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.
August 11, 2009
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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