Thursday, April 27, 2006
Bag o' books is still on!
UPDATE:
So the marvelous "Bag o' Books" moving sale at Kulturas is still going strong. I passed by on the way to work and couldn't resist ducking in for another lovely bunch. If you're in the Dupont area, (I believe their address is 1706 Connecticut, give or take a few numbers) I highly encourage you to go in and check out the book sale. They also have classical cds for a dollar, records, and random bits of clothing and furniture. The guy said that today is their "LAST DAY" (he's been saying this since tuesday, but I think it might be true this time) and that they are open until 10pm. Unfortunately, I don't think cute curly-haired book guy will be there... (Although I probably will stop in again tonight.)
So the marvelous "Bag o' Books" moving sale at Kulturas is still going strong. I passed by on the way to work and couldn't resist ducking in for another lovely bunch. If you're in the Dupont area, (I believe their address is 1706 Connecticut, give or take a few numbers) I highly encourage you to go in and check out the book sale. They also have classical cds for a dollar, records, and random bits of clothing and furniture. The guy said that today is their "LAST DAY" (he's been saying this since tuesday, but I think it might be true this time) and that they are open until 10pm. Unfortunately, I don't think cute curly-haired book guy will be there... (Although I probably will stop in again tonight.)
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
It's just a little crush
I'm a serial crusher. I'm usually harboring about 4 or 5 crushes. There is always the one "real" crush that keeps me up at night and gives me butterflies and makes me act all awkward and silly...and then there are the "counter crushes."
Counter crushes are crushes that you get on the guy (or girl) behind the counter. My first counter crush ever was the salesguy at Borders in the Garden State Plaza. I was 17 and he sold me my first copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, my now favorite book. He was tall, with curly brown hair, and wore thick wooly sweaters. When he saw what I was buying he lit up and told me it was it was a great book. The next time I went to the store I told him I'd loved it and my crush began. I was barely able to get words out around him and he was always blushing and dropping my money. One time he even put the wrong book in the bag. It was all very cute and was just the beginning of a long stream of counter crushes.
Now, it should be noted that not all counter crushes actually work behind a counter. Waiters or bus drivers can also be considered counter crushes as they inspire the same kind of irrational behavior: buying lattes every morning when you actually prefer tea or waiting on an interminably long line just to buy a pack of gum. Buying books you won't read, eating crappy meals, and asking questions you already know the answers to are all classic symptoms of a counter crush. Counter crushes, I've learned, can often be expensive, requiring the regular purchase of an item, meal, or service.
Last spring I developed a massive counter crush on a tall, bearded waiter at Saint-Ex named Will. I met him in early April when a group of my friends and I went there for Sunday brunch. We got wasted on pitcher after pitcher of mimosas and spent the whole time laughing hysterically and torturing Will with our flagrantly inappropriate usage of the word "cunt." The girls flirted shamelessly with him, while the guys teased him for spilling homemade ketchup on Looney. At one point we asked to touch his beard. The reason for my crush (besides his sexiness) was the totally laid-back way he dealt with us. He took everything we served him and threw it right back at us. I think he even let me touch the beard. We left him a fabulous tip and promised to come back.
And I did.
Every single Sunday for two months I had brunch at Saint-Ex. Our flirtatious exchanges generally involved breakfast foods and condiments (as in "Can I get some hot sauce for my eggs? Oh I'll give you some hot sauce..."). His manager yelled at him a few times for spending too much time at my table. My friends, who were sick of hearing about Will (and sick of the menu at Saint-Ex), begged me to ask him out or leave him my number on the receipt. But I couldn't, and not just because I'm totally incapable of asking a guy out, but because that's the problem with counter crushes. The minute you make a move you are no longer able to return to that establishment. And I liked the frites at Saint-Ex way too much to jeopardize that for a cute waiter.
There have been several other crushes. The tattooed bald guy at Kramerbooks, the doorman in my friend's building, the curly-haired book guy at Kulturas (I seem to have a thing for book guys). He's actually why I'm writing this tonight. Kulturas, my second favorite used bookstore in DC, is packing up and moving to California this week. I shall miss it. I walk past the store at least twice a day and stop in a few times a week. For the past six months, I harbored a small crush on the curly-haired book guy that worked nights. I'd come in on the way home from work and would barrage him with ridiculous questions that he always seemed to know the answers to. I liked that he smoked in the store, propped his feet on the counter, and listened to Buena Vista Social Club and Edith Piaf. I liked that he remembered who my favorite writers were and pointed out when new books came in.
But, like most counter crushes, this one has come to an end. I shopped there for the last time last night. They had a $10 bag sale. You could fill a plastic bag with as many books as you wanted and pay only $10 for the whole thing. I managed to stuff 17 books in my bad without ripping it.
At least I'll have plenty of things to read until my next counter crush comes along...
Counter crushes are crushes that you get on the guy (or girl) behind the counter. My first counter crush ever was the salesguy at Borders in the Garden State Plaza. I was 17 and he sold me my first copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, my now favorite book. He was tall, with curly brown hair, and wore thick wooly sweaters. When he saw what I was buying he lit up and told me it was it was a great book. The next time I went to the store I told him I'd loved it and my crush began. I was barely able to get words out around him and he was always blushing and dropping my money. One time he even put the wrong book in the bag. It was all very cute and was just the beginning of a long stream of counter crushes.
Now, it should be noted that not all counter crushes actually work behind a counter. Waiters or bus drivers can also be considered counter crushes as they inspire the same kind of irrational behavior: buying lattes every morning when you actually prefer tea or waiting on an interminably long line just to buy a pack of gum. Buying books you won't read, eating crappy meals, and asking questions you already know the answers to are all classic symptoms of a counter crush. Counter crushes, I've learned, can often be expensive, requiring the regular purchase of an item, meal, or service.
Last spring I developed a massive counter crush on a tall, bearded waiter at Saint-Ex named Will. I met him in early April when a group of my friends and I went there for Sunday brunch. We got wasted on pitcher after pitcher of mimosas and spent the whole time laughing hysterically and torturing Will with our flagrantly inappropriate usage of the word "cunt." The girls flirted shamelessly with him, while the guys teased him for spilling homemade ketchup on Looney. At one point we asked to touch his beard. The reason for my crush (besides his sexiness) was the totally laid-back way he dealt with us. He took everything we served him and threw it right back at us. I think he even let me touch the beard. We left him a fabulous tip and promised to come back.
And I did.
Every single Sunday for two months I had brunch at Saint-Ex. Our flirtatious exchanges generally involved breakfast foods and condiments (as in "Can I get some hot sauce for my eggs? Oh I'll give you some hot sauce..."). His manager yelled at him a few times for spending too much time at my table. My friends, who were sick of hearing about Will (and sick of the menu at Saint-Ex), begged me to ask him out or leave him my number on the receipt. But I couldn't, and not just because I'm totally incapable of asking a guy out, but because that's the problem with counter crushes. The minute you make a move you are no longer able to return to that establishment. And I liked the frites at Saint-Ex way too much to jeopardize that for a cute waiter.
There have been several other crushes. The tattooed bald guy at Kramerbooks, the doorman in my friend's building, the curly-haired book guy at Kulturas (I seem to have a thing for book guys). He's actually why I'm writing this tonight. Kulturas, my second favorite used bookstore in DC, is packing up and moving to California this week. I shall miss it. I walk past the store at least twice a day and stop in a few times a week. For the past six months, I harbored a small crush on the curly-haired book guy that worked nights. I'd come in on the way home from work and would barrage him with ridiculous questions that he always seemed to know the answers to. I liked that he smoked in the store, propped his feet on the counter, and listened to Buena Vista Social Club and Edith Piaf. I liked that he remembered who my favorite writers were and pointed out when new books came in.
But, like most counter crushes, this one has come to an end. I shopped there for the last time last night. They had a $10 bag sale. You could fill a plastic bag with as many books as you wanted and pay only $10 for the whole thing. I managed to stuff 17 books in my bad without ripping it.
At least I'll have plenty of things to read until my next counter crush comes along...
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
I seem to have quit smoking
I'm surprised to report that I am officially a nonsmoker.
I've always hesitated, when filling out profiles (like on MySpace) or surveys, over the "smoking" question. I never really wanted to check "yes," because I never really considered myself a full-fledged smoker. That just seemed so ominous. So dramatic. My idea of a smoker is someone like Johnny Depp, who pretty much always has a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Or, on the significantly less sexy side of the smoking spectrum (say that three times fast), Winston Churchill.
But not me. I was more of a smoking dilettante. I was never very serious about it. I did it for the style. For the ceremony. Really, I just think it's sexy. The wisps of smoke...the back-and-forth between my lips...the fire. It was more of a nighttime activity, too. I'd light up occasionally after a long, boozy dinner or at happy hour with my drinks. Some nights I would light up at home alone, while watching an old movie on TCM. I was a contagious smoker, too. Few things make me want a cigarette more than that scene in Reality Bites where the camera follows a trail of smoke from Winona Ryder's mouth to the ceiling. Of course, I always smoked while listening to Miles Davis or Sinatra. That's key. In Italy, I learned to roll my own cigarettes--(a great trick to pull in a bar, btw). Despite all this, I refused to call myself a smoker.
This year, I decided to give up my occasional cigarettes for Lent. And, with the exception of one night when I was feeling a little sad and had one before bed, I was very, very good. So good, that once Easter rolled around I had no desire to light up. Yesterday, Andy goaded me into joining him for a cigarette walk. I was kind of nervous as he lit my grant, and even felt a bit guilty. I inhaled and exhaled and was completely disgusted. It just tasted...bad. I got a bit lightheaded too...a little weak in the knees a-la-SWV. Not the best feeling in the early afternoon. I took a second drag, just to make sure, and again: disgusting. I walked with it between my fingers for a bit and then tossed it on the sidewalk (yes, Matt, I littered). Once I got back to my office I made myself some jasmine tea to wash away the taste and thought to myself, "well, self, I guess I can check 'no' from now on."
I suppose that's one less unanswered question in my life...always a good thing.
(Of course...I'll be sure to let you know if anything changes.)
I've always hesitated, when filling out profiles (like on MySpace) or surveys, over the "smoking" question. I never really wanted to check "yes," because I never really considered myself a full-fledged smoker. That just seemed so ominous. So dramatic. My idea of a smoker is someone like Johnny Depp, who pretty much always has a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Or, on the significantly less sexy side of the smoking spectrum (say that three times fast), Winston Churchill.
But not me. I was more of a smoking dilettante. I was never very serious about it. I did it for the style. For the ceremony. Really, I just think it's sexy. The wisps of smoke...the back-and-forth between my lips...the fire. It was more of a nighttime activity, too. I'd light up occasionally after a long, boozy dinner or at happy hour with my drinks. Some nights I would light up at home alone, while watching an old movie on TCM. I was a contagious smoker, too. Few things make me want a cigarette more than that scene in Reality Bites where the camera follows a trail of smoke from Winona Ryder's mouth to the ceiling. Of course, I always smoked while listening to Miles Davis or Sinatra. That's key. In Italy, I learned to roll my own cigarettes--(a great trick to pull in a bar, btw). Despite all this, I refused to call myself a smoker.
This year, I decided to give up my occasional cigarettes for Lent. And, with the exception of one night when I was feeling a little sad and had one before bed, I was very, very good. So good, that once Easter rolled around I had no desire to light up. Yesterday, Andy goaded me into joining him for a cigarette walk. I was kind of nervous as he lit my grant, and even felt a bit guilty. I inhaled and exhaled and was completely disgusted. It just tasted...bad. I got a bit lightheaded too...a little weak in the knees a-la-SWV. Not the best feeling in the early afternoon. I took a second drag, just to make sure, and again: disgusting. I walked with it between my fingers for a bit and then tossed it on the sidewalk (yes, Matt, I littered). Once I got back to my office I made myself some jasmine tea to wash away the taste and thought to myself, "well, self, I guess I can check 'no' from now on."
I suppose that's one less unanswered question in my life...always a good thing.
(Of course...I'll be sure to let you know if anything changes.)
Labels: Smoking
The low down
In my previous post I linked you, my loyal readers, to my new love, The Morning News. I was reading a few articles this morning and came across this one, which I just couldn't resist commenting on.
First, as someone who worked in a publishing company
(although we never published any books about this) I think the person that came up with the idea for this cover is absolutely brilliant and probably a blast to have a few beers with:
(Please note the banana off in the distance.)
I also enjoyed the rapport between the Morning News interviewer and the guy that wrote the book. It's like reading a conversation between a 13-year-old boy and his annoyingly-patient science teacher. Although, I guess given his "area of expertise," patience is definitely this guy's strong suit.
First, as someone who worked in a publishing company
(although we never published any books about this) I think the person that came up with the idea for this cover is absolutely brilliant and probably a blast to have a few beers with: (Please note the banana off in the distance.)
I also enjoyed the rapport between the Morning News interviewer and the guy that wrote the book. It's like reading a conversation between a 13-year-old boy and his annoyingly-patient science teacher. Although, I guess given his "area of expertise," patience is definitely this guy's strong suit.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Walk in the the rain with me
On Saturday I woke up to the sound of raindrops on on the window sill, an obviously unanswered prayer for sun still on my lips from the night before. As that mossy, rainy day smell wafted in through the open windows, I covered my head with a pillow and thought about the perfect-weather-Thursday that I'd spent trapped in my office. Mornings like this I wish the calendar were like one of those plastic puzzles I used to get from the clown's pocket* at the Euclid School carnival. You know, the kind with eight tiles that can be rearranged to form a picture of a daisy or balloon or something. That way I could just take a sunny Thursday and move it up and over to the rainy Saturday spot.
But, no one seems to have figured out a way to do that yet so I got up and made my way to the bathroom where I discovered the oddest thing: my toothbrush was missing. I'd used it just a few hours earlier and I'd had no guests in the 6 or 7 hours that transpired between the last brushing and my waking up, so really, it left me completely confused. I sometimes walk around while brushing my teeth, but it's not as if I could have just sat down on the sofa with a mouthful of foamy toothpaste and forgotten about it. This leads me to suspect that it may have been the work of Anais,** my perpetually oestruating cat. Rain or no rain, I can't not brush my teeth, so I threw on jeans, my Castro hat, and a raincoat, and headed up the street in search of a new toothbrush.
Very rarely do I venture out in the rain. Looney and Matt will testify that I generally shriek and run for cover whenever I feel cold raindrops on my shoulders. It's one of my least favorite sensations. (I actually just shivered typing that last sentence.) Saturday was different though. I took a new path down the quiet side streets, passing by embassies and stately brownstones. Trees lined the streets, their lush branches hanging low from the weight of the rain. It looked as if someone had Photoshopped the world with a greenish hue. I'd left my iPod at home, and it was nice, for a change, to walk in silence, save for a few far away dog barks and the tap, tap, tap of the raindrops on my big gray umbrella. I finally came to a 7 Eleven where I bought a toothbrush, a buttered roll, and a cup of hazelnut coffee for less than I usually pay for my grande extra almond almond latte. I walked back to my apartment slowing, sipping my coffee, taking in the quiet morning, and wondering why I'd always been so afraid to go out in the rain.
_______________
*I promise to explain why my hands were in his pocket at a later date and time
**This gorgeous photo was taken by Monica Navarro. She also does weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, glamour portraits (no nudes, please). Please contact me for her info if you want her to make you look as sexy as she made my cat look.
But, no one seems to have figured out a way to do that yet so I got up and made my way to the bathroom where I discovered the oddest thing: my toothbrush was missing. I'd used it just a few hours earlier and I'd had no guests in the 6 or 7 hours that transpired between the last brushing and my waking up, so really, it left me completely confused. I sometimes walk around while brushing my teeth, but it's not as if I could have just sat down on the sofa with a mouthful of foamy toothpaste and forgotten about it. This leads me to suspect that it may have been the work of Anais,** my perpetually oestruating cat. Rain or no rain, I can't not brush my teeth, so I threw on jeans, my Castro hat, and a raincoat, and headed up the street in search of a new toothbrush.
Very rarely do I venture out in the rain. Looney and Matt will testify that I generally shriek and run for cover whenever I feel cold raindrops on my shoulders. It's one of my least favorite sensations. (I actually just shivered typing that last sentence.) Saturday was different though. I took a new path down the quiet side streets, passing by embassies and stately brownstones. Trees lined the streets, their lush branches hanging low from the weight of the rain. It looked as if someone had Photoshopped the world with a greenish hue. I'd left my iPod at home, and it was nice, for a change, to walk in silence, save for a few far away dog barks and the tap, tap, tap of the raindrops on my big gray umbrella. I finally came to a 7 Eleven where I bought a toothbrush, a buttered roll, and a cup of hazelnut coffee for less than I usually pay for my grande extra almond almond latte. I walked back to my apartment slowing, sipping my coffee, taking in the quiet morning, and wondering why I'd always been so afraid to go out in the rain.
_______________
*I promise to explain why my hands were in his pocket at a later date and time
**This gorgeous photo was taken by Monica Navarro. She also does weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, glamour portraits (no nudes, please). Please contact me for her info if you want her to make you look as sexy as she made my cat look.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Dinner and Drinks
Lately, I've been really into an online magazine called The Morning News. I was browsing through it just a few minutes ago and came across this collection of "the best of the worst" Amazon reader reviews of some of the greatest books of all time. There were several gems, but I particularly enjoyed this "review" of one of my favorite Hemingway novels, The Sun Also Rises. It's also, interestingly enough, a fairly accurate depiction of my social life (just replace "Paris" with "DC"):
“Here’s the first half of the book: ‘We had dinner and a few drinks. We went to a cafe and talked and had some drinks. We ate dinner and had a few drinks. Dinner. Drinks. More dinner. More drinks. We took a cab here (or there) in Paris and had some drinks, and maybe we danced and flirted and talked sh*t about somebody. More dinner. More drinks. I love you, I hate you, maybe you should come up to my room, no you can’t’… I flipped through the second half of the book a day or two later and saw the words ‘dinner’ and ‘drinks’ on nearly every page and figured it wasn’t worth the risk.”
Friday, April 21, 2006
I write sexy fiction
My dad, who is growing increasingly concerned with my entry-level non-profit web editor salary, calls me pretty much every day with a new idea for me to make more money (this despite the fact that I've told him that a. I love my job and have no intention of leaving it, and b. I love DC and have no intention of leaving it). Most of his suggestions involve my moving back home and working at NBC with him, which I point-blank refuse to do. What follows is a fairly faithful transcript of this morning's call:
"Hi, are you at work?" He asked.
"Yup, what's up?"
"Well, I just wanted to read you something I got in my inbox at work yesterday. It's from an editor at Warner Brothers Books," he said.
"Sure, go ahead," I said, wondering what this was all about.
"OK," he said as he cleared his throat.
"Warner Books," he began, "is seeking Latino writers. We are looking for English language women's fiction that shares the Latino perspective and explores the Latino experience, from sassy chick lit to tender love stories (a la Nicholas Sparks) to sexy fiction to something more serious and literary (think Lovely Bones). So if you've got a completed novel, please send a query letter, author bio, and synopsis to..."
"Latino experience? Um...ok, that's interesting," I said.
"Interesting?! It's perfect for you. Do you know who Nicholas Sparks is?"
"Yes," I said with a sigh. "He wrote that crap book that they turned into that crap movie Mama was watching last weekend."
"Well that's perfect! You write sassy, sexy fiction, don't you? Isn't that what you write?" He asked, excitedly.
"Um..." I stalled, wondering what had given him this idea.
"I showed this to your mother," he went on. "We think it's perfect for you. Send them something."
"Well...uh, I don't really have a completed novel I can just send...," I said.
"But you write all the time! Make it up. You have a lot of free time. This is a perfect opportunity. And then you can move out of your apartment and into someplace nicer."
I opted to ignore the crack at my apartment (which actually happens to be very nice) and the whole "you have a lot of free time" bit because that's actually true, and just told him to forward me the e-mail.
The thing is, I do have a sort of vague notion of publishing a novel someday. I even have a great title that I'm smart enough to keep to myself. I've had a few articles--mostly reviews and essays published, hell, even a poem--but whenever I start writing a long storyI just end up daydreaming, chain-smoking, and drinking way too many cups of tea. Next thing I know, I'm curled up on the sofa with my mug of Earl Gray watching Woody Allen movies On Demand and wishing I could attend one of those bookish dinner parties where all the guests are witty, slightly neurotic writers and professors that listen to jazz, drink red wine, and quote Schopenhauer like it's the most natural thing in the world.
One of my reasons for starting this blog (of course, I only came up with this afterwards) was as a way of disciplining myself to write every day. In college, I spent most of my time skipping 19th Century lit classes to stay home and dash out a bit of 21st century prose, but once I left school I got lazy about it. I threw all my energy into writing well-crafted, borderline-absurd e-mails.* Really, I'm a bit narcisistic when it comes to my e-mails. Sometimes I'd hit send and then read them back to myself, chuckling and muttering, "My, have I got a way with words!" Occasionally I'll forward them to my friend, Moe, and go "look at what I wrote!" She is equally in love with her own writing and would frequently do the same. This blog allows me to share my writing with a much larger audience (imagined, or otherwise) in a less imposing manner.
Basically, what I'm saying here is that while "sexy fiction" about the "latino experience" (whatever that is) isn't really my goal, I actually don't think my dad was that off-track this time. Guess I'd better to get to work then...
_________
*Note this excerpt from an e-mail I sent my friend S. about tea: "Earl Gray has always been bad...you were probably just caught up in the illusion it creates....the subtle hints of aristocracy, the rolling english countryside, the witty banter of courtship...it's Oscar Wilde in a porcelain cup. One lump or two?"
"Hi, are you at work?" He asked.
"Yup, what's up?"
"Well, I just wanted to read you something I got in my inbox at work yesterday. It's from an editor at Warner Brothers Books," he said.
"Sure, go ahead," I said, wondering what this was all about.
"OK," he said as he cleared his throat.
"Warner Books," he began, "is seeking Latino writers. We are looking for English language women's fiction that shares the Latino perspective and explores the Latino experience, from sassy chick lit to tender love stories (a la Nicholas Sparks) to sexy fiction to something more serious and literary (think Lovely Bones). So if you've got a completed novel, please send a query letter, author bio, and synopsis to..."
"Latino experience? Um...ok, that's interesting," I said.
"Interesting?! It's perfect for you. Do you know who Nicholas Sparks is?"
"Yes," I said with a sigh. "He wrote that crap book that they turned into that crap movie Mama was watching last weekend."
"Well that's perfect! You write sassy, sexy fiction, don't you? Isn't that what you write?" He asked, excitedly.
"Um..." I stalled, wondering what had given him this idea.
"I showed this to your mother," he went on. "We think it's perfect for you. Send them something."
"Well...uh, I don't really have a completed novel I can just send...," I said.
"But you write all the time! Make it up. You have a lot of free time. This is a perfect opportunity. And then you can move out of your apartment and into someplace nicer."
I opted to ignore the crack at my apartment (which actually happens to be very nice) and the whole "you have a lot of free time" bit because that's actually true, and just told him to forward me the e-mail.
The thing is, I do have a sort of vague notion of publishing a novel someday. I even have a great title that I'm smart enough to keep to myself. I've had a few articles--mostly reviews and essays published, hell, even a poem--but whenever I start writing a long storyI just end up daydreaming, chain-smoking, and drinking way too many cups of tea. Next thing I know, I'm curled up on the sofa with my mug of Earl Gray watching Woody Allen movies On Demand and wishing I could attend one of those bookish dinner parties where all the guests are witty, slightly neurotic writers and professors that listen to jazz, drink red wine, and quote Schopenhauer like it's the most natural thing in the world.
One of my reasons for starting this blog (of course, I only came up with this afterwards) was as a way of disciplining myself to write every day. In college, I spent most of my time skipping 19th Century lit classes to stay home and dash out a bit of 21st century prose, but once I left school I got lazy about it. I threw all my energy into writing well-crafted, borderline-absurd e-mails.* Really, I'm a bit narcisistic when it comes to my e-mails. Sometimes I'd hit send and then read them back to myself, chuckling and muttering, "My, have I got a way with words!" Occasionally I'll forward them to my friend, Moe, and go "look at what I wrote!" She is equally in love with her own writing and would frequently do the same. This blog allows me to share my writing with a much larger audience (imagined, or otherwise) in a less imposing manner.
Basically, what I'm saying here is that while "sexy fiction" about the "latino experience" (whatever that is) isn't really my goal, I actually don't think my dad was that off-track this time. Guess I'd better to get to work then...
_________
*Note this excerpt from an e-mail I sent my friend S. about tea: "Earl Gray has always been bad...you were probably just caught up in the illusion it creates....the subtle hints of aristocracy, the rolling english countryside, the witty banter of courtship...it's Oscar Wilde in a porcelain cup. One lump or two?"
Ben & Jerry Apologize
I knew this could only lead to trouble:
"Ice cream makers Ben & Jerry's have apologized for causing offence by calling a new flavor 'Black & Tan' -- the nickname of a notoriously violent British militia that operated during Ireland's war of independence...'Any reference on our part to the British Army unit was absolutely unintentional and no ill-will was ever intended,' said a Ben & Jerry's spokesman. 'Ben & Jerry's was built on the philosophies of peace and love,' he added." Reuters
Badly done, Ben and Jerry, badly done.
"Ice cream makers Ben & Jerry's have apologized for causing offence by calling a new flavor 'Black & Tan' -- the nickname of a notoriously violent British militia that operated during Ireland's war of independence...'Any reference on our part to the British Army unit was absolutely unintentional and no ill-will was ever intended,' said a Ben & Jerry's spokesman. 'Ben & Jerry's was built on the philosophies of peace and love,' he added." Reuters
Badly done, Ben and Jerry, badly done.
Happy Birthday Queen Elizabeth
Andy pointed out an interesting fact this morning as he sat down in front of his computer, "Hasn't Queen Elizabeth been 80 for the past 20 years?""I'm not quite sure about that," I responded, "but she's certainly looked 80 for the past 20 years."
Here's a picture of HRH opening up just a few of her 20,000 birthday cards, this morning. That really doesn't seem very fair. I realize I don't have millions of loyal subjects, but I only got three cards this year for my birthday: 1 from my parents, 1 from my friend Anne, and 1 from Solar Planet, my tanning salon. Oh, and one from my dentist in NJ. So I guess that's four, actually.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Talk dirty to me
I was mildly amused by this article, which was forwarded to me by a coworker a few moments ago. It's an "expose" from a local news station in San Diego warning parents about "Leet-speak" (aka l33t), which it describes as a "complicated, cryptic and potentially dangerous" internet "jargon." (It failed to mention, however, that it's also "totally obnoxious" and "loser-ific")
Gasp! Watch out kids...they're so on to you...
"'There are too many predators out there that could endanger their kids' lives or could sexualize them too early by sending unwanted messages and pictures and things like that and Leet-speak is just a gateway to all of that,' said family therapist Barbara Melton.'
So, how bad is Leet-speak? Here are some examples:
KPC: Keeping Parents Clueless
POS: Parent Over the Shoulder
GYPO: Get Your Pants Off
TDTM: Talk Dirty To Me
It gets even sneakier. Some words replace letters with numbers and symbols."
Gasp! Watch out kids...they're so on to you...
Things I would purchase if I owned a pond
1. KoiSurplus Koi Sale April 22, 10:00am-3:00pm National Arboretum
Come to the first surplus Koi sale and choose one of our beautiful Koi to take home to your own pond. Our pool has grown crowded and we need to make room for our growing population. A variety of sizes and colors will be available and priced accordingly. Grounds open at 8:00 a.m. for previewing. Bags and water provided for transporting your fish home. Free. No registration required.
2. Another bagel.
Things I would purchase if I owned an iPod Nano
1. This ridiculous tie.
2. A bagel.
Fun Google Image Search of the Day
"Hasselhoff" + "Puppies"
Guaranteed to please...
Guaranteed to please...
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
You can call me baby
Every day, Andy and I go to California Grill, an awesome little lunch spot across the street that makes fantastic turkey club sandwiches. A little latina lady makes the sandwiches, and it's great because even though we've only been going there for about a week, she already knows us and our order.
And she calls us "baby." As in, "Baby, you want banana peppers on that?" or "Toasted whole wheat, right baby?" Now here's the thing, I l-o-v-e being called baby. Preferably by a boy, but it's still great coming from the sandwich lady.
Anyway, today, for no particular reason at all, I skipped lunch. I wasn't that hungry and was working on a project that I couldn't really leave, and next thing I knew it was just too late. Baby had closed. So I sat for about an hour or so feeling a little dizzy and wondering what to do about food. I finally decided to just check out the little market in our lobby. They sell wine and cigarettes and about a thousand other things (remarkable, given how tiny it is). So I walked around it a couple times and grabbed an apple and some pomegranate juice and a mini box of Wheat Thins, but I needed something else... And then I found it. Chef Boyardee - Beef Ravioli, in a convenient microwavable bowl. I haven't had Chef Boyardee ravioli since I was about 9, but once I saw it I had to have it.
It's mushy and sweet and tastes like the fourth grade. Like the days my mom was too tired from work to make us a real dinner. Like rubber kickballs, scooter races, and the Euclid school gym/cafeteria. Like art projects. Like slap bracelets. Like Mrs. Valenzola. Like reading books during recess while the other girls practiced their cheers. Like DARE to keep kids off drugs. Like Grandma, my favorite lunch lady who (well, look at this, we've come full circle) used to call me baby.
It's nostalgia, in a new microwavable package. And yes, it's gross, and I probably won't be tasting it again until I have kids of my own and come home one day too tired to make them a real meal, but it was nice to be able to taste the past again--even for a few minutes.
And she calls us "baby." As in, "Baby, you want banana peppers on that?" or "Toasted whole wheat, right baby?" Now here's the thing, I l-o-v-e being called baby. Preferably by a boy, but it's still great coming from the sandwich lady.
Anyway, today, for no particular reason at all, I skipped lunch. I wasn't that hungry and was working on a project that I couldn't really leave, and next thing I knew it was just too late. Baby had closed. So I sat for about an hour or so feeling a little dizzy and wondering what to do about food. I finally decided to just check out the little market in our lobby. They sell wine and cigarettes and about a thousand other things (remarkable, given how tiny it is). So I walked around it a couple times and grabbed an apple and some pomegranate juice and a mini box of Wheat Thins, but I needed something else... And then I found it. Chef Boyardee - Beef Ravioli, in a convenient microwavable bowl. I haven't had Chef Boyardee ravioli since I was about 9, but once I saw it I had to have it.
It's mushy and sweet and tastes like the fourth grade. Like the days my mom was too tired from work to make us a real dinner. Like rubber kickballs, scooter races, and the Euclid school gym/cafeteria. Like art projects. Like slap bracelets. Like Mrs. Valenzola. Like reading books during recess while the other girls practiced their cheers. Like DARE to keep kids off drugs. Like Grandma, my favorite lunch lady who (well, look at this, we've come full circle) used to call me baby.
It's nostalgia, in a new microwavable package. And yes, it's gross, and I probably won't be tasting it again until I have kids of my own and come home one day too tired to make them a real meal, but it was nice to be able to taste the past again--even for a few minutes.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Note to Self
When rushing out the door to make early-morning yoga class, remember to wipe off conspicuous white dab of Clearasil from forehead.
Monday, April 17, 2006
First Monthaversary
I can't believe I let the first monthaversary of this blog go by with no ra-ra or ballyhoo.
I'm pretty proud that I've managed to keep this up for a month (and two days) and even prouder of the fact that I've pretty much posted (at least once) every day. So to celebrate, here are a few administrative/random updates:
1. I've added a blog roll. It's short and sweet, and I plan on keeping it that way. I hate when people have 89 blogs on their blog roll. What's up with that? It's like people that have 289 "best" friends. I'm as snooty about my blog roll as I am about my friends. I'm not about to endorse anything that I don't really love. Nor am I going to link to things that people already know like Wonkette or DCist. Apple Box has the honor of being first because they were the first to add me to their list. Yay Apple Box! (And they will remain first unless for some reason they start massively sucking. Then I will delete them, edit this post, and pretend none of this ever happened.)
2. I've decided to start accepting comments from unregistered and anonymous users because I'm sick of getting e-mails from my friends who say that they would "totally have posted a comment" if it didn't require setting up a user id and all that jazz. So there, you lazy bastards. I changed it. My comments better blow up or I'm never baking you carrot cake again.
3. Some of my newer readers don't really get the whole "sent from my dell desktop" premise. You should have figured this out on your own, but my first post should answer that question for you.
OK, that's pretty much it for now. Feel free to send me lavish gift baskets full of sausage and truffles to congratulate me on this momentous occasion.
I'm pretty proud that I've managed to keep this up for a month (and two days) and even prouder of the fact that I've pretty much posted (at least once) every day. So to celebrate, here are a few administrative/random updates:
1. I've added a blog roll. It's short and sweet, and I plan on keeping it that way. I hate when people have 89 blogs on their blog roll. What's up with that? It's like people that have 289 "best" friends. I'm as snooty about my blog roll as I am about my friends. I'm not about to endorse anything that I don't really love. Nor am I going to link to things that people already know like Wonkette or DCist. Apple Box has the honor of being first because they were the first to add me to their list. Yay Apple Box! (And they will remain first unless for some reason they start massively sucking. Then I will delete them, edit this post, and pretend none of this ever happened.)
2. I've decided to start accepting comments from unregistered and anonymous users because I'm sick of getting e-mails from my friends who say that they would "totally have posted a comment" if it didn't require setting up a user id and all that jazz. So there, you lazy bastards. I changed it. My comments better blow up or I'm never baking you carrot cake again.
3. Some of my newer readers don't really get the whole "sent from my dell desktop" premise. You should have figured this out on your own, but my first post should answer that question for you.
OK, that's pretty much it for now. Feel free to send me lavish gift baskets full of sausage and truffles to congratulate me on this momentous occasion.
Not quite an Urban Sombrero...
but I am now the proud owner of the 1986 Banana Republic "Guide to Travel & Safari Clothing." I've been lusting after this item since...well, since about 15 hours ago. Granted, 9 of those hours were spent sleeping, but still, my dream has come true. I'll tell you all about it in 2 to 15 business days (I went with Media Mail).
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Banana Republic: It'll always be Burma to me
Because I haven't written about New Jersey enough this weekend:
A much hipper friend of my dad's recently gave him a gift card to Banana Republic as a birthday present. My dad, who shops almost exclusively at Nordstrom and some place called The Custom Shop, decided that this would be a good opportunity to branch out and try some new styles. So armed with his gift card he left early on Saturday morning to check out the Banana Republic at the Garden State Plaza. He returned a few hours later looking slightly dejected and carrying three bags from Nordstrom.
"I thought you were going to Banana Republic," I said when he set his bags down on the table.
"I tried, but I don't think I belong there. It's not really...my style." he said sadly.
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
"Well," he said, placing his hands on the waist of his pleated front jeans. "The salesman said to me, 'this doesn't seem to really be your style.'"
At this point my mother walked into the room and saw the Nordstrom bags. "I thought you were going to Banana Republic," she said.
My dad sighed.
"It's not really his style," I said.
"Everyone was young. Or gay. Or young and gay. I felt...old. And heterosexual. Old and heterosexual," my dad explained.
My mom nodded, "No, you're right. It's not really your style. I used to love when they sold safari clothing."
At this point I looked up from my laptop, "Safari clothing? At Banana Republic?"
"Yes, when they first opened they sold safari clothing," my mom said. "I use to love their linen shirts."
Within three seconds I had googled the words "Banana Republic Safari Clothing" and was led to the following Wikipedia entry:
Wow. I am so upset that I missed out on this version of Banana Republic. It sounds like an Indiana Jones ride at Universal Studios. But with price tags... How fantastic that must have been. I'm still a huge J. Peterman catalog fan. I've been a subscriber since I read an article about it in Sassy magazine when I was 11 (this was actually before the whole Seinfeld thing, thank you very much). But you can't actually go to a J. Peterman store. According to the article, The Gap bought them out in 1983 and slowly phased out the cool jungle themed stores and travel clothing and replaced them with the "casual luxury" stores of today. I'm now completely obsessed with the idea of getting my hands on one of these original Banana catalogs:
I guess thinking about it, the whole "Banana Republic" name makes a hell of a lot more sense now...
I'm off to check eBay for vintage Banana catalogs.(Don't any of you dare bid against me).
A much hipper friend of my dad's recently gave him a gift card to Banana Republic as a birthday present. My dad, who shops almost exclusively at Nordstrom and some place called The Custom Shop, decided that this would be a good opportunity to branch out and try some new styles. So armed with his gift card he left early on Saturday morning to check out the Banana Republic at the Garden State Plaza. He returned a few hours later looking slightly dejected and carrying three bags from Nordstrom.
"I thought you were going to Banana Republic," I said when he set his bags down on the table.
"I tried, but I don't think I belong there. It's not really...my style." he said sadly.
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
"Well," he said, placing his hands on the waist of his pleated front jeans. "The salesman said to me, 'this doesn't seem to really be your style.'"
At this point my mother walked into the room and saw the Nordstrom bags. "I thought you were going to Banana Republic," she said.
My dad sighed.
"It's not really his style," I said.
"Everyone was young. Or gay. Or young and gay. I felt...old. And heterosexual. Old and heterosexual," my dad explained.
My mom nodded, "No, you're right. It's not really your style. I used to love when they sold safari clothing."
At this point I looked up from my laptop, "Safari clothing? At Banana Republic?"
"Yes, when they first opened they sold safari clothing," my mom said. "I use to love their linen shirts."
Within three seconds I had googled the words "Banana Republic Safari Clothing" and was led to the following Wikipedia entry:
The original Banana Republic, which began in 1978, was a two-store safari and travel-themed clothing company. The majority of sales came from its eccentric catalog, which presented high-end and unique items with chatty, usually
fictional, backstories from exotic locations, as well as more pedestrian high-volume products deliberately spiced up with a similar treatment. The company competed directly with the J. Peterman catalog later satirized on Seinfeld. As Banana Republic expanded its retail operation, it became known for the themed decoration in its stores, often featuring authentic elements, such as real Jeeps and foliage, as well as atmospheric elements, such as fog and steam.
Wow. I am so upset that I missed out on this version of Banana Republic. It sounds like an Indiana Jones ride at Universal Studios. But with price tags... How fantastic that must have been. I'm still a huge J. Peterman catalog fan. I've been a subscriber since I read an article about it in Sassy magazine when I was 11 (this was actually before the whole Seinfeld thing, thank you very much). But you can't actually go to a J. Peterman store. According to the article, The Gap bought them out in 1983 and slowly phased out the cool jungle themed stores and travel clothing and replaced them with the "casual luxury" stores of today. I'm now completely obsessed with the idea of getting my hands on one of these original Banana catalogs:
I guess thinking about it, the whole "Banana Republic" name makes a hell of a lot more sense now...
I'm off to check eBay for vintage Banana catalogs.(Don't any of you dare bid against me).
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Ciggy wiggy dillies
My parents and I stopped at the 7 Eleven on the way home from dinner tonight (there really is nothing like a weekend trip home to make me feel 12 again). My dad ran inside to get milk while my mom and I waited in the car. She fiddled with the radio while I stared out the window at the townies who hang out in front of the store smoking and eating donuts. I recognized an older boy I used to have a massive crush on when I was in 6th grade and silently thanked God for not ever hooking that up.
Among the signs advertising scratch-n-win tickets and Big Gulps, I noticed something that I'd never seen before. Because dorking it up is what I do best, I ran out of the car and took a picture of it with my cell phone (yeah, that's my dad standing at the register in the background).
Apparently, the minimum age to purchase cigarettes in New Jersey has been raised to 19. The change was signed into law in January and is effective today. Obviously I hadn't heard anything about it because a) I live in DC, b) I am well above the statutory age, and c) I gave up smoking for lent (just a couple hours left...). Although I imagine this is just the kind of story that the local news stations have been all over for the past week.
I really doubt that this law will change anything. The proceeds that stores such as this one make from selling cigarettes to minors far outweigh the occasional fines. And I know for a fact that this particular 7 Eleven never cards as I have been buying Marlboro Lights from them since I was 16. There always used to be those urban legends(?) about police officers hiring underage kids to go into stores and buy cigarettes so that they could bust them. I never actually met anyone who did this, but we always used to hear about it. I did a bit of googling when I got home to see if I could find out anything else about this new law and instead came across a Cigarette wiki that included this intriguing list of "slang terms for cigarettes," most of which I've never even heard of:
I think once Lent ends I'm going to have to start incorporating some of these terms into my lexicon. I especially like that "grant me a grant" bit. It sounds so film noir-esque...as in, "Grant me a grant, ya big lug."
Among the signs advertising scratch-n-win tickets and Big Gulps, I noticed something that I'd never seen before. Because dorking it up is what I do best, I ran out of the car and took a picture of it with my cell phone (yeah, that's my dad standing at the register in the background).
Apparently, the minimum age to purchase cigarettes in New Jersey has been raised to 19. The change was signed into law in January and is effective today. Obviously I hadn't heard anything about it because a) I live in DC, b) I am well above the statutory age, and c) I gave up smoking for lent (just a couple hours left...). Although I imagine this is just the kind of story that the local news stations have been all over for the past week.
I really doubt that this law will change anything. The proceeds that stores such as this one make from selling cigarettes to minors far outweigh the occasional fines. And I know for a fact that this particular 7 Eleven never cards as I have been buying Marlboro Lights from them since I was 16. There always used to be those urban legends(?) about police officers hiring underage kids to go into stores and buy cigarettes so that they could bust them. I never actually met anyone who did this, but we always used to hear about it. I did a bit of googling when I got home to see if I could find out anything else about this new law and instead came across a Cigarette wiki that included this intriguing list of "slang terms for cigarettes," most of which I've never even heard of:
"Cigarettes have accumulated a variety of nicknames such as "smokes", "butt","square" (from the shape of the box), "cigs", "ciggies", "stogs", "stogies", "stokes", "lamps", "snouts", "tabs" (especially in NE England), "loosey" (a single cigarette), "backwards", "bogeys", "boges", "gorts", "ciggy wiggy dilly's", "darts","refries" (already used cigarettes being relit and smoked), "straights" (for factory rolled ones), "dugans" (especially in NYC), "hairy rags", "squares", "bad boy", "hausersticks", "jacks", "joes" (taken from the "Camel Joe", an old Camel Cigarettes mascot), "grits", "grants" (A common phrase used for asking someone for a cigarette is "Can you grant me a grant?")..."
I think once Lent ends I'm going to have to start incorporating some of these terms into my lexicon. I especially like that "grant me a grant" bit. It sounds so film noir-esque...as in, "Grant me a grant, ya big lug."
New Jersey likes it raw
I'm home for the weekend and was sitting at the kitchen table this morning leafing through the glossy pages of "Bergen County: The Magazine."
That's right, kids. It's no longer just the best county in New Jersey, it's now also a magazine... What'll they think of next?
Anyway, tucked in between pictures of NJ society wives and their Italian husbands I came across the following ad for Flirt Sushi Lounge in Allendale (naturally, I ripped it out and ran straight to the scanner):
That's right, kids. It's no longer just the best county in New Jersey, it's now also a magazine... What'll they think of next?
Anyway, tucked in between pictures of NJ society wives and their Italian husbands I came across the following ad for Flirt Sushi Lounge in Allendale (naturally, I ripped it out and ran straight to the scanner):
Mi-so horny soup? Sexpresso? It's like they came up with the concept during lunchtime in a middle school cafeteria. The full menu also includes such tasty gems as the "Viagra" (2 hand rolls - uni, ikura, salmon, tuna, quail egg), the Octopussy Delight, Big Balls, and the Latin Lover (fatty tuna, yellowtail, avocado, mango). And if you're not a coffee drinker, don't worry, they have "Horny Green Tea." I guess when in doubt, just add "horny."
Even more entertaining than the menu is the "Under 17, No Flirting Without a Parent" warning. The reason? "Due to potentially "sexy" language, children under 17 must be accompanied by a parent."
Potentially sexy? I really don't think there's any danger of that...
So...you wanna get lucky?
Got your attention, didn't I?
My best friend Vanessa (also known as the "sensation of new york") was walking down those fine city streets a few weeks ago when she was noticed by the editors of Lucky Magazine. Long story short, she's now on page 128 of the May issue (with Keri Russell on the front, although Keri pales in beauty) modeling a very cute flower-print top. So, although I'm rarely one to encourage the purchase of such obnoxious magazines as Lucky (or its now-defunct brother, Cargo, the shopping magazine for sexually confused males), I'll break with tradition this one time and tell you to head to your nearest Rite-Aid/Duane Reade/CVS and buy it (or just rip out page 128 when no one's looking).
My best friend Vanessa (also known as the "sensation of new york") was walking down those fine city streets a few weeks ago when she was noticed by the editors of Lucky Magazine. Long story short, she's now on page 128 of the May issue (with Keri Russell on the front, although Keri pales in beauty) modeling a very cute flower-print top. So, although I'm rarely one to encourage the purchase of such obnoxious magazines as Lucky (or its now-defunct brother, Cargo, the shopping magazine for sexually confused males), I'll break with tradition this one time and tell you to head to your nearest Rite-Aid/Duane Reade/CVS and buy it (or just rip out page 128 when no one's looking).
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Office Moment of the Day (or, Why I heart Mike)
Scene: My temporary communal office. Four employees, hard at work.
Me (reading an article online, to everyone): Ha! Do you know who turned out to be at 1223 the other day when I was there?
Andy: No – I don’t care.
Me: Wyclef Jean.
Andy: Really? I thought he was “Gone Till November.”
Mike (to everyone): I love Wyclef Jean … you know he was part of the Fugees, right?
[Andy arches eyebrows.]
Me (taken a bit aback, to Mike): “You know we all knew that, right?”
[Andy giggles.]
Me (reading an article online, to everyone): Ha! Do you know who turned out to be at 1223 the other day when I was there?
Andy: No – I don’t care.
Me: Wyclef Jean.
Andy: Really? I thought he was “Gone Till November.”
Mike (to everyone): I love Wyclef Jean … you know he was part of the Fugees, right?
[Andy arches eyebrows.]
Me (taken a bit aback, to Mike): “You know we all knew that, right?”
[Andy giggles.]
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Fat or Pregnant
On my walk to work today I came up with a great idea for a new game show. It's loosely based on that Howie Mandel show "Deal or No Deal?" The game is called "Fat or Pregnant?" Contestants will be presented with images of random women (headless, of course, to avoid lawsuits) and asked to identify whether they are fat or pregnant. It's similar to what the editors of People and US Weekly do everyday as they pore over paparazzi-provided images of Jennifer Lopez and Angelina Jolie to determine whether that bump is a baby or just one-too-many burritos. I think this could really take off...
Tulips are from Holland
Scene: Walking past the flower shop on the way back from lunch.
Me: I love Gerbera Daisies...they're my favorite flower.
Andy: Really? Daisies? I wouldn't picture you for a daisy girl.
Me: GERBERA daisies. I mean, I love all flowers, but they're my favorite. Oh, but I hate tulips.
Andy: Who hates tulips?
Me: I do. They're the Stepford Wives of the flower world. Seriously, if a guy brought me tulips I'd be grossed out.
Andy: Yeah, you're like: "The only thing I won't do on a first date is go Dutch."
Me: I love Gerbera Daisies...they're my favorite flower.
Andy: Really? Daisies? I wouldn't picture you for a daisy girl.
Me: GERBERA daisies. I mean, I love all flowers, but they're my favorite. Oh, but I hate tulips.
Andy: Who hates tulips?
Me: I do. They're the Stepford Wives of the flower world. Seriously, if a guy brought me tulips I'd be grossed out.
Andy: Yeah, you're like: "The only thing I won't do on a first date is go Dutch."
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Kosher for Passover: A Recent Exchange
Matt: What are you doing this weekend?
Me: Going home for Easter. I might hang out with (insert Jewish male friend's name) on Friday night actually. Probably go to Hoboken.
Matt: Oh god. You're so gonna have sex with him...
Me: No way! It's (Jewish male friend)!! And anyway, it's Passover.
Matt: So? It's not like you're made of yeast...
Me: Going home for Easter. I might hang out with (insert Jewish male friend's name) on Friday night actually. Probably go to Hoboken.
Matt: Oh god. You're so gonna have sex with him...
Me: No way! It's (Jewish male friend)!! And anyway, it's Passover.
Matt: So? It's not like you're made of yeast...
Oh Penelope
I've been completely in love with Pinback since my very cool, Austin-based, former flatmate Mariah introduced me to them a little over two years ago. The song that hooked me was "Penelope," which is all about the fear of coming home to find your pet--in this case a goldfish--dead. With my absurd history of pet-icide (the turtle was just the beginning), I could really relate to the lyrics:
"Don’t wanna see you floating upside down
On the top of the bowl when I
Come round to visit you
Don’t wanna see you floating upside down
No girl
Need you there, Need you there, Need you there"
I was checking out their band page on MySpace and discovered that they're going to be playing at the Black Cat next month (May 12). I am determined to go, but don't know anyone else who shares my love for this obscure indie band. This is why I've decided to post this and spread the gospel of Pinback. So check out their page, listen to their songs (I also love Prog and Fortress), and once you realize that you totally love them, lemme know cuz I've got an extra ticket and need a date...
A little something in your eye
I'm one of the laziest contact wearers ever. I can make a small travel-sized bottle of no-rub contact solution last me a whole year. That's how often I clean them. I wear two-week disposables that I basically leave in for two (ok, sometimes three) weeks and then dispose of. Then I'll wear my glasses for a week. Lather. Rinse. And repeat.
The news about this rare and creepy fungus that has been discovered in the eyes of some contact users might just be enough to scare me out of my indolent ways:
BTW, I totally stole this story from this groovy blog.
The news about this rare and creepy fungus that has been discovered in the eyes of some contact users might just be enough to scare me out of my indolent ways:
That is so disgusting. I just hope my mom doesn't see this. She's been telling me for ten years that I'm going to go blind for mistreating my eyes this way. And I guess she's right."The fungus, called fusarium, is commonly found in plant material and soil in tropical and subtropical areas. Without eyedrop treatment, which can last 2-3
months, the infection can scar the cornea and blind its victims....Symptoms can
include blurry vision, pain or redness, increased sensitivity to light and
excessive ocular discharge." Forbes.com
BTW, I totally stole this story from this groovy blog.
Free Bedroom in posh, luxury West End/Foggy Bottom Condo
This is an actual ad from Craigslist:
Reply to: deleted to protect the sketchy
Date: 2006-04-11, 12:22PM
Prof. WM looking for a WF to share my two bedroom, three bath high end condo in the West End. I am asking for no rent in exchange for some light housework, cooking and other tasks. I already have a maid that comes three times a week, so the cleaning would be rather minimal.
You will have your own bedroom, full bath with soaking tub, underground parking spot, and access to all the buildings amenities (Gym, concierge, etc.)
I am looking for an attractive WF, 20-30, employed or a student.
Please write for more information. I am serious, please be also.
_____________
Riight... Too bad I'm not technically "white," as I do love a good "soaking tub." I am really curious about these "other tasks," however...
Reply to: deleted to protect the sketchy
Date: 2006-04-11, 12:22PM
Prof. WM looking for a WF to share my two bedroom, three bath high end condo in the West End. I am asking for no rent in exchange for some light housework, cooking and other tasks. I already have a maid that comes three times a week, so the cleaning would be rather minimal.
You will have your own bedroom, full bath with soaking tub, underground parking spot, and access to all the buildings amenities (Gym, concierge, etc.)
I am looking for an attractive WF, 20-30, employed or a student.
Please write for more information. I am serious, please be also.
_____________
Riight... Too bad I'm not technically "white," as I do love a good "soaking tub." I am really curious about these "other tasks," however...
The mind is the most powerful erogenous zone
A coworker recently remarked that my blog was "very Carrie Bradshaw." I'll take that as a compliment since I, along with every other female (and quite a few males), love Sex and the City. Still, I'm not sure that he was actually reading my blog, because I read over a few entries and don't really see it...
I suppose it could be because of all the sex and dating advice I give...
(Or, as one very clever man I know put it: "I don't have time to read your blog because if I do, I will never be alone again!")
It could also be all the stories about living in New York City...
Or the sarcasm. Yeah, it's probably the sarcasm...
I suppose it could be because of all the sex and dating advice I give...
(Or, as one very clever man I know put it: "I don't have time to read your blog because if I do, I will never be alone again!")
It could also be all the stories about living in New York City...
Or the sarcasm. Yeah, it's probably the sarcasm...
Monday, April 10, 2006
This one's for Gab
When my brother and I were little, we used to dress up like Superman and Supergirl and "fly" around an imaginary Metropolis in our backyard. He had a real costume that our mom made him, but since I wanted to play too, I made my own using a red shirt as a cape and a construction-paper "s." Gab and I would stay outside for hours until it got too dark to see, and our mom would make us come inside the house. 
We're all grown up now, and while I spend my days playing around on the internet, he's off half-way around the globe being a real-life hero. This is his second tour in Iraq with the Marine Corps, and I'll be the first to tell you that it doesn't get any easier--for him or for those of us back home. I miss being able to just pick up the phone to talk about the latest episode of Family Guy or to bitch about work or our boy/girl problems. I miss the times when we would sneak out to drink beer and smoke cigarettes on the back porch while our parents watched tv upstairs. I especially miss the comfort that I had when I knew he was home and safe in our country, far away from the bullets and bombs and things you see on the evening news.
He knew what he was getting into when he joined; it was just after 9/11 and he did it for a reason. Regardless of politics, he still believes in what he is doing and I'm proud of him for that. He's wicked smart, unbelievably sweet, and cooler than I could ever hope to be--yet he has the patience of a saint for his quirky, dorky, know-it-all older sister. He's really a great guy to have in your corner and I'm so thankful to have him as my brother. So Gabbers, this one's for you. I miss you. I love you. And I can't wait until you get home. Be safe.
Love,
Nanda.
We're all grown up now, and while I spend my days playing around on the internet, he's off half-way around the globe being a real-life hero. This is his second tour in Iraq with the Marine Corps, and I'll be the first to tell you that it doesn't get any easier--for him or for those of us back home. I miss being able to just pick up the phone to talk about the latest episode of Family Guy or to bitch about work or our boy/girl problems. I miss the times when we would sneak out to drink beer and smoke cigarettes on the back porch while our parents watched tv upstairs. I especially miss the comfort that I had when I knew he was home and safe in our country, far away from the bullets and bombs and things you see on the evening news.
He knew what he was getting into when he joined; it was just after 9/11 and he did it for a reason. Regardless of politics, he still believes in what he is doing and I'm proud of him for that. He's wicked smart, unbelievably sweet, and cooler than I could ever hope to be--yet he has the patience of a saint for his quirky, dorky, know-it-all older sister. He's really a great guy to have in your corner and I'm so thankful to have him as my brother. So Gabbers, this one's for you. I miss you. I love you. And I can't wait until you get home. Be safe.
Love,
Nanda.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Have you seen me?
MISSING
What: 2 Sets of Bathroom Keys
Sex: 1 male and 1 female
Age: Not even a fucking week
Description: two keys each, attached to a black binder clip, labeled "men's" and "women's" in black ink on a white sticker. Monetary value is negligible.
Last seen: On the corner of Andy's desk in the company of this rubber chicken:
This chicken is about 6 inches tall, made of yellow rubber and plastic, and is known to squawk loudly when squeezed around the middle. He is not believed to be armed or dangerous, just very, very annoying.
Name is unknown.
Tips leading to the safe return of one or both of these sets of keys will be rewarded with an unappetizing meal at LA Cafe.
What: 2 Sets of Bathroom Keys
Sex: 1 male and 1 female
Age: Not even a fucking week
Description: two keys each, attached to a black binder clip, labeled "men's" and "women's" in black ink on a white sticker. Monetary value is negligible.
Last seen: On the corner of Andy's desk in the company of this rubber chicken:
This chicken is about 6 inches tall, made of yellow rubber and plastic, and is known to squawk loudly when squeezed around the middle. He is not believed to be armed or dangerous, just very, very annoying.
Name is unknown.
Tips leading to the safe return of one or both of these sets of keys will be rewarded with an unappetizing meal at LA Cafe.
Matthew Dennis O'Beef
The following is an e-mail I just got from bff Matt:
I was just browsing your blog and thought I would share...I would have posted this in the comments section, but I really didn't feel like signing in and creating a user identity and stuff...
Did I ever tell you about the time that I got lost in Nordstrom (well, by lost I mean my brother ditched me) and started crying until the woman at the Clinque counter (I am not positive it was the Clinique counter, but I feel like it was) asked me what my problem was. I informed her of my predicament and asked if she would go against protocal and call for my mother over the loudspeaker. I was happy as I hoped this would lead to my long awaited (circa 5 minutes) reunion with mom (and hopefully land my brother in a great deal of trouble). So she picked up the phone, pressed the intercom, and announced,"Rosemary O'Beef, Rosemary O'Beef, please come to the Clinique counter on the first floor."
Particularly hilarious due to my disdain for red meat, eh?
-m
I was just browsing your blog and thought I would share...I would have posted this in the comments section, but I really didn't feel like signing in and creating a user identity and stuff...
Did I ever tell you about the time that I got lost in Nordstrom (well, by lost I mean my brother ditched me) and started crying until the woman at the Clinque counter (I am not positive it was the Clinique counter, but I feel like it was) asked me what my problem was. I informed her of my predicament and asked if she would go against protocal and call for my mother over the loudspeaker. I was happy as I hoped this would lead to my long awaited (circa 5 minutes) reunion with mom (and hopefully land my brother in a great deal of trouble). So she picked up the phone, pressed the intercom, and announced,"Rosemary O'Beef, Rosemary O'Beef, please come to the Clinique counter on the first floor."
Particularly hilarious due to my disdain for red meat, eh?
-m
Why I no longer deserve to be allowed into VIP clubs like Spank
Last night I went with my friend Sara and her roommate D to a private party at Left Bank. I've never been a huge Left Bank fan, but we had reserved tables and bottle service so I went. If you've been to Left Bank, you know that the private party room is essentially a giant people fish tank in the back left corner of the lounge. This Plexiglas enclosure is about the size of my living room, but a lot more sparsely decorated with unfinished concrete floors, white walls, a "fireplace" full of tea lights, and white couches on opposite sides of the room. Small cube-like tables are scattered around the room, a giant screen takes up most of the only non see-through wall, and a very large man stands at the entrance separating the VIPs from the mere mortals.
And it's hot. Sweaty, hard-to-breathe, uncomfortable, feverishly hot. So hot that the ice in my Grey Goose and cranberry melted within seconds. I walked there from my apartment, so I arrived wearing about a dozen layers (that crazy thunderstorm forced me to use up my cab allowance a little early this week) and spent quite a bit of time peeling them off one-by-one. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and D said that she knew the DJ at Spank, the VIP club at 1223, so I grabbed my pile of layers; we got in a cab and headed down Connecticut.
This is what I don't understand about VIP clubs. I wasn't on the list, but, as I told my friend the other day when he asked me how to get into that very private club in Georgetown (yes, that one) there are only three rules to get into a VIP club:
I understand the concept of a VIP club. Exclusive clientele, high-end service, fewer people, nicer surroundings. But Spank isn’t that nice. It’s just another one of those places with pulsing club music, white walls, white leather “beds,” and a whole lotta Euro guys. As long as you know someone who knows someone who knows the DJ, you’re in. And if you’re a girl, just remember to unbutton your coat before you get to the velvet rope. At one point, a very large bouncer grabbed me, hugged me, and said “smile, beautiful.” I hate when people tell me to smile. I growled at him. Literally. I went “grrrrr.” He laughed and called me a “feisty pit bull.” I wandered downstairs to the “normal” club and watched the bad dancers on the bar perform what looked like a modern dance interpretation of “My Humps.” No one seemed to be watching them. The bartenders looked annoyed that they had to dodge their fuck-me boots every time they tried to pour a drink. I ended up leaving a little early. I put my layers on and walked home alone past the still-lit storefronts and sleeping homeless men.
I used to love clubs. In high school, my friends and I used to go into the city all the time. We went to Exit, Limelight, Webster Hall, and Sound Factory. Armed with fake ID’s and the aforementioned low-cut shirts we got in wherever we wanted. I kept it up the first couple years of college too with my friend Lindsay. We knew all the bouncers, got our drinks for free, and danced on the bar. We were friends with sketchy guys named Omar and Ahmed who knew where all the parties were. We pretended to be from Italy and South America and spoke with fake accents. Lindsay’s married now and like me, is done with that scene. I still love to dance and go out and meet people, but I enjoy different things now. I like being able to talk to the people I’m with. I want to like the music I’m listening to. I want to recognize it and sing along. I like lounging on a couch with my friends sipping cocktails, smoking shisha, and laughing. When I think over the past year or so the best times were always those nights we stayed in, making dinner, drinking wine, and talking about totally random things.
I didn’t like the person I was last night. I felt like there was a cloud of grump around me that I couldn’t escape. I’m sure Sara and D could feel it (well, probably not D as she was totally blasted). When I got home last night, I saw that Moe was online. I told her all this and asked her if there was something wrong with me. “It’s called growing up, sweetheart,” she said. I’m not sure if that’s really it, but I know that I’m definitely a different girl than I was a couple years ago. Maybe I am growing up. Or maybe Spank just sucks.
And it's hot. Sweaty, hard-to-breathe, uncomfortable, feverishly hot. So hot that the ice in my Grey Goose and cranberry melted within seconds. I walked there from my apartment, so I arrived wearing about a dozen layers (that crazy thunderstorm forced me to use up my cab allowance a little early this week) and spent quite a bit of time peeling them off one-by-one. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and D said that she knew the DJ at Spank, the VIP club at 1223, so I grabbed my pile of layers; we got in a cab and headed down Connecticut.
This is what I don't understand about VIP clubs. I wasn't on the list, but, as I told my friend the other day when he asked me how to get into that very private club in Georgetown (yes, that one) there are only three rules to get into a VIP club:
1. Be attractive.It's as simple as that. And it's as stupid as that. Why does my choice of shirt make me "very important"? I didn't deserve to be there. I didn't want to be there. I had a headache, a scowl on my face, and a pile of clothing in my hands. I didn't feel like dancing. I didn't feel like drinking. I stood there, holding my layers, while D and Sara texted their friends and talked to the DJ. I looked around the room wondering what made these people "very important." They didn't look important. I saw the Burberry sales guy that I bought a hat from last summer. I saw the Benetton sales guy that I buy things from every week. I saw flower guy with his roses. Are they important?
2. Don't be unattractive.
3. Wear a low-cut shirt.
I understand the concept of a VIP club. Exclusive clientele, high-end service, fewer people, nicer surroundings. But Spank isn’t that nice. It’s just another one of those places with pulsing club music, white walls, white leather “beds,” and a whole lotta Euro guys. As long as you know someone who knows someone who knows the DJ, you’re in. And if you’re a girl, just remember to unbutton your coat before you get to the velvet rope. At one point, a very large bouncer grabbed me, hugged me, and said “smile, beautiful.” I hate when people tell me to smile. I growled at him. Literally. I went “grrrrr.” He laughed and called me a “feisty pit bull.” I wandered downstairs to the “normal” club and watched the bad dancers on the bar perform what looked like a modern dance interpretation of “My Humps.” No one seemed to be watching them. The bartenders looked annoyed that they had to dodge their fuck-me boots every time they tried to pour a drink. I ended up leaving a little early. I put my layers on and walked home alone past the still-lit storefronts and sleeping homeless men.
I used to love clubs. In high school, my friends and I used to go into the city all the time. We went to Exit, Limelight, Webster Hall, and Sound Factory. Armed with fake ID’s and the aforementioned low-cut shirts we got in wherever we wanted. I kept it up the first couple years of college too with my friend Lindsay. We knew all the bouncers, got our drinks for free, and danced on the bar. We were friends with sketchy guys named Omar and Ahmed who knew where all the parties were. We pretended to be from Italy and South America and spoke with fake accents. Lindsay’s married now and like me, is done with that scene. I still love to dance and go out and meet people, but I enjoy different things now. I like being able to talk to the people I’m with. I want to like the music I’m listening to. I want to recognize it and sing along. I like lounging on a couch with my friends sipping cocktails, smoking shisha, and laughing. When I think over the past year or so the best times were always those nights we stayed in, making dinner, drinking wine, and talking about totally random things.
I didn’t like the person I was last night. I felt like there was a cloud of grump around me that I couldn’t escape. I’m sure Sara and D could feel it (well, probably not D as she was totally blasted). When I got home last night, I saw that Moe was online. I told her all this and asked her if there was something wrong with me. “It’s called growing up, sweetheart,” she said. I’m not sure if that’s really it, but I know that I’m definitely a different girl than I was a couple years ago. Maybe I am growing up. Or maybe Spank just sucks.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Emoticonography
I'm usually reluctant to use emoticons in my electronic communication. I think it's because in my head I have filed them away in the same drawer where I keep Smuckers strawberry jam, the color pink, and those hearts 13-year-old girls use to dot their i's.
However, the following list (which I've swiped from McSweeney's) may change all that:
However, the following list (which I've swiped from McSweeney's) may change all that:
Sample Emoticons for e-Kicking Someone in the e-Balls
BY BARBARA DECESARE
- - - -
1. (x)(x)
2. (#!#)
3. *@@*
4. >ofo<>
I'm not your mama
I went to Hechts today to check out some sheets and things for my apartment. On my way out of the store, a little boy, about two or three years old, came running towards me with his arms wide open, shouting "Mama!" He had a huge smile on his face and he wrapped himself around my left leg. I was trying to figure out what to do when he looked up at me and realized that I wasn't his mother. He immediately let go of my leg and burst into tears. I looked around but he didn't seem to belong to anyone so I picked him up and brought him to the Lancome counter where they called a manager and made an announcement.
I waited there with the little boy who was probably the cutest little guy I've ever seen. A few minutes later his mom showed up totally panicked and crying. She was about my age, height, and coloring. She was wearing a black hoodie and jeans like me, so I can see how the little boy made the mistake.
For the rest of the day I kept thinking about how happy he got when he first mistook me for his mom. I don't think I've ever seen anyone's face light up like that. It must really be amazing to have someone in your life to whom you mean so much that just the sight of you makes his or her day.
I waited there with the little boy who was probably the cutest little guy I've ever seen. A few minutes later his mom showed up totally panicked and crying. She was about my age, height, and coloring. She was wearing a black hoodie and jeans like me, so I can see how the little boy made the mistake.
For the rest of the day I kept thinking about how happy he got when he first mistook me for his mom. I don't think I've ever seen anyone's face light up like that. It must really be amazing to have someone in your life to whom you mean so much that just the sight of you makes his or her day.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds
I used to think this was the official motto of the United States Postal Service, but while doing a bit of googling to find an appropriate title for this post I learned that it is, in fact, not. The line is actually believed to have been written by Herodetus in 500 something BC. It became synonymous with the Postal Service when the architect who designed the James Farley Post Office on 32nd and 8th in NY decided to etch it into the building.
People bitch about the postal service all the time, but I've got to admit that I'm pretty fascinated by it. I did a little research and learned that the USPS delivers over 212 billion pieces of mail a year. Our postal system also handles 44% of all the card and letter mail around the world--that's more than any other postal system in the world. Oh, and do you know what the coolest little USPS tidbit is? They use mules. That's right... In some parts of the world they actually still use mules to transport mail.
I guess with all that mail, you have to understand that they don't have time to read all warnings carefully. For example, the following are pictures that I took of a resume that we recently received in my office:
Thursday, April 06, 2006
The Bus: It's not just for poor people anymore
I'm a total cab slut. I'll go home with just about any cab that comes within 10 feet of me. If it's raining, too cold, too hot, too humid, or even if it's perfectly nice out, but I'm wearing really impractical shoes--I'll take a cab home.
My office is only a 25 minute walk from my apartment. In a cab, the ride takes just 4 minutes. The problem, however, is Florida Avenue, which turns what should be a cheap drive up or down the street into a two-zone, ten-dollar cab ride. It's ridiculous. Every now and then I'll find a driver who'll let me charm him into just charging me one zone, but most of the time it's ten bucks each way. And that adds up quickly...
So I decided that enough is enough, and drew up a pretty strict budget for myself. I'm allowed three cabs a week to be used on the weekend or on a particularly inclement day. Other than that, I've been forcing myself to walk. I was sharing this plan with my friend Looney at happy hour the other night when he asked me what some might think of as a pretty obvious question:
"Why not take the bus?"
My reply: "Isn't that for poor people?"
No. Apparently, the Metrobus is not just for poor people...
Now before you get the wrong idea, let me clarify that I grew up taking NJ Transit bus #163. It's the bus that brought my friends and me home from school, and the same bus that took us to NY on the weekends. I loved that bus. We had a sexy driver named Hector who used to love driving around a bus full of 17-year-old Catholic school girls. I don't have a problem with busses in general--it's the DC Metrobus that scared me. It's all the fault of that sketchy methadone clinic that was located next door to my sophomore year dorm at GW. Everyday, a Metrobus, which came from somewhere called Arcola, dropped off a group of recovering drug addicts right in front of our dorm. They were shaky and wore bandanas. There were occasional fights, and it was impossible to get in and out of our dorm without getting hit up for cash. Since then, I've just not been able to disassociate methadone clinic patients with the Metrobus.
Looney, who takes the bus all the time, assured me that our bus was different and offered to give me a "tutorial."
We got on at the stop in front of Lucky Bar and I was pleased to discover that the fare was only $1.25 (that's better than the train!). It was about 9pm when we got on, but it was pretty crowded and there was only one seat open (Looney let me take it). Most of the passengers were about our age, well-dressed, and seemed to be coming home from school, work, or happy hour. I didn't see any bandanas...
Metrobus is a lot more interactive than Metrorail. I'm pretty sure the driver gets paid on commission because she let about a thousand people on the bus. Everyone was all on top of each other and there was no room to move. I know she must have been violating some kind of ordinance... The driver kept shouting at us to "move behind the line" and people shouted back that she should stop letting people on. There was an incredible amount of shouting going on, actually. People shouted when they wanted to leave through the back exit(which Looney told me is not just for wheelchairs) and when they wanted to get off. I think some people just take the bus to relieve their stress. They can't shout at their bosses so they shout on the bus.
The ride took almost ten minutes, but it let me off (after some major pushing and shoving) only half a block from my apartment. Had it not been so crowded, I think it would have been perfectly nice. I still prefer to walk, but it's good to know that there is another option...
My office is only a 25 minute walk from my apartment. In a cab, the ride takes just 4 minutes. The problem, however, is Florida Avenue, which turns what should be a cheap drive up or down the street into a two-zone, ten-dollar cab ride. It's ridiculous. Every now and then I'll find a driver who'll let me charm him into just charging me one zone, but most of the time it's ten bucks each way. And that adds up quickly...
So I decided that enough is enough, and drew up a pretty strict budget for myself. I'm allowed three cabs a week to be used on the weekend or on a particularly inclement day. Other than that, I've been forcing myself to walk. I was sharing this plan with my friend Looney at happy hour the other night when he asked me what some might think of as a pretty obvious question:
"Why not take the bus?"
My reply: "Isn't that for poor people?"
No. Apparently, the Metrobus is not just for poor people...
Now before you get the wrong idea, let me clarify that I grew up taking NJ Transit bus #163. It's the bus that brought my friends and me home from school, and the same bus that took us to NY on the weekends. I loved that bus. We had a sexy driver named Hector who used to love driving around a bus full of 17-year-old Catholic school girls. I don't have a problem with busses in general--it's the DC Metrobus that scared me. It's all the fault of that sketchy methadone clinic that was located next door to my sophomore year dorm at GW. Everyday, a Metrobus, which came from somewhere called Arcola, dropped off a group of recovering drug addicts right in front of our dorm. They were shaky and wore bandanas. There were occasional fights, and it was impossible to get in and out of our dorm without getting hit up for cash. Since then, I've just not been able to disassociate methadone clinic patients with the Metrobus.
Looney, who takes the bus all the time, assured me that our bus was different and offered to give me a "tutorial."
We got on at the stop in front of Lucky Bar and I was pleased to discover that the fare was only $1.25 (that's better than the train!). It was about 9pm when we got on, but it was pretty crowded and there was only one seat open (Looney let me take it). Most of the passengers were about our age, well-dressed, and seemed to be coming home from school, work, or happy hour. I didn't see any bandanas...
Metrobus is a lot more interactive than Metrorail. I'm pretty sure the driver gets paid on commission because she let about a thousand people on the bus. Everyone was all on top of each other and there was no room to move. I know she must have been violating some kind of ordinance... The driver kept shouting at us to "move behind the line" and people shouted back that she should stop letting people on. There was an incredible amount of shouting going on, actually. People shouted when they wanted to leave through the back exit(which Looney told me is not just for wheelchairs) and when they wanted to get off. I think some people just take the bus to relieve their stress. They can't shout at their bosses so they shout on the bus.
The ride took almost ten minutes, but it let me off (after some major pushing and shoving) only half a block from my apartment. Had it not been so crowded, I think it would have been perfectly nice. I still prefer to walk, but it's good to know that there is another option...
I'm no longer the worst turtle owner in the world
I may have smuggled a turtle into the country and then [accidentally] boiled* him to death, but at least I didn't feed him hot dogs.**
______________________
* I spent the summer of '95 in Puerto Rico with my extended family. While there, I got a pet turtle that I named Volky because he looked like a little Volkswagon. As fall approached, I fretted over what to do with him. I called Continental and asked if I could bring him on board, but they said that due to USDA regulations I was not permitted to bring a turtle into the US. I wasn't about to let silly rules like that separate me from my pet, so on the day of my return I punched a hole in an empty "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" container and put Volky inside. Somehow, we made it on board undetected, and I spent the duration of the flight sprinking Evian over him and feeding him little fish pellets. A little boy sitting in front of me kept complaining that it "smelled like tuna sandwiches." My parents met me at Newark International and didn't really seem that surprised to learn that I had smuggled a turtle into the country. I set Volky up with a little tank, bought a book about turtles, and took pretty decent care of him for a few months. Then winter came and the mornings grew increasingly chilly. Volky's tank wasn't heated, so each morning before school I placed the tank on top of the radiator for a few minutes to heat the water. One morning I was in such a rush that I forgot to remove the tank. My dad woke up a few hours later to find a strong "lobster bisque-like smell" coming out of my room. He walked in and found poor Volky boiled to death. His eyes were shut and his little mouth was wide open. The water was bubbling.
** "A man asked animal control to remove a snapping turtle from his house because he was tired of caring for it. He had been keeping the reptile, which he had found during a fishing trip four years earlier, in a tub in the basement. An animal control officer who picked up the turtle was told by the man’s wife that she had been feeding it mostly hot dogs during the last four years. The turtle was so obese that it could not retract its legs into its shell. It was transferred to a wildlife rehabilitator. In the wild, snapping turtles eat mostly fish, according to the Humane Society. The society says hot dogs are not healthful for a turtle." Washington Post
______________________
* I spent the summer of '95 in Puerto Rico with my extended family. While there, I got a pet turtle that I named Volky because he looked like a little Volkswagon. As fall approached, I fretted over what to do with him. I called Continental and asked if I could bring him on board, but they said that due to USDA regulations I was not permitted to bring a turtle into the US. I wasn't about to let silly rules like that separate me from my pet, so on the day of my return I punched a hole in an empty "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" container and put Volky inside. Somehow, we made it on board undetected, and I spent the duration of the flight sprinking Evian over him and feeding him little fish pellets. A little boy sitting in front of me kept complaining that it "smelled like tuna sandwiches." My parents met me at Newark International and didn't really seem that surprised to learn that I had smuggled a turtle into the country. I set Volky up with a little tank, bought a book about turtles, and took pretty decent care of him for a few months. Then winter came and the mornings grew increasingly chilly. Volky's tank wasn't heated, so each morning before school I placed the tank on top of the radiator for a few minutes to heat the water. One morning I was in such a rush that I forgot to remove the tank. My dad woke up a few hours later to find a strong "lobster bisque-like smell" coming out of my room. He walked in and found poor Volky boiled to death. His eyes were shut and his little mouth was wide open. The water was bubbling.
** "A man asked animal control to remove a snapping turtle from his house because he was tired of caring for it. He had been keeping the reptile, which he had found during a fishing trip four years earlier, in a tub in the basement. An animal control officer who picked up the turtle was told by the man’s wife that she had been feeding it mostly hot dogs during the last four years. The turtle was so obese that it could not retract its legs into its shell. It was transferred to a wildlife rehabilitator. In the wild, snapping turtles eat mostly fish, according to the Humane Society. The society says hot dogs are not healthful for a turtle." Washington Post
Riddle me this...
If I'm 23 now and my birthday is in February, how old was I when I was 13?
Yeah...I actually just asked my officemates this...
Yeah...I actually just asked my officemates this...
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Why I love my HMO...
Sundae, Bloody Sundae
I'm kind of excited about Ben & Jerry's new ice cream flavor: Black & Tan. I was once a strict mixed drink kinda girl (Ketel One gimlets and tonics, mostly) but started drinking beer at around mid-May of last year (thanks Ted) and it sort of spiraled from there.
I'm sure it won't be an issue here in the US where we know (or care) very little about British/Irish history, but I'm curious to see how this will sell in Ireland with a name like that.
I'm sure it won't be an issue here in the US where we know (or care) very little about British/Irish history, but I'm curious to see how this will sell in Ireland with a name like that.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Perplex Sex
For the past month or so, I've been totally consumed by an alternate reality/puzzle trading card game called Perplex City. I've mentioned it once or twice, and promise to go into further detail at some point, but for the purpose of this post all you need to know is that this game appeals to a very, very nerdy audience (and I am definitely included in this group).
This conversation, which I had with a friend earlier today, describes our master plot to drive the thousands of other players to distraction, thereby allowing us to effortlessly claim the grand prize for ourselves. I know it probably won't make much sense to anyone--but I still think it's worth sharing.
me: I read the forums for like three hours last night...how insane is that?
Him: very...
And you didn’t make friends...?
Do you think there are Puzzlers meeting and having intercourse? Or would such a notion be too low-brow...
me: yeah and they call it "intercourse" too, not sex, or f**king or anything like that
Him: nice...then ill fit in perfectly...
Maybe even 'coitus'...
me: that's perfect
Do you think there will be any perplex city couples?
Babies, even?
A whole generation of people who wouldn't exist if not for this game
Very nerdy people, mind you
Actually this is probably the perfect way to bring together men and women who would otherwise never get laid
Him: maybe....even if subconsciously, creating a Perplex City world here on Earth....
me: maybe, when I start my website, I’ll have a dating site
Or, they should add that feature on the current perplex city profile site
Him: i think you should start your site...then include the dating part....then splash your link all over the forums...
me: yeah...you can trade cards OR find a date
Him: or give sexual favors in exchange for silver cards....
me: people can specify "NSA play, dating, long-term relationship"
Him: um...that may be pushing the envelope
me: gives new meaning to the phrase "pay for play"
Him: true...haha
me: I’ll be the Heidi Fleiss of the nerd world
Him: then everyone would be occupied with dating and screwing and the puzzles would never get solved...
i think this could really work...
me: yes! Then we'd quickly rise to the top of the leaderboard
Him: sweet!
me: what's wrong with us?!
:-)
Him: maybe lead in the water, probably nothing...
me: should we see someone about this?
Him: no... not until the underlying sexscapade of your PC site takes over our lives...
me: unlike other madams, who lounge around by swimming pools with piles of coke everywhere, I’ll lounge by my laptop with piles of silvers
Him: nice...there would certainly be a growth of US players...
I could go for a trading/orgy...
Let me know when this starts getting weird...
me: oh, my tolerance for weirdness is extremely high
Him: obviously, mine is too
me: yes... I was actually just trying to figure out the logistics of a trading/orgy
Him: how so?
me: I wouldn't want the sex to overshadow the trading
Him: how could it possibly?
You have to consider the members...
me: oh...right
I think I’m going to have to screen participants
No one exceedingly attractive can join.
It’ll throw everything out of whack...make the nerdier ones feel inadequate
Oh! I’ll have them take that "ruhot.net" quiz...remember that?
That way i can quantify hotness and cut out anyone that is overqualified
Him: yes
must have cards to trade...
and be clean...
but some D&D is encouraged...
me: lol yes...
but that has to be limited too
Him: of course...
me: no wizard hats
Him: and no dice of any kind, 6 sided or otherwise...
me: certainly not
this is like the nerd phone sex line
"I want to do something logical to you..."
Him: haha
I think you have work to do tonight...
me: hmm...yeah, maybe I should skip happy hour
Him: where were you doing that?
me: daily grill
Him: those people don’t need you....the unsocial hordes of puzzle fighters need you to organize them into a sexual frenzy the likes of which engineering schools across the world have never seen...
me: this is true...but, I'm not about to neglect my own social life in the process
Him: listen....
me: although I do like the idea of whipping hordes of puzzle fighters into a sexual frenzy
Him: you will be looked at like a savior to these people....there is a humanitarian issue here which you cannot forget...
be the philanthropist that I hope you will become...
me: but what kind of role model would i be if i were to stay home every night slaving away on Dreamweaver?
wouldn't it be better to teach by example?
Him: no one is asking you to be a role model...there are examples in these people faces 24/7 and where has it got them....playing card puzzles in the darkness....they need organization, desire from a third party, hope, and an opportunity that only you can provide...
me: what are you getting out of this?
you seem a bit too eager to have me set this up
I doubt that your motives are purely altruistic
Him: what else would they be?
me: self-serving and evil
Him: well....i think you are going a little far with self-serving...
i truly believe your guidance and hand holding can get these people to a world they have never been....the Red Light District of Perplex City....
me: ...and while the multitudes of cube searchers find themselves lost to the soma of perplex sex, you will swoop in and claim the cube for yourself
is that what you left out?
Him: within your cynicisms lies the true answer....PerplexSex.com
a name that stands for the origin of the game and the character of its players...
me: creepily brilliant
Him: a-thank-you...
me: I love that we've quadra-handedly managed to blight what was once pure and true
Him: into what it always was meant to become...?
me: of course
they just needed us to help them realize it
Him: well that’s obvious...
we've broken into their culture...we simply need to grab their hands and pull them out of the mire....with the help of your site...
me: they have no idea what's coming
Him: (btw...much more relaxed idolized rants have led to militias and federal involvement...)
me: I know...and Google saves everything
Him: I wonder what the ads will be for.
3-D jigsaw puzzles with pictures of porn stars on them?
me: vibrating protractors
Him: ow
me: some people like that
Him: some, but not all...
me: true, but we can't discriminate
Him: no, I will not stand for any discrimination....
well, maybe some...
but very little...
me: sanctioned discrimination is ok
Him: I concur, counselor...
This conversation, which I had with a friend earlier today, describes our master plot to drive the thousands of other players to distraction, thereby allowing us to effortlessly claim the grand prize for ourselves. I know it probably won't make much sense to anyone--but I still think it's worth sharing.
me: I read the forums for like three hours last night...how insane is that?
Him: very...
And you didn’t make friends...?
Do you think there are Puzzlers meeting and having intercourse? Or would such a notion be too low-brow...
me: yeah and they call it "intercourse" too, not sex, or f**king or anything like that
Him: nice...then ill fit in perfectly...
Maybe even 'coitus'...
me: that's perfect
Do you think there will be any perplex city couples?
Babies, even?
A whole generation of people who wouldn't exist if not for this game
Very nerdy people, mind you
Actually this is probably the perfect way to bring together men and women who would otherwise never get laid
Him: maybe....even if subconsciously, creating a Perplex City world here on Earth....
me: maybe, when I start my website, I’ll have a dating site
Or, they should add that feature on the current perplex city profile site
Him: i think you should start your site...then include the dating part....then splash your link all over the forums...
me: yeah...you can trade cards OR find a date
Him: or give sexual favors in exchange for silver cards....
me: people can specify "NSA play, dating, long-term relationship"
Him: um...that may be pushing the envelope
me: gives new meaning to the phrase "pay for play"
Him: true...haha
me: I’ll be the Heidi Fleiss of the nerd world
Him: then everyone would be occupied with dating and screwing and the puzzles would never get solved...
i think this could really work...
me: yes! Then we'd quickly rise to the top of the leaderboard
Him: sweet!
me: what's wrong with us?!
:-)
Him: maybe lead in the water, probably nothing...
me: should we see someone about this?
Him: no... not until the underlying sexscapade of your PC site takes over our lives...
me: unlike other madams, who lounge around by swimming pools with piles of coke everywhere, I’ll lounge by my laptop with piles of silvers
Him: nice...there would certainly be a growth of US players...
I could go for a trading/orgy...
Let me know when this starts getting weird...
me: oh, my tolerance for weirdness is extremely high
Him: obviously, mine is too
me: yes... I was actually just trying to figure out the logistics of a trading/orgy
Him: how so?
me: I wouldn't want the sex to overshadow the trading
Him: how could it possibly?
You have to consider the members...
me: oh...right
I think I’m going to have to screen participants
No one exceedingly attractive can join.
It’ll throw everything out of whack...make the nerdier ones feel inadequate
Oh! I’ll have them take that "ruhot.net" quiz...remember that?
That way i can quantify hotness and cut out anyone that is overqualified
Him: yes
must have cards to trade...
and be clean...
but some D&D is encouraged...
me: lol yes...
but that has to be limited too
Him: of course...
me: no wizard hats
Him: and no dice of any kind, 6 sided or otherwise...
me: certainly not
this is like the nerd phone sex line
"I want to do something logical to you..."
Him: haha
I think you have work to do tonight...
me: hmm...yeah, maybe I should skip happy hour
Him: where were you doing that?
me: daily grill
Him: those people don’t need you....the unsocial hordes of puzzle fighters need you to organize them into a sexual frenzy the likes of which engineering schools across the world have never seen...
me: this is true...but, I'm not about to neglect my own social life in the process
Him: listen....
me: although I do like the idea of whipping hordes of puzzle fighters into a sexual frenzy
Him: you will be looked at like a savior to these people....there is a humanitarian issue here which you cannot forget...
be the philanthropist that I hope you will become...
me: but what kind of role model would i be if i were to stay home every night slaving away on Dreamweaver?
wouldn't it be better to teach by example?
Him: no one is asking you to be a role model...there are examples in these people faces 24/7 and where has it got them....playing card puzzles in the darkness....they need organization, desire from a third party, hope, and an opportunity that only you can provide...
me: what are you getting out of this?
you seem a bit too eager to have me set this up
I doubt that your motives are purely altruistic
Him: what else would they be?
me: self-serving and evil
Him: well....i think you are going a little far with self-serving...
i truly believe your guidance and hand holding can get these people to a world they have never been....the Red Light District of Perplex City....
me: ...and while the multitudes of cube searchers find themselves lost to the soma of perplex sex, you will swoop in and claim the cube for yourself
is that what you left out?
Him: within your cynicisms lies the true answer....PerplexSex.com
a name that stands for the origin of the game and the character of its players...
me: creepily brilliant
Him: a-thank-you...
me: I love that we've quadra-handedly managed to blight what was once pure and true
Him: into what it always was meant to become...?
me: of course
they just needed us to help them realize it
Him: well that’s obvious...
we've broken into their culture...we simply need to grab their hands and pull them out of the mire....with the help of your site...
me: they have no idea what's coming
Him: (btw...much more relaxed idolized rants have led to militias and federal involvement...)
me: I know...and Google saves everything
Him: I wonder what the ads will be for.
3-D jigsaw puzzles with pictures of porn stars on them?
me: vibrating protractors
Him: ow
me: some people like that
Him: some, but not all...
me: true, but we can't discriminate
Him: no, I will not stand for any discrimination....
well, maybe some...
but very little...
me: sanctioned discrimination is ok
Him: I concur, counselor...
Labels: Nerdiness
posted by Alejandra at 4/04/2006