I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas! It really does not feel like it. I have been pretty devoid of Christmas spirit this year…scroogetastic. I guess that’s mostly because being in a warmer climate, I have been in denial that it is in fact winter and Christmas time. I mean, San Diego has definitely decked its halls with plenty of fuh-la-la, but it just never sank in for me. Plus, I’ve been stressed out.
So yes yes, instead of going back to Beantown for Christmas, my family is coming to visit me in San Diego! They arrive around 7:30 PM west coast time on Christmas day. I am just as pleased as holiday spiked punch that they are making the trip out. I really wasn’t looking forward to having another family-free Christmas like last year.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, celebrating Christmas in Prague last year was definitely beyond fantastic and an entirely unforgettable experience (nothing says holiday cheer like a Christmas Eve ghost tour regaling tales of a gentile-slaying, claymation golem), but ya just gotta be with your family on Christmas…it’s a Yule rule.
So yeah, 3 more days! Can’t even wait!
P.S.
Here is my preemptive new year’s resolution: achieve electrolightenment and become a practitioner of verbal eloquence, not diarrhea.
Just told the cashier at Food 4 Less that he’s probably schizophrenic.
Of course, out of context that sounds a lot more abrasive than it actually was. He laughed (albeit awkwardly) after I said it!
But still, I shouldn’t be handing out DSM diagnoses in jest to strangers. Especially around the holidays.
No one likes a stocking full of bipolar disorder or a gift card to OCD.
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/clips/twas-the-night-monologue/866361/
…Why John Malkovich is amazing.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Long post...
This past week was uberly un-fun.
I spent it darting all over town jumping through a series of irritating pre-hire hoops for the navy job. All of which were the very same pre-hire hoops that I had previously jumped through for the first job that the navy hired me for, which they then snatched away when I no longer maintained my status as a student. Mind you, all of the other persons hired for said job were undergraduate students…but that’s another can of worms for another time.
As frustrating as it’s been though, there is no point in gnashing my teeth about it. Because when the navy says, “Jump!”, the only acceptable response is, “How high, Navy?” then bend over.
I will gnash my teeth about this, however. On Tuesday, after I rode a bus for an hour and a half to get to the navy’s HR office just to put my John Hancock on two lousy pieces of paper, I was informed that it is likely that my pay is going to be docked by $2.50.
$13.70 - $2.50 = salary castration.
And let’s not forget about the 3 hour round-trip commute to the child development center where I am supposed to be working. That is definitely the lip stick on this fantastic job offer.
Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…
I won’t actually be able to start this navy job until January 15th, however. So for the meantime, I posted an ad on Craig’s List marketing my babysitting/tutoring services.
Last Friday, I received a response from a very progressive, libertarian mom named Anna, who has two foster children - a girl and a boy, ages 3 and 8 months.
I met the kids on Sunday and then spent a couple more afternoons sitting for them during the week while Anna ran errands and got housework done. All in all, the kids are both very cute and reasonably well-behaved.
On Thirsty Thursday, Anna wanted me for an evening babysitting gig, which would necessitate me spending the night at her house. The reason being that while she said she most likely wouldn’t stay out past midnight, she wouldn’t feel comfortable with me taking the bus home at that late hour should something happen to me.
Now, I wouldn’t say that I was exactly keen on the idea of spending the night at a relative stranger’s house, but I was reasonably cool with it. That was, however, until Anna revealed that she was not reasonably cool with the idea of compensating me for the inconvenience of the overnight.
But of course, I know I’m being overly avaricious here. It’s totally acceptable to stiff the babysitter. Probably shouldn’t tip waitresses either.
I didn’t want to leave her in the lurch though, so I reluctantly agreed to do the freebie overnight. But for the future, I said if she wasn’t willing to shell out the dough, then I wasn’t willing to do any more late night sitting.
So la la la, the evening hours passed without a hitch. Played some games, watched The Jungle Book, then I tucked the kids soundly into bed.
Oh side note: as she’s running out the door, Anna informs me that the little girl was going to be sharing a bed with me. Umm…
Today’s soup is cream of questionable sleeping arrangements.
I spent it darting all over town jumping through a series of irritating pre-hire hoops for the navy job. All of which were the very same pre-hire hoops that I had previously jumped through for the first job that the navy hired me for, which they then snatched away when I no longer maintained my status as a student. Mind you, all of the other persons hired for said job were undergraduate students…but that’s another can of worms for another time.
As frustrating as it’s been though, there is no point in gnashing my teeth about it. Because when the navy says, “Jump!”, the only acceptable response is, “How high, Navy?” then bend over.
I will gnash my teeth about this, however. On Tuesday, after I rode a bus for an hour and a half to get to the navy’s HR office just to put my John Hancock on two lousy pieces of paper, I was informed that it is likely that my pay is going to be docked by $2.50.
$13.70 - $2.50 = salary castration.
And let’s not forget about the 3 hour round-trip commute to the child development center where I am supposed to be working. That is definitely the lip stick on this fantastic job offer.
Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…
I won’t actually be able to start this navy job until January 15th, however. So for the meantime, I posted an ad on Craig’s List marketing my babysitting/tutoring services.
Last Friday, I received a response from a very progressive, libertarian mom named Anna, who has two foster children - a girl and a boy, ages 3 and 8 months.
I met the kids on Sunday and then spent a couple more afternoons sitting for them during the week while Anna ran errands and got housework done. All in all, the kids are both very cute and reasonably well-behaved.
On Thirsty Thursday, Anna wanted me for an evening babysitting gig, which would necessitate me spending the night at her house. The reason being that while she said she most likely wouldn’t stay out past midnight, she wouldn’t feel comfortable with me taking the bus home at that late hour should something happen to me.
Now, I wouldn’t say that I was exactly keen on the idea of spending the night at a relative stranger’s house, but I was reasonably cool with it. That was, however, until Anna revealed that she was not reasonably cool with the idea of compensating me for the inconvenience of the overnight.
But of course, I know I’m being overly avaricious here. It’s totally acceptable to stiff the babysitter. Probably shouldn’t tip waitresses either.
I didn’t want to leave her in the lurch though, so I reluctantly agreed to do the freebie overnight. But for the future, I said if she wasn’t willing to shell out the dough, then I wasn’t willing to do any more late night sitting.
So la la la, the evening hours passed without a hitch. Played some games, watched The Jungle Book, then I tucked the kids soundly into bed.
Oh side note: as she’s running out the door, Anna informs me that the little girl was going to be sharing a bed with me. Umm…
Today’s soup is cream of questionable sleeping arrangements.
So yeah...
The evening hours slowly turned into wee morning hours and there was still no sign of Mom-of-the-year. Fantastic.
I love being kept up all night by the hourly cries of a hungry baby and the copious “I want my mommy now!” outbursts of a three year old and not being paid for it.
It wasn’t until 5 frick-on-a-stick AM that Anna finally returned home and I got to go to bed.
Twenty minutes later, however, just as I was dozing off, I was awoken by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
Then, the front door opened and I could hear the voices of two men, growing in volume as they approached the door to the room where I was sleeping.
Then, the voices hushed and I heard the door creak open as a shadowy figure entered the room and made like he was going to get into bed with me.
“Ummmm…The babysitter is sleeping in here!” I hollered at him.
“Ohh…uhhh…sorry! My bad.” stammered the shadowy figure as he hastily retreated from the room.
Under normal circumstances, I probably would have freaked out a lot more about this, but when I first met Anna, she explained to me that she has a lot of twenty-something male friends, many of whom are recovering drug addicts and aspiring rap artists, who frequently crash in her spare bedroom. And who doesn’t love a slumber party with a VIP guest list like that?
But yeah, after this babysitting adventure, I don’t think I’ll be doing any more over-night shifts for Miss Anna Banana. I’d like to steer myself clear of any future, accidental spooning sessions with recovering druggernauts.
Ok. Enough tomfoolery. Here’s a good bit of news for ya…
Stacey just started seeing this loveable hostel manager named Iain! It’s all still very new, the relationship like just popped out of the womb, but I can just tell that it’s going to be lovely. Seeing them together is like watching a Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan movie, chock-full of that A-list, adorable, movie magic chemistry.
And he is just so sweet to her. Chew on this sucrose-coated, chocolate-dipped example…
Text from Iain to Stacey after their first official date: You are kick ass. You make me a happy man.
How cute is that? I am officially J to the EALOUS.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Golden Globe Noms!
The Golden Globe noms are out! It’s officially awards season, baby!
Now, I am not a sports fan by any means. Well, except for hockey. Gotta say that I do enjoy me the elegant brutality of big, burly men gliding gracefully with Kwan-like poise one minute, and then smashing their opponents’ faces into glass walls the next, oh yeah.
But, to make a sports related comparison illustrating my zeal for film awards, the Golden Globes are my World Series and the Academy Awards are my Super Bowl.
I am pathetically out of shape for this year’s awards season, however. I haven’t been to the movies in a dog‘s age! (Seeing Four Christmases over Thanksgiving totally does not count since the experience was more like staring at a pile of garbage for an hour and a half than watching an actual movie.)
My top 6 list of must-see movies for the '08/'09 season are…
1. Revolutionary Road
2. Burn After Reading
3. Happy-Go-Lucky
4. The Reader
5. In Bruges
And…
6. Slumdog Millionaire
Last year, I had to miss both the Globes and the Oscars while I was teaching in France due to a television deficiency, which was a major bummer. So this year, my cup runneth over with excitement about the awards shows!
Especially since my Leo scored another best actor nomination. This time it’s for his role as Frank Wheeler in Revolutionary Road. Can't say that I've seen the film yet (it doesn't come out until December 26th), but I have a feeling in my bones that ‘09 is going to be Leo’s year. Cross those phalanges, people, and cross ‘em good!
Leo would have had a really good shot at nabbing himself a pair of book ends last year for The Departed and Blood Diamond if it hadn’t have been for Forrest Whitaker’s freakishly amazing performance in The Last King of Scotland. Damn you, Mr. Whitaker. Damn you.
If you haven’t yet seen The Last King of Scotland, I implore you to immediately report to the nearest Blockbuster and rent it. Forrest’s portrayal of Idi Amin is absolutely, terrifyingly ferocious, but in the daaamn, give this guy major props kinda way. Plus, James McAvoy, who has the dreamiest bedroom eyes on the planet, is in it.
Luckily, however, Mr. Whitaker will be spending this year’s award season on the bench. Plus, Heath Ledger’s Joker nom is in the best supporting actor category, so both his and Leo’s talents can be justly awarded.
Go team DiCaprio!
Now, I am not a sports fan by any means. Well, except for hockey. Gotta say that I do enjoy me the elegant brutality of big, burly men gliding gracefully with Kwan-like poise one minute, and then smashing their opponents’ faces into glass walls the next, oh yeah.
But, to make a sports related comparison illustrating my zeal for film awards, the Golden Globes are my World Series and the Academy Awards are my Super Bowl.
I am pathetically out of shape for this year’s awards season, however. I haven’t been to the movies in a dog‘s age! (Seeing Four Christmases over Thanksgiving totally does not count since the experience was more like staring at a pile of garbage for an hour and a half than watching an actual movie.)
My top 6 list of must-see movies for the '08/'09 season are…
1. Revolutionary Road
2. Burn After Reading
3. Happy-Go-Lucky
4. The Reader
5. In Bruges
And…
6. Slumdog Millionaire
Last year, I had to miss both the Globes and the Oscars while I was teaching in France due to a television deficiency, which was a major bummer. So this year, my cup runneth over with excitement about the awards shows!
Especially since my Leo scored another best actor nomination. This time it’s for his role as Frank Wheeler in Revolutionary Road. Can't say that I've seen the film yet (it doesn't come out until December 26th), but I have a feeling in my bones that ‘09 is going to be Leo’s year. Cross those phalanges, people, and cross ‘em good!
Leo would have had a really good shot at nabbing himself a pair of book ends last year for The Departed and Blood Diamond if it hadn’t have been for Forrest Whitaker’s freakishly amazing performance in The Last King of Scotland. Damn you, Mr. Whitaker. Damn you.
If you haven’t yet seen The Last King of Scotland, I implore you to immediately report to the nearest Blockbuster and rent it. Forrest’s portrayal of Idi Amin is absolutely, terrifyingly ferocious, but in the daaamn, give this guy major props kinda way. Plus, James McAvoy, who has the dreamiest bedroom eyes on the planet, is in it.
Luckily, however, Mr. Whitaker will be spending this year’s award season on the bench. Plus, Heath Ledger’s Joker nom is in the best supporting actor category, so both his and Leo’s talents can be justly awarded.
Go team DiCaprio!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Swing Night at Henry's
Henry’s is by far our favorite bar in San Diego and it is speedily becoming our Cheer’s. Well, sort of. It’s more of a work in progress, like the Familia Sagrada in Barcelona.
Last week, we exchanged pleasantries with Justin, the bartender, so there is some potential there. And one of the bouncers has clearly noticed us, as he has remarked several times now that we sure do come to Henry’s an awful lot.
I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that he just thinks we have a drinking problem. So he only half counts.
But hey, slow and steady can still win the make-nice-with-the-bar-staff race so you can get discount cocktails and all-you-can-eat maraschino cherries!
One of the coolest thing about Henry’s is that it does theme nights. Wednesday is rhythm and blues, Thursday is 80’s, Friday and Saturday are hip-hop, Sunday is karaoke, Monday is mixmasters, and Tuesday (my favorite) is swing night.
Swing night features a live, rock-a-billy band called The Stillettos, who are amazingly T-Birdish. And all of the bar's T.V. screens show clips of people from the 50’s doing the Lindy Hop, the Charleston, the Shag, and the Balboa (trying to become well-versed in swing lingo, or as I like to call it - swingo - so that I can impress all of my new, wannabee swing friends).
The crowd of dancers that swing night draws is seemingly rather elitist. They dress to the nines in 50’s attire and all sit and chit-chat together between sets on the far side of the dance floor, while all the non-dancing cubes and clydes congregate near the bar like the lepers of middle school dances.
Stacey and I, however, have made it our mission to penetrate the inner swing circle. We actually made a little bit of headway with our goal this past Tuesday.
A fancy-footed, college professor named Mark took a liking to us and he showed us some of the swinging ropes.
He was a little too into the turns, however. After awhile, I almost had to say to him, “Ok Marky Mark, you keep spinning me like a maniacal dreidel and I am going to vomit on your saddle shoes.”
Then along came a herd of delightful Marine boys - all the size of redwoods, all sporting buzz cuts - so typical.
They were very sweet, but they had absolutely no skills and zero rhythm. But I gotta give them all A pluses for their afforts. Even though as they were attempting to spin Stacey and myself, we undoubtedly looked like nightmarish, dislodged ferris wheels.
My guy was so adorable though...like a really meaty, lost puppy. After we haphazardly bopped and jiggled around on the dance floor for awhile, he goes, “Ok, I’m gonna flip you around now!”
“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
It was amazing. Totally razzed my berries (yep, I’m a cool cat - I googled 50’s jargon. What about it?). Not gonna lie though, I definitely donkey kicked several innocent bystanders in the back. But hey, go big or go home…or to the hospital to tend to your possibly ruptured kidneys. Whoops.
Can’t wait for next Tuesday!
Last week, we exchanged pleasantries with Justin, the bartender, so there is some potential there. And one of the bouncers has clearly noticed us, as he has remarked several times now that we sure do come to Henry’s an awful lot.
I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that he just thinks we have a drinking problem. So he only half counts.
But hey, slow and steady can still win the make-nice-with-the-bar-staff race so you can get discount cocktails and all-you-can-eat maraschino cherries!
One of the coolest thing about Henry’s is that it does theme nights. Wednesday is rhythm and blues, Thursday is 80’s, Friday and Saturday are hip-hop, Sunday is karaoke, Monday is mixmasters, and Tuesday (my favorite) is swing night.
Swing night features a live, rock-a-billy band called The Stillettos, who are amazingly T-Birdish. And all of the bar's T.V. screens show clips of people from the 50’s doing the Lindy Hop, the Charleston, the Shag, and the Balboa (trying to become well-versed in swing lingo, or as I like to call it - swingo - so that I can impress all of my new, wannabee swing friends).
The crowd of dancers that swing night draws is seemingly rather elitist. They dress to the nines in 50’s attire and all sit and chit-chat together between sets on the far side of the dance floor, while all the non-dancing cubes and clydes congregate near the bar like the lepers of middle school dances.
Stacey and I, however, have made it our mission to penetrate the inner swing circle. We actually made a little bit of headway with our goal this past Tuesday.
A fancy-footed, college professor named Mark took a liking to us and he showed us some of the swinging ropes.
He was a little too into the turns, however. After awhile, I almost had to say to him, “Ok Marky Mark, you keep spinning me like a maniacal dreidel and I am going to vomit on your saddle shoes.”
Then along came a herd of delightful Marine boys - all the size of redwoods, all sporting buzz cuts - so typical.
They were very sweet, but they had absolutely no skills and zero rhythm. But I gotta give them all A pluses for their afforts. Even though as they were attempting to spin Stacey and myself, we undoubtedly looked like nightmarish, dislodged ferris wheels.
My guy was so adorable though...like a really meaty, lost puppy. After we haphazardly bopped and jiggled around on the dance floor for awhile, he goes, “Ok, I’m gonna flip you around now!”
“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
It was amazing. Totally razzed my berries (yep, I’m a cool cat - I googled 50’s jargon. What about it?). Not gonna lie though, I definitely donkey kicked several innocent bystanders in the back. But hey, go big or go home…or to the hospital to tend to your possibly ruptured kidneys. Whoops.
Can’t wait for next Tuesday!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Mantyhose...
Attention ladies!
Having trouble coming up with holiday gift ideas for the men folk in your lives??
Well, look no further. I have the perfect solution that is guaranteed to rock the world of any manly man-ladies' man-man about town-gentleMAN, man.
Just click on the link below and experience all of the magic of what the future of men's lib holds...
e-MANcipate!
p.s. if you stumble across the comments made by user names fanofMantyHose4ever and 1jungdaddylikeahorse - that's me and Stacey. We always make productive use our of our free-time.
Having trouble coming up with holiday gift ideas for the men folk in your lives??
Well, look no further. I have the perfect solution that is guaranteed to rock the world of any manly man-ladies' man-man about town-gentleMAN, man.
Just click on the link below and experience all of the magic of what the future of men's lib holds...
e-MANcipate!
p.s. if you stumble across the comments made by user names fanofMantyHose4ever and 1jungdaddylikeahorse - that's me and Stacey. We always make productive use our of our free-time.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The squeaky wheel gets the grease!
I finally got a real job! After three long months of job hunting, I finally scored one!
Well, I’m almost sure I have a real job.
See, no one actually said to me in so many words, “You’re hired.”
But the program director sent me an email Monday morning saying, and I quote: “Looking forward to you coming on board.”
That has to mean I got the job, right??? It would be a big ol' bowl of caprese crap salad if it didn’t!
At any rate, I plan on keeping my glass half full…of happy juice, jam-packed with vitamin YouGotTheJob.
So! The nitty-gritty…
The job is an educational aide position with the Navy. The duties are basically that of a preschool teacher, which I am thrilled about - I’ll get to play with Navy babies all day long!
I can’t even express just how relieved I feel. My bank account is on the brink of hitting rock bottom and my parents really aren’t in any position to be my financial crutch right now. So thank you, THANK YOU to the Navy.
Plus, even though the job is with the Navy, I will be working at the Air Station in Miramar. Which is where only the most quintessentially flighty rebel movie of 1986 takes place featuring a cast with more snappy nicknames than any other film throughout film history.
Of course, I can only be talking about one film, and one film alone. And that film would be…TOP GUN.
(Maverick
Goose
Iceman
Jester
Cougar
Wolfman
Slider
Merlin
Hollywood
Stinger
And last and kind of least, Kelly McGillis as Charlotte a.k.a. Charlie)
Let’s bring back that loving feeling, baby!
Well, I’m almost sure I have a real job.
See, no one actually said to me in so many words, “You’re hired.”
But the program director sent me an email Monday morning saying, and I quote: “Looking forward to you coming on board.”
That has to mean I got the job, right??? It would be a big ol' bowl of caprese crap salad if it didn’t!
At any rate, I plan on keeping my glass half full…of happy juice, jam-packed with vitamin YouGotTheJob.
So! The nitty-gritty…
The job is an educational aide position with the Navy. The duties are basically that of a preschool teacher, which I am thrilled about - I’ll get to play with Navy babies all day long!
I can’t even express just how relieved I feel. My bank account is on the brink of hitting rock bottom and my parents really aren’t in any position to be my financial crutch right now. So thank you, THANK YOU to the Navy.
Plus, even though the job is with the Navy, I will be working at the Air Station in Miramar. Which is where only the most quintessentially flighty rebel movie of 1986 takes place featuring a cast with more snappy nicknames than any other film throughout film history.
Of course, I can only be talking about one film, and one film alone. And that film would be…TOP GUN.
(Maverick
Goose
Iceman
Jester
Cougar
Wolfman
Slider
Merlin
Hollywood
Stinger
And last and kind of least, Kelly McGillis as Charlotte a.k.a. Charlie)
Let’s bring back that loving feeling, baby!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Stripical Behavior
So Stacey and I are admittedly very white chicks. And true to the stereotype about our fellow lack-of-pigmenters, we can not dance for squat.
BUT! We ain’t no quitters. Instead of rolling over and settling for the one acceptable white person dance that God gave us (you know, the Carlton side-step, snap n‘ twist), we decided to oh-so wisely invest our precious mula in Carmen Electra’s Advanced Striptease DVD, oh yeah.
Obviously, during the first run through, we looked like a pair of baby giraffes learning to walk for the first time. But after…ohh...the twenty-third, twenty-fourth viewing, we had that suckah nailed, like the bona fide sex pistols that we clearly are.
So much so, in fact, that we decided that Ms. Electra could no longer hold a candle to our expert stripnotizing moves. So we shut that amateur shiznit off, grabbed some props, and took our routine to the next level.
Like any good, little, rising strip star, we looked to la crème de la crème for inspiration…aka Britney Spears, pre-nose dive into the deep end of the crazy pool - we must have watched the I’m a Slave for You video at least 43,857,437 times.
Totally worth it.
At the end of the day, we had choreographed our own full-length, professional quality, naughty librarian strip tease, chock-full of saucitude.
Time well spent, oh yeah.
BUT! We ain’t no quitters. Instead of rolling over and settling for the one acceptable white person dance that God gave us (you know, the Carlton side-step, snap n‘ twist), we decided to oh-so wisely invest our precious mula in Carmen Electra’s Advanced Striptease DVD, oh yeah.
Obviously, during the first run through, we looked like a pair of baby giraffes learning to walk for the first time. But after…ohh...the twenty-third, twenty-fourth viewing, we had that suckah nailed, like the bona fide sex pistols that we clearly are.
So much so, in fact, that we decided that Ms. Electra could no longer hold a candle to our expert stripnotizing moves. So we shut that amateur shiznit off, grabbed some props, and took our routine to the next level.
Like any good, little, rising strip star, we looked to la crème de la crème for inspiration…aka Britney Spears, pre-nose dive into the deep end of the crazy pool - we must have watched the I’m a Slave for You video at least 43,857,437 times.
Totally worth it.
At the end of the day, we had choreographed our own full-length, professional quality, naughty librarian strip tease, chock-full of saucitude.
Time well spent, oh yeah.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Thanksgiving Back East
I had the pleasure of going back east for a few days last week to spend some quality time with friends, family, and my monster puppy. I even got to see the dirty Jerz, Italian fam-clan, who never fail to put on a good show.
My grandma Lucy has always been a bit…uhh…how shall I say…mmm…eccentric.
She was in rare form this visit, however. But ya gotta admit, her ridiculous antics do make for some top-notch grandma theater.
It is a well established fact that my grandma carries the heavyweight champion of the world title when it comes to Debbie Downering.
Using her prowess for pessimism, my grandma could morph a pile of rainbows and teddy bears schmeared with baby laughter paste into a suicidal heap of arthritis, crumbling economies, and tumors.
Pretty much every story that she told concluded with one of the following three endings:
1. And then he died (classic grandma).
2. And then she grew a tumor.
Or my favorite…
3. And then he was trampled to death (this one was a new addition to the repertoire of gloom).
Grandma is always the life of parties.
Oh, I also made the mistake of mentioning to her that I had been sort of dating someone in San Diego.
Normally, I am a strict minimalist when it comes to all forms of relationshippy conversations with family members because awkwardness and discomfiture are always soon to follow.
But, an uncomfortable pause transpired in the conversation, somewhere after either John Smith was trampled or Jane Doe grew a tumor, when I had absolutely no idea how to respond, and quite frankly, couldn’t handle another ultra depressing story.
So yeah, in a fraught attempt to change the subject, I told grandma about the sailor boy, Marc, that I had been dating. I told her that he worked as an engineer on a battleship and that he did a lot of traveling with his job.
Without skipping a beat, grandma’s response to this information was, “He’s probably got a different girl in every port, you know…pass the lasagna.”
Good talk, grandma. I wish only the best for you too.
Moving on…
All in all, my trip back east was delightful. Although, also somewhat strange.
The first night I spent back in Walpole, I had the Garden State realization that the house that I grew up in wasn’t really my home anymore. It was just like in the pool scene when Andrew says to Sam…
“It’s like you feel homesick for a place that doesn’t even exist…and you won’t ever have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself.”
Weird. Realizing this, made me feel sad - and kind of hollow. But at the same time, I recognized just how much I do like being on my own out in California - I’m so happy to be back.
Oh and p.s. I decided that I do indeed like that sailor boy. Probably not the best idea, however, considering he’s gone now, back to Maine until sometime in January…
Dum ti dum ti dum.
My grandma Lucy has always been a bit…uhh…how shall I say…mmm…eccentric.
She was in rare form this visit, however. But ya gotta admit, her ridiculous antics do make for some top-notch grandma theater.
It is a well established fact that my grandma carries the heavyweight champion of the world title when it comes to Debbie Downering.
Using her prowess for pessimism, my grandma could morph a pile of rainbows and teddy bears schmeared with baby laughter paste into a suicidal heap of arthritis, crumbling economies, and tumors.
Pretty much every story that she told concluded with one of the following three endings:
1. And then he died (classic grandma).
2. And then she grew a tumor.
Or my favorite…
3. And then he was trampled to death (this one was a new addition to the repertoire of gloom).
Grandma is always the life of parties.
Oh, I also made the mistake of mentioning to her that I had been sort of dating someone in San Diego.
Normally, I am a strict minimalist when it comes to all forms of relationshippy conversations with family members because awkwardness and discomfiture are always soon to follow.
But, an uncomfortable pause transpired in the conversation, somewhere after either John Smith was trampled or Jane Doe grew a tumor, when I had absolutely no idea how to respond, and quite frankly, couldn’t handle another ultra depressing story.
So yeah, in a fraught attempt to change the subject, I told grandma about the sailor boy, Marc, that I had been dating. I told her that he worked as an engineer on a battleship and that he did a lot of traveling with his job.
Without skipping a beat, grandma’s response to this information was, “He’s probably got a different girl in every port, you know…pass the lasagna.”
Good talk, grandma. I wish only the best for you too.
Moving on…
All in all, my trip back east was delightful. Although, also somewhat strange.
The first night I spent back in Walpole, I had the Garden State realization that the house that I grew up in wasn’t really my home anymore. It was just like in the pool scene when Andrew says to Sam…
“It’s like you feel homesick for a place that doesn’t even exist…and you won’t ever have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself.”
Weird. Realizing this, made me feel sad - and kind of hollow. But at the same time, I recognized just how much I do like being on my own out in California - I’m so happy to be back.
Oh and p.s. I decided that I do indeed like that sailor boy. Probably not the best idea, however, considering he’s gone now, back to Maine until sometime in January…
Dum ti dum ti dum.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Grad School Ding-Dong-Ditch
Incoming! 411 bomb! This tid bit of knowledge is about two months overdue but whatever…
SO…I decided to pull the plug on the whole grad school snazzle dazzle business.
Jigga-whaaa?
Yep, it’s true. King me!
Frankly, I had been a grad school-flight risk since before I even moved to San Diego. But I never would have made the move if I hadn’t had a tangible reason for doing so. And I realllly wanted to come to California.
So, I kept paddling along in de Nile river, hoping I’d fall in love with social work.
Mmm not so much.
I only had class one day a week, which was outstanding. But after class every Wednesday, I would have a series of mini melt-downs, which got progressively worse with each passing week. These melt-downs were also super fun for my roommate to deal with, God bless her.
Withdrawing from SDSU was quite the snaggletooth situation. The school was being a little bitch about letting me out of their iron fisted grip. But dear old dad was ready to go all Johnny Cochrane on their asses and take ‘em down town Lester Brown.
It was nice to see pops play his white knight card for his darling daughter, but also slightly terrifying.
I started getting calls from the president of the university being like, “So…uhh…I spoke with your father today…(uncomfortable silence)…He seemed very…(wheels turning for words besides crazy, scarily hostile, hugely a-holeish)…concerned.”
So yes, like a proper gentleman sans a rubber, I pulled out before things really erupted.
Now I am a much happier camper. So pitch a tent for them apples.
SO…I decided to pull the plug on the whole grad school snazzle dazzle business.
Jigga-whaaa?
Yep, it’s true. King me!
Frankly, I had been a grad school-flight risk since before I even moved to San Diego. But I never would have made the move if I hadn’t had a tangible reason for doing so. And I realllly wanted to come to California.
So, I kept paddling along in de Nile river, hoping I’d fall in love with social work.
Mmm not so much.
I only had class one day a week, which was outstanding. But after class every Wednesday, I would have a series of mini melt-downs, which got progressively worse with each passing week. These melt-downs were also super fun for my roommate to deal with, God bless her.
Withdrawing from SDSU was quite the snaggletooth situation. The school was being a little bitch about letting me out of their iron fisted grip. But dear old dad was ready to go all Johnny Cochrane on their asses and take ‘em down town Lester Brown.
It was nice to see pops play his white knight card for his darling daughter, but also slightly terrifying.
I started getting calls from the president of the university being like, “So…uhh…I spoke with your father today…(uncomfortable silence)…He seemed very…(wheels turning for words besides crazy, scarily hostile, hugely a-holeish)…concerned.”
So yes, like a proper gentleman sans a rubber, I pulled out before things really erupted.
Now I am a much happier camper. So pitch a tent for them apples.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Dum ti dum...
I’ve been kinda sorta seeing a sailor boy named Marc for a little while now (the aforementioned guy with the dildo toting friend, who as it turns out, is actually quite comical).
For the most part, I’ve been having a really good time with Marc. Yet, all of our rendez-vous have been menage a trois with boozeronies. So the question remains - how much of our ’good time’ is induced by the alky and how much is genuine? I’m still on the fence, but can't quite manage to get on the wagon.
He is incredibly sexy and awesomely sarcastic, but he appears to have some border-line controlling/dishonest tendencies. And my trusty sidekick, Feminine Intuition, has him pegged for a bit of a man whore (it is entirely possible that mountains are being made out of mole hills here though).
We also have basically zilch in common, except that we both kind of like the movie, Fight Club, and the show, The Office - but then again, who doesn’t like those things!? They - are - AWESOME!
It’s like in that song, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, by Deep Blue Something…
“And I said, ‘What about [Fight Club and The Office]?’ She said, ‘I think I remember the film [and T.V. show]. And as I recall, I think, we both kind of liked [them]. And I said, ‘Well [those are the two things] we’ve got.’”
Plus, did I mention that he’s really sexy? And he has nice hair! And is tall! - Damn it.
I am fully hot and cold about the situation. Superego says, “He’s just in it for the throw down. So get out now in case you get hurt.” Which admittedly is something to think about.
But on the other hand, Id also makes a very compelling argument, “He is WICKED sexy! Plus, you have fun with him, so don’t be a weenie. Stay put and stop letting history repeat itself.”
So, how ‘bout them Yankees?
For the most part, I’ve been having a really good time with Marc. Yet, all of our rendez-vous have been menage a trois with boozeronies. So the question remains - how much of our ’good time’ is induced by the alky and how much is genuine? I’m still on the fence, but can't quite manage to get on the wagon.
He is incredibly sexy and awesomely sarcastic, but he appears to have some border-line controlling/dishonest tendencies. And my trusty sidekick, Feminine Intuition, has him pegged for a bit of a man whore (it is entirely possible that mountains are being made out of mole hills here though).
We also have basically zilch in common, except that we both kind of like the movie, Fight Club, and the show, The Office - but then again, who doesn’t like those things!? They - are - AWESOME!
It’s like in that song, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, by Deep Blue Something…
“And I said, ‘What about [Fight Club and The Office]?’ She said, ‘I think I remember the film [and T.V. show]. And as I recall, I think, we both kind of liked [them]. And I said, ‘Well [those are the two things] we’ve got.’”
Plus, did I mention that he’s really sexy? And he has nice hair! And is tall! - Damn it.
I am fully hot and cold about the situation. Superego says, “He’s just in it for the throw down. So get out now in case you get hurt.” Which admittedly is something to think about.
But on the other hand, Id also makes a very compelling argument, “He is WICKED sexy! Plus, you have fun with him, so don’t be a weenie. Stay put and stop letting history repeat itself.”
So, how ‘bout them Yankees?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Pip, Pip Cheerio!
Gah! Totally forgot about the little tryst Stacey and I had awhile back with these two lads, Sam and Ray…
In dim lighting, Sam bore a striking resemblance to an emo version of James McAvoy (ya know, the pretty goat-man from The Chronicles of Narnia). And Ray was the spitting image of a slightly malnourished Tom Cruise.
Jackpot. We’re both such suckers for celebrity doppelgangers.
But then, things got even better. When James and Tom, I mean…Sam and Ray opened their mouths, British accents fell out!
Zoinks, Scoobs! T-t-t-tasty, celebrity look-a-like foreigners! Yesss.
The British Bobbsey twins were only going to be in town for a long-weekend but Stacey was in one of her delightful man-eating moods, so she invited them out with us the next night for dinner etc.
So truth be told, at the time of the British invasion, we’d been living in our apartment for just under two months, and we had yet to even contemplate cleansing the joint.
The situation really wasn’t that bad though. Stacey and I are fairly neat-nicky. But apparently, there’s nothing like a little male motivation to light a fire under your sponge.
All Friday morning, Stacey and I Cinderella-ed the crap out of our apartment. I’m telling you, it was spotless. We scrubbed, we scraped, we got our floors so clean you could eat off ‘em! Which you basically have to do anyways since we don’t currently own a dining set.
Then 6 o’clock hit, and I got the call…
…kick it Mr. Revere!
“The British are coming! The British are coming!”
Sam and Ray picked us up at our apartment in their swank-a-licious, little rent-a-car and drove us to the 50’s diner on Coronado (I just can’t get enough of this place!).
The repast was delightful. Stacey and I both ordered mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies. One pile definitely would have been more than adequate for the two of us to split, but there are no sharesies when it comes to mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies, uh uh.
After dinner, things got a little less delightful, however. The four of us went for a gambol in the ocean where Stacey and I stole a covert girl talk moment…
We decided that the combination of natural lighting and Sam and Ray’s personas had been a lethal one. And the evening’s projected magic had OD-ed on razor blade haircuts, and schadenfreudes.
Here are three of my favorite British quotes of the night…
1. Ray: “Hannibal Lector…he’s kind of a hero of mine.”
Exchange of uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances between Stacey and myself.
Ray: “Well maybe hero isn’t the right word. But he’s definitely a legend.”
2. Ray: “And then, I don’t know why I did it, but I let go…I dropped a rock on my brother’s head!”
Additional uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances.
3. Ray to Stacey: “My, you’ve got big feet for a girl!”
(Ray nearly got slapped in the face for that remark.)
But ya know, then Stacey and I both got a little moonshine into our systems and then, well…we didn’t want to have cleaned our apartment in vain…sooo yeah.
In dim lighting, Sam bore a striking resemblance to an emo version of James McAvoy (ya know, the pretty goat-man from The Chronicles of Narnia). And Ray was the spitting image of a slightly malnourished Tom Cruise.
Jackpot. We’re both such suckers for celebrity doppelgangers.
But then, things got even better. When James and Tom, I mean…Sam and Ray opened their mouths, British accents fell out!
Zoinks, Scoobs! T-t-t-tasty, celebrity look-a-like foreigners! Yesss.
The British Bobbsey twins were only going to be in town for a long-weekend but Stacey was in one of her delightful man-eating moods, so she invited them out with us the next night for dinner etc.
So truth be told, at the time of the British invasion, we’d been living in our apartment for just under two months, and we had yet to even contemplate cleansing the joint.
The situation really wasn’t that bad though. Stacey and I are fairly neat-nicky. But apparently, there’s nothing like a little male motivation to light a fire under your sponge.
All Friday morning, Stacey and I Cinderella-ed the crap out of our apartment. I’m telling you, it was spotless. We scrubbed, we scraped, we got our floors so clean you could eat off ‘em! Which you basically have to do anyways since we don’t currently own a dining set.
Then 6 o’clock hit, and I got the call…
…kick it Mr. Revere!
“The British are coming! The British are coming!”
Sam and Ray picked us up at our apartment in their swank-a-licious, little rent-a-car and drove us to the 50’s diner on Coronado (I just can’t get enough of this place!).
The repast was delightful. Stacey and I both ordered mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies. One pile definitely would have been more than adequate for the two of us to split, but there are no sharesies when it comes to mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies, uh uh.
After dinner, things got a little less delightful, however. The four of us went for a gambol in the ocean where Stacey and I stole a covert girl talk moment…
We decided that the combination of natural lighting and Sam and Ray’s personas had been a lethal one. And the evening’s projected magic had OD-ed on razor blade haircuts, and schadenfreudes.
Here are three of my favorite British quotes of the night…
1. Ray: “Hannibal Lector…he’s kind of a hero of mine.”
Exchange of uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances between Stacey and myself.
Ray: “Well maybe hero isn’t the right word. But he’s definitely a legend.”
2. Ray: “And then, I don’t know why I did it, but I let go…I dropped a rock on my brother’s head!”
Additional uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances.
3. Ray to Stacey: “My, you’ve got big feet for a girl!”
(Ray nearly got slapped in the face for that remark.)
But ya know, then Stacey and I both got a little moonshine into our systems and then, well…we didn’t want to have cleaned our apartment in vain…sooo yeah.
Monday, November 3, 2008
My Before Sunrise
The roommate and I went out for a little karaoke jam session a couple of weekends ago where we met an adorable Australian boy and a German Danny Zuko, who came complete with a leather jacket and flawlessly lubed-up pompadour…“sommer loving, hat mich ein blast!”
I ended up spending the next 3 and a half days basically velcroed to the Australian’s side. What can I say? I got bitten by the smitten!
It all felt very Before Sunrise-ish. Except, I was a far less elegant and far more gauche version of Julie Delpy. And instead of Ethan Hawke, the slightly greasy philosterbater, there was Andrew, the electrical engineer, whose idea of foreplay involved sweet nothings on the inner ear and it’s semicircular canals (trust me, it was adorable).
The montage portion of our movie would run as follows:
-- GASLAMP - NIGHT 1 -- dinner at La Strada…mmm gnocchi in my belly -- post-dinner promenade by the pier with a little interdigitation -- “So this is what the inside of a Days Inn Motel room looks like…”
-- CORONADO - NIGHT 2 -- burgers and ice cream at the 50’s Beach n’ Diner -- moonlit romp along the beach -- 1 ceiling tile, 2 ceiling tiles…
-- FASHION VALLEY - NIGHT 3 -- shopping excursion for man-shaped clothing -- dinner at the glorious Cheesecake Factory -- oops, got a little sauced at Henry‘s -- 22 ceiling tiles, 23 ceiling tiles…
And then, unfortunately, our movie had to come to an end. Thursday morning, I escorted my adorable Australian from his hotel room to his taxi cab. Smooched him one last time, dropped a tear in his wineglass, and put a period at the end of my whirlwind romance with the thunder from down under.
I think I might actually miss him.
I ended up spending the next 3 and a half days basically velcroed to the Australian’s side. What can I say? I got bitten by the smitten!
It all felt very Before Sunrise-ish. Except, I was a far less elegant and far more gauche version of Julie Delpy. And instead of Ethan Hawke, the slightly greasy philosterbater, there was Andrew, the electrical engineer, whose idea of foreplay involved sweet nothings on the inner ear and it’s semicircular canals (trust me, it was adorable).
The montage portion of our movie would run as follows:
-- GASLAMP - NIGHT 1 -- dinner at La Strada…mmm gnocchi in my belly -- post-dinner promenade by the pier with a little interdigitation -- “So this is what the inside of a Days Inn Motel room looks like…”
-- CORONADO - NIGHT 2 -- burgers and ice cream at the 50’s Beach n’ Diner -- moonlit romp along the beach -- 1 ceiling tile, 2 ceiling tiles…
-- FASHION VALLEY - NIGHT 3 -- shopping excursion for man-shaped clothing -- dinner at the glorious Cheesecake Factory -- oops, got a little sauced at Henry‘s -- 22 ceiling tiles, 23 ceiling tiles…
And then, unfortunately, our movie had to come to an end. Thursday morning, I escorted my adorable Australian from his hotel room to his taxi cab. Smooched him one last time, dropped a tear in his wineglass, and put a period at the end of my whirlwind romance with the thunder from down under.
I think I might actually miss him.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Kerry and Spiff
The fantastic Kerry Mullins and her spiffy friend Jon…aka Spiff came down from L.A. last evening for a visit.
For dinner, I took them to my favorite San Diego hang out. The fabulously kitschy 50’s Beach n’ Diner on Coronado Island.
While we were looking over the menus, I got a call from Marc, the guy I met two nights ago at Henry’s. At first, I thought he was being kind of sketchy on the phone. Asking questions like, “Where are you sitting in the restaurant?” and “What did you order?” Questions that were border line, “The call is coming from inside the house.”
But then he said, “Look up!” And ta-daaah! There he was with his friend standing in front of the diner.
I never fare well when I am caught off guard. And so, true to form, I started having a stroke while I was trying to introduce everyone.
I passed Kerry's intro with flying colors. But for the life of me, I could not think of Jon’s name.
JON! His name is JON! Could he have a simpler name to remember? It’s not like he goes by something like Agamemnon Punxsutawney Phil the III! Whiff - swing and a miss.
Ok go-go-Gadget brain power…
I got Marc’s name OK but my damn brain stroked again and I was firing blanks on his friend’s name. (ADAM! Yet another mind-boggling, brain teaser of a name)
…engine sputters and dies.
I felt like such a tard-face. Super nice and fun guys, well Jon is at any rate. Adam, the jury is still out...
On Halloween, his costume involved the haulage of a dildo, which he wagged in my face several times - I have tepid feelings towards men with dildo batons.
Anyways, aside from me having Alzheimer’s, dinner was lovely.
After we ate, me, Jon, and Kerry went and played in the Hotel del Coronado, then frolicked on the beach.
I have been to this beach three times now, all at night, and I have yet to ever leave with dry pants. Good times, friends.
For dinner, I took them to my favorite San Diego hang out. The fabulously kitschy 50’s Beach n’ Diner on Coronado Island.
While we were looking over the menus, I got a call from Marc, the guy I met two nights ago at Henry’s. At first, I thought he was being kind of sketchy on the phone. Asking questions like, “Where are you sitting in the restaurant?” and “What did you order?” Questions that were border line, “The call is coming from inside the house.”
But then he said, “Look up!” And ta-daaah! There he was with his friend standing in front of the diner.
I never fare well when I am caught off guard. And so, true to form, I started having a stroke while I was trying to introduce everyone.
I passed Kerry's intro with flying colors. But for the life of me, I could not think of Jon’s name.
JON! His name is JON! Could he have a simpler name to remember? It’s not like he goes by something like Agamemnon Punxsutawney Phil the III! Whiff - swing and a miss.
Ok go-go-Gadget brain power…
I got Marc’s name OK but my damn brain stroked again and I was firing blanks on his friend’s name. (ADAM! Yet another mind-boggling, brain teaser of a name)
…engine sputters and dies.
I felt like such a tard-face. Super nice and fun guys, well Jon is at any rate. Adam, the jury is still out...
On Halloween, his costume involved the haulage of a dildo, which he wagged in my face several times - I have tepid feelings towards men with dildo batons.
Anyways, aside from me having Alzheimer’s, dinner was lovely.
After we ate, me, Jon, and Kerry went and played in the Hotel del Coronado, then frolicked on the beach.
I have been to this beach three times now, all at night, and I have yet to ever leave with dry pants. Good times, friends.
Happy Halloweenie!
Halloween was pretty bitchin’ this year. My roommate went as the Hamburglar and I rocked a preggerrific Juno. Which was like the most comfortably amazing costume ever.
Usually, when the roommate and I go prowling around town on the weekends, I try my best to avoid toting a food baby around with me. To accomplish this, I ixnay as many of those evil but deliciously awesome carbos as I can from my daytime diet to keep my tummy looking as much like the pre-Columbus world as is possible.
But not this Friday, boy-o. This Friday, I let my inner fat kid tear it up. And the carbier the better! Pasta la vista, contents of my fridge! After all, as Juno, I had to look as preggers as possible.
I once read that Matt Damon lost something ridiculous like 40 pounds in about an hour for two days of shooting as a Gulf War vet in the movie Courage Under Fire.
I share his fortitude for whole heartedly committing to a role - but on the total opposite end of the spectrum. Way more fun becoming a tub of chub than a Kate Moss.
Before the roomie and I hit the town, we had some delightful trick-or-treaters come a-knockin’ on our door. Thankfully, Stacey had bought some Reese’s to hand out. All I had to give were either some stale Zips, a hand full of dried cranberries, or a swig of strawberry flavored Smirnov, which I didn’t think would bode well with the munchkins’ parental units.
Since Stacey was decked out as the Hamburglar, we decided to pop into Mickey D’s for ha ha’s on our way downtown. Unfortunately, the hilarity was utterly one-sided.
No one batted an eye when she walked in - not even the employees! Not a single person feigned distress over the imminent pilfering of their greasy beef products. Bah! Humburger!
This cheesed me off, so I said to the guy who was taking our order, “Don’t you know who this is!? This is your arch archenemy! It’s THE HAMBURGLAR!”
To which he responded, “I don’t believe in that.”
Me: “Oh..uhh..ok?”
Doesn’t believe in corporate mascots? Gwaaahh?
The whole event was highly disappointing. We had envisioned a far more dramatic response, in which Mickey D’s goes into full lockdown mode with the employees darting around shrieking, “This is not a drill, people! It’s go time!” as steel cages descend from the ceiling to safeguard all of the compromised burgers.
No such luck.
It was still a fantastic night.
Usually, when the roommate and I go prowling around town on the weekends, I try my best to avoid toting a food baby around with me. To accomplish this, I ixnay as many of those evil but deliciously awesome carbos as I can from my daytime diet to keep my tummy looking as much like the pre-Columbus world as is possible.
But not this Friday, boy-o. This Friday, I let my inner fat kid tear it up. And the carbier the better! Pasta la vista, contents of my fridge! After all, as Juno, I had to look as preggers as possible.
I once read that Matt Damon lost something ridiculous like 40 pounds in about an hour for two days of shooting as a Gulf War vet in the movie Courage Under Fire.
I share his fortitude for whole heartedly committing to a role - but on the total opposite end of the spectrum. Way more fun becoming a tub of chub than a Kate Moss.
Before the roomie and I hit the town, we had some delightful trick-or-treaters come a-knockin’ on our door. Thankfully, Stacey had bought some Reese’s to hand out. All I had to give were either some stale Zips, a hand full of dried cranberries, or a swig of strawberry flavored Smirnov, which I didn’t think would bode well with the munchkins’ parental units.
Since Stacey was decked out as the Hamburglar, we decided to pop into Mickey D’s for ha ha’s on our way downtown. Unfortunately, the hilarity was utterly one-sided.
No one batted an eye when she walked in - not even the employees! Not a single person feigned distress over the imminent pilfering of their greasy beef products. Bah! Humburger!
This cheesed me off, so I said to the guy who was taking our order, “Don’t you know who this is!? This is your arch archenemy! It’s THE HAMBURGLAR!”
To which he responded, “I don’t believe in that.”
Me: “Oh..uhh..ok?”
Doesn’t believe in corporate mascots? Gwaaahh?
The whole event was highly disappointing. We had envisioned a far more dramatic response, in which Mickey D’s goes into full lockdown mode with the employees darting around shrieking, “This is not a drill, people! It’s go time!” as steel cages descend from the ceiling to safeguard all of the compromised burgers.
No such luck.
It was still a fantastic night.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Somebody hire me!
What do Sphincter Girl’s tuckus and San Diego’s job-o-sphere have in common? They both had a gaping hole ripped in them by a smirky chimperor. Bah-dum chhh.
So yes yes, in case you couldn’t already tell by my crude, tailor-made, bad economy jest, job hunting in San Diego is crushing my soul.
Over the past two months, I have applied to well over 200 jobs - jobs that I am, more often than not, over-qualified for.
Guess how many of said jobs have bothered to call me back? Seven. A lousy, pie-in-the-face seven! And of those seven, only two were actually willing to hire me!
(The disdain continues) And fuck you very much Bachelor’s degree from Boston College - posing so high and mighty in your smug glass frame - neither of those two jobs paid more than what I could get working at Starbucks!
The price tag attached to each year’s worth of knowledge that was crammed into my brain at BC was over 40,000 dollars. Meaning that by the time I donned that adorable cap and gown ensemble, my brain was worth 160,000 dollars and change.
So ten dollars an hour, plus the spiffy company hat and apron, and perhaps a free green tea latte at the end of the day seems like totally fair compensation for a shiny, new, knowledgeized brain, right?
I guess it’s better than poor ol’ brainy collecting dust on the clearance rack at Walley World. Or even worse, being ousted to the isle of misfit toys with that pain in the ass Charles Nelson Reilly-in-a-box (I would LOVE to own the misfit toy gun that spurted jam, however. I would use that gun, and maybe even get me another one that shot peanut butter, to attack unsuspecting bread products and make them delicious).
Perhaps the government would be a doll and let me barter my student loans for coffee beans?
So yes yes, in case you couldn’t already tell by my crude, tailor-made, bad economy jest, job hunting in San Diego is crushing my soul.
Over the past two months, I have applied to well over 200 jobs - jobs that I am, more often than not, over-qualified for.
Guess how many of said jobs have bothered to call me back? Seven. A lousy, pie-in-the-face seven! And of those seven, only two were actually willing to hire me!
(The disdain continues) And fuck you very much Bachelor’s degree from Boston College - posing so high and mighty in your smug glass frame - neither of those two jobs paid more than what I could get working at Starbucks!
The price tag attached to each year’s worth of knowledge that was crammed into my brain at BC was over 40,000 dollars. Meaning that by the time I donned that adorable cap and gown ensemble, my brain was worth 160,000 dollars and change.
So ten dollars an hour, plus the spiffy company hat and apron, and perhaps a free green tea latte at the end of the day seems like totally fair compensation for a shiny, new, knowledgeized brain, right?
I guess it’s better than poor ol’ brainy collecting dust on the clearance rack at Walley World. Or even worse, being ousted to the isle of misfit toys with that pain in the ass Charles Nelson Reilly-in-a-box (I would LOVE to own the misfit toy gun that spurted jam, however. I would use that gun, and maybe even get me another one that shot peanut butter, to attack unsuspecting bread products and make them delicious).
Perhaps the government would be a doll and let me barter my student loans for coffee beans?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I would do anything for love...but I won't do that!
Bridget Jones is my hero. I have seen that movie roughly a trillion times; it is my visual comfort food. Whenever I’m having one of those mean-red sort of days where I just want to go fetal on my bed and swaddle myself tighter than a burrito’s wedgy in down comforter snuggliness, I pop a little BJD into the DVD and all becomes good in the hood again. BJD does for the soul what mac ’n’ cheese does for the taste buds. Gobs of warm, gooey contentment.
I now pretty much know the whole movie by heart, and so have adopted several of Miss Jones’ pearls of wisdom into my mantra. Namely the one about not wanting to die fat and alone and end up half eaten by wild dogs. Or in my case, the giant R.O.U.S.’s that reside behind my apartment.
With that said, I agreed to go out with this guy that I met while I was living the charmed homeless life in a dank, hole-in-the-wall hostel during my first week in San Diego.
My encounter with said guy occurred on the last night that I spent at the hostel. I had gone out for one last hostel hurrah with some of the new friends that I had made to a local dive bar called the Jewel Box, which is where I became acquainted with David.
Here's a little mood setting for ya - if the Jewel Box were personified, it would have an awesomely bad singing career churning out such melodious gems as Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad and In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King. And oh yes, it would be Meat Loaf.
I wasn’t all that interested in David but I’m hardly ever interested in the guys that I meet. Dating was spoiled for me a couple of years ago when I met one of those rare, perfectly perfect, unicorn, albeit unattainable guys. And now my dating standards are higher than Bob Marley at an all-you-can-eat brownie buffet in Amsterdam.
To combat this, I came up with the following plan - I will agree to go out with a guy that I’m not particularly interested in as long as I do not find him vile - as long as I at least nothing him, I will agree to see him again. My reasoning being that a lack of on the spot sparks does not necessarily mean that lightning won’t strike later on.
So for our lightning prelude, David took me to the Surf Club for drinks and a steak dinner. So far so good. Boozy McGee here loves her beef and alcohol.
Slight downside however. The Surf Club makes you cook your own food. Call me old-fashioned…or a lazy arse, but when I go out to eat, I want the restaurant to do the meal prep for me. Plus, I ain't no Rachel Ray, so the chances are great that my meal will end up tasting like a tire, and then I'll have no one to blame but myself.
Anyhoos, all in all things were cruising along smoothly. Even for Libido, who decided to call shotgun halfway through dinner.
That was, however, until David brought up how much he loves sunflower paintings and that he used to sing in an a cappella group.
Umm...is it wrong to want a man plate that doesn't come with a side of girly fries? This totally let the air out of my tires leaving stymied Libido high and dry thumbing for a ride back to Collin-Farrellville.
Meh, I tried.
I now pretty much know the whole movie by heart, and so have adopted several of Miss Jones’ pearls of wisdom into my mantra. Namely the one about not wanting to die fat and alone and end up half eaten by wild dogs. Or in my case, the giant R.O.U.S.’s that reside behind my apartment.
With that said, I agreed to go out with this guy that I met while I was living the charmed homeless life in a dank, hole-in-the-wall hostel during my first week in San Diego.
My encounter with said guy occurred on the last night that I spent at the hostel. I had gone out for one last hostel hurrah with some of the new friends that I had made to a local dive bar called the Jewel Box, which is where I became acquainted with David.
Here's a little mood setting for ya - if the Jewel Box were personified, it would have an awesomely bad singing career churning out such melodious gems as Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad and In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King. And oh yes, it would be Meat Loaf.
I wasn’t all that interested in David but I’m hardly ever interested in the guys that I meet. Dating was spoiled for me a couple of years ago when I met one of those rare, perfectly perfect, unicorn, albeit unattainable guys. And now my dating standards are higher than Bob Marley at an all-you-can-eat brownie buffet in Amsterdam.
To combat this, I came up with the following plan - I will agree to go out with a guy that I’m not particularly interested in as long as I do not find him vile - as long as I at least nothing him, I will agree to see him again. My reasoning being that a lack of on the spot sparks does not necessarily mean that lightning won’t strike later on.
So for our lightning prelude, David took me to the Surf Club for drinks and a steak dinner. So far so good. Boozy McGee here loves her beef and alcohol.
Slight downside however. The Surf Club makes you cook your own food. Call me old-fashioned…or a lazy arse, but when I go out to eat, I want the restaurant to do the meal prep for me. Plus, I ain't no Rachel Ray, so the chances are great that my meal will end up tasting like a tire, and then I'll have no one to blame but myself.
Anyhoos, all in all things were cruising along smoothly. Even for Libido, who decided to call shotgun halfway through dinner.
That was, however, until David brought up how much he loves sunflower paintings and that he used to sing in an a cappella group.
Umm...is it wrong to want a man plate that doesn't come with a side of girly fries? This totally let the air out of my tires leaving stymied Libido high and dry thumbing for a ride back to Collin-Farrellville.
Meh, I tried.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Rhinotillexomania uh oh
There's something I need to get off my chest dot dot dot my third nipple. Just kidding, but yeah that too.
Anyhoos, here it goes. This summer, I swapped spit (etc.) with the middle school nose picker (insert shocked gasp for emphasis). It was a low point. A supersonic-smack your forehead-what the hell was I thinking low point.
He is a reformed pointer, however. He has seen the error of his rhinotillexomaniac ways (you bet your ass I wikipedia-ed nose-picking) and has been clean for a number of years.
Nevertheless, that does not make it ok. Neither does blaming the booze. Obvi, I was rockin’ the beer goggles, which made ex-Mr. Bougs look like he’d been dipped in handsome sauce a la Ed Norton.
Incidentally, fruit flies also rock the beer goggles. After one too many ethanol cocktails, Chuck fruitfly is all “heeeeeeeeeaaaay how you doin’!?” to Larry fruitfly (once again, thank you wikipedia).
But I digress. This back seat batch of nonsense was not not not ok. Admittedly, I’d been experiencing a bit of a dry spell. Well actually, it wasn't really so much a spell as it has become more of a lifestyle. Thumbs down.
So when it came to decision making time, the randy Sandy inside me was jonesing for a bonesing. So up and over I went.
I’m still dizzy from the shame spiral.
Anyhoos, here it goes. This summer, I swapped spit (etc.) with the middle school nose picker (insert shocked gasp for emphasis). It was a low point. A supersonic-smack your forehead-what the hell was I thinking low point.
He is a reformed pointer, however. He has seen the error of his rhinotillexomaniac ways (you bet your ass I wikipedia-ed nose-picking) and has been clean for a number of years.
Nevertheless, that does not make it ok. Neither does blaming the booze. Obvi, I was rockin’ the beer goggles, which made ex-Mr. Bougs look like he’d been dipped in handsome sauce a la Ed Norton.
Incidentally, fruit flies also rock the beer goggles. After one too many ethanol cocktails, Chuck fruitfly is all “heeeeeeeeeaaaay how you doin’!?” to Larry fruitfly (once again, thank you wikipedia).
But I digress. This back seat batch of nonsense was not not not ok. Admittedly, I’d been experiencing a bit of a dry spell. Well actually, it wasn't really so much a spell as it has become more of a lifestyle. Thumbs down.
So when it came to decision making time, the randy Sandy inside me was jonesing for a bonesing. So up and over I went.
I’m still dizzy from the shame spiral.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Rats!
Wow. Summer is pretty much finito. Official countdown: 7 days. But I guess that doesn’t matter much out here in sun-drenched San Diego.
I feel for all you New Englanders though, I really do (insert stifled, bratty chuckle).
Even before I made like a tree and left Bean Town, some of the leaves had already opted for their autumn ensembles. And now, from what I see on weather.com, the summer warmth is beginning to wilt. And I’m sure every pair of New England butt cheeks are clenching with disinclination to acknowledge the imminent arrival of another cold, dreary, snow-filled winter (suckahs!).
Snowflake? Blizzard? Nor’easter? These words no longer hold meaning for me. These and all other winter related words have been excommunicated from my vocabulary. I am now a devout follower of Sunshinism.
Mmm that sounded pretty cult-like, didn’t it? I swear I haven’t joined a cult. I’m steering clear of the Kool-Aid and Nikes…pinky swear.
But if it’s any consolation, residing in the bushes behind my apartment, there is a pack of rats the size of taxi cabs (ran into the exterminator today). So that’s always delightful.
Then again, if gas prices continue to make like the number of Lindsay Lohan’s staggers into rehab, then the R.O.U.S's could be a potential solution. Saddle up ol’ Ratty and away you go!
Ew. Please no.
I feel for all you New Englanders though, I really do (insert stifled, bratty chuckle).
Even before I made like a tree and left Bean Town, some of the leaves had already opted for their autumn ensembles. And now, from what I see on weather.com, the summer warmth is beginning to wilt. And I’m sure every pair of New England butt cheeks are clenching with disinclination to acknowledge the imminent arrival of another cold, dreary, snow-filled winter (suckahs!).
Snowflake? Blizzard? Nor’easter? These words no longer hold meaning for me. These and all other winter related words have been excommunicated from my vocabulary. I am now a devout follower of Sunshinism.
Mmm that sounded pretty cult-like, didn’t it? I swear I haven’t joined a cult. I’m steering clear of the Kool-Aid and Nikes…pinky swear.
But if it’s any consolation, residing in the bushes behind my apartment, there is a pack of rats the size of taxi cabs (ran into the exterminator today). So that’s always delightful.
Then again, if gas prices continue to make like the number of Lindsay Lohan’s staggers into rehab, then the R.O.U.S's could be a potential solution. Saddle up ol’ Ratty and away you go!
Ew. Please no.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Sandy Eggo
When my brain wheels are turning full throttle, and I can feel the anxiety levels starting to mount, like on a roller coaster when you’re inching your way to the top of the slope for that first horrifying plunge that launches your stomach into your throat, and makes your whole body rattle and roll so that you now know exactly what it would be like to go through life as a maraca, I need to hash my worries out with someone. But not just anyone will do.
What I like to do is drive right on past the exits for Normalton and Sane-Peopleville, and park my cranked-out jalopy in front of a mirror and pretend that I am talking to a celebrity. For a little one on imaginary-one celebrity therapy time.
Lately, as my San Diego departure time draws near, I’ve been conversing a lot with Edward Norton; he gets me. Plus, he is easy on the eyes and is the fluffer to my nutter.
So what usually happens in my delusional therapy sessions is that I run into Edward in some commonplace setting like the grocery store or on the subway. And naturally, I have a Siren-esque effect on him where he becomes so enticed by my charm that he invites me out to dinner, which is where I proceed to open up the Pandora’s box of lunacy that is my brain.
Then, depending on the mood that I’m in, the celebrity therapy session can go either one of two ways:
The first being that Edward is so enthralled by my tales that he decides to pen a screenplay based on my life. We then exchange digits and decide to meet everyday for as long as it takes to go over filming details - then I win an Oscar.
The second ending to my celebrity therapy session is a bit friskier, however. In this scenario, I pop the lid off my id and Edward comes back to my place where an entirely different kind of film is made.
In a nut shell, I’m a big, steaming pile of crazy. But with Edward’s help, I am like so ready to live in San Diego. Woot woot.
What I like to do is drive right on past the exits for Normalton and Sane-Peopleville, and park my cranked-out jalopy in front of a mirror and pretend that I am talking to a celebrity. For a little one on imaginary-one celebrity therapy time.
Lately, as my San Diego departure time draws near, I’ve been conversing a lot with Edward Norton; he gets me. Plus, he is easy on the eyes and is the fluffer to my nutter.
So what usually happens in my delusional therapy sessions is that I run into Edward in some commonplace setting like the grocery store or on the subway. And naturally, I have a Siren-esque effect on him where he becomes so enticed by my charm that he invites me out to dinner, which is where I proceed to open up the Pandora’s box of lunacy that is my brain.
Then, depending on the mood that I’m in, the celebrity therapy session can go either one of two ways:
The first being that Edward is so enthralled by my tales that he decides to pen a screenplay based on my life. We then exchange digits and decide to meet everyday for as long as it takes to go over filming details - then I win an Oscar.
The second ending to my celebrity therapy session is a bit friskier, however. In this scenario, I pop the lid off my id and Edward comes back to my place where an entirely different kind of film is made.
In a nut shell, I’m a big, steaming pile of crazy. But with Edward’s help, I am like so ready to live in San Diego. Woot woot.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Coast Swap
The first time I saw Titanic, at the raw, green age of 13, my newly pubertized ovaries gave Leonardo DiCaprio the superlative of standing OVAtions (oh the wittiness) and so, he was dubbed the crown baby making partner.
Ever since then, I have had this insatiable urge (might it be my megalomaniac of a biological clock?) that I need to get myself to California. And so, here I am in sunny San Diego.
Leaving home wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be though. As I moved through the airport security at Logan, I found myself slogging knee deep through a gooey quagmire of the "I don't want to leave my mommy's".
I felt the compulsion to turn and wave to the parental unit not once, but four times. Good God, I’m such a boneless little fledgling.
However, any lame tears that I had stored up for the in-flight portion of the journey were soon transferred to the bigger fish to fry bucket.
Once the plane was up up in the air, I had the fret rug pulled out from under me to be replaced with wall to wall nausea. Suh-weet.
And damn it all to hell, if this wasn’t the one time that I was seated next to a decently attractive, non-creepy, young guy who, under less barfy circumstances, I totally would have fantasized about having an erotic romp in the airplane bathroom!
But no, I was too busy adorably dry heaving into the air sick baggy. Go me.
Ever since then, I have had this insatiable urge (might it be my megalomaniac of a biological clock?) that I need to get myself to California. And so, here I am in sunny San Diego.
Leaving home wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be though. As I moved through the airport security at Logan, I found myself slogging knee deep through a gooey quagmire of the "I don't want to leave my mommy's".
I felt the compulsion to turn and wave to the parental unit not once, but four times. Good God, I’m such a boneless little fledgling.
However, any lame tears that I had stored up for the in-flight portion of the journey were soon transferred to the bigger fish to fry bucket.
Once the plane was up up in the air, I had the fret rug pulled out from under me to be replaced with wall to wall nausea. Suh-weet.
And damn it all to hell, if this wasn’t the one time that I was seated next to a decently attractive, non-creepy, young guy who, under less barfy circumstances, I totally would have fantasized about having an erotic romp in the airplane bathroom!
But no, I was too busy adorably dry heaving into the air sick baggy. Go me.
Dunkin' DoNOTS
So, thus far my dieting ploy to intimidate my fat ass and thighs into retreat by threatening to swaddle them in nothing but spandex and/or saran wrap has failed miserably.
But let’s be real, I suck at intimidation. Kind of like Bambi trying to mug someone, “No, I will not give you my wallet, you cute, little deer. Now come here and lemme pet you! You‘re so freakin’ cute!”
So I came up with a new dechunking plan. Any time I want to eat something, I ask myself “WWGD?” What would Gisele do? Crisp lettuce? Gisele says yes! A half gallon of double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream? Gisele says noooo! Put down the spoon and back away slowly.
Then I ogle a picture of her 5 foot 11 inch Brazilian goddessey goodness and mentally photo shop my head onto her body...my thinspiration.
But let’s be real, I suck at intimidation. Kind of like Bambi trying to mug someone, “No, I will not give you my wallet, you cute, little deer. Now come here and lemme pet you! You‘re so freakin’ cute!”
So I came up with a new dechunking plan. Any time I want to eat something, I ask myself “WWGD?” What would Gisele do? Crisp lettuce? Gisele says yes! A half gallon of double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream? Gisele says noooo! Put down the spoon and back away slowly.
Then I ogle a picture of her 5 foot 11 inch Brazilian goddessey goodness and mentally photo shop my head onto her body...my thinspiration.
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