My memory is a frightening, frightening thing. Most of you know this, and of course, sometimes it is not always accurate, and you catch me. But for the most part, I can tell you the most minute details about my past, as well as many, many of the people who reads this blog's past, too, including things that happened way before I knew them that they told me about.
It's a blessing and a curse, as I remember in excruciating detail the hell that was junior high. Every now and then, though, something triggers a memory, and it's really funny...
Somehow, tonight, Alissa and I started talking about going to Friendly's, and you know what I remembered?!?! Wumpa wumpa wumpa! Anyone else with me? You know, wumpa wumpa wumpa! (Basically, for the uninitiated our there, Friendly's had both a hand blow drier AND a trash can with one of those spinning lids, and if you put the trash can with the lid under the drier, turn on the blower and tap the rotating lid, the air from the drier would spin the lid around, making, well, a "wumpa wumpa wumpa" sound.)
This killed us. It was a ritual. We had a wumpa wumpa wumpa dance and everything. The best part was, if there was a lot of trash, the blower would kick up a paper towel from the can, it would float up, and the rotating lid would slap it back into the trash can. This was endlessly amusing, until Friendly's got tired of the group of us crowding into the bathroom and chanting "WUMPA WUMPA WUMPA" and dancing around, so they took the lid off.
This is what my friends and I did in high school instead of drugs. This kills me now. I can't believe we did that. I can't believe I remember it.
One more- Enders and Becky, I know you are out there from time to time, this is for you :) - My mom sent me a clipping from the Lancaster newspapers today. Jackey "Smackie" Girlach (misspelling intentional, don't want a google search leading anyone here) got married. To Dayve Umholtz, whom I think was a Mountville boy? (Bek? Yes?)
Anyway, I started thinking about Smackie and I remembered the, uh, letter of recommendation her mom wrote to Enders our senior year when Jackey had a huge crush on him, talking about "how you seem like such a nice boy- Smackie [sic] tells us about the naughty things you do in chorus (most making fun of the long term sub for Mr. Muhdrick, Goddess bless her) and how you have a wonderful ear for music, but I suggest you have your eyes examined because you don't seem to be able to see that Smackie (sic) is in love with you" and listed her daughter's good traits, including her "good teeth" or something.
It was nasty to make fun of that then, and it's nasty to do it now, but it's still increcdibly funny to me. Sorry. That makes me a bad person, I know. The announcement said Tina was the maid of honor, and their mom was the matron of honor. Huh.
Ah, there's nothing like small-town gossip to make me air out my claws.
Saturday, June 29, 2002
Thursday, June 27, 2002
Okay, I PROMISED myself that I wouldn't copy after Gwen and Alissa and do this. I swore I wouldn't. But I checked it out, just for me, and it's too funny not to share. (For those of you who don't read their blogs, try this fun new google game. Type your name and the word "is" into a google search, and surround them both by quotation marks, i.e. "Angie is," and hit search)
Hee hee hee hee hee…..
Angie is really a phenomenon for Asian tennis.
Angie is a very proficient braille reader and writer.
Angie is a treasure.
Angie is dumber than a stump and MEAN, too. (Just ask my co-worker and the security guard I got stroppy at in Morida Flarlins stadium tonight.)
Angie is not a sorceress (I'm not?!?!)
Angie is really excited to tell her boyfriend the great news but Steve still doesn't like the way she looks (From Asianweek.com, not about us, but that's funny)
Angie is not, however, is typical.
Angie is not part of the family business; she is a jewelry designer, and she is desperately in love with Owen.
Angie is a rotten basketball player (how true)
Angie is an excellent ambassador for women in motorsports which is why she represents the true Spirit of the Fast Jane Woman.
Angie is also a former model who went into acting after a chance encounter with Germany's favorite singer, David Hasselhoff.
Angie is the best female whip cracker in the world today (minimum waaaaaa-ge, YAH! crack)
Angie is an 8-year-old, black bitch (This was about cocker spaniels)
Angie is injecting heroin with Michael.
Angie is described as having a "square ass."
Angie is in the absolute best shape of her life (HAHAHAHA…. Um, please pass the Doritos…?)
Hee hee hee hee hee…..
Angie is really a phenomenon for Asian tennis.
Angie is a very proficient braille reader and writer.
Angie is a treasure.
Angie is dumber than a stump and MEAN, too. (Just ask my co-worker and the security guard I got stroppy at in Morida Flarlins stadium tonight.)
Angie is not a sorceress (I'm not?!?!)
Angie is really excited to tell her boyfriend the great news but Steve still doesn't like the way she looks (From Asianweek.com, not about us, but that's funny)
Angie is not, however, is typical.
Angie is not part of the family business; she is a jewelry designer, and she is desperately in love with Owen.
Angie is a rotten basketball player (how true)
Angie is an excellent ambassador for women in motorsports which is why she represents the true Spirit of the Fast Jane Woman.
Angie is also a former model who went into acting after a chance encounter with Germany's favorite singer, David Hasselhoff.
Angie is the best female whip cracker in the world today (minimum waaaaaa-ge, YAH! crack)
Angie is an 8-year-old, black bitch (This was about cocker spaniels)
Angie is injecting heroin with Michael.
Angie is described as having a "square ass."
Angie is in the absolute best shape of her life (HAHAHAHA…. Um, please pass the Doritos…?)
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
Friday, June 21, 2002
Thursday, June 20, 2002
Happy Birthday, Jason! :) Alissa wrote a very touching birthday message on Girl Meets World, too, but there are many nice things to say about the Lovely Jason, and so here goes...
Happy Birthday to the Person Who.....
*Hates being late, but picked me up every day for school and waited until I stumbled out of the door with a very heavy packpack, a mug of Hawaiian punch and a paper plate of scrambled eggs (Thanks, Mom) and then let me keep a collection of said mugs on the floor of his otherwise immaculate car
*Who almost has me convinced that a Jack and Coke is a classy drink
*Who went hunting with his grandfather and cried when he shot a dove (at the age of like, 11, mind you)
*Who let me drag him into meddling with a friend's love life (in 10th grade, v. dramatic), and when said friend got very angry with us (although he dated that girl for eight years after that, please note), Jason tried to cheer me up by pretending to be a caveman and hopped around his kitchen with a thawing steak and a banana, saying, "MEAT! FRUIT! BOTH!"
*Who re-enacted that performance years later when we were inspired to make tacos at 3 a.m.
*Who let me (AND my dog) move in with him for five weeks, no questions asked, no money requested
*Who goes to a bar and attracts a crowd when he does a "car bomb" (dropping a shot glass of Bailey's Irish Cream into a pint of Guiness and drinking it straight down without coming up for air) inspiring many of the men in the bar to order them and attempt to do the same.
*Who lost his house key, kicked out a window to the basement to get in, and later wakes up the neighborhood screaming and trying to save his dog when a mad raccoon climbed in through the broken window, ran up the stairs and into his bedroom in the middle of the night.
*Who has never lost his love of music, ever
*Who will make a special woman very, very happy someday
*Who has put up with a lot of crap from me over the years, including my mentioning "the dove incident," see above, on the Internet. :)
So much love, J. I celebrate you and your gentle, compassionate self.
Happy Birthday to the Person Who.....
*Hates being late, but picked me up every day for school and waited until I stumbled out of the door with a very heavy packpack, a mug of Hawaiian punch and a paper plate of scrambled eggs (Thanks, Mom) and then let me keep a collection of said mugs on the floor of his otherwise immaculate car
*Who almost has me convinced that a Jack and Coke is a classy drink
*Who went hunting with his grandfather and cried when he shot a dove (at the age of like, 11, mind you)
*Who let me drag him into meddling with a friend's love life (in 10th grade, v. dramatic), and when said friend got very angry with us (although he dated that girl for eight years after that, please note), Jason tried to cheer me up by pretending to be a caveman and hopped around his kitchen with a thawing steak and a banana, saying, "MEAT! FRUIT! BOTH!"
*Who re-enacted that performance years later when we were inspired to make tacos at 3 a.m.
*Who let me (AND my dog) move in with him for five weeks, no questions asked, no money requested
*Who goes to a bar and attracts a crowd when he does a "car bomb" (dropping a shot glass of Bailey's Irish Cream into a pint of Guiness and drinking it straight down without coming up for air) inspiring many of the men in the bar to order them and attempt to do the same.
*Who lost his house key, kicked out a window to the basement to get in, and later wakes up the neighborhood screaming and trying to save his dog when a mad raccoon climbed in through the broken window, ran up the stairs and into his bedroom in the middle of the night.
*Who has never lost his love of music, ever
*Who will make a special woman very, very happy someday
*Who has put up with a lot of crap from me over the years, including my mentioning "the dove incident," see above, on the Internet. :)
So much love, J. I celebrate you and your gentle, compassionate self.
Tuesday, June 18, 2002
Sunday, June 16, 2002
Thanks for all your suggestions for names! Keep commenting!
Took Belle to the beach today. She even got in the water for two minutes, and was even enjoying splashing around with these very nice dogs (and Justin, their owner, who had a chiseled- HMM- body; nothing was going to happen as I too was in a bathing suit, even though I love Stephen, we all know this, and Justin had a girlfriend anyway, and Angie in a Bathing Suit these days is not particularly enticing, AND Justin obviously shaved his chest hair- stubble o la! EW- I would MUCH rather be near a semi-hairy chest than a shaved bristly stubbly one, thank you very much) but ANYWAY, then Bella got lifted off her feet by a wave, yelped, and swam/ran back to the shore, up the beach, up the steps and was sitting by the car by the time I caught up to her.
So we both got a good workout today, with all the walking and running on sand, throwing and fetching and whatnot, which is good, because I always get hungry on the long commute, and even though I have a fridge full of healthy dinner stuff waiting for me, I crack and stop at McDonald's, and as far as B is concerned, it rained all last week so her walks consisted of us sloshing around the apartment complex until she was all set and then running back to the dry, air-conditioned, "Ooh, I have sorbet!" apartment.
Okay. Need to go to bed, as I must be rested for the week. Right. Yes. Bed. Not Daily Show and Conan. Bed.
Took Belle to the beach today. She even got in the water for two minutes, and was even enjoying splashing around with these very nice dogs (and Justin, their owner, who had a chiseled- HMM- body; nothing was going to happen as I too was in a bathing suit, even though I love Stephen, we all know this, and Justin had a girlfriend anyway, and Angie in a Bathing Suit these days is not particularly enticing, AND Justin obviously shaved his chest hair- stubble o la! EW- I would MUCH rather be near a semi-hairy chest than a shaved bristly stubbly one, thank you very much) but ANYWAY, then Bella got lifted off her feet by a wave, yelped, and swam/ran back to the shore, up the beach, up the steps and was sitting by the car by the time I caught up to her.
So we both got a good workout today, with all the walking and running on sand, throwing and fetching and whatnot, which is good, because I always get hungry on the long commute, and even though I have a fridge full of healthy dinner stuff waiting for me, I crack and stop at McDonald's, and as far as B is concerned, it rained all last week so her walks consisted of us sloshing around the apartment complex until she was all set and then running back to the dry, air-conditioned, "Ooh, I have sorbet!" apartment.
Okay. Need to go to bed, as I must be rested for the week. Right. Yes. Bed. Not Daily Show and Conan. Bed.
It’s time to play Name These Cats! (Not my cats, not my cats, not my cats)
Okay, I found a very nice no-kill shelter right here in Miami. Yay! Good solution for the kitties that I have been helping a neighbor take care of, right? Wrong. I went to the shelter today, but they stopped accepting animals, even though their web site says no animals are turned away. Supposedly, the shelter fosters animals out when they’re full, but even their foster families are overloaded. Bad news bear.
So I start driving around aimlessly with these kittens who somehow managed to get out of the box they were in (Which they did multiple times when I was trying to get them into the car) even though I put a big-ass, minimum 25 lb photo case carrying a 300 mm, f2.8 lens on top of it. (By the way, that thing about cats being smarter than dogs? It’s true.) So they are climbing all over my car, meowing and staring at me with their big blue eyes. I. CAN. NOT. KEEP. THEM. Unbearable.
I see a PetSmart, pull over, and figure I’ll go in and start begging people to take them. I go to the Adoption Center and try relentlessly to get Patricia, the woman in charge, to take these cats. It turns out she works for a non-profit rescue, and she is literally fostering 60, yes 6-0, cats at her home. All her foster families are completely overloaded. I tell her I just don’t know what to do; I want them to be healthy and safe, but I just can’t afford the $400+ to inoculate and neuter them, not to mention the $250 per animal pet fee at my apartment complex, which I have already forked over once for Princess Isabella.
The next thing I know, she has gone to my car, inoculated them both, and gives me directions to her house in Ft. Lauderdale where I pick up (all this is free for me) a litter box, a carrier, a fairly big crate, de-worming meds, flea meds (NOT cheap; Bella’s costs $41 for three months), etc. They have an appointment with a vet to be neutered next weekend, and Patricia is arranging to get me a trap for the mother cat, who, in addition to being the OPPOSITE of domesticated, is preggers again, I think. So the kittens are on my mostly enclosed porch in a crate right now. Bella, who body slammed herself into the glass door when they first appeared on my porch (on purpose, but YES, she did accidentally run into my sliding glass door at home once, and YES, I am famous for that, too, sigh....) is doing rather well with this. She is a big fan of staring at them through the glass at the moment.
ANYWAY, I am NOT keeping these kittens. There are a million reasons why I can’t. But I am fostering them for now, and I think I am going to volunteer with this organization on weekends, and hopefully have them adopted out very soon. BUT.. in order to be adopted, they need names. This organization refuses to number cats and dogs like inmates, and I can understand that actually.
SO... (Finally!) it is time to play Name the Cats!
Here is what Stephen, Alissa and I have discussed so far. (The kittens are both boys, by the way).
1. Fred and George (as in Weasley, from the H.P. books. They aren’t twins, but they are brothers, and they are kind of troublemakers, and I definitely don’t want to name them anything like Fluffy or Pouncer) This is probably my first choice so far.
2. Harry and Ron (as in, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.) I like this a lot, actually, but my dad is named Harry, so that’s a little weird. On the other hand? I CAN’T KEEP THEM, so naming one Harry wouldn’t matter in the long run.
3. “Not My Cat” and “Also Not My Cat”. (Alissa suggested this one, as I kept insisting that these kittens are NOT mine. No. They are not. Not sure how this would go over on Adoption Days with the rescue organization, though)
4. “Take Me Home, Please” and “Please Take Me Home”- these crack me up! Still...
5. Monkey and Monkey (When Stephen and I are on the phone, and we still want to talk, but we have nothing left to say because neither of our days was particularly eventful, we end up just kind of being like, “Anyway, yeah... so, monkey, monkey.) It IS really funny to tell a story about them and refer to both of them as Monkey, (I tried it) but I’m not sure how this would go over with prospective parents either.
6. Mr. Thomas... for one of them. (When we were in London, Steve had this Art History professor- incredibly prim, middle-aged, British woman- who showed slides of her cat, saying, “And this is my life partner- MEES-ter THOM-as!” Call me, it’s better if you hear it)
Anyway, and all other “not obscene or cutesy” suggestions are welcomed! Please, comment away!! :)
Okay, I found a very nice no-kill shelter right here in Miami. Yay! Good solution for the kitties that I have been helping a neighbor take care of, right? Wrong. I went to the shelter today, but they stopped accepting animals, even though their web site says no animals are turned away. Supposedly, the shelter fosters animals out when they’re full, but even their foster families are overloaded. Bad news bear.
So I start driving around aimlessly with these kittens who somehow managed to get out of the box they were in (Which they did multiple times when I was trying to get them into the car) even though I put a big-ass, minimum 25 lb photo case carrying a 300 mm, f2.8 lens on top of it. (By the way, that thing about cats being smarter than dogs? It’s true.) So they are climbing all over my car, meowing and staring at me with their big blue eyes. I. CAN. NOT. KEEP. THEM. Unbearable.
I see a PetSmart, pull over, and figure I’ll go in and start begging people to take them. I go to the Adoption Center and try relentlessly to get Patricia, the woman in charge, to take these cats. It turns out she works for a non-profit rescue, and she is literally fostering 60, yes 6-0, cats at her home. All her foster families are completely overloaded. I tell her I just don’t know what to do; I want them to be healthy and safe, but I just can’t afford the $400+ to inoculate and neuter them, not to mention the $250 per animal pet fee at my apartment complex, which I have already forked over once for Princess Isabella.
The next thing I know, she has gone to my car, inoculated them both, and gives me directions to her house in Ft. Lauderdale where I pick up (all this is free for me) a litter box, a carrier, a fairly big crate, de-worming meds, flea meds (NOT cheap; Bella’s costs $41 for three months), etc. They have an appointment with a vet to be neutered next weekend, and Patricia is arranging to get me a trap for the mother cat, who, in addition to being the OPPOSITE of domesticated, is preggers again, I think. So the kittens are on my mostly enclosed porch in a crate right now. Bella, who body slammed herself into the glass door when they first appeared on my porch (on purpose, but YES, she did accidentally run into my sliding glass door at home once, and YES, I am famous for that, too, sigh....) is doing rather well with this. She is a big fan of staring at them through the glass at the moment.
ANYWAY, I am NOT keeping these kittens. There are a million reasons why I can’t. But I am fostering them for now, and I think I am going to volunteer with this organization on weekends, and hopefully have them adopted out very soon. BUT.. in order to be adopted, they need names. This organization refuses to number cats and dogs like inmates, and I can understand that actually.
SO... (Finally!) it is time to play Name the Cats!
Here is what Stephen, Alissa and I have discussed so far. (The kittens are both boys, by the way).
1. Fred and George (as in Weasley, from the H.P. books. They aren’t twins, but they are brothers, and they are kind of troublemakers, and I definitely don’t want to name them anything like Fluffy or Pouncer) This is probably my first choice so far.
2. Harry and Ron (as in, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.) I like this a lot, actually, but my dad is named Harry, so that’s a little weird. On the other hand? I CAN’T KEEP THEM, so naming one Harry wouldn’t matter in the long run.
3. “Not My Cat” and “Also Not My Cat”. (Alissa suggested this one, as I kept insisting that these kittens are NOT mine. No. They are not. Not sure how this would go over on Adoption Days with the rescue organization, though)
4. “Take Me Home, Please” and “Please Take Me Home”- these crack me up! Still...
5. Monkey and Monkey (When Stephen and I are on the phone, and we still want to talk, but we have nothing left to say because neither of our days was particularly eventful, we end up just kind of being like, “Anyway, yeah... so, monkey, monkey.) It IS really funny to tell a story about them and refer to both of them as Monkey, (I tried it) but I’m not sure how this would go over with prospective parents either.
6. Mr. Thomas... for one of them. (When we were in London, Steve had this Art History professor- incredibly prim, middle-aged, British woman- who showed slides of her cat, saying, “And this is my life partner- MEES-ter THOM-as!” Call me, it’s better if you hear it)
Anyway, and all other “not obscene or cutesy” suggestions are welcomed! Please, comment away!! :)
Wednesday, June 12, 2002
Well, I am starting to feel a little more at home here. I am getting my footing in the office, and I have to say that I am really, really glad that this office seems to be very straightforward and relatively free of crappy politics that I have seen elsewhere. I wasn't sure at first. One never is.
But is fun to see where some of the photos show up. Hey, Favorite Genius in Seattle, check out the Seattle Post-Intelligencer today. The photo isn't earth-shattering; just a press conference shot relating to the "dirty bomber."
Anyway, going to head for home for now. Gotta buy more cat food. I do not own cats. I do not own cats. I do not own cats
But is fun to see where some of the photos show up. Hey, Favorite Genius in Seattle, check out the Seattle Post-Intelligencer today. The photo isn't earth-shattering; just a press conference shot relating to the "dirty bomber."
Anyway, going to head for home for now. Gotta buy more cat food. I do not own cats. I do not own cats. I do not own cats
Sunday, June 09, 2002
Hi.
Okay, last week? Really bad.
I don't officially start my internship until tomorrow, but I got started late last week on a random basis just for kicks. Bad, bad, bad idea.
Without rehashing the hysteria, some of you got it firsthand, with me screeching into the phone that "IHATEITHEREIHATEITHERE" and "I AM SUCH A F*CK-UP, OHMYGODOHMYGOD," I gave my boss a CD I burned that corrupted her hard drive, I was twenty-five minutes late the first day, even thought I was outside the office five minutes early, because I got behind three maximum security trucks who had to be thoroughly inspected (the office building where I work also houses the Florida Federal Reserve Bank,) I got lost and completely missed an assignment because the exit off I-95 that I needed was completely closed, I insisted that an editor gave the wrong time for an assignment, which was at 3 p.m., but I thought it was 2:30 because the messages on my beeper are numbered with colons and THEN the time of the assignment, as in "1: Right now. Please go photograph three Venezeulan freedom fighters who staged a coup last month against President Chavez, until recently presumed dead, declaring asylum in Miami," and the SECOND message, about the 3 p.m. assignment, looked like this, "2:3 p.m. Congresswomen protesting Republican redistricting at Federal Courthouse," but to me it looked like 2:30, what with the 2 and then the colon and the three.... I failed to get prescriptions filled at the fourth consecutive pharamacy because Healthguard keeps saying it dropped my coverage, and then I realized I lost my debit card AGAIN- that's right, I DID lose my debit card right before I moved down here. The one I lost was the NEW one, which was in my possession for perhaps a total of four days.
And that's the very, very short version. I will spare you the part about losing my keys and my company issued cell phone, both of which have turned up, as well as many, many other mishaps and confusions.
Special thanks to Kelly, Alissa and Stephen who got the brunt of hysteria.
So, Saturday, I spent the entire day napping and watching bad TV and movies and eating soup (I had a bad cold, too) while it rained and rained and rained.
Today, I cleaned my entire apartment, grocery shopped for excellent food, did all my laundry and gave my dog a good work out. I relxed by the pool and swam laps and played with the wonderful little kittens who leave under a bush in the next building over. Everything is organized and charged and ready for a brand new week. I am now going to fold my laundry and crawl into bed for a good night's sleep with fresh sheets and shaved legs, which, as many of us know, is one of life's very best simple pleasures.
Send good vibes my way, please. It seems I really need them. :)
Okay, last week? Really bad.
I don't officially start my internship until tomorrow, but I got started late last week on a random basis just for kicks. Bad, bad, bad idea.
Without rehashing the hysteria, some of you got it firsthand, with me screeching into the phone that "IHATEITHEREIHATEITHERE" and "I AM SUCH A F*CK-UP, OHMYGODOHMYGOD," I gave my boss a CD I burned that corrupted her hard drive, I was twenty-five minutes late the first day, even thought I was outside the office five minutes early, because I got behind three maximum security trucks who had to be thoroughly inspected (the office building where I work also houses the Florida Federal Reserve Bank,) I got lost and completely missed an assignment because the exit off I-95 that I needed was completely closed, I insisted that an editor gave the wrong time for an assignment, which was at 3 p.m., but I thought it was 2:30 because the messages on my beeper are numbered with colons and THEN the time of the assignment, as in "1: Right now. Please go photograph three Venezeulan freedom fighters who staged a coup last month against President Chavez, until recently presumed dead, declaring asylum in Miami," and the SECOND message, about the 3 p.m. assignment, looked like this, "2:3 p.m. Congresswomen protesting Republican redistricting at Federal Courthouse," but to me it looked like 2:30, what with the 2 and then the colon and the three.... I failed to get prescriptions filled at the fourth consecutive pharamacy because Healthguard keeps saying it dropped my coverage, and then I realized I lost my debit card AGAIN- that's right, I DID lose my debit card right before I moved down here. The one I lost was the NEW one, which was in my possession for perhaps a total of four days.
And that's the very, very short version. I will spare you the part about losing my keys and my company issued cell phone, both of which have turned up, as well as many, many other mishaps and confusions.
Special thanks to Kelly, Alissa and Stephen who got the brunt of hysteria.
So, Saturday, I spent the entire day napping and watching bad TV and movies and eating soup (I had a bad cold, too) while it rained and rained and rained.
Today, I cleaned my entire apartment, grocery shopped for excellent food, did all my laundry and gave my dog a good work out. I relxed by the pool and swam laps and played with the wonderful little kittens who leave under a bush in the next building over. Everything is organized and charged and ready for a brand new week. I am now going to fold my laundry and crawl into bed for a good night's sleep with fresh sheets and shaved legs, which, as many of us know, is one of life's very best simple pleasures.
Send good vibes my way, please. It seems I really need them. :)
Wednesday, June 05, 2002
Hey all. I am tired, hot and hungry. But I am too damn lazy to make myself something real to eat, so it might be time to bust out the "Spaghettios Shirt." I will explain that in a minute.
I am this tired because I didn't get to bed before one last night, and I didn't fall alseep until 2, (am slowly breaking nocturnal habits, though) and I had to get up at 7:00 a.m. to do an assignment this morning (it's a freelance thing, not regular work yet, which doesn't start until Monday). So I am exhausted, which is good, because I will go to bed at a decent hour tonight, and then I should be on a regular sleeping schedule. I have to be up even earlier tomorrow to go into the office and meet my boss and then shoot something else at ten, so I will go to sleep at a decent hour tonight. I am doing my Very First Special Clearance Prison Assignment tomorrow. The reporter intern and I are going to talk to and photograph someone involved in the Rilya case.
Anyway, what is the "Spaghettios Shirt," you ask? When I was a junior in high school, I won a dorky award, the details of which I will spare us all, but the prize was this t-shirt that had a picture of a cat (just the cat's face actually) wearing a stereotypical Mexican hat with little cotton balls dangling off of it, and the shirt said, "Magnifico! Fantastico! Estupendo!" on it. Meg "Virgin Jell-O Shots" F. also won one. The t-shirts are so terrible that they are actually really funny, and anyway, my favorite teacher in high school gave it to me, so... Meg and I used to wear them to band camp on the same day, and I can't believe I am admitting that, so never mind.
ANYWAY, I wore it to percussion camp in college and I got lots of little cymbal holes in it, and then I fell asleep in my ham-mock while eating a nectarine in 1998 and it got stained. I have since worn it so many times that the nectarine stain washed out after like a year or so.
"What about the Spaghettios? Just get to the Spaghettios, would you?!?!" Wow. Even the voices in my head are getting cranky. Just kidding.
When I lived in Allentown and interned at the Call that summer, I would put in a lot of hours and come home completely exhausted. All I could muster the energy to do was microwave a bowl of Spaghettios for dinner and lay down, sideways, and try to eat while watching syndicated epsiodes of Seinfeld. This is messy, and I am a stain magnet even when I am sitting up, so... I would put on this same shirt every time I would eat laying down, which was often. Hence, it became the Spaghettios Shirt, and I wear it when I am too tired to do anything but lay down and try to eat before falling asleep.
So, yeah... I am hungry. And tired. Time for the Spaghettios Shirt... :)
Everyone- say it with me now: "Magnifico! Fantastico! Estupendo!"
I am this tired because I didn't get to bed before one last night, and I didn't fall alseep until 2, (am slowly breaking nocturnal habits, though) and I had to get up at 7:00 a.m. to do an assignment this morning (it's a freelance thing, not regular work yet, which doesn't start until Monday). So I am exhausted, which is good, because I will go to bed at a decent hour tonight, and then I should be on a regular sleeping schedule. I have to be up even earlier tomorrow to go into the office and meet my boss and then shoot something else at ten, so I will go to sleep at a decent hour tonight. I am doing my Very First Special Clearance Prison Assignment tomorrow. The reporter intern and I are going to talk to and photograph someone involved in the Rilya case.
Anyway, what is the "Spaghettios Shirt," you ask? When I was a junior in high school, I won a dorky award, the details of which I will spare us all, but the prize was this t-shirt that had a picture of a cat (just the cat's face actually) wearing a stereotypical Mexican hat with little cotton balls dangling off of it, and the shirt said, "Magnifico! Fantastico! Estupendo!" on it. Meg "Virgin Jell-O Shots" F. also won one. The t-shirts are so terrible that they are actually really funny, and anyway, my favorite teacher in high school gave it to me, so... Meg and I used to wear them to band camp on the same day, and I can't believe I am admitting that, so never mind.
ANYWAY, I wore it to percussion camp in college and I got lots of little cymbal holes in it, and then I fell asleep in my ham-mock while eating a nectarine in 1998 and it got stained. I have since worn it so many times that the nectarine stain washed out after like a year or so.
"What about the Spaghettios? Just get to the Spaghettios, would you?!?!" Wow. Even the voices in my head are getting cranky. Just kidding.
When I lived in Allentown and interned at the Call that summer, I would put in a lot of hours and come home completely exhausted. All I could muster the energy to do was microwave a bowl of Spaghettios for dinner and lay down, sideways, and try to eat while watching syndicated epsiodes of Seinfeld. This is messy, and I am a stain magnet even when I am sitting up, so... I would put on this same shirt every time I would eat laying down, which was often. Hence, it became the Spaghettios Shirt, and I wear it when I am too tired to do anything but lay down and try to eat before falling asleep.
So, yeah... I am hungry. And tired. Time for the Spaghettios Shirt... :)
Everyone- say it with me now: "Magnifico! Fantastico! Estupendo!"
Monday, June 03, 2002
Okay, so.... Last night I went to Walgreen's at 1 a.m., to buy among other things, some kind of over-the-counter sleep aid so I can back to a normal human sleeping schedule, as opposed to the vampirical schedule such as I have been keeping these days (crawl in bed as the sun comes up).
Anyway, I did the Walgreen's/CVS/Eckerds/Rite-Aid thing where you go in for just one thing and wander around, remembering that you need more new Wet Swiffer sheets, oh, and some AA batteries, and crap! Bella needs a new ball as one was left on beach yesterday, and hmmm... better be prepared in womanly way, so I'll needs some of *these* and *those,* etc. So with all of that, the bill was kind of high, I guess, around 40 bucks. So I go up to the counter, and I give the guy my debit card, freshly minted from Farmers First Bank, thank you very much, which I admit is a hick bank from my hick town, but it has a Visa symbol on it! Geez.
Anyway, so the guy asks me for some ID. I hand him my drivers' license, and he just stares at it, for like, honestly, 5 minutes, calls his manager over, neither of them actually turns the card over to check the signature or anything, and finally they give it back. Okay, buddy. Thanks for your concern, but how many people steal debit/credit cards and then go careening around Wal-greens in decidedly upscale suburbs of Miami buying contact lens stuff, Nytol, batteries, dog toys, Wet Swiffer sheets and feminine hygiene products at one o'clock in the morning?
EVERYTHING is like that here. I waited in line at the drive-up window in the bank the other night for 50 minutes to cask a money order, and then, after waiting another 8 minutes while she talked to a manager about it, the teller said because I don't have an account there, I have to come into the lobby to do it, but the lobby closed 10 minutes ago, sorry. AAAAAHHHHH! I was in line for 40 freakin' minutes while the lobby was OPEN?!?! I waited in line for 15, then 45, then 20 minutes on three different days to see if the Eckerd's people have found some film I gave them the develop. They haven't. (One roll still being "processed," one gone forever). The PetSmart people wouldn't let me have my dog back from the grooming area until I could produce a receipt saying I already paid for their se4rvices. Of course, the cashier didn't GIVE me my receipt, which I didn't realize until after I left the register, which necessitated necessitated yet another visit to customer service and a "manager." (At this point, I was like, "Oh, God, this is going to be like the film, they sent Bella out to be bathed and lost her, I know it!" Hahaha.
I am sorry, I am just bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch today!!! Although, as Gwen put it on her blog, "I never promised you a rose garden." :) Tee hee. Go forth and have productive, "customer service inquiry-" free days, all of you.
Anyway, I did the Walgreen's/CVS/Eckerds/Rite-Aid thing where you go in for just one thing and wander around, remembering that you need more new Wet Swiffer sheets, oh, and some AA batteries, and crap! Bella needs a new ball as one was left on beach yesterday, and hmmm... better be prepared in womanly way, so I'll needs some of *these* and *those,* etc. So with all of that, the bill was kind of high, I guess, around 40 bucks. So I go up to the counter, and I give the guy my debit card, freshly minted from Farmers First Bank, thank you very much, which I admit is a hick bank from my hick town, but it has a Visa symbol on it! Geez.
Anyway, so the guy asks me for some ID. I hand him my drivers' license, and he just stares at it, for like, honestly, 5 minutes, calls his manager over, neither of them actually turns the card over to check the signature or anything, and finally they give it back. Okay, buddy. Thanks for your concern, but how many people steal debit/credit cards and then go careening around Wal-greens in decidedly upscale suburbs of Miami buying contact lens stuff, Nytol, batteries, dog toys, Wet Swiffer sheets and feminine hygiene products at one o'clock in the morning?
EVERYTHING is like that here. I waited in line at the drive-up window in the bank the other night for 50 minutes to cask a money order, and then, after waiting another 8 minutes while she talked to a manager about it, the teller said because I don't have an account there, I have to come into the lobby to do it, but the lobby closed 10 minutes ago, sorry. AAAAAHHHHH! I was in line for 40 freakin' minutes while the lobby was OPEN?!?! I waited in line for 15, then 45, then 20 minutes on three different days to see if the Eckerd's people have found some film I gave them the develop. They haven't. (One roll still being "processed," one gone forever). The PetSmart people wouldn't let me have my dog back from the grooming area until I could produce a receipt saying I already paid for their se4rvices. Of course, the cashier didn't GIVE me my receipt, which I didn't realize until after I left the register, which necessitated necessitated yet another visit to customer service and a "manager." (At this point, I was like, "Oh, God, this is going to be like the film, they sent Bella out to be bathed and lost her, I know it!" Hahaha.
I am sorry, I am just bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch today!!! Although, as Gwen put it on her blog, "I never promised you a rose garden." :) Tee hee. Go forth and have productive, "customer service inquiry-" free days, all of you.
Sunday, June 02, 2002
Hi.
I miss Jo. A lot. (If you are reading this, Jo, hi!) This entry may be, like, an Ode to Jo. :) (Ha ha, like Ode to Joy, but with no "y?" Get it? Ahem, lame, sorry.)
I just saw "About a Boy," which is a very nice, poignant, witty British movie by Nick Hornby. Nick Hornby movies, with the exception of High Fidelity, which was set in New York for the movie version, generally have these things in common- they are poignant (you're laughing, but- oh- (sharp intake of breath)- that's kind of true and painful, in a way), they have very attractive leading men playing the main character (Colin Firth in Fever Pitch, me-OW!), and they are, for the most part, set in London, (in North London, as a matter of fact, often in the neighborhood where Jo's parents have their flat, where Jo and I lived fall of junior year).
So I just sat in a theater, and watched Hugh Grant strut, (all the while blinking and looking disorientedly cute, in that Hugh Grant way) past this church on the corner of Gillespie Road and this street whose name I can't remember that begins with an M.
I think it's Mondale Street? Mondale? Am I just thinking of Walter Mondale? (Why would I do that? Just randomly think of Walter Mondale, I mean?)
Anyway. I used to walk on that street from the Arsenal Tube stop, and you would turn left out of the station, go down Gillespie Road, turn right on the M Street that for arguments sake I'll call Mondale St, then a left again on Ambler Road. And we were halfway down the block on the left. I did this, sometimes three times a day, and I used to think, someday I will not remember the name of this street. And I don't! I do not. I remember the name of the church! I just watched Hugh Grant strut past it!!!
And I miss Jo. Oh my God. This movie was set, not actually IN Finsbury Park, but really, really close, in Islington, just one Tube stop away. (Although, in Fever Pitch, Colin Firth actually ran right past the front door of the building where we lived. Fever Pitch is the movie that Bridget Jones goes to interview Colin Firth about in Rome in the second book.)
Do you ever just go about your life, and you know, now that we've been to college and moved a bunch of places, all the people you love just aren't in one place anymore, and you're cool with that, and you get letters from them, and talk to them, but then something- a smell, a song, SOMETHING, practically brings you to your knees with missing them? I mean, Jo is not dead. I just called her voice mail and blathered on about Mondale Street and the characters in the movie who work for Amnesty International and how they were wearing these funky, knitted British sweaters like Jo's dad wears. (Jo's dad is a Very British Man- complete with unruly eyebrows and a stiff upper lip :). And Jo had a funky British cardigan that her mom wore in the 70s that she would wear around (this was RIGHT before cardigans with belts became really popular again. Don't ask me how Jo does that, predicting trends and whatnot,) and the people were wearing funky 70s style cardigans with belts!
And it was just a hundred little things in the movie that triggered these memories. For example, there were these street signs in the neighborhood where we lived that warned drivers about speed bumps, but they said, "Humps, next 135 meters." I used to think that was so funny, like maybe there would be people humping in the street? I don't know why, but it used to crack me up. Doesn't matter.
Anyway, I suppose my missing Jo is somewhat exascerbated by the fact that I have no friends here. Which isn't entirely true. I sort of made friends with the guys who work in the cafe in Barnes and Noble when I was in there earlier today. Don't know if we'll actually ever hang out, but we talked about it.
After I hung up with Jo's voice mail, I called Stephen, and as soon as he picked up, I burst into tears. Because of missing Jo. Which is so silly. I just talked her a little more than a week ago. There was a letter from her in my mailbox on the day I arrived. (I love that, don't you just love that? There was a letter from Alissa, too. Yay! Come to think of it, Becky Long sent me a letter that was in my mailbox the day I moved into my freshman dorm. That was really great, Bek, thanks :)
Anyway, That's my Ode to Jo. And for all you beloved friends and family and boyfriend out there who read this page, I could just as easily be hit with a major case of Missing You as well, and write an Ode to Any of You as well, at any moment. Stay tuned. :)
I miss Jo. A lot. (If you are reading this, Jo, hi!) This entry may be, like, an Ode to Jo. :) (Ha ha, like Ode to Joy, but with no "y?" Get it? Ahem, lame, sorry.)
I just saw "About a Boy," which is a very nice, poignant, witty British movie by Nick Hornby. Nick Hornby movies, with the exception of High Fidelity, which was set in New York for the movie version, generally have these things in common- they are poignant (you're laughing, but- oh- (sharp intake of breath)- that's kind of true and painful, in a way), they have very attractive leading men playing the main character (Colin Firth in Fever Pitch, me-OW!), and they are, for the most part, set in London, (in North London, as a matter of fact, often in the neighborhood where Jo's parents have their flat, where Jo and I lived fall of junior year).
So I just sat in a theater, and watched Hugh Grant strut, (all the while blinking and looking disorientedly cute, in that Hugh Grant way) past this church on the corner of Gillespie Road and this street whose name I can't remember that begins with an M.
I think it's Mondale Street? Mondale? Am I just thinking of Walter Mondale? (Why would I do that? Just randomly think of Walter Mondale, I mean?)
Anyway. I used to walk on that street from the Arsenal Tube stop, and you would turn left out of the station, go down Gillespie Road, turn right on the M Street that for arguments sake I'll call Mondale St, then a left again on Ambler Road. And we were halfway down the block on the left. I did this, sometimes three times a day, and I used to think, someday I will not remember the name of this street. And I don't! I do not. I remember the name of the church! I just watched Hugh Grant strut past it!!!
And I miss Jo. Oh my God. This movie was set, not actually IN Finsbury Park, but really, really close, in Islington, just one Tube stop away. (Although, in Fever Pitch, Colin Firth actually ran right past the front door of the building where we lived. Fever Pitch is the movie that Bridget Jones goes to interview Colin Firth about in Rome in the second book.)
Do you ever just go about your life, and you know, now that we've been to college and moved a bunch of places, all the people you love just aren't in one place anymore, and you're cool with that, and you get letters from them, and talk to them, but then something- a smell, a song, SOMETHING, practically brings you to your knees with missing them? I mean, Jo is not dead. I just called her voice mail and blathered on about Mondale Street and the characters in the movie who work for Amnesty International and how they were wearing these funky, knitted British sweaters like Jo's dad wears. (Jo's dad is a Very British Man- complete with unruly eyebrows and a stiff upper lip :). And Jo had a funky British cardigan that her mom wore in the 70s that she would wear around (this was RIGHT before cardigans with belts became really popular again. Don't ask me how Jo does that, predicting trends and whatnot,) and the people were wearing funky 70s style cardigans with belts!
And it was just a hundred little things in the movie that triggered these memories. For example, there were these street signs in the neighborhood where we lived that warned drivers about speed bumps, but they said, "Humps, next 135 meters." I used to think that was so funny, like maybe there would be people humping in the street? I don't know why, but it used to crack me up. Doesn't matter.
Anyway, I suppose my missing Jo is somewhat exascerbated by the fact that I have no friends here. Which isn't entirely true. I sort of made friends with the guys who work in the cafe in Barnes and Noble when I was in there earlier today. Don't know if we'll actually ever hang out, but we talked about it.
After I hung up with Jo's voice mail, I called Stephen, and as soon as he picked up, I burst into tears. Because of missing Jo. Which is so silly. I just talked her a little more than a week ago. There was a letter from her in my mailbox on the day I arrived. (I love that, don't you just love that? There was a letter from Alissa, too. Yay! Come to think of it, Becky Long sent me a letter that was in my mailbox the day I moved into my freshman dorm. That was really great, Bek, thanks :)
Anyway, That's my Ode to Jo. And for all you beloved friends and family and boyfriend out there who read this page, I could just as easily be hit with a major case of Missing You as well, and write an Ode to Any of You as well, at any moment. Stay tuned. :)
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