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Friday, March 31, 2006


“Make your feet your friend.” ~J.M. Barrie

In the three months since I’ve joined WSC, I’ve seen some noticeable changes. I’ve even turned into one of those people who freaks the fuck out when missing the gym for one day. I mean, God forbid I don’t get in my 45 minutes on the elliptical. I will perish, for real. Other than the pounds lost, I’ve learn to appreciate spinning and to use my snark on women with ass sweat. Which, I should add, is quite unsettling in itself, but recent events give way to more disturbing behavior.

Now, I’m all for changing in the women’s locker room and I really could care less about who sees my boobs; though I will admit the one instance in which my coworker was in the locker room changing at the same time and I turned to face a stranger, rather than have my coworker see my boobs. Because that’s just weird. Beyond all of that, what gets me is the women who feel free to wander around a PUBLIC locker room BARE FOOT. As in sans any sort of protective layer between their feet and a lovely combo of hair/sweat/germs/general deliciousness. These are the same women who go barefoot into the shower. Shower! I am so upset writing this now that my eyes are closed because EWWWWW. Maybe this all upsets me so much because I’ve had my fair share of plantar warts. It was painful and something that taught me to always wear flip flops when at a public pool. Also, I have a severe disgust for…hold on a minute, I’m gagging…hair. The thought of hair on the floor and having my bare feet that are wet with sweat and/or from the shower makes my stomach churn and now I’ve vomited my pad thai.

As if this initial sundae of nastiness wouldn’t be enough, there’s a cherry on top: the small asian woman who took it upon herself to prance – bare foot – from the shower area to the far side of the locker room, without any sort of covering. She also decided that then would be a good time to stand in front of the mirrors in the toilet area, to stare and admire her nude self, leaving the rest of us to admire her tiny ass and pubic area. Sweetheart? Those white fluffy things right there are called towels, use them.

I dare you to scour these lovely images from your brain. You can’t, can you?

Thursday, March 30, 2006


"Live your daily life in a way that you never lose yourself. When you are carried away with your worries, fears, cravings, anger and desire you run away from yourself and you lose yourself. The practice is to always go back to oneself" – Thich Nhat Hanh

I need a vacation. Not one of those full on Sandals with a pool bar types of vacations, but just some R&R. But since it’s too a yet to be divulged location (which you are welcome to guess), I shall leave it at that. Though it is home to a bevy of burritos, margs and bars. All of my favorites.

Also needed is my kayak to be ordered. A kayak of the inflatable persuasion that can be used on rapids and serene lakes and can hold up to two people. My first semi-adult purchase that I don’t need parental approval for. I’m already thinking about all the glorious places that I will be taking this kayak.

These thoughts of travel and kayaking give way to thoughts of oak bluffs. I don’t ‘summer’ anywhere. But I do bring my golf playing, Polo (the brand) sporting, pearl wearing self to vacation in Martha’s Vineyard. I accidentally – in a Freudian way – clicked on a link to MV and immediately thought of the Black Dog for dessert, ice cream sundaes with G on the beach, my mom’s porch, and “The Mess” for breakfast at Linda Jean’s. It’s hash browns, broccoli, cheese, mushrooms and eggs. It’s also delicious.

I’m just feeling blah and like I need more. When I asked for something, my mother would always retort with “Do you need it? Or do you want it? You don’t really need it, you just want it.” Well right now I don’t just want more, I need more.

What do you crave?

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

In Search of Greener Pastures

For the past few years I’ve always been asked whether or not I like my job and/or how I got my job. It’s not like I’m an astrophysicist and getting into the particular field was that difficult, but alas I get asked. The usual response is that I enjoy my job and I got to wherever I am (which isn’t very far) via intense determination to meet my favorite Senator. Sadly, he’s dead now, but that’s about all. I’m all about being humble – no, seriously – and so if friends tell parents that I’m going to be the president (I don’t care how drunk we were, it was still said), my heart kind of stops and I’m sure if I were a little bit more on the lighter side, I’d turn crimson. I don’t understand the fascination that we have with other people’s lives, in particular, always wanting what others have. Yeah, I like my job, I’m doing part of what I want and I’m mildly happy.

Did you catch that? PART and MILDLY. I’m not Judy Blume, I’ve long given up on being married by 27 and I will never weigh 127 lbs. Now go on and guess which on that list I am still just a touch obsessed about doing. At any rate, I’m not completely happy with myself and because I don’t do things half assesd, I sometimes fear that I will never be. After years of saying “I don’t need no stinkin’ man” to my friends, I find myself a little less misanthropic and a little more in need to get some. And by ‘some’ I mean ‘ass’. Yes I am announcing to the internet that I need to get some ass or at least I need some friends who aren’t in the ass getting business to commiserate with me over bottles of Syrah.

But alas, I don’t have those type of friends. I say this like all of my friends have left me to die in some desolate place. It’s not that bad, but I was forced to perform a pre-emptive strike (in some sort of irrational PMSing haste) on one friend, because now that she’s dating, she won’t be readily available for los burritos and that leaves me stranded. By the way, this is the same friend that recently announced to a set of parents how proud she is of me and how great I am and that I’m going to be president. No. How about you become President and I get some ass? Though awesome as my life may seem, it ain’t and I’m woefully convinced that the grass may be significantly greener on her side.

I could go on and on about this, but I’m too busy running away in search of the nearest browniecarrot sticks and dip. Yes, it’s that bad.

*I couldn’t find a quote for this post, so anyone who picks out the perfect quote wins my undying love and affection.

Incoherent Ramblings

“Some persons are very decisive when it comes to avoiding decisions.” ~Brendan Francis

At around 3 AM, I woke up in a panic because I thought I made a poor decision. The thing is that it wasn’t even a MAJOR life altering Audrey Raines will die, kind of decision, nevertheless I was up for a good 20 minutes trying to figure out what I wanted to do over the next three and a half years. It’s not like three and a half years is a particularly long time, but by the end of that time span I will be 25. Then I go and think back to my youth (which was like 2 years ago) and remember how I used to picture my life at 25. Married. With Children. Then I laugh maniacally because that’s the dumbest shit ever and go back to my dream of being chased around Crossgates Mall by some maniac.

Dreams about Crossgates make me homesick but not so homesick that I’m now uber-excited to head up there, but excited enough to say “whoot Albany” and do a little jig. But then again, I kind of have to go home so that my busted ass disgusting car can get fixed, because the duct tape isn’t working out too well. Which leads me to call my mother to tell her that I called her mechanic (it’s a mechanic on wheels that comes to you whenever and it’s the best thing since sliced bread), and she asks how I got his number and I’m all like “This fabulous thing called the INTERNET”.

Moving on now to dealerships and why I hate them and now I have to (maybe) go to one to get my fucking car fixed. My last foray into car dealerships ended with me leaving abruptly and the geeky car salesman guy, who was terrible beyond comprehension, tried to hit on my friend. After I did the abrupt leaving because I hated the stupid Xterra anyway and the RAV 4 was so pretty, he a) followed me over to the next dealership (they were on the same property) and b) called me twice thereafter to see if I gave my friend his card and whether or not she was going to call him. So now I just don’t do car dealerships, lest I’m trying to find a date WHO STILL LIVES WITH HIS MOTHER and couldn’t sell a car to save his life.

The End.

Oh, by the way, I’m now completely convinced that Paula Abdul was dropped on her head a few dozen times thereby rendering her mildly retarded and attracted to every male idol contestant ever, specifically those who sing Train horribly and have disgustingly long hair.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

A Mother's Love

“Some mothers are kissing mothers and some are scolding mothers, but it is love just the same, and most mothers kiss and scold together.” ~Pearl S. Buck

Two years ago, I took it upon myself to surprise my mother for Easter. I drove the seven hours to Albany, with only my father knowing, and arrived home around 11:30 PM. In my haste and excitement I busted my ass running up our front steps. When I say “busted my ass” I mean I tripped – while on the phone with my mother – and fell up the steps, cutting my elbow, knee, my hand and two toes. When I rang the doorbell, practically in tears, my mother spent a good 5 minutes trying to figure out why the doorbell was echoing on the phone. I told her she was having hallucinations and to open the damn door. She saw me and was happy and exclaimed that there was no where for me to sleep. The hell?

I mean, although I spent the first few days of my life in an honest to God drawer, I had a perfectly acceptable bedroom that had been painted in the Guilderland colors with yellow furniture for accents (It looks cool, I swear). “What do you mean I don’t have a place to sleep?” was the incredulous response. “Well G took your room over, because his is a mess and the basement is a mess, so there’s no place for you to sleep.” She went on to shove the knife further into my tired and busted ass heart to say; “It’s not like you live here anymore Heather Lynn. You have your own apartment and I wasn’t expecting you.” Ouch. This reminds me of the time that she told me – quite recently actually – that she was debating what to do with my bedroom now that I don’t live there anymore.

Fine, fully functional adult with her own apartment, that I understand, but the woman has pretty much been planning my eventual departure and most likely has drapes picked out. I bet ugly ass drapes too that are made out of kente cloth. Ok, I’m lying about the kente cloth part, but if you saw the living room, you’d understand. I should also mention that she has told me that unless I am seriously injured or dying, I’m not allowed to move back home. Trust me, I seriously contemplated it when I spent that whole three weeks unemployed. When told of the idea she replied with an emphatic “Hell no.” Meanwhile G is being molly coddled and probably won’t be asked to leave until he turns 25 and is offered a dowry of some sort.

This was all brought to mind this morning when I realized that I hadn’t talked to my mother in like days. Like, I don’t even recall the last time I spoke with her, but I’m assuming it was last week and only after I harassed her assistant. And even then, the conversation was limited to “What do you want? I have a meeting to go to.” That’s the love of a mother people. Don’t be surprised when after my trip home for Easter, she starts referring to me as “Oh, what’s her name…”

Monday, March 27, 2006


Or as I like to say “ri-cock-ulous”; so ri-cock-ulous in fact that it has to be it’s own post and who doesn’t enjoy reading every inane thought that runs through my head.

You’re so very welcome.

Perhaps if it were 1863 and I was fearing the destruction of Fort Sumter and the confederates were coming to take my Yankee ass to Mississippi, then maybe, just maybe this would be ok. But this morning, when quietly perusing my gmail account, I noticed an advertisement for a confederacy website “All things Confederate. Online since 1996!” Of course now I can’t find the URL*, but last I checked, google and gmail were all “Yes there will be advertisements, but only for things that you’d be interested in” and given the intelligence of google, then of course every ad, would pertain to something that I would in fact care about. But the confederacy?
It must have been that email that proclaimed that the south will rise again. No wait, I know, it was the email I sent to Bone that said “Take care and long live Dixie”.

And for the record, I like the South, my parents are both southerners, with my father hailing from Birmingham. READ: I am not adverse to southerners just the idea of the confederacy.
*found the URL Go quick before all of the "I survived Appomattox and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" shirts are sold out.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

I see stupid people

Though not one to usually piggy back off of other’s posts (I feel like I’m stealing when I do it), this post from I-66 inspired me in so many ways to write one almost similar, but in bullet form and with an option to expand on his ideas. You see, I’m from upstate NY. Land of the free, home of the white man. It’s cold and dreary for 8 months out of the year and it’s boring unless you’re the skiing/hiking/boating/camping type of person. I’m into all of the above except for skiing, which I did for 5 years and hated every second of. Then again, I only did it because I thought it would make me popular. It didn’t.

But when he mentioned how people speak different types of English based on who they’re around and/or where they are from, I thought of the numerous times that people have pointed out to me that I speak differently. I speak differently? As in I can use the phrase “you abhorrent motherfucker” correctly?

I think we need some examples for this exercise in asshat-ry to work properly:

  • The cab driver bringing me from Georgetown back to my apartment who asked where I was from, because I spoke very well for a black person. (it should be mentioned that I-66 said he would’ve spit on the cabbies money. That’s a tactic I’ll use for next time)
  • The stranger in my local liquor store who asked where exactly I was from because I didn’t sound like I was from here. (No comment)
  • The man who the cabbie picked up on my way home one evening, who asked where I was from. I told him upstate NY and he, in all his very perceptive glory, said that it’s cold up there and that there are a lot of trees. Also? There aren’t a lot of black people. (thank you for pointing that out to me, you can go shave your back hair now you dumb fuck)
  • The 150 times that people have been visibly shocked to meet me after speaking to them on the phone and saying that my name is Heather.
  • Or, my personal favorite, the dozens who find it odd that I golf and/or wear polo and/or shop at the gap and/or shop at J.Crew. Obviously I must be white if I’m shopping at any of those places, because it’s apparently unfathomable that I own argyle. (For the record, I enjoy argyle, cashmere, and little polo playing men monogrammed on my sweater)
  • And finally, anyone that says incredulously “You’ve been to Martha’s Vineyard??” For the record, there’s a whole slew of black people that reside on Martha’s Vineyard, but if you took the time to heal after that severe head injury that made you a dumb fucktard, then you would know that
  • Oh, forgot one, all the times I've been met with astonished faces when I say that I attended American.

Now one would think that I would become enraged upon hearing all of these things or that I’d be doing some serious kicking and or punching (“I don’t sound black? Well you’re about to find out what a person with no teeth sounds like”). But alas not. What’s the point? If I spent my time trying to discipline every ignorant shithead to cross my path, I would have no time to write about it on the internet or to enjoy Five Guys or burritos. Over the years I’ve learned to just give a weak smile and a ‘heh’, though annoying as hell, I’ve seen the very serious side of reacting to one’s words on race – whether or not intended to hurt or not – and it’s not pretty. Meanwhile, I’ll sit here and watch the dipshits of the world self destruct, because it’s pretty much inevitable when you’re that stupid.


Educating the Masses

“No man who worships education has got the best out of education.... Without a gentle contempt for education no man's education is complete.” ~G.K. Chesterton

A few years ago, prior to having my life sucked out of me from working on a campaign, I had made the decision to attend graduate school. It wasn’t one of those half ass decisions – I don’t make half ass decisions – it was an in depth look into roughly 15 graduate schools that had education policy programs. Like, I said not a half ass decision or a “this looks interesting, why not waste another hundred grand…?” it’s something that I’ve always had a deep interest in, the basis of which, I’m still unable to put my finger on. It’s like my fascination with Congress, it kind of just happened at a fairly young age. I don’t understand the concept of not pursuing something that you’re wholeheartedly interested in. It just doesn’t make sense, but that’s another pet peeve for another day.

People asked if I wanted to teach thus the choosing of such a program. I want to teach, but not for the rest of my life and honestly, I couldn’t stand doing a job in which there is so little credit for an enormous amount of difficult and sometimes painstaking work. Last night I spoke with a friend of mine who is a teacher. MKeg teaches in a public school in Albany. A public school that she attended many years ago and had always looked forward to teaching at. It’s a public school that has changed immensely over the past 17 (GULP!) years. Though many of the teachers have hung on via their tenure, the parents are now unconcerned with the welfare of their children and a school in which violence and pseudo gang fights were pretty much the norm. She told me the story of a child who had had a seizure in school. When the nurse called and told the parent about it, the mother said that she couldn’t come retrieve her child because she needed to sleep before working all night. The hell?

Now, we’re not talking Kozol-esque terrible. This is upstate NY not the South Bronx, but still terrible nonetheless. MKeg’s concern is that if the parents don’t care, then the children don’t care thus making her job that much more difficult. It’s sad but true and so now she is applying for positions at other schools in the area, where parents tend to put more into their children’s education. This would be an excellent time to mention that due to No Child Left Behind standards that schools need to comply with, has caused budget cuts at many of the area schools (if the budget is raised then property taxes are raised by double digits) which are now forced to lay off teachers. It’s like a vicious perpetual cycle in which things have to get worse before becoming better and in which the parents don’t care, so the students don’t care and the teachers are pretty much shit out of luck as are the students.

It’s frustrating and it angers me. I have no reason to be obsessing over such things, but I do, because if I do decide to have children, I am forced to think really hard about whether or not I can live in this area and afford to send my child to GDS where kindergarten is $19,000. It’s just disheartening knowing that most people could care less about such things. Or am I mistaken? I was extremely well educated and I feel like everyone should have the same opportunities; the opportunity to turn into well adjusted (HA HA HA) adults who can obsess about the inane and the important, within a 24 hour period. I suppose we can chalk this up to another one of my peeves. Right up there with asshats.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Boobies on a Monday Morning

A few weeks ago, I was greeted with hugs and kisses from Noah wearing his “save the boobies” onsie. It’s cute and endearing and a great way to make a statement; put it on an adorable baby and people will say “awwww. Look at that, Junior thinks cancer is bad.” But whatever, they’ll pay attention.

Fast forward to 20 minutes ago. I’m sitting here minding my own business, enjoying some thai food courtesy of the lovely people at Trader Joe’s and watching Ti – it’s about as good as Ishtar – tanic, when I get an email from the madre. An email in which I’m informed via massive missive that my recently turned 40 year old Aunt, has breast cancer.

Now given the mere 20 minutes and 34 seconds that I’ve had to process this, I’ve only come to the conclusion that this sucks big hairy donkey balls. We won’t get into the fact that breast cancer is known to be passed on or that my grandmother (my mother’s mother and my aunt’s mother) has Alzheimer’s which can also be genetic, thereby rendering me completely fucked (oh yes, this will revert back to me. I am narcissist, hear me roar). No, we won’t get into that right now. For now we’ll just say fuck cancer and crap ass James Cameron movies and an obligatory: save the boobies.

The good, the bad and the ugly


A post in list form, because it’s Monday morning and I reserve the right to be lazy and tired on Monday mornings.

“What are we having social hour over here? She's supposed to be being a bitch.”- Jodi, Dazed and Confused

Good. Waking up Saturday morning and deciding that I am so fucking sick of my hair that I shaved my head. Ok, that’s what I really wish could’ve happened, but I did get it braided, which in turn will cut down my getting ready time by half. It’s like the ultimate form of laziness.

Babysitting Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

Ugly. Something happened on Friday that almost made me say ‘fuck blogging.’ I was pissed (and also drunk) but pretty pissed off. That is until I realized that if posting the most inane shit possible is considered news, then have at it.

Good. There is a plus side to babysitting all weekend, it’s called making bank and it’s pretty awesome. And that Blue Mercury facial was definitely needed.

Bad. Seriously man, my car is falling apart.

Ugly. I may or may not have been smoking on Sunday. I may or may not feel crappy now. I may or may not regret it later.

Good. Dazed and Confused about 47 times.

Bad. I wish I could relive the last day of high school. It was fucking awesome.

Ugly. I’m adding to my list of people and/or groups of people that would get a swift kick to the ass if I were to ever meet them. Added to the list are members of the following basketball teams: UNC, Kansas, Tennessee, and Iowa. You mother fuckers owe me $5 each, plus interest.

Happy Monday party people.

Friday, March 17, 2006



A list of grievances over the past 24 hours, which may include mention of ass cracks, flat tires, and BMWs.

“St. Patrick's Day is an enchanted time - a day to begin transforming winter's dreams into summer's magic.” ~Attributed to Adrienne Cook

I knew it would be a long evening when some man with pants well below his ass, parked on top of my car, bent down to pet a dog and I was given a nice view of his rear end. He then looked at me like I was crazy when I told him that a) he wasn’t even allowed to park there (it’s a private lot) and b) when I told him that he needed to move so that I could get on. But that’s only minor. What really irked me were the dipshits that work at Best Buy in Tenleytown, who made it quite apparent that they took English as a second language. Thus marring my exciting trip to purchase Adventures in Babysitting and Dazed and Confused for the low low price of $2.69.

With the pasty hairy ass crack still in vivid memory, I decided to call MFP to ask about her date the night before. A nice but dicey move. I’m totally that girl. The girl that has no problem hanging up on a friend after the 10th mention of her new fuck buddy’s BMW, million dollar Alexandria home, or ‘Equinox was soooo goooood.’ I will hang up on you and not bat an eye and then maybe I’ll write about you and will refrain from ever asking about your new beau again. Though I should be happy for her as MFP – actually most of my friends – haven’t been dating any real winners. So woo hoo, he drives a BMW and he’s your boss, good luck with that.

(I don’t recall ever stating that I am not a heinous bitch. Consider yourselves informed.)

After that, I had a hard time doing the things that would normally cheer me up, like say grocery shopping and drinking red wine and guacamole.

What I thought was a pristine parking job last evening, came to bite me in the ass this morning, when while rushing to a dentist appointment, I had a flat tire.

(I really wish I hadn’t quit smoking)

My dentist appointment was the usual. Complete with digging for gold in my gums thus causing some slight bleeding. At least that was how the hygienist put it, but it was pretty apparent that my mouth was hemorrhaging and I had easily lost a pint of blood via my gums. But other than that the teeth are in tip top shape though I’m afraid to eat anything that isn’t pureed due to severe gum pain.

(I need to floss better. And I need alcohol. Lots of alcohol.)

The previous time that I had acquired a flat, my tire was blown on Massachusetts Avenue, thus causing passersby to stare at me because of the horrible grinding noise my rims were making. Because obviously I need you to stop and stare, because I didn’t realize that my tire was missing. Asshats. But this time, there was no blow out, just a quick fix that cost me $12.69 and my dignity.

Which brings us to now. Exciting life I lead huh? I just realized that over the past three days I’ve actually been working about 10 hours. Today I will leave early for personal reasons, which include drinking beer and praying to St. Patrick that Georgetown wins.

Now go forth and enjoy the Guinness.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Things that make me go Wheeee!

It all started off innocently enough; pomegranate margaritas and pilfering a table from some 40 year old woman, though I maintain that I was there first. Sadly leaving my cell phone at work but tableside guacamole and tortillas can cure all. Of course you can’t have just one pomegranate margarita, you have to have three. And then being the awesome person that I am, I rush away because MUST SEE BLOGGERS. This would be a good time to mention that I’ve already proved to my ‘real’ friends that I am in fact a huge nerd who says things like “I wish we were going to Austin this week because it’s SxSW and these really cool bloggers will be there.” Loser. There’s also the minor detail of having left my cell phone at work (and Oh MY God it will be stolen and I’ll never see it again and I’ll have to buy a new $400 phone and no gorging on products at Blue Mercury. I might as well die now) which meant that I might miss Mrs. Sarsgaaaaard and nothing would be worse than that.

Though deliciously impaired my flight to Yuca was swift and there I was greeted with hugs from EJ and my reward for wasting many hours during the day; a $15 gift card from Best Buy, which I shall use to purchase Adventures in Babysitting and Encino Man (if you make fun of me, you’ll get punched). I-66 my wallet thanks you.

That right there is awesomeness. But you know what’s even more awesome? Seeing the wonderful Cookie which made my drunk ass so freaking happy because I thought I wasn’t going to see her. And then meeting Circle V and seeing Kathryn, who inspired me to go to Blue Mercury.

Ok, more drinks are needed. Obviously. I look across the bar and this hot girl is giving me a come hither Heather look which leads to getting accosted and me making sure that she’s only consumed two drinks. Assured that she has in fact only had two drinks, I’m told that I was missed. Which makes me happy or maybe happier by then, because you know…wasted.

After retrieving my drink, I get a smile and a hug from another hottie (I swear this place was full of them) and it’s Larissa and there’s a choir and joy and it’s just as I imagined how meeting her would be. Again more happiness and discussion of AV-ness…and I’m still drunk.

Which leads to me heading towards Kathryn to make sure that Kris had already left and I’m saddened because she’s a proper adult who would leave by like 9 PM. But then there on the couch is Kris…and inevitably more accosting and she loves the cashmere and my boobs. Wheee!

The rest of the evening is more drinking and telling Nicole that we must go joy riding in her Mini and much talk of Blue Mercury so that I can still be hot (HA!) when I grow up and lots of accosting. We loves the accosting. Oh and there was the dancing and the sad reality that not all black people can dance. Or maybe it was the alcohol, who knows.

But the best part of the evening, which made me missing out on more pomegranate margaritas so incredibly worth it, was that when I got there, it wasn’t like I was showing up for some weird meet and greet with nametags and uncomfortable people standing around. No, I felt like I was being greeted by friends:the hugs and accosting and ass grabbing and the fact that I was missed. Lovely people who like me despite my poor sentence structure and…well…I’m just a happy hungover girl right now.

This just made my day

So after dragging my hungover ass to work, I come across this email from the awesome people at Five Guys...

I handle marketing and pr at Five Guys and although i don't have a gift certificate on hand I will tell you that we saw your post and are very flattered that we could be one of your favorite 5's and that it is an honor to be listed with Take 5! email and I'll try and get you a t-shirt!

Ok, a) the people at five guys totally heart me
b) I could totally go for five guys right now to cure the ol' hangover
c) I'm definitely going to try and wrestle a gift certificate out of her; because YUM!

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Spin This

I’ve become addicted to among other things, spinning. I love it. I do it every chance I get, which is both good and bad. I can easily get passed losing feeling in my legs for three days straight. No pain, no gain is what I say. Ok, I didn’t say that, but whatever. Given my new found love for this activity, it would be reticent of me, not to call out the person who makes this class quite disturbing. My spinning instructors vary, so they are not the culprits. As a matter of fact I get a kick from the guy with the microphone who pretty much sounds like he’s giving instructions on sex while spinning. You know; “harder” “faster” “keep going” that sort of thing.
No, the culprit is the girl who sits in front of me during my Monday evening class.

I tend to use the same bike every class. Not at the back but towards the side with one bike in front of me but to the left. And every Monday evening this chick comes and takes the bike in front of me, which is perfectly acceptable; I’m all for routine. But this whore who wears enough eye make up to make Kathryn Harris (pre congress Kathryn Harris) jealous. Which umm, hello, did you not realize that there would be sweating in this class? I can get past the eye make up though. What I’m unable to get past is the cotton shorts. This bitch, decides to get in front of me with teeny Daisy Duke-esque short shorts which barely cover her cellulite laden ass with a lovely line of sweat most notably on the crack, but also everywhere else. This disturbs me in ways that I cannot describe. I mean, my death by Spinner is being interrupted by her sweaty ass. At least I have the decency to cover up my fat – natch – ass with some sort of pants or Capri type things that wick away moisture and don’t make me look like I’ve just pissed myself.

So please dear girl, do us all a favor; cover up your ass and get something new and improved with enhanced moisture wicking properties. Though I doubt there is such a thing, try it. The girl who sits next to me and I can then focus on moving harder and faster (and ‘no, not there, ahhh yes there’) and less on your ass crack.


“Jack Bauer could make Helen Keller talk”- As seen on an away message

I feel like I’m discovering the wheel today and everyone will look at me like “Duh dumbass!” if I were to try and come up with it today. In discovering a little bit of a crush on Jack Bauer; The Jack Bauer, I realize I’m a little late on the game. Quite similar to how I ‘discovered’ blogging in August. Now I’m forced to play a game of catch up on the previous four days of Jack’s life. I know enough to the point where I wasn’t completely ass backwards lost last night. I’m well aware that in the last two hours, Jack has lost a large man named Edgar, a hobbit*, a man named Tony who had this weird skin rash thing going on and his daughter doesn’t want anything to do with him, though she’s currently seeing a 49 year old. Ok, I’m not too sure if he’s 49, but he looks it and was rather unhelpful between the hours of 7PM and 8PM. And that’s where my Jack Bauer knowledge ends. I know he’s hot and that while he was holding his breath to go between rooms, that I too held my breath. Let’s just say that I would’ve died, had that been me. It’s official, Jack Bauer is one bad ass motherfucker and my new obsession.

*I have pretty strong feelings towards the hobbit, because without divulging too much information, the Hobbit is a little bit of a pain in the ass.

Monday, March 13, 2006

The 10 Month Tour

“We thought we were running away from the grown-ups, and now we're the grown-ups.” ~Margaret Atwood

I’ve been semi introspective as of late which makes for poor ranting and snark skills. I could rant about my busted right side mirror which is currently being held to my car with duct tape. I repeat; Duct. Tape. And it’s amazingly disgusting and I’d be all for bringing to the carwash except for…DUCT TAPE. This won’t even be remedied until I go home for Easter because Peg is all for paying for it and I’m not about to object to having someone else pay for something for me.


Basically I’ve been trying to get my shit together so that I can at least pretend to play adult. Contrary to what you all read or may perceive about me, my shit ain’t together. In fact it’s completely opposite from together. My adult playing skills have yet to be honed and I’m trying – though I feel in vain – to make myself a little more at home in my new role. Thus, introspection and teeth grinding, ennui and malaise.

I feel like while everything has changed, nothing has changed. The little change that there has been, has moved at a snail’s like pace and OH MY GOD Everything will be like this FOREVER. There are lots of caps, due to frustration. 10 months is a long ass time, for a lot to happen and yet why has nothing super significant happened?

In discussions on Sunday afternoon, it was brought to my attention that I do indeed, have my shit together. I have a job that I enjoy. I’ve developed a gym routine and a weekly schedule. I’ve learned to save due to an excessive amount of the BEST BIRTH CONTROL EVER aka babysitting, therefore allowing me such extravagant things like facials and new product and a trip at the end of April. Yee Haw. Oh and a new baby, and by ‘baby’ I mean a kayak. So things are well.

It’s said that learning to budget is a big sign of adult hood, as is knowing my limits, both of which I had to learn the really hard way. [Insert short PSA here: BofA will charge you $31 when you over draft from an account, just so y’all know.] So that’s where things stand. The same, yet different, yet good things are on the horizon, which makes daily life a little bit easier to handle.

Maybe in two months; on the anniversary of the day I lost my health insurance; I’ll have a little more to add. Hopefully it will be more snark and cynicism and less introspection and vast wonder of how the next 15 years will go. Because let’s be honest; it’s getting a little old.


And completely unrelated whatsoever, if any of y'all want to help me fill out my bracket(s), you are more than welcome.

Friday, March 10, 2006

An Ode to Global Warming

"Science has never drummed up quite as effective a tranquilizing agent as a sunny spring day." ~W. Earl Hall

Ok, not so much an ode as it is me basking in the fact that the ozone layer is slowly eroding and yet I can’t help but smile and think how glorious things are, because really golfing in March? Makes me so bat shit fucking happy that I use the words ‘shit’ and ‘fucking’ in less than 3.8 seconds.

It’s days like today that make me yearn for my reefs after a pedicure f and watching the skank ass sisters of ‘A-Chi-Ho’ relaxing on the quad. A lovely evening of smoking in the Letts-Anderson Quad and drinking margaritas outside at Guapos.
I miss it and I’ll always miss it.

But yesterday with the prospect of the earth blowing up due to increased green house gases and a belly full of Flat Top Grill and Sapporo, I smiled and felt perfectly ok with things. Obviously a sign of seasonal affective disorder, but I’ll just take it for what it is because it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Now off to purchase a kayak, a plane ticket and a Big Bertha. Hell, I might even throw in a spring themed Coach wrislet. Everyone needs a little pink and sun in their lives. Enjoy.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Literary Genius

"My test of a good novel is dreading to begin the last chapter." ~Thomas Helm

To date, I’m not all too sure how I developed my insatiable crush on JD Salinger. Junior year of HS, we were forced – no coerced, maybe? – into reading Catcher in the Rye, but I didn’t. I revolted and discovered the joys of Sparknotes. This was also the same year in which I was forced to read Othello. When the time came to recite a line from the play and give its significance, I chose “Oh fool, fool, fool”. Yeah…
But somewhere between my expertise in Shakespeare and Freshman year of college, I became smitten with Mr. Caulfield. His troubles were my troubles. After which it was a stint in Steinbeck and then a Glass family reunion. The plight of Seymour and that Buddy Glass gets me every time.

I have always tended to read things out of my age bracket. Like my obsession with Poe when I was seven, thereby making my mother read the Tell Tale Heart to me before bed. I slept with my door open and my light on for months afterward. Early reading also explains why I wanted to be Ramona Quimby when I was five; saying “We must, we must, we must increase our bust” at the age of 9; and a scary fascination with fascist dictators by my 10th birthday. If you want me to sit down and shut the hell up; tell me about Franco and you won’t hear a peep from me. When I found out that Harper Lee only wrote one book – a masterpiece – I wanted to do the same. We won’t get into whether or not that is possible for me now, but at 9 ½ it was a superb and plausible idea.

Now, I ask very little of you all. Save for Friday when you gave me overwhelming response and asked me some pretty thought provoking questions and well…those of you that I pay to read and comment, but other than that, I ask very little of you. But I need some help. I used to read religiously, in the bathroom, shower, metro, everywhere, but as of late my reading has gone to the crapper. I need to find that passion again because I can feel my brain cells dwindling away. I need ideas, your suggestions, both old and new. Your favorites or those to avoid (like: A Million Little Bunches of Bull Shit). So if y’all could help, you’ll be rewarded graciously. And by graciously I mean, with smiles and cyber hugs and I’ll even blow you a few kisses and think about buying you some Shiraz.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

All for Naught?

"College is the best time of your life. When else are your parents going to spend several thousand dollars a year just for you to go to a strange town and get drunk every night?" ~David Wood

I found myself making the very poor decision to leave the Hill around 5:45 PM on a weekday to get to Tenleytown by 6:30 PM, via Rock Creek Parkway*. You can start laughing now.
Imagine someone having a noose around your neck and slowly tightening it for 40 minutes while another simultaneously plucks each hair from your nether regions. Meanwhile, people sit and stare in their Mercedes whilst twiddling with their crackberries.
There was nail biting and teeth grinding and the feeling that my life was slowly slipping away. Though tempted, I managed to not run my car directly into the Kennedy Center.
I drove in desperation to Tenleytown.

Think of the most beautiful person-both inside and out-that you could ever possibly meet and multiply that by 457. That is who I had to go see by 6:30 and if I didn’t get there by then, she would go back to Spain and I would be left saddened that I missed that one remnant of my final semester.

When I got to campus this feeling, that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, swept over me. I’ve been there over the past 10 months** numerous times, but this time it just felt different. Was it the disappointment of speeding to this place that I had previously dreaded and winding up there and not feeling any differently about it? Was it that I missed it?

I don’t feel like I miss the place, but more of the idea of it all. That feeling of being independent though not 100% responsible. Knowing that after a delectable (and by delectable, I mean vomit inducing) meal at the Terrace Dining Room, that I could head back to Anderson Hall and drink my way through a bottle of Tenley Vodka, not caring that Grey Goose was so much better. The thought of staying up until 4AM-it was a Tuesday after all-to smoke and drink and really contemplate going to class in the morning.

I finally parked-giving no thought to adding to my collection of unpaid parking tickets-and ran into the wrong dormitory. Am an idiot. Then ran into the correct dorm and she had left. I was saddened and realized that I had rushed across the city to see someone just to get back that part of my life.

You know how in a crowd, no matter what, or in the dark or from afar, the one person who will be able to positively identify you is your mother? It doesn’t matter if you’re in a crowd of thousands, but she will always recognize you. Well, that’s what happened. MariCarmen-academic advisor/professor/giver of copious free food and wine/pseudo madre extraordinaire- called my name and came running up to me. “I saw you running in, and I told them to stop and I rushed out to come see you”. I got two besos and a hug. She kept saying Que tal? And I was too tongue tied to speak in Spanish-hell, English for that matter-but she kept hugging me and telling me how happy she was to see me. I felt loved and missed and rushed, but like I had come across the city with good reason and I was genuinely happy to see her and that feeling that everything was perfectly ok.

There are the days that I seriously would go back and do every minute of the past four years over again. I could spend my evenings in my dorm room smoking, drinking and talking. Funneling beers and drinking boxed wine and playing Kings. Completely unsure of my grades, pretending as if I didn’t care, but I really fucking did. Knowing that Professor Wisman held the key to my Economic grade and future; because obviously my entire future is based off of one ‘C’. The other days-a majority of days-it’s nice to know that there are no midterms or homework or dorm rooms and communal showers where people puke and have sex.

I’m just sitting here hoping that one day I’ll find some happy medium. I’d really like to be sure that everything is perfectly Ok and that there is some sort of method to the madness.

* While in the car, I heard a commercial that said “Beltway; it’s from the Latin for Parking Lot”. Made me laugh
** Exactly 10 months ago today. And yet very little has changed. Hmmm…

Monday, March 06, 2006

How to Save a Saturday Night

When Kris aka Mrs. Sarsgaaard asked whether or not I would want to join her and the lovely Jurgen, Nabbalicious, Maliavale and Jasclo on Saturday night, I said yes and that I would genuinely love to. Despite my ever apparent awe of Kris’ awesomeness-which I may or may not have wholeheartedly confessed to while drunk-it was a save from being bludgeoned to death by stupidity. Prior to that, I was with My Favorite Person (MFP) headed to Moe’s* and then for vodka and redbulls. We were accompanied by MFP’s roommate and his girlfriend. I had previously met the girlfriend a few months back and the next morning told MFP how much I enjoyed meeting her. I was met with stunned silence and told that I must have been ridiculously drunk, because the girlfriend wasn’t all she was cracked up to be. Ladies and Gentlemen, I actually lost brain cells on Saturday night. Many braincells.

Of course, I didn’t use Kris as an escape route to re-find my lost wit and sarcasm and basic brain functions. And also not because Peter knows M-E-T-H-O-D Man, but because this is a person who I have enjoyed since the beginning of my blogging days. Off I went, solo. I should mention that I always go solo to blogging events and it will be a cold day in hell before I tell my real world friends about hanging out with people from the internet. Obviously if I’m drunk, I’ll eventually end up murdered and hanging from a flag pole at Union Station. My mother is still convinced that one day Amy will kill me and she’s just using Noah as a pawn. Regardless, I went solo and was dazzled by the people I met.

This story-or narrative or crap ass writing-wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t mention that I am automatically smitten with anyone who has an affinity for wine, Salt and Vinegar chips, the aforementioned Peter Sarsgaard and Moe’s. It also helps if you slide up to me and whisper “come here often?” while I’m waiting for my drink at the bar and/or you stick your finger in my ear when you notice that my tragus is pierced. That my friends, is love.

Thank you Kris, for giving me a few more days on this earth and not killing me. My parents really appreciate it. Also thanks for introducing me to your lovely friends and the awesome Amy, who really should think about starting a blog. This mostly based on the fact that she says "moisturize the situation" and "maintain the sexy". Oh and also for the compliments. No, I love you more.

*my favorite little Moe’s tidbit, besides the fact that they have tofu as a meat option, is that they have awesome names for their burritos and salsas. Like ‘Art Vandalay’ and ‘Who is Keyser Salsa’**

**I have a terrible Keyser Soza story. In that, I made my brother tell me who Keyser Soza was before I had actually seen the Usual Suspects in its entirety. Thus the reason for why this is in tiny letters at the bottom of a post. I don’t want to get yelled at. Yes, it’s one of the biggest regrets of my life. Well that and the time I used Nair to get rid of my widow’s peak.

Ready. Set. Answers.

Friday my only hope was that my mom and the crackhead at the corner of Wisconsin and Nebraska would come through with some questions for me*. But you all - as always - pulled through. Prepare to be dazzled and bored to death by my lackluster answers. Mundane is the word that you're looking for right now.

How’s your love life?

Or lack thereof. I have no love life to speak of and while some would be saddened by that, I don’t really think about it too much**. My last two prospects turned into a gay republican (and no, that’s not just a dig at the GOP, he actually is gay) and a jackass with a girlfriend. Both of whom have attempted to use me to meet John Kerry and get insight on an event in the making, respectively. I’m currently no longer speaking to either, because I don’t enjoy being fucked with. I’m not cynical nor pessimistic about my love life, I’m just being pragmatic and the less I think about how I’m not getting any, the more content I am.

Dr. Kenneth Noisewater
Did you ever explain the "no pasa nada" or the "I said no, sucka'?" Who is the sucka' you are saying no to, and how does said sucka' feel about that?

Long story short, ‘No Pasa Nada’ is my favorite Spanish phrase and it means ‘nothing’s happening.’ Or if you’re eight ‘hakuna matata’. I explained it once here and it’s by far one of my favorite posts. The “I said no, sucka” part was courtesy of BabyJewels, when she did my site redesign. The avatar is the lovely Pam Grier and everything has a rather “groovy” feel to it, so when in need of a tagline, she thought of that.

Diet Coke of Evil
Do you like your job?

As an Economic Historian by day, Doula by night, I can say that at times work gets a little frustrating what with all the demands of Adam Smith wannabes and needy new mothers. But in general, I can say that yes, I enjoy my job. The fortunate thing is that I have the opportunity to change it up a bit as I see fit. I’m thinking Astrophysiology next month or maybe dabbling in Neonatology. Thoughts?

In all truth, I enjoy my job greatly and I get to do something that I actually believe in. So there’s a more honest answer to your question. Now, excuse me while I go debate the ins and outs of Thomas Moore’s Utopia.

did you have pets growing up? are you a cat or a dog person?

I’m from upstate NY. We had cows and a horse named Rodrigo.
We had two guinea pigs. Chi chi died after I fed him too many cheetos and Brownie was a runt with one eye so I could never stand to look at her. The week before Freshman year of high school we got a cat named Salem. After a few years of G and I refusing to clean the litter box, Peg got annoyed and the cat suddenly disappeared. To this day we have no idea what really happened to him. I want a dog when I ‘grow up’. Either a golden retriever or yellow lab to be named Max.

if you had unlimited funds to spend on ONE pair of shoes, which pair would you buy?

I’m a sucker for a Stuart Weitzman trunk show also for Nordstrom’s shoe department. I’m a firm believer that if the shoe fits, buy it. When I first discovered him, I called my mother to tell her that they sent me a thank you note for shopping there and she flipped out because Hello! I had just spent like $300 on one pair of shoes. I had this amazing pair that were black and white leather flip flops. The left shoe said Amore and the right shoe said Love and the letters were spelled out in Swarovski crystals. Swoon! Sadly the dumbfucks at AirFrance lost them. So I’d probably replace those or get a pair of stacked heels from my friend Mr. Blahnik. I really could never decide. I’m a shoe whore through and through.

if you could shop at only one store for the rest of your life, what would it be? why?

Hands down, El Cortes Ingles. That store will suck your soul and every Euro out of your wallet but it’s so worth it. Where else can you get skippy for the low low price of 6 Euro? If overpriced clinique is your thing, they’ve got that too. And a handy dandy selection of fine wines, cheeses and kinderbueno in their grocery store. Upstairs houses Ralph Lauren and Carolina Herrera. It’s like Target meets Nordstrom on steroids. Heaven on earth I tell ya.

Hola Isabel
I want to know how you, a relatively young lady, can be so young, but so wise? Seriously, when I was your age I was mildly retarded. But you seem SO TOGETHER and I'm impressed with it. So tell do you do it?!

Many years of therapy. Seriously.

When people say such things to me I’m never quite sure how to respond. Thank you would be most appropriate I suppose. Well that and I was anal retentive growing up, thus mapping out my entire future on looseleaf paper during my advisory period, so no shit I’ve got it together. I’ll just go with the former and say thank you.

Mappy B

How did you manage to land your great job? You seem very happy with your job, and it seems like a nice, prestigious one, how'd you do it? All of this, without, of course, telling us what job you actually have. B/c I don't know...haha.

I know people who know people. That is the honest to God answer. That and I can charm the pants off of anyone before I go in for the kill.

If you can't answer that about....What are you top ten all time favorite songs?

Well let me get out my handy dandy ipod. In no particular order:

Wonderwall Oasis
Tears of a Clown Smokey Robinson
The Downeaster Alexa Billy Joel
Hallelujah Jeff Buckley
Tiny Dancer Elton John
Bubble Toes Jack Johnson
The General Dispatch
Born Too Late The Clarks
Waiting on an Angel Ben Harper
Con Te Partiro Andrea Bocelli
Both Sides Now Joni Mitchell

Ok, that’s 11, but not all of them, but the best I could come up with given short notice.

if your house was on fire, and you could only grab one thing, what would it be?

Assuming that I take my normal ‘day bag’ with me, which has my planner, ipod, USB port thingy, camera, cell and IDs, other than that, I’d bring my pictures of course. I bet y’all were thinking I’d bring my coach bags, but alas not. You know how members of congress have a wall of me? Well I have one. Like pictures of me with the Clintons and my congressman and Bill Cosby and other people and I’d be devastated if I lost those.

Who's your favorite blogger and who's your least favorite? haha, just kidding. I know I'm your favorite so you don't have to answer that. I second Isabel's question.

Well, duh, you are. Anyone who has stuck around to read this crap for seven months is pretty awesome in my book. My least favorite is “no comment”.

DC Cookie
Do you leave the water running when you brush your teeth?

Nope. In 3rd grade I learned that it conserves water when you turn it off when brushing your teeth. It’s one of the few things that I remember from those days. Well that and only I can prevent forest fires. Saying no to drugs, alcohol and smoking was apparently lost on me.

oh, and what's your fave kind of cookie?
I was a girl scout for 13 years. Thin mints. Good stuff.

Believe it or not, both of these questions are very important indicators of personality and character.
So tell me, what does that say about me?

If you could have Edward Scissorhands manicure your lawn, what is the first thing you'd have him sculpt in your bushes (this is not code for something gross)?

So the incorrect answer to this would be a vulva?

I would have him do a giant ‘B’. For “biznitch”.

When he was done, do you think you'd be oddly turned on by his quirky creativity in spite of the obvious hazards of the tools used to achieve it?

I was mildly obsessed with Edward Scissorhands growing up. Remember when he gives everyone in the neighborhood haircuts? I wanted him to do that to me. So yes, I would be oddly turned on. Quirky is a good thing.

I second Dr. Kenneth Noisewater's question.

See above.

And can you do this word ver below? Because I sure as hell cannot.

Sadly, no.


What are your three favorite places to eat in DC?

The Oceanaire
Honorary mentions: Lauriol Plaza, Jaleo, B Smiths and Chef Geoff's


What scares you the most right now?

Not knowing what’s next. The fact that I have to pretend to be grown up when really all I want to do is take a nap and not worry about my next paycheck. I miss my old life. I miss college in a painful sort of way.

What is your "scary" age?

35. I want to have a significant other and children by then and my fear is that it won’t ever happen. There are a lot of things that I want by then and I’m not sure if I’m setting the bar too high, but if (or when) many of these things don’t come to fruition, I only hope that I’m ok with things not going according to plan.

What do you think is your least attractive quality?

I can be mean and at times hurtful when things don’t go my way. Oh, and I also hate my boobs and I’ve got big feet. Ok, so that’s like three, but whatever.

What is your most attractive quality?

That I am ok with being alone and I’m not needy. I can’t stand people who can’t do basic things alone, like wait at a table for five minutes. Drives me fucking crazy.

Who do you most want to grow up to be like?

Peg (duh!). I love her to death and she appreciates good shoes, Coach and a proper vacation. She can also write extremely well and she’s well poised and successful. She can also be caring without being overbearing, which I truly appreciate.


Where did you get the chocolate covered peanut butter filled pretzels?

Trader Joe’s.


I would like to know how often you inappropriately touch yourself. Please spare no details, and feel free to embellish.

Everyday at approximately 10:25 PM.
That’s what I’ve got the ole vibrator for my friend.

Ok, so we're not doing this again. Ever. Or at least not until my carpal tunnel clears up.

*Said by the fabulously drunk Mrs. Sarsgaaaard
**That's tomorrow's post

Friday, March 03, 2006

Q & A

I’m feeling rather uninspired. Yesterday, I was inspired by the lack of money in my wallet and Lent. Today? I’m tired and all that Jersey-ness of the last week has finally caught up with me and I’m all for curling up under the covers. But first I feel inclined to tell you all two things. Ready?
1) I was asked if I was a Republican the other day. I think the pearls and polo may have lead said offender to believe in such a fallacy. But God help me for not giving this person the finger.
2) I walked around with my pants unzipped for like a good two – maybe three – hours yesterday. I didn’t realize until I spilled chocolate shavings all over the crotch of my pants, because the chocolate covered peanut butter filled pretzels, just weren’t making it into my mouth fast enough. Oh, and my pants are too big.

So here, the part where y’all come in; I’m all about sharing, but is there anything you really want to know about me, that I haven’t mentioned? I mean something that you might die without knowing, because all know that the earth revolves around me*. So ask away. Anything your little hearts desire, because that’s what I’m here for.

*it took me years to figure out whether the earth revolves around the sun or the sun revolves around the earth. Frankly, I’m still not all that sure. Eh, whatever.

Edit to Add: I'll actually be answering these on Monday.

Thursday, March 02, 2006


“A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green. The water is warm too, for it has slipped twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool”-John Steinbeck

There should be tumbleweeds and Hoovervilles. There may even be rationing of canned baked beans. Our heroine will be forced to chase after trains down the railroad tracks, while some nice soul tosses food out for heroine – who for practical purposes, shall be called Heather - and her seven children. John Steinbeck will even write a New York Times bestseller about it (well of course after returning from the dead). A book about an irresponsible young woman who has fallen on hard times, resorting to calling her padre, to help get her out of her current predicament in addition to babysitting (I’ll bet she even gets pooped on once in awhile). How it ends, would be anyone’s guess. But I’m sure that after 40 days of giving up spending frivolously, the heroine of Steinbeck’s novel would learn to budget and save properly. And of course the important lesson that grocery shopping need not be done on a twice weekly basis nor be done at Whole Foods. Also the very good lesson to check one’s online banking statement daily, because that’s what it’s there for. If you haven’t noticed yet, this Steinbeck novel will be a bit more modern. At no point in this story will the heroine-though impossibly slow and dim witted-be killed by a friend nor will she be packing up all of her shit and heading to California. Because with inflation, it now seems to cost a lot more; but, she might have to move to upstate NY, until she can learn to control her spending habits. Aha! An ending: Suze Orman will show up and save the paltry – though quite pretty – pink coach wallet from near destruction. Sadly, there will have to be death though: BoFA will be destroyed, but really, who will miss it?

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Little Apples

“Racism isn't born, folks, it's taught. I have a two-year-old son. You know what he hates? Naps! End of list.” ~Dennis Leary

I was watching CNN’s round the clock coverage on New Orleans and Mardi Gras. There’s nothing else going on, but bring on the masks and the beads and the boobies! I’ve always wanted to go to Mardi Gras, but have yet to make it down there, but I am determined.

Anyway, during the round the clock coverage, they did a segment on what children are thinking about Katrina, after being displaced and having to start over in a new city, etc.
Now, these children must have been about 7 or 8 years old, so maybe they didn’t know better. But alas, when I heard the following from the mouths of mere (white) babes:

“I never spent much time with coloreds before this”

And (my personal favorite)

“I used to think that black people were mean. But…but…now I think that they’re nice”

Of course my first thoughts upon seeing this were something like “Holy motherfucker” and then it came to my attention that these are young children and no 7 or 8 year old popped out of the womb using the phrase “colored”. Therefore, they had to have heard it first from somewhere, which is quite sad frankly, but I suppose not all that shocking. All I’m going to say on the matter-aside from the obligatory “what the fuck?”-is that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I’m sure their parents are quite proud that their little whippersnappers have gotten over the shock of the “coloreds” being just as normal as they are. Or not.

Oh and also, in case you didn’t know, it’s 1956.

This post brought to you by a 'scary colored'. Cause you know, I'm evil. Boo.
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