It was hard for me to get excited about music in 2008. So hard, in fact, that it is quite literally impossible for me to adhere to the traditional Top 10 format because I only really liked eight albums.
The payworthy:
The Last Shadow Puppets - The Age of the Understatement
Black Kids - Partie Traumatic
Portishead - Third
Mugison - Mugiboogie
Sigur Rós - Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust
TV on the Radio - Dear Science
She & Him - Volume One
Los Campesinos! - Hold On Now, Youngster ...
Still ok:
Girl Talk - Feed the Animals
Wolf Parade - At Mount Zoomer
Of Montreal - Skeletal Lamping
Overrated and/or Over it:
Vampire Weekend
The Hold Steady
The Killers
Beyonce
Love to Hate:
Duffy: A Dolphin. With a microphone.
Lil Wayne: There are so many ways in which you make it impossible for me to take you seriously.
Katy Perry: The world does not need a brunette Avril Lavigne. Ur so dead to me.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
50% more allergic!
(June 12, 2008)
I used to think about having children in the same manner I think about doing my taxes: Eh. I'll do it later. But nannying this summer has forced me to consider logistics, which makes me wonder if I should revise my notion of child rearing as an inevitability. I might actually have to think about this. For example:
Did you know many car seats require an advanced degree in mechanical engineering for installation?
Did you know that, if a kid is allergic to soy or dairy, that's a collosal pain in the ass? Did you know that if a kid is allergic to both soy and dairy, there's a pretty good chance you'll accidentaly kill it -- and it will cost more to feed your kid than an entire stable full of ponies?
I don't understand how anyone who stays home alone with children all day is not an agoraphobe. Sally, Charlie and I are planning a trip to the pool after nap time. Did you know that this requires a kind of deranged military precision?
Wrangle both children into bathing suits, then car. Take 32 so Charlie doesn't have time to fall asleep in the car because he's always in a bad mood if he's woken up and when he's in a bad mood, he starts biting Sally. Sally won't use the Aveeno sunblock because it's "stinky," so bring the spray kind, too. Somehow, make sure that none of the spray kind gets on Charlie -- even though he insists on being held almost all of the time -- because the spray kind has soy oil in it, and he's allergic to soy. Get Sally a strawberry and banana smoothie. Get Charlie a raspberry and pineapple smoothie, but make sure the underpaid wage slave at the cafe washes the blender in between smoothies, because Sally's will be made with yogurt, and Charlie's allergic to dairy. Somehow, get sunblock on Charlie without causing a scene because if he cries, everyone will assume you're an inept child care provider, a terrible human being, or his mother. Do not allow children to drown in pool. Have fun!
My God. Having kids seems like it takes an awful lot of, you know, effort. And that part definitely does not appeal to me nearly as much as being able to force someone else to do household chores.
I used to think about having children in the same manner I think about doing my taxes: Eh. I'll do it later. But nannying this summer has forced me to consider logistics, which makes me wonder if I should revise my notion of child rearing as an inevitability. I might actually have to think about this. For example:
Did you know many car seats require an advanced degree in mechanical engineering for installation?
Did you know that, if a kid is allergic to soy or dairy, that's a collosal pain in the ass? Did you know that if a kid is allergic to both soy and dairy, there's a pretty good chance you'll accidentaly kill it -- and it will cost more to feed your kid than an entire stable full of ponies?
I don't understand how anyone who stays home alone with children all day is not an agoraphobe. Sally, Charlie and I are planning a trip to the pool after nap time. Did you know that this requires a kind of deranged military precision?
Wrangle both children into bathing suits, then car. Take 32 so Charlie doesn't have time to fall asleep in the car because he's always in a bad mood if he's woken up and when he's in a bad mood, he starts biting Sally. Sally won't use the Aveeno sunblock because it's "stinky," so bring the spray kind, too. Somehow, make sure that none of the spray kind gets on Charlie -- even though he insists on being held almost all of the time -- because the spray kind has soy oil in it, and he's allergic to soy. Get Sally a strawberry and banana smoothie. Get Charlie a raspberry and pineapple smoothie, but make sure the underpaid wage slave at the cafe washes the blender in between smoothies, because Sally's will be made with yogurt, and Charlie's allergic to dairy. Somehow, get sunblock on Charlie without causing a scene because if he cries, everyone will assume you're an inept child care provider, a terrible human being, or his mother. Do not allow children to drown in pool. Have fun!
My God. Having kids seems like it takes an awful lot of, you know, effort. And that part definitely does not appeal to me nearly as much as being able to force someone else to do household chores.
No way that just happened.
(May 30, 2008)
It was really hot today, so I left my car windows down, sure that no one would rupture my safe bubble of pure white suburb just to steal some burnt CDs and June's Vogue. What I didn't anticipate was the possibility of a bird flying into my car and perching on the steering wheel before dropping the foster kids off at the pool. So, I learned a valuable lesson today: leave one window down on hot days; in the event of a fly-by shitting, there's a good chance the bird will kill itself trying to fly through the closed window. And that's some consolation.
It was really hot today, so I left my car windows down, sure that no one would rupture my safe bubble of pure white suburb just to steal some burnt CDs and June's Vogue. What I didn't anticipate was the possibility of a bird flying into my car and perching on the steering wheel before dropping the foster kids off at the pool. So, I learned a valuable lesson today: leave one window down on hot days; in the event of a fly-by shitting, there's a good chance the bird will kill itself trying to fly through the closed window. And that's some consolation.
Feels like sour milk.
(May 20, 2008)
I'm beginning to worry that I may never smell or taste anything again. It's been days. I'm eating some cereal because I was craving the texture of something other than Airborne and these terrible oranges I got which do not maintain their segmentation. And this cereal may or may not make me violently ill because my milk was dated yesterday, but I can't smell it. I took a gamble. Let's see what happens.
In other news, Anne has invited me to go with her to a casting call at a BMW dealership (wtf) for The Bachelor. I'm pretty torn because while this does seem like a pretty classy thing to do, I'm not sure I'm the kind of personality the Bachelor producers are looking for. Because I have one.
I've never seen The Bachelor, so maybe there's a big cash prize I'm not aware of -- bigger than the one you got for eating pickled bull balls on Fear Factor -- but last night, watching the Flavor of Love 3 finale, I decided that if I was ever going to really enjoy television, I was going to have to overlook the inexplicable strangeness of the huge number of people who are willing to go to casting calls at car dealerships for the opportunity to compete for a claim of ownership over a complete stranger.
Somewhere, there is a grad student writing about the parallels between Kierkegaard's leap of faith and the willful suspension of disbelief required to participate in/enjoy A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.
I'm beginning to worry that I may never smell or taste anything again. It's been days. I'm eating some cereal because I was craving the texture of something other than Airborne and these terrible oranges I got which do not maintain their segmentation. And this cereal may or may not make me violently ill because my milk was dated yesterday, but I can't smell it. I took a gamble. Let's see what happens.
In other news, Anne has invited me to go with her to a casting call at a BMW dealership (wtf) for The Bachelor. I'm pretty torn because while this does seem like a pretty classy thing to do, I'm not sure I'm the kind of personality the Bachelor producers are looking for. Because I have one.
I've never seen The Bachelor, so maybe there's a big cash prize I'm not aware of -- bigger than the one you got for eating pickled bull balls on Fear Factor -- but last night, watching the Flavor of Love 3 finale, I decided that if I was ever going to really enjoy television, I was going to have to overlook the inexplicable strangeness of the huge number of people who are willing to go to casting calls at car dealerships for the opportunity to compete for a claim of ownership over a complete stranger.
Somewhere, there is a grad student writing about the parallels between Kierkegaard's leap of faith and the willful suspension of disbelief required to participate in/enjoy A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.
Butt Cracks!
(May 2, 2008)
1. One of my roommates anticipates having sex this weekend, so she got a Brazilian wax. I've never thought it might be a good idea to pay a stranger to violently rip out all the hair in my genital area with hot wax, so I had no idea how thorough the procedure actually is. Apparently, the waxing occurs not only on the surface, but also underneath, and all the way up the butt crack.
2. I was going to interview for a job as a bartender at a strip club, in pursuit of my enduring dream of pulling in a load of cash really quickly with minimal effort. I'm not saying it's right to profit from other women's childhood sexual trauma -- but I'm a utilitarian, so I've found multiple ways to justify earning a cut from the deaths of feminism and childhood innocence. I've never been to a strip club before because, you know, they're gross. But SMF told me that since I was interviewing for an upscale establishment, I'd probably be asked to go above and beyond the call of duty and serve shots from my butt crack and/or cleavage. I'm not willing to meet any gentleman willing to ingest something served in such close proximity to my pooper. And in the event that he might want to follow a butt shot with a cleavage chaser, I certainly don't want his face that close to my face.
3. Sally has some kind of fixation with her butt crack. We talk about it all the time, and she likes to touch it, which means that my existing hand washing fixation has intensified. Sally's mother, a psychiatrist, told me that personality is fully realized before the age of five. Sally's three, so I guess she's still in Freud's anal stage. Of course, Freud's been pretty thoroughly discredited by now, so I have to wonder whether this is foreshadowing a future butt crack fixation, and whether I watch "Little Einsteins" three days a week with someone who will eventually use her butt crack as a serving tray.
4. I went tanning today. There was a long line for Melanoma, so I read the Tanning Tips handout for the first time, which advised me to lift my hips and spread my butt cheeks to avoid tan lines on my butt crack. I am uncomfortable lying naked on a heated surface on which someone before me has just spread his or her butt cheeks.
1. One of my roommates anticipates having sex this weekend, so she got a Brazilian wax. I've never thought it might be a good idea to pay a stranger to violently rip out all the hair in my genital area with hot wax, so I had no idea how thorough the procedure actually is. Apparently, the waxing occurs not only on the surface, but also underneath, and all the way up the butt crack.
2. I was going to interview for a job as a bartender at a strip club, in pursuit of my enduring dream of pulling in a load of cash really quickly with minimal effort. I'm not saying it's right to profit from other women's childhood sexual trauma -- but I'm a utilitarian, so I've found multiple ways to justify earning a cut from the deaths of feminism and childhood innocence. I've never been to a strip club before because, you know, they're gross. But SMF told me that since I was interviewing for an upscale establishment, I'd probably be asked to go above and beyond the call of duty and serve shots from my butt crack and/or cleavage. I'm not willing to meet any gentleman willing to ingest something served in such close proximity to my pooper. And in the event that he might want to follow a butt shot with a cleavage chaser, I certainly don't want his face that close to my face.
3. Sally has some kind of fixation with her butt crack. We talk about it all the time, and she likes to touch it, which means that my existing hand washing fixation has intensified. Sally's mother, a psychiatrist, told me that personality is fully realized before the age of five. Sally's three, so I guess she's still in Freud's anal stage. Of course, Freud's been pretty thoroughly discredited by now, so I have to wonder whether this is foreshadowing a future butt crack fixation, and whether I watch "Little Einsteins" three days a week with someone who will eventually use her butt crack as a serving tray.
4. I went tanning today. There was a long line for Melanoma, so I read the Tanning Tips handout for the first time, which advised me to lift my hips and spread my butt cheeks to avoid tan lines on my butt crack. I am uncomfortable lying naked on a heated surface on which someone before me has just spread his or her butt cheeks.
I don’t understand what’s going on, but I’m really excited about it.
(January 23, 2008)
I don't know about you, but I can't wait for the stock market to crash. I'm pretty excited about living in a Hooverville, not wearing panty hose, going to speakeasies, listening to Fireside Chats on XM, wearing flapper pleats, and possibly getting fleas. I might even become a union supporter, contract Polio, and learn how to make a cabbage-based stew. Seriously, can you imagine how fun this will be? Obviously, the misery will be artful -- occasionally sepia.
Every face will be smudged with a thin layer of dirt, but will appear wise and world-weary, and the Baby Boomers will finally stop calling Generation Y greedy and self-important because we will have lived through something (everyone knows our fake war doesn't count, obviously). Plus, some of them will probably die finally. Hooray! We can claim all those corner office jobs to which we're entitled. All it takes is one devastatingly thorough economic catastrophe, which should happen any day now. It'll be so Scene.
I don't know about you, but I can't wait for the stock market to crash. I'm pretty excited about living in a Hooverville, not wearing panty hose, going to speakeasies, listening to Fireside Chats on XM, wearing flapper pleats, and possibly getting fleas. I might even become a union supporter, contract Polio, and learn how to make a cabbage-based stew. Seriously, can you imagine how fun this will be? Obviously, the misery will be artful -- occasionally sepia.
Every face will be smudged with a thin layer of dirt, but will appear wise and world-weary, and the Baby Boomers will finally stop calling Generation Y greedy and self-important because we will have lived through something (everyone knows our fake war doesn't count, obviously). Plus, some of them will probably die finally. Hooray! We can claim all those corner office jobs to which we're entitled. All it takes is one devastatingly thorough economic catastrophe, which should happen any day now. It'll be so Scene.
Don’t take the beltway!
(August 22, 2007)
I've already decided my days as a Mid-Atlantic state dweller are numbered. Maryland's not dead to me, but it's in the ICU. Today I saw a commercial for a furniture store and their primary selling point was the fact that you don't have to take the beltway to get there (Also: I still do not have a bed). At the end of the commercial, the store's address and phone number flashed on screen, but the phrase "Don't take the beltway!" was featured even more prominently.
Last Friday, as my four-hour trip to Virginia Beach stretched into six hours, I used that time to contemplate my next nomadic move. I realized, then, that moving close to DC seemed like a good idea in May because a) Ryan Claycomb told me to, and b) it's a city that's not New York. I like cities for their absence of trees and neighborly small talk, but I somehow forgot about my overriding distaste for other people. I've decided I'm willing to suffer the boredom of small town living in exchange for relative solitude. For now, there's not a lot I can do about it, but I've decided that as soon as my lease is over, I'm moving to Montana, Wyoming, North Dakota, Nevada, Oklahoma, Idaho, or some other state you never meet anyone from. I'm willing to drive 40 minutes to the grocery store and talk to the people in it as long as I don't have to stare at a line of stationary single-car drivers as far as the horizon in the process. I don't want any mass transit, either. I'm not going anywhere with a population dense enough to warrant public transportation. I only want to see pick-up trucks and that one van that takes senior citizens to the mall. I'm drawing the line at hunting my own food, though. And, yes, I know this is probably how Ted Kaczynski started.
Once I actually got to Virginia Beach, I had a pretty good time. I got sick pretty much immediately as a result of constant exposure to proper nutrition and natural light, but I tried not to let that get me too down. One thing did sort of bother me, though, and I know I've written about this before, but still -- how can the catcall continue to exist? Not only has it never worked on anyone, but now there seems to be a new strain of hostile catcall that's somehow even less effective.
The three-block walk back to Steph's house was full of pretty standard sexual harassment (one reason not to go blonde), but one dude got really creative and warned us to "watch out for the attack." That time, I actually did almost stop and ask for clarification. Obviously, yelling at me on the street didn't make me want to sleep with him nearly as much as if he'd revved the engine of a Camaro blasting techno music, but did he have to be all menacing about it? Why not try something like, "Come back to the parking garage, baby" or "I have an ether-soaked rag in my back pocket"?
So, apparently we're doing violent catcalls now, and I'm really excited about this. I'm officially encouraging my female friends to get involved.
"This womb won't fill itself!"
"I want to sue you for child support!"
"I'm gonna fuck you in the ass with conical household objects until you cry like a little bitch!"
I've already decided my days as a Mid-Atlantic state dweller are numbered. Maryland's not dead to me, but it's in the ICU. Today I saw a commercial for a furniture store and their primary selling point was the fact that you don't have to take the beltway to get there (Also: I still do not have a bed). At the end of the commercial, the store's address and phone number flashed on screen, but the phrase "Don't take the beltway!" was featured even more prominently.
Last Friday, as my four-hour trip to Virginia Beach stretched into six hours, I used that time to contemplate my next nomadic move. I realized, then, that moving close to DC seemed like a good idea in May because a) Ryan Claycomb told me to, and b) it's a city that's not New York. I like cities for their absence of trees and neighborly small talk, but I somehow forgot about my overriding distaste for other people. I've decided I'm willing to suffer the boredom of small town living in exchange for relative solitude. For now, there's not a lot I can do about it, but I've decided that as soon as my lease is over, I'm moving to Montana, Wyoming, North Dakota, Nevada, Oklahoma, Idaho, or some other state you never meet anyone from. I'm willing to drive 40 minutes to the grocery store and talk to the people in it as long as I don't have to stare at a line of stationary single-car drivers as far as the horizon in the process. I don't want any mass transit, either. I'm not going anywhere with a population dense enough to warrant public transportation. I only want to see pick-up trucks and that one van that takes senior citizens to the mall. I'm drawing the line at hunting my own food, though. And, yes, I know this is probably how Ted Kaczynski started.
Once I actually got to Virginia Beach, I had a pretty good time. I got sick pretty much immediately as a result of constant exposure to proper nutrition and natural light, but I tried not to let that get me too down. One thing did sort of bother me, though, and I know I've written about this before, but still -- how can the catcall continue to exist? Not only has it never worked on anyone, but now there seems to be a new strain of hostile catcall that's somehow even less effective.
The three-block walk back to Steph's house was full of pretty standard sexual harassment (one reason not to go blonde), but one dude got really creative and warned us to "watch out for the attack." That time, I actually did almost stop and ask for clarification. Obviously, yelling at me on the street didn't make me want to sleep with him nearly as much as if he'd revved the engine of a Camaro blasting techno music, but did he have to be all menacing about it? Why not try something like, "Come back to the parking garage, baby" or "I have an ether-soaked rag in my back pocket"?
So, apparently we're doing violent catcalls now, and I'm really excited about this. I'm officially encouraging my female friends to get involved.
"This womb won't fill itself!"
"I want to sue you for child support!"
"I'm gonna fuck you in the ass with conical household objects until you cry like a little bitch!"
Water motif.
(August 16, 2007)
Remember my Sunnyside apartment -- my old friend? Let's take a moment to reminisce about the first apartment I occupied without a roommate.
Notable features:
1. surrounded by undergrads on all sides
2. the "Penetration Station" sign
3. slumlord Kathy
4. negligent pet owner neighbors upstairs (threw pet shit out window onto shared sidewalk)
5. abusive misogynist neighbors next door (occasional yelling, hitting sounds)
6. keg pinata with bullet holes
7. conveniently located near Stabby Avenue
8. proximity to crack-smoking physicists
9. temperamental heat, water, and electricity
10. weird caterpillar infestation
11. peeling lead-based paint
12. mold
I didn't have a lot of company, which is a shame because I never got to share the experience of my aquatic kitchen. I lost count of how many times the shit-throwers upstairs let their toilet run for hours, leaving me to come home at the end of the day to find my kitchen flooded. The only bright side to that situation was that I'd have to call Kenny, the maintenence guy (he was a West Virginia version of Groundskeeper Willie -- all red hair and anger), who would have to key into the shit-throwers' apartment and stop their toilet from running. Then he'd come downstairs to my apartment and help me mop, and/or replace parts of my ceiling. We grew close.
Given all of the other unfortunate disadvantages of my Sunnyside apartment, I naively assumed the water motif was just a Sunnyside thing. But, now I'm starting to think it's me. Tonight my roommates and I discovered our washer drains into the sink next to it. We realized this because the washcloth in the sink nestled over the drain, which caused a massive flood in the basement. I'm ok with that, though, because I haven't seen any caterpillars yet.
I used to live here.
Remember my Sunnyside apartment -- my old friend? Let's take a moment to reminisce about the first apartment I occupied without a roommate.
Notable features:
1. surrounded by undergrads on all sides
2. the "Penetration Station" sign
3. slumlord Kathy
4. negligent pet owner neighbors upstairs (threw pet shit out window onto shared sidewalk)
5. abusive misogynist neighbors next door (occasional yelling, hitting sounds)
6. keg pinata with bullet holes
7. conveniently located near Stabby Avenue
8. proximity to crack-smoking physicists
9. temperamental heat, water, and electricity
10. weird caterpillar infestation
11. peeling lead-based paint
12. mold
I didn't have a lot of company, which is a shame because I never got to share the experience of my aquatic kitchen. I lost count of how many times the shit-throwers upstairs let their toilet run for hours, leaving me to come home at the end of the day to find my kitchen flooded. The only bright side to that situation was that I'd have to call Kenny, the maintenence guy (he was a West Virginia version of Groundskeeper Willie -- all red hair and anger), who would have to key into the shit-throwers' apartment and stop their toilet from running. Then he'd come downstairs to my apartment and help me mop, and/or replace parts of my ceiling. We grew close.
Given all of the other unfortunate disadvantages of my Sunnyside apartment, I naively assumed the water motif was just a Sunnyside thing. But, now I'm starting to think it's me. Tonight my roommates and I discovered our washer drains into the sink next to it. We realized this because the washcloth in the sink nestled over the drain, which caused a massive flood in the basement. I'm ok with that, though, because I haven't seen any caterpillars yet.
Bringing home boredom.
(August 9, 2007)
Today I had to get up kind of early-ish, so when I got home I took a nap, thereby missing the end of What Not to Wear. When I woke up, something called Bringing Home Baby was on my TV. Initially, I was sucked in by the promise of hospital gore, as a clip of the birthing video was included, and the baby was all squinty and sick and covered in blood and baby juice. Man, that baby was pissed. But that portion of the program turned out to be very misleading; for the remainder of the show, a camera crew followed the parents around while they spoke entirely in cliches while sitting around their house, looking at their clean baby. Earth-shattering insights on parenting include:
"It's hard being a parent."
"He's so little."
"I just wish he'd sleep through the night."
"I don't know how to make him stop crying." "He's the most important person in my life, now."
Bor-ing. So, then I decided that I would really like to be on this show; I will rent a baby for an afternoon (the show only follows the parents around the day they bring the baby home from the hospital, hence the title), and say inappropriate things for the TLC camera crew, such as:
"Now I can start drinking again. I mean, liquor."
"Look how big my boobs are now!"
"Yeah, I don't know. I was hoping it'd be cuter."
"It still smells like vagina."
"Am I supposed to feed it every day?"
Kirk's contributions:
"There's stuff coming out of both ends. Which one gets the diaper?"
"Don't forget to go back on the pill, and do it right this time!"
"He really does look like the mailman, doesn't he?"
"What do you mean you can't put it back in?"
"Your boobs are going to stay that big, right?"
"So, when are you going to start speaking English?"
"Ok, pregnancy's over. You can't blame hormones for your bitchiness anymore."
"So how long will it take before you get rid of those stretch marks?"
"Don't worry, TV will keep it busy when we're not watching it."
Today I had to get up kind of early-ish, so when I got home I took a nap, thereby missing the end of What Not to Wear. When I woke up, something called Bringing Home Baby was on my TV. Initially, I was sucked in by the promise of hospital gore, as a clip of the birthing video was included, and the baby was all squinty and sick and covered in blood and baby juice. Man, that baby was pissed. But that portion of the program turned out to be very misleading; for the remainder of the show, a camera crew followed the parents around while they spoke entirely in cliches while sitting around their house, looking at their clean baby. Earth-shattering insights on parenting include:
"It's hard being a parent."
"He's so little."
"I just wish he'd sleep through the night."
"I don't know how to make him stop crying." "He's the most important person in my life, now."
Bor-ing. So, then I decided that I would really like to be on this show; I will rent a baby for an afternoon (the show only follows the parents around the day they bring the baby home from the hospital, hence the title), and say inappropriate things for the TLC camera crew, such as:
"Now I can start drinking again. I mean, liquor."
"Look how big my boobs are now!"
"Yeah, I don't know. I was hoping it'd be cuter."
"It still smells like vagina."
"Am I supposed to feed it every day?"
Kirk's contributions:
"There's stuff coming out of both ends. Which one gets the diaper?"
"Don't forget to go back on the pill, and do it right this time!"
"He really does look like the mailman, doesn't he?"
"What do you mean you can't put it back in?"
"Your boobs are going to stay that big, right?"
"So, when are you going to start speaking English?"
"Ok, pregnancy's over. You can't blame hormones for your bitchiness anymore."
"So how long will it take before you get rid of those stretch marks?"
"Don't worry, TV will keep it busy when we're not watching it."
More abuse, please.
(June 21, 2007)
Last week, I went to a Pirates game on what was apparently Ladies' Night, although ladies didn't get free beer, beer in buckets, t-shirts, t-shirts in buckets, or any other special benefit that I'm aware of. The overall lameness of Ladies' Night was only compensated for by the pierogi race. Sauerkraut Saul won. Oh, and so did the Pirates.
I don't really understand the correlation between Pittsburgh, pierogies, and pirates. Maybe pirates love eating delicious, carbtastic foods in Pittsburgh. And there's nothing wrong with that.
That's all for my segue. Now, here's my list of Top 5 Places in Morgantown (and the vicinity) to Get Abused:
5. PNC Park on Ladies' Night -- because ladies get free disappointment.
4. 123 -- because if you're not there every night, you're not a regular. And if you're not a regular, you can go to hell.
3. High Street, any time after 9 p.m., any day during the fall or spring semesters -- because I am a vagina, not a person.
2. Black Bear Burritos -- because the air conditioning may or may not be on, and you may or may not see the entire English department, but the one thing you can bet on for sure is that there are going to be a lot of screaming toddlers running around unchecked while their parents ingest Spring Creek tofu and PBR.
1. The Blue Moose -- because hipsters are total dicks.
Every time I go to the Blue Moose I have to interact with the same hipster -- the one with the hair that looks like a Lego helmet. And she's always a total dick to me. Her latest thing is acting like she can't hear me when I've just politely ordered at a reasonable human volume, and then standing behind the counter with her head cocked to the side giving me a look that conveys her suspicion that I am not only a freakish mute, but also possibly retarded.
Yesterday, I saw her smoking and I thought, Good.
Last week, I went to a Pirates game on what was apparently Ladies' Night, although ladies didn't get free beer, beer in buckets, t-shirts, t-shirts in buckets, or any other special benefit that I'm aware of. The overall lameness of Ladies' Night was only compensated for by the pierogi race. Sauerkraut Saul won. Oh, and so did the Pirates.
I don't really understand the correlation between Pittsburgh, pierogies, and pirates. Maybe pirates love eating delicious, carbtastic foods in Pittsburgh. And there's nothing wrong with that.
That's all for my segue. Now, here's my list of Top 5 Places in Morgantown (and the vicinity) to Get Abused:
5. PNC Park on Ladies' Night -- because ladies get free disappointment.
4. 123 -- because if you're not there every night, you're not a regular. And if you're not a regular, you can go to hell.
3. High Street, any time after 9 p.m., any day during the fall or spring semesters -- because I am a vagina, not a person.
2. Black Bear Burritos -- because the air conditioning may or may not be on, and you may or may not see the entire English department, but the one thing you can bet on for sure is that there are going to be a lot of screaming toddlers running around unchecked while their parents ingest Spring Creek tofu and PBR.
1. The Blue Moose -- because hipsters are total dicks.
Every time I go to the Blue Moose I have to interact with the same hipster -- the one with the hair that looks like a Lego helmet. And she's always a total dick to me. Her latest thing is acting like she can't hear me when I've just politely ordered at a reasonable human volume, and then standing behind the counter with her head cocked to the side giving me a look that conveys her suspicion that I am not only a freakish mute, but also possibly retarded.
Yesterday, I saw her smoking and I thought, Good.
Freddy Krueger for a pet.
(May 21, 2007)
Although I don't really mind cats that are old and feeble and barely move, there are plenty of reasons to hate cats in their healthy prime -- which lasts for twenty years. If you die and no one finds you for a while, they will eat you; they are impossible to discipline; they love to shred furniture; they make me sneeze and itch; they're kind of sketchy, and I have reason to believe they're anti-semitic. They have knives for hands. It's like having a furry Freddy Krueger for a pet. While I don't understand anyone's motivation to own a cat, I do currently live with one -- West.
West likes to play. He's really into wrapping his body around my leg and then biting me. He climbs on the table. He likes to spray litter all over the bathroom. He can't stop, won't stop scratching, and he follows me around the house, darting out of corners and remaining constantly under foot. Fortunately, West and I are beginning to understand each other -- by which I mean that he will continue to torment me daily and there's nothing I can do about it.
There's really no escape. He even body slams the door to the bathroom and tries to climb in my lap while I pee. It's so adorable I've been inspired to come up with some nicknames for him, such as Wolverine, and The Fucking Cat. Traditional feline aversion techniques are no good because West likes water. Stephanie suggested putting some coins in a coffee can and shaking it when he does something annoying because he's supposed to hate the noise, but I think I'd hate the noise more -- especially since I'd be shaking the can every 43 seconds.
Yesterday, Hamilton told me about a cat her family had way back in the day. The cat was named Fago, after a villain in an Italian indie film rather than a delicious beverage. Fago liked to sit on top of a tall dresser across the room from Hamilton's parents' bed. Every night, at 4 a.m., Fago would launch himself across the room from the top of the dresser and land directly on Pete Hamilton's head. This went on for months, and nothing could make Fago stop his reign of terror. So, one night, Pete Hamilton pretended to sleep. He waited until 4 a.m., heard Fago prepare for the dismount, and met Fago mid-leap with a fist to the head. Pete Hamilton has slept soundly ever since. So, maybe cats can be disciplined after all.
Although I don't really mind cats that are old and feeble and barely move, there are plenty of reasons to hate cats in their healthy prime -- which lasts for twenty years. If you die and no one finds you for a while, they will eat you; they are impossible to discipline; they love to shred furniture; they make me sneeze and itch; they're kind of sketchy, and I have reason to believe they're anti-semitic. They have knives for hands. It's like having a furry Freddy Krueger for a pet. While I don't understand anyone's motivation to own a cat, I do currently live with one -- West.
West likes to play. He's really into wrapping his body around my leg and then biting me. He climbs on the table. He likes to spray litter all over the bathroom. He can't stop, won't stop scratching, and he follows me around the house, darting out of corners and remaining constantly under foot. Fortunately, West and I are beginning to understand each other -- by which I mean that he will continue to torment me daily and there's nothing I can do about it.
There's really no escape. He even body slams the door to the bathroom and tries to climb in my lap while I pee. It's so adorable I've been inspired to come up with some nicknames for him, such as Wolverine, and The Fucking Cat. Traditional feline aversion techniques are no good because West likes water. Stephanie suggested putting some coins in a coffee can and shaking it when he does something annoying because he's supposed to hate the noise, but I think I'd hate the noise more -- especially since I'd be shaking the can every 43 seconds.
Yesterday, Hamilton told me about a cat her family had way back in the day. The cat was named Fago, after a villain in an Italian indie film rather than a delicious beverage. Fago liked to sit on top of a tall dresser across the room from Hamilton's parents' bed. Every night, at 4 a.m., Fago would launch himself across the room from the top of the dresser and land directly on Pete Hamilton's head. This went on for months, and nothing could make Fago stop his reign of terror. So, one night, Pete Hamilton pretended to sleep. He waited until 4 a.m., heard Fago prepare for the dismount, and met Fago mid-leap with a fist to the head. Pete Hamilton has slept soundly ever since. So, maybe cats can be disciplined after all.
Hogging.
Hey, kids. Gather 'round. Today, I learned about hogging (though, thankfully, not firsthand).
Have you heard of this? Apparently, it's huge. It's when dudes go prowling for obese women, take them home, and humiliate them in various ways. This usually entails the hogee on hands and knees while the hogger makes whatever kinds of noises he thinks a hog makes. But there's a collaborative element to hogging, which is really key. One example, I was told, would be like if a hogger's friend jumped out of a closet with a videocamera in the middle of the hogging.
Hogging is enough of a cultural phenomenon to entail entries in both Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary. There's also an essay by Sarah Fenske called "Big Game Hunters," which was featured in the anthology 'Scoot Over, Skinny: The Fat Nonfiction Anthology.' And, in volume 27 of the journal, 'Deviant Behavior,' there's an essay called "'Knocking off a Fat Girl': an Exploration of Hogging, Male Sexuality, and Neutralizations." I'm also told there are MySpace and Facebook groups for hoggers, but I haven't mustered the bravery to check those out yet.
I worried that my previous ignorance of hogging might mean that I'd been hogged myself; but, I was told I don't meet the minimum weight requirement, and besides, hogging never leads to relationships.
If hogging is something everyone (but me) already knows about, I have to wonder why potential hogees aren't just a little more guarded. I'm not condoning hogging or anything, but nothing good has ever happened in a Lane Bryant tube top.
Don't we all know when we're out of our league? I mean, the only ridiculously good looking people I trust are my friends, so in the event that a male model-looking dude ever spoke to me, I'd assume he was either gay (and wanted someone to make fun of high-waisted pants with) or blind (and I sound much, much taller, and blonder -- with bigger boobs.). Logically, I think this question makes sense, although I will concede that it does presuppose a moderate sense of self-worth, a pinch of dignity, and possibly a fear of STDs. Unfortunately, not all hogees seem to possess these traits because, as we all know, fat people are sub-human, and exist solely for everyone else's entertainment. Fat guy in a little coat.
Some hoggers argue that hogees like hogging, because at least they get to have sex. Others, I guess, just feel entitled to ruin lives because they're just that awesome.
But, that's beside the point. The more pressing issues, I think, are:
1. Hoggers need to admit that they like hogging. If they didn't, hogging would be physically impossible. You know what I'm saying.
2. Hoggers are taking potential mates from their oversized brethren. Shouldn't that be against the Bro Code?
3. Hoggers are totally gay for each other, hence the collaborative element. And that's all I have to say about hogging. I leave you with some of my favorite quotations from Fenske's essay (http://www.clevescene.com/2003-10-01/news/big-game-hunters/4):
"You're not embarrassed getting shot down by them," Mark says. "You're not embarrassed when they leave."
"I just talk to them like they're complete disgusting pigs," he says. "You gotta break 'em down with insults. Comment on their fat -- 'You're a dirty little pig.' They call me a dick, an asshole, but after a few beers, they're into it."
"Everyone knows that if you want to get belligerent with your friends, hogging is the way to go. It's not something you aspire to, but no one decent is going to talk to you when you're at the bar with your friends, doing shots of Jaeger. Sometimes you just say, 'Fuck it, let's get a pig.'"
"You don't want to have a hot bitch blow you off because she can. You want a fat bitch who'll suck your cock. Last call, I like to get my dick sucked rather than play euchre all night."
Have you heard of this? Apparently, it's huge. It's when dudes go prowling for obese women, take them home, and humiliate them in various ways. This usually entails the hogee on hands and knees while the hogger makes whatever kinds of noises he thinks a hog makes. But there's a collaborative element to hogging, which is really key. One example, I was told, would be like if a hogger's friend jumped out of a closet with a videocamera in the middle of the hogging.
Hogging is enough of a cultural phenomenon to entail entries in both Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary. There's also an essay by Sarah Fenske called "Big Game Hunters," which was featured in the anthology 'Scoot Over, Skinny: The Fat Nonfiction Anthology.' And, in volume 27 of the journal, 'Deviant Behavior,' there's an essay called "'Knocking off a Fat Girl': an Exploration of Hogging, Male Sexuality, and Neutralizations." I'm also told there are MySpace and Facebook groups for hoggers, but I haven't mustered the bravery to check those out yet.
I worried that my previous ignorance of hogging might mean that I'd been hogged myself; but, I was told I don't meet the minimum weight requirement, and besides, hogging never leads to relationships.
If hogging is something everyone (but me) already knows about, I have to wonder why potential hogees aren't just a little more guarded. I'm not condoning hogging or anything, but nothing good has ever happened in a Lane Bryant tube top.
Don't we all know when we're out of our league? I mean, the only ridiculously good looking people I trust are my friends, so in the event that a male model-looking dude ever spoke to me, I'd assume he was either gay (and wanted someone to make fun of high-waisted pants with) or blind (and I sound much, much taller, and blonder -- with bigger boobs.). Logically, I think this question makes sense, although I will concede that it does presuppose a moderate sense of self-worth, a pinch of dignity, and possibly a fear of STDs. Unfortunately, not all hogees seem to possess these traits because, as we all know, fat people are sub-human, and exist solely for everyone else's entertainment. Fat guy in a little coat.
Some hoggers argue that hogees like hogging, because at least they get to have sex. Others, I guess, just feel entitled to ruin lives because they're just that awesome.
But, that's beside the point. The more pressing issues, I think, are:
1. Hoggers need to admit that they like hogging. If they didn't, hogging would be physically impossible. You know what I'm saying.
2. Hoggers are taking potential mates from their oversized brethren. Shouldn't that be against the Bro Code?
3. Hoggers are totally gay for each other, hence the collaborative element. And that's all I have to say about hogging. I leave you with some of my favorite quotations from Fenske's essay (http://www.clevescene.com/2003-10-01/news/big-game-hunters/4):
"You're not embarrassed getting shot down by them," Mark says. "You're not embarrassed when they leave."
"I just talk to them like they're complete disgusting pigs," he says. "You gotta break 'em down with insults. Comment on their fat -- 'You're a dirty little pig.' They call me a dick, an asshole, but after a few beers, they're into it."
"Everyone knows that if you want to get belligerent with your friends, hogging is the way to go. It's not something you aspire to, but no one decent is going to talk to you when you're at the bar with your friends, doing shots of Jaeger. Sometimes you just say, 'Fuck it, let's get a pig.'"
"You don't want to have a hot bitch blow you off because she can. You want a fat bitch who'll suck your cock. Last call, I like to get my dick sucked rather than play euchre all night."
Awesomely terrible lines from student papers: the (new and improved) finale.
(April 27, 2007)
"The second section of my research question is how much time do we have? Well, it depends who you talk to. The Christians, Mayans, and many scientists say not long but of course they have been saying that for years."
"Without industry, where would people work? The answer is simple: people would be farming in their backyards, living off the land, and rolling the wheel back. This simply cannot be stood for."
"As the evolutionary progress has continued, humans have faced weakening in their senses in old age. Many children are even vision impaired or hearing impaired. What would happen to these humans had it not been for the use of plastics, a pollutant to the environment, to develop hearing aids?"
"A deaf human in a hunter-gatherer society would become an overwhelming burden to his comrades and would likely die young."
"As stated earlier, the ability for mammals to evolve quickly has been our strongest trait. This statement may start to seem redundant, but I cannot stress the importance of the recognition of the evolutionary process."
"Pollution is a major problem. I admit it."
"The first time the ape stabbed a big ole hornet nest, he learned his lesson: hornets are not a good food source due to the high opportunity cost."
"An albino rabbit in a dense forest is not going to survive very long."
"The second section of my research question is how much time do we have? Well, it depends who you talk to. The Christians, Mayans, and many scientists say not long but of course they have been saying that for years."
"Without industry, where would people work? The answer is simple: people would be farming in their backyards, living off the land, and rolling the wheel back. This simply cannot be stood for."
"As the evolutionary progress has continued, humans have faced weakening in their senses in old age. Many children are even vision impaired or hearing impaired. What would happen to these humans had it not been for the use of plastics, a pollutant to the environment, to develop hearing aids?"
"A deaf human in a hunter-gatherer society would become an overwhelming burden to his comrades and would likely die young."
"As stated earlier, the ability for mammals to evolve quickly has been our strongest trait. This statement may start to seem redundant, but I cannot stress the importance of the recognition of the evolutionary process."
"Pollution is a major problem. I admit it."
"The first time the ape stabbed a big ole hornet nest, he learned his lesson: hornets are not a good food source due to the high opportunity cost."
"An albino rabbit in a dense forest is not going to survive very long."
The stupidest thing I've been a part of (recently).
(April 24, 2007)
Today I invited Ultimate Co-Worker, along with Ultimate Fiancee and Ultimate Friends, to this weekend's Republican Fest. Deb has to work, but Ultimate says he thinks he'll make a convincing Dick Cheney. Aaron says he's coming as Ann Coulter.
So, during my fifteen-minute break at work, I tried to print an Ultimare Flyer for Ultimate Co-Worker. Here's how this is supposed to work:
1. Deposit money to account.
2. Swipe student ID at nearest printer to deduct money from account.
3. Print whatever you want for six cents a page.
Having completed step one some time ago, I went to the nearest printer to complete steps two and three. I should have immediately known something was wrong when I saw a Dude and an Emo kid hunched over the printer at the same time; those two subcultures never mingle -- probably because the Dude wants to punch the Emo kid all the time, and the Emo kid would die.
Nonetheless, Dude and Emo were both staring at the printer, pressing buttons, opening doors, and being all-around take-charge kind of guys, bonding over their shared sense of confusion. They looked a lot like Hansel and Zoolander trying to get the file from the Mac. I watched this for a few seconds before asking, "Do you know what's wrong with the printer?" And then Dude said, "It says it's out of paper..." and then he opened the door where the ink goes. "How do you put paper in there?"
So then I said, while opening the paper drawer, "I think the paper goes in here because this drawer has a picture of a piece of paper on it."
Then, Dude picked up two -- seriously, two -- folded pieces of formally discarded paper beside the printer and put them in the tray. Emo identified one problem: "I bet we'll need more than two pieces of paper." And I picked another: "That's probably going to get caught in the printer."
But Dude proceeded anyway. He hit the print button again, and nothing happened. So -- I swear this is true -- I closed the paper drawer for him. And, of course, the paper immediately got jammed in the printer and I felt vindicated. That was the moment I decided to stick around to the end of the ordeal just to see what would happen.
Dude opened the correct drawer and pulled the crumpled piece of paper out. Emo turned to me, full of despair, and asked, "What do we do now?"
"Get more paper."
"Where?"
"Ask a librarian."
And then Dude and Emo both looked at me like I'd just suggested asking the Godfather for a favor on his daughter's wedding day. I could tell they were both just going to give up because the challenge of asking a librarian for paper to fill an empty printer in the library was completely insurmountable. Dude was like, "Fuck it," and walked away. Emo looked longingly at the printer, hoping that either the paper supply would magically replenish itself, or I would ask one of the librarians for paper myself. That was the moment I realized our shared experience had crossed over from the realm of the entertaining into the realm of the unbelievably stupid.
I left Emo standing at the printer as a Sorostitute approached. She stopped me, and asked, "What's wrong with it?" Assuming she was referring to the printer rather than the Emo staring at it, I told her the printer was out of paper and she gave me the same terrified look as Dude and Emo.
I fled back to work before things could get any stupider. As I relayed the story of my experience to Ultimate Co-Worker, I began to realize its full impact. I had just met three people who were so astonished by the prospect of having to take initiative to do something ridiculously simple for themselves that they were frozen with shock. No wonder some of my students still don't know how to write a thesis statement.
Today I invited Ultimate Co-Worker, along with Ultimate Fiancee and Ultimate Friends, to this weekend's Republican Fest. Deb has to work, but Ultimate says he thinks he'll make a convincing Dick Cheney. Aaron says he's coming as Ann Coulter.
So, during my fifteen-minute break at work, I tried to print an Ultimare Flyer for Ultimate Co-Worker. Here's how this is supposed to work:
1. Deposit money to account.
2. Swipe student ID at nearest printer to deduct money from account.
3. Print whatever you want for six cents a page.
Having completed step one some time ago, I went to the nearest printer to complete steps two and three. I should have immediately known something was wrong when I saw a Dude and an Emo kid hunched over the printer at the same time; those two subcultures never mingle -- probably because the Dude wants to punch the Emo kid all the time, and the Emo kid would die.
Nonetheless, Dude and Emo were both staring at the printer, pressing buttons, opening doors, and being all-around take-charge kind of guys, bonding over their shared sense of confusion. They looked a lot like Hansel and Zoolander trying to get the file from the Mac. I watched this for a few seconds before asking, "Do you know what's wrong with the printer?" And then Dude said, "It says it's out of paper..." and then he opened the door where the ink goes. "How do you put paper in there?"
So then I said, while opening the paper drawer, "I think the paper goes in here because this drawer has a picture of a piece of paper on it."
Then, Dude picked up two -- seriously, two -- folded pieces of formally discarded paper beside the printer and put them in the tray. Emo identified one problem: "I bet we'll need more than two pieces of paper." And I picked another: "That's probably going to get caught in the printer."
But Dude proceeded anyway. He hit the print button again, and nothing happened. So -- I swear this is true -- I closed the paper drawer for him. And, of course, the paper immediately got jammed in the printer and I felt vindicated. That was the moment I decided to stick around to the end of the ordeal just to see what would happen.
Dude opened the correct drawer and pulled the crumpled piece of paper out. Emo turned to me, full of despair, and asked, "What do we do now?"
"Get more paper."
"Where?"
"Ask a librarian."
And then Dude and Emo both looked at me like I'd just suggested asking the Godfather for a favor on his daughter's wedding day. I could tell they were both just going to give up because the challenge of asking a librarian for paper to fill an empty printer in the library was completely insurmountable. Dude was like, "Fuck it," and walked away. Emo looked longingly at the printer, hoping that either the paper supply would magically replenish itself, or I would ask one of the librarians for paper myself. That was the moment I realized our shared experience had crossed over from the realm of the entertaining into the realm of the unbelievably stupid.
I left Emo standing at the printer as a Sorostitute approached. She stopped me, and asked, "What's wrong with it?" Assuming she was referring to the printer rather than the Emo staring at it, I told her the printer was out of paper and she gave me the same terrified look as Dude and Emo.
I fled back to work before things could get any stupider. As I relayed the story of my experience to Ultimate Co-Worker, I began to realize its full impact. I had just met three people who were so astonished by the prospect of having to take initiative to do something ridiculously simple for themselves that they were frozen with shock. No wonder some of my students still don't know how to write a thesis statement.
The Tailor of Morgantown.
(March 15, 2007)
If, like me, you're under 5'8" and happen to live in Morgantown, I have some wisdom to pass along to you.
Start drinking more milk and hope to grow, because the tailoring scene here is not so awesome. I went to what I'm pretty sure is the only tailor in the immediate vicinity this morning. Actually -- just to make sure Sam gets offended -- I would say it's safe to assume this is the only tailor in all of West Virginia. As such, it seems the tailors there are taking advantage of the novelty, and have formed some kind of tailors' union, whereby they don't have to tailor anything they don't want to tailor -- even though the act of tailoring is implied rather directly in their job title.
I should have just left when the tailor looked at the jacket and asked, "Is that a jacket?" but this jacket needed a fair amount of work -- shorter sleeves, and a smaller waist. So, instead, I just nodded, yes, this is a jacket.
So, my sleeves got pinned, but the tailor has refused to alter the waist (apparently they can do that, now -- like conscientious fashion objectors) because, "it's a jacket". And then I gave up, because I can't argue with that kind of cold, hard logic. So, if you see me wearing a teal jacket with perfectly-fitted sleeves and a potato sack waist, just try to imagine the possibilities, please. It could have been a nice jacket -- even though it's a jacket.
If, like me, you're under 5'8" and happen to live in Morgantown, I have some wisdom to pass along to you.
Start drinking more milk and hope to grow, because the tailoring scene here is not so awesome. I went to what I'm pretty sure is the only tailor in the immediate vicinity this morning. Actually -- just to make sure Sam gets offended -- I would say it's safe to assume this is the only tailor in all of West Virginia. As such, it seems the tailors there are taking advantage of the novelty, and have formed some kind of tailors' union, whereby they don't have to tailor anything they don't want to tailor -- even though the act of tailoring is implied rather directly in their job title.
I should have just left when the tailor looked at the jacket and asked, "Is that a jacket?" but this jacket needed a fair amount of work -- shorter sleeves, and a smaller waist. So, instead, I just nodded, yes, this is a jacket.
So, my sleeves got pinned, but the tailor has refused to alter the waist (apparently they can do that, now -- like conscientious fashion objectors) because, "it's a jacket". And then I gave up, because I can't argue with that kind of cold, hard logic. So, if you see me wearing a teal jacket with perfectly-fitted sleeves and a potato sack waist, just try to imagine the possibilities, please. It could have been a nice jacket -- even though it's a jacket.
Adventures in online dating.
(February 18, 2007)
Inspired by Celia Ellenberg's article, "Hey, I Like Your Profile..." in this month's Jane Magazine, Meg and I have decided to try online dating. And, by 'try online dating' I mean we've decided to challenge each other to see who can create the most whore-tastic profile to attract the largest number of appalling freaks possible -- it's a freakathon, a freak-off, a freakatition.
We probably won't try Match.com because I think that costs money. Also, I think Dr. Phil endorses that, and Dr. Phil's dead to me. But, we're definitely going to try ConservativeMatch.com (Likes: zygotes, thieving corporations, declaring war on abstract concepts). I'm also really excited about the possibilities of JDate.com (Likes: domineering mothers, delis, Moses). Of course, Celibatepassions.com is probably more up my alley. No pun intended. Snap! Can I 'snap' myself? And, is that a pun, too?
Trekpassions.com might prove to be a bit of a challenge for me, as I've never seen Star Trek (Likes: men who live with their parents? Men who have asthma? Men who also have profiles on celibatepassions.com?), but I'm willing to try to bluff my way through. You know, like in a relationship.
Sportsfriends.com is just out of the question. Ditto for stdsingles.com. Datemypet.com would give me a good excuse to get a puppy (Likes: mutilated furniture, shedding, cleaning up shit). Gothicmatch.com would give me a good excuse to be even more moody and demanding. Plus, then I could borrow my date's eyeliner.
Between JDate.com and greenfriends.com (Likes: recycling, organic pot-lucks, patchouli), I think I've got this thing in the bag. The real competition is going to be on Nerve.com, where Meg has already called dibs on listing giving blow jobs as one of her interests. I call dibs on not wearing underwear, and having sex in public places.
Inspired by Celia Ellenberg's article, "Hey, I Like Your Profile..." in this month's Jane Magazine, Meg and I have decided to try online dating. And, by 'try online dating' I mean we've decided to challenge each other to see who can create the most whore-tastic profile to attract the largest number of appalling freaks possible -- it's a freakathon, a freak-off, a freakatition.
We probably won't try Match.com because I think that costs money. Also, I think Dr. Phil endorses that, and Dr. Phil's dead to me. But, we're definitely going to try ConservativeMatch.com (Likes: zygotes, thieving corporations, declaring war on abstract concepts). I'm also really excited about the possibilities of JDate.com (Likes: domineering mothers, delis, Moses). Of course, Celibatepassions.com is probably more up my alley. No pun intended. Snap! Can I 'snap' myself? And, is that a pun, too?
Trekpassions.com might prove to be a bit of a challenge for me, as I've never seen Star Trek (Likes: men who live with their parents? Men who have asthma? Men who also have profiles on celibatepassions.com?), but I'm willing to try to bluff my way through. You know, like in a relationship.
Sportsfriends.com is just out of the question. Ditto for stdsingles.com. Datemypet.com would give me a good excuse to get a puppy (Likes: mutilated furniture, shedding, cleaning up shit). Gothicmatch.com would give me a good excuse to be even more moody and demanding. Plus, then I could borrow my date's eyeliner.
Between JDate.com and greenfriends.com (Likes: recycling, organic pot-lucks, patchouli), I think I've got this thing in the bag. The real competition is going to be on Nerve.com, where Meg has already called dibs on listing giving blow jobs as one of her interests. I call dibs on not wearing underwear, and having sex in public places.
Love Lucy, hate Sarah.
(February 11, 2007)
I haven't baked anything in about eleven years. I think I can remember the exact occasion of my last baking experience, and I think I made chocolate chip cookies while babysitting. I got a banana-shaped burn on my hand that I thought would turn into a badass scar, but didn't. I think that's the last time I baked, because when I offer to help my mom, who runs a catering business, she usually says, "No! I mean, that's ok." Helping my mom in the kitchen has always been limited to wrapping leftovers or washing dishes, and I'm pretty sure that doesn't count as baking, even if I happen to be in the same room where the baking is going on.
I've recently acquired a baking dish, which I usually use for chicken but, today, I decided I had to make a cake. Naively, I thought this would go pretty well because I got a mix from a box (I know my limitations), and the directions only called for three additional ingredients -- and one of them was water.
Since I haven't baked in eleven years, though, I forgot that every time I try to bake, my kitchen ends up looking like a really sad I Love Lucy rerun. My first problem was that I didn't have a bowl large enough to mix the incomprehensible-chemical-fusion cake powder; I used a spaghetti pot.
My Hurculean strength caused me to spray brown powder over half my kitchen and I had to scrape it, from various surfaces, into the spaghetti pot.
Then I had two eggs, not three, as the recipe called for. I didn't bother to get eggs because, I mean, what kind of domestic retard keeps less than three eggs on hand?
I thought I only had olive oil, but some rearranging of peanut butter and cereal, thankfully, unearthed some vegetable oil. I have no idea how or when I got vegetable oil, but I added some more of that in lieu of a third egg.
But, of course, I don't have a mixer, or a wisk, so I had to use a fork.
And I don't have a spatula, so I had to use a spoon to get all of the batter out of the spaghetti pot.
The cake takes forty minutes to bake, but I wasn't paying attention to what time I put it in the oven because I was thinking about medieval lit.
I'll take it out soon, I guess. What the hell. At least my house smells delicious. You're all invited over for cake.
I haven't baked anything in about eleven years. I think I can remember the exact occasion of my last baking experience, and I think I made chocolate chip cookies while babysitting. I got a banana-shaped burn on my hand that I thought would turn into a badass scar, but didn't. I think that's the last time I baked, because when I offer to help my mom, who runs a catering business, she usually says, "No! I mean, that's ok." Helping my mom in the kitchen has always been limited to wrapping leftovers or washing dishes, and I'm pretty sure that doesn't count as baking, even if I happen to be in the same room where the baking is going on.
I've recently acquired a baking dish, which I usually use for chicken but, today, I decided I had to make a cake. Naively, I thought this would go pretty well because I got a mix from a box (I know my limitations), and the directions only called for three additional ingredients -- and one of them was water.
Since I haven't baked in eleven years, though, I forgot that every time I try to bake, my kitchen ends up looking like a really sad I Love Lucy rerun. My first problem was that I didn't have a bowl large enough to mix the incomprehensible-chemical-fusion cake powder; I used a spaghetti pot.
My Hurculean strength caused me to spray brown powder over half my kitchen and I had to scrape it, from various surfaces, into the spaghetti pot.
Then I had two eggs, not three, as the recipe called for. I didn't bother to get eggs because, I mean, what kind of domestic retard keeps less than three eggs on hand?
I thought I only had olive oil, but some rearranging of peanut butter and cereal, thankfully, unearthed some vegetable oil. I have no idea how or when I got vegetable oil, but I added some more of that in lieu of a third egg.
But, of course, I don't have a mixer, or a wisk, so I had to use a fork.
And I don't have a spatula, so I had to use a spoon to get all of the batter out of the spaghetti pot.
The cake takes forty minutes to bake, but I wasn't paying attention to what time I put it in the oven because I was thinking about medieval lit.
I'll take it out soon, I guess. What the hell. At least my house smells delicious. You're all invited over for cake.
Last call, more guilt, and a near-death experience.
(January 3, 2007)
It's last call to visit with me if you're in Dayton, as I'll be re-opened for business (translation: going back to WV) on the sixth.
At the mall today, I experienced more middle-class consumer guilt after I watched a large-footed baby Sorostitute --16 or 17, maybe -- abuse a meek salesperson. The baby Sorostitute wanted red shoes, and the salesperson accidentally brought out green ones, so the baby Sorostitute decided to express her displeasure with the situation as rudely as possible:
LFBS: Hun -- these are green. I want red.
MS: Sorry about that. Size nine?
LFBS: Yeah.
Meek salesperson was trying to get shoes for several other, only slightly less demanding, customers. Sadly, there were no more red size nines for the baby Sorostitute, so she left to terrorize another wage slave.
I don't like to see people who work in retail abused. I almost said something to the large-footed baby Sorostitute, but I didn't. Then I felt guilty about it when I saw the four-inch vertical marks on the meek salesperson's wrists, fresh enough to be puffy, but not bandaged. Honestly, I don't see how this suicide attempt could have failed.
Then I felt even more guilty because being that close to someone who almost died, but didn't, made me feel like a really bad person for being in a mall. Having worked in the service industry around the holidays, I have certainly contemplated dragging something pointy across my wrists, but I've never seen such a sincere effort. Being around people who are more obviously miserable than I am makes me feel bad about not feeling worse. Hopefully, this will put me off shopping for a while.
It's last call to visit with me if you're in Dayton, as I'll be re-opened for business (translation: going back to WV) on the sixth.
At the mall today, I experienced more middle-class consumer guilt after I watched a large-footed baby Sorostitute --16 or 17, maybe -- abuse a meek salesperson. The baby Sorostitute wanted red shoes, and the salesperson accidentally brought out green ones, so the baby Sorostitute decided to express her displeasure with the situation as rudely as possible:
LFBS: Hun -- these are green. I want red.
MS: Sorry about that. Size nine?
LFBS: Yeah.
Meek salesperson was trying to get shoes for several other, only slightly less demanding, customers. Sadly, there were no more red size nines for the baby Sorostitute, so she left to terrorize another wage slave.
I don't like to see people who work in retail abused. I almost said something to the large-footed baby Sorostitute, but I didn't. Then I felt guilty about it when I saw the four-inch vertical marks on the meek salesperson's wrists, fresh enough to be puffy, but not bandaged. Honestly, I don't see how this suicide attempt could have failed.
Then I felt even more guilty because being that close to someone who almost died, but didn't, made me feel like a really bad person for being in a mall. Having worked in the service industry around the holidays, I have certainly contemplated dragging something pointy across my wrists, but I've never seen such a sincere effort. Being around people who are more obviously miserable than I am makes me feel bad about not feeling worse. Hopefully, this will put me off shopping for a while.
Can't. Sleep. Books will eat me.
(December 26, 2006)
I want to go back to WVU now. I haven't been to the 'brook in a year, but my home is pretty boring already. Actually, it's not really my home anymore, it's my parents' home and, since I'm not a true West Virginian in spirit, I guess this means I have no home. And I'm ok with that.
For someone without a home, though, I seem to have a lot of crap piling up around me. You know how when you go back to your old bedroom in your parents' house, it seems a lot smaller than you remember it? My bedroom is so stupid. It's still got the oversized antique furniture I've always hated, but it's actually shrinking because every time I come home, I unload two or three boxes of books. This is becoming an issue because a) I'm developing middle-class consumer guilt, b) it's a constant reminder of how long I've been in school, and c) I have an obstacle course leading to my closet.
I wish my parents would empty the nest already. Every time I'm in town I hope to find my room cleared of all my stuff and reimagined as an office, an exercise room, or another guest room. Instead, it's apparently regarded as a halfway house for wayward possessions. There's an errant sink in a box on the floor. I've been assured that we're not white trash now, but there's a ridiculously Seinfeldian anecdote detailing the botched sink trade I haven't heard yet, so maybe my parents are engaging in a little plumbing racketeering on the side. Speaking of racketeering -- would you like to buy some books?
I want to go back to WVU now. I haven't been to the 'brook in a year, but my home is pretty boring already. Actually, it's not really my home anymore, it's my parents' home and, since I'm not a true West Virginian in spirit, I guess this means I have no home. And I'm ok with that.
For someone without a home, though, I seem to have a lot of crap piling up around me. You know how when you go back to your old bedroom in your parents' house, it seems a lot smaller than you remember it? My bedroom is so stupid. It's still got the oversized antique furniture I've always hated, but it's actually shrinking because every time I come home, I unload two or three boxes of books. This is becoming an issue because a) I'm developing middle-class consumer guilt, b) it's a constant reminder of how long I've been in school, and c) I have an obstacle course leading to my closet.
I wish my parents would empty the nest already. Every time I'm in town I hope to find my room cleared of all my stuff and reimagined as an office, an exercise room, or another guest room. Instead, it's apparently regarded as a halfway house for wayward possessions. There's an errant sink in a box on the floor. I've been assured that we're not white trash now, but there's a ridiculously Seinfeldian anecdote detailing the botched sink trade I haven't heard yet, so maybe my parents are engaging in a little plumbing racketeering on the side. Speaking of racketeering -- would you like to buy some books?
Ultimate Co-Worker, Conversations with the Third Reich, and the Wisdom of Woody Allen.
(December 7, 2006)
I am always glad to have the Ultimate Co-worker with me during close encounters with obvious lunatics. Since I've started slinging the coffee, steaming the milk, icing the chai, and so forth, I haven't met too many notable crazies. I mean, no one can keep up with Sam. However, this means that the crazies I do meet are all the more memorable.
Tuesday, for example, an Aryan gentleman came in for something other than tea. Still, something about the tea display compelled him to comment disdainfully: "Zen tea? You think Japanese people drink Christian tea?"
In these sorts of situations -- in which there is no correct answer -- I find it's best to go with something non-committal in the interest of sidestepping any potential outbreak of physical violence. Had I not been talking to a psycho, I could have said what I was thinking: "Nothing tastes better than a steamy cup of self-righteous hypocrisy." I think, instead, I went with something like, "Uh ... hmm" while Ultimate Co-Worker said, "Right, man."
Today, as I was mid-latte, a tall psycho thought it'd be really fun to lurk around over the espresso machine and then quiz me over the contents of his companion's drink.
Tall psycho: So, what -- you just steam milk?
Me: Yeah, and then blend it with espresso.
TP: Gross.
Me: Actually, it's kind of delicious.
TP: I bet you think it is.
Me: Ok. Fine. We're done here.
After today's tall psycho, I kept thinking about that scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen is interviewing people on the street -- "I ask a psychopath, I get that kind of an answer." I've come to appreciate the Sorostitute consumer; at least they're too busy talking into their cell phones to engage me in conversation.
I am always glad to have the Ultimate Co-worker with me during close encounters with obvious lunatics. Since I've started slinging the coffee, steaming the milk, icing the chai, and so forth, I haven't met too many notable crazies. I mean, no one can keep up with Sam. However, this means that the crazies I do meet are all the more memorable.
Tuesday, for example, an Aryan gentleman came in for something other than tea. Still, something about the tea display compelled him to comment disdainfully: "Zen tea? You think Japanese people drink Christian tea?"
In these sorts of situations -- in which there is no correct answer -- I find it's best to go with something non-committal in the interest of sidestepping any potential outbreak of physical violence. Had I not been talking to a psycho, I could have said what I was thinking: "Nothing tastes better than a steamy cup of self-righteous hypocrisy." I think, instead, I went with something like, "Uh ... hmm" while Ultimate Co-Worker said, "Right, man."
Today, as I was mid-latte, a tall psycho thought it'd be really fun to lurk around over the espresso machine and then quiz me over the contents of his companion's drink.
Tall psycho: So, what -- you just steam milk?
Me: Yeah, and then blend it with espresso.
TP: Gross.
Me: Actually, it's kind of delicious.
TP: I bet you think it is.
Me: Ok. Fine. We're done here.
After today's tall psycho, I kept thinking about that scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen is interviewing people on the street -- "I ask a psychopath, I get that kind of an answer." I've come to appreciate the Sorostitute consumer; at least they're too busy talking into their cell phones to engage me in conversation.
Misanthropy FAIL.
(October 26, 2006)
I've found that one serious benefit of thinking just about everyone is an asshole is that sometimes I get overwhelmed by random acts of kindness that aren't really that big of a deal.
A week ago, one of my classmates from the post-war British drama seminar and I realized we were at the same concert five years ago. Ok, maybe that's not that weird; U2 has a lot of fans, I know. They're kind of a big deal. But I think it's weird that we found out, because he's from Virginia and I'm from Ohio and, somehow, we both ended up in Cleveland's Gund Arena -- which is really fun to say, because it sounds like a venereal disease -- rocking out at the same time.
Also, we both had tickets to see them in Boston in 2004, and neither of us ended up going. Eerie.
So, those two discoveries alone were enough to make me forget about the need for universal health care for a minute, and enjoy the humanness of the whole thing in an oh-how-sweet-we're-all-connected state of mind.
But then, Jim shows up to class last night -- with mix CDs. Mix CDs! U2 live, and Beatles b-sides! I mean, come on. That nearly destroyed me. It was one of those completely unselfish acts of thoughtfulness that left me shaking my head in amazement (Cynics, take note: Jim is in his mid-thirties and married, so it really was an unselfish act of thoughtfulness, not a geeky romantic gesture. Not that mix CDs aren't romantic. You know what I mean.). I still haven't fully recovered.
I've found that one serious benefit of thinking just about everyone is an asshole is that sometimes I get overwhelmed by random acts of kindness that aren't really that big of a deal.
A week ago, one of my classmates from the post-war British drama seminar and I realized we were at the same concert five years ago. Ok, maybe that's not that weird; U2 has a lot of fans, I know. They're kind of a big deal. But I think it's weird that we found out, because he's from Virginia and I'm from Ohio and, somehow, we both ended up in Cleveland's Gund Arena -- which is really fun to say, because it sounds like a venereal disease -- rocking out at the same time.
Also, we both had tickets to see them in Boston in 2004, and neither of us ended up going. Eerie.
So, those two discoveries alone were enough to make me forget about the need for universal health care for a minute, and enjoy the humanness of the whole thing in an oh-how-sweet-we're-all-connected state of mind.
But then, Jim shows up to class last night -- with mix CDs. Mix CDs! U2 live, and Beatles b-sides! I mean, come on. That nearly destroyed me. It was one of those completely unselfish acts of thoughtfulness that left me shaking my head in amazement (Cynics, take note: Jim is in his mid-thirties and married, so it really was an unselfish act of thoughtfulness, not a geeky romantic gesture. Not that mix CDs aren't romantic. You know what I mean.). I still haven't fully recovered.
Josh is really raising the bar for misogyny and terrible writing.
(October 19, 2006)
So, I was in my office, grading some papers today. Ho-hum. They were responses to Judy Brady's essay, "I Want a Wife". It's short, and you can link to it here: http://www.columbia.edu/~sss31/rainbow/wife.html. But, if you don't, I don't think that makes little Josh's response any less funny. Enjoy.
... What kind of a husband is she describing anyway? She depicts men as giant assholes. I acknowledge that many women are taken advantage of, but I don't know any women that would happily support me financially, keep up my house, take care of my kids, please me sexually, prepare my food, organize my social life, tolerate infidelity, and do it all without nagging or complaining. I would like to meet a woman like that though.
Brady completely fails to mention that many husbands are the sole breadwinners in the family. Most lower class husbands don't have time for social lives. They work all day and come home to sleep so they can get up and do it all over again. They have so many children to support because they can't use contraceptives correctly or the mother has an overdeveloped maternal instinct.
I think Brady is a feminist asshole that needs to write with a little less bias and a little more logic. She completely ignores the fact that many men support the family while the wife goes to school and sluts around campus. The husband will probably increase their standard of living when he graduates anyway, so what is she complaining about. Maybe the wife shouldn't have had so many children, and then her job would be a lot easier ...
Why does it always have to be the male's fault with these feminist people? Why can't Brady take a little of the blame for her actions that led to the life she has now? Why shouldn't the woman be equally responsible for the birth control? Men can't take a pill yet, if it doesn't make the wife sick, then it only makes sense that taking a pill is her service to the marriage. It will save her the trouble in the long run because feeding her one pill is easier and cheaper than feeding five kids vitamins.
So, I was in my office, grading some papers today. Ho-hum. They were responses to Judy Brady's essay, "I Want a Wife". It's short, and you can link to it here: http://www.columbia.edu/~sss31/rainbow/wife.html. But, if you don't, I don't think that makes little Josh's response any less funny. Enjoy.
... What kind of a husband is she describing anyway? She depicts men as giant assholes. I acknowledge that many women are taken advantage of, but I don't know any women that would happily support me financially, keep up my house, take care of my kids, please me sexually, prepare my food, organize my social life, tolerate infidelity, and do it all without nagging or complaining. I would like to meet a woman like that though.
Brady completely fails to mention that many husbands are the sole breadwinners in the family. Most lower class husbands don't have time for social lives. They work all day and come home to sleep so they can get up and do it all over again. They have so many children to support because they can't use contraceptives correctly or the mother has an overdeveloped maternal instinct.
I think Brady is a feminist asshole that needs to write with a little less bias and a little more logic. She completely ignores the fact that many men support the family while the wife goes to school and sluts around campus. The husband will probably increase their standard of living when he graduates anyway, so what is she complaining about. Maybe the wife shouldn't have had so many children, and then her job would be a lot easier ...
Why does it always have to be the male's fault with these feminist people? Why can't Brady take a little of the blame for her actions that led to the life she has now? Why shouldn't the woman be equally responsible for the birth control? Men can't take a pill yet, if it doesn't make the wife sick, then it only makes sense that taking a pill is her service to the marriage. It will save her the trouble in the long run because feeding her one pill is easier and cheaper than feeding five kids vitamins.
Dudes sometimes like rhyming.
(October 14, 2006)
The more astute Dudes also like puns. Case in point: the "Penetration Station: Freshmen Welcum" sign the upstairs Dudes had on the porch for a while.
Sunnyside is all very Foucault. I can never walk around without feeling like a bunch of younger people are staring at me. And not because I'm narcissistic. They really are.
Case in point: leaving this afternoon for beagle-sitting, some Dudes playing beer pong on the porch before noon delivered the following rhyming assessment: "Look at the shitter on that critter."
That was too much, really. Isn't it standard Dude practice to wait until a bitch has passed before cuing other Dudes to look? Most sexual harassment that occurs in real time is delivered in the form of inarticulate shouting from the window of a moving car.
The strange part about this incident, though, is that no one playing beer pong on the porch actually lived there. And they were all gross. So, either they're some resident Dude's friends, or they just look for empty porches to gross around on.
I think the more pressing question, though, is when we can expect to see the demise of the catcall. And I'm not asking because I'm liberated, it's just ineffective -- maybe because women never really learn anything new.
I already know I have a nice "shitter". Readers, please note: calling attention to the obvious will never make a stranger want to sleep with you. I'll admit I was a little surprised to be called a "critter", but I guess that's all part of the colloquial charm of the Regional Pride Dude.
The more astute Dudes also like puns. Case in point: the "Penetration Station: Freshmen Welcum" sign the upstairs Dudes had on the porch for a while.
Sunnyside is all very Foucault. I can never walk around without feeling like a bunch of younger people are staring at me. And not because I'm narcissistic. They really are.
Case in point: leaving this afternoon for beagle-sitting, some Dudes playing beer pong on the porch before noon delivered the following rhyming assessment: "Look at the shitter on that critter."
That was too much, really. Isn't it standard Dude practice to wait until a bitch has passed before cuing other Dudes to look? Most sexual harassment that occurs in real time is delivered in the form of inarticulate shouting from the window of a moving car.
The strange part about this incident, though, is that no one playing beer pong on the porch actually lived there. And they were all gross. So, either they're some resident Dude's friends, or they just look for empty porches to gross around on.
I think the more pressing question, though, is when we can expect to see the demise of the catcall. And I'm not asking because I'm liberated, it's just ineffective -- maybe because women never really learn anything new.
I already know I have a nice "shitter". Readers, please note: calling attention to the obvious will never make a stranger want to sleep with you. I'll admit I was a little surprised to be called a "critter", but I guess that's all part of the colloquial charm of the Regional Pride Dude.
Friday the 13th
(October 13, 2006)
This morning when I woke up, I could see my breath. In my apartment. I turned my heat on. I hope we don't have another one of those mid-October incidents where it gets all cold and then the frost knocks a bunch of trees down over power lines and then we lose power for a few days and I end up trudging across town with a bunch of frozen meat because it's too depressing to have to throw it all away.*
* Censored excerpt from sincere mass email from Meg, 27 Oct. 2005:
Oh hi,
So things got weird in Morgantown on Monday and it snowed like a mother. And all the trees were like, "Whoa, we still have all our leaves and our sap in liquid form therefore making us really, really heavy and totally not ready for snow." So needless to say a bunch of trees fell down on power lines and people lost electricity. Which leads me to a story about how I'm psychic and me and Sarah carried 15 pounds of frozen meat across town.
... So many a people lost electricity when we had that storm, including little Nader. So obviously we went to her home, drank the rest of her orange juice and vodka in a Poverty Screwdriver, packed up her valuables and Anne Franked it to my home. At the beginning of our trek, we lightheartedly referred to it as the Chickenwalk, but it slowly morphed into a ChickenTrudge because we stopped talking to each other in favor of thinking about how much weight we were carrying and how far we were from my house. I started seeing mirages of white Ford Festivas slowing down to pick us up. Then we got to my house and ate Funfetti cake.
This morning when I woke up, I could see my breath. In my apartment. I turned my heat on. I hope we don't have another one of those mid-October incidents where it gets all cold and then the frost knocks a bunch of trees down over power lines and then we lose power for a few days and I end up trudging across town with a bunch of frozen meat because it's too depressing to have to throw it all away.*
* Censored excerpt from sincere mass email from Meg, 27 Oct. 2005:
Oh hi,
So things got weird in Morgantown on Monday and it snowed like a mother. And all the trees were like, "Whoa, we still have all our leaves and our sap in liquid form therefore making us really, really heavy and totally not ready for snow." So needless to say a bunch of trees fell down on power lines and people lost electricity. Which leads me to a story about how I'm psychic and me and Sarah carried 15 pounds of frozen meat across town.
... So many a people lost electricity when we had that storm, including little Nader. So obviously we went to her home, drank the rest of her orange juice and vodka in a Poverty Screwdriver, packed up her valuables and Anne Franked it to my home. At the beginning of our trek, we lightheartedly referred to it as the Chickenwalk, but it slowly morphed into a ChickenTrudge because we stopped talking to each other in favor of thinking about how much weight we were carrying and how far we were from my house. I started seeing mirages of white Ford Festivas slowing down to pick us up. Then we got to my house and ate Funfetti cake.
Grocery store schizophrenia.
(September 26, 2006)
Did you know you can get Mozzarella cheese for less than eight dollars? Because I didn't. What a revelation at the Giant Eagle. I've been buying the eight-dollar Belgioioso variety because I seriously didn't know you could get blocks of cheaper Mozzarella.
I'm kind of dumb. But I knew no other way.
So I guess this is the end of my cheese splurging. I can't really justify it since I already splurge on coffee, whole wheat pasta, and seafood. I get really nebbish and paranoid and unbearable to be around in grocery stores (and most other places, too, but always in grocery stores).
I should probably look into psychotherapy to get at the root of my hatred of grocery shopping. I suspect it has a lot to do with other people's children, and that episode of 20/20 about the bacteria on cart handles. I hate grocery stores so much that I don't want to stand around for hours looking at ingredients, but I'm also dumbstruck by the unhealthiness of virtually everything, so I usually freak out and end up with a schizophrenic cart full of Kashi, soy milk and Stouffer's macaroni and cheese.
I'd like someone to just tell me what to buy because, aside from raw vegetables, I don't know what to get. I honestly can't tell anymore what will give me high blood pressure, what will give me cancer, and what will begin many years of living in lonely misery after I reach the point of weighing as much as a Yugo. I have a lot of disjointed food facts memorized (Flavored yogurt has a lot of added sugar; whole-grain and organic products are generally stocked on the bottom of shelves.), but no real plan of attack.
So, if you run into me at the grocery store, don't feel obligated to say hello. I'll probably just mumble something incoherently spazzy about unbleached flour and then run toward the wine aisle
Did you know you can get Mozzarella cheese for less than eight dollars? Because I didn't. What a revelation at the Giant Eagle. I've been buying the eight-dollar Belgioioso variety because I seriously didn't know you could get blocks of cheaper Mozzarella.
I'm kind of dumb. But I knew no other way.
So I guess this is the end of my cheese splurging. I can't really justify it since I already splurge on coffee, whole wheat pasta, and seafood. I get really nebbish and paranoid and unbearable to be around in grocery stores (and most other places, too, but always in grocery stores).
I should probably look into psychotherapy to get at the root of my hatred of grocery shopping. I suspect it has a lot to do with other people's children, and that episode of 20/20 about the bacteria on cart handles. I hate grocery stores so much that I don't want to stand around for hours looking at ingredients, but I'm also dumbstruck by the unhealthiness of virtually everything, so I usually freak out and end up with a schizophrenic cart full of Kashi, soy milk and Stouffer's macaroni and cheese.
I'd like someone to just tell me what to buy because, aside from raw vegetables, I don't know what to get. I honestly can't tell anymore what will give me high blood pressure, what will give me cancer, and what will begin many years of living in lonely misery after I reach the point of weighing as much as a Yugo. I have a lot of disjointed food facts memorized (Flavored yogurt has a lot of added sugar; whole-grain and organic products are generally stocked on the bottom of shelves.), but no real plan of attack.
So, if you run into me at the grocery store, don't feel obligated to say hello. I'll probably just mumble something incoherently spazzy about unbleached flour and then run toward the wine aisle
Retarded people aren't really that funny.
(September 15, 2006)
So, two weeks ago at McClafferty's, Meg and I were calmly sipping and waiting for the post-game traffic to subside when, four or five hours later, this Dude approaches, and asks if we'd like to play pool. Then we said no, because we're not big joiners, and the Dude considered this an invitation to sit with us and share a joke he heard. Here it is. Ready? Seriously, here it is. No, really:
"So there's this chair, right? ... And the chair's wearing shoes, ok? ... And the chair walks down the street ..."
That's the whole thing. I'm positive, because he told it two times after that for good measure. After the first telling, Meg and I realized that this Dude was not only drunk, but also retarded. Around the third telling of the joke, his retarded friend came over, and in the spirit of celebration after the WVU win, he put on Meg's hat, swayed a little bit, shared his sunglasses with all of us, danced a lot on the booth and on the table, and tried to rip the lamp out of the wall a few times. So, Meg and I were trapped in the booth and, meanwhile, a non-retarded guy, who I guess was sort of in charge, came over and hung around the end of the table, just watching indifferently.
Then, a beacon of hope, Matt and his 70+ IQ materialized and the retarded comedian got up. I'm not proud, but I saw the opportunity and I took it -- I left Meg trapped in the booth.
So, milling along the periphery, I'm explaining to the Materializer that no, these are not our friends, when I hear Meg, all gruff-like, say "Move. Get up!" Because apparently Meg and the retarded comedian had the following exchange:
RC: "Have you ever been raped before?"
Meg: "No."
RC: "Why not?"
And then, while leaning forward and shaking his fist, he promised to remedy the situation himself.
RC: "I will rape you."
So, I think I'll be sticking to Vice Versa. I really, really love Vice Versa. Really. Good weird things happen there. I was working on a list of top 10 funny / bizarre things I've overheard in the bathroom, but I'm afraid no one will ever be able to top the pregnant woman who, judging by her mullet, and the fact that she couldn't understand why everyone kept giving her weird looks in a smoky, pulsating gay bar, was clearly incapable of irony. She casually responded to someone's congratulations with, "Thanks. This'll be my first. I had two miscarriages because my boyfriend pushed me down the stairs."
So, two weeks ago at McClafferty's, Meg and I were calmly sipping and waiting for the post-game traffic to subside when, four or five hours later, this Dude approaches, and asks if we'd like to play pool. Then we said no, because we're not big joiners, and the Dude considered this an invitation to sit with us and share a joke he heard. Here it is. Ready? Seriously, here it is. No, really:
"So there's this chair, right? ... And the chair's wearing shoes, ok? ... And the chair walks down the street ..."
That's the whole thing. I'm positive, because he told it two times after that for good measure. After the first telling, Meg and I realized that this Dude was not only drunk, but also retarded. Around the third telling of the joke, his retarded friend came over, and in the spirit of celebration after the WVU win, he put on Meg's hat, swayed a little bit, shared his sunglasses with all of us, danced a lot on the booth and on the table, and tried to rip the lamp out of the wall a few times. So, Meg and I were trapped in the booth and, meanwhile, a non-retarded guy, who I guess was sort of in charge, came over and hung around the end of the table, just watching indifferently.
Then, a beacon of hope, Matt and his 70+ IQ materialized and the retarded comedian got up. I'm not proud, but I saw the opportunity and I took it -- I left Meg trapped in the booth.
So, milling along the periphery, I'm explaining to the Materializer that no, these are not our friends, when I hear Meg, all gruff-like, say "Move. Get up!" Because apparently Meg and the retarded comedian had the following exchange:
RC: "Have you ever been raped before?"
Meg: "No."
RC: "Why not?"
And then, while leaning forward and shaking his fist, he promised to remedy the situation himself.
RC: "I will rape you."
So, I think I'll be sticking to Vice Versa. I really, really love Vice Versa. Really. Good weird things happen there. I was working on a list of top 10 funny / bizarre things I've overheard in the bathroom, but I'm afraid no one will ever be able to top the pregnant woman who, judging by her mullet, and the fact that she couldn't understand why everyone kept giving her weird looks in a smoky, pulsating gay bar, was clearly incapable of irony. She casually responded to someone's congratulations with, "Thanks. This'll be my first. I had two miscarriages because my boyfriend pushed me down the stairs."
My cervix, myself.
(September 14, 2006)
Every time I get a pap smear, my doctor says something crazy to me. Aside from the normal awkward conversation, I mean. I'm convinced there's a class gynecologists take in medical school to teach them when and how to solicit personal inquiry; there's definitely a fine art to the timing.
Visits to the gynecologist invariably invert social mores and patterns of conversation. I'm not sure why my sexual history and mating habits are discussed while I'm fully clothed and sitting upright in a chair, yet when I'm naked and V-shaped on a table, I have to talk about what I made for dinner last night, or the weather, or my undergraduate major.
The third worst thing about getting a pap smear is the polite conversation. The worst thing is the subsequent hyper-awareness of everything happening below my bellow button, and feeling like a walking vagina for the remainder of the day. The second worst thing about getting a pap smear is the unpredictability of the anatomical commentary, such as 2004's classic: "You're kind of a bleeder."
I'd like to say today's experience was especially uncomfortable ("Any itching, bleeding, or discharge?"), but, honestly, it wasn't any worse than usual. Until -- "Ok, we're almost done. You're really tight."
Of course, from anyone else, I'd probably have to say "Thank you," but in absurd gynecological world, everything is inverted. So, instead, I just said, "Oh. Sorry."
I'm sure the "Turn your head and cough" moment is uncomfortable, too.
Every time I get a pap smear, my doctor says something crazy to me. Aside from the normal awkward conversation, I mean. I'm convinced there's a class gynecologists take in medical school to teach them when and how to solicit personal inquiry; there's definitely a fine art to the timing.
Visits to the gynecologist invariably invert social mores and patterns of conversation. I'm not sure why my sexual history and mating habits are discussed while I'm fully clothed and sitting upright in a chair, yet when I'm naked and V-shaped on a table, I have to talk about what I made for dinner last night, or the weather, or my undergraduate major.
The third worst thing about getting a pap smear is the polite conversation. The worst thing is the subsequent hyper-awareness of everything happening below my bellow button, and feeling like a walking vagina for the remainder of the day. The second worst thing about getting a pap smear is the unpredictability of the anatomical commentary, such as 2004's classic: "You're kind of a bleeder."
I'd like to say today's experience was especially uncomfortable ("Any itching, bleeding, or discharge?"), but, honestly, it wasn't any worse than usual. Until -- "Ok, we're almost done. You're really tight."
Of course, from anyone else, I'd probably have to say "Thank you," but in absurd gynecological world, everything is inverted. So, instead, I just said, "Oh. Sorry."
I'm sure the "Turn your head and cough" moment is uncomfortable, too.
When in the Hoosier State, Do as the Hoosiers Do.
(July 10, 2006)
So, I'm laying on Steve's futon, ready to sleep, and I keep hearing this buzzing. It's this tiny unidentified green bug that can't stop, won't stop body-slamming the wall. I've chosen not to kill it because that's not very zen. Also, I'm not tall enough to reach it. I started sighing loudly and giving it meaningful looks that say, "Fine, if you don't care about your exoskeleton, neither do I" (our relationship is kind of passive-agressive), but it seems bent on self-destruction (I should note that technique has never worked with my students, either). It could be worse. I could be on a plane packed with uncontrolled venomous snakes. Or, I could be the person responsible for allowing Snakes on a Plane to be created.
Fine. I'm awake. Here's a blog.
I'm in Indiana for the ridiculously over-the-top Fourth of July party hosted annually by Steve's neighbors. Now I know why the wealthy deserve all those tax breaks: they really do love America more than the wage slaves. And what better way to display your patriotism than with pyrotechnics? I now know what $50,000 worth of fireworks looks like. Awesome.
Aside from the fireworks, guests were treated to two outdoor bars with free drinks and bartenders we weren't allowed to tip, a giant buffet, big inflatable stuff (like slides, a jousting ring, and a bounce house), and a cover band with a badass horn section.
This was an all-day event, but things really started on Friday.
We rolled in Friday night to a houseful of rowdy Christadelphians acting like derelicts. Everything was fine until Meg went missing. Forty-five minutes later, sobered and freaked out, Ashley, Paul and I find Meg, running toward us through the backyard, covered in mud and soaking wet. Kind of like Swamp Thing, but more disoriented. I asked what happened to her. She said, "I don't know. I went swimming, and then I was in a forest, and then I heard all these horses and I took my shoes off and just started running."
And, after all this, the Christos got up Sunday morning and went to church.
These Hoosiers sure know how to party.
So, I'm laying on Steve's futon, ready to sleep, and I keep hearing this buzzing. It's this tiny unidentified green bug that can't stop, won't stop body-slamming the wall. I've chosen not to kill it because that's not very zen. Also, I'm not tall enough to reach it. I started sighing loudly and giving it meaningful looks that say, "Fine, if you don't care about your exoskeleton, neither do I" (our relationship is kind of passive-agressive), but it seems bent on self-destruction (I should note that technique has never worked with my students, either). It could be worse. I could be on a plane packed with uncontrolled venomous snakes. Or, I could be the person responsible for allowing Snakes on a Plane to be created.
Fine. I'm awake. Here's a blog.
I'm in Indiana for the ridiculously over-the-top Fourth of July party hosted annually by Steve's neighbors. Now I know why the wealthy deserve all those tax breaks: they really do love America more than the wage slaves. And what better way to display your patriotism than with pyrotechnics? I now know what $50,000 worth of fireworks looks like. Awesome.
Aside from the fireworks, guests were treated to two outdoor bars with free drinks and bartenders we weren't allowed to tip, a giant buffet, big inflatable stuff (like slides, a jousting ring, and a bounce house), and a cover band with a badass horn section.
This was an all-day event, but things really started on Friday.
We rolled in Friday night to a houseful of rowdy Christadelphians acting like derelicts. Everything was fine until Meg went missing. Forty-five minutes later, sobered and freaked out, Ashley, Paul and I find Meg, running toward us through the backyard, covered in mud and soaking wet. Kind of like Swamp Thing, but more disoriented. I asked what happened to her. She said, "I don't know. I went swimming, and then I was in a forest, and then I heard all these horses and I took my shoes off and just started running."
And, after all this, the Christos got up Sunday morning and went to church.
These Hoosiers sure know how to party.
Christmas Rage
(December 23, 2005)
As we all know, beginning in late November, and lasting through December, the air quality diminishes or something and everyone falls victim to the airborne asshole virus that goes around ever year. Look, we're all guilty. Doesn't really matter whether you're an asshole because you think your family is the only one that matters and you feel like you have to abandon common decency in the quest for the perfect pieces of plastic crap to give your loved ones or, like me, you hate other people already and you get really tense around all the psychotic consumers. Add that anxiety to a mild claustrophobia and you've got a whole bundle of walking neuroses just waiting to be medicated. But that's another story.
My story really begins with my good friend Amanda's Christmas rage. Now, pay attention if you haven't heard this yet. Last week, Amanda was Christmas shopping and some yo dude at a mall kiosk approached her, rather creatively, with "Can I ask you a question?" Amanda, being much nicer than me, chose not to ignore him and responded politely and honestly with something like "I'm sorry, but I'm in a hurry," and then attempted to continue about her busy day. But then kiosk dude says "Where are you going?" And then Amanda turned around and said, "Like it's any of your fucking business."
Ok. Keep that in mind. Today I went shopping with my friend, Jaclyn. For those of you who don't know, Jaclyn waits tables at the Dayton country club. Obviously, she has a pretty high tolerance for bullshit. The one thing she really hates is when parents expect everyone else to work around them just because they have kids. This, of course, can happen in two different ways:
1. Ignoring the children in public and assuming others will provide care, or
2. Ignoring everyone but the children and assuming everyone will accommodate the whole family as it destroys, disrupts, congests, or otherwise creates public disturbance.
Of course, we all know this isn't country club-exclusive behavior. Jaclyn told me a story in the vein of #2, which actually led back to the country club correlation, but the point is this: Something has to be done. So from now on, I'm making it my personal crusade to change lives one at a time by providing morons with gentle reminders to act like polite humans.
Seriously, I've made it a New Year's resolution. So, for example, next time I see a family abusing their server by making absurd demands that might give a serf pause, or letting their children leave piles of food, trash, or bodily waste on the table, I'm going to calmly walk over while the server is gone and say something like, "You're being very rude to your server. When he/she comes back, you need to apologize. And tip."
I could not be more serious about this. I vowed today to call out unnecessary public rudeness. I mean really outrageous things. Obviously people don't know they're doing it. And I figure the worst that can happen is I've given these people a story to tell for the next week. Even if they don't apologize, we're no worse off than when we started, right? I think of it as a Pascal's wager with manners.
I really shouldn't have been surprised because it is December, but no sooner did I make that resolution than I was forced to follow through. Picture the scene: 6:30 p.m. A crowded parking lot at an outdoor mall. The garage is full. In your immediate field of vision you can see 10 other cars trolling for spaces with no success. You've driven for several minutes.
But back to me and Jaclyn -- then, I saw people heading to a car RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR! THEY'RE LEAVING! So I asked Jaclyn, "Should I go stand in the spot?" Because we saw it first, but we couldn't back up because there were cars behind us. Jaclyn hesitated, but I was like, "I'm doing it." And I did. Jaclyn made a small circle to get back to the spot -- call it a victory lap -- and I chatted with the leavers before taking my position in the middle of the space.
Ok, I know this is kind of dickish. But this is a capitalist society and it's three days before Christmas so it's every shopper for him or her self. Plus, given the layout of the lot and the fact that there weren't cars coming from the other direction, we had to have seen it first. Honestly. So I'm standing in the spot and Jaclyn's approaching from my right. I see her glee through the windshield, and just as she's about to park, some guy in a Lexus cuts her off, whips in from my left and stops two feet from me.
Oh no he didn't.
Yes. He did. Now, I think my inspiration for this next action stems from a combination of Amanda's aspirational act of defiance in the face of mall heckling, and my new resolution but regardless, now we're in a standoff.
At first I don't say anything. I merely raise my arms meaningfully, offer a questioning glare, and shake my head no. And he doesn't do anything either. We stare at each other. Tumbleweed rolls by. I hear saloon doors creaking in the sub-zero wind. I know this may be the end of my kneecaps and possibly my life, but I'm not moving. This is our spot.
Then, he guns it and halts abruptly, now a mere foot away from me. I have to admit, I jumped. Just a little. His wife rolls down her window and she's saying something, but she's not talking to me.
I think it was around this time that Jaclyn's window also came down and she started yelling, "Give it up! We were obviously here first!" Meanwhile I'd assumed my first posture, but with an edge of aggression. I look to my left; cars are beginning to pile up, maybe to watch, maybe just because they couldn't get around us. I look to my right and I see my oldest friend hanging out of her window, yelling in my defense, and at this moment, I know.
I know we've come too far.
So I lean forward. One foot from the nose of the car. I stare into the windshield and yell, "NO, NO, NO! YOU'RE BEING VERY RUDE!" I yelled a few other things, but Jaclyn was yelling too and this is when the adrenaline kicked in, so it's all a blur until I deliver the fatal blow:
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"
And then he drove away.
Lexus: 0
Honda: 1
Everyone won. We got our rightful parking spot. Other drivers had a good story to tell. Lexus guy got served some ice cold manners -- tough love. Merry Christmas to all.
Still crusading for common courtesy,
Sarah
As we all know, beginning in late November, and lasting through December, the air quality diminishes or something and everyone falls victim to the airborne asshole virus that goes around ever year. Look, we're all guilty. Doesn't really matter whether you're an asshole because you think your family is the only one that matters and you feel like you have to abandon common decency in the quest for the perfect pieces of plastic crap to give your loved ones or, like me, you hate other people already and you get really tense around all the psychotic consumers. Add that anxiety to a mild claustrophobia and you've got a whole bundle of walking neuroses just waiting to be medicated. But that's another story.
My story really begins with my good friend Amanda's Christmas rage. Now, pay attention if you haven't heard this yet. Last week, Amanda was Christmas shopping and some yo dude at a mall kiosk approached her, rather creatively, with "Can I ask you a question?" Amanda, being much nicer than me, chose not to ignore him and responded politely and honestly with something like "I'm sorry, but I'm in a hurry," and then attempted to continue about her busy day. But then kiosk dude says "Where are you going?" And then Amanda turned around and said, "Like it's any of your fucking business."
Ok. Keep that in mind. Today I went shopping with my friend, Jaclyn. For those of you who don't know, Jaclyn waits tables at the Dayton country club. Obviously, she has a pretty high tolerance for bullshit. The one thing she really hates is when parents expect everyone else to work around them just because they have kids. This, of course, can happen in two different ways:
1. Ignoring the children in public and assuming others will provide care, or
2. Ignoring everyone but the children and assuming everyone will accommodate the whole family as it destroys, disrupts, congests, or otherwise creates public disturbance.
Of course, we all know this isn't country club-exclusive behavior. Jaclyn told me a story in the vein of #2, which actually led back to the country club correlation, but the point is this: Something has to be done. So from now on, I'm making it my personal crusade to change lives one at a time by providing morons with gentle reminders to act like polite humans.
Seriously, I've made it a New Year's resolution. So, for example, next time I see a family abusing their server by making absurd demands that might give a serf pause, or letting their children leave piles of food, trash, or bodily waste on the table, I'm going to calmly walk over while the server is gone and say something like, "You're being very rude to your server. When he/she comes back, you need to apologize. And tip."
I could not be more serious about this. I vowed today to call out unnecessary public rudeness. I mean really outrageous things. Obviously people don't know they're doing it. And I figure the worst that can happen is I've given these people a story to tell for the next week. Even if they don't apologize, we're no worse off than when we started, right? I think of it as a Pascal's wager with manners.
I really shouldn't have been surprised because it is December, but no sooner did I make that resolution than I was forced to follow through. Picture the scene: 6:30 p.m. A crowded parking lot at an outdoor mall. The garage is full. In your immediate field of vision you can see 10 other cars trolling for spaces with no success. You've driven for several minutes.
But back to me and Jaclyn -- then, I saw people heading to a car RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR! THEY'RE LEAVING! So I asked Jaclyn, "Should I go stand in the spot?" Because we saw it first, but we couldn't back up because there were cars behind us. Jaclyn hesitated, but I was like, "I'm doing it." And I did. Jaclyn made a small circle to get back to the spot -- call it a victory lap -- and I chatted with the leavers before taking my position in the middle of the space.
Ok, I know this is kind of dickish. But this is a capitalist society and it's three days before Christmas so it's every shopper for him or her self. Plus, given the layout of the lot and the fact that there weren't cars coming from the other direction, we had to have seen it first. Honestly. So I'm standing in the spot and Jaclyn's approaching from my right. I see her glee through the windshield, and just as she's about to park, some guy in a Lexus cuts her off, whips in from my left and stops two feet from me.
Oh no he didn't.
Yes. He did. Now, I think my inspiration for this next action stems from a combination of Amanda's aspirational act of defiance in the face of mall heckling, and my new resolution but regardless, now we're in a standoff.
At first I don't say anything. I merely raise my arms meaningfully, offer a questioning glare, and shake my head no. And he doesn't do anything either. We stare at each other. Tumbleweed rolls by. I hear saloon doors creaking in the sub-zero wind. I know this may be the end of my kneecaps and possibly my life, but I'm not moving. This is our spot.
Then, he guns it and halts abruptly, now a mere foot away from me. I have to admit, I jumped. Just a little. His wife rolls down her window and she's saying something, but she's not talking to me.
I think it was around this time that Jaclyn's window also came down and she started yelling, "Give it up! We were obviously here first!" Meanwhile I'd assumed my first posture, but with an edge of aggression. I look to my left; cars are beginning to pile up, maybe to watch, maybe just because they couldn't get around us. I look to my right and I see my oldest friend hanging out of her window, yelling in my defense, and at this moment, I know.
I know we've come too far.
So I lean forward. One foot from the nose of the car. I stare into the windshield and yell, "NO, NO, NO! YOU'RE BEING VERY RUDE!" I yelled a few other things, but Jaclyn was yelling too and this is when the adrenaline kicked in, so it's all a blur until I deliver the fatal blow:
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"
And then he drove away.
Lexus: 0
Honda: 1
Everyone won. We got our rightful parking spot. Other drivers had a good story to tell. Lexus guy got served some ice cold manners -- tough love. Merry Christmas to all.
Still crusading for common courtesy,
Sarah
"We found poop in there!"
(May 17, 2006)
Getting new neighbors. Actually, I've already gotten two of them in the house across from me. Drew said when he went out to walk his dog he heard one's mother saying, "We found poop in there!"
Ah, Sunnyside. But that was days ago. I met them last night, and also the people that live on the third floor. No one has rented the second floor yet, and I'm hoping it stays that way. Maybe I'll put some poop in there to try to deter prospective renters so no one will live directly above me.
As most good friendships begin, I met my neighbors, Lauryn and Kimmy, outside at 3 a.m. while they were grilling t-bones and drinking beer. I wasn't sleeping anyway.
Then, the third floor guys from my building came home and, long story short, started running around in circles on the roof in their boxer shorts while some girl (a girlfriend?) half hung out of the window swinging a baseball bat before storming out in a drunken rage.
I've broadened my theory of alcohol as a paradoxical balancing agent, as apparently it doesn't just apply to me. Granted, it's hard to stand still while drunk, but somehow I can run across an icy Michigan parking lot in heels, and Donny and Justin can run around a wet, slanted roof without falling and getting concussions. It's one of life's greatest mysteries, really -- Stonehenge, Nostradamus, shroud of Turin, the correlation between alcohol and athleticism.
Getting new neighbors. Actually, I've already gotten two of them in the house across from me. Drew said when he went out to walk his dog he heard one's mother saying, "We found poop in there!"
Ah, Sunnyside. But that was days ago. I met them last night, and also the people that live on the third floor. No one has rented the second floor yet, and I'm hoping it stays that way. Maybe I'll put some poop in there to try to deter prospective renters so no one will live directly above me.
As most good friendships begin, I met my neighbors, Lauryn and Kimmy, outside at 3 a.m. while they were grilling t-bones and drinking beer. I wasn't sleeping anyway.
Then, the third floor guys from my building came home and, long story short, started running around in circles on the roof in their boxer shorts while some girl (a girlfriend?) half hung out of the window swinging a baseball bat before storming out in a drunken rage.
I've broadened my theory of alcohol as a paradoxical balancing agent, as apparently it doesn't just apply to me. Granted, it's hard to stand still while drunk, but somehow I can run across an icy Michigan parking lot in heels, and Donny and Justin can run around a wet, slanted roof without falling and getting concussions. It's one of life's greatest mysteries, really -- Stonehenge, Nostradamus, shroud of Turin, the correlation between alcohol and athleticism.
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