| Big Life Questions |
[Dec. 9th, 2009|03:33 pm] |
My employer hosts a series of questions during the semesters to get college students thinking (I guess; sidenote: weird that people pay tuition to think). The series is called "Ask Big Questions"; and the questions are usually along the lines of:
Where is home?
For what are you thankful?
Who is a friend?
You know, pretty open-ended questions.
Anyways, this series, and the posters I see every day for it, has catalyzed me to ask my own series of big questions. To no one in particular, but to everyone, and to myself, and to science (I'm sure there are actual answers to some of these), and to whoever decided we should eat asparagus.
Angie's Big Questions
Why do commercials always seem to come on at the same time on all the important channels (Bravo, Discovery, Animal Planet, TLC, Comedy Central, and VH1) when I'm trying to watch different shows?
Why do I keep trying to get through to morning show contests when my current success ratio is about 267:1? (and I lost the contest anyways)
Why does the holiday season seem to begin earlier and earlier every year?
Why is cheese so AWESOME?
Who decided that middle-aged white men who speak English would RUN shit?
Whatever bra I buy, why is it never comfortable?
What about asparagus makes my pee smell?
How, when walking across grass patches sometimes 2 acres big, do I manage to step in the one turd not picked up?
On that note--why is the word "turd" so fun to say?
Who decided to pour milk on cereal? and...Were they smoking pot?
What is it about my hair that makes it knot within minutes of brushing it thoroughly?
Who told a white person to lock his hair for the first time?
Why are most dogs cuter than most people?
Who is that hot mess of a girl I see in the mirror at the Tavern or Looney's about 1:40 AM some weekends? Wait, I think I have the answer to...umm, yea....moving on... (and if this was a 'why' question, 'vodka tonic' would be the answer)
Who was the first celebrity gossip maven?
Who DOESN'T sing and dance in the car when she's by herself?
Why have leggings made a comeback?
Why does snow make people happy, but rain not so much? They're basically the same thing....
Why do cars have four wheels and not three?
Why do banks charge you when you overdraft? (ain't it obvious you got no money?)
What are they thinking by adding so many varieties to the original awesomeness of Cheez-Its? (And are "Better Cheddars" just really bootleg versions of Cheez-its?)
Why do most people claim to hate social networking sites and then we see them post 14 status updates (note: I include myself. I just don't know the answer, hence it being a BIG question.)?
Why are chicks so much more mature than guys? (I'm talking in general about 5-10 years of difference. Seriously.) Related: WHEN are men okay to marry?
Why do we always look at drivers of other cars around us, even if we're not planning to merge, etc?
What is it about (1)Angelo's pizza; (2)McDonald's cheeseburgers; and (3)Sprite that make them cure hangovers?
Why do some countries not allow you to flush toilet paper down their toilets, even if you've just dropped the biggest, most indestructible turd (AWESOME word) and it was able to flush (okay, so maybe you had to break it in half)?
Is there anyone who doesn't think kittens are cute?
Okay, that's my list, I think. Feel free to add on or take a stab at any of them. I think there's a drinking game waiting between the lines of this blog entry.... |
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| Liveblogging from Monday Night Football |
[Nov. 30th, 2009|10:04 pm] |
A friend told me yesterday that there are actually only 12 minutes of football played in a professional NFL game. And, after spending the better part of yesterday, last night, and tonight watching football, I believe him.
At least they give us announcers who make random, what-could-be-easily-misconstrued remarks or state something awkward to help us pass the rest of the time.
Yesterday and tonight's finer moments:
Some guy last night made a comment about the dances that are done by douchebag players after they make an even slightly okay play. He named a few, concluding with the "Sham Wow-ey." And the other guy laughs awkwardly, says, "Like Shamu!" and then there's an awkward silence.
It's obvious that all the announcers and producers at ESPN have major crushes on Tom Brady and Drew Brees. Even their names just roll off the tongue like the perfection they are. It's kind of annoying. So what, they bang supermodels, have expensive watches, and have great hair and tans? Peyton Manning makes United Way commercials making fun of kids. So suck it, Brady!
"He took that head right to the inner thigh!"
Randy Moss is "amazing with getting those deep balls where they need to go," and also at "hugging those deep balls." Courtesy some ESPN announcer.
On an attempted Tom Brady sack, the Saints Offense dudes "go deep and miss, letting everyone down." You can say that again.
I can't stop talking about Wes Welker's thighs because (1) they're fascinating, but (2) he's on my fantasy team and for some reason, this has made me obsess about his little Power-elf body. This is driving my friends crazy.
The jackass announcer just said, "In the Red Zone, that's really where you make it or break it. That's where the game is won or lost." Ya think? could it be because the ENDZONE is located there? Maybe? And that yellow thingy--the field goal marker, perhaps? Jackass. I should get paid more for talking about Welker's thighs (Ray Rice is a close second).
O, haha, speaking of the Redzone: "It's like he had wings that flew him into the RedZone." Seriously, "wings" and "red" shouldn't be mentioned in the same sentence. Seriously, people, I can't make this stuff up.
Anywhoooo, Go Saints. And Wes Welker and Kevin Faulk. Because Fantasy Football has really screwed up my loyalties. |
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| Dog walking is awkward |
[Nov. 21st, 2009|01:53 pm] |
I borrowed a friend's dog, to get some exercise (win-win situation, people--as a sidenote, anyone interested in starting a pet-renting business?) and to have a cuddle buddy this weekend (the latter perhaps more important than the former). This has been a learning experience of sorts.
'Cause dog-walking can be awkward.
Let me explain: I'm not new to this dog-walking thing. It's just that my dogs have usually been pretty up there in age, and also seemed to have pretty decent leash and poop abilities; they always were pretty obedient on the leash, not trying to attack other dogs, and seemed to stick to my parents' bedroom as a prime poop location when they had the runs, for some reason. When we walked, IF they pooped, it was always pretty solid (not like the douchebag way to say 'solid'; I mean literally solid, and easy to pick up).
Cut to today:
Awkward moment 1: "He's a She"
I'm walking this dog, and she's usually pretty good, off-leash. However, it's like once that collar slips over her head, she falls into this whole other category of badassness. It's like Sons of Anarchy: free and at home with me, she's quite the lover. However, on the open road, with metal around her neck, she's a total bitch. (Literally.)
Well, she decides that she can take on a Rottweiler. And a few minutes later, a pit bull/boxer mix. It's always weird when people are like, "Is he friendly?" First of all, I'm not terribly offended that they mistake her for a him--not my dog anyway--but it's always sort of awkward to be like "SHE's usually good, but sometimes weird on the leash." And then the people keep being like "He's so cute." And I try to plug in "She" and other female pronouns when possible, but it just doesn't seem to sink thru until....
Awkward moment 2: Getting over the hump
The Pit Bull mix starts to hump on the dog. Hmmm. I mean, I'm not personally offended. It's not really a big deal--my dog (well, she is in that moment!) is submissive (for once) and just takes it. But it's kind of awkward, watching live action animal porn within 10 feet of the other owner. He doesn't really know what to do, and I'm just kinda like, "Well, dogs will be dogs..." Pit mix owner starts to say, "Tyler, get OFF of him!" and I, again, awkwardly interject with, "I guess she is kinda a hottie for a dog" (WHAT? Where did that come from? Now he'll think I'm whoring out my dog, and I don't want to give the impression that I'm also willing to hump...). He seems to actually hear me when I say mine's a girl at this point, but then all the sudden he seems to be okay with his dog humping on my dog. WTF? But then...
Awkward Moment 3: My Shim dog is not havin' it anymore
Much like a chick at the bar who's been trying to play nice but then decides she is just NOT the one, my dog snaps and does a turnabout so fast I swear she just got hit with the biggest case of doggie PMS ever. She flips around and grabs the pit mix's face in her jaw. Ugh! Awkward. No reason to bring physical violence into this! I ponder making an angry lesbian joke, but decide to let it go and put my effort into untangling the leash and pulling my friend's dumb dog (yes, this is the point where I deny ownership and offer up that I don't usually see her act like this, but then again, she's not MINE) away from the shocked pit mix who's just trying to get his hump on. Time to move on....
Awkward Moment 4: Picking up a poop that can't be picked up
So we continue our walk. Her fur is standing up, and mine is too, because the pit mix owner sorta started to hit on me. She's obviously excited, and trips me, but I manage to catch myself before assplanting on the sidewalk. Well, speaking of assplants, she begins to squat in that "This isn't just going to be a pee" way that female dogs do (I have only ever had male dogs, so her first couple of pee squats really confused the crap out of me). Being the ever-prepared fake dog owner that I am, I quickly grab the plastic bag out of my pocket and proudly position myself upwind from the squattage.
This is taking awhile....Man, she looks really uncomfrotable...
Upon closer inspection, and slightly tipped off by the visciousness wafting into my nose, I notice that nothing coming out of this dog is solid. I mean, she's basically peeing poop.
Lots of it.
She gives me this look like, hey, yea, maybe I SHOULDN'T have eaten that egg off of the stove this morning, and I just look at her like, Yea, I agree, that egg was NOT a good idea.
Well, she finishes, and I sort of wretch back at the sight of the one last drop holding onto her butthairs. She's ready to go, but I have a dilemma:
Do I fake the pick up?
Not to mention, she did all this on the SIDEWALK outside of this old woman's house. And I KNOW who lives there because she just came out when the dog was mid-dump and gave me that look that my dog gave that other dog: "I am NOT the one. You best clean up before I come over there."
So I awkwardly smile, and sort of bend down to try a little clean up. (Note: It's not supposed to rain in B more for another few days. AWESOME.)
There's one small chunk I'm able to get up. My survivor instinct tells me, hey, cover it up with something! Just my luck, however, the street has been freshly de-leaved in the past ten minutes, apparently, because there is like one leave located aproximately 7 feet away from where I'm now renacting the dog's awkward squat.
I sort of grab as much of it as I can, and look for a trash can. This woman's eyes are telling me, Don't you dare dump that dump in MY can, so I walk away, swinging the bag.
I head home, where I plan to give the dog some water and leave her ass on my porch for a while so that the droplet on her butt can dry fully. I go to the dumpster to get rid of this horrible-smelling bag I've now carried for three county blocks, when I discover:
Awkward moment 5:
The bag had a hole in it. |
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| International Education Week makes me wanna stay in B more |
[Nov. 19th, 2009|11:10 am] |
First of all, yes, I know I have been a poopy poster. Apologies. Life has caught up to me these past four months, and I feel like I've had the highest of highs and lowest of lows. Things are evening out, though, and karma has a lottery win coming to me soon. I did win a free coffe or soft drink in the McDonald's monopoly game, so that probably means my luck is changing, right? It's the little things, people....
Anyfreestuffmess, last night was a night of highs. Specifically, I worked late for two events held on campus to celebrate Int'l Education Week. (Yes, highs can be nerdy.) A group I work with hosted a viewing of Boys of Baraka, and then a few of us headed over to the showing of "Paused in Time," a rough look at Baltimore's hip hop scene.
Obviously, interesting conversations were had. One person at the second showing brought up the fact that Baltimore, to her, seems "stagnant," in that no one from here ever wants to leave. This theme had also come up in the showing of "Boys of Baraka": The path to "okay" for these 'inner-city'** boys led far, far, FAR away from B more.
There is something about Baltimore that makes people wanna stay here, that's no lie. And the second film introduced this conflict that's very real, at least in my limited experience of B more: You have to stay in the place where you're from to be considered 'real,' but you also have to leave your comfort zone and put yourself out there on the scene--whatever scene that is--in order to have a real appreciation FOR where you're from.
The innnnneresting thing I think missing from the hip-hop movie was that there are actually plenty of us--like, a shit ton (thank, Gann, for a new favortie term) that DO actually leave Bmore, and CHOOSE to return. Why? I guess I have my theories. But I don't think our reasons for returning are all that different than the reasons that people are drawn to b more in the first place. We have lots of transplants, especially recently. People who come to college here seem to like it enough to either stay or forever hold a place in their hearts for B more as a sort of second hometown. B more is like that one boyfriend or girlfriend that you have/had that, even though that person had his or her problems, you still remember at least a few good times with, and you still appreciate the effect of enough to consider him or her when thinking about your past (Lord knows, I have a few that I dismiss even to myself).
So my question: Is Baltimore really 'stagnant'? Lemme present in the way I present all important issues in life: a random metaphor. Are we really like the granddad that, no matter how many times you ask him to try Miller Lite, he sticks to his Boh? Or are we more like the crazy uncle who started on Boh, and when you ask him to try something else, he tells you the crazy story about how he tried screwdrivers and Bud Light a few times and always ended up getting thrown in jail or getting divorced or pooping himself, or maybe he had a good time but just likes Boh better, so he sticks to Boh now--and he changes it up when he adds a lime on special occasions (known as a "Boh-rona")?
See--even my metaphors are Baltimore-laced. Maybe I do need to get out more...
**--I don't like the term 'inner-city.' Because B more's 'inner-city' is really the Inner Harbor. And not too many of us live there. |
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| Baby showers, etc |
[Oct. 19th, 2009|10:44 am] |
I had a family baby shower yesterday. My aunt took swigs of Bud Ice between opening gifts. (No, she's not breastfeeding, even though she has chi-chis the size of homemade hot air ballons.)
And that's really it. I know I need to still post a Greece blog (ahhhh) and lots of other life updates, but that's all I have time for now:-( I need me the swine flu to catch up on life. |
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| Paging Passenger Unlucky |
[Jun. 5th, 2009|12:15 pm] |
Cali was excellent. If I had to sum up the experience in a few words, the following would be included:
Lex, Liz, Mija, Sun, beaches, tan, hotel, nerd name tags, dancing, sunglasses, drankin', Rainer, Eli, gays, rooftop bars, food I can't pronounce.
Most everyone who knows me knows I'm not the luckiest traveler in the world. (Let's revisit the Broken Bra incident of 2008 if reminders are needed.)
I was pretty confident, though, that as I began my journey to Cali--no delays, well- and lightly-packed, found food in the airport for under $5 (Thanks McD's happy meal!), boxes packed and ready for the move--I would be relatively lucky.
Yes, I was seated in the middle seat of a row on a full flight. My midget/dwarf/little person dimensions (use the PC term of your choice) make middle row airplane seats a smooth ride for me.
When I got to my seat, there were small older people on either side of me. Sweet, I thought; the only thing I'd need to worry about would be a little drool if they feel asleep while doing their crosswords and huger-than-life-printed word searches.
But, of course, the Gods of United Airways had other plans for me.
The old lady to my left wanted, of course, to be seated near her husband in the back of the plane. So she did a switcheroo with another lady.
This lady had a baby instead of dentures.
Now, listen, I don't really dislike babies on planes. Babies got bidness to attend to elsewhere as well, and have every right to be on planes. I've sat next to people during plane rides who were way more annoying than a baby. Hell, I'm sure I've sat next to some people who still crap their pants, and I've definitely seen some with spittle and drool that would rival a 5-month-old's.
This baby was cute. And she didn't cry. She was loud, but only every so often when she'd laugh or decide to have a conversation that sounded strikingly similar to the conversations I've heard my roomies carry on after a few too many Jameson shots.
About 3/4th of the way through the flight, the baby leans over to me, laughs, and then gets an expression on her face that, at the time, I couldn't quite classify.
Well, now I know what that look means.
That look means:
I'm about to projectile vomit.
On you and Grandma.
And so she did. I had no idea babies' stomachs could hold this much...stuff!! Most of it was on my leg, but I guess my torso needed in on the action too, because a splash landed on my shirt too. She definitely could've made it onto this site as a competitor for most awesome projectile.
Whatever--no biggie. I smelled, but I probably smelled anyways after a full work day and a cross-country flight. When I arrived to Phoenix for our connecting flight, I just went straight to the closest bathroom to wash off.
The guys' bathroom.
I so wish I had a camera at the moment I entered that bathroom. The looks on these guys' faces was priceless. (Actually, the look on my face was probably pretty priceless too.)
So skip ahead 8 sunny, warm, intellect-filled days and booze-filled networking nights. I'm getting on my direct flight home. I'm conferenced out, and perusing the US weekly my colleague in the front of the plane. (SIDE VENT: My seat neighbor feels it's acceptable to comment on how "homely" some of the celebrity children in the magazine look. This would probably be funny if the wench had not overpacked and had to cram a bag the size of a small house under her seat, so that her feet kept brushing against mine. She had to stuff it under there because she shoved another way-overpacked bag in the overhead bin. I can't stand people who do this--pack a bunch of carry-on crap and then don't let the gate people check it, even though it's free at that point. Classy. The $15 is worth the avaoidance of the stink eyes you get from all the people who you hit in the head as you make your way to your seat, jackass.)
Anyhotpackingmess, so I look up from my magazine as people continue to board the plane, and notice quite a few gentlemen with hair a la Soul Asylum and Soundgarden circa 1991. Their pants are tight, displaying ample mooseknuckle. My colleagues look back at me, snickering, apparently already-wise to the fact that these guys were probably going to be seated right near me.
Shocker shocker: guess who had Seats A & C?
You guessed it: the not-so-distant cousins of Axl Rose, pre-fatness.
As they plop down after carefully placing their guitars in the overhead bin, the interesting combination smell of Cigarettes, Jack Daniels, and weed surrounds me. But you know what? They were really freakin' nice. I couldn't completely understand the one guy--who was asking for booze on an Airtran flight, mind you--but they were all headed to Merriweather in Baltimore for an all day concert on Saturday that was to be headlined by twisted Sister. There were apparently members of the Scorpions, Extreme, XYZ, Ratt, and a bunch of other hair bands on the plane.
They were great to talk with. The dudes I talked to were from Ratt. I told them that I was pretty sure younger siblings and cousins were conceived to their music.
So we arrive to B more, and of course:
My luggage has broke. Two of the zippers on the outer compartments broke.
But not only is my luggage broken. O no, that would be too simple.
My luggage is going around the conveyor belt in BWI and items are falling out of the side. And, even more noticably, there's a pink plastic item hanging out of the side from which these items are falling.
This pink bag has a rather large (in my opinion) brand printed on it.
That brand is Kotex.
And those items are tampons and maxi pads (which came in handy when I got my monthly visitor in my new white bikini at the beach the previous weekend).
Seriously, people: I can't make this stuff up.
My face turned a color not so different than that of the Kotex bag, and I grabbed my luggage and ran out of the airport.
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| In "What Can Go Wrong, Will Go Wrong" news... |
[Jun. 4th, 2009|01:39 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  disappointed | ] |
Dear crackhead who broke into our house while I was away in Cali and had packed up to move,
Let me just take a minute to commend you on making my life a bit more hectic than it already would have been upon my return from 8 days of awesomeness in California. Impressive! I didn' t know it could get much more complicated than coming home to a not-fully-packed room and a pending settlement on a condo. But you managed to make it so!
What I would like to let you know is that some of those items you stole really will have no value to anyone other than me. I would even buy them back from you. Seriously, those Deutschmarks and Kroner and South African Rand won't matter a lick to the guys up at Zissimos or the pawn shops. And I'd sort of like the costume jewelry back. It was ugly, but it was from my family, so it actually meant something to me--even if I did only use it to dress up as Barbie & the Rockers or a whore from the 1920s. So if you'd like to drop them off on our porch--sorry, we finally had the window patched up so you won't be able to literally 'drop' the coins into our living room, as you so idley 'dropped' your skinny ass last week in there--that would be much appreciated. You can keep the CDs, the CD player, the camera, the jewelry, the curling iron and the ugly purse. (BTW, are you a chick crackhead, or just a cross-dressing crackie, an Amy Winehouse wanna-be? or did you wanna pick up a little token of love for your crackwhore girlfriend or the mom you undoubtedly reside with?) While you're inventory-ing, it would be nice if yuo could return my roomie's items. You only took somewhat worthless stuff from me it seems--perhaps my awesome packing abilities and fun wall decorations in my room distracted you from my actual valuables--but you actually took more from the boys that they'd like to see returned. Money, CDs, laptop, raincoat, camera, and all that fun stuff could be deposited back at our house at your earliest convenience, thankyouverymuch. They actually had to deal with the hassle of the police call, the report, the broken glass, the clean-up, and just the general aftermath of your visit. I'veonly had to deal with the Renter's Insurance and re=packing up my room. I was actually drunk when I got the initial call in Cali, thank goodness. Yay for Aussie wine!
You took my extra car key, but I'd just like to let you know that I MacGuyvered a booby trap in my car in the event that you decide to take it in the small amount of time I will remain parked outside of that house on a regular basis. It seems you're up for a challenge, so have at it!
I would like to thank you for alleviating a little of the moving load--there was a whole box of crap I didn't have to move because you took it. And actually, I didn't really like that one purse anymore, so I'm glad you found it handy for your own packing purposes--you saved me a trip to the Salvation Army by taking it. I'd also like to thank you for leaving the knife you took from the kitchen in my roomie's room. I'm assuming you were going to use it to stab one of us if you found us upstairs, but I'd like to thank you for leaving it behind because, well, it was a nice knife and will go well in my new condo. After I disinfect it from your grubby paws. (You probably have those perpetually black fingernails and cracksores all over your hands, after all, which is why I had to wash all my underwear you had gone through.)
And finally, I want to thank you for leaving that large blood smear in the hallways upstairs. While I'm sure I've probably gotten high off of its crackie fumes every time I walk by, that's probably help make the moving situation a little nicer for me! It also means that you left a DNA fingerprint for the Baltimore Police to track you by. (This, however, assumes that they are doing their part; you probably have a good amount of first-hand experience with the po-po, so you can tell me whether or not you think they'll get your crackhead butt.) Also, our hallway walls were so bland without that bright red smear, so it's added a bit of 'umph' to our interior decorating weaknesses.
Just thought I'd write you a little something and express my feelings.
And if I ever find out who you are, you can expect to see that knife you took upstairs. Except this time, it will be appearing in your crotch or neck region.
Thanks, and hope to see you soon--in court. (You can wear the random clothes you stole from us--and please make sure to put on that guy deodorant and cologne you stole from the roomies.) And just so you know--I didn't let you ruin my move-in experience. As a matter of fact, you made me feel a little better about moving to the county.
A
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| Differences between Kickball & Softball Leagues |
[May. 18th, 2009|10:48 am] |
With my fierce athleticism and boundless energy, I find it necessary to join as many pseudo-sports (BSSC kickball, Hampden Rec softball) leagues as possible. These leagues give me an outlet for socializing, drinking, catching up with people I otherwise wouldn't see on a regular basis, and, at times, also include running and doing something that could be considered borderline athletic.
There are major differences between the two leagues, though. The Baltimore Sports & Social League, which plays at Patterson Park is just...
Well, it's just NOT the Hampden Recreation League.
To explain the differences in the leagues, I've decided to use a handy-dandy table format.
BSSC Kickball vs. Hampden Softball| Category | BSSC Kickball
| Hampden Rec League Softball | Winner/Best Quote | | Booze | Miller Lite & Kickball Specials @ Looney's | Whatever's available for Sunday carry-out at Zissimo's or Frazier's | Softball. There's variety in carry-out, and regular customers (i.e., the entire league) always get 'specials.' (Unless they were kicked out the night before for fighting or vomiting at the bar.) | | Educational Experiences | Mostly college-educated, some master's degrees, low to no unemployment rate. Ability to text message whilst wasted. | Mostly Baltimore City Public School educated (until at least 6th grade), some trade school. All schooled on the streets. | Tie. College has more than prepared the kickballers for drinking excessively on weeknights. Yet the Hampden league surprises: One of the guys told me yesterday he was "Learnin' the Espanol, yo" from his construction sites. Work AND language school? Sounds like a deal to me! | | Life Experiences | Multi-cultural, relatively well-traveled. Mostly young-ish (22-30, with a few over-30s claiming a perpetual age of 26). Mostly single (or should be). | Pretty sure that at least 25-40% of the league has spent time in prison--and has the tats and stories to prove it. Some claim to be single, but most have babymama/daddy drama. Ability to adapt to new situations. Two examples: Just last week, I saw one of the most bigoted guys in the league playing lovingly with two little kids (I'm assuming grandkids). Neither of them were 100% Hampden white. And example two: I was talking about where I'll be moving (Mt. Washington/Pikesville), one of my teammates asked inquisitively if I was becoming Jewish. I explained that while I didn't think I was going to convert, I did know many Jewish peops from high school and college, and that I date Jewish guys fairly regularly. He then said, "I got a Jew friend. And didn't you go to Goucher? You date Jew girls too?" So curious and knowledge-seeking! | Tie, again. My kickball league provides me with fellow travelers to Greece; softball provides me with travelers to the local bars that my uncles otherwise would not let me enter, ever. | | Modes of Transport | Compact cars, some hybrids, Subarus, SUVs with "DMB" and "OBX" stickers and ski racks. | Pick-up trucks, black Lexuses (Lexi, plural?) with black tinted windows. And, apparently, as I overheard yesterday, at least one car for which the owner, with multiple DUI infractions, has learned to "unhook" the breathilizer required to start the car. He has basically outsmarted the system, which probably spent $1000 putting that machine in his car. He has to get to practice somehow, people! Take that, Judge Judy. | Kickball. More room to carpool without 2x4s and carseats in the back of the car/truck. |
I need to have a cookout and invite both of my teams. Then I could add a Hot Mess category to this table! I know where my bet would be.
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| Overheard in B more |
[May. 15th, 2009|11:38 am] |
This week was my father's 50th birthday. I'd like to say there was a more significant celebration than what I'm about to reveal, but Steve-O is not the type for parties. Actually, he sort of threatened us--Mom, Matt, and me--that if we had a 50th celebration/surprise party for him, he might not be talking to us by his 51st. Not that he actually talks to us a whole lot--he's more a fan of sending annoying forwards over "the e mail" as elders refer to it, but you know--here and there he has a gem.
His gem of the week was this:
"I was working at the Light Rail station downtown, and this large woman was walking up and down the platform talking on her cellular phone. I overheard part of the conversation in which she informed the person on the other end of the call:
'I'm pregnant as shit, girl!'"
Only in Baltimore. Loves it.
Speaking of only-in-Baltimore hot messness:
Last Friday night, I puked in Power Plant, at the Lodge Bar replacement Luckies (Lodge Bar replaced some other bar, which had replaced Have a Nice Day, which replaced Tiki Bob's, I think. Crap, I'm old. To have see the succession of Power Plant Bars? And KNOW them? This is not a proud moment for me). So, basically, I was 19 again. A succession of texts that took place that night:
Me (7:47 pm): I'm going to Power Plant for a friend's happy hour. Should be done by 11 or so--it IS PP. Just goin for the cheap drinks and food. {PP=Power Plant}
Me (10:47): Were staying here. I sense a dance-off coming on.
Me (10:54): Some people say Wee-man is here, but I don't want to ask because I don't want him to think I think all little people look the same.
Me (12:40AM): Where are you guys? PP sucks. I wanna go home.
Matt: PP? People? I can pick you up
Me: Yes, please. I'm not feelin too well.
Me, to another person who texted me back: I can try to walk or cab ut. (I was at least three miles from home--three bad neighborhood miles, too)
Me (to Mar): I staryed throwin upp
The next morning, I get an awesome wake-up text from my friend B, who overindulges (like the rest of us) on occasion:
(7:21 AM): One round of shots $96. Drinks all night long $42. Passing out and waking up in the back seat of my car in the parking deck at PowerPlant....priceless.
Me (later that day to a select few people): That WAS Wee-man!
I had Matt come pick me up, for which I am perpetually thankful. Something that I did not realize until the next day: I had him pick me up at the corner of Baltimore and Gay Streets. Baltimore Street is Baltimore's vice street. As in, strippers, prositutes, and drugs abound. And I had him pull up and pick me up on the corner. So I'm pretty sure he may have looked like a John. O, the fun of pretending to be 19 again.
But, unlike when I was 19, I didn't go back out and do it again. I had to get up and go play kickball and soccer and other assorted activities for which I was in NOOOO condition with a bunch of middle schoolers from my tutoring group. (And it wasn't difficult JUST because I was hungover. I also apparently threw my knee out during a dance-off to...to....whatever was playing that I decided would start said dance-off.)
Unlike at 19, I stayed my ass home on Saturday night and watched the White House Correspondent's Dinner on C SPAN and Mistresses, and read. 'Twas my penance.
I have lots of other updates coming soon. |
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| I'm growing up, I want the bank to know. |
[Apr. 23rd, 2009|03:39 pm] |
I took the plunge and bought a condo.
Well, at least I think I bought it.
See, apparently anything can go wrong in the month and I could end up with or without a place to live on June 1st. But this place is pretty awesome, so I am willing to take that risk.
Buyin a place turned out to be as much about what I DIDN'T want as what I DID want. Like, I liked this place right off the bat. I really did. But as I visited more condos and houses after it, it just looked better and better. Among my visits after my first meeting with almost-my-condo was 1) a house that smelled like death; 2) another condo that could actually serve as the National Museum of Wallpaper and its Multiple Uses (seriously, these people had wallpapered EVERYTHING--I think the cat actually was white with a rose border and flowers); and 3) a place for which the owner had obviously not been able to decide between "Country" and "Asian" themes.
Some "real estate speak" I picked up along the way:
From my agent: In realtor speak, musty basement = den, concrete slab = back patio, and east pigtown = barre circle.
My own list:
Cozy=you will hit your head and have barely enough room for your bed and a table
Up & coming=don't even look in this area for another 5-7 years
Lots of potential/partial rehab=you need to screw a contractor, and soon
I believe I have carpal tunnel now because of all of the paperwork I signed. I'm pumped, though. I have a pool right outside of my back sunroom (which I also learned could be called a "Florida Room"). So, perhaps, my condo could be considered waterfront in real estate speak.
I feel like I grew up about five years in the last two weeks. While my bank account will be at zero for a hot minute (okay, a hot few years), my happiness is going to be at a ten, I think.
AWESOMENESS.
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| I heart little kids |
[Apr. 12th, 2009|07:28 pm] |
Today is Easter, which means that I spent about 76% of the day surrounded by people with whom I share DNA (aka loved ones). I'm the oldest cousin on both sides, which means that one day I'll be that weird old relative that none of my younger cousins really know how to classify ("I think she's an aunt, or maybe she's someone's wife....I dunno, she's old, she's at all these events, so somehow we're related"). So while that might be strange when I'm older, I like it right now, because I get to hang out with the little ones who never cease to entertain with their observations.
Take, for instance, my time with Alyssa, 5, and her sister Kayla, 3, on the playground.
A relative, a larger lady (we have a lot of those in my fam), gets on the swingset in the playgound.
Alyssa: "Hey, she's too big for that swing. She might break it!"
Me (stifling laughter, trying to teach Alyssa to use her 'inside voice' when talking smack about relatives): "No, it's okay Lyssa, 'cause no one's EVER too big for swings, and that swingset is really strong. Do you know what it's made of?"
Lyssa: "Yes, it's made of metal. It's realll strong?"
Me: "Yep, that metal is really strong. It's steel. Very strong, and really hard."
Alyssa: "You know what else is strong?"
Me: "What?"
Alyssa: "RHINOS!!"
Also, apparently my aunt and uncle call Kayla 'honey' a lot. Or someone does. Because every time I said "Thank you" or "Excuse me" or asked a question, Kayla would respond appropriately (You're welcome, thank you, etc.) and then follow it up with "Honey." It was like listening to a mini Paula Dean.
My little brother turned 21 yesterday, and my other cousin turns 21 in a few weeks, so I celebrated their b days this weekend. I celebrated in spirit on Friday night, and then with them in person on Saturday night. Let's just say, I apparently had a whole text message conversation with some other peoples on Friday night that I can't actually understand now. It's seriously like reading Farsi. So I decided to stay the Sober Sister last night in College Park for Greg's b day, which was actually awesome, not only because I could watch my younger bros and cousins and their friends literally shed their dignity a little more with each drink, but also because it made me feel young and sort of hot again.
Cover charge: $10
Round of shots for everyone but me: $13
Having a 19-year-old come up to you at the bar and tell you: "You're sexier than a strawberry dipped in chocolate": PRICELESS
O, how I hate to see the weekends go. |
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| We could use a few new holidays |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|03:00 pm] |
In this Lenten season, it has come to my attention that we in the United States of Awesome could use a few new holidays. Holidays that include everyone, non-discriminating holidays in which all can indulge in good food and good times.
I was in church a couple of weeks ago when the priest announced that it was World Marriage Day. Now, the reasons for me being in church that day are a different blog entry entirely, but let's just say that I am not opposed, morally, to playing wingwoman in a religious setting. (I mean, aren't all Catholic and Jewish moms playing wingwomen in all settings, especially at church breakfasts or Seders? Shalom to that.)
Anyways, as I was kneeling there and praying (and by praying I mean giving my friend the side-eye and stifling laughter as he checked out the chicks lining up for communion) and the priest said "Let's pray for the married couples, blah blah blah," I couldn't help but think...
It's NOT the married people who need them some prayers for God's sake. It's us SINGLE people. Who's praying for us? (besides our Jewish and Catholic moms, and possibly roommates who'd like us to move the F out) NO ONE! And we really need it, because, let's face it, while singledom has its benefits, being married would probably be the shiznit. A constant source of booty, someone with whom to split chores, have conversations over breakfast, take vacations with, possibly pop out some kids but not pay for them on your own, an excuse to get a bunch of presents from your relatives for all the wedding-related festivities, an excuse to spend at least one night photographed constantly with a blow-up doll (AM I just talking about the bachelor/ette party? only time will tell....), possibly buy two houses (I know I won't be affording that on my own), take care of the dog(s) when I have one has to travel, someone to wipe your butt for you when you get old.
I dunno, it doesn't sound so bad to me--so why am I going to pray for them?
And isn't it ironic that a guy who's not ALLOWED to marry would ask us to pray for them? Aren't he and I in the same boat? We're probably both just looking for a good man...
Really, though, I think a holiday like this would be beneficial for us all. What is there not to love about penis? Some of us have them, and should celebrate them; others of us like them, and use them, even if we don't physically have them on our persons; and still others, although the real thing doesn't appeal, use fake ones that are modeled after the real thing.
Of course, if penises get their own day, then I think breasteses deserve a full month.
These holidays could seriously unite us quicker than Esperanto.
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| A Letter to M's Shoes |
[Mar. 31st, 2009|11:25 am] |
Dear M's feet,
While I love the colors purple and gray and tend to wear one or the other in some way daily, I can no longer sacrifice the top of my left foot for the sake of fashion.
Your stiletto heel(s) seem to be naturally attracted to my feet. It is as if the alcohol ingested at the top of your body is reaching your heels with the same speed that R-dizzle and I grabbed the remote to change channels when we realized a "To Catch a Predator" marathon was showing Sunday night. (That is to say, the alcohol is going to your feet quickly.)
You are not alone in your blame. I believe the vodka is making my feet naturally more attracted to yours, thus positioning my feet in close vicinity to your deadly pointy stilts. Perhaps my feet slide to yours when nostalgia hits; the venues for our recent exploits (wedding, bar, house party, bar, bar...bar) have fostered a certain sense of longing to dance the running man alongside your funky chicken. Perhaps my feet gravitate towards your points of foot death when I try to replicate the Stanky Foot (or skanky leg, or whatever the hell it's called) dance and end up landing on my butt in front of all of the puma-hunters at said house party.
I have actually come to like the perpetual bruise on my foot. This weekend's bruise was gifted in the EXACT spot as the one a few weeks back. It is quite pretty: deep, dark purple on the very inside of the perfect stiletto-spiked circle; then surrounded by a light purple, indigo-bordered circle, and gradually fading to shades of gray before disappearing into the white flesh of the healthy (but for how long?) remainder of my foot.
However, it is becoming open-toe shoe season, and people are noticing the bruise. Perhaps they think I am taking up with an abusive foot fetishist. Perhaps they think it is a kickball injury (like my skill would allow for injury on the kickball field!).
But I must ask: if we are to hang out this weekend, please wear flat shoes of which the sole is made of pillows.
Thank you,
Angie's feet |
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| The ten things to know/expect when headed to Chile & Argentina |
[Mar. 27th, 2009|05:26 pm] |
Well hola, y'all.
Back from abroad, and definitely in that phase of returning that fills one with sadness and longing for the land from which she returned, where she looked like no one, didn't speak the language, and looks about 20 lbs heavier than actual in all pictures.
Okay, maybe I'm the only person that has a phase like that.
But alas, here I am. Instead of recounting every story that people who weren't with me would smile outwardly and internally roll their eyes when I recite, I'm gonna limit the retelling of my experience to a Top Ten (okay, twelve or thirteen) list of sorts.
Thus, I present: What you needs to know when headed to Santiago and Buenos Aires
(or, how I stopped being ashamed and started to love my inner gringo)
- Go to Miami on the way to South America. Not only is it a great way to remember your favorite colors from 1987 (PASTELS, please!) and start randomly singing the Miami Vice theme song (and see Butt Josh and Butt Kelly!), but it will also help your Spanish language abilities.
- You know how people start lining up for their seating group to be called to the plane, even though they're like in group 5 and the
stewardess flight attendant is still calling those arrogant First class people that look all smug at you when your carry-on (accidentally) hits them in the side of the head as they recline? Anyways, well, get ready for people who are the exact opposite. Because South Americans don't line up in advance or show up for anything early. Like, ever. Nothing even starts until midnight (by nothing I mean parties, clubs, your classes). - Eat everything. But for everything that has "choclo" in it, drink some wine or beer (or coffee, unless you're in Santiago, because you won't find any coffee there). Because choclo does not mean chocolate (like perhaps I thought). Choclo means 'corn.' And lots of choclo means not making a poopy for a while. Unless you have wine (Camenere is a red that is amazing and ONLY available in Chile, as far as I know) or some beer. O, and they put lemon juice and salt in their beers when they make a party in Chile. So get ready for beer that sort of reminds you of bootlef Tequiza. But is really cheap, and worth it.
- If you are blonde, you will stand out. It doesn't matter how much (or how little) Spanish you hablan. You will stand out everywhere. You will get used to the kissy noises. You will find a main gay with whom you will bond over your mutual love of Madonna and Britney Spears.
- Santiagans are like Baltimorons. Santiago is like B more in a lot of ways: it's sort of dirty, has problem areas here and there (think blue light areas, but with mountains in the background), needs to fix its schools, is full of colleges and unis, and has a lot of hipsters. LOTS. Santiagans will straight up tell you, "We're not perfect. We're no Buenos Aires." And then they will say, "But screw them." So I liked 'em.
- You will arrive at the airport to catch your flight to Buenos Aires. In the cab ride with possibly the only female cab driver that exists in all of Chile, you will know in your mind and your heart (and your wallet) that the Chilean with whom you just met lied to you about the length of time it would take to get to the airport. You will say "moy rapido" to the chick driver and not be sure that she understands you, and judging by her pace and the fact that an Alpaca just passed you on the road, you will KNOW she doesn't understand you. You will miss your plane and spend the next few hours wandering the airport in search of some more choclo.
- Buenos Aires will be as pompous but as awesome as everyone has told you. You may attend, for instance, a random expat event at which you will talk with a table full of people. When you begin to describe said people, it will sound like you are about to recite a bad joke: "I was hanging with a Brit, a Scotsman, two Argentines*, an Irish chick, and another American." You will learn that people from any country will act a fool if the drinks they are consuming are green and cheap. You will stay out farrrrr too late for to make your business meeting the next morning a pleasure. *People=Argentines; adjective=Argentinean. (ex: an Argentina, an Argentinean person)
- You may think to yourself, after walking countless miles around BA, that it will be convenient to wash your disgustingly black feet in the bidet in your bathroom at your cute B & B. You will be wrong. The black sludge from your feet will grossify the bidet, but you're not really gonna want to wipe it out, but you're also not gonna want the maid to think you excrete black tar from your bum bum. Some things, one can only learn from experience. You will use your bidet for its intended purposes, though, because BA has some of the world's best coffee and, when combined with its wine, you will feel that you are on a colon-cleansing diet.
- People will speak to you as Americans speak to foreigners. If you don't speak Spanish and they don't speak English, they will speak very slowly and loudly, as if you are a deaf 4 year old. And you will smile and nod and actually start to understand them (even though they sound Italian) after a little while.
- You may go to a club and find that all Europeans dance the same, everywhere. And douchebags are douchebags, everywhere. As soon as Call on Me or some Daft Punk song is played, the Euros go crazy. They pump their fists in the air. It's like the foreign equivalent of being @ Majerk's or in Canton somewhere, and Rihanna coming on, and all the girls screaming excitedly, "OMG it's my SOOoooonnggg!!!" In a related note, I taught some Santiagans the Booty Call. I actually didn't know that the Booty Call was region-specific, but apparently it's a Baltimore thing. Who knew. I just thought it was something classy people did at classy weddings. Like all the ones I go to, or have the privilege of being in.
- Items and activities popular in South America, and that I wish would appear (or make a comeback) here:
- Scrunchies
- Slouch socks
- The color teal
- Fanny packs (people had some seriously designer ones there too--I have possibly never been more entertained than when watching these chicks dance with their fanny packs on, and the packs flapping up and down on the hips. Classic.)
- PDA--like SERIOUS pda. People are hooking up all over the place. (I look crappy in that pic--as in all the others--but notice the humping couple in the background.) I think I figured out why--people live with their families until they're like 30 or married. I guess it's too disrespectful to take the bf or the gf home and hook up with them there. O, that park bench/grassy lot/wall of the building is a MUCH more appealing option! Let's dry hump there! I actually took a picture of people and dogs humping. Not each other, but in the same frame. (Beastiality=NOT popular there. Don't misread.)
- Staying up until 5 most days of the week and functioning like a normal human being miraculously
My flight home was with 74 naval cadets. There is no better reminder of your United Statesian-ness (they don't call us Americans) than being on a plane with that many members of the military. Pumas would have killed to be in my shoes. It was a great time, all in all. |
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| No, sexy, you can't. |
[Feb. 26th, 2009|02:11 pm] |
Driving to work today, I was enjoying my typical morning of rocking out with my coffee out to the combination of randomness that I use as my morning soundtrack. (This varies day to day, but somehow, yes somehow, I always hear a Genesis or Phil Collins song! I don't know how this is possible either, and it's not even the same station that's responsible. Sometimes it's a ballad and sometimes it's more of a SU-Su-SUDIOOOOOO thing. But it's always AWESOME.)
This morning, after my daily Collins, I heard a Ray J song. (Yes, Ray J from the skanktastic "Fo' the Love of Ray ," which is a younger and more multi-racial Crackrock of Love.) Now, I like the song, sadly, but I was intrigued by some of the lyrics (o, get ready for the intelligence!):
Sexy can i visit you at work?
When you slidin down the pole, no panties no shirt
Then you climb back up the pole
Then you stop and do the splits
Then you make that booty talk
You make me wanna get it
Can I just say, that for some reason, if a booty talks, that means one thing:
That booty is FARTING. Passing gas. Poot-ting, as Granny used to say. Breaking wind.
Because talking is making noise, and making noise out of one's butt is FARTING.
No, sexy, you can't. That's just gross.
Anyhotfartingmess, so as I came off the exit ramp and onto Dulaney Valley Road on my way to work, I was having a hard time getting in the correct lane. This Volvo wouldn't let me over. I have approximately one suburban block to make it to a left turn lane across three lanes of 8:30 (okay, 8:40ish) AM traffic. Usually I can jet across easily--let's be real, my ride's pretty sweet in that dept--but this Vovlo just blocked me like our guy friends block the advances of guys after kickball (except for I WASN'T happy about the lane blocking). So I'm looking at her, and I know I'm starting to give the stink eye. And I start doing the sweeping motion with my hands--"Move it along, lady, either in fron or behind, but I gotsta get somewhere!"--and she's still not budging. I speed up, she speeds up; I slow down, she slows down.
So I'm stink-eying and whooshing with my hands, and the lady finally looks over as I start mouthing--slowly, like in the movie montages--"Move the F**K up or back so I can get the F**K over, lady!"
And her eyes meet mine.
And mine eyes meets hers.
And I realize.....
It's our Dean of Undergraduate Students. O yea, she's making the same left as me. And she's, like, my boss' boss.
And I have a yellow car. So I stand out.
Yes, I have realized I may be out of a job tomorrow. But you know, o well. At least I got to make my left turn. And my coworker brought in donuts. YAY!!!(??)
O, and a fun little thing to find out if you are still youthful:
http://trainhorns.net/sound/
I am. But I'm sure this is a huge scam.
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| Portland is white & other observations |
[Feb. 23rd, 2009|12:59 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  energetic | ] |
Just got back from a conference trip to Portland, Oregon. Portland's quite a nice city. It's also a city of dichotomy. Let me explain:
Portland's Dichotomies o'fun| Very clean & eco-friendly | EVERYONE smokes. Like, I think a 2-year-old asked me for a light. (And I don't smoke.) | | Great, souped-up cars (WRXs, etc.) | I only saw old men driving these cars. Like OLD men. Like in their 80s. I found this funny. (Obviously) | | Lots of homeless people | Never saw homeless people at night. This place must have a lot of shelters or lying homeless people. | | GREAT shopping. The best Nordstrom Rack ever. | Everyone is wearing Crocs or jeans that don't fit (from 1989) or falling-apart Birkenstocks. |
Overall, though, a great city to visit for a hot minute. I also got to go to a Trailblazer's game (all-inclusive suites, and since all the men in my field are gay or married, I didn't have to sleep with anyone for said suite tickets) and see Steve Blake and Brandon Roy kick butt.
It took a while to get to Portland. And you know what that means: fun times in the airport and airplane! One of my fave subjects about which to blog.
Nothing notable to report on the way to Portland. I did sit near one of the cutest but loudest kids I've ever met on a plane, and paid $11.00 for the most craptastic portabello mushroom sandwich ever in the Denver airport. On the way back, however, is when I learned a very valuable lesson:
PUT THE ARMREST DOWN BEFORE YOUR ROW-MATE ARRIVES.
And, place your arm on said armrest so neighbor row-mate cannot commandeer.
Allow me to expand:
I'm sitting in my seat, on the next-to-last leg of the journey home (Portland to Chicago OHare), rather pleased by the fact that my flights are on time and not cancelled despite the snowstorm in Chi-town. I smell, I'm tired, but I'm in a pleasant mood. I have two free seats next to me (I always, always go window, 'cause I rarely have to pee) and so I know it'll probably be a couple.
I see a couple approaching. The woman, approximately 320 lbs, is wearing a red velour sweater-ish-thing with red feathers. It's like her collar is a boa that tried to break loose and she used a glue-gun to permanently torture it to stick to her prepasterous bosom. She's complaining like it's her job about the flight being full, no room in the overhead compartments (like she could fit more than one outfit in a carry-on anyways), and whether or not they'll be able to get to New Orleans.
Hubby is about 10 inches shorter than boa-lady, bald, and possibly 150 lbs lighter in weight. He is quiet. He has realized his wrong in being with this chick, I think. He is watching her as her red feathers smack the faces and brush the sides of the people unfortunate enough to have aisle seats.
So I eye them approaching. O, I know they're looking at their tickets and seein 18B & 18C.
Because I'm 18A.
So they scoot into my row, and I smile (sort of because I'm afraid of being eaten, but generally because I've had some of the best convos on airplanes), and they do not smile back, and I think, okay, maybe I can at least steal her US Weekly and People magazine for the final leg of my trip. (Irony: The covers of both focus on Jessica Simpson's recent "fat" period, and one has a whole section on which clothes JS could wear to make herself look slimmer. I'm guessing red velour feathered items are not included on this list.)
So the woman gets into the seat. It's then, as her thigh manages its way over to my seat, that I realize I have not yet put my armrest down. Now, how to do this tactfully without saying, "Excuse me, could you move your thigh so that I can put the armrest down and listen to the United airlines radio?" knowing full-well that she cannot move her thigh.
It was about this time I also started feeling sorry for her jeans.
So, while she's bitching hubby out and texting like crazy, I see hubby pull out a map of New Orleans. She takes it from him (snatches it from him, actually) and starts opening it and pointing out things they're going to do. I see this, and decide to make convo (perhaps leading up to "Can I put the armrest down").
Me: So, you're headed to New Orleans? It's a GREAT town.
Boa lady: We hope so.
Me: There's a great ghost tour in the French Quarter. And a great beignet shop near--
Hubby: O, we're not doing touristy things. Her sister lives there. It'll be our first time.
Boa: Yea, we're staying away from the tourist places.
So on my face, I smile and go, "O, okay." In my mind I'm thinking:
You're going to New Orleans FOR Mardi Gras, and looking at a tourist map, and wearing a RED FEATHERED VELOUR SWEATER, but you're staying away from tourist things (even though I'm not telling you tourist things). (AND, I know for sure, there's no way boa is staying away from the beignets. Just sayin.)
Fine. So they jabber on and on about the flight being late and only having 20 minutes to make the connection. Whilst they jabber, I decide to make my move because, hey, I don't give a crap if I make this ungrateful disheveled-parrot-looking woman and Mr. Clean uncomfortbale. I'm certainly not gonna talk to them on the flight anymore, so I want to get access to my headphones and watch some 30 Rock and listen to awesome airplane radio.
So I bring the armrest down.
She gives me a look somewhat close to the look my mom gave us when we used to laugh in church when my Dad would fall on his way to the altar to read from the Bible. It's not a pleasant look.
The armrest comes to a screeching halt as it hits her Jordache denim thigh. It has to sort of rest there for the rest of the 4 hour flight. I have to wait for her to turn a page in her US weekly and casually but QUICKLY slip my finger under her tickly feather wrist (I get the sense her sweater was supposed to be flowing, but it was sort of taut on her wrist like a scrunchie) to change the station or adjust the volume. She never gets up to pee or anything, so the armrest just kinda hunkers down on her thigh (not helped by the weight of her arm).
And for anyone out there who thinks I'm hatin on big girls, let me just say that I think my thighs have seen a time when they crept outside the natural boundaries of a plane seat (especially on the Scandinavian airlines I flew in Europe--talk about skinny bitches).
But I sat aisle seats then.
And I would have NEVER worn a red velour feathered sweater or turned down suggestions from a seat mate whose armrest I planned to commandeer.
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| Goucher: still weird, more expensive |
[Feb. 15th, 2009|07:29 pm] |
Friday, as I was walking back across campus from a meeting, I see a student sitting on a curb near my building. She's wearing a bike helmet, but not near a bike. Her outfit was not particularly bike-friendly (skirt, weird hipster boots, blazer with patches and badges on it). She's wheezing. She has a bunch of bags from CVS (which also makes the whole ensemble seem less bike-friendly), and she has a flower in the helmet. Like, I think the helmet was actually a part of her outfit.
I ask her if she's okay. She says, slightly perkily for someone who looks so dissheveled, "I'm great! THANKS! It's so nice outside."
O, and I know that in a year or two, I'll be the lucky one trying to figure out where this hapless chick will be able to spend some time abroad. (Note to self: Won't actually be too hard, since her unbruched orange hair will make her stand out in most countries that don't begin with "Ire" and end with "land.")
And so, for all of those people who think Goucher is changing, is more for wanna-be-frat-boys and lacrosstitutes, I say:
No worries, the kids are as weird as they were when most of us paid a lot less for tuition. |
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| The flu is a great diet |
[Feb. 8th, 2009|01:39 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | sad | ] |
I've been laid up in pretty bad shape for the last few days. Apparently, after interacting with about 300 or so people on Wednesday at a work event, I caught a nassssty stomach flu. THIS is what you want to wish on your worst enemies and exes. And the thing of it was, the whole time I was in that classy position of being on a toilet with a trash can between my legs, all I could think was:
I can't remember the last time I've been like this without it being even a little self-imposed.
I had had the most wholesome evening on Wednesday. It was Mommom's birthday, and I offered to make her dinner. All she wanted was grilled cheese and tomato soup. So I had a lovely dinner of grilled cheese, tomato soup, and spinach salad with my grandmother. SHE had a glass of wine; I had a half of a Berger cookie to finish. And I woke up at 3 AM and, well, that was that.
But I don't wanna dwell on what did or didn't end up coming out of me (well, it actually seemed that there was nothing that DIDN'T come out of me in the next three days--vomit, poo, tears, snot, phlegm, you name it---how am I not married yet?!) during that time. All I really wanted to say was, as a result of my sickness, I could barely read--the fever was making my head and eyes hurt--so I ended up sleeping and hanging out in the bathroom and on the couch, most of the time, but also watching some extra quality TV.
First off, a friend sent me this. O thank goodness. It was the only thing that made me smile on Thursday: http://www.theonion.com/content/video/in_the_know_are_reality_shows
(I, personally, DO believe that reality shows are setting the bar too high for skanks. But those reality shows haven't met some of my family or neighbors yet!!)
Second--and lastly, because methinks my stomach is losing the battle to the English muffin I ate this morning to break me fast--is that I was watching TV last night (Cheaters, if you must know--it somehow makes me feel better about myself) and I saw an ad for "Universal Technical Institute." And, o yes, if you must know, they DO have a web site.
They want you to visit www.UTI.edu.
That's right. They named their school UTI.
I really couldn't make this up. |
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| Douchebaggery in large quantities |
[Jan. 13th, 2009|10:05 am] |
I am hoping I can call Comcast and, after bitching them out for their craptastic Internet service, ask them to remove VH1 from my channel watching.
Here's the thing. As I revealed last week, I usually have a sequence of channels through which I switch before settling on something that makes for interesting viewing whilst I do some Pilates or yoga. Last night, I think I rearranged the sequence, because I actually went to VH1 BEFORE Discovery Health. I am a bit ashamed of myself.
So, alas, I actually saw some of Real Chance of Love--the finale. I'd like to say that I watched this trainwreck of a show as a bonding experiment with the kids from my tutoring group. We meet on Mondays, and when walking them home last night (I had the privilege of walking with three 13-year-old girls), they were all talking about the Real Chance finale, which came on at 9 pm last night. A transcript of the convo:
Andrea: O no we didn't! It's after 8. I gotta get home, I need to see who wins Real Chance.
Chantel: O, he better not choose that nasty-a$# girl! I love some Chance.
Me: Was he the one making fun of the girls with some chin hair? (yes--I MAY have seen an episode before)
Bria: Ewww, Ms. Angie, she so nasty. It's on at 9, we didn't miss it.
Andrea: Real's hair is so pretty.
So, really, I watched it in the spirit of having more in common with my tutoring kids. And it was everything I hoped it would be--skankery, douchebaggery, and all-out grossness. So these dudes get a pretty seet deal--they hook up with like 5 girls each, all of whom pledge their undying love for these douchebag brothers, and do sexy times with them CONSECUTIVE nights in a row. I mean, really? Maybe I'm just bitter because Real's hair is smoother and longer than mine, but it was gross. Then, the one guy didn't choose anyone. HA! You shoulda seen these skank's faces. They gave it up, and got nothing. Well, except a lifetime contract to ANY and ALL VH1's future reality shows. O look, ladies--I think I hear the Rock of Love Bus[ted] of Fugness knocking on your cheap hotel room door.
Annnnnyhotskankymess, it's actually not Real Chance of Love I wanna talk about. Right after that, a show on which the contestants EPITOMIZE douchebaggery came on. I think DLISTED describes it best, so I won't even go into detail here. Point is, we've all went on at least one date with someone like this, OR know someone like this who has in essence catalyzed our decision never to go out with someone like this.
When I saw these guys, I immediately felt like I was on the dance floor of MaJerk's, Mother's, Mad River, Rec room, and/or Coburn's. Seriously. I'm surprised the formerly-douchy host of the show didn't pass out from the overwhelming scent of 40 different AXe body sprays that perpetually lingers in any Fed Hill, Towson, or Canton bar.
Thanks, VH1, for defining for me exactly who I will never let my friends or myself date.
And I promise I won't post about TV again for a while. At least not until I see another show (no doubt on VH1) that blows all these others out of the water in unbeleiveableness.
See, networks--this is what happens when shows like The Wire and The Shield get taken away from us within one season of each other!!!!
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| VH1 is awesome |
[Jan. 5th, 2009|04:57 pm] |
I think I'm one of those people who say horrible things about Reality TV, but get sucked in rather quickly when I catch one that could turn out to be, for lack of a better term....
A Big Trashy Hot Mess.
Well, thank goodness networks like VH1 exist. They NEVER disappoint. I turn on the TV last night, and switch to Food Network (hoping to catch top Chef or an infomercial by that guy who's always screaming but has cool gadgets I'd use once and then forget about in my cupboard). No leads there, so VH1 is the next stop after I find that Discovery and Discovery Health are both showing programs about subjects I've already discovered on those channels in depth (and, to an extent, in my own experience, being vertically challenged and having lived in Denmark) : Dwarfism and Obesity.
Well, what a prize VH1 had for me! They now have a show called "Teen Idols: What Crap Are They Trying to Get Paid For Now" or something to that effect. I guess they're all there for a purpose beyond my entertainment, but I wasn't really paying attention to their ultimate goals. I was too distracted by Eric Nies' Goucher-like hair and ensemble, and the fact that one of the dudes--Jeremy Jackson--is apparently only 27 but is already washed up and has lived the life of a Hampden junkie for like 10 years. Annnnnyhotwashedupmess, it was GREAT television. It made me think of all the people I'd like to get updates on:
Jeremy London (and his lesser known twin)
Jem
Scott Wolf
Claire Danes (and that hot mess that played her main gay)
Beavis & Butthead
O, I could go on. But I think I'll just stop here because, well, I'm sure I could go on forever, but they would end up being "that chick who sang that song" and "that dude on that show that was in seventeen that one time."
The best part of the show last night, though (BESIDES the fact that it was on right before Rock of Love: Bus[ted]) was Eric Nies' opening line to all the other formerly hot dudes on the show:
It's important to always have a clean colon.
AMEN. I always knew Eric and I were soul/poopy mates. |
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