I caption this story in a strictly figurative sense. As you read each post I bless you with, you should pretty much always have some Michael Jackson song playing in your head (unless I tell you otherwise) -- even if its the shit that Rhianna copped from "Wanna Be Startin' Something."
That being said, I think its safe to say that everyone in my crib(okay, just my roommate/mother and myself) are still very upset about the passing of the world's most gifted musician, activist, anti-litterer, half-ponytail, khaki-skinned man, ever. Sometimes I kid myself, that, you know, I'm way over it and I'm so fine, but then I hear "Earth Song" and I just breakdown, tear up and curse myself for losing sight of Michael's lyrics as I emptied the trash in my car on the side of the road just 2 minutes before. Michael makes me a better person.
I know I've been talking alot about him lately (do I capitalize "him" . . . ?) but I guess when it comes down to it, I'm still mourning. Even though I'm not eastern European or British or involved in any charity work like H/he was, its rocked me to the core. I will not apologize for it, nor will I make excuses, just come on, rock with me.
Okay, fuck it, so we're back. You know I listen to "M.I.T.M." on my way to work, right? That shit has already saved my life oncee, and, to be frank, given the fact that I am a complete jackass on the road and people in Durham are most likely carrying illegal weapons, I don't want to take any chances. So, lemme try to reel this shit in, I wouldn't want to pull a Charles Dickens, after all.
August 31, 2009
To-Do List.
OMFG! Hello you! How are you doing? I am so great, TY for asking, I really appreciate it. First off, I've got tons to update you on. Literally like, I hope I have the strengf and energy to power through, don't worry, for you I will. (Celine reference? Perhaps?)
I think I'm going to make a list of everything we have to go over and then address each separately. I can't assume everyone got as grossly high SAT score as I did (or is living in the glory of the past like some I know, either? whatever.) so I don't want to write some million word essay and lose people mid-way through. Although, now that I think about it, my name isn't Charles Dickens or even Nicholas Sparks (P.T.L.) so I realize I wouldn't (or havent ever) lose anyone's interest, but, it gives you something to look forward to . . . other than my half birthday that falls on December 26th.
Let's see, my "to-do" blowout list includes, but is not limited to, the following subjects/hints/quotes/etc.:
1. "Girl, tell me that wasn't the 'Rock My World' remix with Michael Jackson and
Jay Z!" (spoken, of course, by Shirley, yes, my new Durham best friend.)
2. Recession-fighting tips (circa 1994).
3. My first dabble in stand-up comedy which resulted in my like millionth dabble in being
fucking amazing.
4. Michael Jackson hitting the big 5-1 (not literally, of course)
5. The fashion statement that is the puka shell necklace (or anklet or bracelet or some type of
pendant, etc.)
So, at least you know what you're getting this week/next 24 hours. You're welcome. And yes, hold your breath for that first one, its way worth it.
I think I'm going to make a list of everything we have to go over and then address each separately. I can't assume everyone got as grossly high SAT score as I did (or is living in the glory of the past like some I know, either? whatever.) so I don't want to write some million word essay and lose people mid-way through. Although, now that I think about it, my name isn't Charles Dickens or even Nicholas Sparks (P.T.L.) so I realize I wouldn't (or havent ever) lose anyone's interest, but, it gives you something to look forward to . . . other than my half birthday that falls on December 26th.
Let's see, my "to-do" blowout list includes, but is not limited to, the following subjects/hints/quotes/etc.:
1. "Girl, tell me that wasn't the 'Rock My World' remix with Michael Jackson and
Jay Z!" (spoken, of course, by Shirley, yes, my new Durham best friend.)
2. Recession-fighting tips (circa 1994).
3. My first dabble in stand-up comedy which resulted in my like millionth dabble in being
fucking amazing.
4. Michael Jackson hitting the big 5-1 (not literally, of course)
5. The fashion statement that is the puka shell necklace (or anklet or bracelet or some type of
pendant, etc.)
So, at least you know what you're getting this week/next 24 hours. You're welcome. And yes, hold your breath for that first one, its way worth it.
August 21, 2009
Total Breakthrough, part one.
Well, hello there. I trust that, given the fact that it is Friday morning, you are having a lovely day so far. I know I am, I just had 2 major breakthroughs. I know, its only 9:00 . . . but enough has happened this morning that I probably should call it a (work) day and start my weekend. Before I run that by my boss, come in for the real thing.
Its pretty common knowledge that I'm not the greatest driver. I mean, no big deal, we're all allowed a few faults, right? Yes. Its not that I'm female, or even Asian, its just that I have so much other stuff going on that sometimes driving/staying on the road/not being a jackass while merging can . . . (wait for it) . . . take a back seat to everything else on my "to-do" list. For example, I initially started this post while driving, in addition to cutting coupons (don't ask), having an ML, sipping on a diet coke, blackberry messaging and having an afternoon snack of almonds. The only reason I had to pause was because I happened across a Notorious B.I.G. old school tribute on my radio. Let's be honest, doing anything else but listening to Christopher Wallace when one has the chance is just obnoxious. Exactly, I see you nodding your head in agreement. Anyway, I totally forgot to finish and now here we are.
Its pretty common knowledge that I'm not the greatest driver. I mean, no big deal, we're all allowed a few faults, right? Yes. Its not that I'm female, or even Asian, its just that I have so much other stuff going on that sometimes driving/staying on the road/not being a jackass while merging can . . . (wait for it) . . . take a back seat to everything else on my "to-do" list. For example, I initially started this post while driving, in addition to cutting coupons (don't ask), having an ML, sipping on a diet coke, blackberry messaging and having an afternoon snack of almonds. The only reason I had to pause was because I happened across a Notorious B.I.G. old school tribute on my radio. Let's be honest, doing anything else but listening to Christopher Wallace when one has the chance is just obnoxious. Exactly, I see you nodding your head in agreement. Anyway, I totally forgot to finish and now here we are.
August 20, 2009
When you were my age? Healthcare might've "worked" but Vicodin wasn't invented.
In no particular order, I currently “strongly dislike” jackasses, un-manicured nails, and global warming (only because I think polar bears are so damn cute and Noah Wyle told me they are eating each other to survive now, and hot days can really fuck up your hair . . . not mine, but I hate looking at unkempt ‘dos). That being said, I think my generic definition of the word “jackass” really covers most people . . . if you’re being a J.A., of course.
For the intents and purposes of this post however, I’m going to talk about jackasses in relation to the health care debate that’s been stealing precious seconds of my Nancy Grace time every evening. God knows if I miss one second of the stacked-bob delight, I’m done for the night. Now, like most Americans I really didn’t know much about the proposed health care reform bill, and, since we live in the greatest country evs, that doesn’t preclude me from bitching & moaning about it -- even though we’ve got no fucking clue what’s in those 1,000 pages. However, this time, I decided to take a different route. Even though I’ve not read a book in its entirety . . . since, well, ever, I know most of you expected me to skim through and then go on to make my voice heard. Well, you’d be wrong. I did some research, and here’s what I’ve got (not really about the plan itself, but more so, the reaction to the plan).
For the intents and purposes of this post however, I’m going to talk about jackasses in relation to the health care debate that’s been stealing precious seconds of my Nancy Grace time every evening. God knows if I miss one second of the stacked-bob delight, I’m done for the night. Now, like most Americans I really didn’t know much about the proposed health care reform bill, and, since we live in the greatest country evs, that doesn’t preclude me from bitching & moaning about it -- even though we’ve got no fucking clue what’s in those 1,000 pages. However, this time, I decided to take a different route. Even though I’ve not read a book in its entirety . . . since, well, ever, I know most of you expected me to skim through and then go on to make my voice heard. Well, you’d be wrong. I did some research, and here’s what I’ve got (not really about the plan itself, but more so, the reaction to the plan).
August 18, 2009
Surely/Shirley you're joking!
And a very pleasant afternoon to you also! I sincerely appreciate your well wishes and good tidings. Today has been rather exciting, and I figured I’d take a break from the break I’m taking at work and impart the following occurrence.. I know, I know, I’m too good to you.
Y’all remember the lady from my building . . . the “tights & sneakers/African American/Roseanne Barr look-a-like” I’ve been trying my hardest to make my new BFFL? And I know you remember my decision to start parking right next to her PT Cruiser . . . even though its like 100 yards away from the “Visitor” spot I usually occupy.
First, I’ve been parking right next to that cornflower blue ride of hers -- even though it makes me way later than I am to begin with. I always take a good look inside her car, just to see if she’s left anything valuable (and her doors unlocked) in the console or the bootleg version of the new Jay-Z album (you and I both know homegirl is all about Shawn Carter, come on!) in plain sight. After I’m done making sure everything is secure and safe (we do work in Durham, after all), I saunter around my own car, just to take an inventory of any nicks or scratches I’ve got currently. I can’t have the black Roseanne fucking my ride up. That’s what alcohol and the side of the road are for, duh.
Anyway, because I’m always late and take lunches that average about 2 hours, I never see this new favorite person of mine. Its like she’s vanished into thin air . . . except for that damn PT Cruiser! Its left me quite puzzled, and to be honest, a little worried.
The good Lord must have heard my prayers and thought it fit to ease my worried heart because this morning, I drive all the fucking way to the end of the parking lot, pull up right next to the kindred spirit that just happens to work in the same building that I do and gasp! She’s just gotten out of the car; denim skirt, vest, blazer and all! Man! What luck . . . my newest buddy in a Canadian tuxedo. God is good, that’s for sure.
Y’all remember the lady from my building . . . the “tights & sneakers/African American/Roseanne Barr look-a-like” I’ve been trying my hardest to make my new BFFL? And I know you remember my decision to start parking right next to her PT Cruiser . . . even though its like 100 yards away from the “Visitor” spot I usually occupy.
First, I’ve been parking right next to that cornflower blue ride of hers -- even though it makes me way later than I am to begin with. I always take a good look inside her car, just to see if she’s left anything valuable (and her doors unlocked) in the console or the bootleg version of the new Jay-Z album (you and I both know homegirl is all about Shawn Carter, come on!) in plain sight. After I’m done making sure everything is secure and safe (we do work in Durham, after all), I saunter around my own car, just to take an inventory of any nicks or scratches I’ve got currently. I can’t have the black Roseanne fucking my ride up. That’s what alcohol and the side of the road are for, duh.
Anyway, because I’m always late and take lunches that average about 2 hours, I never see this new favorite person of mine. Its like she’s vanished into thin air . . . except for that damn PT Cruiser! Its left me quite puzzled, and to be honest, a little worried.
The good Lord must have heard my prayers and thought it fit to ease my worried heart because this morning, I drive all the fucking way to the end of the parking lot, pull up right next to the kindred spirit that just happens to work in the same building that I do and gasp! She’s just gotten out of the car; denim skirt, vest, blazer and all! Man! What luck . . . my newest buddy in a Canadian tuxedo. God is good, that’s for sure.
August 17, 2009
Well, well, well . . .
Have I already used this title? OMFG, with the countless posts (this makes 55, if you were counting, which, LBH, we all know you were) all "up in this bitch" (overheard that late 90's gem in the Durham Post Office today . . . typical) its really hard to remember silly things like titles, and I don't feel like looking back, so here we are.
I hope you've been well; as I've been spectacular. My son finished his chores early on Saturday, and in doing so, earned his final gold star for the week -- which then allowed him and me to get some quality time at the dog park. In addition, I've taught my roommate/mother to blowout, thereby putting an end to any lingering questions about being able to teach old dawgs new trix.
I've also spent quite a bit of time with M.M. and M.C., figuratively speaking. You already know I'm referring to Marshall Mathers and Mariah Carey. Y'all know how I feel about fighting in general. So, that excitement, coupled with the incredibly checkered pasts of both parties . . . well, suffice it to say, this all has treated me right.
For those of you that don't know, I'll give you some background. M.M. and M.C. "hit it and quit it," if you will (and they both apparently did) around the turn of the century. Sadly, the two didn't click. The pair had words and most likely sent the other a few inapp. texts (yikes! GMAFB, who hasn't?) and then went on with the business of life, or so we thought. As it often does, this "moving on" took different routes for both Eminem and Mariah.
Like, for Mariah, she probs wrote all about it in her diary, made an Oscar-winning film ("Glitter"), took a quick break to go fucking batshit crazy, returned, spray-painted on a six pack or two (yikes! GMAFB, who hasn't?), released an award-winning CD declaring herself emancipated (from the chains of insanity? from the painful grip of her ex-husband/producer? from the lingering emotional damage that living on a box of dry spaghetti a week after being born to parents of different races has caused? all of the above? IDK, thoughts?) and then, after all that, found true love! Gah, what a journey. I'll say it now -- you go girl! And is there a better catch than Nick Cannon? Doubt it. He's like a total black Ashton Kutcher, except Demi has had way better success with looking young (by which, of course I mean plastic surgery). And then, because she was so happy/smitten/in need of a club-banger . . . she releases an "f. you" of sorts (lyrically at least) to her old flame, Eminem.
Now, speaking of Em, which we are . . . since he and Mariah were a rumored item he proceeded to release a sassy album in which he talks copious amounts of shit about homegirl, re-marries his childhood sweetheart, divorces said sweetheart, drops another album to mixed reviews (i.e. it was horrible), pistol-whipped some bouncer(s), got a few tattoos and (most likely) purchased several pairs of new jorts . . .all while keeping up his platinum dye job. Talk about busy! He also has a kid he supports. Whew. Makes me tired just thinking about all that responsibility.
So, now, Mariah releases this single a decade after Eminem had purged his own feelings via Track 12 on his 2001 CD. Damn. And I thought I held grudges like personal mementos. In response, our button-nosed blonde bombshell has lashed out with with a "diss" track of his own and now both melodies are littering radio airwaves like a fucking JoBros single.
Speaking from my extensive musical, fighting and shit-talking background -- Eminem wins. Here's why . . . (1) Mariah's song doesn't flow, at all. The only redeeming qualities are her mention of the Napoleon Complex and Gucci Man's (who is featured on the track) almost mutter of "crazy" during the hook; (2) Eminem is a really talented artist, I mean really a double threat -- acting and rapping. He also puts most "side-talkers" to shame. He's ruthless, and who doesn't love that? Even Elton John (and I'm going to assume his partner, David, too) is among the millions (can we confirm?) of us who are fans of Slim Shady. What's so great about his shameless response is that whilst "wild'in out" against Mariah, he disses himself, too . . and let's be honest, you all have at least one fault, right?
So! Mariah! Girl, what the hell? "Emotions"? "One Sweet Day"? "Honey"? and now this? Psh. You're better than than that! I spent my afternoons in '93 learning the choreography to "Dreamlover" with a Whip n' Chip & full-calorie Coca Cola. (Oh, for those of you that grew up "at weight" . . . a Whip n' Chip is a personal creation of 2-4 pieces of white bread, a liberal smear or three of Miracle Whip and at least 3 handfuls of whatever "chip" you happen to have in your pantry. You're welcome). And then, when she released "Hero" in the mid-90's. Heavens above! I turned off Dreamlover (I didn't need to practice, I'm a natural born dancer) and picked up a wooden spoon and made at least . . . 78 home videos of my own version of "Hero." I mean Mariah and I go way back.
This isn't to say that Marshall and I don't share a rich history, either. In fact, the only time I have ever been grounded, in my entire life, was when my Momz (searching for my diary to "scan over" or for hidden candy/drugs) found Eminem's CD. Prior to this discovery, right after it was released, the Pope (shout to JP II) wrote an article for "Catholic Digest" (more props to my Grammom for getting our fam 3 subscriptions!) totes condemning Eminem for his lyrics, and so on (um, hello, anyone ever hear of the Spanish fucking Inquisition? Don't even get me started). So the Pope ruined it for me, Joan found my shit, and I couldn't leave the house for 2 weeks! I mean, yeah, you're right, my mom's favorite song right now is a tie between "Proud to be an American" and "Lose Yourself" (yeah, by MM), but life is about change, we all know that. Anyway, I have sacrificed for Eminem . . we're obvi tight, too. It's really left me in a pickle. But, I stick with my winner.
Ah, here we are. I can't wait for this shit to continue and totally get played out and then go on for another year or so. I'd like to see some sort of dance-off or cage match or trivia challenge. And I don't know, Mariah's got Nick getting involved, and it just seems so weird. Nick hasn't even hit puberty and already he's fighting Mama's battles. Its shit like this that gets hip hop heroes shot the hell up -- R.I.P. Notorious B.I.G. (??).
All this craziness has really re-ignited how essential celebrity feuds are. I mean, it makes me so fucking jealous, I can't stand it. I haven't figured out who will be the target of my bitching, but the quest is back on, lil' boos, I can guarantee you that.
I hope you've been well; as I've been spectacular. My son finished his chores early on Saturday, and in doing so, earned his final gold star for the week -- which then allowed him and me to get some quality time at the dog park. In addition, I've taught my roommate/mother to blowout, thereby putting an end to any lingering questions about being able to teach old dawgs new trix.
I've also spent quite a bit of time with M.M. and M.C., figuratively speaking. You already know I'm referring to Marshall Mathers and Mariah Carey. Y'all know how I feel about fighting in general. So, that excitement, coupled with the incredibly checkered pasts of both parties . . . well, suffice it to say, this all has treated me right.
For those of you that don't know, I'll give you some background. M.M. and M.C. "hit it and quit it," if you will (and they both apparently did) around the turn of the century. Sadly, the two didn't click. The pair had words and most likely sent the other a few inapp. texts (yikes! GMAFB, who hasn't?) and then went on with the business of life, or so we thought. As it often does, this "moving on" took different routes for both Eminem and Mariah.
Like, for Mariah, she probs wrote all about it in her diary, made an Oscar-winning film ("Glitter"), took a quick break to go fucking batshit crazy, returned, spray-painted on a six pack or two (yikes! GMAFB, who hasn't?), released an award-winning CD declaring herself emancipated (from the chains of insanity? from the painful grip of her ex-husband/producer? from the lingering emotional damage that living on a box of dry spaghetti a week after being born to parents of different races has caused? all of the above? IDK, thoughts?) and then, after all that, found true love! Gah, what a journey. I'll say it now -- you go girl! And is there a better catch than Nick Cannon? Doubt it. He's like a total black Ashton Kutcher, except Demi has had way better success with looking young (by which, of course I mean plastic surgery). And then, because she was so happy/smitten/in need of a club-banger . . . she releases an "f. you" of sorts (lyrically at least) to her old flame, Eminem.
Now, speaking of Em, which we are . . . since he and Mariah were a rumored item he proceeded to release a sassy album in which he talks copious amounts of shit about homegirl, re-marries his childhood sweetheart, divorces said sweetheart, drops another album to mixed reviews (i.e. it was horrible), pistol-whipped some bouncer(s), got a few tattoos and (most likely) purchased several pairs of new jorts . . .all while keeping up his platinum dye job. Talk about busy! He also has a kid he supports. Whew. Makes me tired just thinking about all that responsibility.
So, now, Mariah releases this single a decade after Eminem had purged his own feelings via Track 12 on his 2001 CD. Damn. And I thought I held grudges like personal mementos. In response, our button-nosed blonde bombshell has lashed out with with a "diss" track of his own and now both melodies are littering radio airwaves like a fucking JoBros single.
Speaking from my extensive musical, fighting and shit-talking background -- Eminem wins. Here's why . . . (1) Mariah's song doesn't flow, at all. The only redeeming qualities are her mention of the Napoleon Complex and Gucci Man's (who is featured on the track) almost mutter of "crazy" during the hook; (2) Eminem is a really talented artist, I mean really a double threat -- acting and rapping. He also puts most "side-talkers" to shame. He's ruthless, and who doesn't love that? Even Elton John (and I'm going to assume his partner, David, too) is among the millions (can we confirm?) of us who are fans of Slim Shady. What's so great about his shameless response is that whilst "wild'in out" against Mariah, he disses himself, too . . and let's be honest, you all have at least one fault, right?
So! Mariah! Girl, what the hell? "Emotions"? "One Sweet Day"? "Honey"? and now this? Psh. You're better than than that! I spent my afternoons in '93 learning the choreography to "Dreamlover" with a Whip n' Chip & full-calorie Coca Cola. (Oh, for those of you that grew up "at weight" . . . a Whip n' Chip is a personal creation of 2-4 pieces of white bread, a liberal smear or three of Miracle Whip and at least 3 handfuls of whatever "chip" you happen to have in your pantry. You're welcome). And then, when she released "Hero" in the mid-90's. Heavens above! I turned off Dreamlover (I didn't need to practice, I'm a natural born dancer) and picked up a wooden spoon and made at least . . . 78 home videos of my own version of "Hero." I mean Mariah and I go way back.
This isn't to say that Marshall and I don't share a rich history, either. In fact, the only time I have ever been grounded, in my entire life, was when my Momz (searching for my diary to "scan over" or for hidden candy/drugs) found Eminem's CD. Prior to this discovery, right after it was released, the Pope (shout to JP II) wrote an article for "Catholic Digest" (more props to my Grammom for getting our fam 3 subscriptions!) totes condemning Eminem for his lyrics, and so on (um, hello, anyone ever hear of the Spanish fucking Inquisition? Don't even get me started). So the Pope ruined it for me, Joan found my shit, and I couldn't leave the house for 2 weeks! I mean, yeah, you're right, my mom's favorite song right now is a tie between "Proud to be an American" and "Lose Yourself" (yeah, by MM), but life is about change, we all know that. Anyway, I have sacrificed for Eminem . . we're obvi tight, too. It's really left me in a pickle. But, I stick with my winner.
Ah, here we are. I can't wait for this shit to continue and totally get played out and then go on for another year or so. I'd like to see some sort of dance-off or cage match or trivia challenge. And I don't know, Mariah's got Nick getting involved, and it just seems so weird. Nick hasn't even hit puberty and already he's fighting Mama's battles. Its shit like this that gets hip hop heroes shot the hell up -- R.I.P. Notorious B.I.G. (??).
All this craziness has really re-ignited how essential celebrity feuds are. I mean, it makes me so fucking jealous, I can't stand it. I haven't figured out who will be the target of my bitching, but the quest is back on, lil' boos, I can guarantee you that.
August 11, 2009
The day is mine!
Good Morning! I hope your Tuesday has started with a bang (figuratively speaking, naturally). My day, so far, has been spectacular! I arose this morning with a snicker . . IDK why, but trust me, when one arises in a sassy mood, its always a good thing. The following occurrence is probably the start of something beautiful, but I'll let you decide.
I know you all remember the lady from the elevator. The one who wears tights and socks and sneakers . . . ? Since that unfortunate accident, she hasn't had the pleasure of seeing my brightened summer highlights or fashionable seersucker pants, and I had started to feel bad. As you know, I think its kind of like my job (in addition to my other job) to spread joy and happiness where ever I go (more about this later) . . . kind of like a Mother Theresa and pre-stalked Princess Diana . . . with maybe a splash of Reese Witherspoon and Lohan thrown in there. Alas, I spend hours a day thinking of others, and doing things for their convenience. The people in my office building really should thank me. Like, when I'm so anxious to get the fuck out of work (i.e. everyday) I always make sure to act like I'm trying to push the button for the doors to stay open, just so people won't have to feel bad that they have nothing exciting to do when they get home or that they don't have any Yurman, or that their hair has totes gone flat after an 8-hour day. And when I'm on the elevator, I'm always sure to push the "Call Cancel" button, so we don't stop at every (fucking) floor, which, in turn, allows the 'vator to get back up to my floor (and the people I graciously left) and take them home. Further, I always park right in the front, the "Visitor" spot, remember? I wouldn't want to deny any of the idiots who spend their lunch hours jogging the parking lot a chance to add a few steps on their pedometer. I am the gift that keeps on giving.
Anyway, back to the homegirl at hand. Amongst my friends, and in my diary, I've been calling her 'Vator . . . because I don't care to figure out her real name (although I doubt she'd tell me) and 'Vator sounds way more street, which she obvi is. Since our non-Kodak moment run-in, she's been scarce, I haven't seen her PT Cruiser with the spinners all up in my front row parking spot, she certainly hasn't been on the elevator (but then again, no one ever is) and I haven't heard her bitching at the guys who wash her car in the parking lot below. Weird! I began to worry. But then, today, as I was walking into the building, I saw it.
The fucking PT Cruiser . . . at the end of the parking lot! Like, at least 100 yards away. No one parks there, ever, so I began to wonder. I mean, I know about luxury automobiles. I've got a 2001 Honda Civic. You better believe that when I bought that shit new in cash I would take up a million spots just to insure that no one scratched my baby (also because I was, and still am, a shitty parker . . . whatever), so I can relate in wanting to take extra good care of yo' whip. But she never had before, and it didn't look like she had a new (candy) paint job, so I was quite puzzled. I mean, what was over there? Why did she park so far? She wasn't a lunch walker, that's for sure. I assumed it just was because she clearly takes care of her ride and wants it protected. Like I stated previously, I understand. If you take away all the (drunk) "fender benders" (which includes a few hit and runs, one involving some jackass in West Campus) I've been in, my ride is sweet. Really. Hm.
So, obvi, I did what any considerate, caring (about one's car or humanity in general) person would do, I got back in my car, and drove all the way to the end of the lot, and parked right next to her. After all, I care about my automobile, too.
Ultimately, I'm hoping this fosters some kind of dialogue between the two of us. I mean, we both like wearing tights with socks and sneakers. Bottom line. We both, obviously, care a great deal about other people with shit cars hitting our sedans. We will see. I'll keep you posted.
But for now, it seems I may have met my office building soul mate. Birds of a feather, for sure.
I know you all remember the lady from the elevator. The one who wears tights and socks and sneakers . . . ? Since that unfortunate accident, she hasn't had the pleasure of seeing my brightened summer highlights or fashionable seersucker pants, and I had started to feel bad. As you know, I think its kind of like my job (in addition to my other job) to spread joy and happiness where ever I go (more about this later) . . . kind of like a Mother Theresa and pre-stalked Princess Diana . . . with maybe a splash of Reese Witherspoon and Lohan thrown in there. Alas, I spend hours a day thinking of others, and doing things for their convenience. The people in my office building really should thank me. Like, when I'm so anxious to get the fuck out of work (i.e. everyday) I always make sure to act like I'm trying to push the button for the doors to stay open, just so people won't have to feel bad that they have nothing exciting to do when they get home or that they don't have any Yurman, or that their hair has totes gone flat after an 8-hour day. And when I'm on the elevator, I'm always sure to push the "Call Cancel" button, so we don't stop at every (fucking) floor, which, in turn, allows the 'vator to get back up to my floor (and the people I graciously left) and take them home. Further, I always park right in the front, the "Visitor" spot, remember? I wouldn't want to deny any of the idiots who spend their lunch hours jogging the parking lot a chance to add a few steps on their pedometer. I am the gift that keeps on giving.
Anyway, back to the homegirl at hand. Amongst my friends, and in my diary, I've been calling her 'Vator . . . because I don't care to figure out her real name (although I doubt she'd tell me) and 'Vator sounds way more street, which she obvi is. Since our non-Kodak moment run-in, she's been scarce, I haven't seen her PT Cruiser with the spinners all up in my front row parking spot, she certainly hasn't been on the elevator (but then again, no one ever is) and I haven't heard her bitching at the guys who wash her car in the parking lot below. Weird! I began to worry. But then, today, as I was walking into the building, I saw it.
The fucking PT Cruiser . . . at the end of the parking lot! Like, at least 100 yards away. No one parks there, ever, so I began to wonder. I mean, I know about luxury automobiles. I've got a 2001 Honda Civic. You better believe that when I bought that shit new in cash I would take up a million spots just to insure that no one scratched my baby (also because I was, and still am, a shitty parker . . . whatever), so I can relate in wanting to take extra good care of yo' whip. But she never had before, and it didn't look like she had a new (candy) paint job, so I was quite puzzled. I mean, what was over there? Why did she park so far? She wasn't a lunch walker, that's for sure. I assumed it just was because she clearly takes care of her ride and wants it protected. Like I stated previously, I understand. If you take away all the (drunk) "fender benders" (which includes a few hit and runs, one involving some jackass in West Campus) I've been in, my ride is sweet. Really. Hm.
So, obvi, I did what any considerate, caring (about one's car or humanity in general) person would do, I got back in my car, and drove all the way to the end of the lot, and parked right next to her. After all, I care about my automobile, too.
Ultimately, I'm hoping this fosters some kind of dialogue between the two of us. I mean, we both like wearing tights with socks and sneakers. Bottom line. We both, obviously, care a great deal about other people with shit cars hitting our sedans. We will see. I'll keep you posted.
But for now, it seems I may have met my office building soul mate. Birds of a feather, for sure.
August 10, 2009
"Everything that guy just said is bullshit ... Thank you."
Hey y'all hey. I hope you each had a glorious weekend with plenty of goings-on and even more memories. Does that make sense? Whatever. I took an impromptu staycation last week, and let me tell you, 'twas truly glorious. I use the world "impromptu" because my boss didn't let me know he was leaving until the last minute and 'staycation' because, obvi, I follow his schedule per se, so even though our inboxes replied with an "Out of the Office" message; I was only out . . . figuratively . . . if you get my drift. So ridic that whilst he was sitting on his ocean front porch bitching to us back here about his boat being broken and a day of rain; I was expected to be in the office, or at least have my phone forwarded so I could answer his call immediately. No manners. Of course, I kind of just 'checked out' for random appointments that lasted from 10:00 AM until 4:30 PM, long businesses lunches, and on and on.
To be honest, I expected my staycation to be one full of total mental rejuvenation, only because people that take staycations also home school their children; and since my child had Doggie Day Camp last week, I had all the time in the world! Right? Wrong.
Let me just share the following tale with you. It was Tuesday afternoon, I had worked for an hour on Monday and felt so terribly ill (sike) on Tuesday that I could only come in late and, much to the dismay of my co-workers, leave ridiculously early. On my way home, I decided to stop at a local post office, so I could mail some P.O.S. (literally, almost) that I sold on E-Bay (God bless America, that's for sure! . . . and you know what? Don't judge me - We're in a recession.)
I pulled into my usual spot right by the entrance (yes, handicap, but I had on 3" heels, too, that's got to count for something, right?) and was disgusted immediately. Someone was yelling over my Lil' Wayne self-made mix. You know how many years its been since I've heard "Tha Block iz Hot" . . . ? Yeah, too fucking many. I turned to see who was so rudely screaming over my (believe it or not) factory-installed system and see what appears to be Joe Pesci! Oh man. Growing up in an Italian (half at least) family, Joe Pesci is like MLK for us. Except for he's still around. The gift that keeps on giving. As I pulled out a copy of "GoodFellas" (double disc with "My Cousin Vinny" on it, too!) that I keep in my car for good luck and the Sharpie I had stolen from work for an occasion just like this; I noticed that lil' Joe's legs were flailing about. He was hanging half-out of a Durango. Typical! Joe Pesci just being Joe Pesci; and I was there for all of it! God is good, that's for sure.
As I turned in my seat, I immediately called my Father, so he could revel in my good fortune. Vinny Gambini all up in RTP! No! But, yes! I surmised that they were filming a movie - most likely an action film, and this was the big fight scene. Joe would win, of course, as he always does, and mutter some (or a dozen) expletives before the director yelled cut. And of course, there would be no need for a re-do. We're talking about Joe-fucking-Pesci here.
I heard Joe ranting, louder than before, about "slicing some bitch up" and then started retrieving piles of things from his minivan and throwing them inside the Durango (with a hop up, of course). And then it hit me . . . minivan? I mean, it was a Chrysler Town & Country, but still, Joe Pesci in a minivan? That sounds silly, and we aren't talking about Gene Wilder here! I highly doubt the J.P. would star in a non-Oscar worthy flick and I'm pretty sure movies like that don't include a minivan in the script (can we confirm?).
I then repositioned my car to watch this melee play out right before my eyes. If it was Joe, he was wearing a lot of make-up and was using a cane as a prop and was doing a great job of acting super mad. Like really mad.
Let me tell you, I've been yelled at before. I've been in fights. I'm sure I've had people want to fucking kill me (whatever) but I have never been yelled at like this. And people were just walking right by! Apparently, "Joe's" wife had walked out on him and he tricked her to get her to the post office (idiot move - its way too public of a place for threats of bodily harm, or so I thought.) Anyway, by this point, I had been observing (I, after all, am a concerned tax-paying citizen) this bullshit for half an hour. I watch enough crime television to know (and have solved enough cold cases) that this could start to get nasty . . . and fast. I had only heard the threats and seen him reaching in for homegirl, all the while telling (screaming) her that he loved her so fucking much. Whoa! Talk about a thin line between love and hate. Then, Vinny clocks this ho. I mean, clocks her right in the face. Dayyyum. I knew I had to do something.
Rather than make it back to work on time (or put myself in harm's way), I decided to call the police dispatch line. The dispatcher thanked me so much for my call, and let me know that a Sheriff would be there post haste (no she didn't say that exact phrase, I am talking about Durham, here). Now, for those of you that know me, Sheriffs are no friends of mine. Especially in the beginning of the month of August. We just don't get along. Coupled with the fact an active warrant for my arrest exists in the Lone Star State (its just some fees - don't worry) I declined to offer them my name or real life phone number (I made this decision only after I asked whether there was a reward for getting criminals off the streets).
And then the Sheriff rode in. PTL y'all, PTL. Instead of sticking around for him to realize my car is unregistered and my plates have expired, I promptly left the scene of the crime) . . after I waited around until the Pesci impostor was cuffed. What! Why are you calling me a hypocrite? F you! I'm keeping your streets safe - I don't even pay taxes in Durham Co. So, you're welcome.
As I drove past the victim and looked past her scars and beaten face, I couldn't help but smile. I mean, you're right, Mona Lisa Vito (and/or Marisa Tomei) she was not, but justice is blind . . and fingers crossed she grows out that hideous shag before trial.
No word yet on whether or not I'll be getting a parade prior to my receiving the keys to the city, but, don't worry, I'll keep you posted, obvi.
To be honest, I expected my staycation to be one full of total mental rejuvenation, only because people that take staycations also home school their children; and since my child had Doggie Day Camp last week, I had all the time in the world! Right? Wrong.
Let me just share the following tale with you. It was Tuesday afternoon, I had worked for an hour on Monday and felt so terribly ill (sike) on Tuesday that I could only come in late and, much to the dismay of my co-workers, leave ridiculously early. On my way home, I decided to stop at a local post office, so I could mail some P.O.S. (literally, almost) that I sold on E-Bay (God bless America, that's for sure! . . . and you know what? Don't judge me - We're in a recession.)
I pulled into my usual spot right by the entrance (yes, handicap, but I had on 3" heels, too, that's got to count for something, right?) and was disgusted immediately. Someone was yelling over my Lil' Wayne self-made mix. You know how many years its been since I've heard "Tha Block iz Hot" . . . ? Yeah, too fucking many. I turned to see who was so rudely screaming over my (believe it or not) factory-installed system and see what appears to be Joe Pesci! Oh man. Growing up in an Italian (half at least) family, Joe Pesci is like MLK for us. Except for he's still around. The gift that keeps on giving. As I pulled out a copy of "GoodFellas" (double disc with "My Cousin Vinny" on it, too!) that I keep in my car for good luck and the Sharpie I had stolen from work for an occasion just like this; I noticed that lil' Joe's legs were flailing about. He was hanging half-out of a Durango. Typical! Joe Pesci just being Joe Pesci; and I was there for all of it! God is good, that's for sure.
As I turned in my seat, I immediately called my Father, so he could revel in my good fortune. Vinny Gambini all up in RTP! No! But, yes! I surmised that they were filming a movie - most likely an action film, and this was the big fight scene. Joe would win, of course, as he always does, and mutter some (or a dozen) expletives before the director yelled cut. And of course, there would be no need for a re-do. We're talking about Joe-fucking-Pesci here.
I heard Joe ranting, louder than before, about "slicing some bitch up" and then started retrieving piles of things from his minivan and throwing them inside the Durango (with a hop up, of course). And then it hit me . . . minivan? I mean, it was a Chrysler Town & Country, but still, Joe Pesci in a minivan? That sounds silly, and we aren't talking about Gene Wilder here! I highly doubt the J.P. would star in a non-Oscar worthy flick and I'm pretty sure movies like that don't include a minivan in the script (can we confirm?).
I then repositioned my car to watch this melee play out right before my eyes. If it was Joe, he was wearing a lot of make-up and was using a cane as a prop and was doing a great job of acting super mad. Like really mad.
Let me tell you, I've been yelled at before. I've been in fights. I'm sure I've had people want to fucking kill me (whatever) but I have never been yelled at like this. And people were just walking right by! Apparently, "Joe's" wife had walked out on him and he tricked her to get her to the post office (idiot move - its way too public of a place for threats of bodily harm, or so I thought.) Anyway, by this point, I had been observing (I, after all, am a concerned tax-paying citizen) this bullshit for half an hour. I watch enough crime television to know (and have solved enough cold cases) that this could start to get nasty . . . and fast. I had only heard the threats and seen him reaching in for homegirl, all the while telling (screaming) her that he loved her so fucking much. Whoa! Talk about a thin line between love and hate. Then, Vinny clocks this ho. I mean, clocks her right in the face. Dayyyum. I knew I had to do something.
Rather than make it back to work on time (or put myself in harm's way), I decided to call the police dispatch line. The dispatcher thanked me so much for my call, and let me know that a Sheriff would be there post haste (no she didn't say that exact phrase, I am talking about Durham, here). Now, for those of you that know me, Sheriffs are no friends of mine. Especially in the beginning of the month of August. We just don't get along. Coupled with the fact an active warrant for my arrest exists in the Lone Star State (its just some fees - don't worry) I declined to offer them my name or real life phone number (I made this decision only after I asked whether there was a reward for getting criminals off the streets).
And then the Sheriff rode in. PTL y'all, PTL. Instead of sticking around for him to realize my car is unregistered and my plates have expired, I promptly left the scene of the crime) . . after I waited around until the Pesci impostor was cuffed. What! Why are you calling me a hypocrite? F you! I'm keeping your streets safe - I don't even pay taxes in Durham Co. So, you're welcome.
As I drove past the victim and looked past her scars and beaten face, I couldn't help but smile. I mean, you're right, Mona Lisa Vito (and/or Marisa Tomei) she was not, but justice is blind . . and fingers crossed she grows out that hideous shag before trial.
No word yet on whether or not I'll be getting a parade prior to my receiving the keys to the city, but, don't worry, I'll keep you posted, obvi.
August 3, 2009
The Big 5-0.
Well, well, well! What do we have here? Yes, you've guessed it. Our 50th post together. It seems like just yesterday you were awestruck upon first glance (and/or read). Whatev, for those of you that have seen my hair, you know exactly what I'm talking about.
In honor of this momentous occasion, I'm going to also use this opportunity to talk about my favorite "fifty" thing; take a walk or two down memory lane, if you will, and I know you won't say no to me . . right? Excellent.
First and probably last (IDK how much time I'll have for this post since my boss is on vacay all week and I'd like to get a start on my 3 hour lunch) . . I love antiques. Technically, after 50 years, items move into "antique" status. I mean, tell me how exhilarating it is . . . going into a P.O.S shop downtown and finding a true gem, like a picture of a Boston Terrier on a serving tray or some old stamps or some shit. Its glorious. No, don't even try to argue. IDK about you, and what shape your favorite old treasure takes, but mine's about 5'7" and is so good at laundry, mending, making throw pillows and can do the dishes in 4 minutes flat (I've timed her). My roommate/mother is kind of like a fine wine, the older she gets, the more valuable she becomes. Of course, like all material things in this life; I'm not saying that if Antiques Road Show came to town I wouldn't take her in "just to get her priced" . . . but for now, she's earned her keep (and she pays the mortgage, so its a double bonus).
In fact, this post coincidentally coincides with my roommate's 52nd birthday week. Talk about fate! If there's anything better than 50; its 52 . . . so I obvi plan on making the birthday one that is incredibly memorable. Any ideas? IDK how I'm going to top what I got her for her big half-century (a phone call from jail . . don't worry! I managed to throw a "Happy Birthday" in after I asked her to get me the fuck out of there; and told my arresting officers, as well, neither here nor there.) I'm thinking of a beautifully crafted home made card with my thumbprint; on the inside it will say something to the effect of "aren't you glad thumb-body isn't wishing you happy birthday from the slammer this year?" . . or maybe just "thumb-body loves you."
Decisions, decisions & oh, yeah, here's to another like 2,000,000 "best posts ever."
In honor of this momentous occasion, I'm going to also use this opportunity to talk about my favorite "fifty" thing; take a walk or two down memory lane, if you will, and I know you won't say no to me . . right? Excellent.
First and probably last (IDK how much time I'll have for this post since my boss is on vacay all week and I'd like to get a start on my 3 hour lunch) . . I love antiques. Technically, after 50 years, items move into "antique" status. I mean, tell me how exhilarating it is . . . going into a P.O.S shop downtown and finding a true gem, like a picture of a Boston Terrier on a serving tray or some old stamps or some shit. Its glorious. No, don't even try to argue. IDK about you, and what shape your favorite old treasure takes, but mine's about 5'7" and is so good at laundry, mending, making throw pillows and can do the dishes in 4 minutes flat (I've timed her). My roommate/mother is kind of like a fine wine, the older she gets, the more valuable she becomes. Of course, like all material things in this life; I'm not saying that if Antiques Road Show came to town I wouldn't take her in "just to get her priced" . . . but for now, she's earned her keep (and she pays the mortgage, so its a double bonus).
In fact, this post coincidentally coincides with my roommate's 52nd birthday week. Talk about fate! If there's anything better than 50; its 52 . . . so I obvi plan on making the birthday one that is incredibly memorable. Any ideas? IDK how I'm going to top what I got her for her big half-century (a phone call from jail . . don't worry! I managed to throw a "Happy Birthday" in after I asked her to get me the fuck out of there; and told my arresting officers, as well, neither here nor there.) I'm thinking of a beautifully crafted home made card with my thumbprint; on the inside it will say something to the effect of "aren't you glad thumb-body isn't wishing you happy birthday from the slammer this year?" . . or maybe just "thumb-body loves you."
Decisions, decisions & oh, yeah, here's to another like 2,000,000 "best posts ever."
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