows – the two types of show that seem to dominate the television roster – and neither a subject I care all that much about. I like the indoors and eating food that is prepared for me…and highly processed…such as Pringles…which I will discuss later). There is, however, one exception to my usual TV tendencies and that, my friends, is the rare (and eventually always returned to the producers) diamond that is ABC’s The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. Is it strange that every Monday around 3pm I begin to feel the same charge of excitement in my belly as I do at that same time every Friday? Is it abnormal that I have partially rescheduled my 4th of July weekend to ensure that I am home next Monday night for the Jake/Vienna showdown? Did I leave a voicemail on my best friend’s answering machine this morning in which I pretended I was Buzz Lightyear calling to wish her son a Happy Birthday? Did my neighbor, without my knowledge, happen to be standing behind me in the foyer of my building while I said in a male voice, “Now be a good boy and tell your mommy that Allie also has a birthday coming up. Tell her that if she’s a nice mommy, she’ll send Allie a really expensive present. To infinity and beyond!!” The answers to these questions are yes, yes, yes and yes. And am I deterred or embarrassed? I spent half of yesterday afternoon flat ironing my hair at my desk while eating Pringles (again, we’ll get there) and watching a video of a man grubbing on fried chicken while dancing in front of a rainbow green screen. So the answer to that question is no. In order for one to feel embarrassed, one has to know the feeling of NOT being embarrassed. My whole existence is categorized as an embarrassment. But to me, it’s just livin', yo. Anyway, Monday nights and The Bachelorette are sacred to me. Under no circumstances do I make social plans for Monday, all appropriate errands are tended to on Sunday to ensure I don’t have to stop off at the dry cleaners (pill dealer’s) or grocery store (other pill dealer’s), and the ringer on my phone is disabled from 8-10pm so as to avoid any interruption from friends (my mom) during the show. The only exception I make for my otherwise very special “alone time” with a flatscreen is for Molly over at Lobed. During the last season of The Bachelor with Gay Jake, I think I may have texted her once or twice when our Main Man was acting particularly Queen Bee (sooooo….whenever his lady face was on camera) and then, when this season kicked off, I basically started bombing her with my every reaction to every moment of each show. Mostly this includes commentary on Bachelorette Ali’s dried up weave head, the inappropriate amount of private guitar serenades, and the various personal style choices of our bachelors (cashmere cardigans, man jewelry and white leather). Molly indulges me and always responds with some hilarious insights of her own – which she later recaps in (what I’m now commanding she maintain) her Emergency Bachelorette Posts. I’ve come to enjoy my Monday night tradition of annoying Molly for two hours on end. And I also think you’d be wise to read her weekly analysis since I’m so ADD that just the thought of trying to explain 120 minutes of television to y’all brings on the same internal response I have to doing my taxes (I don’t know how to do this so I’m not even going to try. Tell the IRS I’m dead and Chris Harrison that I’m away on my own “personal journey”).

I used to text my real life best friend, Rae during the show. But she’s caught on to how much joy I find in purposely trying to drive her crazy via mostly nonsense communication, so she’s just stopped responding all together. In fact, I’m looking at our text history this very moment on my phone and it reads as follows:

Me: Hi. You’re pretty. Call me later. Bye. Love, me.

Her: No reply

Me: I think you should write on my Facebook wall today. It might make me more popular??

Her: No reply

Me: I’m trying to call you!!!

Her: No reply

Me (after my phone died while we were talking): All I was going to say is that I think some babies are ugly. Bye.

Her: No reply

Me: YouTube “Tyra Banks acting like a rabid dog”. Do not speak to me until you’ve watched this video. Okay, bye.

Whatever. Her silence only deepens my commitment to bother her. And her willingness to tolerate that commitment (inability to escape it) is probably also why we’re still friends after so many years. All this is to say that Molly is a cool imaginary friend and if you’d like to watch The Bachelorette with us on Monday nights, I’m cordially inviting you to do so. Drop a line and we’ll be in touch. And Rae is a cool real life best friend who can expect a nice addition to her Facebook photo gallery this week. She looks hot in oversized track suits. And in a petticoat:

Moving on, let's talk Pringles, bitches! Remember my past addictions to Combos and Doritos that for a time dominated my weekends with late night runs to 7-Eleven and morning after crumb trails that were reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel if Hansel and Gretel were fully grown adults who occasionally binge drink? Well, thankfully, both of those dreadful phases have ended. Unfortunately, they have been replaced with a new addiction to Pringles and my current plans to invent a way to main line them into my blood stream as the cravings are so intense that I think about devouring cans at a time probably as often as 12 year-old boys think about getting their penises touched. Not only is there a 7-Eleven dangerously close to my apartment, but there is also a 7-Eleven dangerously close to my office. The office 7-Eleven, unlike my home 7-Eleven, carries approximately 10 different varieties of Pringles. There’s Dill Pickle Pringles, Buffalo Blazin’ Pringles, Seven Layer Dip Pringles, Baked Potato Pringles – and then your usual suspects – Cheese, Sour Cream and Onion, Regular and Pizza. I might be able to control my obsession if it wasn’t shared by almost every person I converse with while at work. We have taken to stocking up each time one of us leaves the building for any reason, mass email chains circulate throughout the day tracking the Pringle can’s current whereabouts within the office and who is next responsible for replenishing a dwindling supply. I got a text last weekend from a friend who was in her local grocery store when she stumbled upon a line we had yet to discover – Pringles “Restaurant Cravers” which includes Kickin' Ranch, Cheesy Fries and Chili Dog. When I first saw the message, I thought she was joking as such brilliance certainly couldn’t truly exist. But God Save Us, she wasn’t joking. What I did to the Kickin' Ranch flavor upon its arrival at my desk yesterday morning should be reserved for Cinemax after midnight. When you’re alone. And your parents are already asleep. If I’m not being obvious enough yet – let me put it this way – I did to those Pringles what big men in prison do to little men who wear lipstick. I was ALL UP and FUCKING DIRTY in that sweet, sweet tube of forbidden love.

Then, today, I get this email from another coworker:

From: Coworker
Sent: Tuesday, June 29, 2010 1:03 PM
To: Ms. A and others
Subject: someone needs to

Order the bulk pack of Pringles I just found on Amazon. 14 cans for $30!

From: Ms. A
Sent: Tuesday, June 29, 2010 1:16 PM
To: Coworker and others
Subject: RE: someone needs to

Will it let you make your own custom pack? Mix n’ match??

From: Coworker
Sent: Tuesday, June 29, 2010 1:17 PM
To: Ms. A and others
Subject: RE: someone needs to

I think so. Let me research. Look at this review!

Pringles Mozzarella Sticks & Marinara Flavor., February 18, 2010
By Sushi Girl -Laura (Gainesville, Florida)
I love ordering fried mozzarella sticks and dipping them into hot or cold marinara sauce, and I love Pringles. So when I saw that they had this flavor I was excited, well as excited one could get about Pringles. Awesome!

From: Coworker
Sent: Tuesday, June 29, 2010 1:29 PM
To: Ms. A and others
Subject: RE: someone needs to

See below! We’ve barely begun to tap into the Pringle well! We have to order today, guys. I can’t take it much longer. Let’s just ignore the last sentence of the below wiki page I found. No bigs.

Pringles come in several flavors, and occasionally Procter & Gamble produces limited edition runs. Standard flavors include original, salt and vinegar, sour cream and onion, cheddar cheese, and barbecue. Some flavors may be distributed only to limited market areas. For example, Prawn Cocktail and curry flavors are available in United Kingdom. Seasonal flavors, past and present, include ketchup, zesty lime and chilli, chili cheese dog, "pizzalicious", paprika, Texas BBQ sauce, and cajun. Examples of limited edition flavors include honey mustard, cheesy fries, onion blossom, mozzarella cheese stick and mexican layered dip.

5 new flavors were introduced in Asia, namely: Soft-Shelled crab, Grilled Shrimp, Seaweed, Blueberry & Hazelnut, and Lemon. The Grilled Shrimp chips are pink in color, while Seaweed is colored green.

Two limited market flavors, Cheeseburger and "Taco Night", were recalled in March 2010 as a safety precaution after salmonella was found in a Basic Food Flavors plant which produces the flavor-enhancing hydrolyzed vegetable protein used in those flavors.

So there you have it. We’re like a bunch of fucking junkies chasing our next hydrogenated fat high even though that high comes with the risk of contracting salmonella. To prove how real this problem is, here is a picture of my trash can.

Notice its contents – one coffee cup and two cans of Pringles. Someone help me. In the meantime, I beg you all to pray for a speedy recovery. I fear that with so many enablers involved, it could be a very long time before I climb out of this black hole.

For your Song of the Day, I must give credit where credit is due at tip my hat to Joe Dude and his recent Tim Fite recommendation. I like Big Mistake. Joe Dude is okay.

Have a nice week everyone. Peace.

Short and Very Sweet

2010-06-28T13:45:00.001-04:00

For those of you that have been reading this blog (and clearly hate life since you subject yourself to this mess over and over again) for some time now, you should be familiar with my best friend Angie - and her son - Cage Baby Charlie.

Charlie has a birthday coming up. He's like, 4 or 15 or something. But he had his party this weekend. I was hoping to get a picture of his dad in a T Rex costume as the event was dinosaur inspired, but I got something much better. Feast your eyes on the coolest little Buzz I've ever seen in my entire life. I want to flick myself on the wrist (light punishment) each time I catch myself feeling sentimental or maternal or any other typically girly emotion that suddenly crops up within my dirty old soul - but dammit if I didn't see sweet Charlie today and just want to spin him around in a field of daisies while Somewhere Out There from American Tail played in the background.

Happy Birthday, Cage Baby. You know how I feel about children in general (not good) but you're the coolest dude in town today. I raise my milk to you, good sir.

I'm Too Lazy for This Part

2010-06-25T15:12:00.000-04:00

Hey. It's me. Just wanted to let y'all know that things are moving a little bit slower than usual round these parts. See, I infected the entire office's network with some computer virus which disabled all outbound communication for three days and also caused several machines to shut down completely. Oops. My bad!

Thankfully, no one got mad - my employers know I have no real understanding of modern day technology - so when I got an email with the subject line, "Click here!", I did as I was told and clicked on the picture of a swaying palm tree which immediately exploded into an image of a large, black penis that fully took over my screen - where it stayed for three days until someone told me I could actually turn off the screen (learn somethin' new everyday!) - with a banner that read, "Hot and Kinky Triple Mama Tit Cock!" since IT was on vacation. So Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday consisted of a lot of rearranging of my desk, Clorox wiping everything/everyone in sight, singing, snacking and shrugging when people would ask, "How in the world did you mange to totally wipe out our entire infrastructure?" Stupid question, I say. Who wouldn't click on a picture of a pretty palm tree?? I thought it would be a fun coconut game. Like, putting the baby monkeys back in their nests for cool coconut points. Get over it, dudes. I was just tryin' to have a good time.

Anyway, I hope to be posting more once things settle (they finally give me a computer instead of this damn Etch-A-Sketch I've been working on lately). In the meantime, another journal entry for your enjoyment. This is a "free-hand" drawing of a dead tree. I'm convinced I thought this was a personal metaphor for my life at the time. And I've sprinkled it with a dash of wisdom that should leave you reflecting inward and thinking deeply about your own existence for days to come. Shhh....don't thank me. I already know.

We strive to reach as high as we possibly can only to catch ourselves wondering, "What are we striving for?"

Fucking gag me.

And have a good weekend, everyone.

Holla

2010-06-18T11:45:00.001-04:00

I know I haven’t come through on my Segway Recap Part II post as promised. But y’all should know better by now – I am nothing if not a flake, constant procrastinator and occasional liar. So…I think we should all just acknowledge the obvious truth – that post is never happening.

On another note, I was rearranging some book shelves in my apartment last night when I came across a gold mine of humiliation and terror – one of my poetry/sketch books from highschool. We don’t need to rehash this – I’ve told y’all before that I was a nerdy, dramatic teenager who loved nothing more than expressing my “creativity” through whiny prose and apparently, a memory that I blocked out until about 12 hours ago, still life drawings. Look, I dig me some art. I like spending time with it, talking about it, learning about it – but when it comes to making it – I have not a bone in my body capable of doing so. This is why professionally, I, from the very beginning of my working career, have sought a way to be near it and work for it since I am not equiped to be the person in charge of producing it. Could someone send that memo to by sixteen year-old self? Because that dumbass is still living in the warped fantasy world where she is, indeed, an artist (say it the French way)! Please see exhibit A:

This is a beautiful piece entitled, Nude Woman Combing Her Hair. I also love that I called it "Creative Art" up top. As opposed to "Non-creative Art". But let's get serious - it terms of creativity, it's hovering between the two levels of "Not at all" or, "You're kidding, right?" Can you make out the large nipple drooping down from the subject's ample breast (risqué!)? And then, my favorite part, note the date that this work was created. Yes, that’s right, everyone – I completed my masterpiece over the course of an entire year. That year being 1889-1890. Um, hello, Queen fucking Victoria! Am I for fucking serious?!?!? 18 fucking 89?? And I turned that shit in to my teacher! I have no doubt he took that to the bar with him on a Friday night to pass around to all of his friends – laughing hysterically at the kid with no friends who is pretending to live in the fucking last century. Christ, I have no shame…none at all.

Up next – poetry! Not only did I attempt to make this look fancy by creating my own sort of calligraphy – but I really turned up the intensity by letting the title dangle loosely, hauntingly at the end of the piece. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present, Rusting Wishes (translation below):

Throw the pennies in, see the sunlight bounce off their copper coats

Twisting and twirling in a pool of illusion

Sinking deeper, their dance is dying as they collect on the bottom among the other

Rusting Wishes

I don’t have much to say right now. The level of ridiculousness presented here speaks for itself. All I can tell you is that after flipping through the entire book – my eyes covered half the time, my body having a physically painful reaction to its contents – I decided two things, 1) I’m going to try to post an entry here every week in an effort to fully expose my lame ass teenage self – and then, once all entries are revealed, I can finally begin the recovery process. Which should take about a decade. Because this shit is BAD. And, 2) I’m never having children. Like, ever. The greatest contribution I can make to this planet is to keep these genes on lock down. I don’t want to give birth and then immediately get arrested for child endangerment. I’ll keep to my dog and that adorable bottle of vodka in my freezer, thank you very much.

Your Song of the Day is Gun from Sam Quinn. So…this is a pretty heart wrenching jam. Which means I’ve been listening to it on repeat for about a week now, rocking that vodka bottle back and forth while quietly singing along into George Michael’s ear. Didn’t I spend this entire post chastising myself for being an enormous drama whore?? Let’s not talk about the “Aha! moment” I just had. I’m getting sick…

Happy weekend, all. And I absolutely understand if you choose not to come back next week. Really, I get it. It's cool.

Peace.

Segway Tour Part 1

2010-06-10T17:07:00.000-04:00

I'm the thrid Segway in

We did it! And after we did it, we went out for drinks and I decided to chase an order of fried avocado, calamari and nachos with four beers and two martinis – so as you cans surely imagine, I feel pretty miserable right now. While I’m not in the balanced state of mind or blood sugar levels to appropriately recap the details of the tour, I can say it was an absolute blast. When I got to work this morning, my friend, John, who was on the tour with me, made the very good point, “You know, when we try to tell people this story – it’s not going to sound cool at all. Kind of a ‘had to be there’ sort of deal”. And I hate to admit it, because I wish I could blow you away with the most awesome Segway tale ever told – but he’s right.

We did get to watch an amazing training video before departure – the narrator turning on the Boston accent like it’s going out of style, “You’re gonnah have to put on a helmet – but don’t feel like a losah, stick a Patriots stickah or a Red Sox stickah on the front and you’ll look wicked cool!” And we absolutely got to wear the reflective vests – which I think everyone knows by now was sort of the highlight of the whole experience for me. My other friend was convinced that she found a dried blood stain on hers from a previous wearer who must have taken a major tumble somewhere along the Harborwalk. Here it is – let me know what you call it. Personally, I think it’s the result of a leaky, Kahlua-filled flask that was wisely stashed in a special hiding place.

On that note, I didn’t want to leave you hangin’ - but the rest is gonna have to wait until tomorrow. I’lll be back and we’ll properly wrap this mess up. Until then, listen to some Fuego courtesy of Bomba Estereo. This was the soundtrack to my Segway experience. Mama was ON FIRE!!! See you in a few….

24 Hours

2010-06-08T15:15:00.000-04:00

I think we all can agree that Tuesday might be the most anticlimactic and boring day of the entire week. Like, if Tuesday were a girl in your junior high – Tuesday would be the one that isn’t the most painful looking hen in the house (that would be Monday – or your mom. Hey-O!), not terribly unpopular, but not that cool either -- the broad that hangs with the kids who are good at art and AP English – not nerdy like the band and science geeks (Sunday morning) – not weird like the drama and Goth kids (2-5 am on Saturday)– but not awesome like the athletes and dance team chicks(Friday night party at the Moon Tower!). Tuesday is likely the child of divorce, enjoys romantic comedies on VHS and fades into the backdrop of the communal hallway walls that were originally painted white but are now a pale, nicotine-stained yellow from the days when teachers and seniors were allowed to smoke between classes. She is non-offensive but easy to overlook; the same lady you saw at your last reunion who you could not place to save your life, but yeah, she seems nice enough and is now definitely more attractive than the head cheerleader turned ho bag who still hangs out at the tanning salon five days a week while alternating between a clothing color palette of baby pink, baby blue and all things that show off her midsection and bejeweled bellybutton.

Sweet Jesus. See, this is why I know I have ADD. I somehow wove a bizarre, fictional tale about Tuesday in which I turned it into a pre-menstrual young woman in a Sweet Valley High novel. And all I really wanted to say is that while Tuesday is typically quite yawn worthy, this Tuesday is an exception to the rule as it is the day before my friends and I tear up the town on our SEGWAY TOUR TOMORROW!!!! Holy shit, I am so excited. Remember, we will have pictures and an “action video” that I will be dying to show off first thing Thursday morning. Until then, hang out with this classy lady who knows how to mix a little business with a whole lot of fun!

Sweet tendril curls

I may copy this entire outfit for our adventure – all the way down to the short-sleeve mock turtle. Keepin’ it all covered up – with just a peek of sexy arm flesh. What a dirty administrative assistant!

Your Song of the Day is Tracey Thorn (of Everything but the Girl), Oh, the Divorces! Um, how should I say this….the saddest song ever written oh my god kill me it hurts so bad you have no idea. Last night I was riding home on the train (after a work meeting that lasted until 10pm. For fucking real?!?), listening to Modest Mouse, Fire it Up – boppin’ and boopin’ along, feelin’ good and generally happy with life when this song decided to make an appearance and kick my ear drums square in the waxy little heart. Talk about a game changer. By the time I got off the train, I was dragging my feet, head hung low, hating existence and throwing things at homeless people. As we’ve discussed, I have a sick attraction to songs that emotionally abuse me – which is why I’m weak for this jam right now. And I think you’ll like it too.

Enjoy (or at least don't jump) and I'll see y’all on Thursday. Reflective Segway Vest, here I come!!!

Sometimes I Wonder Why I'm Broke

2010-06-02T17:01:00.000-04:00

And then I log onto the (I hate your corporate asses draining me bloody dry with your $35 overdraft fee shit shows all because mama needed a $5 mimosa from Burger King a few weeks back and she can’t help the fact that she took six fucking years to get a bachelor’s degree not that that has anything to do with anything but I'm still a poor so what the fuck else do you want from me and no, you insensitive ass, I’m not bitter but you should definitely lose the pink Hermes tie with the cute little sheep jumping fences before I put it around your neck and twwwiiiissstttt ) Bank of America website where 8 of my past 10 purchases pretty much demonstrate why alas, I have no one to blame but myself. Sorry, BofA. My bad.

Whew. Seems this day has unleashed my less lady-like side. Ahem, Easy Spirits now planted firmly back on the ground and my modern-day mom bob coiffed and all kinds of sassy, I think we're ready to review...

06/02 Checkcard – New Ho Toy Restaurant, Boston, MA -$32.40
(This was nothing more than a monster order of crab rangoon for me and two coworkers. God, I love crab rangoon.)

06/02 Checkcard – Apple iTunes -$12.96
(Club 8 album – we’ll revisit upon conclusion)

06/01 Checkcard – 7-Eleven, Boston, MA -$17.79
(trash bags, Diet Dr. Pepper, creamer, paper towels and a big plastic bucket with lots of random beach toys in it like a shovel and things to make shapes on sand castles – for the next time I go to the beach, obviously. Of course, I have no plans to go to the beach in the near future so see ya later, $9.99!)

05/28 Checkcard – Moxie, Boston, MA -$31.95
(This was a headband. That’s right…one headband. Let’s call it an “investment piece”, shall we?)

05/28 Checkcard – Wish, Boston, MA - $199.44
(And this was a dress. For the beach. You know, for when I go to the one I have no plans to go to with my brand new plastic bucket of shit…)

05/27 Checkcard - Beacon Hill Wine & Spirits, Boston, MA - $10.30
(I think you guys can figure this one out, right? Cheep Booze. Coincidentally, my nickname in college as well. Ah, the good ‘ol days.)

05/27 Checkcard – 7-Eleven, Boston, MA -$11. 29
(I’m assuming this was several bags of Combos and a People magazine. To go with the booze. Yeah, I’m about 300% positive that’s it – since this is exactly what unfolds Thursday night after Thursday night at my house. I bet you're DYING to come over tomorrow, aren't you?)

05/26 Checkcard – Café Vanille Boston, MA -$6.32
(Breakfast sandwich!!!)

For a Grand Total of $322.45 (that's probably off by a few bucks - I don't do math so goods) on shit that is all but worthless to me. Now, I’m not going to tell you my current balance as I don’t want y’all to get all jealous of my riches – but let me give you an idea…George Michael and I split a bagel for breakfast this morning and I fully intend on stuffing a lot of cheese in my pockets tonight while attending a work event. Also, you would be wise to hide your quarters at this time. Make no mistake, I will steal them if left unattended.

Your Song of the Day actually comes in the form of an adorable set of baby twins! The musical condom broke after a hardcore night of soft rock and we've been blessed with a double surprise! Yea!!! The first bundle of joy, as previously mentioned, is from the new Club 8 album and goes by the track title, Western Hospitality. I’ve been having a fucking ball with this song the last couple of days. It makes me want to skip and hop and jump and hug people. Until I remember I strongly dislike people ("hate" is a bad word, everybody. So is "cunt"). So I give them side-eyes and kick their shins instead. And then I hop and skip alone in my head. Much better…

I rediscovered the second lil’ love bug after stumbling upon a CD that one of my favorite ladies, Erin, gave me for my birthday last year. She’s totally funny so if you have yet to check her out, definitely make a trip soon. And when you do – throw Hey Boy by The Blow on your Discman and groove out. Her blog, coupled with a sample of her rhythmic tastes, will quickly make you realize how bad ass she truly is.

Before we sign off, let’s take a vote quick vote – moving forward, who’s down for paying a Culture Cube access fee ? Anyone? Anyone? Looking around the room for a nod or a wink or anything…nothing happening…um, this is getting awkward guys…Seriously, like, not even a nickel or a piece of gum? For real? Not one hand?!? Fuck it. Fine. I’ll see you cheap bastards (and yes, I see all of you pointing in my direction…) here again next time.

Peace.

Awesome Work Email of the Day

2010-05-28T09:30:00.000-04:00

From: Coworker #1
Sent: Friday, May 28, 2010 9:01 AM
To: Ms. A; Coworker #2
Subject: candy!

Morale boosting 7-11 brand gümmi bears at my desk!

From: Coworker #2
Sent: Friday, May 28, 2010 9:03 AM
To: Ms. A; Coworker #1
Subject: Re: candy!

Thank you but I am on a strict diet of seltzer, almonds, oatmeal, gold fish and cigarettes.

God, I love my job. Have a great weekend, all.

I've Missed You

2010-05-18T20:07:00.000-04:00

Weddings will beat your ass, won’t they? I’ve been home from New York since Sunday afternoon and I’m still trying to get back into the swing of my thing. This is why should I ever catch a man again in my barbed wire butterfly net and drag him to the altar – that altar will be located in my backyard next to several buckets of beer and a Awesome Blossom. No white dress, no diamond rings, no Chicken Dance. Just knock the sucker out and then kick it classy style in some folding lawn chairs, with the seats worn out, for the rest of the night. Don’t get me wrong – I LOVE weddings. Try as I might to fight it, there is still that girl in me who wants to see what the bride is wearing and swoon over flowers and hors d'œuvres and men in tuxedos. I think they’re a total blast and can honestly say I’ve never been to one I didn’t enjoy. It’s just that when it comes to my own niptuals (typo – but it stays) – well, I simply don’t give them much thought. You know how women always say, “I’ve dreamt about this day for my entire life!” and “Every girl fantasizes about her wedding day!” Yeah, I don’t. Never have. I mean, I know I want twinkle lights and the aforementioned lawn chairs, but aside from that – I don’t really care. I would much prefer to take advantage of your months of planning and great taste than be a total bitch for weeks on end and possibly kill my mom or a wedding planner while being forced to choose between ten shades of beige place cards that all look beige anyway. Basically, I’m not patient or concerned enough to deal with the logistics that go into putting together a lovely ceremony and reception – so, I’m not going to. Um, why am I talking about this again?? Oh right, because I was going to tell you that on Sunday morning, while having breakfast with my uncle after my brother’s wedding the night before, he asked where they were going on their honeymoon. I reminded him that they had decided upon Bali for the getaway – to which he replied (and I should state this is an uncle with whom I am quite close – we speak probably once a week), “Where did you go on your honeymoon again?”

Christ. What is it with my family? Last month my own father asked me where I went to college, and then just days ago, my uncle asks me where I fucking honeymooned! If I haven’t made this perfectly clear before, and if you’re wondering why this would be a strange question, it’s because I’ve never been married. I’ve never been engaged. And while I have had past relationships that may have begun to scratch the surface of the topic – in my gut, I knew those weren't really ever going to happen. So why my uncle thought I had taken vows and honeymooned somewhere is completely beyond me. I mean, where did he think my “husband” was? Fucking Iraq? Back at home with the kids? Or worse, maybe he thought I was already divorced. Actually, I bet that’s exactly it. My family expects no less than failure from me, so in their minds, shortly after my honeymoon to Dollywood in 2007, my Second Life lover and I hit the skids when we realized we were much more compatible in our imaginations. Hmmm…that’s kind of right on in a lot of ways. Who smells a journal session a brewin’?!?

Moving on and enough about me - except who doesn’t love talking about me?! It’s so cool, isn't it ?!? So maybe we can keep talking about me for just a tad bit longer and I can tell you about what happened when I arrived in New York on Friday evening after being trapped in a cursed seat on the bus behind a couple who I’m pretty sure had their tongues welded together before our departure as I have never seen so much intertwined mouth flesh and poor dental work in a 4 hour period than I did over the course of that sweet trip down south. And you know I was fully submerged in the passive aggressive behavior – kicking their seats and then pretending to sleep when they would turn around, clearing my throat really loudly but immediately following up with a heartier, real cough when they came up for air so they wouldn't confront me - because let’s face it, anyone can kick my ass should they so choose, plus these people were foreign and we all know about the foreigns, right guys? Wink, wink. Totally. And just an FYI to my fellow land commuters: There is no such thing as a “No Bus” list. Don’t try to put together your own on the back of a McDonald’s bag at the last minute either – it makes for a preeetttyyy awkward carpooling experience.

So anyway, when I got to my hotel, my mom was down in the lobby waiting for me with open arms and a big smile. A really big smile. Which instantly made me suspicious since my mom isn’t that lovey dovey mom-type that waits on her 30 year-old daughter so she can carry bags to my room and tuck me in for a snack and a nap. Turns out she wanted to grab a cup of coffee in the café next door because there was something we “needed to talk about”.

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. And I should have seen in coming from a mile away. In my entire life, my family has never had a normal hotel experience. I was once assaulted by a man dressed up in a bear costume with a nightcap on while staying at a Travel Lodge in Santa Fe at the age of 7. Apparently, he was the “hotel mascot” and he also apparently thought that “hugging” the small children that came to stay there meant “suffocating them in a bed of synthetic fur that probably (definitely) has lots of semen on it”. Fast forward 23 years and I’m sitting across from my mom at this café while she delicately tries to explain how she accidentally booked me into a room without a bathroom or a closet in it, and happens to be located on the one floor of the hotel that coincidentally serves as section 8 housing (don’t ask because I’m confused too). Yes, that’s right; my parents kindly reserved a room for me in the fucking projects. I’ve told you before that I can’t be blamed for what I am – and once again, here’s a perfect example of why. These people are relentless in their pursuit to destroy me. Or make me shower in a communal bathroom with a dude who is passed out on the floor with a piece of toast in his mouth. Either/or.

My mom was generous enough to offer to let me use their bathroom – because they had a fucking president’s suite. So typical. “Just knock on the door whenever you need to, honey! You can come by any time at all!” That’s nice and everything – but on the two occasions I did try and use their shower – they were napping. So they didn’t hear me. Sorry! I say it after each and every family vacation – I will never let my parents be in charge of hotel accommodations again. And then, sort of like moving, you forget how awful it is until the next go ‘round when you find yourself squashed under a couch in the doorframe or in this weekend’s case, trying to figure out how to sleep in a toddler bed. It’s a vicious cycle, my friends. Sort of like boy bands and well, the projects…

Wouldn’t you know, it’s time to talk about the actual wedding and I’m pretty much not interested anymore. What do you want me to say, though? We’ve all been to them and we’re familiar with the drill. So this one was a little more special to me because it was my brother and I have to say, his wife looked killer – but aside from that, imagine a very nice wedding in your head and you’ve essentially got it down. Here are a few shitty pictures I took on my phone to fill in the gaps.

This is my cousin about .5 seconds before he hit me in the arm. Literally caught moving in for the kill.

These are people I don't know. Wait! Just saw my step-sister in here too! She has brown hair.

This is a light. I'm good at picture takin'!

This is a blurry shot of my 'bro and his bride. Only my 'bro is behind that other guy. Kind of a miss, I guess.

Your Song of the Day is by The National. And no, it’s not a selection from High Violet – but the far superior album, Boxer. Pop Slow Show in your tape deck and enjoy. See, this is a love song to me. A beautiful and moving love song. And at one point, he’s singing about his penis in it. God, I need some standards. It doesn’t take much, gents. Have a good week everyone. Happy we got to hang out again.

P.S. If you’re wondering about my ex-boyfriend and his date (I’ve had several people ask me about this part of the event), I hate to be a bore but it was just like I told you it would be. He was there, he brought a girl, she was a little reserved at first, but once he (not me, he. Thanks, ex-boyfriend) told her the story about when I was in 3rd grade and wrote out the lyrics to Bon Jovi’s, Livin’ on a Prayer before slipping them into the desk that belonged to crush, Ryan Stow, while everyone was at recess and then being totally perplexed as to why he didn’t want to “go with me” after receiving such powerful copyrighted prose, she quickly realized that there was no threat to be had and we hugged. Seriously, I like, squeezed the shit out of her. She was uncomfortable, I think. But I was trashed, so whatever.

Segways and Drawers (Two Kinds)

2010-05-04T19:17:00.000-04:00

Do y'all know what Groupon is? I'm not sure if it's just a Boston/NYC/Philly thing or if it's nationwide - so forgive me if the following description is sort of like me describing the internet to Bible times people. Basically, you sign-up on the Groupon website and every day you get an email coupon for various services/activities in your area. One day might be something like a $50 massage that usually goes for $100, or a month long gym membership worth $85 for $35, etc. And, if a large enough group takes the bait before the end of the day, then everyone gets the deal. If not, no sweat, your card doesn't get charged and the offer ceases to exist. Pretty sweet concept in my book.

About a month ago, a friend and I were walking to get lunch - specifically Baby Burritos from Chipotle (I like to call them that since they're literally the size of very plump newborns) - when we passed a bunch of tourists on a Boston Segway tour. Upon seeing the sea of helmets, elastic waisted jeans, big white sneakers and required reflective vests despite the fact that it was 1pm in the perfectly clear afternoon- we simultaneously cooed, "Awwweeesooome" before having to practically dive behind a parked car when one of the riders unexpectedly slammed the accelerator and nearly took us both out in a blaze of glory and stone washed denim. It was then that our envy turned to anger and my friend yelled, "Watch it, asshole!" while I pretended to be checking my hair in the reflection of the car window and not to know such a shallow mouthed "stranger".

The very next morning, I signed into my Gmail to sift through dozens (two) of new emails from friends and family (spam) when I saw the daily Groupon for what else, Segway tours! Usually priced at $80 a man, they were being offered for $30 - and get this - the package included a group "action video" and "still shot photo album" for each participant to take home as a souvenir. Let's take a moment to absorb how FUCKING FANTASTIC that is.

........

.....

...

Yeah, I know. FUCKING FANTASTIC.

After I managed to calm myself down through a series of deep breathing exercises and a cookie I found in my purse, I quickly emailed my office crew with a link to the offer and a subject line that read, "If you don't do this with me, I'm telling HR you steal shit". Lame story not so short, they all signed on and we're hittin' the pavement on June 9th. I think it's fair to say that I flooded their inboxes with more than 30 emails today that featured pictures of what I may wear (toss up between shortalls, a poncho with Reeboks or a tankini and matching Bluetooth) for our adventure, and poses I expect everyone to make for our take-home photo books (I intend on just throwing foodstuffs at my friends and hoping the camera catches the moment when an orange slams into someone's face).

Anyway, I want y'all to know that as soon as these pictures land in my unusually large hands, they will be posted here immediately. It's going to rock your world (or leave you blind and permanently nauseated). So sit tight - we'll be burnin' rubber and reputations soon enough.

On to our next Amazing Waste Of Your Time topic...underwear. And why mine suddenly appeared in my desk drawer today when I opened it, while my boss looked on, after his request for a jump drive. Because that's normal. And professional. And why? Why?

I had a cocktail thing at work last week. I obviously wasn't going to wear a cocktail dress to work - I prefer shortalls and tankinis - and I don't like lugging stuff, like cocktail dresses, along with me on the T in the mornings - so I left the office in late afternoon and came home to change before the evening's event. I ended up selecting a dress that I absolutely adore though it cost me about a month's salary (if you're a teenage weekend babysitter) from Barney's (outlet in Little Rock), but due to my recent Combo problem, has gotten slightly tighter in the ass region than it once was. A refined lady such as myself never leaves the house without her underwear - so since my "curves" were getting a bit more attention in this number than usual, I threw on a pair of those seamless panties (hate that word) that claim no matter how snug the hug, a line shall not be seen.

Well, that's a bunch of bullshit.

When I got back to work and went into the bathroom to apply some LipSmackers and a few squirts (hate that word, too) of Febreeze, I turned around and realized every single seam of my seamless was showing through the backside of my dress. While I typically like to keep my street walking gig separate from my (making personal phone calls at my) desk job, in this dire circumstance, I had no choice but to loose the underwear and go commando for the party (indeed!). And because I have lived my entire life without an ounce of sense to be found anywhere in this brain made up of synthetic fiber and processed cheese, I decided that instead of putting the underwear back in my purse - so they would return home with me - I would stick them in my desk drawer - so they wouldn't.

There's no way of ignoring a pair of panties when you have to awkwardly pick them up to retrieve the jump drive that's located underneath. And it really doesn't sound convincing when you say, "What?!? How did these get in here? So random!" when your boss is looking at the panties in a state of sheer horror and confusion. And it definitely doesn't smooth over the discomfort of the situation when you slam the drawer shut with one hand and jam the panties in your purse with the other while offering him your leftover pasta salad as a distraction.

I have no doubt whatsoever that I have the job that I do because in short, all it requires is for one to be able to speak English to other English speakers about a subject I kind of know how to speak about. Most of the time, anyway. Aside from that one ability, I'm just an embarrassment.

Have a nice week, everyone. And keep your panties on. Your Song of the Day is Pepper Rabbit, Harvest Moon. Look forward to catching up - or running you over on my Segway - very soon.

Pure Glamour

2010-04-26T12:39:00.000-04:00

Hi. Remember a few days ago when I was telling you about my friend, Angie - and how she had sent me a beautiful wallet size "portrait" of herself that was taken in 1996 at a Glamour Shots in Fort Worth's own (very classy) Hulen Mall? And remember how I wanted to post it but my scanner wasn't working so aw shucks, we're outta luck? Well, guess what? It's

working again.

Dear Angie,

You look hot in sequin Navajo print.

Love, me.

Uno

2010-04-25T18:49:00.000-04:00

I'm single. I know it's shocking. But you know what's even crazier than that? Prior to the past 12 months, I hadn't been single since I was 19. That's a long fucking time for mama to work the ol' ball and chain. And this isn't because I'm such a stone cold babe (yes, it is) - but rather my ability to pay and punch a small group of gentleman into long term relationships that surely felt more like lifetimes as I constantly did things like take their quarters for laundry, (mostly) accidentally break their furniture and/or electronic equipment, get speeding tickets in, and wreck, their vehicles (that really was an accident - probably...), take up all the room in the bed and then pretend I was sleeping when they asked me to scoot over, subject them to my "unique" family and eventually, George Michael - I could go on all day here. But the bottom line is - for the past decade, this was what life was like - me playing my usual role of train wreck with someone alongside playing role of witness while also likely crying themselves to sleep night after night. And now I play for - and with! - the other team.

I would be a liar if I said that my first six months of singlehood weren't a pretty confusing and bizarre time as a newly crowned party of 1. You just get used to a certain way of existing and when that way is no longer - you catch yourself scratching your head a lot. Even when you know it's right because your Chicken Soup for the Soul series told you so and a few new (superbly defined) abdomens never hurt anyone either - it's still an adjustment, ya dig?

But the last six months have been a real eye opener in terms of the perks of being alone. And while I of course look forward to the day when I pick up a male escort on Wilshire Blvd. and we do it in my Dodge Neon before falling in love during a 5 day business trip set to a Roxette soundtrack, I'll definitely be enjoying myself in the meantime.

Last night was a perfect example of all that is right with numero uno. I arrived home after three very full days in New York and a four hour bus ride for which I was late to board so I got the last seat on the bus - directly next to the bathroom and a set of 6 year old triplets with a fondness for yelling the word "poop" over and over again. So upon walking into my apartment and finding George Michael in a t-shirt that Dogwalker Kelly bought him this weekend that read, "Paws Off The Merchandise!" on the back, it was all I could do not to collapse in the doorway and sleep there until morning. I finally managed to change into a pair of sweatpants and an equally ridiculous t-shirt of my own - "Ain't No Thing Like a Chicken Wing!" - before ordering in crab rangoon and watching Dirty Dancing on the tube. After that I listened to music on my computer - including The National's new High Violet four times in a row - until approximately 1am when I fell asleep on my couch with Clem Snide lulling me off in the background, George Michael still clothed and perched atop my head, an empty take out container left open on the floor. It was perfect. I got to do exactly what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it, without anyone around to think or say a thing about it. And you know what? Sometimes that's pretty awesome.

That being said, and word to the wise, just because being single affords you the ability to do what you want when you want without concern for another - that probably shouldn't include making out with a British stranger in the bathroom at The Pierre hotel bar. I mean, I didn't do that...heard someone did, though. Gross, right? Yeah - totally.

Missed y'all much. Group hug.

Road Trip!

2010-04-19T08:15:00.000-04:00

Do y'all remember my two best friends from Texas? It's okay - I don't really remember them either, but they did come to visit me in Boston back in September when we took a Duck Tour (half boat/half bus - but all woman!) with a guide dressed up as Super Mario and all of us in the midst of serious hangers at 9AM on a Saturday morning. Oh, and here's the beautiful shot of one of them, Rae, driving the bus. And a bunch of random strangers posing for my picture. Never gets old.

I really wanted to post a picture of my other friend, Angie. She recently made my day by sending an unsolicited card which included a Glamour Shot of her that was taken sometime around 1996/our junior year in highschool and is absolutely breathtaking in its absurdity. She's workin' some majorly large hair, what appears to be blue eyeliner, a rhinestone jacket and a collar pop. You should also know she was like, the most popular girl not only in her school - but maybe the entire city of Fort Worth where we grew up. Every guy wanted to date her - every girl wanted to be her - and yet she was going to the fucking mall on the weekends to take Glamour Shots! Man, that's weird. But anyway, I unfortunately cannot post it here today as our office scanner is broken and despite the try, I can't make a thumb tack stick in this thing either.

You're probably wondering why I have cool friends. Well, that's because I drug them. Since otherwise - it completely defies logic. As previously stated about Angie's popularity - Rae was equally so - head cheerleader, all the queen stuff, president of her college sorority, loved by everyone, blah, blah, blah. And then there was me. I spent 90% of my youth locked inside my bedroom closet where I would smoke cigarettes, write love poems about the captain of the football team, make Mazzy Star and Smashing Pumpkins mix tapes and journal. While I bussed tables in the restaraunt of an art museum on the weekends, they were either at Cheernastics (that's right - cheerleading/gymnastics combo school for the next generation of spirit starlets) or hanging out at parties that I would later stalk in my '91 Mazda Protege - with fucking rims on it - so I could see if the football captain was there...because if he could just read one of my poems, he would know. He would know...

Thee long and short of it is - I'm friends with Rae because my mom and her dad were each other's first kiss as well as next door neighbors when they were kids - and I guess we've just sort of known each other forever due to the family history thing. Angie, who is also the mother of Cage Baby:

and wife of my favorite banded collar beau:

was my roommate in college after I pretty much crashed her and another good friend's entire living arrangement when I transferred to TCU. So she was just stuck with me. And learned to accept it with time...and regular beatings.

The point of all this meaningless background info is that around the holidays, the three of us decided to get the hell outta Dodge. And with that, we all bought tickets to NYC (they'll be flying - I'll be bussing via the very reputable and upscale, Peter Pan Line) where we'll be makin' deals and breakin' bones come this Wednesday - Saturday. We're kinda going all out - swank hotel, killer meals, dangerous shopping - The Works. And I'm so seriously stoked. Three days in the greatest city in the world, with the greatest people in the world, no 6:15am George Michael wake-up calls (he's staying with Dog Walker Kelly who won't even let me pay - because she claims to like him so much??? I'm convinced he's slipping her something - he'll probably rape her), no work, perfect weather, hard booze, and front row seats to Regis & Kelly! Just kidding! You know I only get down for Maury. And Marina Abramovic at MoMA. Fingers crossed I get to grope a naked person! The whole trip is gonna be fantastic - and I just wanted to brag. Thank you.

Finally, and on an entirely unrelated note, I had a long phone conversation with my old boss and close friend last night. He's turning 40 in June and is planning a big birthday party in Dallas* to toast the occasion. He's gay so naturally he LOVES all things fashion and has instructed me that I'm to wear a romper or a super short, purple dress with cap sleeves to the event. Um.....okay? I have no clue as to why these are my only two options - but he was pretty insistent, so if you come across a cute version of either - please drop a line. It is worth mentioning that while we worked together, we spent many a night at his house drinking white wine and Red Bull, watching Pet Shop Boys videos on VHS and playing dress up in his closet. As in - I would dress up in his clothes and model in the living room for usually a crowd of 5-7 other gay men who would cheer me on. And while you're likely thinking, "What in the fuck?!?", I'm fondly missing every twisted and bizarre second of it.

Y'all have a nice rest of the week. I'll be thinking of you while I'm in New York. Feel free to come have a drink with us if you're around. I'll bring back pretzels and knock-offs for the rest of ya.

Later, dudes.

*The birthday party will be hosted at a local dive called Zippers. Who wants to guess what kind of bar this is? And where that white stuff on the floor came from?

The New Adventures of Old Dumbass

2010-04-17T12:59:00.000-04:00

I had to send a mass email to my entire gmail address book yesterday afternoon (so that would be my mom, my dad, my grandmother and a guy I made out with last fall) requesting they text me their numbers as I had lost my phone - an iPhone - for the fourth fucking time in 1.5 years. Cool, right!?!? Yeah, I think it's pretty sweet too. God help the poor children that someday parachute out of my vagina as my understanding of personal responsibility ensures I will accidentally drop them in a toilet, leave them outside overnight or on the shelf in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Basically, CPS should be called the very moment one of those babies crawls up in my greasy oven.

And back to the phone bit. My 9-5 is an arts (of prostitution) gig. This means that I have to go to a lot of keggers and such surrounding artsy stuff during the week. So was the case on Tuesday night when I went to an opening, followed by a dinner, followed by an after party, followed by another after party where I had no business being as my last memories involve staring at my own bare feet as they shuffled to the ATM inside the bar and tried to get $60 out of my checking account with a gym membership card. Fast forward to the next morning when I am no longer the proud owner of my third iPhone, my favorite coat or my favorite pair of shoes (I had another favorite pair of shoes until about a month ago when George Michael threw up inside of them. Because he's selfish and hates me).

When I got to work I called the bar to see if they had my coat and/or shoes. I don't think it's a good sign when the guy that answers the phone responds with, "Oh, I remember you!" before you haven't said anything more than, "Hi, I was there last nig..." I'm betting he's not referring to my killer bod or extensive knowledge of all things hot dog. Anyway, the good news was that they did have my coat and even granted me permission to come back into the bar and retrieve it. The bad news - they didn't have my shoes.

So I wallowed around for the duration of my Wednesday whining to anyone stupid enough to come within a 20 foot radius of me about my shoes and phone and how I really didn't want to walk all the way to the bar - who wants to give me a ride? Um, no. I'm not giving you a dime for gas money. Greedy.

Because I was pouting, I had my head hung low, kicking pebbles and bumping into people all day long until I came home from the office. And it was thanks to my droopy noggin that upon walking into the foyer of my building and glancing over at the two recycle bins that are kept underneath the mailboxes - that I found my shoes. In the recycle bin. With newspapers and soup cans. Where I decided they belonged when I came home the previous evening. Add on another place where one might find my baby someday...

I mean, I guess things kinda worked themselves out since I actually did get my coat and shoes back. But the phone component still trumps it. Plus, I had to drag myself over to the Apple Store - which is located on Boylston Street - which also happens to be where the Boston Marathon finish line is - the marathon that takes place this Monday - so there were about 89,000 people in spandex that I had to squeeze past to get to there. And inside the store was where I met Sam - a sweet enough kid with obviously no clue as to who he was dealing with since he kept using words like "sync" and "backup" and "How would you like to pay for this?"

I forgot what we were saying....oh yeah, so I have a phone again and I need all of you to text me your numbers so we can hang out. What? You don't want to? Fine, hot shot. But don't come knockin' on this door when you need someone to humiliate you in public. We're closed to "normal".

peace, muthas.

Weekly Recap - Sentence Per Day Edition. Because I'm Hungover And Really Want To Go Eat Pancakes.

2010-04-11T09:43:00.000-04:00

Monday - Hypocrite night of the week featuring me, a fucking $40 Thai order and yelling at people on Biggest Loser.

Tuesday - Dinner party for work at Stella in the South End where I was the youngest guest by at least a decade and concluded with me performing Reba McEntire's Fancy* to the entire group of 17.

Wednesday - Forced to attend "young professionals" happy hour and "network" (over the cheese platter that I actually picked up and relocated to the bar area for my personal convenience).

Thursday - Celebrated coworker's birthday at Lucky's and drunkenly, without a shred of comedic intent, slow danced with other female coworker to live band's cover of Stairway to Heaven.

Friday - Started watching Dateline but passed out on the couch before I could find out how to kill your wife in Cancun.

Saturday - 3pm drinks on friend's roofdeck that ended at 8pm when I somehow arrived back home in a pair of hot pink bike shorts with a Snoopy sticker in the middle of my forehead.

Sunday (about 15 minutes ago) - realized the sticker was still there.

* Fancy might be the most brilliant song ever. How do you go wrong with a jam about a teenage hooker who's getting pimped out by her mom?!? Just be nice to the gentlemen, Fancy. They'll be nice to you!

Ugh.

2010-04-04T11:34:00.000-04:00

Remember when, without intention, I created the Dorito Trail from 7-11 to my kitchen table after a brutal night out with my step-sister a few weeks ago? Well, the good news is, I'm off the Doritos. I haven't had/wanted for a single one since. The bad news is, just because I've left that particular fetish in the past, doesn't mean I've given up stalking the 7-11 late at night, waiting until it's all alone and vulnerable before hurling myself through the front doors and savagely raping the chip aisle. My newest victim? Combos. And when I woke this morning after an evening that featured several beer buckets, a patio and the Running Man, it quickly became clear that I had, again without slightest intent or try, done it once more. Yes, poor readers, this just in: I made a second trail, of the Combo variety, from 7-11 to my bedroom last night. Someone should just take me out back already.

This isn't my first run-in with Combos. I went through a Combo addiction in my early 20's that got so bad I once climbed out of my boyfriend's bed in the middle of the night, took to the streets of Midtown Manhattan (where he was living, and I was hooking at the time) and walked approximately 10 blocks until I found a convenience store that was open and selling Nacho Cheesiest Combos. Of course, I came home and proceeded to eat them in bed, crunching and crumbing about until he woke up, saw the scene and said simply, "I don't wanna know" before rolling over and going back to sleep. Here's the kicker - he actually stayed with me for three years after that incident. We obviously broke up later -wait, this is the real kicker - while ordering cherry limeaids and tater tots at a Sonic drive-thru at midnight on a Saturday. I have a very vivid memory of the words coming out and then immediately hitting the call button to tell the lady I needed her to "put a rush on it!" because I knew we had to have the rest of the long, drawn out break-up talk and damn it if I was going to wade through that without fucking tater tots.

We're actually still friends now and I just realized that we've never once reflected on how great our break-up story is. Um, ex-boyfriend? We seriously owe ourselves a super high-five here. That very well might be the best thing we ever did together. That or the time we prepared a clam bake for my family over a summer vacation which gave them all food poisoning (we were the only 2 unaffected as we cooked lobsters for ourselves - always the humble hosts).

Where were we? Right, Combos. So yeah, this one has played itself out before and while usually once a particular snack phase has run its course (usually 1-2 months of biweekly mass consumption), Combos have made a fierce comeback a la my current credit card debt and that rash on your...oh, shit. I forgot you hadn't told....um, anyway, it's back and it's back with a vengeance. Shall we review? Reverse order starting in my room:

The bag of Combos Pizzeria Pretzel (not even opened in a decent manner across the top - they were literally gutted down the middle) on my bedside table. Right next to a copy of Dotoyevsky's, The Idiot. Hey! Who wants to guess what page I'm on?!? While I recognize we could go in a million different directions of our choosing with this, I think all roads would just lead back to the very accurate depiction of my entire existence captured so perfectly by this picture - the person I try very, very hard to be vs. the person I actually, painfully am. I think my personal tale much more tragic than Dostoyevsky's.

This is George Michael sitting atop my chest where he prefers to greet me each morning. And that is a piece of Combo on his lip - "Savin' it for later!" I have no way of knowing how long it was there - possibly all night - but I guess he either climbed over me in my sleep and snuck a Combo out of the bag on the table or, more likely, I was shoving handfuls of Combos into my mouth and lost a couple in the sheets - which meant George got his late night snack on as well. I intentionally left the crumb on his face as I wanted to see how long it would stay there. It brings me much glee to report that we completed his walk and a trip to buy the paper (for the Style and Arts sections only - I use the rest for making hats and paper mache genitalia) before it fell off in the street somewhere. A real nail biter!

Combo in the elevator discovered as I was leaving my apartment for George's above-mentioned walk.

Combo directly inside the front door of my building. Again, shoving handfuls...

Oh, and I've already spoken to management at my luxury apartment building concerning this dreadful entryway floor. It's just an embarrassment to me and my well-to-do neighbors. I'm sure some lay person will be repairing it tomorrow.

So there it is, guys. Does it sound as ridiculous as it feels? You can tell me the truth. I can take it.

I hope y'all had a lovely Easter weekend. I stayed in Boston while the rest of my family gathered in DC for the holiday. My mom called this morning to tell me I was missed and that they were having a great time together playing croquet and eating scones. I didn't know Easter turned my parents into English aristocrats, but then again, I thought Easter turned Jesus into a bunny until last year, so who am I to say? There are, on another note, an insane amount of Europeans prowling my neighborhood this weekend. I can only gather that this must be their Spring Break or something? Because I'm pretty sure like Thanksgiving, they don't have Easter over there. That's why they're all so jealous of America. I'd be pissed too if I didn't get stuffing and chocolate eggs every year. Or a stack of medical bills I couldn't afford to pay. Or claim to Sarah Palin and the gold medal in fat. Hm? What? I didn't say anything...

I'll catch you peeps on the flip. In the meantime, please send Combos. I'll trade George and a Judds CD. Think on it.

Get Outta Here

2010-04-02T12:12:00.000-04:00

You're wasting your time hanging 'round parts today. In recognition of Sir Jesus (or was he knighted??) gettin' his Patrick Swayze in Ghost on come Easter morn, head over to the Washington Post and check out the 4th annual Peeps Diorama Contest finalists. This is exactly what I'll be doing tonight while rocking a large, pastel housecoat and a brokedown bunny-ears headband from the dollar store. And tennis socks. With the little, fuzzy balls on the back. You know, like a rabbit would do. Or Jesus. Or Patrick Swayze. *

I have a few songs to salute this Friday - the first one goes out to my friends of the Tribal persuasion who are waist deep in Matzo this week. Hey guys, while you're waiting on that dough to rise, go ahead and check out Black Angels, Black Grease - from their album titled Passover. Hope y'all have a good one.

I sort of lied to you just a minute ago. See, I won't be home tonight (and no, this is not the first sign of Armageddon).** Mama's headed to pick up a barely legal (!!) fake hipster boy while she jams out to the xx at Paradise's 18+ show. She will most likely be found in the bathroom with her hands molesting a pair of skinny jeans and severe beard burn come Crystalised time.*** So have a listen for the both of us, would ya? Thanks.

And finally, a little DeVotchKa, How It Ends. Just. Like. This.

* RIP, Jesus and Patrick Swayze.
** Tomorrow night. No doubt.

***Hey, I don't like it either. Times are tough.

The More Things Change

2010-03-29T10:38:00.000-04:00

Not too long ago my dad called to tell me he had been cleaning out his garage when he came across a box of old books, diaries and self-penned poetry (God, help us all) that I apparently had stashed in there when I was between apartments in college. I don't know why I was lugging around this stuff with me in the first place - but clearly, it carried much sentimental value as I don't recall having a single memory of any of box's contents since I shoved it between Christmas lights and outdated Pier 1 wicker furniture sometime circa 1997.

Anyway, my dad actually took the time to re-pack the box and send it all my way just in case there was anything in there I might still want. I knew the answer to that question beforehand - a capital NO - as I played such a dramatic, pained and wounded teenager that to revisit any part of that time in my life is absolutely nauseating (case in point: the first two books I saw upon opening the package were The American Night: The Writings of Jim Morrison and Our Bodies, Ourselves. Someone light the incense but save the match - I got a bra to burn!)

That being said, I almost fell off my bean bag chair when lo and behold, look what we have here, Ms. A's first diary! This was not actually marketed as a diary - rather a Teddy Bear Birthday Book - by which the owner would be able to keep track of their friend's and family member's birthdays by writing down names on pre-dated pages featuring adorable pictures of teddy bears doing funny things like playing cards and baking cookies! The inscription indicates that this was given to me as a Christmas gift in 1986 from my cousin Harrison (so I would have been 6 at the time) and I decided that rather than track birthdays (I'm more hip to the "receiving" side of gift exchanging) I would turn it into a book of personal reflection and prose. Typical of any young girl's diary, please see the standard "Warning Page" below:

Do not Enter. thank, you. Ali N. y y y Feb. 26 if you do you have to give me a Doller. 2 more dollers (I used to spell my name Ali. Until a girl named Kelly in my 2nd grade class changed her spelling to Kellie. Ever eager to show my independent spirit, I copied and changed the spelling of my name to Allie. That was an exciting story, no?) And obviously, we have the skull and bones picture to scare away intruders as well as a "doller" illustration to prove we're serious about the money thing. Don't dare say nobody told you so.

Moving on. Our first entry is a actually a double entry (!!!) - January 1st and 2nd - but entered on December 31st and January 1st because I clearly couldn't read numbers yet (props to my private preschool for money well spent). What gets me about these "musings" is how much they mirror my life 20+ years later. The New Year's Eve entry focuses on an apparent run-in with my other cousin, Will, that oddly enough repeated itself over Christmas 2009 during a heated game of Pictionary. We were/are 28 and 30 years old respectively. Thank you.

And the New Year's Day entry speaks for itself. Up until I moved to Boston in July, this was a typical weekday(end) night at my Grandmother's house. With fried chicken and sheet cake from Target and Wheel of Fortune tearin' up the tube in the background. Those are teddy bears on skis, btw.

New Years Eve. my cusun came to my house. he was a pane in the neck. he puched me in the moth . it hurt bad but i forgave him! The End.

new yers Day. On new yers Day we stade Home. I plad Domonos with Grandmother. it was fun. I Loved it. then I plad with Jana. She is my best friend. (Note: No she wasn't; she just had nicer toys) the End.

As with 90% of what I start, I quit the diary shortly thereafter - the last entry containing nothing more than some Lionel Richie song lyrics (my mom had this and an Amy Grant tape on constant rotation in our wood-paneled Plymouth Voyager for a solid 2+ years. Dancing on the Ceiling and Father's Eyes are both permanently tattooed on the lobes of my brain (does that work, Molly?)

So the proof is in your poisoned pudding, folks. As it was in the beginning, it is now and ever fucking shall be. Oh, and here's a sweet pic of my cousin and me - to help you visualize the above mentioned rumble. Two bad ass kids with pain on the brain! And yes, our outfits match...because we're awesome.

You're probably wondering what's wrong with him (besides the silk cut-offs). Nothing - he just hadn't grown into his enormous mouth yet. As for me, yeah, I know - and honey's still workin' it.

Word.

Dear Subway Love Me Boyfriend, I Love You.

2010-03-25T16:39:00.000-04:00

Ladies and gentleman, straight from the whore’s…I mean horse’s…mouth here at CultureCube Headquarters, USA – I, Ms. A, am pleased to announce - I’m in love. Yes, that’s right, a lucky man has (un)fortunately found his way into my heart and I’m not lettin’ this one go! No Sir! We’re in it to win it! You know that really attractive couple that never fights and when you’re all at dinner together they’re engaged with the group to the extent that they’re not nude and doing it on the table but clearly share a countless number of inside jokes (about you) that they keep whispering back and forth (while looking at you), knowingly laughing (at you), while rubbing each other’s legs and backs (not yours)? And you know how they say things like, “Well, when we have children, we’ll be sending them to public school because we believe in investing in our community.” Like they’re doing the poor brown kids in their "up and coming!!" neighborhood some great service by letting their rich WASP kids play with them. And they have an herb garden in their backyard that with any luck is going to spring forth a plentiful crop of rosemary this year to rub all over the Cornish game hens that are always stocked in their double-sided stainless steel Maytag for impromptu dinner parties. And anyway, back to dinner and the waiter comes with the check and hands it directly to Rick (I just named him that) while everyone goes, “Rick! No! You stop that! We mean it, Rick! Hand it over!” And Rick says, “Too late, guys. Already slipped her my card when we came in.” And then Triniti (just named her that and she spells it differently because she's unique) tilts her head towards Rick and strokes the back of his head with the classic “That’s my man. What can I say?? He did the same thing when I got these extremely large breasts and perfectly sloped nose” look on her face. And then Rick says, “I say we take this back to our newly renovated urban loft for a nightcap – who likes fine champagne and wasabi peas?” To which everyone else says, “Rick! You’re tooooo much! That sounds sooooo faaaabulous! How did we ever meet such a wonderful and good-looking friend such as yourself?” And Rick and Triniti laugh hysterically – only stopping to open mouth kiss to the roaring applause of the rest of the group – while you slip out the back to retrieve your beat ass Honda Civic from valet (and bullshit if I have to tip you guys another $2 on top of the $7 I had to pay to park here in the first place) before driving home to your dog and slipping into a t-shirt from your 1990 swim team that features a picture of Bart Simpson on the back saying, “Eat my wake, dude!” and calling it a night.

Um, so what were we saying again? Oh yeah…I’m in love. Love, love, love. And we’re so totally Rick and Triniti and you’re so totally me. Life’s a bitch on the bottom, ain’t it, muthas?

Anyway, you’re probably wondering exactly who is my Romeo. And what his name might be and where we met. Whoa! Back off, Babs! If I had known you were planning on an interview, I would have worn panties. Or, whatever. You see, the truth of the matter is, I um, well, it’s just we’ve both been so tied up lately and hmmm….ugh. I don’t know his name, exactly. I know what his name is in my head, of course. And several friends now know him by the same – which is to say, we (I) call him – Subway Love Me Boyfriend.

Subway Love Me Boyfriend and I occasionally catch ourselves on the same train in the mornings coming into work and in the evenings when we leave. On average, our commutes overlap once every ten days or so. This started back in July and has been going strong ever since. On the morning route, we actually get off at the same stop which means we leave the station together and it has therefore become known that we are also office building neighbors. H.O.T.

We do a lot of the back and forth glancing, occasional staring, sometimes he’ll purposely sit next to me, sometimes I intentionally stand next to him and we’ve smiled at each other four – yes, FOUR times – since our first encounter. But we’ve never actually spoken. Because, this crush, for me, is completely and utterly paralyzing. Like, the mere thought of talking to him makes me so nervous that I find myself wanting to puke/laugh/cry/and undress him all at once. Basically, it’s my typical Saturday night routine – set to a Monday thru Friday commuter backdrop. Without the Combos and hipster bartender in your crib who’s down for anything as long as you pretend to respect that he’s vegan and doesn’t own a TV.

I found myself confiding in my favorite gay yesterday - who in hindsight probably wasn’t my best choice as shyness isn’t really a problem for a guy who has had a rendezvous or twelve in just as many airport bathrooms and is no stranger to the Craigslist midnight delivery service. So after we’d split two enormous oatmeal raisin cookies over the topic of Anal Bleaching: What’s It To Ya? I asked him what I should do about Subway Love Me Boyfriend. While at first he replied with, “Didn’t you stick your business card in a guy’s plate of home fries last weekend? Yeah, definitely don't do that.” He eventually demanded that I at least say hello the next time I saw him and if I failed to complete my mission, he would be allowed to punch me in the arm.

I had a meeting at work this morning at 7:30AM. So I was not at all following my typical 9:45 schedule when I jumped the T at 7:15 with two large boxes of sticky buns from Flour in my hands and a tube of mascara between my teeth. Sure enough, Subway Love Me Boyfriend was obviously not following his typical routine as upon train entry, he was sitting directly across from me. Naturally, I suffered an internal freakout which initially instructed me to run - literally start running somewhere - but once I reminded myself that I really couldn't run anywhere beyond the length of the subway car and doing so would look kind of special needs (I prefer my boyfriends to discover my "quirky, cute side" long after I've trapped them and not upfront when I'm still telling them I "recycle" and "enjoy a good political cartoon") I decided to freeze in place and remain motionless for as long as possible.

And after two stops and loss of the feeling in my extremities, he got up and walked down the car and stood behind me. And I remembered my friend and his instructions and how I was so recently bitching about the fact that we had never spoken and I was sick of it. And with that, and a really deep breath, I did it.

Me: Hi.

SLMB: Hi.

I see him glance at the box of pastries for my meeting.

Me: Sticky buns.

SLMB: I'm sorry?

Me: Oh, um, I have sticky buns in here. In my box.

And scene. He nodded and smiled right as the train made our stop and a flood of people immediately rushed between us ending the moment. And I just told Subway Love Me Boyfriend that I have sticky buns in my box...

You've got to be kidding me.

Seriously.

Here's the thing, despite the fact that I've pretty much told this man that I'm carrying some sort of diseased ass inside of my vagina, I'm more in love with him now than I was before. When my friend got to work, I headed directly to his desk with the horrible details of our "conversation". And because he's my friend and I deserved it, he punched me in the arm despite the fact that we had we did indeed converse because he didn't think I could "top the home fries - but this just might have tied it".

If any of you know Subway Love Me Boyfriend - he has brown hair and wears shoes - please send along my apologies and the promise that from now on, I will cab to and from the office so not as to subject him any further to the absolute nonsense - composed of mostly bubblegum and copper wire - that is me. Myself. And I.

Your Friday Song of the Day is Calexico, Alone Again Or. I dedicate this one to Subway Love Me Boyfriend and all of you pretty babies out there as well.

I'm off to shove a sticky bun in my face. Have a good weekend.

PS. Other names I've had for crushes without names known to me: Psychology Boy, Pink Hat Man (this was a particularly desperate period), Hot Probably Gay (better known as HPG), Bagel Boy and Younger Lover. Note that no other has had the Boyfriend surname. We're that serious.

My Day: Reviewed and Ranked on a Standard Scale of 1-10.

2010-03-22T21:29:00.000-04:00

Wake-up to find I actually remembered to prep the coffee maker before I went to bed last night. Score! 10.

Brew coffee while I wash my face. Pour first cup, add milk and two Splenda. Delicious.

Still sittin' pretty at 10.

Finish first cup of coffee over the course of George Michael's walk. Come home and pour another to accompany my remaining morning routine. Add milk and two...shit, I'm out of Splenda. Kicked down to 9. I really can't do without the sweet, sweet taste of sucralose in the morning.

Decide to get a second cup of coffee at Starbucks on my way to the office. Maybe slip 10 or so packets of Splenda in my coat pocket while dressing my drink. Because I had to stay late tonight and all the stores would be closed by the time I got off and I wouldn't have Splenda again tomorrow morning which means I wouldn't get to enjoy coffee at home again which I really love to do because it's just so nice in your pajamas when you're just waking up and I wouldn't steal Splenda if it didn't happen to be one of those really crazy weeks with no time for anything except workworkworkwork - you know, exceptions to the rules and doin' whatcha gotta do and so on and whatnot and JESUS, fine! I stole fucking Splenda from a Starbucks!

And I loved every second of it! 10!!!

Leave Starbucks and reach into pocket to retrieve iPod for commute. Pull out 7 packets of Splenda in the process. All 7 packets fall onto the sidewalk. In front of the sidewalk-facing windows of Starbucks. And walk, keep walking, keep walking, keep walking....

Why am I such a dumbass? Stop stealing sugar, dumbass. 8.

Reminded of Neon Indian Mind, Drips by "fall onto the sidewalk" bit, I kick up my first tune of the day. So cosmic, so coooool.

9 Ladies Dancing, bitches.

Look at my clock as I approach the T station and realize it's 8:30AM. For once in my life I'm going to actually be on time for the 9AM senior staff meeting I'm supposed to attend every other week. Though always arriving somewhere in the 9:30 - 9:45AM range. And yes, I was trying to casually slip in the "senior" thing to show off. Because I am. Senior, that is. At my job. Where I work. Constantly saddled with making important decisions of business and commerce and justice...or something.

Anyway, that was sweet. 10.

Arrive at T Platform. Hey, why is the train sitting on the tracks, just a few feet shy of where it should be if it were, let's say, working properly? What's that? A medical emergency on the last car and we all have to wait for the paramedics to get here? Fantastic!

When I was interviewing for my current position, I was asked what I considered my greatest weaknesses to be. I had two answers: Arriving by 9AM and math.

Shoulda known better - bein' late scores an 8.

Realize prolonged exposure to damp, rainy March air has taken my hair from a place one might call "voluminous" to "Water Buffalo". Unfortunately for me, that look didn't catch on quite like "The Rachel" did during my most vulnerable developmental years.

7. As in Minutes in Heaven. As in the game I was never asked to play as a 12 year-old skinny white girl with a 'fro and baggy training bra.

An hour and a half later, I arrive at work. Thankfully, the meeting was canceled since pretty much everyone was screwed by the T. We'll call it an 8 - glad I didn't get in trouble; my hair looks ridiculous. I knew I should have shoved a flat-iron in my purse. Wait a minute, did I leave those Swedish Fish in my purse last week? I suuure did...9.

Friend I was out with on Friday stops by my desk to recap. "You were so funny!", he says. I'm flattered, because yes, of course I was. "You had an order of nachos at Happy Hour, another order of nachos at Friendly Toast and before I dropped you off, you made me stop at the grocery store for more nacho stuff!" Oh, I get it. When you say, "funny" you really mean, "It's time to start researching some inpatient treatment options for the chip thing. Because it's pretty much...well, how should I say this? Yeah, it's fucking gross."

8. Sigh.....

"Hey, how was your date on Saturday, by the way!?!?"

Ugh. If I don't offer the details, trust that all you need to know is that there will be no second. I personally figured that out when I caught on to an infatuation with actress, Eva Mendez and his desire to "bite dat ass". New low at 6. Coincidentally, the same number of drinks I ingested before I let him bite mine.

Make some calls, write some emails, check a few things off the 'ol to-do list. And what do ya know? It's 12pm and I haven't tried to eat my own arm or even that soggy fruit cup someone left in the kitchen. Email friends for immediate lunch gathering in 2nd floor staff lounge. Lentils and homemade seaweed salad. Food conquers all - and after a satisfying meal sprinkled with conversation of Japanese toilets and all time least favorite words as they relate to condiments (sauerkraut) I was feeling fine at 9.

Rest of the day moves along nicely. I purchase a Timber Timbre ticket for 4/20 (it's not Phish, so save it) - bump to 10.

Receive voicemail from my dad and something about getting a gun because of the healthcare thing. Wonder if I should call police. 8.

Distracted by arrival of my new office supplies and neon Post-Its. Pretty! 8.5

Dammit, I remember I missed my dentist appointment on Saturday. Definite 7.

But my lab results from my complete physical are now available online and cool, my cholesterol is normal and I don't have herpes! 9.

Hold on. Why did she think I needed to be tested for herpes? 8.

Does my doctor think I'm a whore? 7.

I haven't had sex since 200....I mean, I always use protection when I'm having sex all the time and it's super crazy and stuff. 6.

Seriously, like, off the chain! 5.

Why don't you believe me?4.

Is it because of my hair?!? 3.

I mean, those Post-Its are practically glow-in-the dark! I think I'm gonna make a neon paper chain for my desk! 9!!!!!!

Make popcorn at 4pm for late afternoon snack. It's good. 8.

Listen to the next ten people who walk by my desk say things like, "Who's got popcorn?!?!" and "Yum! Somethin' smells good over here!" Popcorn always smells better than it tastes. Couple that with repetitive chatter and an 8 level snack break is brought down to a 6.5. Thanks for your feedback on my Jiffy Pop, team.

5pm and I hit the streets with my friend for the T. We nail the bus and train (we ride both on our way home) with perfect timing, avoid the rain which was supposed to start at 3PM but never did and finish our conversation on Japanese toilets (they come with sound machines that replicate running water for ultimate privacy!) 10, 10 and 10!

Arrive home to find American toilet seat, which has been broken for almost two weeks, is finally fixed. 10.

It doesn't really match the toilet, though. 9.5.

And George Michael seems to have thrown up the raisins I gave him for treats this morning. Not in the toilet. 7.

Cook salmon and green beans for dinner. Have peanut butter and a pear for dessert. I'm practically bleeding health and beauty and love and happiness and everything you wish you could be, but sorry kid, there's only room for one winner on this platform and here's lookin' at ME! Or maybe that's a bit of a stretch - I just meant to say that the dinner was satisfying and well-rounded. Let's just call it an 8 and a day.

There we have it. I actually found our review to be a somewhat rewarding exercise as I guess most of my days are like this in one way or another and hmmm...on average...they're not all entirely bad. Except for the Vietnamese waxing day, or the day my mom tried to set-up a Match.com profile behind my back, or the day my grandmother sent a pair of red lace underwear to my office in clear cellophane paper, or the day I got stuck in an elevator at the mall with an 11 year-old Chinese boy, or...you know what? I take that back - this day was clearly not normal in the sense that is kind of was. Man, I'm sorry. Come back later and we'll get back on track, I promise. Failure, hold tight. I'm on my way!!

Dig.

Yeah? Try Living It.

2010-03-20T16:59:00.000-04:00

Before we begin, may I just share that while on the phone with my dad this morning, he actually asked me which college I graduated from. I transferred my sophomore year, but still...really??

My dad and I have a very normal father/daughter relationship. So it's not like he has an excuse here. And I would think the amount of money he spent on my entire education - especially the SIX YEARS it took me to drag my ass through college - certainly wouldn't be far from memory. But no, apparently that's not the case.

Hi, I'm Allie. My parents don't know where I went to school.*

Which leads us to Bikini Waxing Story Time!! Everyone get out your nap pads and gather 'round. Don't forget to pick up your graham cracker and apple juice. Okay, now that we're all comfy, let's talk about my vagina!

While in the fall and winter my nether regions are more about the Robin Williams forearm look, the spring and summer finds them leaning towards the Mr. Clean thing (though not entirely Mr. Clean. I don't have the desire to make my vagina look like that of a ten year-old girl's). This week in Boston has been absolutely spectacular from a weather standpoint. Everyone is outside, feeling happy, shopping for spring dresses and sunglasses - it's awesome. What this means for me is that the time has come to get my wax back on.

Last Wednesday I called my regular girl - a Serbian broad with with a taste for blood when it comes to bush - and asked if she could squeeze me in after work. I guess lots of ladies share my same pubic outlook as she was completely booked for not only Wednesday, but the rest of the week.

Now, I know what follows will sound like something only an idiot would do. And, well, yeah.

I am not a patient person. When I decide I want something, and if I have any control over the situation, I simply do not wait to get it. This is a good trait in certain ways...when I wanted a new job last year, I got it in ten days. When I wanted a lipstick from Chanel's new line in February, I worked the twink behind the counter from, "You know we don't have this in stock until March" to "Okay, I guess I can sell the sample" in 5 minutes flat while also scoring a personal invite to a gay Mardi Gras party (those boys love beads for entirely different reasons).

But in most ways, it has a tendency of getting me into trouble. Like on Wednesday when I so determined to inflict pain upon my genitals, I ended up getting a bikini wax at a Vietnamese walk-in nail salon.

I get a pedicure at this place once a week, every week. It's nothing out of the ordinary - typical walk-in nail joint - but the people pretend to like me and it's decently clean - which means it fits the only two requirements I have in the "Things I Let Touch My Vagina" category. So while I was having my toes did, I inquired as to whether or not they had time for a wax.

After Betty (her "American name") screamed, "BIKINI!" from across the salon - the other Betty (copycat) gave me the nod and shuffled off behind the shower curtain partition to prep the "Luxury Spa".

By the time I arrived, Betty had laid out a beautiful beach towel featuring a neon dolphin motif for me to lay down on. She then handed me another towel - this one with a large Goofy on it - to cover myself up with once I had undressed. She finally went and waited on the other side of the shower curtain while I took off the lower half of my clothing and hoisted myself up on top of her table. Because the partition is a cloudy colored shower curtain and not an actual door or solid structure of any kind - we could pretty much see each other while this all transpired, so it was obvious when I was ready for her to come back. However, we pretended that wasn't the case because of the whole "Luxury Spa" game, which lead Betty to sweetly call out, "You ready??" and I made the stupid joke, "Come on down, Betty!"

The beginning of the session was fairly routine and I remember thinking, "This actually might work out." Betty was progressing nicely, I was comfortable, all was good. Now, I think the ladies can attest that sometimes during a wax, the esthetician will ask you to hold out your leg so she can really get in there and whack away. Gentleman, to answer your question, it is that sexy. Needless to say, I was unphased when Betty asked me to hold out my right leg and believed she meant me to do the same when we transitioned to the left. Turns out, she had other ideas.

When she made a motion in the direction of my thigh, I pulled that sucker all the way out for Betty's VIP access. When she motioned again and mumbled something I couldn't understand, I pulled it higher and out...er. Shaking her head and pointing more intently, I asked what she wanted me to do. "Over!" she instructed, to which I nervously replied, "You want me to lay on my side?" She said no, I exhaled in relief, and then she did it again, "Over! Up!" I had no idea what she meant and told her so. Clearly frustrated by my lack of understanding, Betty barked back, "Like dog! Up like dog!"

She wanted me on all fours. Two thoughts immediately went through my head. 1)Oh my God, this cannot be happening, and 2) I never imagined that the next person to flip me into doggy style would be a 70 lb. Vietnamese woman.

While one would think that would be the worst of it - one who has ever read three sentences of this hot mess should know better. Because that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it, my dear friends and soon to be ex-readers, was when Betty proceeded to climb up onto the table, and pull out yet another sexual position, the reverse cowgirl - upon MOUNTING MY BACK!

Unable to say no and always in the mood for awkward conversation, I asked Betty if she did this a lot. She said yes, her "professor" told her that this method often made clients feel more comfortable (I wanted to ask if her professor was, by chance, an old man with a required in-class participation policy, but I refrained). She also said something about potions but my emotional rape was climaxing so I was too distracted to pick up the details of that particular tale.

In the end, the results were quite comparable to those of the Serb's. And it was $20 cheaper. Of course, the level of humiliation I endured, being ridden by a Vietnamese behind a shower curtain, was priceless - which basically makes it a wash.

This also happened to be the week that I followed Gwyneth Paltrow's advice via her blog, GOOP (which I intentionally am not linking because I'm still annoyed and this is my form of protest - gonna hit her where it hurts!), and put half a cup of olive oil in my hair for an overnight conditioning treatment that went horribly wrong. First of all, a half cup of olive oil is a shit ton of olive oil. I had olive oil in my ears, my eyelashes, dripping down my shoulders - it was everywhere. Secondly, she really doesn't tell you what to do when it comes to sleeping with olive oil in your hair. What I mean is, you can't put an oily head on a pillow unless you want to wake up to linens that look like they've been assaulted by a tub of Jerry Curl. So after digging through my drawers for 15 minutes looking for something I could wrap on my head that I didn't mind ruining, I found a pair of old boxers that I occasionally sleep in. I then pulled my sopping hair into a bun, wrapped the boxers around my head and secured them there with a rubberband. Think "boxer ponytail" and that's pretty much what I created. So after a restless night of sleep as I kept having to adjust the boxers back into place while swatting away George Michael who kept wanting to eat my head, I was stirred from eventual slumber at 6:30AM when my landlord came by to fix a broken toilet seat.

There we all were - George Michael, my landlord and me - with a pair of boxers on my head - hovered around my toilet at 6:30AM on a Monday morning. Sweet.

And hey, Gwyneth Paltrow! Blow me!

The price of beauty, for me, is dignity. And yet - I never quit trying no matter the consequences. Sometimes I can't decide if I'm vain or just plain stupid. And then I remember that I'm often both. At which point I get the vodka out of the freezer, the peanut butter from the pantry, sit in an empty bathtub and sing the Les Miserables soundtrack in its entirety (adjusting pitch and tone to accommodate both male and female parts).

Ahhhh, this is the life.

*TCU - shout out to the Fort.

Some Final Thoughts on Doritos

2010-03-14T09:49:00.000-04:00

This is the last time we're talking about it because it really is becoming more absurd than comical. That being said, I've found this weekend's Dorito experience to be the most interesting and/or pathetic of all as upon returning from George Michael's walk early yesterday morning, I was both horrified and strangely excited to be able to literally follow the Dorito crumb trail of my own making from 7-11 to my kitchen table.

My step-sister got into town on Friday night. Our evening wrapped at a bar where we tore through two orders of french fries and four greyhounds (after polishing off a bottle of pinot noir and therefore scratching off "Act like a Real Housewife of New Jersey" from our to-do list for the night) before throwing in the alcohol saturated and grease stained towel. Of course, on the way home, we ended up in the 7-11. To demonstrate why this is such an easy detour for me to make night after night after night, here is a picture showing the distance between my apartment and 7-11. The building is the short one situated on the right-hand corner. This was taken from my living room window.

I don't think I have to say anything else, do I? It's right there - like the 22 year-old waiter who may or may not have left you his number with your credit card receipt awhile back - so good about responding to your needs in the middle of the night and even better about sneaking back out of your life by daybreak.

So, as I was saying - yesterday morning and George's walk. After a homeless woman in the park asked me if I was a marshmallow (no - just retaining water, thank you), we headed back to the crib.

Well, well, well. What do we have here? Dorito crumbs in the foyer of my building! Yum...

And this?!? Hmmm...looks like a single Dorito right outside the elevator door in the lobby. So close, little guy. So close.

These two were actually able to catch the ride up but sadly couldn't hang on 'til the top. I'm truly grateful that I didn't see them jump chip (nailed it!) as it is not inconceivable that I would have implemented the 5-second rule here.

And finally, the empty bag of my Friday Night Fall from Grace. Doritos: First Degree Burn. On a side note, I'm gonna bet that this probably wouldn't be cute to a person who really was suffering from any degree burn. Crunching savory chips doesn't seem to replicate the feeling of having your flesh melted off.

Wait, what'd you just ask me? Did I get anything else while I was out? What??? You're breaking up...I...I can't hear...really bad connection. Fine...so some cookies kind of slipped into my 7-11 bag. But as you can clearly see, I got these for George Michael.

As initially stated, we're never discussing this again. I'm pulling the plug on the Dorito thing. It's over. Curtain dropped - page turned. For another six days, anyway.

Someone punch me, please.

Because You're Wondering

2010-03-12T12:15:00.000-05:00

The only items taken from my apartment building peace offering were the S'mores bars. And now I know that the likelihood of me being friends with any of these people is pretty much shot. Who doesn't love free molding clay?!?! It was rainbow!! And a plastic bird whistle?!?! I just don't understand...

This reminds me of a guy I dated for a few months last fall. I knew it was going nowhere when he came over one night to watch a movie and was incapable of understanding why we would want to wear one of the super cool hats I had purchased from the dollar store during our movie time. He kept asking why and pointing out that hats aren't typically part of the authentic theater experience. I kept eating Twizzlers and pointing out that was because authentic movie theaters suck. If we can't agree that wearing costumes and/or random accessories for no reason at all isn't completely awesome, then we have no future. Done and done. And don't you even think about touching my candy now. Or the sweet ass sweatpants I just slipped on for a different kind of viewing pleasure(Super Tease).

Moral of the story: My neighbors blow. And I did not blow the guy. Next topic.

Speaking of costumes, I ho'd it up big time for Jay-Z last night in short shorts and a sick pair of thigh-high suede boots. It was a ghetto fabulous move on my part - and an amazing show (to boot? Yes? No? What do we think?) Well, except for the row of (I swear to God) 11 year-old white, hood rat boys sitting behind me who I seriously feared were about to shank me with their latch keys for my beer. But yeah, aside from those dudes and the 2 men who called me mommy (I soon figured out they really, truly thought I was someone's mommy and weren't just commenting on my unstoppable hotness), it was a total blast. I'm 99% sure the experience turned me into a beautiful black woman until the sun rose this morning and bleached me back out again. Sigh...just another modern day Cinderella story...

Your Friday Song of the Day is Caribou, Odessa. Have a good weekend, everyone. Stop by for a drink if you'd like. Anytime at all. I'll be around.

Mwah.

2010-03-10T14:39:00.000-05:00

My step-sister is coming to Boston to visit this weekend. I think I've talked about her before...she's 25, finishing up law school in Richmond a year early because, as every member of my family has made perfectly clear, she's smarter than I (and no, I'm not bitter. Because I wear makeup better. I also rank higher on the pop culture trivia roster and overall maturity chart), and she's much taller. Which isn't saying a lot since I'm about at eye-level with your average pre-pubescent boy. With the rack to match.

Anyway, ever since I moved here, I've developed a tendency to get overly excited about out of town visitors. I'm a tidy person. Like, I don't leave dishes in the sink or clothes on the floor and I make my bed in the morning. So I'm tidy - not compulsive. But the second a guest's future arrival is confirmed, the wheels come off and there in NOTHING that escapes my cleaning wrath. I literally made a spreadsheet - two weeks ago - laying out daily chores that needed to be completed prior to my sister landing in Beantown on Friday. Last night was the most heavily weighted evening as tomorrow I'm not around to do anything (Jay-Z, baby!) and I ended up staying awake until 3AM doing such important tasks as steaming the wrinkles out of my shower curtain and bleaching the undersides of my pantry shelves. The problem was I didn't realize it was 3AM. Not until the vacuuming of my t-shirt drawer was rudely interrupted by a neighbor who apparently had some kind of an issue with 1) vacuuming, and 2) my vocal rendition of Nickelback's Rockstar (The best worst song of all time! I absolutely adore singing, "I'll have the quesadilla - uh huh!" over and over again).

There are 16 tenants in my building. And now one of them, who remains a ghost in my OCD night, as I did not actually see him when he beat on my door and sweetly requested that I "shut the fuck up!”, hates me.

I don't like it when people dislike me. That has less to do with me being thoughtful or having any real emotion whatsoever - and more to do with the fact that I am terrible with confrontation and would much prefer that we talk behind each other's backs, or that I hide behind a bush outside the mall and point one of those laser pens at your penis area or slightly downward drooping nipple, as opposed to having an honest face-to-face discussion like (boring! yawn!) adults do. I could get psyched for a lighting round of Password too, I guess. Moving on....

So this morning I left a Styrofoam plate consisting of two South Beach Diet S‘mores bars, an orange, a calculator, a whistle shaped like a green bird and a package of rainbow molding clay (all items I found while cleaning) in the common entry way with an apologetic note attached to my gift offerings.

I've been looking forward to going home since I got to work. I really hope everyone liked my presents. And in turn, decided to like me again. Fingers crossed and in the meantime, let's all listen to Yeasayer, Madder Red. Since mad people get red faces? Does that work? No, not really. Because it could just be rosacea. You never know. And it's rude to ask. Wait, what were we saying? Oh yeah, this song is cool - and so are you.

Later, dudes.

Still Not as Good as Ramen and a Twix

2010-03-09T12:51:00.000-05:00

I've taken to eating my lunch on china lately as opposed to out of the Gladware in which it travels to my office. It's nice to do something everyday that makes you feel worthy of things such as real plates and food that doesn't morph from "frozen block" to "cuisine" in a 5-minute microwave ride. I am particularly fond of my lunch today as it consists of homemade butternut squash and sweet potato soup (with honey inside!) and a TBST ( my version of the traditional BLT - turkey bacon, spinach and tomato on a whole wheat English muffin with fresh Cesar dressing that I whipped up this morning. Yes, indeed - I whipped that right up at 7AM this morning, muthas!) I'm not trying to brag - but I absolutely am - so check it out.

And you noted correctly, the utensils are still plastic. For a woman who's previous post pimped sexing in a camper, let's not get caught up in fanciful ideas of using silverware or wearing a bra, okay? Honey is doing the best she can.

Bon appetit, my loves.

Viernes

2010-03-05T11:49:00.000-05:00

I'm headed to New York in a couple of hours to get my classy on by makin' deals and grabbin' ass at the Armory Show . Should be a high time - but more importantly, it means George Michael will be spending the weekend with Dog Walker Kelly. I decided to give him a bath this morning because last time George stayed with Kelly, she told me that he pretty much took over her husband's entire pillow forcing him to sleep on the couch for the night. Did I feel guilty? No. Because I pay her to be inconvenienced by my animal. But, I did care enough to consider that this scenario will likely play itself out again, and when it does, George should at least smell nice when he spreads his little body and tiny dog penis out across Kelly's 200 thread count.

So after his bath, I kind of got carried away and decided to blow dry him. Then I got more carried away and decided to "style" him. In comes the $40/ounce pomade that I really can't afford for my own use - let alone my dog's - but what the hell - George needs a new 'do, so why not?!? Check out this righteous hawk:

The picture doesn't do it proper justice as George was seriously pissed and not in the mood for posing (SO ungrateful...). But it was sweet. Believe. And the amount of product I used to ensure that thing remains in place for the duration of the day was straight up Jersey Shore. So naturally, I had to leave a note for Kelly asking her to bathe him before his Sunday return. I can't be bothered with that mess after a long day of travel. It just wouldn't be right.

Your Friday Song of the Day is a classic in my book - The Roots, The Seed (2.0)

You really can't go wrong with the lyric, If Mary drop my baby girl tonight I would name her Rock N' Roll.

I only wish I were cool enough to name a kid Rock N' Roll. Unfortunately, for my imaginary unborns, I've had my heart set on Oliver and/or Birdie for a long time now - so basically, they're gonna be huge dorks no matter what. To which I'll tell them, "It'll be okay, little ones. Mommy was cast for the role of Scuttle in her 6th grade class production of The Little Mermaid and she (hasn't) recovered. It all works out (no, it doesn't). I (seriously, it doesn't) promise."

Big hugs, my thugs. Have a great weekend.

Conversations with My Family, Part I've Lost Count

2010-03-02T12:08:00.000-05:00

My step-dad works in the healthcare sector in DC.

Apparently, and for reasons I don’t understand in the least, he has to give a presentation to a big group of people this week about testicles that get tied up in knots…

(Let’s all share in this moment of “What the fuck?”)

…Okay. So I guess in the wake of the snow apocalypse down there which means his offices have been closed a lot recently, he’s been working on his slide presentation from home – specifically, on my mom’s personal computer.

Email I got from my mom this morning:

From: Mom
Sent: Tuesday, March 02, 2010 10:47 AM
To: Ms. A
Subject: hi

hello. this is your mom. hi.

My mom doesn’t email me. She’s not an emailer, not a texter, not a Facebooker, none of that stuff. She communicates strictly by phone. So when I got this, I thought, “Hmmm..weird…what is she doing?” I decided to call her. This is what happened.

My mom: Hello?

Me: Why are you emailing?

My mom: Did you get that?!? Thank goodness! My email is all messed up!

Me: What happened?

My mom: Well, I don’t know how he did it, but (let’s call him) SD has somehow made it so all of my emails are getting forwarded to the ladies in my yoga class (my mom teaches yoga to homeless and old women – and another WTF moment, please…) instead of the people I intend to send them to!

Me: That’s strange.

My mom: More than just strange! Terrible! He used my email to send images of penises and testicles to some of the people he’s giving the presentation with this week! So all these ladies are getting emails – FROM ME!! - of broken penises and testicles all tied up in knots! You’ve never seen anything like it!

Me: Oh my God, this is so awesome.

My mom: It’s not awesome! It’s horrible! They’re all going to think I’m watching porno!

Now first of all, I have no idea how this forwarding of emails is even possible. So it’s likely that she’s doing something obviously wrong and easy to correct – the basic understanding of any sort of technology does not run strong in our family – and I am very much included in that group. I learned how to copy and paste about two years ago. And blogging?? Don’t even get me started. Oh, and I get that we can insert the "Are you sure your step-dad isn't gay - hahahaha" joke here. Feel free to get those out of your system in the comments section.

Secondly, my mom refers to almost all nudity as “porno”. She once thought my step-brother had a “porno addiction” when he went through a phase in highschool of watching Old School on a pretty constant loop and she coincidentally kept walking into the TV room during the scene where Andy Dick is teaching the girls how to perfect their blow job skills by practicing on a carrot.

My step-brother all but shrugged this off as he was more concerned that our parents knew he was smoking weed (they didn’t) after getting into a fight with my step-dad about the cleanliness of his room in which my step-dad, again coincidentally, used the phrase, “Now put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mister!”

Man, those were the good ‘ol days…

Anyway, the thought of my mom not only viewing these images, but having to try to explain to people why she’s forwarding them on to their email accounts, is so fantastically amusing to me. Coupled with the fact that I just changed her ringtone – via the wonders of the internet – to Color Me Bad, I Wanna Sex You Up – makes this the best Tuesday morning I’ve had in months.

Group high five.

Five Things I Never Need to Say at a Cocktail Party Again (In Response to Five Things I Said at a Cocktail Party Last Night).*

2010-02-26T13:58:00.000-05:00

1) “So the Olympics are like, a really big deal these days, right?”
2) “You’re gonna need to move –my champagne refill is standing behind you.”
3) “I could make dirty love to these potato cakes.”
4) “This rain has totally sent my hair into Carrot Top crack mode.”
6) “What would you do if I tripped you right now?"– Said to my boss who is currently on crutches as we were walking up a set of concrete steps.

Your Friday Song of the Day is The Heligoats, Mercury. Also, I had a dream last night that I was in an internet bidding war with Vince Vaughn for Atoms for Peace tickets at the Wang Theater in April. And he won. The good news is…tickets don’t actually go on sale until March 5th so I still have a shot. The bad news is…I murdered Vince Vaughn via hardcore karate skills before I realized this.

*I go to events toted as “cocktail parties” for work (and by cocktail parties I don't mean escort get-togethers at the local La Quinta vending machines - yet). Cocktail parties aren't my usual jam. No, when I party, it’s off the chain, baby! Hence I’m usually home by midnight with my head submerged in a large bag of chips.

Happy Trails, playas.

Kirstie Allie

2010-02-23T11:44:00.000-05:00

I’m sure you’re still trying to forget it, but late last year, I posted a little “commentary” (let’s use that word lightly as I think I was high on milkshake when I “wrote” it. Let’s use that word lightly too since it would imply that anything here can be categorized as an actual “writing”. That would be like categorizing me as educated. Or a bear.) on Frito Lay’s newest weapon in its arsenal – that arsenal being the one they’re stock-piling with delicious flavors of perfectly seasoned corn chips in an effort to DESTROY MY LIFE!

Anyway, Doritos Late Night: Tacos at Midnight (pictured above with an obviously concerned George Michael) kind of became a slight obsession for awhile there – progressing to the point of me waking up on a Sunday morning in early December with the Dorito bag on the nightstand and actual chip pieces laid out across my fully-clothed person. It was bad. Really, really bad. My exact description of them at the time was as follows:

The marketing executives at Frito Lay clearly knew what they were doing when they decided to skip on simply naming them Taco Flavored Doritos and instead, tapped into the drunk and high mind of every 30 year-old woman who finds herself perusing the aisles of 7-11 at, well, midnight- desperately searching for a snack that will nurse a dying and black heart by way of a preservative and Yellow No. 5 filled belly.

This statement proved itself true yet again when someone drank too much red wine on Saturday night and woke up to this, a 7-11 receipt time stamped for 12:09AM, and a flyer for karate lessons in her living room on Sunday morning. Wanna guess who that someone was? Here’s a hint: It was me. Allow me to introduce my most recent relapse, Dortios Late Night: All Nighter Cheeseburger.

Dear Frito Lay, I fucking hate you.

Things I Need to Stop Doing - The "At Work" Edition

2010-02-19T14:56:00.000-05:00

1) Whitening my teeth
2) Wearing a floor length puffy parka jacket to ward off faint office chill
3) Humming Jesus, Take the Wheel at volume 11
4) Eating my friend's chips while she's in the bathroom - individually placing them in the back of my mouth so as not to interfere with the whitening process happening in the front
5) Making a homemade birthday card for my brother with cut-out letters spelling "RADICAL!" across the exterior

Now...roll these all into one and you have an exact snapshot of what I was doing when my boss made a surprise visit to my desk 10 minutes ago to talk about budget projections. Sweet.

It's Friday - Rock out with your socks out a la Fruit Bats, When You Love Somebody. And if I don't see you here again next week - I think we all have a pretty good idea as to why.

Peace.

Sweet Talk

2010-02-11T12:22:00.000-05:00

Valentine's Day. Much like herpes and your boyfriend's mom, you can only ignore the elephant in the room - or between your legs - for so long.

So I'll keep it short. I'm traveling today (which means I'm already super high in preparation for my flight - seriously, I'm fucked up - it's awesome) and will be out of the city until Saturday. So, your early Friday Song of the Day is actually two songs - in recognition of the holiday - one for those who have already purchased the card featuring the little boy in the over-sized blazer holding a rose in a rainstorm - with the hopes that this innocent and adorable expression of love via CVS's "Most Popular!" aisle will make for some hardcore anal play later on...

And one for those who equate Valentine's Day with having their dog shanked or being subjected to a Two and A Half Men marathon.

For the Lovers, I'm going with the trusty The Book of Love by The Magnetic Fields which I mentioned here earlier this week. Simply put - a classic and my favorite of its genre.

For the Others, Fiona Apple is one crazy bird. Which is exactly why she is capable of writing some of the most poignant breakup songs ever. Lyrically, I don't know how you get much better than Parting Gift. That being said, I would warn against mixing this one with alcohol. Or nighttime. Or the ability to dial a telephone.

No matter on which side of the fence you may fall, I hope your V-Day is spectacular. And for those of you wondering where I land this year - fortunately, I'm in the non-herped pile.

Be Mine.

Things That Are Just Wrong

2010-02-09T13:35:00.000-05:00

Please see the iPhone signature on the email I received moments ago at the bottom of this correspondence. I made changes to my initial email - appearing in italics - so as to protect the identities of those who would be too ashamed to admit they work with/know me in real life.

From: Ms. A
Sent: Tuesday, February 09, 2010 10:31AM
To: Dylan McKay
Subject: Re: Social Innovation Forum

Hi Dylan,

I checked with our BH 90210 Social Directory department and here is the contact information for Jim and Cindy Walsh in Hong Kong.

All best,

Ms. A

From: Dylan McKay
Sent: Tuesday, February 09, 2010 1:23 PM
To: Ms. A
Subject: Re: Social Innovation Forum

Thank you!

Sent from my iBaby

iGagging.

Reason #1328 Why I will Never Retire

2010-02-08T12:39:00.000-05:00

Because instead of contributing more to my 401(k), I contribute more to my own sense of vanity. That being said, the Solano blow dryer, which I purchased during a recent visit to DC, is like sweet crack candy for your hair.

And I'm smokin' it Marion Barry style, baby!! So I might be warming myself over the flame of a single tea light next month when my electric is shut off, but whatever. I'm like Breck 2.0, or the younger generation's Farrah Fawcett. Move over, Rachel, there's a new Friend in town!*

*Okay, this isn't entirely true. The hair part, anyway. The Rachel part - well, I am a quirky 30-something single starting fresh in the big city. I also love getting myself in and out of various pickles with underlying lessons in love and the power of female friendships, and hope to bring back the neighborhood coffee shop hangout (the kind with the really big mugs and dudes that read). So yeah, I guess I am kind of like a 2010 edition Friend. And that kind of makes me fucking awesome.

Anyone else have the sudden urge to get down with a turtleneck and vest?!?! I think that's called "The Chandler".

Meeting Notes

2010-02-05T11:51:00.000-05:00

1) Grooveshark is my new favorite website. You can find/listen to anything you can possibly imagine. I've had my headphones on for the last three days which may or may not be the reason I've missed about a dozen phone calls at work and gave my boss the double thumbs up and enthusiastic nod when he asked me what time looked best on my calendar for an upcoming lunch meeting.

2)I joined Twitter yesterday. I guess I'm officially full of myself. Or just searching for another way to waste my time. I don't really understand how it works - kind of freaks me out in the same way Facebook does (which I still haven't joined. I'm afraid of it. Plain and simple.) But anyway, you can read all about what I'm NOT doing here. And follow me, I guess. I'm pretty unpopular right now and it will seriously depress me if I can't even partially succeed at making imaginary friends on the internets (typo but leaving it.)

3) Your Friday Song of the Day is Edan, Fumbling Over Words that Rhyme. I felt like one bad mutha walking to the T this morning with this jam rockin' out my drums. I even kicked a trashcan and pretended to spit on the sidewalk (my gum fell out of my mouth instead - neither here nor there)...that's how hardcore I felt.

4) When George Michael was a little baby pup, I tried to teach him how to shake for treats. He mastered the paw up in the air part - but not necessarily in conjunction with the word shake or getting a treat or anything else really. What I mean is, I basically taught him that every time he sits down he should lift his paw. This is him this morning - I'd been drinking coffee/eating yogurt at the table facing him for the previous 5-10 minutes. He sat like this the entire time.

What a complete freak. And yet I love him so.

Happy weekend, all.

Abuse

2010-02-04T12:42:00.001-05:00

My friend has a birthday coming up tomorrow. Naturally, I decided she would most enjoy a framed picture of me in a bikini, or me laying across the hood of a Ford Escort, or me springing forth from a large pile of fall leaves, or...you get it...me generally being myself. Which is generally a hot fox. Which is why it's the perfect gift - nothing like giving people things that will make 'em green with envy!

So this morning I started digging through photo boxes trying to find a particularly hideous shot when I stumbled across the most disturbing images of me as a child on what can only be Easter Sunday. I was too young to remember the event - but after .5 seconds of reflection, I know exactly who was involved and the cruel intentions behind her motive. It was my grandmother. And there was only one thing on her mind - getting the two of us into the quarterly church bulletin so she could show off our picture to her friends in Bridge Club. Cliches, as we all know, exist because they're so very true. This case is no exception. I know this because there are vivid memories of varios other horid outfits with the same carrot dangled out in front of me, time and time again - fame, fortune and most importantly - an All Saints Episcopal Holiday cover - suck on that, Seventeen.

Let me set the scene. These were strictly "test shots" taken in the dining room of the house in which I spent my early youth, before we went to church/Easter egg hunt where a real photographer would be snapping pics.

This is me holding a bunny. You know, just hanging out like I do...with a fucking enormous bonnet on. What?! Who's that?!? Someone's taking my picture?! Guess I'm busted bein' cute!

And now the creme de la creme. I swear I can hear her in my head this very moment, "Kiss the bunny, Allie...please? Be a sweet girl and kiss the bunny. I have a peppermint in my pocket for the sweet girl that kisses the bunny!"

Ugh. This pretty much sums up why I never really stood a chance at being a normally functioning human being. I've been treated like a circus monkey by the ones who claim to love me most for as long as I can remember. And the reward? Nothing! We didn't even make the bulletin.

Oh, and while I was scanning these at the office this morning (crazy busy) I got a little carried away.

Peace

I love you

No seriously, I love you. Love me. And my man hands. Please...

Wanna Dance?

2010-02-03T13:29:00.000-05:00

Been awhile. How are ya? Okay, I think we just took care of the rapport part - let's do this!

First and foremost, some thoughts on music. Midlake finally came out with their new album on Monday. I'd been looking forward to this release for years. Literally - three long years. Their last album, The Trials of Van Occupanther, was absolutely amazing - We Gathered In Spring still possessing some of my favorite song lyrics of all time:

On a clear day, I can see my old house and my wife in the front yard talking with the friends.

So simple and yet (grab a bucket - you're gonna puke) so pure and downright pretty. Makes me melt each and every time.

I've listened to The Courage of Others probably a dozen times in the last 48 hours and there seems to be one thought - actually more of a visual - that continually comes to mind over and over again. And it's this:

Mixed with this:

Here's the album cover. Eerily similar, no?

It sounds like these look. Very Robin Hood, Renaissance Festival and Other Magical Creatures Who Like Playing Flutes in The Woods-ish.

Nevertheless, you should buy the album because, well, you just should. It's Midlake and they're generally bad ass. They're also touring so buy your ticket here. I can't pick a recommendation from this one yet since I'm still grappling with the imagery part - but overall, it's a B. Try it out.

The Knife just released their Darwin inspired, 90-minute opera, bizarro record, Tomorrow, In A Year. I think the same uber-intellegent friends of yours that claim to like/understand Donnie Darko* are the same cats that are going to tell you that this is like, seriously instrumentally insane, man! And guess what? It's not. It's lame. Don't waste your time. $5 bucks says those friends live in Portland too. Am I right or am I right?

Now for the good stuff. The Magnetic Fields continually rock my world. The Book Of Love might very well be the song I walk down the aisle to (most likely when I wed that federal prisoner I'm currently communicating with via meet-an-inmate.com - he's never getting out, so he'll never leave me. Plus, the biannual conjugal visits will really cut down on my bikini waxing expenses. See how smart I am?) Anyway, their new album, Realism, is delicious. All percussion was recorded in a public bathroom - hence the album art is the familiar "Ladies" sign:

...which makes them all the more clever in my book and the track, You Must be Out of Your Mind is an absolute delight.

I'm also digging Hot Chip at the moment. Fiddle with One Life Stand next time you're on the bike, trying to drown out your personal trainer who mistakenly thinks the phrase "You go girl!!" is at all motivating and not something someone only says when they want to get punched in the face.**

Then, when you get home and sit in a hot bath for three hours, sobbing and unable to undress yourself because your limbs no longer work so those adorable new lululemon pants are now ruined - spin a little I'm a Pilot by Fanfarlo. I have absolutely no idea what they're signing about - but it sounds nice and sleepy which should make you feel a little bit better. But not much better because of the pants issue. That really does suck.

Hey! Remember this? I don't know what is going on but ever since I saw the abandoned coat a few months (??) back, I've come across countless items of lost winter clothing (just gloves, really)- propped up on random things by the strangers that found them - with the assumption that the partially chilled owner will come searching for the missing item and be relieved and forever grateful to the kind person who took the time to stick their mitten on a pole.

Glove on Beacon Hill - around the corner from my apartment.

Glove in the South End.

Baby glove in Cambridge upholstery store.

And these are just the orphans I've stumbled upon when I've had my phone handy (pun intended and also laugh-out-loud hilarious). The numbers are staggering...like, Haiti style. WHOA! Chill out, dudes. I donated so it's totally cool.

I'm thinking of turning this into a winter blog series. I'm also thinking about how I can market the finger puppets I want to make when I finally purchase that sewing machine I've been dreaming of for the past five years - even though I don't know how to sew. I wish that didn't sound as creepy as it does. My point is, the blog series will likely be forgotten by the time we're all finished here. Which begs the question, are we all finished here? Yes, yes we are. Shhhh...it's okay...it's all over now.

* You know what else drives me crazy? When people, usually men, say The Royal Tenenbaums is one of their favorite movies. 1) I get it - you're (not)unique and (not)smarter than I. You wear a newsboy cap too. Fantastic. 2) If we're honest - it's a fine flick. Take off your Wes Anderson corduroy jacket and move on.

** Yes, I have a personal trainer. In the same way that I'm not sophisticated enough for port wine and reflections on Dostoevsky***, I'm not zen enough for yoga or pilates anymore so I've taken to getting my ass kicked boot camp style four mornings a week. And it's soooo much better. For reals.

***Why surprised? Nevermind - stupid question.

L8TR. - From the Avril Lavigne inspired line of awesome email signatures.

Quickly

2010-01-22T15:51:00.001-05:00

I only have two things to say: Spoon. Transference.

Have a good weekend.

You're Welcome

2010-01-19T10:12:00.000-05:00

I would - without question - marry any man who was awesome enough to count this item as part of his wardrobe. May I present - THE BACON TUXEDO!

Not only is it made from the finest of latex, not only is it available for less than $100, but it's scratch n' sniff to boot!!!! What more could any woman want?!?!?

Order yours here: Bacon Tux - and I'll see you at the altar, hot stuff. God, I hope that little Chinese man is included! Absolute Heaven.

Kelly Time!

2010-01-14T11:03:00.000-05:00

I told y'all she'd be back! If your memory needs refreshing, Kelly is my dog walker. She comes to my apartment Monday through Thursday to walk George Michael while I'm at work. We've talked about her before - here and here. She's a sweet Irish lady and she also pens some pretty entertaining notes for my daily enjoyment. I got this one yesterday:

Hi Allie, George and I had a great time on the Common. He was running around and having lots of fun. He did run into the snow and got stuck so I picked him out. He was fine and started running around again. He had a #1 and #2 (He had a few problems with his #2 but I have cleaned him up.) I will pass $$ onto Marisa (Kelly's boss and my downstairs neighbor - ritzy operation) and ask her to leave you some change. Kelly

P.S. George was very funny when he got stuck.

It's official. George Michael is the most incompetent animal in the world. I have never seen another dog in the park -even of the tiniest variety - get "stuck" in the 2 inches of snow currently on the ground. Nor have a known another dog - in my entire lifetime - that continually shits his pants.

But God, I love him. Oh, and those math scribbles are mine. Notice the carrying and crossing out of numbers for basic multiplication problems. Like you did in 3rd grade. Pretty much the age I checked out on the whole math thing. Passing fad - mark my words.

Lastly, I was both humbled and totally stoked when my imaginary friend, Molly, over at Lobed, mentioned this 'ol mess recently. Molly is not only smart (she named her blog after the human brain and I'm pretty sure she's seen one in real life too - not because she's a Dahmer, but because she's a scientist or a magician or something), she's also a complete riot. You know when really funny people say you're funny and you can't figure out why because you're positive you didn't drug or cut them into forced acknowledgment? That's how I feel next to Miss Molly, but I'm flattered nonetheless. Go check her out - she's waiting.

Awkward

2010-01-12T10:46:00.001-05:00

Let's focus on the second paragraph of this article I read on CNN last night. First of all, I'm 110% down for gay people getting married. The whole debate is entirely ridiculous to me. But with that out of the way, this gay (I meant to type, "guy" but I'm leaving it) says domestic partnership is like having a bite of a Twinkie and being denied the rest. He wants the whole thing!

Um, sir? Are you kidding me? When considering ALL possible analogies - you decided upon a cream filled, tubular looking, spongy feeling, flesh colored (in Band-Aid speak, anyway) child favorite snack treat?!?!?

Yeah...I need to go now. I'm stumped.

Yo

2010-01-11T12:03:00.000-05:00

I've been working on my Texas (holidays) recap post off and on for days now. Days, I tell you! Don't get your hopes up, though. It's not taking a long time because it's good. It's taking a long time because I have ADD. Or, as a certain relative yelled out during a game of charades on Christmas Eve, "I mean, am I the only one who wonders if something is just totally dumb with her?!?!"**

So that's my excuse for the laziness in posting - I'm self-diagnosed ADD and family-diagnosed retarded. What do you want from me?

I did make homemade lobster bisque last night. It looked like this (and you bet your ass I staged that picture. This is what happens to people who spend too much time alone):

And this is what I felt like after eating said bisque - which has more heavy cream and cognac than one might imagine. Like, obscene really. Maybe illegal.

George hasn't realized that he's outgrown this spot on the couch. And I don't have the heart to tell him.

Happy Monday, all.

** Relative shall remain anonymous but was trying to act out the character of Precious of the movie by the same name. Relative just blew up their cheeks and hopped around the room. And I'm the idiot?!? I think not. Two words: black face. And that's not rude because I love fat people.

Spoke Too Soon

2009-12-16T13:48:00.000-05:00

There will be no more New Ho Toy. I just found this in my eggroll:

Excuse me while I go and get my Tracy Gold on in the office bathroom.

This sweater probably didn't help with body image issues.

This Really Isn't Worth Your Time....

2009-12-16T12:34:00.001-05:00

Is this your coat? I came across it on my way home from work yesterday. Some nice person took the time to hang it up on the light post. Now I'm doing my part by posting a picture in the hopes that a chilly owner will see it here and come forward. Although, I can't return the coat to you. Because I left it there. Oops. Oh well...it's on the corner of Beacon and Mt. Vernon. Good luck!

My friend and I just ordered take-out for lunch. From our favorite neighborhood Chinese joint, The New Ho Toy. You know it!! And, as you can kind of make out on the menu, above the map drawing, they "Take Party Gift Certificate!" So obivously, they're awesome. I'm down for a large order of crab rangoon. And then a nap - around 3ish. Kind of like this (I don't know who that pasty white thigh belongs to. No idea.):

The Elvis

2009-12-13T14:36:00.000-05:00

I love milkshakes. Love, love, love milkshakes. A plain vanilla and a big cheeseburger would most likely be the meal I would choose for my last (while watching Purple Rain dressed up as Betty White - if I'm going out - I'm going all out, baby...). It's raining in Boston today and it's also extremely cold. While most would be inspired to make a big pot of piping hot chili or a warm batch of holiday cookies, I decided to get freaky with a new milkshake concoction. I call it, The Elvis. Half a banana, lots of vanilla ice cream, a little milk and three spoonfuls of chunky peanut butter. Unless you're my mother and really didn't know (verbatium, "Well, who knew!?!?" Everyone knows, mom), Elvis loved peanut butter and banana sandwiches. And unless you're a baby or a denture wearer, there is NO substitute for the chunky. I simply do not understand the mind of the creamy fan and I'm not going to try to start now. Frankly, I don't want to know. Because no matter the reason - it's jacked. Chunky is the only acceptable form of peanut butter. Next...

Blend it all together until it looks like this.

Pour into your favorite glass (or in my case, the only glass you have). Serve alongside the newest flavor of Doritos, Late Night: Tacos at Midnight (I used a colon - the Dorito people did not. You can tell by my frequent use of dashes and infrequent use of properly placed periods that I'm big on correct punctuation). The marketing executives at Frito Lay clearly knew what they were doing when they decided to skip on simply naming them Taco Flavored Doritos and instead, tapped into the drunk and high mind of every 30 year-old woman who finds herself perusing the aisles of 7-11 at, well, midnight- desperately searching for a snack that will nurse a dying and black heart by way of a preservative and Yellow No. 5 filled belly. Who doesn't go totally crazy for tacos at midnight!?!? Yeah, I understand that it's just a chip and not really a taco - but whatever - if I were that picky, I'd also have a job that allows me to pay my bills. Or a non-abusive string of ex-boyfriends. I mean, get over it. We take what we can get, right? And when I say, "I" I'm really saying, "those women". I'm not like that. I'm just betting women like that exist - I'm pretty sure I read it in Newsweek or something. Because I subscribe. Those chips were a Christmas gift. I would never buy those myself. I'm purely organic. And do pilates. Every day. At 6:30AM. I have great sex, too. Like, all of the time. My grandmother was NOT the last person I talked to on the phone and I don't have a crush on Andrew Lessman from HSN. So again...just hypothetical.

Anyway...enjoy this wholesome snack before retreating to your bathroom to pay homage to The King by demonstrating the ultimate sign of respect - spinning In the Ghetto on your stereo and passing out on the toilet.

Stay classy.

Priority: HIGH

2009-12-09T15:33:00.000-05:00

I just had the following email exchange with a friend of mine. I love that she didn't even inquire as to why I would be asking such a random question. This is why we're friends - she knows better. By now, you should too.

From: Ms. A
Sent: Wednesday, December 09, 2009 2:30 PM
To: Murph
Subject:

How do you say, "The Jonas Brothers and Laura Bush love meatballs" in Spanish?

From: Murph
Sent: Wednesday, December 09, 2009 3:32 PM
To: Ms. A
Subject: RE:

I think it’s:

Los hermanos Jonas y Laura Bush aman albóndigas

Brilliant. Simply brilliant.

By the way, if we're wrong, please let us know. This is muy importante.

Dear Diary

2009-12-07T13:39:00.000-05:00

Today (Sunday, December 6, 2009) I ate lunch at a Red Lobster. In New Jersey. At 10AM.

I think we're done here.

Love,

me.

Stuff

2009-11-23T12:09:00.000-05:00

This past Thursday I got my culture vulture on by venturing out with a couple of friends to catch Sleep No More - a lil' theater production that in three hours time, stripped me of any innocence and/or dignity that might still be coarsing though these black (and collapsed) veins.

Before I was mentally deflowered, I was waiting outside the venue (an old, abandoned school building) for my friends who were on their way from work - while I had skipped out of the office early to have my eyebrows tended to by a woman whom I have come to both love and hate in the two months since our initial meeting. Love because she shapes the best eyebrow I have ever seen while dishing out the most philosophical 'piller speak to grace the world of unwanted facial hair removal - "They're sisters, not twins - and we're gonna make 'em get along on the playground!" Hate because she has a very convenient way of "catching a bug" on my appointment days - two times in a row now and including Thursday (she forgot to call and cancel. Whoops!)- which means my eyebrows - the ones that per her instruction I am forbidden to touch - are looking less like two loving sisters frolicking on the monkey bars - and more like a couple of rabid squirrels attacking each other on my forehead.

No longer able to raise a suspicious brow, I've resorted to the verbal equivalent, "I am suspicious of you." Not the same...

Anyway, because she bailed on me, I arrived about half an hour early to the school and perched myself on the curb until my friends arrived. I forget how truly enjoyable it can be to sit alone and watch/listen to the people around you. I mean, humans are hilarious and have some of the most awesome things to say to one another when they think no one is paying attention. Case in point, a young couple who at first listen seemed to be having an argument. As they approached and I could make out the specifics of their conversation, the girlfriend angrily spewed, "And I was like, what the fuck?!? Why would you choose a cheese over a supreme pizza?!?" Her clearly more open-minded boyfriend replied, "Jesus, Megan! Not everyone likes mushrooms and sardines!"

I've taken to carrying a pad of paper on me at all times to write down important stuff since I have a tendency to forget everything within a matter of seconds - and immediately scrawled this delicious bite down for the sole purpose of sharing it here. You're welcome. And if you're wondering what else is on this "important" list, it currently reads as follows:

1. Ginger Park (I have no idea what this means anymore.)
2. Kudzu (Ditto.)
3. Quarters (Quarters are the bane of my existence. Fucking $4 a load. Unbelievable.)
4. Was Updike gay? Wiki. (Was he? Still haven't checked. Let me know.)
5. Swell Season (You should download this album, too.)

6. Outlook reminder for this list (Not kidding.)
7. Pharmacy. Plan B. (Kidding. Totally kidding. Or am I?)

Where were we? Oh, the curb. And the play. So yeah, my friends finally showed up and we headed to will call to pick up our tickets. Like I said, this play took place in an abandoned school building in a nearby suburb of Boston. The concept here is the story of Macbeth set to Hitchcock's Rebecca. If you aren't shitting yourself already, you might be a serial killer. And I'm afraid of you. Tickets in hand, we were herded into a small bar area that had been set-up to resemble a brothel in the 1940's and given a playing card to hold onto until our corresponding number was called. My friend and I immediately downed 3 of the $2 rye cocktails they were ladling from a period appropriate punch bowl (i.e. a large receptacle that looked like a neglected toilet) and agreed that no matter what the numbers on our cards read, we were going in together.

After a few minutes, our cards were called and we were relocated to a hallway where a man began handing out masks.

I forgot to mention, this wasn't a play in the sense that you go into a theater, sit down, and watch the story unfold from the comfort of your theater chair. This was a play where you were free to wander the four floors of the darkened and empty school on your own, sometimes running into characters that you could choose to follow if you wanted - thus following their role in the story. Or you could just walk around, stumble into different places (there were probably more than 100 classrooms in the building - all of which had been converted into different, and totally creepy, sets) and kind of make your own experience. Or that's what the Playbill said anyway. I'm not into making my own experiences - definitely prefer for other people to do that for me - especially when I'm paying not only a ticket price - but a fucking $7 Ticketmaster transaction fee. Christ.

Back to the masks. This guy walks through the crowd handing out these masks that looked exactly like the spooky costume the guy from V for Vandetta rocked.

Natalie Portman pretty much banged this. We've all been there, sister.

Imagine 400 people walking around in a dark building in these things, at night, in rooms that, in some cases, have headless baby dolls hanging from the ceiling or bathtubs filled with blood and live eels, and maybe you can barely begin to comprehend why I haven't slept in 3 days.

It gets worse. Two hours into the night, my friend and I (it was by the grace of God that we had managed to stay together this long - parties were getting separated left and right as they mazed their way through the dimly lit school, everyone looking exactly the same - making it impossible to identify the person you came with over the non-English speaking Chinese man who you inadvertently touched on the penis when you thought you were grabbing onto your friend's purse strap) found ourselves watching a scene unfold in a particularly scary hallway. The actors also were permitted to engage with the audience a bit - something that did not go over well with me at all and therefore found me hiding behind doors and old lockers in a desperate attempt to avoid be touched or spoken to. Go fucking figure, as I'm keeping to myself in the back of the crowd - doing everything possible to be overlooked, one of the actresses busts through the masses and grabs me by the arm.

I often find it interesting that in my particular line of work (basically schmoozing) - the #1 qualification for doing the job well is the ability and/or desire to be very outgoing, social, enjoy talking to and air-kissing other people all the day long. Interesting because while I can (and do) do it quite frequently, it is SO not who I am behind the roaring fake laughter and matching sweater set. I'm extremely introverted. I don't enjoy social gatherings that take place outside of my apartment and fail to include at least 1 out of the 4 people I've known since I was seven. And I hate touching people. To say I have boundary issues would be a gross understatement. It's not a germ thing (I've eaten pasta that I've strained over my toilet for shit's sake - bacteria don't phase me), it's just a gut reaction and strong feeling that if you and I were meant to be touching or hugging or whatever - God would have given us all a Siamese twin. He didn't. Back off. In fact, the only touching that doesn't make me squirm is the boyfriend/girlfriend kind (or in my case, Allie/homeless man kind) and the "10 minutes for $10" neck rubs I get at the walk-in nail salon each week.

The point is (and do you even remember what we were talking about??), when this woman grabbed me, not only did I start to sweat, but I began shooting her hard death stares from behind my mask. Which she couldn't see. Because my eyebrows were in the way.

She leads me into this room, 50 other people following behind us to watch what was going to unfold, then literally tosses me behind a partition and into the arms of another actor who was dressed up like a murderous barbershop owner (when retelling this story, a friend asked me what part of Macbeth this was supposed to be. Um, six years. Bachelor's degree. Want to ask me that question again? I didn't think so.) He sits me in this chair and all I can see are countless sets of eyeballs trying to watch him and me from the other side of the partition - my heart is literally pounding through my shirt at this point. The actress comes back and sits on his lap. Together - they begin mixing a drink on a small desk next to my chair. She's crushing up all of these dry herbs; he's stirring a milky substance and rubbing my leg. She dumps the herbs in the glass and then hands it to me. To drink. Fearing for my life and willing to do whatever it took to make this thing end as quickly as possible, I lifted my mask off my face and raised the glass to my mouth - pretending to take a sip. I then extended my trembling hand, milky substance literally splashing out of the glass and onto the floor, waiting for one of them to take it back. Not so fast. The actress angrily stands up and grabs my hair (which I had conveniently pulled into a bun earlier in the night - therefore giving her the ability to hang onto something that could control my entire head with the gentle thrashing of her man hand), pulls my neck back and hands me the glass again. To drink. I take the glass and start drinking it as fast as I can. She puts her hand on the bottom of the glass, pushing it to my mouth so I have to drink it faster, and when it's gone (you'd be shocked by how quickly I can swallow - and it tasted like vanilla - if only...), she gives my bun one last violent shake, pulls me up by the arm again, leads me out from behind the partition, through the crowd and then THROWS be into the now empty hallway. Like, she fucking threw me on the ground. In a heap. Alone. On the ground. Now, I'm no stranger to this kind of thing, though it usually happens within the confines of my bedroom and the dude more often than not leaves a fiver for my troubles - but wow. This was insane. After a few minutes of trying to gather myself and making sure my vagina was still on, my friend bolts to my side and we make a run for the bar. And 3 more rye cocktails. Topped with my tears.
The funny thing is, all in all, the play was awesome. If you're in the 'hood before its run is over, I highly recommend you check it out. Just make sure you piss yourself before you go. And invest in a large bottle of Nyquil to aid your nightly sleep lest you find yourself pacing the living room at 2 a.m. and tackling your dog when he sweetly licks your cheek because you're convinced he's got a knife hidden in his penis shaft and he's just waiting for you to doze off before he uses it.

Finally, I had a friend over for dinner last night. My thought was to impress him with my Madonna kitchen skills before going Whore by experimenting with the many different uses for a chicken carcass. In hindsight, this was a stupid idea as my kitchen is the size of a solitary confinement cell.

I decided not to push for grantie countertops.

Let's just say my new Barefoot Contessa cookbook will not likely be getting used again anytime soon. And note to self: a 9x11 cooking dish does NOT fit in that oven. So after we stood over a raw chicken lasagna for 10 minutes talking about how good we imagined it would taste and how "It's the thought that counts!" (That's what I said. He replied, "You say that a lot, don't you?"), I heated up two Lean Cuisine rice bowls and popped open a couple of individual wine juice boxes for our enjoyment (which are totally fucking sweet - I pride myself on fully embracing vino aged in fine cardboard). I tell this story because it once again captures my entire life in the reoccurring daily disasters of my existence. Good intentions - I swear, they're there. Actual outcomes - consistent failures.

Your Friday (Monday) Song of the Day is Clem Snide, Me No.

What do they say in AA meetings? Keep coming back; it works if you work it!!!

Yeah, do that. I need you. So does George Michael.

Taken immediately after the last time you closed out of this blog.

Attention: People Who Know Me in Real Life

2009-11-16T10:37:00.000-05:00

Swallow any liquids you currently have in your mouth.

I'm going to see Phish on December 4th in Madsion Square Garden.

This should be good. Real good.

Cube Candy

2009-10-31T08:29:00.001-04:00

Happy Halloween, you spooky little things, you! True to form, I have waited until the last possible minute to assemble my costume for the festivities I will be attending tonight. Want to guess what I'm gonna be? No? Because I'm talking to myself? Fine - I'll tell you - a public alley. Get it? My name is Allie and I'm going as an alley!!! So fucking clever, right? Stop. Seriously. You're making a scene. Oh, and George Michael is going as a piece of broccoli. Just because I think dogs dressed up as foodstuffs is funny. That's kind of not true - I wouldn't enjoy George as much if he were a cracker or a pea - but broccoli? That does me right. Beef jerky would've been sweet, too.

Anyohmygodimboringmyself, I was supposed to go home to Texas this weekend for the TCU Homecoming game (YAWN) and more importantly, my best friend's Halloween Party, but then I remembered that going to the party went hand-in-hand with going to the game and running into people from college who I have avoided all of these years for a reason (I've slept with half of them and broken leases/bones of the other half, sooo....), plus a little hiccup at the office this week would force me to fly out later than originally planned making for a total of 14 hours roundtrip travel time in exchange for about 26 hours at home. Just ain't practical, ya dig?

So, instead, I'm latching myself onto the arm of a man who has been keeping my company (aka paying my rent and covering weave upkeep for the occasional nip slip and constant vow of silence) for a few months now and going to a party to which I'm convinced I was only invited because I'll be in costume and when people ask, "Is that...Allie...what the fuck?" He can get away with responding, "God no! That's alley! Not Allie! I can see how you could get confused, but come on, man, there are different kinds of trash."

Truth be told, this guy is quite nice and seems to think I am as well. He tells me so. And I'm sure I've heard him say I'm "pretty" and that he "really likes" me. He can also play Skinny Love (in a non-gay way) on the 'ol guitar - but both the compliments and jam session happened when we were both heavily under the influence, so it's more likely that he was just trying to get in my pants and I was listening to an iPod.

Hope your Halloween is super this year. I actually really like Halloween - I often feel like the only oddly dressed drunk adult in the room, so it's nice to to not feel so alone for a night. Just one night...I'll be back to sitting on my couch, wearing a pair of big underwear and a cowboy hat while downing CapriSun and vodka concoctions tomorrow. And the day after that...and the day after that..and the day....you get it.

Oh, your Friday Song of the Day is El Perro Del Mar, Change of Heart. Best enjoyed when you're really, really high.

Keep it creepy.

Lovely

2009-10-18T17:09:00.000-04:00

You can't tell, but this is a picture I took about 5 minutes ago recording the first snowfall of the season in Boston!

And this is a picture of the first fire I made...well, ever.

Take it from me...fire making is underrated. This was a total chore and also requires serious upkeep. Still pretty, though.

Finally, I saw Where the Wild Things Are this afternoon. Could a better day there be? Methinks no. Oh, and I'm officially naming my first-born son, Max. And he better come out of me as a Wild Thing - or I'm sticking him back up there and having an abortion. WHAT? I mean, no I'm not.

In the spirit of the pending Halloween celebrations - your belated Friday Song of the Day is Dead Mans Bones, My Body's a Zombie For You. Thanks to All Songs Considered fall Preview podcast for this tasty delight. Don't y'all love it when I get all hipster on your ass? Yeah, me too. Don't worry, I'm also wearing Converse and launching my Etsy website featuring homemade hemp purses as I write this. I know, it's totally awesome.

I'll be back with jokes and shit later.

Peace.

And We're Back

2009-10-04T17:25:00.000-04:00

Early. From Connecticut that is. Why? Oh, no bigs - just got escorted out of our room and to the street by hotel security. At 1am. In a thunderstorm. After my friend and I had been out since 5pm - drinking lots of alcohol and eating lots of seafood. See, apparently George Michael suffered a complete breakdown while we were away and launched into a barking fit that lead to more than a dozen noise complaints. Whoops! So when we got back to our digs at the end of the night, our room key had been deactivated. While my friend went to the front desk to figure out what was wrong with our key - I sat on the floor by the door - eating potato chips I found on a room service cart in the hallway. I wish I were lying.

Sure enough, she shortly returned with the news of our eviction notice. And wouldn't you know it - there was not a single available hotel room in the whole of the town as it's fall foliage time up in these parts and people actually arrange little getaways around the activity of looking at leaves. Um, I'll pass, thanks.

So after 8 hours in CT, we threw our shit in the car - I threw George Michael in the trunk - and we drove home to Boston in the middle of the night. Fucking awesome weekend, right? Wrong.

Sigh...

Better Than Christmas - It's My Favorite Day of the Year!

2009-10-02T20:47:00.000-04:00

Happy weekend, everyone. Your Friday Song of the Day is Nickodemus - Sun Children. Enjoy this little number while I'm enjoying a quick weekend getaway to CT to binge on lobster, crab, oysters and lots of wine followed by dancing (likely alone), more drinking (always alone) and a Swedish massage on Sunday morning (sadly alone... but definitely concentrated pressure on my vagina area, please. Holla!).

Prior to my departure, I decided to grab me a quick manicure and pedicure only to be subjected to two young 20 year-old girls who had apparently bonded during their "Peas pik yo' cala" session and were dishing about how they both met their current Denim and Khaki Couple companions. Though I didn't ask for it, I did learn that Sarah nabbed Jason at a bar down on Nantucket called Chicken Pox (I don't get it) and while her friends had been" giving her heck" for dating a younger guy, she didn't "give two hoots" because she's "a romantic" and "believes in fate". Oh, Sarah...Sarah, Sarah, Sarah...if your vocabulary is at all reflective of your bedroom skills, I can only imagine that Jason has already begun plotting his escape. Probably right around the time you told him you were totally down with Deluxe Missionary and getting your bottom flicked. Above panty. And if my overuse of quotation marks tells us anything of my bedroom skills, I may or may not be "into strangers", "making tips" and "dropping you off back at Applebee's" but not before I "score a Chicken Strip Platter" and you "validate my parking".

Next.

Amy met David while they were both trying out to get a spot on the waitstaff team at The American Girl restaurant in NYC. Do y'all know what American Girl is? If not, let me tell you. It's a doll series that little girls go crazy for between the ages of 5-11 years old. These dolls are so popular that there is an actual eating establishment in New York where children from all over the country drag their succumbed and medicated parents on a typical family summer trip to the Big City. It features a theater where patrons watch a movie or a play or something - and then everyone adjourns for tea and crumpets(!!!) in the upstairs restaurant. How do I know this, you ask? I saw it on Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Deal with it.

What I'm getting at, Amy, is...David is gay. How in the Lance Bass did you not figure this out when you both were showing off your curtsy and hair braiding skills? I don't even want to talk about your bedroom activities. Let me just warn, when he suggests y'all play, "Where's the Day Old Breadstick!?!" you're definitely NOT going to find it anywhere in your person. Did I mention American Girl, Inc. also makes life-size clothes so little baby can look just like dolly? Don't worry, Amy. If you didn't already know that, David did. The Slumber Party series is super comfy - I'm sure he'll share.

I realize I have zero room to bitch about these seemingly sweet, if not retarded, young ladies. I am, after all, single - and they're happily torturing a couple of dudes. So maybe they know something I don't. Like, maybe men aren't receptive to women who make herpes jokes? Or steal their quarters for laundry money? Forget to change clothes? Blog? Hmmmm...no...I think they are. Definitely.

And with that, I'm hittin' the open road with my perdy nails. You hit up your local library. Netflix and iTunes are for suckers, sucka. Then again, so is reading.

Later.