Monday, August 9, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Forgone Conclusions
I was born on February 27th 1981. THE best day of the entire year. Being born on the 27th of February has brought about a re-occurrence in my life that I find rather humorous. Its akin to the sort of human behavior where if a person is tall...they must have played basketball, if a person is as good looking as my brother...they are clearly vapid and dumb, and if a person is gay...they must know Charles, your mother's friend's sister's hair stylist.
Approximately 7 out of 10 times that I tell someone my birthday - they respond with "Wow! You were almost a Leap Year Baby." Well golly gee YOU'RE right! It was a narrow margin for sure...I only missed being a leap year baby by 364 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes. See the thing about Leap Years that makes them so special...they only happen every 4 years. And usually the number of the year in which February has a 29th day...is a multiple of 4.
Just in case you are prone to silly comments like the afore mentioned, here is a list of Leap Years:
Leap Years 1900 - 2400
Approximately 7 out of 10 times that I tell someone my birthday - they respond with "Wow! You were almost a Leap Year Baby." Well golly gee YOU'RE right! It was a narrow margin for sure...I only missed being a leap year baby by 364 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes. See the thing about Leap Years that makes them so special...they only happen every 4 years. And usually the number of the year in which February has a 29th day...is a multiple of 4.
Just in case you are prone to silly comments like the afore mentioned, here is a list of Leap Years:
Leap Years 1900 - 2400
| 1904 1908 1912 1916 1920 1924 1928 1932 1936 1940 1944 1948 1952 1956 1960 1964 1968 1972 1976 1980 1984 1988 1992 1996 2000 | 2004 2008 2012 2016 2020 2024 2028 2032 2036 2040 2044 2048 2052 2056 2060 2064 2068 2072 2076 2080 2084 2088 2092 2096 | 2104 2108 2112 2116 2120 2124 2128 2132 2136 2140 2144 2148 2152 2156 2160 2164 2168 2172 2176 2180 2184 2188 2192 2196 | 2204 2208 2212 2216 2220 2224 2228 2232 2236 2240 2244 2248 2252 2256 2260 2264 2268 2272 2276 2280 2284 2288 2292 2296 | 2304 2308 2312 2316 2320 2324 2328 2332 2336 2340 2344 2348 2352 2356 2360 2364 2368 2372 2376 2380 2384 2388 2392 2396 2400 |
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Chew On This
The Gristle
I love the movie The Great Outdoors - have you seen it? It’s one of those movies that I remember watching over and over again with my brother when we were little and to this day we still recite random scenes from it and no one around us has any clue as to what the heck we are talking about. Our favorite scene is when John Candy attempts to devour the old 96er. Just when he thinks he's conquered the massive slab of beef, the chef looks on and tells him he's not done...there's still some gristle on his plate.
Sometimes I wonder if my grandmother was part Native American - much like they used every part of a buffalo...Betty Luft, too, could never be accused of being wasteful.
My grandmother was a great cook (or so I thought until I met other cooks.) She made the best thanksgiving meals. And what she did with the leftovers - it was like magic. She made a turkey noodle soup that would make your toes curl. There was one batch that I remember fondly - I was chowin' down, powering thru the bowl like a Hoover, a lil
sweat on my brow, nose beginning to run, and soup splatter on my chin...all of the sudden my hard work came to a screeching halt. My tongue detected something gelatinous yet rigid. I swirled it around in my mouth a bit while I tried to determine what to do with it. Tossed the bit to my back right molars - it resisted mastication and rebounded around my teeth like a bouncy ball. My brain went into warfare mode - I told myself it was a piece of celery that didn't get cooked all the way thru and I should just swallow it whole. And so I
did. After choking it down, I turned to my grandmother and said "Mommom is there any chance there is some gristle in the soup?" Mommom turned around from her station at the stove and as she used an acrylic nail on one hand to clean out the tasty morsels beneath an
acrylic nail on the opposite hand - and drop them into her mouth, she replied "Of course there's gristle in there! That's what gives it the flavor"
The Lard
I used to be the type of person that would steal one of your fries, a spoonful of
your ice cream, a sip of your drink... - when you weren't looking. However, I am now reformed bite stealer. One night after my dad made wagon wheel surprise for dinner, (Recipe for Wagon Wheel Surprise: ground beef, tomato sauce and wagon wheel pasta - not sure where the surprise was) he cleaned up the kitchen and then walked out. Seeing him leave, I stealthily snuck into the kitchen. I saw a small bowl if ice cream sitting on the counter. I figured he was in the bathroom so I had approx. 4 minutes to steal a bite. I hurriedly grabbed a spoon and carved myself a scoop. I wish I had been more cognizant of the fact that the ice cream didn't behave like ice cream normally does when you manipulate it in a bowl - ya know how the whole gooey mound shifts about a bit. I put the spoon up to my mouth and right as my lips were pulling the "ice cream" off the spoon...my dad entered the kitchen and said "Ew. Why are you eating the congealed grease from the ground beef?" My lips had a fatty sheen on them for the next hour while I scrubbed them raw.
The Hair
Remember when Cosi was XandO? No one ever knew if it was pronounced Zando or X and O. One day back in college, a couple friends, my roommate and I visited the XandO on the mainline. We got some snacks and the others got coffee. I don't drink coffee, so I went to the complimentary water cooler (like the ones that get dumped on coaches heads) that was by the register and tried to fill up a cup. It was empty. I got the attention of, Cindy, an adorable blonde barista with long curly blonde hair. Ahhh, Cindy - I’ll never forget you. I asked Cindy to fill up the water cooler and she graciously did. I then greedily filled up my cup and began to chug it right there. With each swallow I took I felt a tickle on my lip. It took about 7 swallows for me to become alarmed by this tickle...but as soon as I did, I put down my cup and in a pincher action grabbed at my lip. It was then that the horror set in; there was a hair between my index finger and my thumb. As I pulled the hair from my mouth I felt it creep up my esophagus. The hair was so long that at one point I was retrieving it with the hand over hand maneuver. When at last I had gotten it all out, what lay coiled in my hand was a beautiful long curly piece of blonde Cindy hair. I've never fully recovered. I still dream sometimes that I'm choking on hair and that no matter how much I pull out of my mouth there's a never ending pile in my stomach. Thanks Cindy! Xoxo
Friday, June 12, 2009
I used to work in a factory...
Today, I got in my car to go pick up my nephew at the airport. When I got in, I saw a silver paperclip on the seat. So, I did what I normally do with every paperclip I find - I put it in my mouth.
I've been putting paperclips in my mouth for as long as I can remember. I would unfold the paperclip and then bend it into a horse shoe shape. Then, insert in my mouth on my upper teeth - pretending I wore braces. I would also take a pair of sunglasses and pop out the lenses - like I had real glasses. I don't know why I wanted glasses and braces so badly - because eventually I did get both - at the same time - and look how well that worked for me.
**It's hard to see, but trust me - I have braces, glasses (so big my cheeks had 20/20 vision), and a perm (just on top) -- Sexy!)
Anyway, I get in my car and I put the paperclip in my mouth. As soon as I do - a little voice in my head says "Don't put that paperclip in your mouth. I used to work at a paperclip factory - and while all the boxes of paperclips would lay open in the factory before they would get shipped out - you could see cockroaches and mice running all over them." Direct quote from my dear, sweet, nolongerwithus grandmother.
It gave me a warm fuzzy feeling to know that even 6 years after she passed away - Mommom is still with me - protecting me from bug and rodent feces in my mouth. And as I drove, another memory of Mommom entered my mind.
One afternoon, many many moons ago, I sat on the porch with Mommom and her friend Rusty (who's hair and lipstick matched her name). Before Rusty left - she caught a smoke in the driveway of Mommom's house. After our goodbyes, Mommom went inside and Rusty chucked her butt in the driveway. I was curious - so I went out into the driveway - made sure the coast was clear - grabbed the (still lit) butt and put it to my lips. Shiiiit burned. And right as my lips were stinging from the hot remnants of Rusty's Virginia Slim - Mommom walked out and barked at me "put that down". I obliged and walked back in with my head hung low. Mommom then imparted this advice on me "I once worked in a cigarette factory - at the end of the day we would sweep the floors and use the piles of fallen tobacco and dirt - to make up the last batch of cigarettes."
While reminiscing about life's little factory lessons - I recalled another moment. I took a can of Pepsi out of Mommom's closet - cracked it open - and started to pour it in my face (well not actually in my face - I poured it in my mouth - but I like to say face better - i.e. I want to make out with your face). Mommom catches me doing so and whips around to grab the can out of my hands. She proceeds to tell me "Never drink out of the can and if you do, make sure you rinse the top of the can first. I used to work in a Pepsi factory and the tops of those cans are disgusting - trust me."
These were all tidbits of sage advice - and I really appreciate Mommom looking out for what goes in my mouth - but I'm confused was she the ultimate factory girl - or was she just yanking my chain.
I guess we will never know. (I mean that's not true at all - I'll just ask my dad if his mom worked in every factory east of the Mississippi.)
Which reminds me of this one summer when I used to work in a factory....
I've been putting paperclips in my mouth for as long as I can remember. I would unfold the paperclip and then bend it into a horse shoe shape. Then, insert in my mouth on my upper teeth - pretending I wore braces. I would also take a pair of sunglasses and pop out the lenses - like I had real glasses. I don't know why I wanted glasses and braces so badly - because eventually I did get both - at the same time - and look how well that worked for me.
**It's hard to see, but trust me - I have braces, glasses (so big my cheeks had 20/20 vision), and a perm (just on top) -- Sexy!)Anyway, I get in my car and I put the paperclip in my mouth. As soon as I do - a little voice in my head says "Don't put that paperclip in your mouth. I used to work at a paperclip factory - and while all the boxes of paperclips would lay open in the factory before they would get shipped out - you could see cockroaches and mice running all over them." Direct quote from my dear, sweet, nolongerwithus grandmother.
It gave me a warm fuzzy feeling to know that even 6 years after she passed away - Mommom is still with me - protecting me from bug and rodent feces in my mouth. And as I drove, another memory of Mommom entered my mind.
One afternoon, many many moons ago, I sat on the porch with Mommom and her friend Rusty (who's hair and lipstick matched her name). Before Rusty left - she caught a smoke in the driveway of Mommom's house. After our goodbyes, Mommom went inside and Rusty chucked her butt in the driveway. I was curious - so I went out into the driveway - made sure the coast was clear - grabbed the (still lit) butt and put it to my lips. Shiiiit burned. And right as my lips were stinging from the hot remnants of Rusty's Virginia Slim - Mommom walked out and barked at me "put that down". I obliged and walked back in with my head hung low. Mommom then imparted this advice on me "I once worked in a cigarette factory - at the end of the day we would sweep the floors and use the piles of fallen tobacco and dirt - to make up the last batch of cigarettes."
While reminiscing about life's little factory lessons - I recalled another moment. I took a can of Pepsi out of Mommom's closet - cracked it open - and started to pour it in my face (well not actually in my face - I poured it in my mouth - but I like to say face better - i.e. I want to make out with your face). Mommom catches me doing so and whips around to grab the can out of my hands. She proceeds to tell me "Never drink out of the can and if you do, make sure you rinse the top of the can first. I used to work in a Pepsi factory and the tops of those cans are disgusting - trust me."
These were all tidbits of sage advice - and I really appreciate Mommom looking out for what goes in my mouth - but I'm confused was she the ultimate factory girl - or was she just yanking my chain.
I guess we will never know. (I mean that's not true at all - I'll just ask my dad if his mom worked in every factory east of the Mississippi.)
Which reminds me of this one summer when I used to work in a factory....
Thursday, June 11, 2009
UPDATE to Acne
First re-read Acne
"So, I just called Proactive to cancel my subscription because I've decided that I'm done with acne. Mind over matter. (I'll let you know how it works and if acne is done with me.)"
It pains me to say Sheena was right. I'm so pissed. I went crawling back to Proactive with my tail between my legs. 10 YEARS!!! 10 years after Acne is suppose to stop. But I guess the bright-side of still looking like a greasy puberty teen is - wait I haven't found the bright-side yet. I'll let you know when I do.
It pains me to say Sheena was right. I'm so pissed. I went crawling back to Proactive with my tail between my legs. 10 YEARS!!! 10 years after Acne is suppose to stop. But I guess the bright-side of still looking like a greasy puberty teen is - wait I haven't found the bright-side yet. I'll let you know when I do.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
The Extra Mile Ends Here.
I'd like to think I go the extra mile. I'll hold a door open for just about anyone...well not people in wheel chairs, the elderly, or women with strollers because I think it's entertaining to watch them struggle.
Seriously though, I hold doors open (and normally get stuck holding the door for as long as it takes for the entire population of Rhode Island to egress the building)...I say 'bless you' when complete strangers sneeze...I only spit my gum in trash cans because I think about how much it would suck if someone got it stuck on their shoe...just the other day I let a girl use the bathroom before me at a bar (but I had ulterior motives...she was a 10 that made Megan Fox look like a 4)
I'm generally on the look out for good Karma. Love to 'pay it forward'. Always try to treat others like I would want to be treated....blah blah blah.
Recently, I realized that I have a flaw. I know I know - it was a shocking realization for me too.
On my ride to and from work I pass exactly 2 McDonalds and 1 Burger King. They are very busy. The McDonald's in the Andorra shopping center is exceptionally busy. You know the one...across from the massive fitness club.
Well, I've realized I am incapable of letting anyone out of those parking lots. Normally, I always let people merge into traffic in front of me. But for these Fast-Foodies...I just can't do it. I get so angry that they are dining at these deathstaurants and throwing caution to the wind with their health...that I don't think they deserve to be let out. They should have to sit that extra 5 minutes as everyone passes by and stairs at them, pointing, laughing, shaking their heads in disapproval. My extra mile ends right before the exit lane of the drive-thru.
Don't get me wrong...this isn't a size thing...I'm not hating on the BBW's or BBM's. It's a health thang. I wouldn't let myself out...and I wouldn't want you to let me out either...if/when I was careless enough to put that crap in my mouth.
I'm not the picture of health (well maybe I am, but its a facade) and I certainly like to indulge in a french fry here or there. At least once a year, I admit, I dine at the afore mentioned deathstaurants...but that's why the 'late night' window was created, people...so that you can sneak in and out of these Scarlet Letter Diners veiled in the black of night.
There's a few new social mores that I think people need to add to the list:
1. Smoking. Its not cool. Catch your butts in private.
2. Texting while driving. Too dangerous. (btw I sent/received 3,481 texts in April, about 116 a day.)
3. Letting the water run while you brush your teeth. Sooo not green.
4. Being caught at an Adult Bookstore when you're a dad. Kinda creepy...sorry, but it is.
5. Eating at a fast food restaurant. Late Night, do it Late Night.
Don't Be This Guy! And if you are...don't expect me to let you out into traffic.
P.s. After watching the movie 'Super Size Me'...I immediately left the house...and went to the closest McDonald's drive-thru. That's a true story.
Monday, April 27, 2009
I Am My Biggest Fan. And Sometimes It Hurts.
If you know me...you know that I'm a pretty huge fan of...me.
I was just in the bathroom at work. And due to my over-the-top vanity...I ended up jamming my finger and getting my pants wet right at that curious um-did-she-just-pee-her-pants spot.
I have been working out a fair bit, lately. So...while I was in the bathroom I looked in the mirror to fix my hair a bit and I ended up catching a glance of some new definition in my bicep. Naturally, I roll my sleeves up and begin to flex...while adoring myself in the mirror.
About 30 seconds in, my little self admiration session was abruptly drawn to a close. The handle on the door turned...someone was walking in!!! I had a mere millisecond to bring my arms down to a normal height, unroll my sleeves, and begin to wash my hands...before the woman rounding the corner of the door saw me being a complete narcissistic whore.
I dove for the sink...and as I dove my flip flops began to fight with one another. To avoid tripping and smashing my face on the faux marble counter top...resulting in the loss of my two front teeth...all because of my obsessive love affair with myself...I extended my left arm to catch myself.
Unfortunately, all my fingers weren't in agreement at the time and I ended up jamming my index finger. Then my body slammed against the counter...which had a puddle of water right at the lip of the sink left from the slovenly women that share the restroom on my floor, which is how my jeans got wet in the afore mentioned "curious" spot.
I was just in the bathroom at work. And due to my over-the-top vanity...I ended up jamming my finger and getting my pants wet right at that curious um-did-she-just-pee-her-pants spot.
I have been working out a fair bit, lately. So...while I was in the bathroom I looked in the mirror to fix my hair a bit and I ended up catching a glance of some new definition in my bicep. Naturally, I roll my sleeves up and begin to flex...while adoring myself in the mirror.
About 30 seconds in, my little self admiration session was abruptly drawn to a close. The handle on the door turned...someone was walking in!!! I had a mere millisecond to bring my arms down to a normal height, unroll my sleeves, and begin to wash my hands...before the woman rounding the corner of the door saw me being a complete narcissistic whore.
I dove for the sink...and as I dove my flip flops began to fight with one another. To avoid tripping and smashing my face on the faux marble counter top...resulting in the loss of my two front teeth...all because of my obsessive love affair with myself...I extended my left arm to catch myself.
Unfortunately, all my fingers weren't in agreement at the time and I ended up jamming my index finger. Then my body slammed against the counter...which had a puddle of water right at the lip of the sink left from the slovenly women that share the restroom on my floor, which is how my jeans got wet in the afore mentioned "curious" spot.
(Speaking of the slovenly women...now this is material enough for a whole separate post...but seriously ladies...if you sprinkle when you tinkle be a sweety and wipe the damn seaty.)
Then, so flustered from the whole ordeal, I pumped some soap into my hand and grabbed a paper towel (no water involved) and left the bathroom...leaving a slimy liquid soap residue on the door handle.
I'm pretty sure I resembled this lady (tell 'em Lahg Mahg sent cha).
I probably would have been better off if I had just been caught flexing.
Then, so flustered from the whole ordeal, I pumped some soap into my hand and grabbed a paper towel (no water involved) and left the bathroom...leaving a slimy liquid soap residue on the door handle.
I'm pretty sure I resembled this lady (tell 'em Lahg Mahg sent cha).
I probably would have been better off if I had just been caught flexing.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
That Finger Was Meant For You, Buddy!
I think that there should be a flashing light....or a smoke machine....or a big neon blinking arrow that is activated when you honk your horn. Something, anything that would allow other drivers to determine where a honk originated.
I'm sick of being second in line at a stop light/intersection...the light changes and the car in front of me doesn't slam on the gas like we are in the Daytona 500, or the car in front of me isn't far enough into the intersection for making a left hand turn, or the car in front of me isn't turning right on red (despite the No Turn On Red sign)...and the car behind me starts to honk so feverishly its as if their gargantuan SUV has Tourettes. And now I'm stuck between these two road ragers. Inevitably the driver in front of me looks in the rear view mirror, locks eyes with me, and with a swift upper cut in the air...delivers me the extended middle finger. I look in my rear view mirror to see that driver avoiding eye contact and staring out the window...all innocent like.
Asshole. If you have the balls to honk your horn in disapproval of someone following the traffic laws...then your balls better be big enough to own up to your honk!
I'm sensitive. I get so hurt when I receive "the finger", unwarranted.
I'm sick of being second in line at a stop light/intersection...the light changes and the car in front of me doesn't slam on the gas like we are in the Daytona 500, or the car in front of me isn't far enough into the intersection for making a left hand turn, or the car in front of me isn't turning right on red (despite the No Turn On Red sign)...and the car behind me starts to honk so feverishly its as if their gargantuan SUV has Tourettes. And now I'm stuck between these two road ragers. Inevitably the driver in front of me looks in the rear view mirror, locks eyes with me, and with a swift upper cut in the air...delivers me the extended middle finger. I look in my rear view mirror to see that driver avoiding eye contact and staring out the window...all innocent like.
Asshole. If you have the balls to honk your horn in disapproval of someone following the traffic laws...then your balls better be big enough to own up to your honk!
I'm sensitive. I get so hurt when I receive "the finger", unwarranted.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Tears of Joy
Sometimes, I wonder if I REALLY like anything. That sounds weird, I know. But I don't jump up and down, I don't cry, I don't scream, I don't faint, I don't even pee a little when I am really excited about something. Sucks.
(Day After Stupids)
I was just watching a dvr-ed episode of Ellen. She flew 3 college kids from New Zealand to her show. She surprised them by having them actually ON the show. They came out on stage, one of the girls started crying when she saw Ellen.
I was happy for her and SO jealous. I'm glad she got to meet Ellen. If there's one person I'd like to meet (besides Khloe Kardashian) its Ellen...but I just don't think I could summon up the water works to show how much I like her.
I covet that display of emotion. I remember, when I was 13, watching footage of a Michael Jackson concert in Japan. The fans were trampling each other and in hysterics - crying, screaming, fainting.
Ever since that day...I've wanted to be a young Asian girl.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Secede - a hard word to sound out and spell
You know how Hawaii hates the USA? Well if you don't know, now you do.
Racial tension is O.O.C between native Hawaiians and non-natives (especially whites). They have a special word for white folk there, haole (pronounced "howl-ee"), and it doesn't have a loving connotation. There's talk of seceding from the union "Last star on, First star off." Military folk beaten close to death. Campers killed. Vacationers preyed upon. Blah blah blah.
I'm not hating on Hawaii...just stating the facts.
So, I was thinking today...oh man I just realized...this is the Day After Stupids.
Anyway, I was thinking if all of Hawaii's hateful feelings towards the USA is due largely in part to the fact that every single radio contest, television contest, reality voting show (Dancing With the Stars, American Idol)...makes it a point to say "Open only to legal residents of the contiguous United States."
Hawaii never gets to play in any reindeer games. I'd be a bit salty too.
Alaska doesn't get to play either, but I think they are too cold to care.
Racial tension is O.O.C between native Hawaiians and non-natives (especially whites). They have a special word for white folk there, haole (pronounced "howl-ee"), and it doesn't have a loving connotation. There's talk of seceding from the union "Last star on, First star off." Military folk beaten close to death. Campers killed. Vacationers preyed upon. Blah blah blah.
I'm not hating on Hawaii...just stating the facts.
So, I was thinking today...oh man I just realized...this is the Day After Stupids.
Anyway, I was thinking if all of Hawaii's hateful feelings towards the USA is due largely in part to the fact that every single radio contest, television contest, reality voting show (Dancing With the Stars, American Idol)...makes it a point to say "Open only to legal residents of the contiguous United States."
Hawaii never gets to play in any reindeer games. I'd be a bit salty too.
Alaska doesn't get to play either, but I think they are too cold to care.
Acne
I have to ask, was anyone else under the impression that you were only supposed to have acne from the time you hit puberty till the time you went to college. That's what I thought, anyway.
Why, at 28, do I still have breakouts? Seriously, enough is enough.
So, I just called Proactive to cancel my subscription because I've decided that I'm done with acne. Mind over matter. (I'll let you know how it works and if acne is done with me.)
The customer service gal asked me why I was canceling my subscription.
Me: Because I'm using a different face care system now.
Sheena: Which one?
Me: Meaningful Beauty
Sheena: That's not going to cure your acne.
Me: I don't have acne.
Sheena: (Sarcastic Laughter) Ok, good luck with that.
This left me with a couple questions: Can she see me? Why did she take it so personally? Is she the creator of Proactive? Is she Guthy Renker? Who the hell is Guthy Renker? Why is she such a bitch? What is Sheena TheFriendlyProactiveCustomerServiceAgent's email address? I want to send her a picture of my face.
Piss off, Sheena. Piss off, Acne.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
I Find That Hard To Swallow
I'm not good with remembering birthdays or anniversaries or any sort of occasion that customarily warrants sending a card. Chances are, if I remember the special moment...it's the day of, which doesn't allow enough time to buy a card, write a special note, get a stamp, put it in the mail, and have it arrive on time.
I've long been envious of people that are so on top of their game that they always have a card ready to go...to make their special people feel special. I keep hoping that one day it will just kick in...I'll magically have my own card library and everyone I know will know that I really am thinking of them in advance of any Facebook notification.
So. The other day I went to visit a friend. When I got there she was sitting at her computer, composing an email. She stood up from the computer to greet me and sat back down right quick, saying "Oh, while I'm thinking of it I should put a card in the mail to my friend. She broke her foot." And with that she opened a cabinet stocked with her own personal card library.
She pulled out the perfect card for this occassion. I'm not going to lie...my mouth was ajar...I was both impressed by the preparedness and amused by the ecclectic collection of cards. I mean it when I say...she has a card for every occasion. Some of her arsenal had a clear and definitive purpose.
Just in case you have a friend with a broken foot.
Just in case you want to console a friend about the passing of Fido.
Just in case you and the office mates want to salute Beverly on her milestone year?
Others were a little harder to figure out just exactly when they would be appropriate to give....
Just in case you want to thank someone for the pillow talk.
Just in case you need to give a shout out to the Holy Spirit?
Just in case you want to address the inappropriate behavior of a fellow gym member? (Its hard to see, but I promise its worth squinting to read every word.)
And then there was this - I don't even...I mean what IS the occasion this is appropriate for?
Friday, March 27, 2009
Who Knew That's Where My Ovaries Were?
Dr. C, that's what I'll call her (not for reasons of anonymity, but because I can't spell). There comes a point in every young woman's life where she needs to find a gynecologist. For me, Dr. C was my first. She was awesome. She had a bedside manner that would shame Florence Nightingale. She was genuinely interested in her patients and their lives...or at least she was a fantastic faker. In fact, on one special yearly check up (which happened to coincide with my 22 birthday) I was telling Dr. C the story of my senior thesis while she gave me an exam. She was so intrigued by my studies...she stood up from her stool, propped either of her elbows on either of my knees and rested her chin in the palm of her hands. Mind you...I was wearing stirrups at the time...and I ain't no cowgirl. She smiled at me and gave the 'active listening nod' as I told her about my research...and as her lab coat and I became intimately acquainted.
As all good things do...my time with Dr. C came to an end. I called the following year to make an appointment. The receptionist answered the phone and I identified myself and my reason for calling.
"Hi my name is Marissa. I am a patient of Dr. C's. I'd like to make an appointment for April."
"Dr. C is not available in April." Said the receptionist.
"Ok, does she have any availability in May?" I said.
"No." Said the receptionist.
"Um, ok. Can you tell me when Dr. C is available?" I asked, getting slightly impatient.
"She isn't available. She no longer works here. She moved to Maine a month ago." Replied the kind receptionist.
I hung up. I'm not sure that little game was necessary.
So, I set out to find a new gyn. A friend of a friend recommended a doctor that they thought I would be comfortable with. I called and setup an appointment with...I can't remember her name...so let's call her Dr. Moe. Why Dr. Moe? Well, I think it might have something to do with her strong resemblance to one of the Three Stooges characters.
The big day is here. I arrive on time...and of course wait 30 minutes to be seen. Finally, I am taken back to meet Dr. Moe. I first notice The good doctor's bowl haircut and then I become keenly aware of what she is wearing: a button down and a sweater vest, dress pants snug around the hips...like maybe they were meant for a man, and wing tip shoes. And then it hits me...oh I see why my friend thought I'd feel "more comfortable" with this doctor. Draw your own conclusions.
The doctor and I briefly discuss my medical history and then I am whisked away to the exam room. I am handed my paper robe and told to take everything off but my socks. What a sight. I do as I am told and then I climb up onto the table and lay back and relax while waiting to be seen. As I recline, I see a torn out, jagged edged, magazine page taped to the ceiling...an otter swimming playfully in a pool...I suppose this was meant to take me to my happy place in an otherwise uncomfortable situation.
The doctor knocks and then comes in. (Why do they knock? I know its a courtesy, but really if I'm standing there naked and the Dr. walks in or I have my paper robe on and the Dr. comes in and takes it off of me...whats the difference...none...the Dr. gets to wear clothes and I don't.)
She begins the exam. First a breast exam...she checks for lumps while I make jokes that she doesn't laugh at. Then the pap-smear...there's just too many witty comments to be made here, so I wont. She finishes the pap-smear and I assume she's done.
I hear a sound...that I could only liken to the sound that a squeeze ketchup bottle makes when you are trying to lure out those last precious drops of tomato goodness. It strikes me as odd, since I was pretty sure we were done the exam. Then Dr. Moe says "Relax." And so I did. I relaxed...I looked at the otter and I found my happy place. I briefly drifted into that pool with the little fur ball and we were both swimming on our backs and doing somersaults....WHAM! I was brought out of my happy place only to find the good doctors finger...in my...in my...um...in my tush.
It was brief in reality, but for me and the otter...it seemed like an eternity. When she finished her probe I said, "Ha. You just snuck right in there." To which she replied, "Well if I told you what I was going to do, you would have tensed up." Um YES! She was right, I definitely would have guarded my orifice from invaders. She explained that she needed to check my ovaries.
Hmmm, who knew that's where my ovaries were?
While summing up our visit... she stood there...with her glove still on...me avoiding eye contact...simply staring up at the otter...hoping to find my happy place.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
She gave ME a look?
Alright, I'll admit it...the worst social transgression possible...I'm guilty of it. I use handicap stalls and showers. I do. I like my space. Don't get me wrong, if there are a lot of people around I'll defer to the able body facilities. But if no ones looking...my tush is going handicap style.
I go to the gym a little later in the morning. This way I avoid the over zealous muscle heads and the water aerobics class' shower time. Not to mention, by the time I am done my workout the handicap shower is usually available. Score!
I go to the gym a little later in the morning. This way I avoid the over zealous muscle heads and the water aerobics class' shower time. Not to mention, by the time I am done my workout the handicap shower is usually available. Score!
Yesterday, after a very satisfying workout, I went into the locker room...waited for Tammy Talksalot to end her boisterous bluetooth convo that just HAD to take place right in front of my locker. Then, I quickly got undressed and raced into the showers...alas my coveted handicap shower was free!
The water temp was perfect. All the other showers were empty. I remembered my razor and all of my toiletries. Quite possibly the best shower scenario, ever. As I was enjoying the quintessential shower, I began to get that feeling...that feeling when you can sense someone's eyes peering at you. I turn around slowly to find the sweetest old lady sneaking a peak through my serves-no-purpose-because-it-is-clear-plastic-to-my-hip-and-then-opaque shower curtain.
As soon as she caught me catching her, she backed down and got into her own stall. I watched the poor lady gingerly step over the two inch lip of the shower...fretting the whole while that she was going to slip and break a hip. I immediately began to mount my defense. What would I say if she confronted me about my use of the handicap shower...maybe I should walk out with a limp, or if she says anything I'll just fire back with "Who are you to tell me I don't need a handicap shower lady, I could be blind for all you know?"
The more my guilt intensified the more outlandish my retorts became...I considered telling her I had premature and advanced osteoporosis.
But I never needed to employ my defense.
We both turned our showers off at the same time. As I reached for my towel, I noticed she was still wearing her bathing cap and swim suit. I just assumed she was 'rinsing off'. And then it happened...I heard a trickle...a tinkle if you will. I thought to myself...nah she's not doing what I think she's doing. And then to my surprise (and disgust) I heard FULL stream. This little old lady...the one I was so afraid was judging me...turned off her shower and before toweling off...full on peed.
I grabbed my belongings and made a getaway before we had to look each other in the eye. I was further shocked when she came out of the showers and as I was blow drying my hair...she passed behind me...she stopped and locked eyes with me in the mirror...and delivered her disapproving glance. She gave ME a look? She peed in the shower!
Now don't get me wrong. I'm no stranger to peeing in the shower (and if you say you don't, well you're just lying), but AFTER I was done showering? and in my bathing suit? I would never. That's just wrong.
Always wear shower shoes, my friends, always.
A Passage From "The Day After Stupids Chronicles"
Before I Share the passage, I feel the need to give you some background on "The Day After Stupids Chronicles".
During Junior year of college I frequented "The Special", every Thursday night, $7 at the door got you a bunch of drink tickets and all you could eat pasta buffet. I never touched the buffet. For me, pasta and mullets just don't mix. Anywho, I would drink myself into a dancing frenzy. And then finish the night off with a slice or 3 of "gay pizza" (it's not any different than regular pizza really, its just served by flaming homos at the fine pizzeria adjacent to Sisters.)
Friday mornings were interesting. Once I regained consciousness and did a quick self assessment of how much dignity I had left and changed my clothes (that were without fail the same ones from the night before and drenched in the Snapple that was in my hand when I fell asleep), I would drag myself into the kitchen and make myself a bagel with butter. Then I'd go sit on the sofa in my favorite corner, eat my bagel slowly so I didn't choke...as I often do after a night of drinking, and I would call my best friend and roommate, Laura.
Laura would patiently listen to my slow and spotty rendering of the prior night's activities. And then I would share with her some special tid bits, that have fondly been named "The Day After Stupids" . I would sit and ponder the strangest things and then pose them as serious questions to Laura.
(Claimer: If you ever hear anyone else speak of "The Day After Stupids" they got it from me. I coined the term. It is mine. No one else came up with that. Just me.)
And Now the Passage...
Do children with ugly parents, know that their parents are ugly? Babies, I'm sure have no discerning abilities. But I would think a child of...say 8....could start to tell the difference between attractive and unattractive. But I think at that point a parent is still this mythical creature that garners undying love and admiration. For me, I think I was around 16-17 when I realize my parents were real people. So once you realize your parents are people...I think you then begin to see them in a different way and can critique their appearance....kinda like once I was blind and now i can see...you know Amazing Grace.
So is there ever a point where a young adult looks at their parents and thinks....ooooh mommy got beat with the ugly stick! Or Damnnnn Daddy looks good from far but faaar from good! (Say it soulful and with a squinty eye)
Or do children never see their parents as anything more than the most wonderful and beautiful creatures put on this earth? You tell me.
I know my mom and dad are hot. How do i know? Have you seen me and my brother...you don't get the stellar good looks we have, by chance.
During Junior year of college I frequented "The Special", every Thursday night, $7 at the door got you a bunch of drink tickets and all you could eat pasta buffet. I never touched the buffet. For me, pasta and mullets just don't mix. Anywho, I would drink myself into a dancing frenzy. And then finish the night off with a slice or 3 of "gay pizza" (it's not any different than regular pizza really, its just served by flaming homos at the fine pizzeria adjacent to Sisters.)
Friday mornings were interesting. Once I regained consciousness and did a quick self assessment of how much dignity I had left and changed my clothes (that were without fail the same ones from the night before and drenched in the Snapple that was in my hand when I fell asleep), I would drag myself into the kitchen and make myself a bagel with butter. Then I'd go sit on the sofa in my favorite corner, eat my bagel slowly so I didn't choke...as I often do after a night of drinking, and I would call my best friend and roommate, Laura.
Laura would patiently listen to my slow and spotty rendering of the prior night's activities. And then I would share with her some special tid bits, that have fondly been named "The Day After Stupids" . I would sit and ponder the strangest things and then pose them as serious questions to Laura.
(Claimer: If you ever hear anyone else speak of "The Day After Stupids" they got it from me. I coined the term. It is mine. No one else came up with that. Just me.)
And Now the Passage...
Do children with ugly parents, know that their parents are ugly? Babies, I'm sure have no discerning abilities. But I would think a child of...say 8....could start to tell the difference between attractive and unattractive. But I think at that point a parent is still this mythical creature that garners undying love and admiration. For me, I think I was around 16-17 when I realize my parents were real people. So once you realize your parents are people...I think you then begin to see them in a different way and can critique their appearance....kinda like once I was blind and now i can see...you know Amazing Grace.
So is there ever a point where a young adult looks at their parents and thinks....ooooh mommy got beat with the ugly stick! Or Damnnnn Daddy looks good from far but faaar from good! (Say it soulful and with a squinty eye)
Or do children never see their parents as anything more than the most wonderful and beautiful creatures put on this earth? You tell me.
I know my mom and dad are hot. How do i know? Have you seen me and my brother...you don't get the stellar good looks we have, by chance.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Pantyhose
Did you ever take a nice stroll through a park? Or trot along a wooded path? Perhaps pull over at an overlook in the Breckenridge mountains in Colorado to take a picture with a friend?
And while you were in said location...you notice a pump, or a high heel rather, a child's Nike, a grown man's business shoe?
Where is the foot that goes in that shoe? Where is the other shoe? How did it get here!?
I've certainly lost things. A sock. A favorite sweatshirt. Virginity. My favorite pair of earrings from Dolly world, sterling silver butterflies with turquoise in the wings. But I've never been out walking...and lost a shoe.
Let's think about this. Shoes hanging over telephone wires in south Philly...that makes senses...I know how they got there. A shoe lying anywhere in the city makes sense really. But a shoe in a secluded location where you either needed a car or a pair of shoes to get to that location...it doesn't make sense.
I can't fathom a situation where the occupant of the shoe could leave the secluded location, in good health, without the shoe and not have noticed. I mention "in good health" as I often assume that the owner/occupant of the shoe must have been hurried, threatened, scared, dead, chased by an antelope, trying to evade a "b b bi, b b big, big bear, big bear cha, big bear chasing" them, etc. to have left their shoe behind.
I guess I'll just keep noticing abandoned shoes...and wondering how they got there. Ugh.
To make matter's more confusing, I found a pair of pantyhose, discarded, beneath my car this morning. They weren't there when I parked last night and they didn't fall out of MY gym bag, I know these two things to be fact. How someone managed to lose them is beyond me.
And while you were in said location...you notice a pump, or a high heel rather, a child's Nike, a grown man's business shoe?
Where is the foot that goes in that shoe? Where is the other shoe? How did it get here!?
I've certainly lost things. A sock. A favorite sweatshirt. Virginity. My favorite pair of earrings from Dolly world, sterling silver butterflies with turquoise in the wings. But I've never been out walking...and lost a shoe.
Let's think about this. Shoes hanging over telephone wires in south Philly...that makes senses...I know how they got there. A shoe lying anywhere in the city makes sense really. But a shoe in a secluded location where you either needed a car or a pair of shoes to get to that location...it doesn't make sense.
I can't fathom a situation where the occupant of the shoe could leave the secluded location, in good health, without the shoe and not have noticed. I mention "in good health" as I often assume that the owner/occupant of the shoe must have been hurried, threatened, scared, dead, chased by an antelope, trying to evade a "b b bi, b b big, big bear, big bear cha, big bear chasing" them, etc. to have left their shoe behind.
I guess I'll just keep noticing abandoned shoes...and wondering how they got there. Ugh.
To make matter's more confusing, I found a pair of pantyhose, discarded, beneath my car this morning. They weren't there when I parked last night and they didn't fall out of MY gym bag, I know these two things to be fact. How someone managed to lose them is beyond me.
My shoe, Your hand.
So about 7 months ago I got laid off. Which I guess I didn't even need to say since all 4 of my readers know this. But I'll continue you on as though there are a plethora of unidentified readers...strangers...people I've never met, but those that feel they know me and want to be my friend from reading my intimate rants.
Ok, so 7 months ago...laid off. The 4 most agonizing days of my life. Whoa is me, whoa is me. How would I ever support myself and my two small mouths to feed?
Luckily, I was called back 4 days (2 business days) later. When I came back, the office was rearranged a bit. And my desk moved, from a cubicle in the west wing, to a mobile station in the east wing. Fine by me, I was just happy to have a job.
So here I am...sitting in the middle of a rather main thoroughfare...with my legs propped up on a squishy cube beneath my mobile (please read that in a British accent 'Mo-Bile') station, slightly protruding into the walk way, but not really.
An odd and humorous reoccurring occurrence has begun to occur. I wear, what some would call, flashy sneakers. And I get it...they grabbed my attention...so I can see how they grab my coworkers attention. But it's puzzling and amusing to me that my coworkers feel the need to reach out their hand as the pass by my desk and grab my shoe, giving it a nice wiggle as if to say "Hey there Maris. I see you. I see your shoes. I like you. And your shoes."
The affection truly warms the cockles of my heart, it really does. But what in God's good name would possess someone to grab another person's shoe. and When I say grab...I mean grab - palm on top with fingers and thumb curling around to the underside (sole) of the sneaker. I know some of you are probably reading this and thinking "Geez, what's the big deal? They are just saying hi!"
Here's the big deal. I go to school at Community College of Philadelphia on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Both mornings I have class at Main Campus - 17th and Spring Garden. Most mornings if there is the perfect storm, and there usually is, of oversleeping, playtime with the kids, procrastination, wardrobe malfunctions, and an obscene shaving ritual...I leave the house at 8:10. Get to the general vicinity around 8:25and begin my search for parking. Somtimes having to take what I can get, even though it's a couple blocks away, and briskly walk to class. (Class is at 9:30, but Mommers always taught me that if you are on time, you're late) I'd say 99% of the time I end up on 19th and Wallace. Put the club on my car. Get out. Lock it 42 times, because every time I lock it I literally forget a millisecond later. Then I turn on my Ipod and begin my trek to 17th and Spring Garden. On this trek I get to play my favorite game "Dodge the poo".
I've often thought about bringing my camera to capture and then chronicle in a blog, solely dedicated to dog poo, the grotesque and utterly disrespectful amount of puppy feces that is left smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk on my zig zag route from 19th and Wallace to 17th and Spring Garden.
Why am I talking about this? Where'd the post go to? I'll connect the dots now. I consider myself an extraordinary athlete...but really its only me that considers that. And in reality I'm mediocre. Therefore, when I play the game "Dodge the poo" I am successful, most of the time.
So next time you reach out to grab a coworkers fancy sneakers and give them a wiggle in lieu of a hello...remember that not everyone is an Olympic athlete...and sometimes they might be privy to a biweekly journey through the streets of Philthydelphia, littered with canine land mines.
Hands to home! No need to reach out and touch someone...unless of course their feather boa and g-string are obscuring your view and you need to place a dollar 'up in that piece' to get them to go away.
xoxo
Ok, so 7 months ago...laid off. The 4 most agonizing days of my life. Whoa is me, whoa is me. How would I ever support myself and my two small mouths to feed?
Luckily, I was called back 4 days (2 business days) later. When I came back, the office was rearranged a bit. And my desk moved, from a cubicle in the west wing, to a mobile station in the east wing. Fine by me, I was just happy to have a job.
So here I am...sitting in the middle of a rather main thoroughfare...with my legs propped up on a squishy cube beneath my mobile (please read that in a British accent 'Mo-Bile') station, slightly protruding into the walk way, but not really.
An odd and humorous reoccurring occurrence has begun to occur. I wear, what some would call, flashy sneakers. And I get it...they grabbed my attention...so I can see how they grab my coworkers attention. But it's puzzling and amusing to me that my coworkers feel the need to reach out their hand as the pass by my desk and grab my shoe, giving it a nice wiggle as if to say "Hey there Maris. I see you. I see your shoes. I like you. And your shoes."
The affection truly warms the cockles of my heart, it really does. But what in God's good name would possess someone to grab another person's shoe. and When I say grab...I mean grab - palm on top with fingers and thumb curling around to the underside (sole) of the sneaker. I know some of you are probably reading this and thinking "Geez, what's the big deal? They are just saying hi!"
Here's the big deal. I go to school at Community College of Philadelphia on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Both mornings I have class at Main Campus - 17th and Spring Garden. Most mornings if there is the perfect storm, and there usually is, of oversleeping, playtime with the kids, procrastination, wardrobe malfunctions, and an obscene shaving ritual...I leave the house at 8:10. Get to the general vicinity around 8:25and begin my search for parking. Somtimes having to take what I can get, even though it's a couple blocks away, and briskly walk to class. (Class is at 9:30, but Mommers always taught me that if you are on time, you're late) I'd say 99% of the time I end up on 19th and Wallace. Put the club on my car. Get out. Lock it 42 times, because every time I lock it I literally forget a millisecond later. Then I turn on my Ipod and begin my trek to 17th and Spring Garden. On this trek I get to play my favorite game "Dodge the poo".
I've often thought about bringing my camera to capture and then chronicle in a blog, solely dedicated to dog poo, the grotesque and utterly disrespectful amount of puppy feces that is left smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk on my zig zag route from 19th and Wallace to 17th and Spring Garden.
Why am I talking about this? Where'd the post go to? I'll connect the dots now. I consider myself an extraordinary athlete...but really its only me that considers that. And in reality I'm mediocre. Therefore, when I play the game "Dodge the poo" I am successful, most of the time.
So next time you reach out to grab a coworkers fancy sneakers and give them a wiggle in lieu of a hello...remember that not everyone is an Olympic athlete...and sometimes they might be privy to a biweekly journey through the streets of Philthydelphia, littered with canine land mines.
Hands to home! No need to reach out and touch someone...unless of course their feather boa and g-string are obscuring your view and you need to place a dollar 'up in that piece' to get them to go away.
xoxo
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Why wasn't I raised Jewish!?
While discussing my lack of hours at work and my need for money, with my dear dear friend and coworker Big Val-money, I stumbled upon quite possibly the BEST money making deal ever:
EGG DONOR NEEDED by LOVING JEWISH COUPLE $20,000+ ALL EXPENSES PAID
- In 5th grade I learned that I was born with scads and scads of eggs....I can share
"We would love you to be part of our miracle" We are a loving, caring, Jewish couple who are accomplished, secure and happy. It would mean the world to us to share our love with a child and make our lives truly complete. We appreciate intelligence, education and learning. If you are a student it would be our pleasure to assist with your tuition and related expenses.
You are an ideal donor if you are:
* A woman between 18 and 33 years old - I'm 28
* Between 5'1" and 5'11" - I'm 5'9
* Warm, caring, responsible, reliable - Totally ME
* Motivated and passionate about what you do - Sure! (I can fake that)
* An individual with high self esteem - HAVE YOU MET ME!!! I LOVE ME!
* Highly intelligent with high IQ, SAT Scores & GPA (Please Include Scores) - I talk a good game
* Attractive - Need I say anything...
* At healthy body weight - If I was any healthier, I'd be Tracy Gold
* A non smoker and drug free - Haven't touched the shit in years (since Saturday)
* Free of genetic diseases (such as Tay-Sachs) in your primary blood line - Primary and Secondary!
* Able to make about 5 visits to a highly respected Fertility Doctor. You will not need to carry a pregnancy. - Done!
* Jewish with a biological mother who was born Jewish - Crap.
* (prefer if your biological father was also born Jewish) - I'll say it again, Crap.
EGG DONOR NEEDED by LOVING JEWISH COUPLE $20,000+ ALL EXPENSES PAID
- In 5th grade I learned that I was born with scads and scads of eggs....I can share
"We would love you to be part of our miracle" We are a loving, caring, Jewish couple who are accomplished, secure and happy. It would mean the world to us to share our love with a child and make our lives truly complete. We appreciate intelligence, education and learning. If you are a student it would be our pleasure to assist with your tuition and related expenses.
You are an ideal donor if you are:
* A woman between 18 and 33 years old - I'm 28
* Between 5'1" and 5'11" - I'm 5'9
* Warm, caring, responsible, reliable - Totally ME
* Motivated and passionate about what you do - Sure! (I can fake that)
* An individual with high self esteem - HAVE YOU MET ME!!! I LOVE ME!
* Highly intelligent with high IQ, SAT Scores & GPA (Please Include Scores) - I talk a good game
* Attractive - Need I say anything...
* At healthy body weight - If I was any healthier, I'd be Tracy Gold
* A non smoker and drug free - Haven't touched the shit in years (since Saturday)
* Free of genetic diseases (such as Tay-Sachs) in your primary blood line - Primary and Secondary!
* Able to make about 5 visits to a highly respected Fertility Doctor. You will not need to carry a pregnancy. - Done!
* Jewish with a biological mother who was born Jewish - Crap.
* (prefer if your biological father was also born Jewish) - I'll say it again, Crap.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The ways in which I am strange...
I always think that I'm the only person that all the people I am talking to, are talking to. On AIM or Gchat or Yahoo IM. and I get offended when I realize they are talking to other people too. That is applicable to friends, family, and romantic interests.
I'll be generous and give you two ways in which I am strange, today.
I once convinced myself that my dental hygienist was totally in love with me, because she was all up in my face and staring at my mouth for a half hour. Need I say the obvious...that's her job.
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