A friend IM'd me today with a pressing question. Please take the following conversation with a grain of salt. I promise we aren't really this juvenile and ignorant in real life. At least I hope not.
friend: If someone is driving a hearse can they ride in the HOV lane? My husband and I can't decide.
me: HAHAHAHHA
me: Hmm... I say yes.
friend: Really...
me: Well would the hearse be carrying a body? Or just an empty hearse?
friend: Carrying a body.
me: I have a similar question about pregnant women. Does a fetus count as a passenger?
friend: Ha... does it?
me: I doubt it... but what about babies? Does a baby count as a passenger, or is it only people who are old enough to drive?
friend: I don't know. You have made this even harder.
me: Let's check the Virginia DOT website.
friend: Ok.
me: Straight from the VDOT website: "I'm pregnant. Do I count as one person or two?" hahaha.
me: "In the HOV world, you're one person. However, babies of any age count as a person."
me: But there is nothing about a hearse!
me: According to snopes.com, hearse drivers transporting dead bodies cannot use HOV lanes.
friend: That's too funny.
me: I still don't see why babies count as passengers. They're not really carpooling if they can't even drive themselves. Most babies don't even have jobs.
me: What about those expecting mother parking places?
me: Do you have to be like REALLY pregnant to use those or can you just be a little bit pregnant?
friend: Or can you just be a little chubby and use them?
friend: I see men do it all the time.
friend: It's not like someone can really check.
me: Haha well if it's a man they can!
friend: Nope, wasn't there just a pregnant man?
friend: www.people.com/people/article/0,,20344136,00.html
me: Good point!
me: He's pregnant for a third time?! How did I miss number 2?!?!
me: Did he get a c-section?
friend: Ummmm
me: Come on, I can't be the only one who wondered that!
friend: Did he have EVERYTHING transferred???
me: It only said he kept his reproductive organs, but I don't know what that means.
me: There is SO MUCH that was not covered in sex ed!
friend: LOL!
friend: I wonder if they cover this stuff now in sex ed
friend: Hmm
friend: How do they add the piece?
me: HAHAHAHA "the piece"
friend: Ha.
friend: Yes.
friend: The piece.
me: Haha I don't know. I guess they borrow skin from somewhere else.
friend: Borrow means they are going to give it back. Something tells me that they don't give this back.
me: ....
friend: This conversation has taken an awful left turn.
me: Haha, I know. But you were the one that brought up the pregnant man.
friend: Sorry.
me: I forgive you.
Just trying to get the facts here, folks. Knowledge is power.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Paging Dr. New BFF
Earlier this afternoon I had a fairly simple medical question. It was not serious enough to warrant a visit to WebMD (any hypochondriac's best friend), so I did the next best thing, and IM'd my friend W, who has exactly as much medical knowledge as I do.
W: hmmm... that's a good question. I really have no idea.
me: I wish we had a friend who was a doctor.
W: Hahaha. The thought is laughable when I think of our friends.
me: Yeah, no shit. It would be our most successful friend ever. Everyone would be in awe of her.
W: Maybe we should place an add on craigslist.
me: Hahaha. "MD wanted for friendship, ability to answer health questions."
W: Dude let's do it, and see if someone responds.
me: What will they get out of it though??
W: Dude we are so fun.
me: That's true. But a doctor might look down on having more than one drink at a time. Maybe doctors are lame? We'll have to craft the ad carefully so that only cool doctors reply.
W: Hmmm, you're right.
me: "Two fun girls seek cool doctor for friendship" ...we might get arrested, this sounds like an ad for an escort service.
W: HAHA
me: Do we care if the doctor is male or female?
W: Hmm. Well, I think I would prefer a female. But I don't really know why. I guess it doesn't matter.
me: I know why, it's because you want your life to be like the Yaz commercial where the friends are all at a swanky bar talking to their doctor friend about hormonal birth control.
W: YES. That is exactly what we are looking for.
me: So ok... "Two fun girls seek young, fun, fairly attractive (but not hotter than us) doctor to hang out at classy bars and sip cosmopolitans with, and you must agree to answer all our health questions at any time, and 'maybe you should talk to your primary care physician' is not a valid answer."
W: Yes, yes.
me: Should we include a picture? Not of us, but maybe a still from the Yaz commercial?
W: I think so.
W: hmmm... that's a good question. I really have no idea.
me: I wish we had a friend who was a doctor.
W: Hahaha. The thought is laughable when I think of our friends.
me: Yeah, no shit. It would be our most successful friend ever. Everyone would be in awe of her.
W: Maybe we should place an add on craigslist.
me: Hahaha. "MD wanted for friendship, ability to answer health questions."
W: Dude let's do it, and see if someone responds.
me: What will they get out of it though??
W: Dude we are so fun.
me: That's true. But a doctor might look down on having more than one drink at a time. Maybe doctors are lame? We'll have to craft the ad carefully so that only cool doctors reply.
W: Hmmm, you're right.
me: "Two fun girls seek cool doctor for friendship" ...we might get arrested, this sounds like an ad for an escort service.
W: HAHA
me: Do we care if the doctor is male or female?
W: Hmm. Well, I think I would prefer a female. But I don't really know why. I guess it doesn't matter.
me: I know why, it's because you want your life to be like the Yaz commercial where the friends are all at a swanky bar talking to their doctor friend about hormonal birth control.
W: YES. That is exactly what we are looking for.
me: So ok... "Two fun girls seek young, fun, fairly attractive (but not hotter than us) doctor to hang out at classy bars and sip cosmopolitans with, and you must agree to answer all our health questions at any time, and 'maybe you should talk to your primary care physician' is not a valid answer."
W: Yes, yes.
me: Should we include a picture? Not of us, but maybe a still from the Yaz commercial?
W: I think so.
Just like this... only our doctor friend will not be a dramatization. Suckers!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
A peek at my musical past
Since we are getting ready to have a yard sale this weekend, I've been digging through a lot of crap that, up until this point, has been enjoying a peaceful, undisturbed existence in the basement. I just came upon a box of cassette tapes, and immediately knew I'd struck gold. There is no way I'm selling these. You see, I still have a tape player in my 2002 Hyundai, so I've just uncovered hours of rockin' tunes for my morning commute.
Here is a sampling of what I've found:
The discovery of these tapes tells me three very important things about myself: first, and most disturbing, I have a heretofore undiagnosed hoarding issue. These tapes are from circa sixth grade, which was 18 years ago. Why do I still have them in my possession? (The only answer I can think of is that I must have visited the future at some point in my youth, realized that I would be driving a hilariously outdated car at age 30, and made the decision to save the tapes so that I wouldn't get bored on long road trips.) The second important realization is that my financial management skills at age 12 were simply nonexistent. Why did I have so many singles? Didn't I realize that for a few dollars more, I could have the entire album? And finally, if I do say so myself, I was a cooler middle schooler than I ever gave myself credit for. If I had been born a few years earlier, I would have been a full-on groupie, and I'd have the illegitimate children by Bret Michaels to prove it (btw, I'm praying for you, Bret).
Here is a sampling of what I've found:
- Queen, The Show Must Go On and Bohemian Rhapsody (single)
- Guns n' Roses, G N' R Lies
- Guns n' Roses, Yesterdays (single)
- Poison, Look What The Cat Dragged In
- Poison, Every Rose Has Its Thorn (single)
- Def Leppard, Love Bites (single)
- Skid Row, Skid Row
- Ozzy Osbourne, Time After Time (single)
- Vanilla Ice, To The Extreme
Look at this treasure trove of awesome. Oops, I spy NKOTB!
The discovery of these tapes tells me three very important things about myself: first, and most disturbing, I have a heretofore undiagnosed hoarding issue. These tapes are from circa sixth grade, which was 18 years ago. Why do I still have them in my possession? (The only answer I can think of is that I must have visited the future at some point in my youth, realized that I would be driving a hilariously outdated car at age 30, and made the decision to save the tapes so that I wouldn't get bored on long road trips.) The second important realization is that my financial management skills at age 12 were simply nonexistent. Why did I have so many singles? Didn't I realize that for a few dollars more, I could have the entire album? And finally, if I do say so myself, I was a cooler middle schooler than I ever gave myself credit for. If I had been born a few years earlier, I would have been a full-on groupie, and I'd have the illegitimate children by Bret Michaels to prove it (btw, I'm praying for you, Bret).
The only thing I can't really explain is the Vanilla Ice tape, simply because I fancied myself too cool for "rap" back then. There is a strong possibility that this tape was bought many years later, perhaps even at a yard sale. Now some may dismiss the musical stylings of Mr. Ice, and to them I say, have you even listened to Havin' a Roni? No really, have you? Because you totally should.
Note: I couldn't find a video of just the song, so you'll just have to watch this asshole lip-syncing. P.S. What's a roni?
Note: I couldn't find a video of just the song, so you'll just have to watch this asshole lip-syncing. P.S. What's a roni?
Actually it's a cardigan, but thanks for noticing
As an avid fan of every formulaic crime drama on television, I've always felt a close affinity to police officers. I am always on the lookout for crimes in progress, so that I can become a star witness and help the police crack the case. "Wow, that girl sure was helpful in cracking our case," they would say. And then they would beg me to join the police force, but of course I would decline. I can't be tied down by their rules, you see. I would, however, agree to help them as a consultant. I would be paid handsomely for my efforts, and I'd be a local hero. Naturally.
Although this exact scenario hasn't quite happened yet, I did have an exciting run-in with the police a few months ago. Like most of my adventures, it all began over a pitcher of margaritas. (Actually it was a rum and Coke, but that doesn't sound as poetic.) My friend Starlene (totally her real name) and I were planning a baby shower while enjoying a few drinks at a local watering hole. And for the record, you can be sure that the baby shower turned out a lot more awesome than it would have had we been planning it over tea and crumpets. Anyway, as the evening wore on, it became apparent that I should probably leave my car where it was and spend the night at Starlene's house, which is something I frequently do when Matt is traveling for work. Starlene and her husband Dean always welcome me into their home with open arms, even when I do terrible things like throw mangoes on the floor and put their cat in a colander.
Anyway. Dean and Starlene ASSURED me that it would be fine to leave my car in the parking garage overnight, and that Dean would drop me off at my car on his way to church the next morning. As we pulled into the parking garage the next day, something didn't seem right. Like a Blessid Union of Souls concert in 2010, the garage felt eerily empty. Sure enough, my car had been towed. We called the number on the very clearly marked "No Overnight Parking" sign and got directions to the tow lot. (Let the record show that Dean felt terrible about this mishap and even offered to pay to get the car out, which I politely declined, but I totally thought about it.)
We got on the highway and began heading to our destination, but soon found that our exit was blocked by a police car. I called the guy at the towing company again (we were pretty chummy at this point), and he gave us an alternate route. Just our luck, that route was blocked too. We made our way back to the original exit, where Dean bravely pulled his car off to the shoulder and got out so that he could talk to the police man (who I am pretty sure, put his hand on his gun as he saw Dean approaching). It turned out that there was a big bike race going on (nerds), and there was no way to reach the impound lot. The cop instructed us to go to yet another blocked exit, where we were to ask the police officers there what to do.
At the final exit, we found two regular cops and one motorcycle cop. (I was able to refrain from yelling, "Killer boots, man!", but just barely.) After conferring amongst themselves, they decided that one of them would drive me through the bike race to the impound lot, and then the motorcycle cop would escort me back to the highway. ESCORT ME! Like my own personal parade!!! I could not have been more thrilled. This was totally worth the $125 to get my car back.
The first stumbling block in my awesome experience was that I had to ride through the bike race with a female cop. Now, there's nothing wrong with female police officers, but I can't very well flirt with a girl cop. I was hoping for Elliot Stabler, and instead I got Olivia Benson. Except not even as cool as Olivia Benson. Then, as if that weren't bad enough, she asked me if I had any weapons in my purse, and she made me sit in the back seat like a common criminal. This was not the exciting ride along I had hoped for. But I kept quiet, because I still had my personal motorcade to look forward to.
Benson dropped me off and drove away, and Officer Boots, who had followed behind us on his chopper, waited for me to pay the tow truck man. I got my car back, strapped myself in, and prepared myself for the ride of my life. Boots revved his engine and put his flashing lights on. This was it -- my moment of fame! We pulled out of the impound lot onto the road with all the bikes... except there were no bikes. It appeared that everyone had passed. My heart sank. No one was going to be there to witness my parade, and our exit to the highway was only about a quarter mile ahead. Just then, Boots signaled for me to pull up next to him. He had taken pity on me! Surely he was going to say, "Come on, let's see how fast you can make that Hyundai go!" or "Why don't you pull over and get on the back of my bike!" I rolled down my window expectantly and flashed him a smile. "Put on your hazard lights," he said blandly. I complied and rolled up the window. "Ten-four, officer."
Needless to say, my dreams of hanging out with detectives and nabbing perps in my spare time have not yet come true. But I feel like I'm a little bit closer to achieving my goal. Anytime I see a pack of motorcycle cops rumbling down the highway together, I think back to my own mini-motorcade, and I give the officers an experienced nod that says, "I'm so totally one of you guys." Hey, it's a start.
Although this exact scenario hasn't quite happened yet, I did have an exciting run-in with the police a few months ago. Like most of my adventures, it all began over a pitcher of margaritas. (Actually it was a rum and Coke, but that doesn't sound as poetic.) My friend Starlene (totally her real name) and I were planning a baby shower while enjoying a few drinks at a local watering hole. And for the record, you can be sure that the baby shower turned out a lot more awesome than it would have had we been planning it over tea and crumpets. Anyway, as the evening wore on, it became apparent that I should probably leave my car where it was and spend the night at Starlene's house, which is something I frequently do when Matt is traveling for work. Starlene and her husband Dean always welcome me into their home with open arms, even when I do terrible things like throw mangoes on the floor and put their cat in a colander.
Anyway. Dean and Starlene ASSURED me that it would be fine to leave my car in the parking garage overnight, and that Dean would drop me off at my car on his way to church the next morning. As we pulled into the parking garage the next day, something didn't seem right. Like a Blessid Union of Souls concert in 2010, the garage felt eerily empty. Sure enough, my car had been towed. We called the number on the very clearly marked "No Overnight Parking" sign and got directions to the tow lot. (Let the record show that Dean felt terrible about this mishap and even offered to pay to get the car out, which I politely declined, but I totally thought about it.)
We got on the highway and began heading to our destination, but soon found that our exit was blocked by a police car. I called the guy at the towing company again (we were pretty chummy at this point), and he gave us an alternate route. Just our luck, that route was blocked too. We made our way back to the original exit, where Dean bravely pulled his car off to the shoulder and got out so that he could talk to the police man (who I am pretty sure, put his hand on his gun as he saw Dean approaching). It turned out that there was a big bike race going on (nerds), and there was no way to reach the impound lot. The cop instructed us to go to yet another blocked exit, where we were to ask the police officers there what to do.
At the final exit, we found two regular cops and one motorcycle cop. (I was able to refrain from yelling, "Killer boots, man!", but just barely.) After conferring amongst themselves, they decided that one of them would drive me through the bike race to the impound lot, and then the motorcycle cop would escort me back to the highway. ESCORT ME! Like my own personal parade!!! I could not have been more thrilled. This was totally worth the $125 to get my car back.
The first stumbling block in my awesome experience was that I had to ride through the bike race with a female cop. Now, there's nothing wrong with female police officers, but I can't very well flirt with a girl cop. I was hoping for Elliot Stabler, and instead I got Olivia Benson. Except not even as cool as Olivia Benson. Then, as if that weren't bad enough, she asked me if I had any weapons in my purse, and she made me sit in the back seat like a common criminal. This was not the exciting ride along I had hoped for. But I kept quiet, because I still had my personal motorcade to look forward to.
Benson dropped me off and drove away, and Officer Boots, who had followed behind us on his chopper, waited for me to pay the tow truck man. I got my car back, strapped myself in, and prepared myself for the ride of my life. Boots revved his engine and put his flashing lights on. This was it -- my moment of fame! We pulled out of the impound lot onto the road with all the bikes... except there were no bikes. It appeared that everyone had passed. My heart sank. No one was going to be there to witness my parade, and our exit to the highway was only about a quarter mile ahead. Just then, Boots signaled for me to pull up next to him. He had taken pity on me! Surely he was going to say, "Come on, let's see how fast you can make that Hyundai go!" or "Why don't you pull over and get on the back of my bike!" I rolled down my window expectantly and flashed him a smile. "Put on your hazard lights," he said blandly. I complied and rolled up the window. "Ten-four, officer."
Needless to say, my dreams of hanging out with detectives and nabbing perps in my spare time have not yet come true. But I feel like I'm a little bit closer to achieving my goal. Anytime I see a pack of motorcycle cops rumbling down the highway together, I think back to my own mini-motorcade, and I give the officers an experienced nod that says, "I'm so totally one of you guys." Hey, it's a start.
Hand Me the Kleenex
As I wept through two hours of The Biggest Loser last night (they are so inspirational, so truthfully, I was weeping and doing push-ups simultaneously), it struck me that I've become a total sap. I've always been a crier, but I don't recall ever being this ridiculous before. I can't really put my finger on when it started; I think I've just gotten more emotional as I've gotten older.
I will cry at pretty much any movie, especially if it involves young lovers separated by war, destitute children, the elderly, or all of the above. But the one movie that REALLY gets the waterworks going is also arguably the worst movie ever made: P.S. I Love You.
The first time I saw the preview for the film, I immediately burst into tears and made Matt promise that he would never die. He agreed not to die, but refused to see the movie with me. So when it came out, one of my besties and I loaded our purses with tissue and headed off to the movies. I think we were the only ones in the theater, and we were both sobbing within two minutes of the opening credits.
I think it's the unique combination of an Irish accent, a brain tumor, and letters from beyond the grave that hits me so hard. Oh who am I kidding, it's mostly just the Irish accent. If this movie had been about an American guy who wrote letters to his wife before he died, it would have been utter shit. An Irish accent can cover a multitude of sins. Gerard Butler in a wifebeater doesn't hurt either.
The only other thing that comes close to making me cry as much as P.S. I Love You is Sarah McLachlan's ASPCA commercial:
See? I'm getting a little choked up right now. I'm telling you, abused animals and fictional dead Irish guys. They get me every time!
I will cry at pretty much any movie, especially if it involves young lovers separated by war, destitute children, the elderly, or all of the above. But the one movie that REALLY gets the waterworks going is also arguably the worst movie ever made: P.S. I Love You.
The first time I saw the preview for the film, I immediately burst into tears and made Matt promise that he would never die. He agreed not to die, but refused to see the movie with me. So when it came out, one of my besties and I loaded our purses with tissue and headed off to the movies. I think we were the only ones in the theater, and we were both sobbing within two minutes of the opening credits.
I think it's the unique combination of an Irish accent, a brain tumor, and letters from beyond the grave that hits me so hard. Oh who am I kidding, it's mostly just the Irish accent. If this movie had been about an American guy who wrote letters to his wife before he died, it would have been utter shit. An Irish accent can cover a multitude of sins. Gerard Butler in a wifebeater doesn't hurt either.
The only other thing that comes close to making me cry as much as P.S. I Love You is Sarah McLachlan's ASPCA commercial:
See? I'm getting a little choked up right now. I'm telling you, abused animals and fictional dead Irish guys. They get me every time!
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Fattest Thing Ever
Everyone will surely agree that the best part of living in the greater Washington, DC metropolitan area is unlimited access to a tasty treasure known as "jumbo slice." Jumbo slice is basically shitty Brooklyn-style pizza, sliced so large that it must be served across not one, but two paper plates. It's a magical dream food for drunk people who love cheese and don't care about things like food quality or sanitation.
There are several establishments that serve this type of pizza in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of DC. Some people claim to prefer one pizza joint over others, but I don't really care enough to research the names of the various restaurants. I'm not even sure if "jumbo slice" is the name of a place, or if that's just what they serve. I mean seriously, no one goes there unless they are on the verge of blacking out, so I just refuse to believe that anyone knows the truth. Anyway, they all serve pizza, they all have neon lights, and they are all just a few steps away from whatever bar you stumbled out of. Don't get me wrong, I am not sitting on any high horses here. I have chowed down on more than my fair share of this greasy gift from the gods.
But today I learned a disturbing fact: each jumbo slice has 1,117 calories and 47 grams of fat. I don't know why this comes as a surprise to me. I guess I thought that food eaten while intoxicated has zero calories. If you can't remember eating it, you didn't eat it. But now that I know the ugly truth, I'll never be able to enjoy a slice again. I don't go to Adams Morgan that often... in fact I can't even remember the last time I was there (no really, I can't remember it), but the pizza is always the best part. And now it's ruined. Next thing you know, they'll tell me 7-11 nachos have calories too.
There are several establishments that serve this type of pizza in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of DC. Some people claim to prefer one pizza joint over others, but I don't really care enough to research the names of the various restaurants. I'm not even sure if "jumbo slice" is the name of a place, or if that's just what they serve. I mean seriously, no one goes there unless they are on the verge of blacking out, so I just refuse to believe that anyone knows the truth. Anyway, they all serve pizza, they all have neon lights, and they are all just a few steps away from whatever bar you stumbled out of. Don't get me wrong, I am not sitting on any high horses here. I have chowed down on more than my fair share of this greasy gift from the gods.
But today I learned a disturbing fact: each jumbo slice has 1,117 calories and 47 grams of fat. I don't know why this comes as a surprise to me. I guess I thought that food eaten while intoxicated has zero calories. If you can't remember eating it, you didn't eat it. But now that I know the ugly truth, I'll never be able to enjoy a slice again. I don't go to Adams Morgan that often... in fact I can't even remember the last time I was there (no really, I can't remember it), but the pizza is always the best part. And now it's ruined. Next thing you know, they'll tell me 7-11 nachos have calories too.
Not-So-Grand Entrance
A lot of women claim to have been planning their weddings since they were little girls. I believe this is bullshit, but of course I'd never say that to a bride-to-be because them bitches be crazy! The only part of my wedding I can honestly say that I've ever envisioned is the grand entrance to the reception. The problem is, prior to meeting Matt, I always imagined my entrance as a choreographed, Broadway-quality performance of Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now," complete with light show, bedazzled costumes, and shirtless male dancers. The main issue I see with this concept is -- wait, let me stop myself there. There is no issue with this concept. It's brilliant. But the reasons it won't work out for our wedding are two-fold. Number one, I failed to include any part for my future groom in this performance (remember I said it was before I met Matt, so don't judge), and number two (heh heh, number two), it's not really very wedding-y. At all.
So, because I want Matt to actually attend his own wedding reception, I've agreed to compromise. We're going to choose a song that we both like, and have it played by the DJ as she announces us. No, there won't be any light shows or dancers, but I'm sure it will still be quite lovely.
Unfortunately, Matt has already vetoed the following suggestions:
For what it's worth, Matt's sole suggestion for an entrance song is the theme to Family Feud. This makes me laugh and cringe at the same time. And it also makes me think about Richard Dawson, which is a thought I want to avoid on my wedding day. So for now it's back to the drawing board. I'm sure we'll come up with something suitably awesome, even if it's not as good as my Queen dance number.
So, because I want Matt to actually attend his own wedding reception, I've agreed to compromise. We're going to choose a song that we both like, and have it played by the DJ as she announces us. No, there won't be any light shows or dancers, but I'm sure it will still be quite lovely.
Unfortunately, Matt has already vetoed the following suggestions:
- "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" by The Darkness, because when used at a wedding, this song supposedly portends the failure of the marriage (I can't remember the logic behind that claim, sadly, because I'm sure it was hilarious.)
- Anything by Lady Gaga. For no good reason at all. Unfair! And I will make certain the DJ plays copious amounts of Gaga later in the evening to make up for it.
- "Don't Stop Believin'" as performed by the cast of Glee. Deemed "too gay."
- "Time to Pretend" by MGMT, because apparently the lyrics "I'll move to Paris/Shoot some heroin/And fuck with the stars" are not wedding-appropriate.
- "Get in the Ring" by Guns n' Roses. I seriously cannot think of a better entrance song, but this one was vetoed because it has every swear word ever invented in it, and it might offend some guests.
For what it's worth, Matt's sole suggestion for an entrance song is the theme to Family Feud. This makes me laugh and cringe at the same time. And it also makes me think about Richard Dawson, which is a thought I want to avoid on my wedding day. So for now it's back to the drawing board. I'm sure we'll come up with something suitably awesome, even if it's not as good as my Queen dance number.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
My supplier
Waking up is a difficult process for me. I function best on 12-16 hours of sleep, but this isn't exactly realistic on a day-to-day basis. It goes without saying that I value ten extra minutes of sleep more than getting up in time to make my own coffee and breakfast, so I end up spending a shocking amount of my fairly pathetic paycheck on lattés, and if I am feeling fancy, oatmeal.
I used to be a strictly Starbucks kind of girl. Then in an effort to save money, I started buying coffee from the deli on the main floor of my office building. (If I really wanted to save money, I would drink the free stuff that comes from the machine in our office kitchen, but seriously, you have to have standards.) Then, just before Christmas, disaster struck. Without warning, or even a goodbye, the deli closed down. I needed a new supplier. Enter my shameful secret: McCafé.
It was perfect - a reasonably priced latté that I could purchase through a drive-thru window? What's not to love? Before long, I was hitting up the McDonald's drive-thru almost every weekday. (I know how fat that sounds, but a medium non-fat latté does not have that many calories, I swear.) The man working the register began to recognize me. The first time he greeted me with "Ayyy... two Splendas?" I panicked. I frantically texted my friend, "The man at McDonald's knew I wanted two Splendas with my latté without having to ask." She wisely responded, "Better find a new place to get coffee."
And for a while I did. But it wasn't the same. The coffee was never as good anywhere else, and the service was mediocre at best. And to be honest, I missed my cashier friend. Almost as much as I missed my mass-produced lattés. Slowly, I started making trips back to McDonald's. And wouldn't you know it, my buddy was thrilled to see me again (at least in my imagination). By now, he doesn't even have to ask anymore if I want Splenda. He just hands it to me with a stir stick.
Sure, some people may judge me for being Mickey D's most loyal customer, but I don't listen to the naysayers and all their saying of nay. To quote the theme song from Cheers, sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. And by "everybody knows your name" I mean, "one guy knows what you want in your coffee." Close enough, am I right?
I used to be a strictly Starbucks kind of girl. Then in an effort to save money, I started buying coffee from the deli on the main floor of my office building. (If I really wanted to save money, I would drink the free stuff that comes from the machine in our office kitchen, but seriously, you have to have standards.) Then, just before Christmas, disaster struck. Without warning, or even a goodbye, the deli closed down. I needed a new supplier. Enter my shameful secret: McCafé.
It was perfect - a reasonably priced latté that I could purchase through a drive-thru window? What's not to love? Before long, I was hitting up the McDonald's drive-thru almost every weekday. (I know how fat that sounds, but a medium non-fat latté does not have that many calories, I swear.) The man working the register began to recognize me. The first time he greeted me with "Ayyy... two Splendas?" I panicked. I frantically texted my friend, "The man at McDonald's knew I wanted two Splendas with my latté without having to ask." She wisely responded, "Better find a new place to get coffee."
And for a while I did. But it wasn't the same. The coffee was never as good anywhere else, and the service was mediocre at best. And to be honest, I missed my cashier friend. Almost as much as I missed my mass-produced lattés. Slowly, I started making trips back to McDonald's. And wouldn't you know it, my buddy was thrilled to see me again (at least in my imagination). By now, he doesn't even have to ask anymore if I want Splenda. He just hands it to me with a stir stick.
Sure, some people may judge me for being Mickey D's most loyal customer, but I don't listen to the naysayers and all their saying of nay. To quote the theme song from Cheers, sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. And by "everybody knows your name" I mean, "one guy knows what you want in your coffee." Close enough, am I right?
Friday, April 16, 2010
Loyal Order of Water Buffalo
This morning, as I was digging through our spare change dish for coffee money (yes, my life has gotten to that point, thank you for noticing) I discovered a small, bronze American Legion pin. Now, I really don't have any idea what the American Legion is, hence the title of this post. My experience with this sort of club is limited to Fred Flintstone, who, for the record, looks pretty good in that furry blue hat. I am obviously not a member of the American Legion, and I know without having to ask that my fiancé Matt is not a member either (he was kicked out of the Cub Scouts... I wish I was lying). So the existence of this pin in my house can only mean one of three things.
1. I have developed multiple personality disorder, and one of my personalities actually DID join the American Legion. This seems plausible, except for the fact that I'm a big fan of pins, so I can't see why any of my personalities would have just tossed it in with the spare change. I mean, I'm wearing the pin right now and I still don't know what the American Legion is, so it seems unlikely that any part of my consciousness would have given up the opportunity to wear a little flare.
2. My intended has taken to a life of crime in order to pay for life of luxury. He broke into someone's car to pilfer their loose change, and inadvertently picked up a snazzy little pin in the process. This scenario also seems unlikely because a) Matt is an honest man, and b) if he were to steal, he damn well better come back with something a little better than a few quarters.
3. The obvious answer: a benevolent old man has been stealthily breaking into our home and depositing his spare change into a dish in the living room. This last time around, he accidentally dropped his American Legion pin in with his weekly donation of 37 cents. He's kind of like the tooth fairy for adults, only we don't have to lose any teeth (thank God... oral health is really important to me). I mean, this is the only scenario that makes sense. I guess I will leave the pin out on the coffee table for him next week. But is it so much to ask that he starts giving us dollars? Come on, sir.
1. I have developed multiple personality disorder, and one of my personalities actually DID join the American Legion. This seems plausible, except for the fact that I'm a big fan of pins, so I can't see why any of my personalities would have just tossed it in with the spare change. I mean, I'm wearing the pin right now and I still don't know what the American Legion is, so it seems unlikely that any part of my consciousness would have given up the opportunity to wear a little flare.
Hello, it goes with my outfit.
2. My intended has taken to a life of crime in order to pay for life of luxury. He broke into someone's car to pilfer their loose change, and inadvertently picked up a snazzy little pin in the process. This scenario also seems unlikely because a) Matt is an honest man, and b) if he were to steal, he damn well better come back with something a little better than a few quarters.
3. The obvious answer: a benevolent old man has been stealthily breaking into our home and depositing his spare change into a dish in the living room. This last time around, he accidentally dropped his American Legion pin in with his weekly donation of 37 cents. He's kind of like the tooth fairy for adults, only we don't have to lose any teeth (thank God... oral health is really important to me). I mean, this is the only scenario that makes sense. I guess I will leave the pin out on the coffee table for him next week. But is it so much to ask that he starts giving us dollars? Come on, sir.
Together Fur-ever
Last night my mother and I went for a constitutional. (This is a fancy way of saying we went for a walk as a benefit to our health, but we didn't actually walk hard enough to generate a sweat. As my mom likes to say, "We don't walk for exercise! Only for beauty." Your guess is as good as mine as to what this actually means.) We strolled through her neighborhood -- which makes sense since it's safe and there are nice houses to look at. The last time I went for a walk in my own neighborhood, I discovered a spray-painted note on the sidewalk threatening death by machete to all white people. And I swear I live in a nice neighborhood. Although I guess if you've gotta go, machete is a pretty bad ass way to die. Anyway.
We rounded a corner, and there in the middle of the street lay two dead squirrels. When I see roadkill, I choose to look away and pretend that the animal is just taking a siesta. I was ready to walk on by. Such is the cycle of life. My mom, on the other hand, chose to get emotionally involved. I pleaded with her to continue walking, pointing out that rigor had already set in (I watch CSI), and there was nothing we could do for them. Not to mention, they were simply covered with germs. Ignoring my sage advice to move on, my mother decided to go in for a closer look. "Oh God!" she proclaimed. "One's a baby!" It was at about this point that I decided to walk a few yards away so that no one would think I knew her.
From a safe distance, I watched as she procured a giant stick -- it would have made a nice walking stick, in fact, if we'd still been walking. First she dealt with the momma squirrel. Gently, and with as much dignity as one can muster while poking a dead squirrel with a stick, she pushed the squirrel to the edge of the road. A truck had pulled up by this point and was waiting to pass, but my mother was determined to save the squirrel carcasses. She went back for the baby squirrel, pushing with the squirrel-stick in her left hand, and holding one finger up on her right hand as if to tell the truck driver, "Please wait. I am doing the Lord's work."
She finally got the baby squirrel a safe distance off the road so that it would not be squished (this actually takes longer than you would imagine), but she continued pushing him along with her stick. I entreated her to hurry up, because by now there were two cars waiting to pass, and it had become fairly obvious that I was, in fact, related to the lady with the stick. She paid me no heed. I watched as she nudged the baby squirrel closer to the mother. She poked a few more times, and it became apparent that she wasn't just pushing the squirrels out of the road. No, she was carefully arranging them in a lovely tableau. Like a modern day, fur-covered La Pietà. (Blasphemous, I know.) "At least now they're hugging," she explained.
Motherhood is a strange thing I guess. You want to do the best for your kids, but sometimes you inadvertently lead them into the street only to be hit by a car, and have your dead bodies prodded at by a stranger with a stick. I'm pretty sure the squirrels would have been better off if they had met their end by machete. At least then they would have some street cred.
We rounded a corner, and there in the middle of the street lay two dead squirrels. When I see roadkill, I choose to look away and pretend that the animal is just taking a siesta. I was ready to walk on by. Such is the cycle of life. My mom, on the other hand, chose to get emotionally involved. I pleaded with her to continue walking, pointing out that rigor had already set in (I watch CSI), and there was nothing we could do for them. Not to mention, they were simply covered with germs. Ignoring my sage advice to move on, my mother decided to go in for a closer look. "Oh God!" she proclaimed. "One's a baby!" It was at about this point that I decided to walk a few yards away so that no one would think I knew her.
From a safe distance, I watched as she procured a giant stick -- it would have made a nice walking stick, in fact, if we'd still been walking. First she dealt with the momma squirrel. Gently, and with as much dignity as one can muster while poking a dead squirrel with a stick, she pushed the squirrel to the edge of the road. A truck had pulled up by this point and was waiting to pass, but my mother was determined to save the squirrel carcasses. She went back for the baby squirrel, pushing with the squirrel-stick in her left hand, and holding one finger up on her right hand as if to tell the truck driver, "Please wait. I am doing the Lord's work."
She finally got the baby squirrel a safe distance off the road so that it would not be squished (this actually takes longer than you would imagine), but she continued pushing him along with her stick. I entreated her to hurry up, because by now there were two cars waiting to pass, and it had become fairly obvious that I was, in fact, related to the lady with the stick. She paid me no heed. I watched as she nudged the baby squirrel closer to the mother. She poked a few more times, and it became apparent that she wasn't just pushing the squirrels out of the road. No, she was carefully arranging them in a lovely tableau. Like a modern day, fur-covered La Pietà. (Blasphemous, I know.) "At least now they're hugging," she explained.
Motherhood is a strange thing I guess. You want to do the best for your kids, but sometimes you inadvertently lead them into the street only to be hit by a car, and have your dead bodies prodded at by a stranger with a stick. I'm pretty sure the squirrels would have been better off if they had met their end by machete. At least then they would have some street cred.
Amen.
(photo from the delightfully bizarre sugarbushsquirrel.com. You can thank me later for the link.)
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Slightly healthier than vodka and crème brûlée
Not that I don't enjoy a nice mug of vodka with my egg-based desserts, but caffeinated beverages and cupcakes are more readily available. And I like alliteration.
Some other things I like:
Animals doing people things
Pretending not to speak English
Guns n' Roses
NCIS reruns on USA
Salt on watermelon
Late night dance parties
Wizards
New shoes
Parentheses
Terrible jokes
Getting the Final Jeopardy question right (and then announcing that I wagered it all)
This will be where I write things that I want people to read. It might also be where I write things that I don't want to forget, as I have a tendency to lose things (parking tickets, cash, my dignity, etc.). Thanks for looking.
Some other things I like:
Animals doing people things
Pretending not to speak English
Guns n' Roses
NCIS reruns on USA
Salt on watermelon
Late night dance parties
Wizards
New shoes
Parentheses
Terrible jokes
Getting the Final Jeopardy question right (and then announcing that I wagered it all)
This will be where I write things that I want people to read. It might also be where I write things that I don't want to forget, as I have a tendency to lose things (parking tickets, cash, my dignity, etc.). Thanks for looking.
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