Drove to my hometown for two of my favorite occassions: Annual Spree Fireworks and Ya-Ya missions. Over drinks and burgers the following texts are exchanged:
Lola: I'm in the L. On a Ya-Ya mission of justice.
Steve: Ya-ya?
Lola: Trust me, the less you know, the better.
The refrain for the night: The less you know, the better. Also, "You'll happy later if you weren't here now."
I had an exciting chance to drive fast (we played "Hostages") and scream "Abort! Abort!" which I really enjoyed.
A word about Hostages: it's like a scavenger hunt for your teammates. The other team blindfolds them and drops them off. You have to find your hostages and get back to the meeting point before the other team. We lost, but we did have the best moment: We pull up to a stop light and the windows are down, I'm smoking, the March of the Empire is blaring and we have two people sitting in the backseat with shirts over our heads. The look on the guy next to us's face was priceless.
Our mission of justice had to be rescheduled though (that was the "ABORT!" part).
I also "got" to clean my mom's garage. In 90 degree heat. Blah.
The best part though, was the return of the pig races at my hometown's annual carnival. This year, the pigs SWAM! And one played the piano. Amazing. Jennie and I have a deep love for the pig races. This year we marked the triumphant return of the races (after a three-year hiatus) with pizza and tasty alcholic beverages. Sadly, I did not get my traditional sausage and pepper sandwich, as the Italian American club no longer has a tent. Boo. Baby pigs swimming in a race: Epic win.
Overheard in town:
"Am I going to have to buy pizza from the firefighters?"
"Well, we know how much you like firefighters."
"Our soul-mates are at the Spree!"
"This year, the finale is going to spell out '59. Oh God, that joke is 9 years old. Let's take a moment to reflect on that." (Yeah, apparently, we have jokes that are 9 years old. On the upside, it's been 9 years and we still like each other enough to have a running joke).
For reasons unknown to man or god, Mama Lo had a gross of glo bracelets in her back seat. Jennie and I brought them to entertain the troops. Andy's little sister and her friends, who are like 20, were considerably more restrained than us in the use of the glo-bracelets. We, on the other hand (older than 20) made outfits out of them (I made a rainbow brite bracelet) and used about a 10-pack (ok, more than 10) apiece. Which led to the following exchange:
Fitz: You guys look like princesses of Egypt!
Lola: Uh, space Egypt.
Now I'm reading my last assignment for the summer session. Woot.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
McFrickin' Code of Silence
Once, years ago, my friends and I ruminated on one of the great questions of life: If you saw one of your friends in a porn, would you watch?
Years, hours of web-surfing, and many bottles of alcohol later, I have an answer. Not only would we watch, we'd desperately try to get an internet signal in the boonies to take a peek.
During a weekend with the girls a few months ago, we did that very thing, upon finding out that a former mutual acquaintance had posed in his birthday suit for a porn site. It was surprising, given what little I knew about this person, we'll call him "John Doe" for purposes of anonymity (although, I wonder how much he really wants to keep his dirty little secret, given that his face is shown, grinning in the picture).
Flash forward to a lunch date between a mixed group of those in-the-know and those not-in-the-know. One of those apparently in the latter group is a good friend of "John." And we're doing the "who-do-you-still-see-from?" Talk gets to John, yadda, yadda, yadda. Shanna and I exchange looks and bite our lips to keep from laughing. All of a sudden, Lis rejoins the conversation. "John who?" she asks. "John Doe," the friend replies. Lis all but screams with laughter "OHHHH YEAH!!" in a voice that all but assures us she's about to spill something hilarious/embarrasing about this guy. At this point she catches herself. Pause. Pause. "He had blonde hair," she finishes, the most anticlimactic cover imaginable. Luckily, nobody but us three notice the strange exclamation.
Life skills: how to politely dance around an old friend's new porn career.
Years, hours of web-surfing, and many bottles of alcohol later, I have an answer. Not only would we watch, we'd desperately try to get an internet signal in the boonies to take a peek.
During a weekend with the girls a few months ago, we did that very thing, upon finding out that a former mutual acquaintance had posed in his birthday suit for a porn site. It was surprising, given what little I knew about this person, we'll call him "John Doe" for purposes of anonymity (although, I wonder how much he really wants to keep his dirty little secret, given that his face is shown, grinning in the picture).
Flash forward to a lunch date between a mixed group of those in-the-know and those not-in-the-know. One of those apparently in the latter group is a good friend of "John." And we're doing the "who-do-you-still-see-from?" Talk gets to John, yadda, yadda, yadda. Shanna and I exchange looks and bite our lips to keep from laughing. All of a sudden, Lis rejoins the conversation. "John who?" she asks. "John Doe," the friend replies. Lis all but screams with laughter "OHHHH YEAH!!" in a voice that all but assures us she's about to spill something hilarious/embarrasing about this guy. At this point she catches herself. Pause. Pause. "He had blonde hair," she finishes, the most anticlimactic cover imaginable. Luckily, nobody but us three notice the strange exclamation.
Life skills: how to politely dance around an old friend's new porn career.
Monday, June 22, 2009
A Series of Annoying Events
7:06 a.m. I wake up. Not because the sun is shining in through my window, not because the dog wants to go out, but because I have the most horrifying cramps I've had in ages (I strongly suspect that dropping a certain medication from my routine is to blame). I stumble to the bathroom to get my prescription painkillers and a heating pad. I set the alarm so I can call in to the office, as I'm currently unable to stand upright and have to hobble around like Quasimodo.
8:15 a.m. The alarm goes off, and, in a slight drug stupor, I call into the office and try to explain what's wrong with me. I was half asleep and drug-addled, so I'm not sure how successful I was.
1:20 p.m. The drugs wear off. I wake up, realizing I've been out-cold for almost five hours. I stumble out of bead and put the dog on her leash. I don't change out of my tank top and shorts, because who am I going to see? Answer? The only cute guy I've ever living in my apartment complex. Who is treated to a view of my dog turning and squatting.
2:00 p.m. Puppy throws up on the carpet.
2:20 I'm making lunch and cuddling with heating pad. Puppy scratches to go out on the balcony, a favorite pasttime of hers, wherein she goes outside and promptly wants back in. I'm getting up off the couch to open the door when I hear the wettest, most horrifying fart and look up to see Precious getting violent diarrhea all over my white carpet. And then on the balcony while I'm cleaning the carpet.
4:30 p.m. I'm at work and my painkillers wear off.
6:00 p.m. Puppy is violently ill on the balcony again.
7:15 p.m. Making "bland diet" food to cure puppy's intestinal troubles. She poops on the carpet again.
I have spent more time on my hands and knees in my rubber kitchen gloves than out. The boiled rice and hamburger seem to have helped. Puppy is sleeping and I am reunited with my heating pad.
8:15 a.m. The alarm goes off, and, in a slight drug stupor, I call into the office and try to explain what's wrong with me. I was half asleep and drug-addled, so I'm not sure how successful I was.
1:20 p.m. The drugs wear off. I wake up, realizing I've been out-cold for almost five hours. I stumble out of bead and put the dog on her leash. I don't change out of my tank top and shorts, because who am I going to see? Answer? The only cute guy I've ever living in my apartment complex. Who is treated to a view of my dog turning and squatting.
2:00 p.m. Puppy throws up on the carpet.
2:20 I'm making lunch and cuddling with heating pad. Puppy scratches to go out on the balcony, a favorite pasttime of hers, wherein she goes outside and promptly wants back in. I'm getting up off the couch to open the door when I hear the wettest, most horrifying fart and look up to see Precious getting violent diarrhea all over my white carpet. And then on the balcony while I'm cleaning the carpet.
4:30 p.m. I'm at work and my painkillers wear off.
6:00 p.m. Puppy is violently ill on the balcony again.
7:15 p.m. Making "bland diet" food to cure puppy's intestinal troubles. She poops on the carpet again.
I have spent more time on my hands and knees in my rubber kitchen gloves than out. The boiled rice and hamburger seem to have helped. Puppy is sleeping and I am reunited with my heating pad.
Deny, Deny, Deny
I'm starting to wonder what kind of insanity has taken hold of this place.
It seems that Butterfly Net has flown the coup. Rick, despite multiple protestations to the contrary, is the only person who's surprised by this. Every time he says how sure he is we'll never hear from her again, he's picking up the phone to call.
Flowerpower, our erstwhile former co-counsel, seems to be confused. I'm not sure what part of "your services are no longer required" is unclear. Yet, despite being told this several times, he reports alternately feeling "left out" and "heartened" regarding his future involvement. My situation being what it is, and my caffeine supply being low, I have little to no tolerance for men who have only a passing acquaintance with consistency. Flowerpower has consistently oscillated between threatening to walk out if his conditions are not met (reminiscent of the famous VanHalen "Brown M & M's" Clause) and being super-excited about some development and wanting to have special guy-bonding-time with Rick. The fact that Flowerpower's name so closely resembles Priest's real name that when I glanced at his resume on the conference table I thought Priest was applying for a job and I almost had a heart attack, doesn't endear him to me, especially given the similarities in their hot/cold behavior. He continues state his intention to file his part of the case, despite being fired by the client.
Phone Call: Friend of the Court. Wanting to confirm the half-a-bajillion settlement on Neck Crack's case. Silence and confused looks exchanged between Rick and myself. There's no settlement deal. For any amount of money. It appears that in order to avoid a show-cause hearing regarding a statutory lien, Neck Crack has informed the relevant parties that his case has settled for more than a quarter million dollars, despite the fact that there is no such offer on the table. Not. Even. Close. Apparently, he thought saying it would make it true.
Denial. It's not just a river in Egypt.
Following weeks of alternating angry, threatening, and friendly, hopeful letters, phone calls, and emails, Flowerpower is silent. Nikki asserts that he's getting a lawyer. Rick and I think he's stockpiling fertilizer to blow up the Federal Building. I work in the Federal Building.
Shit.
It seems that Butterfly Net has flown the coup. Rick, despite multiple protestations to the contrary, is the only person who's surprised by this. Every time he says how sure he is we'll never hear from her again, he's picking up the phone to call.
Flowerpower, our erstwhile former co-counsel, seems to be confused. I'm not sure what part of "your services are no longer required" is unclear. Yet, despite being told this several times, he reports alternately feeling "left out" and "heartened" regarding his future involvement. My situation being what it is, and my caffeine supply being low, I have little to no tolerance for men who have only a passing acquaintance with consistency. Flowerpower has consistently oscillated between threatening to walk out if his conditions are not met (reminiscent of the famous VanHalen "Brown M & M's" Clause) and being super-excited about some development and wanting to have special guy-bonding-time with Rick. The fact that Flowerpower's name so closely resembles Priest's real name that when I glanced at his resume on the conference table I thought Priest was applying for a job and I almost had a heart attack, doesn't endear him to me, especially given the similarities in their hot/cold behavior. He continues state his intention to file his part of the case, despite being fired by the client.
Phone Call: Friend of the Court. Wanting to confirm the half-a-bajillion settlement on Neck Crack's case. Silence and confused looks exchanged between Rick and myself. There's no settlement deal. For any amount of money. It appears that in order to avoid a show-cause hearing regarding a statutory lien, Neck Crack has informed the relevant parties that his case has settled for more than a quarter million dollars, despite the fact that there is no such offer on the table. Not. Even. Close. Apparently, he thought saying it would make it true.
Denial. It's not just a river in Egypt.
Following weeks of alternating angry, threatening, and friendly, hopeful letters, phone calls, and emails, Flowerpower is silent. Nikki asserts that he's getting a lawyer. Rick and I think he's stockpiling fertilizer to blow up the Federal Building. I work in the Federal Building.
Shit.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Bachelors
Well, call off the search kids. After a month and a half of downturn, my stock is up and Lola's got some takers. Some smart, handsome, caring investment banker/underwear model? Oh, so much better. It's less like trading Google on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange in a three-piece suit and more like trading used shivs behind a reform school in cornrows. And so, let's meet our putative suitors.
Bachelor Number 1: Tom's friend Frank, who paid John's girlfriend Bobblehead's Bulgarian Whore-friend to sleep with him. This Eastern European catch must have had some porno-tricks up her sleeve or roofies up her snatch, because he gave her a three-hundred dollar tip.
Pros: Apparently generous with money.
Cons: Slept with an amateur hooker (there's an oxymoron); twenty years my senior; emotionally and mentally stunted; stalker tendencies; dependent on others and; I won't go into particulars, but it suffices to say that I'm being kind when I say "he's no underwear model"
His approach: Flattery(?) by Third-Party/Marriage Broker. Tells John to forward to me the following message: "He's very excited that you're single. You've got good Italian genes, so you can have Italian babies. Oh, and you're in your prime child-bearing years." Thanks a bunch, all that's missing is him telling me I have "birthin' hips."
My response: That's a very sweet offer, but I'm…just not interested. Ever.
Bachelor Number 2: John's brother Austin, who greatly resembles the kid from Deliverance without the Banjo-playing prowess. This high-class-trailer-trash (John's words, not mine) is currently helping his family drive property values in my mom's neighborhood down by squeezing not only the ten members of their family but several of Austin's drop-out friends into an 1800-square foot ranch, along with multiple vehicles in various states of disrepair. Don't even get me started on his drug-addled father (apple doesn't fall far from the tree), whose vacant, meth-mouthed visage seems to work as well at repelling normal people as those fake owls seem to work on mice and chipmunks.
Pros: Geographic convenience and, apparently, optimism.
Cons: six years my junior; ambitionless; unable to hold a job longer than a few months because, despite his lack of high-school diploma, he feels that everyone wants to pay too little for his…talents?; a family that is Jerry Springer's wet dream; aforementioned resemblance to Deliverance kid; entourage of freeloading buddies; unstable brother with his own creepy-crush on me, who would undoubtedly kill us both and; utter devotion to his pot habit.
His approach: Direct, or as direct as a proposition via third-party can be. Drunken/high texts messages to D: (I cannot make up these quotes) "I want your sister's ass. I want it bad, so fucking bad. She should try me." D's response: Silence, thinking, "She wants you dead. She wants it so bad, so fucking bad."
My response: "She should try me?" Is that what he said? It's not like he's a sample spoon at Coldstone. Not like he's ginger wasabi ice cream and I can say "oh, well that wasn't so good." I guess there's no diplomatic way to say "If the world blew up and it was just the two of us left, I would join a convent." Never mind that apparently I'd be the only member of the convent. It would be preferable (and let us reflect on the repulsive quality of a man who could drive me to celibacy). This leads D (who, of course, was sworn to secrecy) and I into a discussion of things for which there is no diplomatic translation. The examples which follow are also examples of why D and I can never have live tv shows or run for office without competent publicists.
There's no diplomatic way of saying . . .
"She would build her own Great Wall of China to get rid of you."
"I would rebuild the Titanic and crash it into that ice berg to drown you in the Atlantic."
"She would build her own gas chamber to get rid of you."
"I would figure out how to split an atom and make an A-bomb to drop it on you."
"She wishes you had been killed in the Holocaust."
"I would kidnap 40,000 Egyptian slaves and have them build me a pyramid to shut you in it."
There's no diplomatic way to say that the cosmos is playing some perverse My Best Friend's Girl game with me: showing me what's out there and that what's out there, ain't good.
On a (somewhat) related note, I am being stalked by engaged women. This reminds me of the incredible Addison Montgomery-Shepard.
She never though having kids was much of a priority, and so, she doesn't have them. Then, one day she thinks she might kind of want to and discovers that she can't. And then, she wants kids. Really wants kids. Every pregnant woman she meets seems like she's rubbing it in her face. Pregnant women are stalking her! Well, she's an obstetrician.
Well, engaged women are stalking me. I'm a law student, not a wedding planner, so why are they stalking me? Two months ago, marriage was so not a priority for me. I have a year's worth of denial of the bar exam, a job to snare, and general squickiness about becoming a chattel. Now that the option's gone (at least for the foreseeable future), I feel like the world is bursting at the seems with women who got together and decided to settle into their relationships for life, en masse so that at one point, my entire news feed will consist of "X is now engaged" posts. I absolutely do not begrudge these women their chance to beat the "for better or for worse" coin toss that is getting married and staying that way. But sometimes, I wonder if it isn't God rubbing my nose in it, "say that you don't care about it and I'll give you the opportunity to prove it."
I got a message from a women I haven't spoken to since high school, presumably sent to every female facebook friend she knows, asking for advice from those married ladies among us to give her suggestions on planning her big day. I have a suggestion, Bridezilla. Check to make sure that you're sending this to your married or engaged friends and not to someone who's just gone through a heart-wrenching breakup. Or, you're likely to have people telling you that Ted Kaczynski does excellent caligraphy and you should have him send out your invitations. With all the time you're saving do research on photographers, florists, DJs, and venues, you should be able to at least filter out the people a) you don't know and b) have "single" next to their names.
More aware of it my ass.
Bachelor Number 1: Tom's friend Frank, who paid John's girlfriend Bobblehead's Bulgarian Whore-friend to sleep with him. This Eastern European catch must have had some porno-tricks up her sleeve or roofies up her snatch, because he gave her a three-hundred dollar tip.
Pros: Apparently generous with money.
Cons: Slept with an amateur hooker (there's an oxymoron); twenty years my senior; emotionally and mentally stunted; stalker tendencies; dependent on others and; I won't go into particulars, but it suffices to say that I'm being kind when I say "he's no underwear model"
His approach: Flattery(?) by Third-Party/Marriage Broker. Tells John to forward to me the following message: "He's very excited that you're single. You've got good Italian genes, so you can have Italian babies. Oh, and you're in your prime child-bearing years." Thanks a bunch, all that's missing is him telling me I have "birthin' hips."
My response: That's a very sweet offer, but I'm…just not interested. Ever.
Bachelor Number 2: John's brother Austin, who greatly resembles the kid from Deliverance without the Banjo-playing prowess. This high-class-trailer-trash (John's words, not mine) is currently helping his family drive property values in my mom's neighborhood down by squeezing not only the ten members of their family but several of Austin's drop-out friends into an 1800-square foot ranch, along with multiple vehicles in various states of disrepair. Don't even get me started on his drug-addled father (apple doesn't fall far from the tree), whose vacant, meth-mouthed visage seems to work as well at repelling normal people as those fake owls seem to work on mice and chipmunks.
Pros: Geographic convenience and, apparently, optimism.
Cons: six years my junior; ambitionless; unable to hold a job longer than a few months because, despite his lack of high-school diploma, he feels that everyone wants to pay too little for his…talents?; a family that is Jerry Springer's wet dream; aforementioned resemblance to Deliverance kid; entourage of freeloading buddies; unstable brother with his own creepy-crush on me, who would undoubtedly kill us both and; utter devotion to his pot habit.
His approach: Direct, or as direct as a proposition via third-party can be. Drunken/high texts messages to D: (I cannot make up these quotes) "I want your sister's ass. I want it bad, so fucking bad. She should try me." D's response: Silence, thinking, "She wants you dead. She wants it so bad, so fucking bad."
My response: "She should try me?" Is that what he said? It's not like he's a sample spoon at Coldstone. Not like he's ginger wasabi ice cream and I can say "oh, well that wasn't so good." I guess there's no diplomatic way to say "If the world blew up and it was just the two of us left, I would join a convent." Never mind that apparently I'd be the only member of the convent. It would be preferable (and let us reflect on the repulsive quality of a man who could drive me to celibacy). This leads D (who, of course, was sworn to secrecy) and I into a discussion of things for which there is no diplomatic translation. The examples which follow are also examples of why D and I can never have live tv shows or run for office without competent publicists.
There's no diplomatic way of saying . . .
"She would build her own Great Wall of China to get rid of you."
"I would rebuild the Titanic and crash it into that ice berg to drown you in the Atlantic."
"She would build her own gas chamber to get rid of you."
"I would figure out how to split an atom and make an A-bomb to drop it on you."
"She wishes you had been killed in the Holocaust."
"I would kidnap 40,000 Egyptian slaves and have them build me a pyramid to shut you in it."
There's no diplomatic way to say that the cosmos is playing some perverse My Best Friend's Girl game with me: showing me what's out there and that what's out there, ain't good.
On a (somewhat) related note, I am being stalked by engaged women. This reminds me of the incredible Addison Montgomery-Shepard.
She never though having kids was much of a priority, and so, she doesn't have them. Then, one day she thinks she might kind of want to and discovers that she can't. And then, she wants kids. Really wants kids. Every pregnant woman she meets seems like she's rubbing it in her face. Pregnant women are stalking her! Well, she's an obstetrician.
Well, engaged women are stalking me. I'm a law student, not a wedding planner, so why are they stalking me? Two months ago, marriage was so not a priority for me. I have a year's worth of denial of the bar exam, a job to snare, and general squickiness about becoming a chattel. Now that the option's gone (at least for the foreseeable future), I feel like the world is bursting at the seems with women who got together and decided to settle into their relationships for life, en masse so that at one point, my entire news feed will consist of "X is now engaged" posts. I absolutely do not begrudge these women their chance to beat the "for better or for worse" coin toss that is getting married and staying that way. But sometimes, I wonder if it isn't God rubbing my nose in it, "say that you don't care about it and I'll give you the opportunity to prove it."
I got a message from a women I haven't spoken to since high school, presumably sent to every female facebook friend she knows, asking for advice from those married ladies among us to give her suggestions on planning her big day. I have a suggestion, Bridezilla. Check to make sure that you're sending this to your married or engaged friends and not to someone who's just gone through a heart-wrenching breakup. Or, you're likely to have people telling you that Ted Kaczynski does excellent caligraphy and you should have him send out your invitations. With all the time you're saving do research on photographers, florists, DJs, and venues, you should be able to at least filter out the people a) you don't know and b) have "single" next to their names.
More aware of it my ass.
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