Straight Girl Slumming It

New Blog!

2009-08-03T16:37:00.003-04:00

For the time being, Straight Girl Slumming It remains on hiatus. But in the meantime, I've started a new blog about running. It won't be as funny, and I'm writing it more for me than for you (sorry), but it's out there if you're interested!

effieruns.blogspot.com

Best-Of Straight Girl Slumming It

2009-07-23T01:07:00.002-04:00

Clearly I've neglected this blog for far too long. I suppose it's time to officially pull the plug. For my last entry, I've decided to list some of my favorite blog entries. Perhaps someone stumbling upon this blog for the first time (what's up Facebook friends!) will appreciate the Reader's Digest version. Enjoy!

Oops, I'm a Slut

What leaving sounds like

Five Years of Shit

On Turkeys and Babies

Dear Diary

The Final Countdown

It's only logical

2009-04-24T16:23:00.002-04:00

The NYC Subway Story

2009-03-19T09:55:00.001-04:00

So there we are on the subway in New York City, me & Aunt Martha. It was only around 7pm, but it felt late because we were probably stuffed with pizza and bialys and in a time warp from going to a Broadway show in the middle of the day. We were both zoned out as we whooshed along underground.

I remember that I was staring at the sign above the subway doors that read "do not block doors" with a stick person shown stuck between the subway doors. I was fascinated by the sign because it reminded me of the gypsy girl in Paris that tried to blatantly steal Melissa's wallet -- and by blatantly I mean she reached her little gypsy arm into Melissa's purse and rummaged around in there as we boarded the Metro. After Melissa gave her a well deserved right hook, the gypsy girl squared off in the open doorway and stood there like a champ while the doors slammed her tiny little thieving body over and over again, until finally she smirked a final good-bye and stepped backwards onto the Metro platform as the train and its awe-struck gaping-mouthed American passengers rolled away into the Null Set. (Shout out to my Null Set peeps!)

But this story isn't about my love/hate relationship with creepy (yet fascinating!) gypsy girls, but about an entirely less fascinating, yet thoroughly hilarious mishap on the above mentioned NYC subway.

So. There I was, studying the "do not block doors" sign on the subway. Aunt Martha was sitting next to me, probably singing "I want to be a ProduCER!" in her head, or contemplating the future of the dewey decimal system, when a voice in the background finally registered in my gypsy-infested head. They were announcing our stop! The next 3 seconds were the longest 3 seconds of my life, and I swear it happened in slow motion. I was smart enough to say "This is our stop!" but not quick enough to move. Aunt Martha, on the other hand, WAS quick enough, and right out the doors she went. I came lumbering up behind her, just as the subway doors were shutting. Completely forgetting about the warning to "not block doors", I casually stuck my hand in the vice of the subway doors, thinking they would magically reopen like they were the forgiving elevator doors of a luxury hotel. No such luck. So then I tried prying them open. I'm talking superhero-pose, double-palm-grip, biceps-burning prying them open. But alas, I was no match for the doors, so I gave up and let the doors slam. While all of this grunting and prying is going on inside the train, Aunt Martha is standing 1 foot away on the platform, looking in at me through the glass doors, head slightly cocked as if she doesn't understand what I'm doing inside the train, when clearly I should be outside the train with her. The expression on my face, she tells me later through hysterical fits of laughter, is one of sheer disbelief coupled with fear and confusion. We hold these gazes at each other until the train starts rolling away, at which point I see the humor in the situation and give her a light-hearted wave and a shrug.

I thought the worst was over, until I turned around and realized there were about 20 stone-faced New Yorkers in the subway car who could not have missed that display of desperation. Now I had to sit quietly amongst them and feign nonchalance until the next stop. Then through the magic of cell phones and the tourist friendly grid layout of the city, Aunt Martha and I reconnected above ground and gleefully peed our pants all the way to the hotel room, and we're still laughing about it to this day.

I kept my Swingline stapler because it didn't bind up as much

2009-03-18T09:34:00.002-04:00

Sorry for the delay folks. Mr. Lumbergh told me to talk to payroll and then payroll told me to talk to Mr. Lumbergh and I still haven't received my paycheck and he took my stapler and he never brought it back and then they moved my desk to storage room B and there was garbage on it...

The time has come, America...

2009-02-01T15:35:00.002-05:00

...for the February calendar picture.

They might throw us both out of the country

2009-01-18T10:20:00.005-05:00

This coming March marks the 7th anniversary of my husband's entrance into the United States. While he's always been proud to call himself a Canadian, the time has finally come when he has decided to become a US Citizen. The process, while lengthy, is not actually difficult. They ask 10 questions, of which only 6 need to be answered correctly, and all of these are picked from a bank of 100 questions, which are publicly posted on their website, complete with corresponding answers. Pretty easy, right?

Upon learning this information, the Lisa Simpson part of my personality decided that she IMMEDIATELY needed to take this test and be graded on it. She got 65 right out of 100.

When you consider that I never studied for this quiz, and didn't peek at the questions ahead of time, then 65% isn't that bad. But, when you realize that I've lived in this country for 31 years and probably could have scored 100% if I took the quiz in 8th grade, then yeah, I should probably make sure I carry my birth certificate around with me.

Here are some of the pitfalls that hup & I fell into while quizzing each other:

Question: What is the supreme law of the land?
Hup's answer: Survival of the fittest!
Correct answer: The Constitution

Question: What one thing is Ben Franklin famous for?
My answer: Inventing the bifocal!
Correct possible answers: U.S. diplomat; oldest member of the Constitutional Convention; first Postmaster General of the United States; writer of “Poor Richard’s Almanac”; started the first free libraries

Question: What do we call the first ten amendments to the Constitution?
Hup's answer: The Ten Commandments
Correct answer: The Bill of Rights

Question: What did the Declaration of Independence do?
My answer: Freed the slaves
Correct answer: Declared our independence from Great Britain

Question: Name one branch or part of the government.
Hup's answer: The CIA
Correct possible answers: Congress, legislative, executive, judicial, the President, the courts

Question: The idea of government is in the first 3 words of the Constitution. What are these words?
My answer: E Pluribus Unum
Correct answer: We the People

Question: Name one of your state's US Senators.
Hup's answer: "Demon"
Me: "Demon?"
Hup: "Devil! Deval. What's he? State Representative? Lord of the Land? What is he? Mayor?"

I think we both have some studying to do.

I can't put my arms down!

2009-01-01T14:51:00.001-05:00

Survey Results!

2008-12-20T11:14:00.006-05:00

The end of the year is approaching, which means the beginning of the new year is approaching, which means I only have about 2 weeks to start planning my January photo shoot! I know the suspense has been killing you. 17 votes have come in, which surprises me, because I only know about 5 of you who read this blog.

The first two votes that came in were both for "famous movie scenes", so I thought that might indicate a landslide victory, and I thought that I'd end up having to pose for a photo wearing this, and only this.

But then luckily the balance shifted and people started writing in their own votes including:
1. Famous movie kisses with you photoshopped in This would be an excellent idea if I had photoshop or knew how to use it.
2. Showcase the moments when you thought what the hell did I do to bring myself to this very moment-your upbeat friend Another good idea, but I don't think I have the creativity to capture these such moments. What would that even look like? Me leaving a half-eaten burrito on my plate while I run to the bathroom?
3. I love all of these I would like to see a calendar of you in all these themes! Thankyou Now this one I like. Partly because it reads like I have a dedicated, admiring fan, and partly because this is also the result of the survey. Plus, I can't even think of 12 yuppie sports, and I don't own any childhood toys. So thanks to all of you logical voters for making this easy on me!

Straight Girl Slumming It - 2009 Calendar

2008-12-02T14:29:00.004-05:00

'Tis the season for gift-giving, and what better time of year to reflect on all of our favorite toys from years past. Today my co-worker Carley called me in a huff because our other co-worker Katie was reminiscing about the Snoopy Sno-Cone machine she used to have.

Carley: "Yo! Quick question. Did you ever have a Snoopy Sno-cone machine?"
Me: "Yes!"
Carley: "That's not fair! You and Katie both had one and I never did! I'm trying to find someone to commiserate with, but so far everyone I talk to has had one."
Me: "I don't think I ever used it though, I just remember drinking the syrup."
Carley: "Like, straight syrup? Not in the sno-cone?"
Me: "Nope, just straight. I guess that was just the beginning..."
Carley: "Well, did you ever have the Doritos sleeping bag?"
Me: "A Doritos sleeping bag?! Like the snack chip?"
Carley: "Yep! It was the softest sleeping bag ever!"
Me: "No! Now I'm jealous!"

Then she sent me this.

To which I replied:

That is the most awesome variety of sleeping bags ever. It's not even like a Frito-lay variety, or a Marvel comic book variety. Nope, it's the best-of collection. What's with the hound dog? I can't see clearly, but it looks like he's in a collage of yuppie sports. I should do a 2009 calendar of myself like that... playing golf in January, tennis in February, polo in March. It could be a best seller.

To which Carley replied:

I know! the Doritos sleeping bag was so f'n awesome. So soft. I never knew anyone that had one until I met Katie...i think we part of an exclusive club. I know she had connections with the Frito-lay company..i don't know how I got mine...i just wish I still had it. They are no where to be found. You can't even buy it on the internet.

I know the hound dog is pretty funny. You should totally do a calendar. you could even do like an August pic with the snoopy snowcone machine you can be like pouring the syrup into your mouth all sassy while snoopy sits on the table with a big colorless ball of snow.

So now I'm all gung-ho about a 2009 Calendar. Or perhaps to save the environment (read: money), maybe at the beginning of every month in 2009, I'll post a photo on my blog. So now I need your help. What should the theme be? Click Here to take survey.

Eat, Shit, and Die

2008-11-29T06:36:00.004-05:00

After hearing a buzz about the book "Eat, Pray, Love" for so long, I finally read it, and I did not like it. For those who haven't yet read it, save your time and money -- here's my synopsis that I think embodies the essence of the book.

Chapter 1 - Italy
"Boo hoo hoo, woe is me. I got a divorce and then because I have issues doing anything alone (which I'll try to convince you otherwise by my solitary world travels) I immediately fall in love with another man and THAT didn't work out either (could it be me?). I am so self absorbed that instead of sucking it up and getting on with my life like millions of other divorced Americans, I decide I need to learn to speak Italian and then travel to Italy, all while documenting it in a novel (with far too many parenthetical side notes, if you must know.)
So now I'm in Italy, and I'm all alone here, which all of my new friends in my Italian class can attest to. I've asked everyone I know in America if they have any friends or acquaintences in Italy that I can cling to while I'm here, and they reluctantly give me the names of people who I can mooch off of (but if I tell them that it will be a chance for them to learn to speak better English, then I actually come out looking like I'm helping them!) Everyone here in Italy has been great. They are acting like my divorce never happened. When I pass strangers on the street and say ciao (Italian for "hello" for those of who are too stupid and small-minded to ever learn a second language and travel the world) they will smile and say ciao back and then will not even bother me as I head up to my apartment to cry and eat gelato by the ton.
You might be thinking, "Liz, please for the love of God, tell me because I HAVE to know, how can you possibly be in ITALY with all of these attractive MEN and not be having SEX every DAY?" And the answer, oh dim-witted reader, is that this is a spiritual journey where I am focusing on ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME, and sex is really not the best thing for me right now. Not when there is so much gelato and pasta and sea urchins to be eating, (not to mention that I feel like a freakishly tall blotchy white person that the men aren't attracted to, which is the first thing I noticed when I got to Italy. But really, it's the gelato. Oh my GOD, the gelato! You're really missing out because this is the best gelato in the world and I'm the only one lucky enough to be here by myself surrounded by men who don't find me attractive and eating all of this fabulous gelato!)

Chapter II - India
Now I'm in India where all they have is bland vegetarian food, but that doesn't bother me because eating has never been of importance to me. What I want most from this spiritual journey is to find myself at one with God, or Allah, or wait a minute, what kind of God do they worship here in the Ashram? It doesn't really matter. What matters is that my ex-lover who I'm so obsessed with will be jealous that I'm here at his guru's Ashram. Oh, didn't I tell you? My guru is actually his guru (did I mention how independent I am?)
I'm so impressed with this Ashram and everything about it. The monks here have dedicated their lives to become enlightened, and when I finally have the opportunity to speak with one, I ask a question that comes from somewhere so deep inside my heart that it actually feels like God himself is reaching his hand inside my chest, cradling this thought, and then presenting it to the monk in a sort of mystical ritual. "Will my ex-boyfriend call me?" The monk rolls his eyes and tells me to go scrub the floors and look deep inside myself for the answer, for only I can find the answers I seek (which can only mean that he thinks I am already so superior to everyone else here.)
I have become so good at meditating that I do it all the time, except when I'm chumming it up with all of the non-Indian people here at the Ashram. They all think I am so funny and love to hear me tell stories (just wait until I tell them about the gelato in Italy!). But really, the meditation is giving me the validation that I needed, people do like me, and I am funny, and I am fun to be around. So why doesn't my ex see that? Why can't he call me collect at the Ashram and then I can leave here and be with him and start eating meat again?

Chapter III - Indonesia
Two years ago, I visited Bali and paid some old sheister to read my palm. At the end of the reading, he asked me to lean in close to him, and he whispered that someday I'd be back. (What I didn't realize was that by leaning in closer, I was allowing him to steal the cash that was sticking out of my purse.) I clung to this reading, and over the years, my memory of his final comment became, "Come back to Bali and I'll give you a place to live and food to eat and you can tell all your friends that you are studying under an ancient medicine man and they'll all be in awe of you and your great worldliness." So imagine my shock that two years later, this old medicine man didn't greet me with open arms. He didn't remember our 10 minute meeting from years earlier at all! But I was persistent, I told him that he told me to come back here and study with him, and I must have sounded really desperate and flashed a lot of cash because eventually the old man pretended to remember and now I come to his house everyday and pretend that I am learning things from him.
I have made another friend here too. She is a healer and once she found out I had money, she was so nice to me. The balinese are truly the most wonderful people in the world and it's a shame that all of my friends are stuck in dreadful old New York WORKING for a living (although it's a good thing they are working, otherwise they never would have been able to donate money to buy a house for this wonderful woman.)
When I first embarked on this journey to the 3 I's (Italy, India, Indonesia -- aren't I witty?) I had hoped that I would find myself, and I did. I found myself eating lots of food in Italy, I found myself pretending to become englightened in India, and I found myself in love and finally having sex again in Indonesia. And now that I am not alone anymore, I can truly say that this independent journey was self-fulfilling and full of self-wonder, and I love myself so much more now that I know a man loves me. I'm learning a lot about love and sacrifice with my new boyfriend. Life is no longer about ME ME ME, it's about loving and caring for that person, and maybe that means living in Bali and Brazil and Australia, but I'm willing to do that, because I know that by giving myself and my love to this relationship, I can only receive it back ten fold.

(Stay tuned for my next book about how I convinced my Brazilian boyfriend to move from Bali to the suburbs of New Jersey.)

The Final Countdown

2008-10-19T11:19:00.002-04:00

You know those machines at fairs or in malls where you can see a picture of the potential future offspring of you and your mate? Is it just me, or is everyone bound to have ugly retarded children? Those pictures are always like, "Oh look, honey, he has your giant forehead and my enflamed acne!" Anyway, I found something better. I actually found me & hup's future child, already in his teen years, and maybe I'm being a proud gushing mother here, but he has totally surpassed my expectations!

He is the embodiment of mine & hup's most characteristic qualities: he has hup's lone-wolf, computer-nerd, super-genius qualities, and my passionate, artistic qualities. Take a look and see, I can't make this up:

Dear Diary,

2008-07-08T13:24:00.003-04:00

We're going on vacation on Friday and I can't hardly wait! My friend Lauren of Ode to Lauren fame will be house sitting. In preparation for our vacation, I have to get my house ready to be house-sat. Now, it's not that I don't trust Lauren, or think she will snoop, but part of my prep included going through all of my drawers and thumbing through all of my journals and notebooks, just to see what's in there. Maybe she'll be on the phone and have an immediate need to take a dictation, so she reaches for the closest steno book she can find, and then she opens it up and this is on the page:

Oh come on, like Miss America doesn't have a similar to-do list in her vanity drawer. And I bet her diary entries are very similar to this:

For the record, I don't remember ever really saying goodbye to chocolate. I think that was just said for the diary's benefit so it would think we were through, but really we were sneaking around behind diary's back. "Oh hey Diary, what's up? Me? Just eating some tuna. You know me, can't get enough tuna and metabolife! What? Chocolate? No, I said goodbye to chocolate, didn't you know? I haven't seen chocolate since I used to hang out with donuts - man, what a time that was!" Meanwhile my can opener is lodged in the back of the kitchen drawer and I've got nougat in my teeth. Can't put anything past ol' diary!

Anyway, in fear that these random pages would be discovered in secret, I had to post them for all the world to see. That's my desperate way of over-compensating for my shortcomings that has made this the blog that it is today.

In other news, I've had two softball practices so far! I definitely suck, but I'm not the worst one out there. Those that are worse than me include the two 95-pound chinese guys that don't know what "tagging up" means - one of their names is yunfun or yinfin or yunfen, and the other one's name is Kevin. I can't tell them apart. There is also one girl that is about 1/3 my size, but she can't hit. If the rules would allow, she could be my pinch runner and then we'd be pretty good together. Sadly, our first game that was supposed to be tomorrow night was cancelled by the other team, and then I go on vacation, so no game for me for 2 weeks. The good news is that there is no possibility that I can get any worse between now and then.

Since this blog post is disjointed anyway, I have one more funny notebook discovery to add! I found another random quote from the hup that was so good that I'm sure I wrote it down seconds after he muttered it, and then it was promptly stowed in the secretary desk until last night. It goes like this: "I like my job when I don't have to go there." Brilliant.

When you're sliding into home, and your pants are full of foam....

2008-06-26T08:43:00.002-04:00

I joined my company's softball team. The first practice is tonight, so maybe I should have waited until tomorrow to post this (or not post it, and never have mentioned it in the first place.) So far, it's already shaping up to be quite an embarrassment. Tell me if you see any foreshadowing in any of these scenarios leading up to tonight's practice:

The Initial Invite
Co-worker Brad: Are you going to join our softball team this summer?
Me: We have a softball team?
Brad: Yes, do you want to play?
Me: hahahahaha... NO
Brad: Why not?
Me: Ummm, because I'm fat?
Brad: What does that have to do with anything?
Me: Well, let's see... there's public humiliation, there's the fact that I'm totally out of shape...
Brad: In case you haven't noticed, we're a bunch of engineers. None of us are in shape.
Me: Well, hmmm, maybe. I'll think about it.

A Friendly Game of Catch
I decided to play catch with hup to see if I could at least catch and throw a softball. It's been 16 years since my freshman year of high school when I last played. God, I'm old. That's almost half my life ago. Anyway, I discovered three things during our game of catch. The first is that I can only throw about half the distance I used to be able to throw. The second is that I can catch pretty well. And the third is that there is no way -- no how, no sir, absolutely positively NO CHANCE IN HELL -- that I will ever jump to catch a ball. The few times I tried, my multi-layer of boobs and rolls creates a sort of venus fly trap when I'm mid-air, and when I come crashing down, any loose fabric that I'm wearing gets caught in the trap, with the end result being my shirt totally shoved up under my boobs and my bare belly hanging out in all it's glory. So it looks like I might be wogging after a lot of balls in the outfield, like that's any less embarrassing.

Speaking of wogging
My mom and I decided to start walking/jogging/running around the block in the mornings when I don't go to my severely overpriced personal training-style gym that I joined last month. I've burned more calories kicking myself about joining than I have by actually going (but hey, whatever works!) Anyway, today was our first day of our soon-to-be new morning routine, so we met outside at 6am and walked/jogged for 1.6 miles. All of the familiar feelings of my running days came back to me... the sweet scent of morning dew, the fresh air filling up my lungs, the good pain I felt in my legs, the urgent need to poop on the side of the road. I went just over 1 mile before I had to drop trou in the woods behind my old elementary school. Ahhh, just like the good old days! Now if I can just make it through 7 innings without an incident, I should be fine. Otherwise, I'll have to quit this job too.

A Canadian in Massachusetts

2008-05-31T07:12:00.002-04:00

From who else, but The Hup: "The Army takes people up to 42 years old. I want to join, except they probably won't let me because I don't know who Washington is, or why Kennedys are important."

My Life in Tetris

2008-04-29T16:25:00.005-04:00

Remember when we all first started playing Tetris, and we burned it into our brains so that when we tried to fall asleep, we couldn't help but play it incessantly in our heads?

That is the best way to describe how I felt about my last job, the one I hated. Not only did I think about work incessantly as I tried to fall asleep, but doing my job felt like playing Tetris. But not fun Tetris. It was more like level 22 when the pieces are only in free fall and you barely have time to see them before it's already landed and the next one starts its free fall. This usually lasts like 4 seconds and then it's funny because what the hell, you got the high score and that space between your thumb and your forefinger was starting to burn anyway (before they had ergonomically correct Nintendo controllers.) Anyway, imagine a Tetris game with no way to restart or commit Tetris suicide, and the controller is superglued to your hands. No matter if I stayed overnight in the model apartment to get stuff done, or worked weekends, or checked email morning noon and night to stay on top of it, I could not control all of these pieces that should have fit together, but didn't.

My mind felt like this.

But NOW, oh my God, it's like the first time I ever played Tetris, and it's FUN, and it looks like this.

And I can do whatever I want and I'm still awesome at it. I can be obsessive and clear one row at a time, or I can go for the wow-factor and wait for the long skinny piece to clear 4 rows at a time. I can even run to the kitchen to get a diet coke, knowing that pieces are piling up, but it doesn't matter because I'm so frickin' awesome that I can have the screen cleared in no time. What's up, Alexey Pajitnov? You F'ing ROCK! The best part is that when I'm tired of playing the game (let's just call that 5:00 on weekdays), I can put down the controller, NOT play it incessantly in my head, and enjoy life outside of Tetris. It really IS a beautiful day outside. Sunshine and flowers, Em, sunshine and flowers.

I've learned that I'd rather be the best at a menial job than mediocre at a prestigious job. It reminds me of the time that Hup was working a temp job when he first moved here. He was working in a corporate office, helping the facilities people, mostly emptying the trash in the kitchen and moving recycling bins around the office. He noticed that the people there were extremely nice to him, and complimentary too. Finally, when one of the people stopped to tell him that he was doing a great job, he asked them who did the job before him, and that's when he learned that there was a team of four mentally retarded adults that usually do the job. That's why one of hup's many catch phrases to this day is, "I can do the job of 4 retards!" complete with chest puffed out and biceps bulging. And then we go home and eat bologna & fluff sandwiches, cuz we're AWESOME.

Pilot Episode

2008-04-03T10:18:00.002-04:00

(Awkward silence....)

Sooooo, it's really hard to start a new blog post after a 6-month absence. It's like running into an old friend that you don't really like in the supermarket. "Oh HEY! How ARE you?" as if yelling a few keywords will be the equivalent of actually giving a shit. Then the person with the guiltier conscience feels like they have to give an excuse as to why they let 6 months pass without any contact. So, here we go:

I hated my job. It was ruining my life. I had panic attacks that rendered me physically immobile. Family and friends told me that I had become a horrible person that they didn't enjoy spending time with. If I had blogged at all, it probably would have gone something like this: "GAH! FUCK EVERYONE!" Then I went on a mission trip with a church group to Biloxi, MS and felt the joy of the Lord in my heart, my soul, my bod. I loved my neighbor as myself, I got the joy of the Lord! (Seriously? Yes.) So then I came back and called my boss at 9am on Monday morning and told her I'd be giving my notice, to which she replied, "Very Good. Thanks." (Seriously? Yes.)

So now I'm unemployed and to spice things up even more, Hup and I moved into the house right next door to my parents' house. Everyday I wake up not knowing where I am or where I'm going. (Answer: Nowhere, apparantly.) The epitomy of my new lifestyle came on Tuesday morning when my mom called me and said, "Since you're at home and unemployed, I've got a chicken in the fridge that needs to be cooked. I'd offer you and Hup some, but there's only enough for me and dad." Sure, no problem. I wasn't doing anything anyway, except waiting for Verizon to install my digital cable and DVR. We had basic cable that must have been leftover from the previous tenants, which Hup said was like watching TV Russian-Roulette style. What did we ever do before the Guide button? Settle for The Price is Right because we didn't even know that Magnum PI was on? What a waste!

This is only funny if you know my husband

2007-10-06T23:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Hup,
In a recent review of online resumes, I was impressed with your
qualifications and background. One of our clients, Curves For
Women, needs to hire an experienced Fitness Coach and I would
like to invite you to apply for the position.
Curves is the largest fitness franchise in the world with 10,000
locations worldwide. Curves Clubs can be found in over 42
countries, including the United States, Canada, Europe, South
America, The Caribbean, Mexico, Australia, New Zealand, South
Africa, Japan, and we're still growing. They are the first
fitness and weight loss facility dedicated to providing
affordable, one-stop exercise and nutritional information for
women.
As a Fitness Coach, you will be responsible for assisting new and
existing clients with their workout, providing motivation,
encouragement and instruction. This position requires each
candidate to be CPR certified. A background in a nutrition or a
dietary field is helpful but not required. The candidate must be
willing to work part-time and possibly at more than 1 location.
If you are interested in joining Curves For Women as a Fitness
Coach, please click the link below and fill out the online
application. If the link does not work, please copy and paste the
address into your browser to go to the webpage.
[1]http://powrhr.com/cmanager.aspx?email=cvadams@mailcan.com&id=v
tdfcx12_h87hsbv53gr75hb09182007nshy8&rd=www.powerjobapp.com/JobOf
fer/Register.cfm?JobPositionID=316
A representative from our Human Resources department will contact
you regarding available interview dates once you have completed
the online application. I look forward to meeting with you
personally in the future.
Thank You,
Sue Ann Morris

A Whale of a Job

2007-09-28T00:08:00.000-04:00

Today was my first day at my new job. For anyone who didn't get the first hand minute-by-minute update for the past 3 weeks, it goes a little something like this: I had a major mental breakdown at work, turned in my keys and my cell phone with no warning at 11am on a Friday, proceeded to have an even bigger emotional breakdown for the rest of the day Friday, had two lovely weeks off, got a better job with better pay for a better company, and just started there today.

Even though this job pays a lot more than my old position, and even though they pay 100% of medical benefits, and even though I got to shop online for company-logo-embroidered clothing today (to the tune of $300!), and even though there's a coke machine at the office where I can buy a 20 oz. diet coke for $1... Even though all of that good stuff is happening, I am going to tell you, dear blog friends, why today just may have been one of the most embarrassing days of my life.

Let's backtrack to yesterday. I joined Weight Watchers for the 871st time, but this was the first time I've joined in about 2 years. That means that this time I mean it. I did everything a newbie WW'er does: I went to the grocery store and bought yogurt, turkey, whole wheat bread, and enough fruits & vegetables to make you shit for a week! I also actually tracked my water consumption on the little paper journal and wrote down my goals for the week. Yep, this will last until about 11am tomorrow when I'll have the casual afterthought of, "Hrmm.. I wonder how many points were in that sausage egg & cheese croissant from Dunkin Donuts?" (Answer: 18, and worth it). So today was my first full day on the program, and I thought it was fitting that it was also my first day at work. I wanted to set the tone and get into a good routine from the get go. I started my day with oatmeal and an apple and some water: 4 points. Then at 11:30am I had a turkey sandwich on organic flax seed bread with 1 tsp. of mayo: 6 points. Then by 2pm, I was over my head in new hire paperwork and Policies & Procedures Manuals and starving to death with only an apple to save me: 1 point. None of this is embarrassing or interesting, except that eating an apple on an empty stomach is NOT what you should do on your first day at a new job, but I feel like I've blogged about that topic quite enough.

So. It was time to order clothes. I immediately had a moment of panic that no clothes would fit me, but instead of playing it cool, I blurt out, "Oh my god I'm so fat I bet nothing will fit me!" Luckily, the other GM who is here training me for 1.5 days has already become one of my girls and puts me at ease that something will fit. "If we have to, we'll just order you men's clothes." Thanks, now I feel so much better about myself. She decides that the best thing to do would be to MEASURE ME. Seriously? Can this get any worse? Yes, yes it can. She asks the other co-worker (a full-time firefighter, of course not another fat lady) if he has a measuring tape. While he goes to his truck, I'm already picturing that somehow I'll have to end up at the zoo since that's the only facility that will accomodate someone of my size for proper measuring, and then I'll end up being the only employee on-site without company logo clothing, or I'll have to iron on a company logo patch to a 4X cotton t-shirt. Holy fuck-- if there wasn't free medical insurance and $1 diet cokes across the hall, I'd just quit out of sheer embarrassment! Mr. Firefighter comes back but doesn't have a measuring tape. But what he does have might as well have been a crowbar to the skull. He brought his heavy duty truck straps so we could wrap those around me and then just use a ruler to measure the length. If you haven't quite grasped how degrading this moment was, here's a visual aide:

The final blow was that I had to pay like an extra $5 per item because of all the superfluous X's. With every embarrassing moment comes a lesson: I have got to stick fruit & veggies and turkey sandwiches.

Ode to Lauren

2007-08-20T22:45:00.000-04:00

In this world, bad things happen to good people. This can be witnessed first hand at Hregetia Persopiter on any given day, but specifically when Those In Charge get back from vacation. What happens on these so-called vacations that people with more money seem to have an endless supply of days for? Do they come back well rested and refreshed looking for someone's life to ruin? Or.. do they plan something rotten, and then take a week off to muster up the courage so they can do it first thing on Monday morning, when we're least expecting it?

Sorry to the all the new readers from Red's blog who were hoping for another funny entry. This isn't a funny one, and unless you're one of the 3 people who I work with that read this blog, you probably won't even know what I'm talking about. Sometimes you just get really pissed and want to shout to the (blogging) world that an injustice has occured and damn if you won't let it go unnoticed.

So. Lauren is a fantastically funny friend of mine who was unfortunately laid off from her job today. Her take on the lay-off was that people with college degrees don't get laid off; factory workers get laid off. I disagree. I think that the lay-off is corporate America's greatest achievement. It's their way of saying, "You're not doing anything wrong but we're deciding to let you go because we found some asshole who will do their job PLUS your job for free." In this case I'm the asshole. In a way, I sort of feel guilty. If I weren't such a pushover striving to be an overachiever maybe they would have felt that they couldn't afford to lose her. I shouldn't liken the Lemonade Stand to corporate America either; it's more like Nazi Germany and I feel like a Jewish Nazi torn between right & wrong, good & evil, the smokers & the non. Sieg Heil!

And now... a top ten list for why I love LORON:
1. She shoots from the hip & tells it like it is. I especially like when she puts me in my place when I complain too much. She has no sympathy for me, and when I stress out, she gives me the slap in the face that I need.
2. Speaking of slapping, she lets me bend her over and slap her ass when we're out drinking. Seriously Lauren, don't let my track record of stalking the Indigo Girls make you nervous. I'm not gay, even though all the dykes wish I were.
3. She uses the word "vagina" more than anyone I've ever met. (I'm still not gay.)
4. She turns Puerto Rican when she's forced to answer allegations that are really too stupid to even respond to. But, if you're gonna respond, I guess angry Puerto Rican is the way to go.
5. She has a 6th sense when it comes to sensing Mrs. Dipillo.
6. She can spontaneously burst into showtunes complete with dramatic hand gestures. Even my mom would love her for this one.
7. Her car is named Karen and Karen is the toughest bitch in Lowell. Don't fuck with Karen. She even has a nice front crack. (STILL not gay! Although I can't say the same for Margo, my cargo-hauling turbo hottie. She wishes she were diesel.)
8. She has the best ever defense for when people yell mean things out of car windows. What's up Patty?!
9. She can talk her way out of a drunken car wreck and look like the innocent victim.
10. She cannot talk her way out of a parking garage, but she CAN turn it into the funniest f'in email ever. Without her permission, I'm posting it here so you can experience LORON for yourself.

so after I played poor drunk me for an hour because Krystals 20 something friends at the Dub weigh 364 pounds less than me, Cheryl was nice enough to give me a ride home, leaving Karen at the parking garage. When she was even nice to drive me back to my car in the morning I hopped in and realized I hadnt brought my wallet, to which she gave me $2.00 and we hoped for the best. Upon arrival at the parking garage I got in Karen and attempted to cruise on out but when the gate wouldnt open I backed out and tried the next one to the left. FUCK I cant get out of that one either. Parking attendant man comes over and askes where my ticket is. I inform him that I do not have one to which he is astonished. He askes me to pull over and step insideof the office. Parking attendant man and woman begin to ask questions, I inform them that I have no wallet or ID just this simple $2.00 that my friend Cheryl Casey has allowed me to borrow to plan my escape from this dungeon, thismakes them angry. They ask me again if I have ID and I do not. Meter Maid Loreta is paged, she again asks me a slew of quiestions and then desides that the vodka reeking from my poors requires police assistance. Lowell Police are called. Upon the arrival of the police, they ask me wheremy identification is, I respond by saying .....46 Park st. Ohhhhh Lowell police are not amused. They run my plates, and yes the car does belong to a Lauren A. Heeley, so they ask, how do weknow this is you maam, I have just puton my cunty pants as they are tying up my 45 minutesleft of sleep.....I decide it is agood idea to shout....WELL IVEBEEN ARRESTED SO CLEARLY YOU HAVE MY MUG SHOT, CHECK ITOUT YOU EVEN HAVE PICTURES OF MY BODY ART AND i CAN SHOW YOU THAT AS WELL....Ohhhh Lowell police is furious, as he is telling me that this is not a joke, Allison Carrol who I tapped danced with to "New York New York" circa 1995 care of Demetra School Of Dance walks in and says HEY LAUREN......I shout "SHE SAID MY NAME I DIDNT ASK HER TOO, I DIDNT EVEN SEE HER WALKING IN"........this does not work, I am asked to get my registration from the vehicle and I do, no im stompingmy feet as I walk.......they let me go and told me they would send me a fine and Ill pay it but clearly the parking agarage attentand who reeks of WD40 being at my house till 3:30 am doesnothing for me.....I will NEVER give a carney ass tilt a whirl running greasy pete my number again, he was no help!!!

We love you & we'll miss you Lauren!

A snippit from the Hup

2007-07-31T22:37:00.000-04:00

While watching some performer on some TV show...

Me: Do you know what this song is?
Hup: BOR-ing!
Me: No. It's our wedding song.

On Turkeys and Babies

2007-06-28T23:24:00.002-04:00

I was talking to my friend Jmaie Dnrunig (real name has been google-proofed!), who has one of those names where you say the full first & last name every time you talk about her. (To Jaime: Relax, I'm not really talking about you. I can hear you now: "What the hell does that mean?") But you know, you just have some friends where the full name just comes out as if it were one word. I usually do it for alliterative names, like MikeMarshall the carpet guy, or MollyMitchell my camp friend. I really even say things like, "Hi MikeMarshall, how are you?" or "Oh my god, MollyMitchell, I love those shoes." (Bad example, I would never comment on someone's shoes.) It sounds normal until I picture hearing my own name being used as a full name in a sentence. For the folks at home, try it now with your own name. Weird, right?

ANYWAY.... I was talking to my friend Jmaie Dnrunig and I was telling her that everyone has such cute kids, hers included, and that I was such an ugly baby when I was little. She didn't believe me, so I said fuck it, I'll blog about it! My mom kept a 5x7 baby picture of me on her fridge a few years ago, and one of her good friends who has known us forever looked at the picture and said in a whisper, "Oh god, whose baby is this? It's so ugly!" And my mom just laughed and laughed and pointed at me.

This wasn't the exact picture that was on the fridge, but it was from the same series at least.

I'm the one on the left that looks like:
a) a drunk old man
b) a treasure troll
c) a raisin with a toupee
d) I'm open to your ideas on this one

Notice how I'm holding myself up with a fist and my double chin. Sometimes I wonder if this is what I look like when I sit at my desk for too long.

This next picture is from a bit later, but clearly I had not outgrown my ugly phase.

Now I think I look more like Dana Carvey than a treasure troll or a raisin, but the resemblance is still there. As I got older, I got a little bit cuter but a lot more dorky. I never really noticed how dorky I was because I was too focused on the fact that my sister looked like a 50 year old lesbian accountant in the 2nd grade.

And eventually, I ended up looking like this:

What a turkey! Speaking of turkeys, when I was in 9th grade, JmaieDrunig gave me the nickname "Turk" which I had embroidered on the arm of my softball sweatshirt. The nickname came from a story I wrote in elementary school that was published in the school newspaper, called "What I'd do if I were a turkey." And whaddya know, here it is:

Five Years of Shit

2007-05-29T00:59:00.000-04:00

My husband and I celebrate our 5-year wedding anniversary tomorrow. 5 years! The time is flying by, but I guess that's what happens when you marry someone after knowing them for 2 months. (Well, unless you count internet time, then we've known each other for 9 years before getting married. So there.) People around us are breaking up, getting engaged, getting divorced, having babies, trying to find someone worth dating, sometimes a combination of the above. I think we're fairly rock solid. Here is a montage of our 5 years:

The First Date
If you're surprised that you haven't heard this story yet, keep reading. You'll see why.
The first real date we ever had was when Hup first came out to visit. We went to Woodman's of Essex. Because I had been fasting for oh.... 7 months before this day, my stomach had become very sensitive to greasy junk food. And because I don't eat seafood, I ordered the fried chicken dinner with onion rings and french fries. What came next was sheer horror. We were about 10 minutes from Woodman's, on our way home. If you're not familiar with this part of the north shore, let me just say that there is NOTHING between Woodman's and the Liberty Tree Mall. It was in this stretch of nothingness that my stomach started to gurgle. I'm not talking digestion noises, I'm talking full-fledged "I'm-about-to-shit-my-fucking-pants" noises. Think Jeff Daniels in the bathroom scene in Dumb & Dumber. I had no choice but to pull the car over on the side of the highway, run to the closest point out of the headlight beams, and drop my pants. It was a very close call, and a truly euphoric experience. Well, it was euphoric until I had to get back into the car with this guy who I had just met, with my butt still drippy from chicken diarrhea. We drove with the windows down until we finally found a gas station, at which point I went into the bathroom to wipe (finally!) and then threw my underwear away. In isolation, this probably would still be my most embarrassing moment, but the truth is, so many similar occurences have happened so often after this night that it's merely a blip on the radar.

Everything I program, I program for you
While most husbands buy their wives flowers or jewelry or whatever else it is that women supposedly like, my husband writes programs for me to show his love! Example: http://www.urbanrecluse.net/pacemate/#Description
I love my computer geek!

Paging Dr. Adams
A few months ago when I was experiencing vertigo, Hup very diligently looked up my symptoms, diagnosed me, and then went to the pharmacy to speak with the pharmacist about what I should take. He came home, brought me a glass of water, and gave me non-drowsy dramamine (containing 15mg of meclizine.) The next day, I paid $15 for the doctor to tell me the same thing and write me a prescription for 15mg of meclizine that cost 10 times more than non-drowsy dramamine. Do I insist on going to the doctor because I pay so damn much for health insurance??? Oh wait, let's not take this blog entry in a new direction. No one wants to hear my opinion on the health care system in America when I could be talking about poop.

For Better or For Worse
Let's just skip to the "For Worse" section of the story, shall we? I had gone out drinking with my co-workers last summer, and got the drunkest I've ever been in my whole life. Drunker than when I drank Mad Dog 20/20 on Glenville Ave. Drunker than when I threw up at my own wedding celebration dancing to Cottoneye Joe. Drunker than when Emily & I went to Prague, rode in the back of a stolen postal truck, bonded with french speaking Czechs at the pool hall, peed my pants because I thought that everything Emily said was so funny, and finally passed out in a bathroom stall with my head on the toilet seat. Got a good perspective on it now? So there I was at the Brewery, sitting nicely with 8 of my co-workers at an outdoor table, when finally my body decided that that last kamizee shot I had was one too many. I puked everywhere, including down the front of my white t-shirt that I was wearing. With some help from my friend Kim, we managed to find our way to her condo in downtown Lowell, up the elevator to her floor, down the hallway to her door, and through her hallway, dining room, and living room to the couch. She deserves all the credit because I was happy sleeping at the table in my pile of puke, then on the sidewalk, then in her car, then in the elevator, then in the hallway. The couch was a delightful choice on her part. Before I totally passed out, she made me sit up so I could drink water. As soon as I sat up, I knew what was coming so I motioned like, well... like a drunk person who is about to throw up, and Kim brought me the first receptable she could find: the dog dish. In between ralphing noises, I remember laughing and saying, "haha... blahrahugh!... is this... blahrahugh.. a DOG DISH? hahahablarahugh!" Kim left me on the couch with my dog dish, but a few hours later, I woke up with the urge to take a dump. I made my way to her bathroom and pooed out some of the sickness, only to find that there was no toilet paper. Jesus, do I need to carrying my own roll everywhere I go? Since I was not in a public gas station restroom and could not just wipe with my underwear and then throw them away, I had to improvise and do what needed to be done. I found the only disposable tissue and/or toilet paper I could find... in the trash can. This, people, was an all-time low, even for me. Don't think I don't recognize that. I went back to sleep on her couch, woke up at 6am, and knew that it was time for me to go. I had to get home to get ready for work. I snuck out of her condo, only to get lost trying to find the elevator. When I finally found the elevator, I had to share it with some yuppie suit & tie type who was headed to work, probably taking the commuter rail into Boston to trade securities or whatever it is that people who wear ties to work do. Contrast him with me: my hair was a mess, I was wearing the same clothes that I slept-in, puked on, and wore to work the day earlier, and probably smelled like a combination of dog food, bud light, triple sec, and bile. Oh, and, I probably had Kim's boyfriend's snot stuck in between my buttcheeks. So, what does all of this have to do with our 5-year wedding anniversary? I called Craig to come pick me up, ("I don't know where I am, just drive along Market Street until you find me.") And he did. And he drove me home with my head hanging out the window of his company car with the logo covered in my puke. And he didn't seem to mind. Isn't that the most romantic story you've ever heard??

In lieu of a good story of something that has happened recently, here is a sample of the conversations we have had in the past couple of weeks.

Baby Talk
Me: If we had a girl, what would you want to name her?
Hup: I like the name Samantha.
Me: That might be ok, but I'd want to call her Sam. Wait! No! We can't name her Samantha!
Hup: Why not?
Me: Sam Adams? I don't think so.

Marital Misunderstandings
Hup: Do we need toothpaste?
Me: I think we have half a tube left.
Hup: No, I mean, do humans need toothpaste?

Hup: (At the Red Sox game) Who started the wave?
Me: I think the people in the bleachers did.
Hup: No, I mean, who was the first person to ever start doing the wave?

The longest Good-bye
Hup: Bye Effie!
Me: Smell ya later!
Hup: Smell your poop!
Me: Sniff it!
Hup: Lick it!
Me: Fry it up and eat it!
(*note from the author: I couldn't resist one more poop reference)

Happy Anniversary Hup!

Waking Up White Trash

2007-03-31T18:32:00.000-04:00

It's official. I am total white trash. The hints have been here all along, but I never put the pieces together until this happened last week in the grocery store:

Me: You're buying bologna?!
Hup: So, you're buying Fluff.
Me: Ok, we're even.

So then I thought back to other episodes that have been playing out for months, but they were all just funny snipits at the time. None of them slapped me in the face as hard as the bologna/fluff bit.

Episode #1. Setting: Walking into Kohl's
Me: What are you planning to buy?
Hup: I need pants that I can wear in public.

Episode #2. Setting: Car dealership
Sales guy, reading my t-shirt: Hey, cool! Claddagh Pub! Do you go there?
Me, reading my own t-shirt: Hrmm, no. This is from a race in 2002. I guess I need some newer clothes.

Episode #3. Setting: Writing this blog entry
Me: I need some examples of how we're trashy!
Hup: You burp and fart a lot.
Me: No, I need a specific example.
Hup: We went to Hooters for lunch today.
Me: Hrmm, no. Not funny.
Hup: Bologna's good! I don't think women understand bologna.

Gossip Shmossip

2007-02-25T16:46:00.001-05:00

My blog is back from the dead. No, I wasn't writing mean things about you. I denied access across the board because I needed to temporarily "hide" my blog from [this section deleted-- makes you really curious, doesn't it?]

In my absense, here is the abridged version of what happened:

1. JD emailed me a few days after my last entry. I was tempted to immediately post an entry entitled, "Recent lottery winners, please google yourselves!" in the hopes that they too would instantly appear in my life. Imagine a blog that had magical powers, and whatever you wrote about actually came true? That would make a really good Disney Channel movie. Wait a minute, this isn't the abridged version, this is the shut-the-hell-up-and-get-on-with-it version. Ahem, so anyway, Jaime and I emailed a ton, hung out once, and I hope to hang out more in the future. In case you are wondering, she's got an adorable baby that I've only seen pictures of, I hot husband who I met in person, and she's still cool as shit. And despite that fact that she smokes pot and I don't, she's definitely got the better memory.

2. I went to New York with Emily, Jane, Michelle, and my Aunt Martha. It was cold. I got the deep fat itch. The deep fat itch is when your fat literally freezes and all you want to do is dig your nails under your skin and scratch it. We also saw "Wicked" the musical, which I loved. I also ate 2 reubens, pizza, and some cheesecake, which I also loved.

3. Craig and I went to Las Vegas for 4 days with his father, his father's girlfriend, his brother, and his brother's girlfriend. We had a blast. I gambled a lot. I mostly lost money. That pretty much sums up 99% of every tourists' trip.

4. I joined and quit Jenny Craig. I keep gaining a lot of weight, but at least I'm learning new things. I learned that I don't want to eat 3 meals a day out of a box. I also learned that you should never trust anyone who gets paid commission.

5. I've completely ditched all the good intentions I had last year. I didn't make any resolutions, and I'm whole-heartedly breaking the ones I made for 2006 (shut up, it's 2007, I can do whatever the hell I want!) I'm addicted to American Idol, I'm watching 25-30 hours of TV per week, and I decided I'm not even going to pick up a book because I know I won't finish it anyway. I do have one goal, and that is to be credit card debt free by my 30th birthday. If it weren't for these $300 heating bills, I could probably do it.

Shit, is that it?

JD, I hope you google yourself

2006-12-07T22:22:00.001-05:00

Here's some irony: The girl who got me hooked on the internet in grade 11 is now the only person that I cannot find through the magic of google or myspace.

We both had Prodigy accounts, and we had a club that we started called "VANS", (after the skater shoe), which stood for Vengeance Against Non-Skaters. We hated anyone who wasn't open-minded. Ah, the ignorant pretentiousness of the teen years! My first internet "boyfriend" was called Jack. As I wrote that sentence, I googled him and found him and his myspace account. (Seriously Jaime, why are you so difficult to find?) My prodigy life was short-lived, however, because my mother found some hot & heavy emails between Jack & I and printed them out along with the cancellation notice for prodigy which she taped to the computer screen. But, the seed was planted and now thanks to JD, I'm writing a blog entry at 11pm while my husband who I met online is sleeping in the next room.

Jaime and I went to elementary school together. We weren't close friends, but friends nonetheless since there was only one class and we were all in it for 7 years. The only thing I remember about Jaime from Elementary school was that she always had a cream puff pastry in her lunch. Jesus, I'm fat.

I don't remember anything at all about Jaime in Middle School. I think 10th grade was when we became friends because we had Study together. I never really had any friends between grades 7-10. Nancy and I were best friends from kindergarten through 6th grade, until the summer after 6th grade when Lauren K. (the mean one, as opposed to Lauren C., the skinny one) called me multiple times a day to tell me that Nancy wasn't my friend, and that they were best friends now. That was the first time in my life I realized the importance of a back-up plan, and in this case, that meant having other friends. But, I was spoiled because Nancy was the most popular girl in school, and since I was her best friend for like, our entire lives, I felt that I should be popular by default. You can't really be smug AND have no friends, and since I was in all the smart-people classes with a bunch of nerds (Hi Melissa! No offense!), I never made any friends because I felt like I was too good for them, and I never got the chance to socialize with anyone else. So anyway, basically I had 3 or 4 weird years of hanging out with random people, from the slutty druggies to the drama geeks to the academic decathaletes ("WEEEEEEEEED!") and panicking EVERY time I walked into the cafe because I didn't know where I would sit.

Jaime was the social outcast who chose to be a social outcast. Her favorite color was black. She liked Nine Inch Nails (before it was cool.) She smoked cigarettes and failed classes and was voted Class Pessimist. When Jaime and I became friends, I think I was glad to have chosen a friend that was such an outcast because then I could pretend that I was a cool outcast too, instead of a loser that even the nerds didn't like. It didn't matter that we had nothing in common. She wanted to hang out after school and smoke, but I had soccer practice. She wanted to hang out at the pit in Harvard Square on Friday nights, but I was ushering the Masquer's Club production of Kiss Me Kate. But we did have a lot of great times together, like being beach rats on the Hampton Beach strip, hanging out in Harvard Square, and learning to skate late at night in front Pizza Hut with Roger Bagley. (That link is a stretch, but hey, he's sorta famous!) Oh, and of course, finding true love and hating the haters on Prodigy. I ended up quitting soccer my senior year. I remember telling the coach that I quit, and then Jaime & I walked to Ryer's store to buy coke and king-size butterfingers. Jesus, I'm fat.

We remained friends through my junior year of college. That's when I turned into a total snooty bitch. I guess I figured I didn't need her to support my identity anymore. I was a college girl. I pulled all-nighters to write research papers, and I had a slew of artsy friends from Mass Art that I worked with at JP Licks. She was still living at home with her parents, still driving around aimlessly at night with a cigarette in one hand and the volume knob being cranked up by the other. I couldn't take it anymore. I did the most cowardly thing ever and sent her a mean greeting card that I bought at Fly Rabbit. The outside of the card was a black ink drawing of something (a phone? a mosquito? a taco? I forget) and the inside said in small, blunt text, "Please don't call me anymore." To add insult to injury, I also changed my phone number at the same time that I sent the card. I completely cut her off. I haven't spoken to her since. The last I heard was that she told Melissa that if she ever saw me, she would fucking kill me. I'm pretty sure she meant that literally.

I bet if I found her now, she'd still be somewhat the same, and I admire that. It takes guts to stay true to yourself. I am a chameleon that changes color to whatever is around me. I have no sense of self, no identity. I watch primetime TV, I listen to mainstream radio, I have superficial conversations with too many stupid people. Jaime, if you google yourself and find this post, please email me because I'd like to start over, but not if you're really going to kill me.

Cross that one off your list

2006-11-12T09:35:00.000-05:00

I am happy to report that I finished reading "The Fountainhead" last week. I'm not so happy to report that I think I'm a Peter Keating. But what do you think?

Also, I finally got the plantar wart removed. I've never had surgery, except for maybe getting all 4 wisdom teeth removed. I wouldn't have called this surgery either, except that the pamphlet they gave me on my way out the door says, "Post-operative instructions for WART SURGERY." And WART SURGERY is in bigger bold text, as if it wasn't shameful enough. So, I'm calling it surgery, and now I can cross that off my list of things to do before I die*, although I'm fairly confident that would have naturally been one of the last things that would have happened anyway.

My foot fucking hurts. I had the surgery on Thursday afternoon. Another reason I wouldn't have called it surgery is because all I did was sit in a chair and take off my sock & shoe. My sister asked if I had to take my pants off, which is a natural question to ask if you picture me laid up in a hospital bed with nurses and doctors scrambling about. But really, I just took off the one sock & one shoe and sat in a chair, door to the treatroom still open, with all the employees & patients & delivery men poking their heads in saying, "Geez, how long have you had that?" So the thought of me sitting there with my pants off was pretty funny.

First they shot me in the foot with novacaine. Before the doctor started the procedure, I asked him if he'd ever been kicked in the face, because that was the image that flashed in my head when I thought of him sticking me with a needle. He held my foot tight enough so that didn't happen, although I did squirm in the chair and grit my teeth and clench my fists. I let out a cry of pain, and then immediately started laughing because by the time I stopped shouting, I realized my foot was numb, and then I just felt stupid. That was the worst part of the procedure, which I wished I knew at the time. I sat so rigid in the chair for the rest of the procedure, waiting for excrutiating pain that never came. My right thigh was spasming the whole time, which I'm fairly positive was self-induced and was not a medical result of the procedure they were performing on my foot. The procedure itself just felt like he was drawing on my foot with a sharpie. It took about 10 minutes, and then it was done. They had successfully cut the wart out of my foot.

I put my shoe & sock on and walked out. I was limping a little bit, but there wasn't much pain. It wasn't until he prescribed vicadin that I thought, hey wait a minute, is this going to hurt? Let me tell you, it fucking hurts. I have a hole in my foot that seems to be getting bigger. It's getting to the point where I can't even limp around on it. Today I'm going to my parents' house to get crutches, which I've also never had to use before. So cross that off the list* too!

* Footnote: The list of things to do before I die is too long and too all encompassing to post in a blog. And I'm sure my list is nearly identical to everyone else's list. At least Peter Keating's list anyway.

Effie's To-Do List

2006-10-12T00:06:00.000-04:00

Inspired by this blog , here is my to-do list:

1. Learn to use my sewing machine. I asked for one for Christmas during my Trading Spaces & While You Were Out days, but that waned quickly. Now I want to use it so I can make renaissance costumes and sell them for big bucks, alongside the weapons and wares that my husband will make. I swear, Weird Al was singing about us when he wrote the White & Nerdy song.

2. Clean my house. I mean, really clean, like scrubbing the grime off of the blinds and scraping pubic hairs out of the corners of the bathroom floor.

3. Organize my personal filing cabinet. Everytime I start this task, I get sidetracked by the old shit that I keep in there, then I'm so tickled pink to have found it that I leave it in there. Example: I have a whole folder dedicated to Atmel where I used to work as a Diffusion Specialist. In the folder are all sorts of manuals, MSDS (Material Safety Data Sheets, for those of you who aren't white & nerdy), and general information about what the heck microelectronic fabrication is anyway. In case you're wondering, "Diffusion is the first step in the process of creating ICs (integrated circuits, duh). Here, we will create layers of material on the wafers, using various gases and dopants in high-temperature furnaces, which will be etched, implanted or otherwise defined." So, I keep all this stuff to remind myself of it, because I was a Diffusion Specialist and you'd think that with a title like that, I should have retained something.

4. Organize 11 shoe boxes of memorabilia. Again, as soon as I start to organize it, I get lost down memory lane and then I can't throw anything out. If I get such a kick out of stuff now, imagine how much fun it'll be when I'm 50, or how much my kids will make fun of me when they find it in the attic some day. Example:

If I ever found something like this in my parents' attic that their friends did for them, I think I would have shit helium balloons I'd be laughing so hard (yeah, I don't know how that reference is relevant, but I liked it.) I cannot rob my offspring of an opportunity like that.

5. Finish reading Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead". It's been almost 12 months since I started reading it. The kicker is I really like the book. I need to dedicate more than 20 minutes every 2 weeks to reading.

6. Remove the plantar wart on the bottom of my foot. Just incase you weren't grossed out by the pubic hair in the bathroom, I thought I'd throw this one in. I've had a plantar wart on the bottom of my foot since 10th grade. Last year, I went to a podiatrist to get zapped with a laser every 3 weeks for a couple of months. I think I was like 85% of the way done with the treatment, but that's when I decided to quit my job and go work with the monkeys. Then the wart came back more powerful than ever. I'm afraid to go back because I seriously think they might have to amputate my foot at this point. Oh well, at least then I'd have time to sit around the house and do things like read & organize & make medieval wench costumes.

braindead

2006-08-17T22:20:00.000-04:00

Hi. I never update. You're sick of clicking this link, and maybe you don't even do that anymore. Work sucks. I want another vacation. I need to lose 50 pounds. I want a house and a yard and free time.

I want to meet Jane's new girlfriend. I want to meet Emily's new boyfriend. It's going to be like A League of Their Own meets Indian Summer.

And I still have trash bags full of clothes in my guest room. Nothing changes.

Binge & Purge

2006-06-09T18:16:00.000-04:00

On Thursday night, I've done something I've never done before. I binged & purged. Sure, I binge all the time, but the purging was something new. Before you get all afterschool-special on me, let me explain. I purged my CLOSETS. (Trust me, I've tried sticking a toothbrush down my throat before and it just doesn't work. Damn those lucky bulimics!)

It all started at 4:00. My friend Sarah met me after work. We drove to Suppa's sub shop in the University ghetto of Lowell, and ordered a large Steak Stick. A Steak Stick is steak & cheese wrapped in pizza dough and then deep fried. Just when you thought it couldn't be any more fattening, they throw in a side of ranch dressing too. Yum. While our steak stick was in the deep fryer, we went next door to the convenience store and bought 5 (FIVE) candy bars. Sarah ate one while our Steak Stick was still being fried in hot lard. It was one of those moments that you look back on and say, "What was I thinking?" or "God, no wonder I was so fat." or "Yep, that was definitely the best night of my life."

We drove to my house, ate our Steak Stick, which went down way too fast. They gave us 4 sets of silverware, but we cut that bad boy in half and we were both done within minutes. I really need to stop bragging about how disgusting we are and start talking about the purge.

Let me tell you a little more about Sarah. She loves fashion reality shows, like "What Not to Wear" and "How Do I Look?" etc. She is also a very organized, clutter-free person. So, what better person to help me organize my closet? We started with my dresser. She held up items and we would both decide whether to keep, donate, or throw away (very "Clean Sweep" esque, no?). Despite my initial fears, I was actually very willing to get rid of a lot of stuff. I guess when someone else sees the shit that you keep piled in your drawers, it kinda puts it into perspective. The first thing to go was a pair of cotton gym shorts that I think I bought in high school. They were stained with paint and didn't fit anyway. Sarah held them up with a look like, "Why the hell would you have these?" and I answered, "What if I need to paint? And it's hot out? And I'm 20 pounds lighter?" That was pretty much how the whole event played out. Here are some highlights:

Me, commenting on a loud tie-dyed t-shirt: "What if I need to go to a halloween party as a hippie?"
Me, commenting on a chef's coat that I wore in cooking class in college: "What if I need to go to a halloween party as a chef?"
Me, commenting on a black pleather mini skirt: "What if I need to go to a halloween party as a biker slut?"
Sarah: "Who are you that you're going to all of these halloween parties?!?!"

I tried to defend a t-shirt with the backdrop of an American Flag, and a silouette Team Hoyt (a father who pushes his son in a wheelchair in marathons), with "Let's Roll!" proudly scripted on it by saying that that's the shirt I wear when I go rollerblading. Somehow that had the opposite effect and it went straight into the throwaway pile.

There were some items that Sarah approved of. Oddly enough, one was a sweater that my sister bought for me, and the other was a dress that my husband bought for me. So I now have a few rules that I've been instructed to follow. #1 - I'm not allowed to shop at Kohl's anymore. #2 - I'm not allowed to buy 5 pairs of frumpy jeans when I really should be buying 1 pair that looks good. This sort of clashes with MY #1 rule, which is to not spend more than $20 on any one single item, but I think the lesson learned last night is that I'm cheap and have no style, so maybe it's time to get rid of my rules.

In total, I'm donating 5 bags of clothes, and throwing away 2.

Stop being stupid!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2006-06-08T06:46:00.000-04:00

I know a lot of us think that our bosses are idiotic assholes, but hup's boss wins the award. This is an email that he sent to his entire staff.

I sick and tired of saying this you are all capable of writing down
information. YOU MUST GET COMPLETE NOTES ON EVERYTHING YOU DO. FROM SENDING OUT EQUIPMENT TO CHECKING IT IN TO INSTALL IT TO DOING A SERVICE CALL. WRITE DOWN EVERYTHING!

WHY CAN YOU GUYS GET IT? THIS IS GETTING VERY TIRED EVERYTIME I LOOK SOMETHING UP THERE ARE NO NOTES AND NOP REASON WHY ANYONE IS DOING WHAT THEY ARE DOING.

IF YOU ARE GOING TO CHECK IN EQUOIPMENT WRITE DOWN SOMETHING DAST TIME EQUIPMENT SERIRAL NUMBER WHYY IT CAM IN WHT YOU FOUN\D WRONG WITH YIT YOU NAMKE, IS THER A charge why is there a charge etc etc etc...

Stop being stupid!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Green Gizmos & Pink Onesies

2006-05-23T21:12:00.000-04:00

Exciting news! I have a new blog entry that doesn't have to do with my job! For the first time in a long time, I actually had a fairly social weekend planned. Saturday was my church camp reunion and Sunday was my friend's baby shower. That's right, I'm social, and wholesome too.

The church camp reunion on Saturday was planned months ago. I went to church camp for 4 years throughout high school, and a few months ago, one of my fellow campers started a group on myspace. Through some networking and some googling, we were able to grow the GPC (Geneva Point Center) group up to over 50 members! It just goes to show how strong an influence GPC was in all of our lives, and also how great myspace is for finding anyone.

The first person I saw when I arrived at the restaurant for the reunion was my old camp crush, Mike1 (there are a lot of Mike's in this story, so I'm numbering them for your convenience). And now that I've met his girlfriend and know that she may be reading this blog, I've decided to share some of my favorite stories about him. The best one is the time I invited him to my junior prom, and as we were taking pictures in my backyard, he either got stung in the eye by a bee, or maybe shoved his face into the azalea bush and got a severe allergic reaction. At any rate, his eye totally swelled up and he was miserable. I could sense things were going downhill, so I did what any normal 16 year old girl would do. I got totally defensive and whiny and sarcastic. What? Those 3 adjectives don't go together? Well, imagine this, "It's not MY fault your eye swelled up, can't you just ignore it and do the electric slide with me?.... Why don't you like me? Am I too fat? I just want to dance at my own prom! Wah!... Oh look, THEY'RE having fun. Oh look, SHE'S not sitting by herself crying." I have to interrupt this story to make fun of ANOTHER ex-boyfriend. At one point at my junior prom, I really was sitting by myself crying, and my ex-boyfriend, Mike2, who I dated oh-so-very-briefly came over to the table and said, "Is everything ok? Are you crying because I'm here with Katie?" Ummm, don't flatter yourself buddy. I got over you like, 4 months ago. Whatever. Anyway, my charming one-eyed date then decided that since we weren't having fun, we might as well call it a night. We went back to my parents house where he then proceeded to dump me and I didn't hear from him again until camp that summer, where he pretty much ignored me the whole week. Haha? Isn't that funny?

We became friends again by the next year at camp, when he suddenly turned into a deadhead, and maybe decided that all that peace & love stuff was a good idea. We remained good friends in college, and had a lot of good times. I remember a few parties at his apartment in Southie that were a blast. I remember hooking up with his two best friends in the same night, and also cleaning up puke off of people that had passed out. I'm such a giver. (Some might say slut. PoTAYto, PoTAHto.)

Wait. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, church camp. I forgot I was pretending to be wholesome in this entry.

The entire night was awesome. The group of us, about 35 people, all met at Summershack in Cambridge and had dinner. Krissy, a former camper-turned-counselor made "warm fuzzies" and name tags for everyone to wear. In case you've never been to camp, a warm fuzzy is basically a big koosh ball made of yarn that you wear around your neck or tied onto your belt, or anywhere that people can see it so they know you're special. And trust me, you definitely felt special when you stepped away from the GPC party and made your way through the restaurant to use the restroom with a big ball of yarn dangling from your neck and your name prominently displayed. Other patrons probably thought we had a re-re van waiting outside for us. But you know what? That's their loss, because I've got the joy of the Lord my God, in my heart, my soul, by bod. I love my neighbor as myself, I've got the joy of the Lord! (See, not weird at all.)

My favorite part of the reunion was when Mike3, a former counselor, stood up in the middle of dinner and announced, "Does anyone know what time it is?" and 35 voices answered back, "It's green gizmo time!" This was a tradition that we did back at camp. It wasn't the tradition itself that was awesome, but it was seeing that none of us missed a beat. We weren't whispering to each other, "Oh gawd, remember this? How embarrassing." We were genuinely nervous that one of us might be picked for green gizmo. Of course, Mike3 picked Mike1, you remember him, the guy that dumped me at my own prom? And they also picked Hillary, and the green gizmo turned out to be a group hug by all the members of the opposite sex. Ahh, church camp, such innocent & wholesome fun!

Then Sunday was my friend FlyingJ's baby shower, which you can read about here. You can also read Red's version of it here which is less of a baby shower play-by-play and more of a self-deprecating but nonetheless funny entry by Red, in which she also links to my blog. I sorta feel like I gotta return the favor, not out of guilt, but out of respect. Speaking of peer pressure... my other friend was there with her newborn, and I also just found out on Friday morning that my boss is pregnant. I'm not gonna lie to you, sometimes I feel like hyperventilating into a paper bag, but then I remember my sister and my two cousins, and I take solace in the fact that they're not pregnant, or anywhere near getting pregnant, so then I relax and take another birth control pill and all seems right with the world.

I said a flip flop, flippy to the flippity flip flop, rocking to the bang bang boogity up drop the boogie to the rhythm of the BANANA

2006-05-10T18:33:00.000-04:00

It's about two months later, and now I'm going to write a blog entry about why I won't miss THIS job, just incase I forget. The corporate Director of Human Resources was in the office here yesterday and said that he thinks I'll be back, and that the door is always open, and blah blah blah. Today my on-site bosses said that they would take me back in a second, and I told them that I was starting to feel like a human ping pong ball. "Oooh! No weekends? OK, I'll quit my job and go work there." "Wait, but you'll pay me more? Ok, I'll come back." "Cheaper insurance? I'll give my two weeks notice!" Stop the insanity, Effie. Pick a job and stick with it. Just because people compliment you doesn't mean you have to quit your job and go work for them. Sheesh.

I don't know if I can make a top ten, but I'll try:

10. Remember that red tape that I was yearning for? Well, that's great and all, and yeah it's nice not having to be responsible, and it's comfy knowing that there's other people analyzing data, and other people writing the ads, and other people setting the rental rates. But you know what? I'm not a monkey. I can't WAIT to use my brain again!

9. I'm getting fat here. Let's just use today as an example, shall we? Dunkin' Donuts munchkins for breakfast that my boss brought in. At noon time we all ate birthday cake for my assistant community manager's birthday. At 12:30, before I finished licking the butter cream frosting off my plate, we were ordering chinese food. Not to mention we are required to have cookies out for the residents and customers ("Sorry," I said to the customers as I brushed oreo crumbs off my budge, "did you want anything? We're all out of Oreos.") Sometimes I wish they had bananas. Oooh Oooh Oooh AH AH AH!

8. Scripts! Finally I'll be able to answer the phone and actually speak to the person normally without having to say, "As your dedicated Relocation Specialist I am going to remain with you every step of the way. I know that the process of moving is a challenging time, and I want you to know that you have someone you can count on. I would like to offer you my personalized service by giving you a courtesy call to remind you of your appointment. What number is best to contact you at?" (Yes, that is the actual script. Line 12 of 16, to be exact.) According to AIMCO, you'll never get a phone number by just asking for it. Who the hell makes an appointment and then refuses to give their phone number? And is a monkey reading from a script really going to get that person to change their mind? If you give me your phone number, I'll give you half of my banana.

7. Ummm... this place is 13 miles from home, and gas is really expensive now.

6. Renewal prices! Even our corporate office sets our renewal prices, and they increase rates by astronomical amounts so people that have been here for 3 years end up paying over $100 more than people just moving in. Don't they know it's cheaper to keep a new customer than to find new ones?

5. Melissa's baby shower. Yay! I quit my job so I can go to this!

4. Red Sox game with Kate. Yay! I quit my job so I can go to this!

3. Church Camp Reunion. Yay! I quit my job so I can go to this!

2. Hoyt 5K race. Yay! I quit my job so I can go to this! And I'll get a free banana at the end.

1. Yay! I quit my job so I can go to this!

I can't wait for Monday so I can start bitching about my new job.

Good thing I got a raise so I can afford that $700 slice of pizza

2006-05-03T09:24:00.000-04:00

Hup & I went to New York City this past weekend. Some people asked if we went to celebrate my new job, or to celebrate our anniversary (4 years this month!), but the real reason we went is because it was the first time I had two days off in a row in almost a year and I wanted to take advantage of it!

We stayed at an awesome little hotel right in Times Square, which was surprisingly nice for the price. Our hotel was right across the street from the Ambassador Theatre where we saw "Chicago". It was my 3rd time seeing that show on stage, plus I saw the movie twice. I might be nearing the overkill point, but it was still entertaining. We ate $20 sandwiches at the Stage Deli, rode a double decker tour bus around Manhattan, and visited Madame Tussaud's wax museum where I made a complete fool of myself. They had this haunted house type exhibit based on the movie "House of Wax" (starring the talentless Paris Hilton). I get really, REALLY scared at shit like this, but the tickets were so damn expensive that I wasn't going to skip it. So we're walking through, and people are jumping out of dark corners, or opening up hidden doors and reaching out pretending to grab you. I was walking right behind hup with my face buried in his back and both of my hands shielding the sides of my face so I wouldn't even see anything in my peripheral vision. Anytime I heard any movement, I screamed. My overdramatic display probably came across like I was mocking the exhibit, but I was really that scared. Then one guy, who I didn't see at all, but was obviously part of the experience came right up behind me and started going "sh! sh!" right in my ear. I was literally cringing and screaming and pushing hup to go forward and probably screaming something like, "Oh my god I'm going to die!" It was bad. To top it off, I was bawling crying too. Now picture this for a moment: I look like a total tourist, wearing my sneakers and my backpack and my purse slung diagonally across my body. AND I'm 28 years old, and look as dumpy as can be with my hair in a pony tail and my smudgy glasses streaked with tears. All of a sudden we emerged from the chamber of terror, and I'm still sobbing and trying to catch my breath, but now we're smack in the middle of the Paris Hilton room, complete with pre-teen girls taking their picture next to Paris and giggling with delight over how "fun" the House of Wax tour was. Not one of my proudest moments.

Other than the wax museum, we didn't see any real celebrities, or see any filming going on anywhere. But we DID have the best pizza ever, and isn't that the real reason people go to New York?

Job Update

2006-04-16T06:39:00.000-04:00

Wow, 3 different people asked me for an update lately, which means people really DO read my blog. I haven't updated lately because a) I've been so busy with my new job, b) I'm lazy, and c) the only things I had to write about sounded like complaints, and if I can't make a funny or at least interesting story out of it, I'm hesitant to post a rambling complaint entry. That being said, I will now complain ramblingly about my new job.

I really like my new job, actually. If ya don't know, I took a job with AIMCO, whose goal is to "Become the largest, most profitable and respected owner and operator of multi-family communities in the world." And after a month working for this company already, I still can't hear anything but Dr. Evil when I hear that statement. Mu ha ha!

Like any job at any corporation, there are a lot of good things and a lot of bad things, and I'm sure these are the same across the board regardless of if you're working for AIMCO, or Vivendi, or some other huge-ass company. The health benefits are excellent and a fraction of the cost of what I was paying at my last job (which was a family owned business with about 10 employees total.) The incentives they offer are ridiculous. Here's one example: If you don't use any sick time for an entire calendar year, you are given two freebie vacation days to use for the next year AND you are entered into a raffle to win a brand new car. Even though AIMCO is ginormous, I think I heard that there were only about 200 employees who made it into the raffle, and they were raffling off a 2006 VW Beetle. Those are some pretty good odds.

What I don't like is that there are like 8 levels of management to go through before you can even wipe your ass. At my last job, I really only had to go to one person, and even then I was usually asking for forgiveness rather than permission. (Now is a good time to forget about the ass wiping analogy. Thanks.) So far this hasn't really been an issue, and it's kind of nice not having to sit there and negotiate the rent price for 20 minutes with some engineer that you KNOW makes 6 figures, but is just being a cheap bastard. There is something to be said for shrugging your shoulders and saying, "Sorry, I can't make that decision." The other thing I don't like, and this is a big one, is that they're open on most holidays. Today, for example, is Easter, and yes, the leasing office is open. Luckily my training schedule was so jam packed this week that they had to give me today off, but you can bet your ass that I'll be working the 4th of July, Thanksgiving, and every beautiful weather 3-day weekend.

This is such a boring entry, but I'm going to publish it now before I re-read it and delete it.

What leaving sounds like

2006-03-12T21:01:00.001-05:00

One of my 24 rentals in August was to 2 Cambodian sisters, So+heara & Monine+h Bin. So+heara's legal name at the time was Khema Ke0. When I asked her why she was changing her name to So+heara Bin, she said that she wanted "something more American that people could pronounce." haha. Anyway, Khema/Sotheara was a fairly needy tenant, and would come into the office nearly every day for one thing or another. She would always say, "I come to see you because you understand me. I talk on the phone but maybe you don't understand. So I come to office to see you." Because of the lack of compassion or patience of anyone else in the office, I was always called out to speak with her. Co-workers would call my extension and say, "K-Mart is here to see you." And Khema/Sotheara would overhear this and get so excited and say, "You remember my name!" Little did she know they were making fun of her. Anyway, she finally settled into her apartment, but I would still occasionally hear from her when there was a problem. She really liked me, so she would call me for any problem she was having, including emergency maintenance issues at 10pm. This is the voicemail she left when a water pipe burst in the building.

Last week, I decided to send a personal letter to many of the residents that I rented to. I wanted to let them know that I was leaving the company, and I also used it as a sleazy way to distribute my Coldwell Banker business card to drum up some business. But mostly, it was to let them know that I would be leaving, since many of them had my cell phone number on speed dial for emergencies, like "water in the floor." ("My clothes is a not dry, it's a wet." HA! She kills me!) Anyway, So+heara got my letter, and these were the
first and second voicemails she left me.

Doesn't that just make you want to call her? If you have the time?

Oh So+heara Bin, you break my heart, and I'll miss you too.

** Names have been annoyingly modified just incase they google themselves and find Straightgirlslummingit at the top of the list (which it was.)

I need a belt and some sensible shoes

2006-01-26T11:59:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I've been going to the gym like a mad woman, and have been eating well about 5-6 days of the week, and I've lost a few pounds. I'm happy; really, I am. So don't get me wrong, but I need to complain for a little bit here.

I have no sense of style, and really never have. Once upon a time, when I was at my goal weight for about 8 and a half days, I think I looked good. But that's only because when you can squeeze into a size 10 pair of pants that make your ass look good, you don't mind paying $50 for them, when normally you never go above your "$20 or less" rule for any single item.

Note: I just re-read that paragraph, and a few things jumped out at me.
1. Yes, size 10 is my goal size. Screw you, skinny people.
2. I know $50 is probably not even a lot for a good pair of pants, but it is when you're used to the "$20 or less" rule.
3. The "$20 or less" rule is probably the root of my problem. No wonder I look like Pat from SNL.

But seriously, I feel like the androgyny queen (or king?). I've been trying on clothes all morning. I have two pair of khaki's that fit, but are a little bit too big. I didn't think they looked that bad until I turned around to check my ass, and it looked like I pooped my pants. Instead of hugging the curves of my womanly bottom, the pants just kinda hung off my ass like they were holding my morning dooker. I figured I could try on a pair of my "skinny" pants since my regular pants were too big. I tried on a pair of jeans that were borderline flattering. You know the type-- if you suck in your gut and strike a pose, you look hot, but as soon as you exhale, you're looking at camel toe, gut eruption over the waistline, and you feel the immediate need to pluck your panties out of your ass crack. No thanks. I checked the tag to see what size they were. I would have been psyched if they were a 14, and I would've been ok with them being a 16, but when I looked at the tag, it said "35 x 30". Oh my gosh, I'm wearing MEN'S jeans! No wonder I look like Pat. Come to think of it, this button-down flannel shirt isn't that flattering either. As my cousin Jane would say, all I need is a belt and some sensible shoes.

So. What do I do in the meantime? Spend $50 on a nice pair of size 16 pants that will look good for a month before I need to retire them to the Poopy Pants Pile? Do I just go with the dyke look until I'm hot enough to become feminine again? I'm welcome to ideas if anyone has them.

Kill Your Television

2006-01-20T14:49:00.000-05:00

Remember my New Year's Resolution to not watch more than 5 hours of TV per week? That was the best New Year's Resolution I've ever made. Here's what I've been doing for the past 20 days:

1. Going to bed early
2. Getting up without the alarm (most days) and going to the gym
3. I've lost almost 15 pounds
4. Watching LOST on Wednesdays and loving every freakin' minute of it

Last night I watched Four Kings for the first time. It was ok, but I'd rather be sleeping. Plus, they showed the same stupid commercial at EVERY. SINGLE. BREAK. And, The Office wasn't even funny. I'm hoping it was just a bad episode, and it's not me losing my sense of humor. Is it me, or does it smell like updog in here?

I might just start watching TV shows on DVD's. I added all eleventeen discs of the first season of 24 to my netflix queue. Sure, anti-TV purists might argue that this violates my resolution, but my rule all along was that movies don't count, and since this is coming from Netflix, it's ok.

I don't miss American Idol. In fact, I'm not even tempted to watch a single bad audition. I think my mother is right. Maybe that show is only for thirteen year old girls.

Now if I could just finish the book that Jane lent to me on the 4th of July, I'd really feel like a genius.

Worst Date Ever

2006-01-07T12:04:00.000-05:00

This post is inspired by the The Office. Remember that episode when they had to evacuate the building because of the fire alarm, and they were standing the parking lot swapping Worst Date stories? Well, here's mine.

It was my junior or senior year of college. I was sorta seeing this guy from UNH. "Sorta seeing" means that we hooked up a few times, but didn't even really talk on the phone or go out on actual dates or anything. The first time I met him, I was at Melissa's dorm room and he was there. Then I went home with him, which translates to walking across the campus from one dorm room to another. He was really sweet. He serenaded me on our walk to his dorm room with a lovely rendition of "Try to Remember" from the Fantastiks. Once inside his dorm room, I was completely smitten. What can I say; I tend to fall easily for the musical type. (And then I get to know them and realize they're all pompous jerks with illusions of grandeur. Or, in this case, gay.) Another of the few times I saw him was when I drove to UNH with my mom to see him star in a play. I should have seen the warning signs then when he was wearing makeup and singing. Or when he was making out with that dude backstage. But then Valentine's Day rolled around and he came to my apartment in Boston with a bottle of wine and a backpack full of sleepover clothes. Seemed straight to me!

But then, The Worst Date happened. He was staying at his dad's house in Salem, MA and invited me up for the night. I must not have had a car at the time, because I took the T from Brighton to Salem, MA. Now, for anyone familiar with the Boston T system, you know it's hard enough getting from Boston to Cambridge via the T on a weekday, let alone getting from the city to a freakin' suburb on a Saturday. I took the B line to Haymarket (1 hour, 20 minutes) and then waited for a bus (45 minutes), and then got on the bus and eventually made it to his stop in Salem (close to 2 hours - mainly due to the fact that the bus stopped every 50 feet in Lynn.) I think I got to his place just before dark. Despite the 4 hour journey, I kept telling myself it was going to be worth it. He was sweet! He was charming! He had a voice like an angel! I don't remember much about what happened at all, but I think that's because nothing happened. We didn't watch a movie, we didn't eat dinner, we didn't listen to music, we probably didn't even have a conversation. I have a vague memory of him showing me some book, but that's really all I can remember until bedtime. Ah, yes, bedtime! Maybe he'll make up for it now, I thought. We got into bed, layed down side by side, and he held my hand. Sounds nice enough, right? Except that's all that happened. Hand holding. I spent half a day on public transportation and the other half pretending to be interested in some book so you can hold my hand under the covers? Gah!

But wait, it gets worse. The next morning, I was getting ready to leave. I forgot to bring the Sunday bus schedule with me, so I had no idea when or if the bus would come to get me. I packed up my shit, said my goodbye, and left. I walked down the driveway to the bus stop, which was right outside his house. It wasn't awkward enough to have a hand-holding sleepover party, but now I needed to sit outside his living room window on the side of the road? No thanks. So, I started walking. I walked, and I walked, and I walked. No bus ever came. Eventually, I saw signs for the Swampscott commuter rail station, so I followed those signs. I walked, and I walked, and I walked. By now, I was off the bus route, and who knows how far from the commuter rail station. I had no other option but to keep on walking. This was long before every idiot had a cell phone, and the route that I was walking on was a residential route, so there weren't even any payphones. Finally, about 3 hours later, I made it to the Swampscott commuter rail station. Luckily, they had a schedule posted on their platform, and I only had to wait about 45 minutes for the next train. Waiting for 45 minutes seemed long when I was at Haymarket the day before, but after walking for 3 hours through the quiet streets of Salem and Swampscott, I wasn't about to complain about sitting for 45 minutes. The train finally came and took me back to North Station (1 hour), and then I took the green line back to Brighton (1 hour, 30 minutes) and finally I was home. I logged on to my computer when I got home, and this part I remember perfectly:

.t lennon I just got home
Lennon tells you > Why did it take you so long?
.t lennon Because the bus never came so I ended up walking to the swampscott commuter rail station
Lennon tells you > That's not a short walk at all!*
.t lennon ya I know
Lennon tells you > I had my dad's car, I could have driven you there if I knew you planned to take the commuter rail home

And that was the last time I ever had any contact with him.

Moral of the story: Do not fall for a guy who serenades you with showtunes.

* This line is verbatim. I remember it perfectly because it won the "understatement of the year" award.

Happy New Year

2005-12-31T16:32:00.000-05:00

The year in review can be summed up by this past week in review:

1. Suddenly, people my age including my own circle of friends are suddenly having babies. I'm not ready for kids; I'm not even ready for other people's kids. So, friends, if anyone of you ask me if I want to hold your baby, don't be offended if I hold it with arms outstretched like it's a time bomb waiting to go off.

2. My sister and my cousins remain the rocks that I need them to be. Even with Kate meeting a guy on the internet, Jane meeting a girl on the internet, and Emily taking the plunge into home ownership, they still aren't registering as blips on the radar screen of parenthood. Phew!

3. I lost 10 pounds, I gained 10 pounds. The 10 pounds I gained between Christmas and New Years is almost gone, so I'm starting the year off at pretty much the same weight I started off last year. I don't know if that makes me feel good or bad. I look back at all the boxes of Little Debbie snacks I consumed (most of them in secret in my car on the way home from the store), and I think, "Wow, I didn't gain any weight this year!" But I also look back at the road races I ran, the miles and miles I rollerbladed around the local park, the 3 gyms that I belonged to, the week that I thought I was marathon training, and then I think, "Well screw you! Obviously exercise does NOTHING!"

4. Having a crappy job is better than having no job. I started the year off as an unemployed Realtor, collecting a weekly unemployment check, and cold calling people who could probably hear the fear in my voice. I'm ending the year as an employed rental agent, collecting a measly paycheck that is less than my unemployment check, and cold calling people who can probably hear the bitterness in my voice.

And sadly, that sums up my entire life. Well, almost, I forgot to write about the highlight of my life, the single source of joy in my otherwise gloomy day, the thing that keeps me going when I think there's no reason to go on. No, not Craig (he's fine, by the way). I'm talking about TV. And it is with that that I regretfully publish my New Year's Resolution for 2006:

I will watch no more than 5 hours of TV per week. (Trust me, I've done the math a hundred times. Lost is 1 hour, Prison Break is 1 hour come March, American Idol is 1 hour, Biggest Loser is 1 hour when it starts, and The Office is 30 minutes. That leaves 30 minutes left for Seinfeld, King of Queens, or Everybody Loves Raymond repeats during dinner.) Goodbye Grissom, Jordan, Alan and Charlie, America's Funniest Videos, Dr. House, and all those new comedies on Thursday nights that look really good.

Lay Off My Map!

2005-11-22T17:17:00.000-05:00

I have a pet peeve that was confirmed today. I don't like when people interfere with my maps.

I noticed this a few months ago during my brief stint as a Realtor. A fellow Realtor and I were going out to tour properties, and we were mapping them out visually on my road atlas that I keep in my car. At least, I was mapping them out visually. I turned my back for one second, and the next thing I know, my co-worker was permanently charting our course with a yellow highlighter. GAH! I'm sorry, but I paid a good $20 for this atlas, and I don't need to be reminded from this day forward that one day I drove from Blueberry Hill Circle to Wildwood to Prescott.

This pet peeve surfaced again today. I rent apartments in Lowell, MA, which is a very diverse city. So diverse, that I went out and bought a large world map that hangs in my office. My big plan is to put a pin in every country when I rent to someone from that country (and they need to be born there, or be a citizen of that country, otherwise the map would be full of pins after renting to any handful of 5th generation Americans). Speaking of 5th generation Americans, my boss comes in to my office and decides to put a pin everywhere she's ever been. "I was born in New York." PLUNK. "And one summer I lived in Northern Ontario for a month." PLUNK. "And my stepdad's father was from Ovalle, Chili." PLUNK. Even if I remove all of the superfluous pins, my pretty new map is now riddled with pin holes.

Have a little respect, people.

If I ever do this, shoot me

2005-11-14T17:05:00.000-05:00

This is an ongoing list of things that I frown upon. If you ever catch me doing any of these things, please shoot me:

1. Order a pre-cooked holiday meal from the supermarket. We have ONE day a year, where the point of the holiday is to feast on homemade food. C'mon people, we're really not that lazy, are we?

2. Ride a motorized scooter. If I ever get so lazy that I can't even walk from point A to point B, don't even bother shooting me. I'll probably suffer from muscle atrophy first, which is a very suitable punishment.

3. Put my children on any type of medication before the age of 18. Your 5 year old is hyper? Your 16 year old is depressed? You don't need to medicate them, you need to thank God that your child is NORMAL.

4. Declaw my cat because I don't want them to ruin my furniture. In fact, if I ever get to the point that I care that much about my furniture, just shoot me, cat or no cat.

5. Put my cat or dog on anti-depressants. Do I really need to elaborate on this one?

6. Buy more cars than the number of adults in my household. (Although I won't shoot my parents who currently have 4 cars for 2 people.)

7. Buy a McMansion.

8. Drive less than a mile to the gym so I can walk on the treadmill for 1 mile.

9. Glare at or roll my eyes at the overweight person at the gym who is using the equipment, as if I'm entitled to it more than they are.

10. Have a gas fireplace in my house that can be turned on & off by a switch, or worse, a remote-control.

11. Put a DVD player in my car. We're not braindead enough that we need to be staring a screen from the time we leave our computer screens at work until we plunk our asses down on the couch at home? If you're taking your family on a roadtrip, guess what? The fun of the roadtrip is not watching "The Incredibles" while you're driving by Niagara Falls.

Maybe if we let our kids be hyper & use their imagination instead of force feeding them Ridalin & Nickelodeon, they'd turn into intelligent, well-adjusted human beings. And, it's FREE! We can save all that medication money & blockbuster bucks to put gas in one of our cars so we can drive to the gym that we're paying too much for.

That's enough for now. The rest of the ones I am thinking of are starting to end with, "well, unless it's this", and I would shoot myself if I was a hypocrit.

It's a dirty job....

2005-11-07T18:07:00.000-05:00

This is an actual email that I received at work today:

[Tenant] called to say he thinks someone is living in the laundry room. He said the door is frequently locked and has noticed a young dirty looking man hanging around the building. He also noted that the security doors are still being propped open with sticks even though we have sent multiple notices about this issue. Now are you ready for the gross part? [Tenant] said he could smell.....poop. He went in the laundry room and there is a bucket behind the furnace full of poop. Ick!

The Secret Language of Runners

2005-10-30T11:41:00.000-05:00

On Friday night, my cousin Emily and her on-again/off-again boyfriend Stephen came down. We all ran a 5K road race on Saturday morning. Emily & I used to run all the time, and now every few months we'll get really excited about some race, talk about signing up, and then find 100 reasons to justify why we can't run it. When we do find a race and actually run it, more often than not we'll get misty eyed with nostalgia and vow that we're going to start running religiously once again. That feeling wears off by the time we've eaten our fifth post-race bagel. Part of what we like about running road races isn't the running at all, but everything else that is a part of that subculture.

Like most subcultures, running has its own language. You know you're a serious runner when you can say "fartlek" without giggling. In addition to sharing the language, we also share a lot of the pre-race rituals. My favorite ritual has to be the pre-race dump. That's right, taking a dump. Having a poo. Dropping the kids off at the pool. It's not really the act itself that I find so rewarding, but it's the moments between the dump and the firing of the start gun that I feel a sort of nirvana, confident that I will not shit my pants at mile 2. That sort of thing works for Uta Pippig when she's winning the Boston Marathon, but doesn't get met with the same sort of social acceptance when a 200 pound back-of-the-packer does it during a measly 3 mile race.

At the race yesterday, about 20 minutes prior to the start, Emily & I were lined up at the port-a-potties. A girl came out of one of the stalls, walked up to her friends, gave them a defeated shrug and said, "I got nothing." Emily and I stifled our laughter and shook our heads. Doesn't she know we all speak the same language here? Hey lady, we just cracked your code! Then it was my turn, the last big push before the start of the race, literally. Sadly, just like our friend announced moments before, I got nothing. I walked over to Emily & Stephen and told them I thought I just did more harm than good. "What do you mean?" they said, to which I replied, "I just moved it to the starting line and left it there." Now, that, my friends, is proper code.

On Blogging

2005-10-27T21:44:00.000-04:00

Before I had a blog, I pretty much agreed with this guy:

Maddox

Exercise Superhero

2005-10-27T08:30:00.000-04:00

Sometimes when I exercise, I get motivated by pretending I'm a superhero. I don't try to do this, but rather, I think the adrenaline creates a false sense of importance in my brain. I like when this happens, because it's like a free movie staring ME! and it also takes my mind off the act of exercising.

This morning I wasn't so much of a superhero as I was Dance Champion of the World. The weather's been crappy lately, zapping any and all motivation I have for going outside to exercise. So, I dusted off my Dance Dance Revolution pad and played DDRMAX on the Playstation. For those that don't know what this is, it's a dancing game where you step on arrows on a pad (think Nintendo Power Pad) that correspond to the arrows that are shown on the screen. If you're good, it looks like you're dancing. If you're bad, you look like your leg fell asleep and you're trying to stomp on an ant hill. After about 10 minutes of stomping around ("Thank God you don't have downstairs neighbors", says my cousin Emily) the adrenaline starts pumping and suddenly I'm in an arcade, battling it out in a head-to-head DDR match with some young whippersnapper. There is a crowd around us, people have been watching for hours. When I first accepted the challenge to battle the DDR King of the Arcade, people gasped. Others stiffled an embarrassed laughter. Fat women in the crowd shouted, "You go Girl!" Now I'm dancing my way to victory and this 16-year old pimple-faced twerp is crying for mercy. Inevitably, people carry me out of the arcade on their shoulders, shouting my name and throwing roses at me.

My superhero fantasy happens when I run. I used to run along the Charles River in Cambridge. As I approached the Mass Ave. bridge, I'd envision an infant being flung over the rail into the dirty water below. My instincts would kick in and I would do a perfect swan dive into the raging river and surface triumphantly with the infant. Sometimes the infant would cry out, alerting his frantic mother above above that he was ok. Other times, he wouldn't respond, and then I'd have to swim to shore, holding the infant over my head, and then perform CPR on him, ultimately saving his life. Inevitably, people would carry me down Memorial Drive on their shoulders, shouting my name, and throwing roses at me.

Oops, I'm a slut.

2005-10-26T00:06:00.000-04:00

I thought I'd kick off my blog with one of my favorite stories. Throughout my college years, I worked at JP Licks, an ice cream shop in Coolidge Corner. During the frigid winter months, there was barely enough work to keep one person busy, so I was often there working alone. If someone had told me when I was 12 that I'd be spending 8 hours a day alone in an ice cream shop, I would have peed my pants with glee, but somehow it just wasn't that exciting when it came to be. Anyway, that's not the story. The story is that one cold, lonely day, I was working by myself. A couple came in and ordered a frappe. We had this metal cup of water that we used to clean the frappe machine. In my haste to clean the frappe machine and deliver this frappe to them in a timely manner, I accidentally knocked over the metal cup that was holding the grungy frappe water. They were the only two people in the store, and clearly all eyes were on me at this point. Already embarrassed by making a mess, I tried to make light of the situation by making a little joke. Now, I don't know if it was being alone in the ice cream shop all day, or if it was just my general social awkwardness, but something got screwed up between my brain and my lips. I was thinking of saying "I'm a slob" or "I'm such a clutz" since both were appropriate, but what came out was, "I'm such a slut." The couple looked at me blankfaced and I stood there staring back like a deer in headlights, wondering if I really just told this couple that I was slut, completely out of context. The next thing out of my mouth wasn't supposed to be funny, but now that I look back, I think this part's funny too. The next thing I said to them was, "$3.95 please." Not only am I a slut, but apparantly I'm a cheap slut too.