Sunday, September 18, 2011

The Cave

It's empty in the valley of your heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you've left behind

The harvest left no food for you to eat
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see
But I have seen the same
I know the shame in your defeat

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

Because I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I'll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind

So tie me to a post and block my ears
I can see widows and orphans through my tears
I know my call despite my faults
And despite my growing fears

So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker's land

So make your siren's call
And sing all you want
I will not hear what you have to say

Because I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it's meant to be

And I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again.

NEW YORK ANTHEM.  Only far less noble goals.   I love Mumford and Sons.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Roll Away Your Stone, I'll Roll Away Mine

CAN I PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GET MY POTTERMORE EMAIL!?!??!!  IT'S BEEN FOREVERRRRRRRR and I had to endure Shannon GOING THROUGH THE WHOLE WEBSITE while I fled to the opposite side of the room and forced my brain to pay attention to the Princess Diaries 2.  If that isn't dedication, I don't know what is.  I'm consumed by the fear that I will be sorted into Slytherin, though... if it happens I will absolutely cry.

I signed my lease and various other weird forms today for my new Manhattan apartment!  The only bad thing about moving to New York is that I won't live with/see Kate every day.  We said bye tonight and I cried as I drove home.  Pathetic.  Best friends like the Kate don't grow on trees though, ya only get one every 22.5 years.

I'm suddenly afraid to get old.  I'm not scared to die or anything, but I'm scared to gradually decay and become more and more yucky.  I don't WANT old papery skin and blue nails and my neck to look like a  vag and to have my mouth be constantly open and drooling.  Or be helped to the toilet.  Or force fed fiber and all sorts of nasty things.  I plan to binge eat myself to death around the age of 70.  Settle down on the couch and just... let myself go.  It's not suicide, it's a humanitarian act so no one will have to cart me around and be sad and miserable.

Every now and then I appall myself with my own behavior.  An impulsive nature and a weak will are a terrible combination.  Especially when you mix in a little residual Catholic guilt.

For now, I can't wait to move.  I REALLY can't wait to quit my job!

Friday, September 9, 2011


9/8/10:  I was getting on the plane with my buddy to go on a five-week adventure to Europe.
9/8/11:  I get my dream apartment in the East Village with an acquaintance-turning-friend.  (Coincidentally, both girls listed above are named Julie)

So many things change in a year!  This time last year I was getting pumped about going to Europe and moving to Ballston (three miles from my parents house) with my college roommate Steph, her best friend from middle school Andi, and a girl I worked with named Kate.  Kate, it turns out, is my best friend in the entire world, Steph is in law school, and Andi no longer wants to fight for justice, she just wants to play beautiful songs on beautiful pianos.  Shannon was moving from Brooklyn to Woodbridge, Sarah was going to grad school, and I bashed my face so badly I was scared I was going to lose my tooth.

Now, I'm moving to the East Village in two weeks.  I have longer hair, I have had three or four different styles of bangs (all of which were failures), I have lost a little bit of weight but I still fantasize about running a 10K.  I went to Europe twice, for a total of 8 weeks, and visited Spain, France, Italy, Portugal, England, and Wales.  I went to Hogwarts and drank butterbeer with my brother and my cousin.  I learned how to scuba dive, how to parallel park the mini-van, how to bar tend, how to deal with animals in your house, and how I like to drink coffee.  I went to California for the first time since I was ten and saw 3,000 year old trees and a man worthy of having a crush on.  I watched 8 Phillies games in person, I ran across the ocean to a castle in boots, I stood on top of the world, I climbed mountains, I swam in seas, I was in a play for the first time in five years.

I could not be more excited for my newest catastrophe/adventure, but I am so grateful for the last year.  It's made me less scared, more confident, more happy than I've ever been in my whole life!  I could not have handled moving to the city this time last year, but now I'm ready.

Currently Reading: A Game of Thrones
Working On:  a monologue from The Kathy and Mo Show
Currently Listening to:  Mumford and Sons "The Cave"
Most Recent Movie Watched: Sarah's Key (I cried and nearly threw up, it was awful)
Most Recent Meal:  Margarita and tacos from Rio Grande with Kate, Chantha, and Kyle from LD
Lead on the NL East:  10.0 games :)

Apology to the Slighted

OH TORTILLA!!!!!!!  How I have missed your warm, enveloping chewiness!!!   How could I have been so wrong about you?!  You are an integral part of the burrito experience and I was foolish to think that we should go our separate ways!!!  I shall forsake you no longer.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Thoughts on the VMAs

as provided by watching the Beyonce and Adele clips on YouTube 24 hours after.

1.  BEYONCE WHAT THE HELL!   You gave me four key changes in exchange for not jostling your fetus and I was completely ok with it.  AND YOU HID YOUR LEGS and wore a terrible sequined jacket.  I still want to be you.  Only not pregnant, now that I think about it, and def not by Jay-Z.  His name sucks.  FINE OK I JUST WISH I WAS SEXY FLY LIKE YOU AND HAD BEEN A MEMBER OF DESTINY'S CHILD!!
2.  Adele killed it.  And she looked classy whilst killin' it.  That's the dream.
3.  Lady Gaga as a dude was HILARIOUS!  At least it wasn't a meat dress.  Every time I watch her I'm more and more convinced that she's completely insane.  Did she fall off the piano?
4.  Katy Perry needs a lobotomy ASAP.  What the hell was her costume supposed to be?  Askew toy building blocks?  If we gave her brain replacement surgery she would probably stop singing songs that romanticize rape, which I would also be more than fine with.

Friday, August 26, 2011

The Rage Monkey

Natural disasters are interesting on TV, but pretty weird when they actually happen to/around you.  "I WAS HERE DOING THIS!!!" everyone shrieks to anyone that will listen.  I was at my house, on my bed, switching banks, and I thought it was sorta neat but mostly I was relieved that nothing really happened.  Apparently we are supposed to fear the destruction that those things are capable of.

However two things happened that really pissed me off.  One, was the status of some idiot that I'm "friends" with on Facebook even though in reality I find her a ridiculous (and not in a fun way), thoughtless, and stupid human being.  "More quakes and shakes, please!  That was fun!" I to understand that you....want an actual earthquake?  That you are, in fact, REQUESTING the presence of the very ground beneath your feet to writhe in ways that can kill and maim thousands of people?  HOW STUPID ARE YOU!??!?!??!  It's SUCH A PITY that the damn thing didn't do the world a favor and remove you from it!!!!!!!!  Idiot.

That plus a visit with a tiresome dental hygienist has made me wary of impending Irene.  "OH DANG I GOT WET LIKE IN A THUNDERSTORM!!!!  IT WAS WINDY LIKE DURING A THUNDERSTORM TOOO!!!!!!"  Man am I going to look like an asshole if this thing turns into something other than just another summer storm.

Which brings me to the topic at hand.

What a curious creature is the Rage Monkey!   She strikes with no warning and disappears as quickly as she came.  The Rage Monkey is definitely a lady because she frequently opens for The Period Monster, who is known for her similar qualities at the onset, but finishes her destruction tour with loads of weeping and teary-eyed nonsense.

The Rage Monkey erupts from anywhere, shoving Rational Normal Non-Rageful Self from your brain with the force of a thousand men.  If RNNRS tries to make a feeble attempt to placate, the Rage Monkey flips out even more, gathering more steam as it destroys all sanity and happiness.

The Rage Monkey's powerful assets are stealth, failure to be logical, and perseverance.  This sneaky bitch creeps up on you, consumes you completely, beats the crap out of the ol' RNNRS, and stays just long enough that you'll have to spend the rest of your day undoing the damage the Rage Monkey has left in its wake.

Typically, something banal happens.  You read a predictably idiotic Facebook status, or Janice the Fart Faced Old Lady Horror opens her yap as she scrapes barnacles out of your mouth.  Only, instead of laughing or feigning deafness, you feel an incredible surge of anger.  Someone has just asked a harmless question or postulated pure moronic crap and your hormones have unleashed their monster.  Then suddenly EVERYTHING JUST MAKES YOU SO MAD AND THERE IS NOTHING ANYONE CAN DO ABOUT IT!!!!!!  Run away?!  NEVER!!!!!  COWARD!?!?!!  Stay and talk it out?!?!  WHO RATIONALIZES WITH THE IRRATIONAL RAGE MONKEY!??!?!

"I was at a restaurant and the floor just starting shaking!!!"  WHO CARES WHERE YOU WERE DURING THE HURRICANE, JANICE?!?!?!   (This poor old lady thinks that I'm meek and introverted because I resolutely refuse to encourage conversation with her as I don't have time in my days for two hour long dental appointments)  YOU STUPID COW JUST SHUT UP AND CLEAN MY TEETH!!!!!!!!!!!!!   DON'T ASK ME QUESTIONS, DON'T TELL ME STORIES ABOUT YOUR POOR BESOTTED HUSBAND!!!!!  JUST X-RAY MY JAW!!!  AND DID I MENTION I AM SWEATING UNDER THIS LEADEN BLANKET THAT YOU CLAIM WILL PROTECT ME FROM RADIATION!?!?!  WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF MY FACE?!?!?!  DID NO ONE TELL YOU THAT MY EYES ARE MY BEST FEATURE?!!?!?!  WHERE ARE MY PROTECTIVE GOGGLES!???!?!?!?!  AND THIS DAMN THING IS ITCHING MY NECK!!!!!



I left that office with no cavities and a guaranteed ticket to Hell's fiery gates.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

But I say/I got my best shoes on/I'm ready to go

I was scared to move last week, this week I'm ready.  I'm SO EXCITED for new things and the utter terror of a new city and being constantly lost and it's feeling near and hopeful and exhilarating!

In an ideal world I would be a gypsy nomad and have no possessions and no ties other than love and experiences.  Unfortunately, I'm rather attached to both my iPhone and my new brown boots.  I'm trying to get rid of lots of stuff.  "They're just things."  I'm sure I'll end up with loads of new ones.


Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Love letter to my mother

I never used to cry.  I think it's because I used to be so self-conscious and uncomfortable with vulnerability, but I'm making up for lost time now.  I just finished reading HP7, and I literally sobbed when I re-read Molly Weasley freaking out and dueling Bellatrix Lestrange.  We're talking screwed-up face, tears pouring down my face and neck into my clavicles, racking sobs, etc.

I talk a lot about how great my dad is, and I feel this seems to reflect that I don't also fawn all over my mother.  In fact, I am a petite version of my mother, so we love each other lots but we get along better when we don't see each other on a daily basis.  It should be stated that in college, I called her every single day.

My mother is very, very emotional.  My dad is too, but not like my mom.  He's rational and explain-y; my roommate Andi dubbed him "Atticus Finch" after I told a number of stories where he explained the world and how it works as straightforward as he could.  He's really adept at understanding other people and their ideas and believes all that matters in this life is doing right and standing by the people you love.  He's a genius at simplicity and I worship him for that insight.  Plus, he tells these charming stories from when I was a toddler with horrible asthma.  Also, when I would have nightmares, he would ALWAYS come in my room, no matter how late it was, how pathetic I was being, or how exhausted he was, and hug me until I calmed down enough to fall back asleep.  Dad was always the one that would coddle me, I never really fought with him.

My mother and I used to fight a lot.  We have the exact same hot temper that needs to be aired, and as quickly as it flares up, it's gone.  We have the same tendency to get incensed when we feel disrespected or disappointed by the ones we love.  We have the same habit of getting so angry that we burst into tears because we're just SO MAD that there's nothing else that our brain can do.  Then we feel the same remorse for our pull-no-punches approach.

The thing is though, my mother never, ever fought with me for any reason other than complete and utter adoration.  She thinks so highly of me that she would not condone when I would screw it all up and act like the moronic kid I generally was/am.  My mother is fortunate in that she is entirely emotional, the full range of 'em.  My brother and I always knew that we were loved above every other thing in this world or any other.  Even when we would scream at each other across the living room, apoplectic with rage for whatever thing I had fucked up.

Someone tells me that they love me every single day.  I'm not kidding; and these are the people who mean it and will never break up with me or never ditch me or cheat on me or do any intentional damage to me.  I hope loads of kids suspect that their parents would take a bullet for them or duel a Lestrange to keep them safe, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my mother would die for me.  That thought is both horrifying and comforting.  The thing that's reeeally crazy is the reciprocity built in, when you love people that deeply and they know it, they're bound by the same bonds of love.  To complete the nerd circle, my mom would have been a Gryffindor; she's the real life Lily Potter.

If you ever want me to cry (you'll perish, I should add) all you have to do is remind me of parents loving their kids.  I have cried at some of the most horrifically awful movies and books ("The Last Song" w/Greg Kinnear was hard to live down) against my very will because something I have never underestimated and always understood is the power of unconditional love.  So... thanks, Mom.  I love you.  Happy 50th Birthday.

PS- The people sitting at the bar last night could not get over how young you look, they thought you were forty and potentially some sort of child bride until I sorted it all out.  Love ya :)

Monday, August 22, 2011

Waiter Rant No. 2

Waiter:  Hi guys, how are you doing today?
**Spawn of Mrs. Douchebag and Mrs. Asshat howl, scream, kick, flail, beat their hands upon the table, shred the napkins that have only been on the table for mere seconds, and snot all over their booster seats.  Mrs. Douchebag and Mrs. Asshat are giggling and oblivious to the pandemonium ensuing around them**
Waiter:  I'll give you a second to sort out your snot machines.  Oh!  I'll give you guys a second!
Mrs. Douchebag:  Oh we're fine, we're fine, TRENTON STOP THAT!  **Trenton is biting her arm**
Waiter:  .....may I bring you something to drink?
Mrs. Douchebag:  Yes, yes, uhmmm.... Trenton, what would you like to drink?  I would like an ice tea and a waiter, please.  Trenton????  **Trenton, the little shit that he is, is chewing on the table, shrieking in rage.  He is four years old.**  Oh, let's just get him a soda.  WOULD YOU LIKE A SODA, Trenton??!!  **Trenton blows boogies all over his own shirt**  Oh, let's just get him a cream soda.  And a milkshake.  WOULD YOU LIKE A MILKSHAKE TRENTON!?   Yeah, let's get him a strawberry milkshake.
Waiter:  Yeah, this shithead should definitely have more sugar poured down his throat....  Okay m'am.
Mrs. Douchebag:  Ok, let's get her **pointing to her 2 year old daughter who is screaming so loudly that she's actually purple** a diet coke, Annie she's getting so chubby, isn't she?  **Mrs. Asshat eyes the little girl and then nods emphatically** and him  **dear Trenton's twin, named something moronic like Bentley** he'd like a cookies and cream milkshake and a grape juice.
Waiter:  Great...  Alright.  Anything for you, m'am?
**Mrs. Asshat says nothing and purses her lips as she peruses the menu.  Her spawn spit everywhere and then start beating each other with forks**
Mrs. Asshat:  I guess I'll have a Diet Coke and a water?  And a kids milk, an apple juice, and a water for him.
**Water designated child automatically stops thwacking his siblings to scream  "MOMMY I WANT A MILK SHAKE!!!!!!!!!"**
Mrs.  Asshat:  NO YOU CAN"T HAVE ONE
Mrs. Asshat:  FINE!  And a vanilla shake for him.
Waiter:  yeah, let's reward that kind of behavior  Mmmk m'am.
Mrs. Douchebag:  Ok and we'd like a large cheese pizza with the sauce on the side and the cheese on the side but could you hide some spinach in it?  Like, bake it into the dough?
Waiter:  what the fuck?!  I'll ask the kitchen, m'am, but I'm pretty sure they can work something out.
**Trenton and Co. are now competing to see who can blow a raspberry for the longest.  Inevitably, the children run out of breath and come back in, causing those who had carried on to scream "YOU CHEATED!!!" and began chasing the others about the restaurant.  The infant who (incredibly) had been sleeping through the previous mayhem now wakes up and joins the cacophony will ear piercing shrieks**
Mrs. Asshat:  Ok, and I would like to have the turkey rueben, but no sauce and no bread, and with fries.
Mrs. Douchebag:  Oh you are so bad!!!!  Fries?!?!!  Ok!!!  I'll have the chopped salad, but no cheese, no onions, no dressing, no bacon, and the tomatoes on the side.
Waiter:  **gets lost in thought watching the kids run up and down the floor screaming and hitting each other** Uhmmm... sorry!!!  Sure!  I'll be right back with your drinks.

The bill will rack up to be around $60 after all the brats have had their milkshakes and the moms will leave me $6.  This is, of course, after the spawns of Asshat and Douchebag have made mulch out of all the napkins given to them, ground Goldfish crackers into their booster seats and their own clothing, and caused three other tables to move out of my section because they leaned over into their space and screamed and screamed for no reason.  Mrs. Douchebag and Mrs. Asshat will eat their food in teensy bites, ignore their hell monsters, and sit for up to three hours while their banshees run wild disturbing the populous.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Sessy Times

I marched into Kate's room today (OK FINE TO WORK ON THE GINORMOUS FAIRY PUZZLE WE HAD BEEN ATTACKING) and she was collecting up laundry because she had no more underwear.  Unfortunately for me, this meant she was wearing her reserve lacy black undies and I was not prepared to see so much ass.  We walk around our house in t-shirts and underwear and sometimes slippers, but we try to keep it PG13.

So here's a list of some sessy stuff.

  • Smelling like soap.  It's pretty jarring if you spot a sessy man walkin' down the street or all up in the cluuuub and then you get a wiff of either sweat (foul.  Just because I don't bathe doesn't mean I condone your filth) or horrendous cologne.  Cologne is the worst.  It'll turn you off rull quick.  Who wants to make out with a dude who reeks of musk and pine trees (gin) and tobacco?  I'm in a cluuub, not in the forest hoping a lumberjack will fell me a tree and then rub it on himself.  Do you think they like, spritz it on their wrists and daub it behind their ears?  Or do they step into it?  Nancy boy.  Plus, I know I only wear perfume because my ass is stinky, I can only assume that's why you'd do it too.
  • Clean hands.  I do not want mangey paws on my sessy bod.  If you have grody, dirty hands then I'll be all dirty and shit too.  Gross.  Wash yo' hands, trim yo' nailz, and don't pick your nose.  I ask so little.
  • Being nice to/about your mom.  Note I did not say "be obsessed with your mom" or "continue to breast feed at the age of 28" because both of those are definitely not sessy.  However, being nice to your mom lets us ladies know that you are not a completely ungrateful and immature miscreant and thus if I were to let our genes grow to the size of say 8 pounds and let it come ripping out of a sensitive area of my body, our 8 pound meatball would probably not be a total douche.
  • Smiling.  I fucking hated Twilight.  Be fun!  Don't sulk, otherwise we would be forced to realize the only thing we have in common is that we don't like things; you don't like the world and I don't like you.  Plus smiling lets you show off your teeth and I am not dating anyone with dookie mouth.  Cain't be passing that on to younger generations.
  • Glasses.  Yup.  GLASSES ARE SESSY.  One, you appear smart (which is all I really need, not too many actual brains or I'll get flustered and feel the need to read the newspaper before we hang out and let's be real, I'm not going to catch up on any news that isn't on Facebook or the Daily Show) and two you seem anti-sticking crap in your eye.  Which means you probably aren't a drag queen.  Which means you are probably straight.  Which means I have a better shot of you being attracted to me.  Which means we could make out.  It also means that I'm allowed to bust out my goggles if I don't feel like sticking crap in MY eyes.  Tight.
  • Being kind.  Seriously.  Chivalry is dead so if you catch a glimpse of such a rare bird, you freak out.  I would make some sort of joke, but I can't think of any because I think kindness is rare and shouldn't be made fun of.... woof.
  • Cool facial hair.  Why, are you too absorbed in your art/science to shave?!  HOW PASSIONATE of you!!!!  If we had a baby and he was a boy baby he would have mad facial hair and the ladies would think he was a beast at age 12.  Plus the other boy babies turned adult males would fear him due to his straight masculinity.  Also, you were a boy baby turned boy adult and you are dripping with masculinity from your hair covered yet strong jawline.  mmmmmm

I can't think of sessy things anymore.  I typed mmmm and then I realize how I just want a doughnut but obviously that's luda because it's 3:30 AM and everyone knows that KK opens at 6.  I'd settle for a cookie but we're out downstairs.  DAMN ALL THE EATERS OF KEEBLER DELICIOUSNESS!!!!!  DAMN THEM ALL!!!!  Harris Teeter is open 24/7 but even I am not so gluttonous as to walk to Harris Teeter at 3:30 AM to buy cookies.  Mostly because it's not a freakin' doughnut.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

In Honor of Shark Week, I give you: Minnowed

Went out to the U Street corridor last night with some friends from college.  The last time I hung out with the majority of these people (nearly a year ago) I drank so much that I blacked out and cracked a front tooth on my parents door step and woke up in weird pajamas with a fat lip and a Top Five Worst hangover.

As I was not anxious to repeat that incident (although it's pretty funny now, especially because my tooth is still firmly in my gums) I only had two beers last night and was content with a persistent and enjoyable buzz.  I shook my booty as hard as I could to many suggestive songs; Top Booty-Shakin' Tunes for me right now would be Rowland/Guetta's "Commander" and DUH Rihanna's "S&M".  Local Sixteen obliged with all of these songs and more and by the time we actually got to the floor, which was the majority of the second story of an old row house, I spent the evening what Kate and I have dubbed "Minnowed".

Minnowed:  when the men around you have suddenly sensed your feminine presence. Maybe they smell your pheromones, maybe they hear girlish laughter, but they definitely see skirts moving and hair being tossed and thus they must move closer.  Instinct tells them that due to the influence of alcohol on both parties, mating could be a possibility and they circle their prey.  They care not for other predators in their midst, they hone in on their target.  They gesticulate with their pelvis, they flail their arms and bobble their heads up and down, they spill their precious alcoholic nectar on your rear end and shoes.  They move close enough to actually inspect their prey, throwing elbows at the predators.  WEEEEEEOOOOOO NOT UGLY!!!!!  Now they get even closer, they breathe on your neck and they put a hand on your back, or back side if you're unlucky, and then they screech in your ear as they try to wiggle their hips in the same rhythm as your own, "HEY UH YA WANNA DANCE?!"

Maybe it's that I am never allowed to deny requests at work.  Maybe it's that I know and love my friends and family so I rarely turn them down.  But in the presence of males with sweat pouring down their entire selves and beer stank on their breath, trying to gyrate in time with my reluctant body simply because I have breasts, I will not.  I will not and I enjoy the act of denying.  I will not succumb to their minnow tactics, I will not be coerced into dancing with an insanely tall rugby player (or the whole damn team, as it were last night) and I whip my hair as hard as I can into their faces and smirk "No".   It does not matter that with so many guys the height of pro-basketball players pressing up against me I feel that I'm in a rather claustrophobic forest.  ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!!

They are rarely embarrassed at their rejection.  Nor are they nonplussed at the rejection of those around them.  It's almost like they think "MY TURN SHE'S BEEN WAITING FOR MEEEEE!!!"  Frequently, they try and hang on anyway, but that's a real mistake because they end up with my elbow anywhere that seems vulnerable and I'm not particularly tall.

I don't really understand how dancing like that is supposed to be fun.  I mean, obviously a dude thinks he can just lean against a while and you'll shove your butt into their crouch and rub it around, but who wants to do that?  Who's self esteem is so low that they're going to get dressed up like a prostitute, act like a prostitute, but not not receive monetary compensation for their acts?

I like to jump around, generally as energetically as I can, scream along to the lyrics of good/ridiculous songs and whip my long hair, yes, back and forth.  Thanks, Willow Smith.  I like to jump up and down next to someone I think is fun and attractive.  I do not want to simulate sex on the dance floor while wearing small clothes in front of my friends.

You know what's not sexy?  Having someone pour beer down your new fun dress and then scream in your face that you're "hot" while they grope around for your sex organs.  I have parents, and they taught me that I am not meat.  Also, being called "hot" when you're sweating the contents of a bottle of liquor is not so much a compliment as an observation of the state of affairs.  You should really take off that goddamn polo shirt and those idiotic boat shoes (ARE WE ON A BOAT??!?!!  THIS PARTY COULD BE SO MUCH MORE TERRIFYING IF THERE'S NO WAY TO ESCAPE YOU OTHER THAN LEAPING INTO THE GARBAGE FILLED DEPTHS OF THE POTOMAC!!!) and present yourself as something other than a frat boy bitch that's going to give me some sort of shitty rash.

However, never be naked.  That would be worse.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Since I Can't Go to Hogwarts

I'm moving to New York City instead.

Er...I mean, The City.  I'm not going to fit in and I don't really care that much.  I'm scared.

New Yorkers (according to movies and my limited experiences) fall into one of two categories:  Hipster Shithead that I want to simultaneously kiss on the mouth and punch in the stomach, or Super Rich Gucci Prada Anorexic Model that society tells me I want to look like, but really I just wonder when the last time that emaciated "woman" thing ate pasta.  And also I just a leeetle bit want to look like her.

Hipster Shithead:

  • wears loads of plaid 
  • smokes loads of cigarettes
  • has cool sunglasses that don't make his/her eyebrows look like caterpillars peering over plastic squares
  • drinks drinks with names like Lonely Island (ok, I keep You-tubing the one where they do each other's moms) or Moody Southerner or something
  • eats organic and vegan and only white food and supplies this by going dumpster diving
  • listens to bands no one has ever heard of with depressing ass lyrics
  • has sleeves
  • and lots of other sweet tats
  • sticks their hair up like when you played with shampoo in the bath as a kid 
  • reads books that talk about being alive and what it all means and Plato was a genius and you're boring so shut UP can't we talk about Harry Potter and Arrested Development and things that are mainstream because that are awesome?
  • bitch about the government and how we should save trees but then go back to their Macbooks and forget whatever cause they campaigned for
  • are rich but buy things that are expensive but look like crap.  like the maker made a nice thing, then painted it and scraped half the paint off and let a puppy teeth on it and then decided puppy saliva is really valuable so now this dumb dresser wardrobe is $4,000 please.  Payable to Anthropologie
Rich Skeletor Model Alien:
  • wears labels of stores that would not let me breathe in them
  • parties with celebrities/athletes that are famous for making sex tapes, starting hand bag lines, or being on the Disney channel when they were 8
  • wears shoes that prevents her from running away/could bludgeon attackers to a grisly death
  • drinks alcohol out of thimbles because otherwise they would get poisoned and start convulsing on the dirty hobo pissed on streets
  • has a vacuum that sucks the poo right out of their butts so they can look four pounds light for a few hours at a premier of whatever
  • don't eat food
  • reads magazines about dieting and nail polish and how hard it is to have lots and lots and lots of money and where to vacation this time of year when you just have TOO MUCH MONEY and oh here's an article about how some people are poor and isn't it eye opening?  NO AND DON'T YOU NOTICE THAT STARVING PEOPLE LOOK LIKE THESE SCARY ASS ALIEN MODELS?!
  • poops money
  • spends time in the morning doing things like curling eyelashes and using a blow dryer and applying salves and things that make you smell like sex and tobacco mated with flowers and the ocean
  • poops money some more
Whereas I am just a Nerdy Disgusting Psychotic Moron.  I:
  • go for weeks (yes, occasionally more than one) without washing my hair.  and it doesn't look cool and tousled, it looks dirty and like an animal nested and then died in its nest.
  • cry watching Steve Carrell in Dan in Real Life because I love watching parents adore their children even if it's just a movie
  • watch the Jon Stewart show and pretend that I am up to date on current events
  • declare I won't eat carbs but only last about two hours because I really need to eat Cheez Its and Oreos and doughnuts or I'll die
  • occasionally get really nervous Wormtail is going to tie me to a grave stone and make me watch Voldemort rise and then have to fight him to get back to Ron and Hermione and Sirius
  • watch So You Think You Can Dance clips for HOURS and realize that I really should have taken dance lessons as a child so I won't be so woefully awkward in my own body 
  • am afraid of pigeons and seagulls
  • get grouchy and heinous when I feel that the makers of my sandwich PURPOSEFULLY WITHHELD garlic mayo and cheese
  • wear skirts that are stretchy if I'm going out to dinner to a place that I really like so I'll be able to accommodate my food baby
Watch out, The City.  Bacon's coming up and she's gonna... not hang out with you!!!

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Better Be... GRYFFINDOR!!!!

My lovely aunt and uncle joined my equally if not more lovely mother and father for dinner at my horrible terrible restaurant last night.  They proceeded to tip me outrageously and earned themselves the right to park it in one of my primo tables for as long as they pleased.  Also they're my family, so they could pretty much do whatever they liked.  
Now, I did my waiter duties, refilling drinks and all that, but I glanced at my ESPN app and saw that Hamels had held on and neatly spanked the Padres, so I bounded over to relay the good news to my diehard fan dad.  Dad, half-jokingly, tells Bonnie and Bob about how furious I was when the Phils traded for Oswalt instead of Cliff Lee. 
**Side Note: I love Cliff Lee.  I love him more than I love Doc, more than I love Hamels, and only slightly more than I currently love Vance Worley.  So his banishment was infuriating, especially when I went to Oswalt's opening game and his first pitch was a triple to a WASHINGTON NATIONAL.  There was only shame and rage.  Luckily, I was sitting a few rows behind the Phils' dugout and screamed and screamed my displeasure in true Phan Phashion and Manuel heard me was forced to contest with my big fat angry trap**
Naturally, the story is told and I become animated (ie: heated) in my convictions that Oswalt is a pile of poop that has yet to do anything great for the Phils.  Bob and my dad started joking on which of myself, or two of my cousins would get married first.  Bob's bet was none.
My first thought was "WELL HECK I DON'T WANT TO GET MARRIED ANYWAY!!"  I don't remember what I actually told Bob, probably something snarky, but then I realized it's absolutely true.  I might want to get married some day, but only if I meet someone I actually want to be married to, I have absolutely no intention of "settling down".  That phrase carries some of the worst connotations.  
Thus I proudly march about, scorning the men that leave numbers on their credit card slips (FYI-never do that if you're not planning to tip at least 30%) and those that make awkward conversations in Harris Teeter; trying to have as much fun and be the best artist I can possibly be.
I would rather be an artist than a wife.  I will only be with someone who would see me as an artist rather than a wife.

In unfortunately related news, I got off work early tonight and came home to eat ice cream in my glasses while watching a Lifetime Original Movie on JK Rowling.  When Steph came home, she started watching it too, so I suppose I technically watched the horrid thing twice, but the majority of the second time was spent Googling Newly Hot Neville and trying to figure out when that transformation happened.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Waiter Rant

Waiter:  Hi guys, how are you tonight?  May I get you started with something to drink?
Mr. Rude Diner:  Gimme a club soda with a lime, and *waves his hand at his wife* what do you want?
Mrs. Rude Diner:  Oh for God's sake,  Jim, I don't know!
Waiter:  M'am, if you need a minute to look over the drinks, I'm more than happy to come back.
Mr. RD:   No.  We're ready.
Mrs. RD:  Well, uhhhh, do you have caffeine free Diet Coke?
Waiter:  I'm afraid not.
Mrs. RD:  Do you have decaff coffee?
Waiter:  Sorry m'am, we only have caffeinated coffee.
Mrs. RD:   Really?!  Hmm... well, how's your iced tea?  Is it sweet tea?
Waiter:  Nope, it's unsweetened, m'am.
Mrs. RD:  Is it flavored?
Waiter:  No, we just have plain, unsweetened tea.  *Now I'm noticing another table needs refills on their Diet Cokes, a different tables' food is up, and I have just been double sat*
Mrs. RD:  Oh.  Well yuck.  Uhmmm...
Mr. RD:  Jesus, just pick something.  They have lemonade?
Waiter:  Yes.  The list of drinks is right here-
Mrs. RD:  Is it fresh squeezed?
Waiter:  No, m'am, it's Minute Maid.
Mrs. RD:  Oh, well I don't want that then... hmmm....
Mr. RD:  Ok, well I want a roast beef club sandwich.  Only no lettuce, no tomato, no onion, and gimme an order of those onion rings too.
Waiter:   Sure, sir. *But I'm staring at the man frantically waving trying to get my attention to bring him his check, another man shooting me dagger-eyes because his Diet Coke is still empty, and one of the tables that has been sat because they are shaking their heads and looking around for the waiter they now assume to be lazy and incompetent*
Mrs. RD:  How about diet cream soda?  Do you have diet cream soda?
Waiter:  I'm sorry, we don't m'am.
Mrs. RD:  OK.  What kinds of soda do you have?
Mr. RD:  Actually, can we get a spinach and artichoke dip to start?
Waiter:  Ok, sir.  And we have Coke product m'am.
Mrs. RD:  So that means...?
Mr. RD:  But we don't want any of that pico del gallo  *pronounced as it's spelled*
Waiter: Sure.  Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Fanta Orange, Pibb, and Gingerale.
Mrs. RD:  Oh... Coke Zero?
Waiter: No m'am.  *one of my co-workers is dealing with the man who wanted his check and another is greeting the tables that have just been sat, pointing at me and smiling.  Diet Coke Punk is still glowering*
Mr. RD:  Girl, does my sandwich have mayo on it?
Waiter:  Yup, it does.
Mr. RD:  Yeah, none of that, but add some honey mustard.  And a side of hot peppers.
Waiter:  Ok sir.
Mrs. RD:  Ok.  I'll just have water.  But no ice, and honey, can I get an orange slice on it?
Waiter:  M'am, I'm afraid we only have lemons and limes. *Did that bitch just call me "honey"?!*
Mrs. RD:  Oh.  Ok.  Two slices of lime and three slices of lemon.  But no ice, did you hear me?  No. Ice.
Waiter:  Yes.  Ok.
Mr. RD:  What do you want to eat?
Mrs. RD:  Oh.  I don't know.
Waiter:  I'll give you a minute m'am.  I'll be right back with your drinks *and that fucker's Diet Coke*
Mrs. RD:  No, no.  I'll find what I want.
Mr. RD:  Are your hot peppers really hot?
Waiter:  Uhm.  I find them spicy, yes sir.
Mr. RD:  How spicy?
Waiter:  *losing patience*  an 8.  Sir.
Mr. RD:  Huh... ok.  No hot peppers, banana peppers on the side.
Waiter:  We don't have banana peppers.
Mrs. RD:  Ok ok, I want a crabmeat pizza.  But instead of a white pizza, I want tomato sauce on it.
Mr. RD:  You don't have banana peppers!?  Uh.  Oh.  Kay.  I'll have four jalepenos.  In a cup, no where near my plate.
Waiter:  Ok.
Mr. RD:  And I need a Diet Coke.  Did my wife order?
Waiter:  Yes, she did.
Mrs. RD:  Oh, honey, you don't like peppers.
Mr. RD:  Yes, I do.
Mrs. RD:  No, you always pick them off, remember?
Mr. RD:  Those are bell peppers, they're disgusting.  I like jalepenos.
Mrs. RD:  Oh.  I just thought you meant all peppers. Wait.  A garden salad... is that good?
Waiter:  As far as plain vegetables go.
Mrs. RD:  Oh... let's get one of those.  And I want no onions.  I'm allergic to onions.
Waiter:  Ok.  *There is no known allergy to onions and it is the basis of Western cooking.*
Mrs. RD:  And I want honey mustard, bleu cheese, and ranch dressings.  All on the side.
Waiter:  Ok.

These people will send me back to the kitchen at least three times for extra sides of lard-based condiments, sit and camp at my table with their $30 check for two more hours, and leave me a $4.50 tip.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Facebook-less Life

I gave up my Facebook for the summer.  I'm not one of those who rails against the damn thing, it's dead useful for organizing birthday parties and determining if the guy you gave your number to has a girlfriend.  However I, Ashley, have been spending more and more time filling my brain with trivial information about people I don't know very well, and since I have no self-control whatsoever I have cut off my addiction at the source.

Day One: I missed it.  I felt the need to know what everyone ate for dinner, who was wailing over an INSANE amount of homework for a summer class, and who needed a drink because something happened to make them acutely aware of how much their job sucks.
Day Five: I don't miss it.

I have been filling my days with reading books (most good, some not so much), watching Mad Men, and doing crossword puzzles.  Mostly reading.  I found a couple of stories that captivated me and have been devouring them for the past week.  It reminds me of how I used to read all the time in elementary school.

When I say all the time, I really do mean it.  I read every possible free second of every day.  I read on the bus to school (resulting in nausea), I read during lunch rather than talk to other kids, I read at recess, I  would slip my books into a larger textbook and read during class.  There's even a picture of me at a swim meet with my cap on, suit soaking wet, wrapped in a towel with a book in hand.  I was teased pretty severely for it, but only two or three times because for all my dorky tendencies I had no timidity and the other kids figured out quickly that teasing me only resulted in scathing retorts and the occasional ineffective punch.

It really got out of hand though, on one occasion when my second grade teacher asked me a question during class.  I responded with shushing her and holding up a finger until I finished my paragraph.  Only then did I put down my "textbook," sigh, and say, "What was the question?".  We had a parent-teacher conference with that poor teacher in the next few days and a deal was struck in our household.  If I  wouldn't act like a snot-nosed brat for the rest of the school year, I would get an American girl doll.

Those suckers costed like $80, and was a true testament of how out of control my sass was.  My parents were appalled by my lack of respect for the teacher.  I distinctly remember earnestly telling them that the teacher wasn't smart (something I doubt was true) and that I had already figured out whatever boring thing she was teaching (this was true), I just didn't hear the specific question asked of me.  To this day my parents shake their heads over the time when they had to result to bribing me to read less.  I behaved myself, or at least enough so the teacher didn't let on to how much she despised me, and got my doll.

I never know how to conclude a blog post... I feel like I should end with words of wisdom, only I'm not wise and anyone saying otherwise at 23 is a moron.  So I guess I'm just regressing back to my childhood: no Facebook, and loads of reading.

A really good day.

If you don't know what this is, I can't help you. 

Friday, June 24, 2011

Five Good Things

5.  Sabra chipotle hummus.  I am living proof you can be 23 with no major medical problems and exist off of the dream diet of a six year old.  Cookies for dinner?!  Sure.  Ice cream for breakfast?  Why not?!  Pizza three times a week?!  Heck yeah!  Chipotle hummus sort of ruins that, though.  It's great for those of us who cannot cook.  I can be trusted to open a container of hummus and a bag of tortilla chips and devour the contents of both whilst laughing until I cry at Jon Stewart.
4.  Reading Chekhov on the Metro.  I look so ridiculosly stupid in my sundress reading translated Russian plays and chewing on my braid.  However, I get motion sick pretty easily while reading except when underground, so I'm grateful for any time I am able to spend in transit with words.
3.  The first Hunger Games book.  I admit it.  I read them all like the love-crazed teenager I am constantly mistaken for in like two days.  And they are awful.  And I'm so Team Peeta.
2.  My friends being super successful.  Tjaden just got cast in a musical in 'Bama after slaughtering her senior recital (not to mention meeting the love of her life), and Ev, Laur, and Katie ALL got hired by Fairfax County Public Schools in the past few weeks as music teachers!  Sarah was cast as Cinderella in Cenerentola (Italian for Cinderella) in a summer production after completing Year One of her Masters Degree at UMich, Shan is in rehearsals for Hairspray as Tracy at the top community theatre in the area, and Steph never ceases to amaze me with the things she is GIVEN at her work (like snacks and Cirque tickets), where she makes loads of money.  Oh, she got a nice fat scholarship to law school too.
1.  Harry Potter and the Deathy Hallows Part 2.  My ticket was $4.50.  Pottermore was such a letdown though.  Ms Rowling really disappointed us there.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

I have two talents when it comes to car trips

and they are both equally useful.

1.  Getting motion sick.
2.  Sleeping in the backseat.

I went on a two day trek around Philly and the cute suburb Manayunk (Yes.  Man-uh-yunk.) with the other  members of Mouse House and was able to utilize both of my car skills.

Meet Andi:  She's the dad of our house.  She drives the car, organizes the fun-tivities, and makes sure we remember the tastiest snacks.
And Steph:  She's the mama of the house.  She navigates the car, keeps Dad awake while he drives, and remembers to do things like empty the dishwasher.
Also Kate:  She's the seeeeeester.  She's forced to sit in the backseat and tries to ignore her younger brother whilst reading books about medieval times.  She is also best at girl things like lipstick and accessorizing pretty outfits.
Finally, Ash:  She's the little brother.  She sits in the backseat and pulls on her face while Kate reads, eats so many snacks she feels queasy, and then spends the rest of her time in the car alternating between willing the contents of her stomach to stay put and sleeping against the window.

There was another memorable incident where I drove to Nashville with two of my friends our junior year of college.  We had exactly eight hours to do an eight hour drive, meaning no "extra" stops for things like feeding me or peeing.  Shan threw a tray of six cinnamon buns in the backseat and I ate all of them.  Actually, what I would do is eat one, scream along to the radio while kicking my legs in the air and undulating the rest of my body like something from an exorcism for twenty minutes, and then fall asleep for an hour or so.  Wake up to eat another giant cinnamon bun, aaaand repeat.  Six times.

We went to Philly to see
Florence + the Machine

Car < Plane < Train < Trains with Beds.  Bacon's Theory of Travel

Sunday, June 19, 2011

The Last Four Days

You would think this post would be boring.  It isn't.  Doesn't even include errrythang.

-woke up at 5:30, remembered why I am crazy in love with mornings
-ran a mile and a half in flip flops to catch a bus to NYC
-saw Carey Mulligan in Through a Glass Darkly and was filled to the brim with admiration for that woman's skill set and renewed desire to act
-Megabus broke down 30 mins outside of NYC and Kate and I ended up playing games and acting like morons for the seven hour stretch on a bus.
-Rewarded our exemplary behavior with T-Bell

-woke up early again, went running for the first time in ages
-went to the dermatologist because it turns out I am severely allergic to my new moisturizer and my face looked like I had been attacked by a wild animal
-had two iced coffees and ran around like a hyperactive four year old
-sprained my ankle during a fight call (30 mins prior to the show)
-did a show
-went out with Kate and our friend/coworker Will and heckled talentless karaoke singers
-gave the dreamy bartender my number (he asked) and texted Sean/Shawn for a bit
-watched my ankle swell up to the size of a house pet and was rendered one-legged in a deluge

-read the second Huger Games book (no idea what it's called) because I was horizontal for the majority of the day in the hope of regaining the ability to walk
-had to have my dad bring me a sandwich because I was out of food.  As close to literally as a human being can get.  I had two pudding cups, a third of a jar of salsa, and a Snickers bar.
-went to the doctor to have him project fractured foot (whoops)
-was spoken to so rudely on the phone by the radiology receptionist that I hung up on her and vowed to never darken the radiology doors
-miraculously regained the ability to walk
-did a show
-went out and danced until 3 with an ankle brace on

-sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial until 4; mulled "The Conspirator"
-went home at 6AM and slept til noon
-was delighted by my continued ability to walk
-read the third Hunger Games and decided the only decent book was the first
-went to a barbecue with a large portion of my family members
-closed a show attended by a large portion of my family members
-ate fro-yo with Shan and Ev
-killed the battery in my parents car

-screamed and leapt a lot whilst learning to how jump an automobile with Shan and Ev
-Dad's Day :)

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The BEST Worst Bus Ride in the History of Mankind EVER WOW



I use public transit on a daily basis, generally to cart my ever-expanding butt down to gentrified South Arlington for rehearsals/performances of a play.  The premise of said play is a surf-obsessed teenager with multiple personality disorder (yours truly) reeking havoc on Malibu Beach in the 1960's.  It's dreadful, but fun.  More on that later.  However, it's about a 30 minute bus ride and the most eventful trips have simply been ones where my iPhone doesn't have enough juice to fuel 30 minutes of the Lady Gaga Pandora station.

Until Saturday.

About five minutes after crossing over Route 50 (meaning, we are in SOUTH Arlington, now y'all!!) the man behind me starts howling.  I do, in fact, mean howling.  Like a wolf.  At the moon.  At an alarming volume.  He proceeds to do this for a full block.  Just as the rest of the bus begins to grow uneasy and the driver looks warily into the rearview, Lupin stifles himself and goes back to sitting placidly, staring out the window.  Strike one.

Until he "spies" his friend, Clyde.  The siting of his friend out the bus window inspires homeboy to leap to his feet and bellow out the window to him.  Naturally, as Clyde may or may not know the whereabouts of his keys.  "CLYDE!!!!  CLYYYYYYDE!!!!!!!!  CLYYYYYYYYYYDDEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!  YOU GOT MY KEYS?!?!   NAWWWW CLYDEE WHERE MY KEYS AT?!??!"    I turn to see why on EARTH this psychotic wolf man thinks he can bellow through the closed window of a moving vehicle and note that there are no pedestrians to be found anywhere along the street.  Strike two.

About two minutes later I realize there is a faint smell coming from behind me, and I have a headache.   It takes me a second or two to realize that the smell is weed.  Because Coyote Crazy has lit a joint on a public bus.  The bus driver realizes what's going on approximately three seconds after I do, immediately pulls the bus over and shouts, "NIGGA YOU BETTA PUT THAT SHIT OUT ON MY BUS".  The only Caucasian, and one of three women on the bus, I cannot control my laughter at this point.  This fact is only increased when Nutters McGee keeps calling the bus driver "Champ" like he's on his nephew's t-ball team.

Finally, he gets off the bus at a house that I insist to all my friends is "The Wire" House; a complete shithole in the middle of a freshly re-built, yuppified area with a giant ghetto van with two element-exposed teddy bears perched atop the back.  Because the bears are blatantly stuffed full of crack or nanny cams, duh.  As he leaves, he accidentally brushes the man in front of me with his elbow and as he slurs "Sorry, Champ, sorry," the other man leaps to his feet, snatches Crazy Man's elbow and hisses in his face "You better not touch me, fool, or I'll stab yo' ass.  I got a blade.".  Crazy babbles incoherently as he backs off the bus.  The rest of the bus sits in absolute silence and watches as Stabby Joe moseys to the front of the bus and assures the exhausted driver, that he "woulda stabbed that stupid mothafucka, but you can't be doin' that in fronta woman and children".

He gets off at the next stop.

This ride sooo beats the time a handicapped man sang a Salt-N-Peppa refrain for ten straight minutes only pausing to inhale.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Benjamin Button Status

I will never age.  I find this to be aggravatingly diminutive most of the time, but I'm pretty sure it'll pay off in the long run.

Two weeks ago I had a couple hours between shifts at my superdumbjob.  So I put on my sweatshirt, snatched up my stupid little backpack that was full of scripts and calendars and things, and decided to go to the library across the street.  As any responsible pedestrian would, I looked both ways, saw no cars speeding toward me, and despite the green light, stepped into the street.  I made it approximately one foot before I was jerked backwards by the hood of my sweatshirt.  I stumbled for my balance before furiously turning around to see who the fuck tried to kill me and I am met by a panicked soccer mom shrilly lecturing me on the dangers of jay walking.  "I know you're excited because you just got out of school, but you just can't cross the street when the light is green!"  I am so confused by the first part of her diatribe that I look around to see where her crack den could have possibly been located and realize that the streets are full of local middle school students that have just been released from classes.  I also observe that most of these kids are taller than me.
Fact:  Middle schoolers are between the ages of 11 and 14.

Thursday night my roommate Stephanie and I went to see Bridesmaids.  It was a really good day for us, we were going to have Coldstone (our true weakness), watch a movie we had been dying to see, and then go see David Guetta.  In preparation for the tiny clothes, make-up, and stilettos, we wore jeans and cardigans and glasses to the Bridesmaids/Fatty portion of our date.  And we got carded at the movies.  Who cards at the movies?!?!!?
Fact:  R-rated movies are for those of 17 years of age and older.

I will never be old!  I'm made of spirit and fire and dew (Browning quote, isn't it lovely?) and my only aspirations are to be fearless and fearsome to behold.  And happy, duh.

What I can hope to look like in a few years

Saturday, May 21, 2011

I have to be in a bathing suit and it's so scary

that's really all I had to say.  OH AND it's for a paying audience, which makes me sound like....something else.  But I'm/it's not.  

Oh yeah!  I'm in a play!

It wouldn't be so bad, but in the script it says I'm "so skinny" and shit.  So.  Whoops.  I ate about a hundred pounds of ribs today.  At least I ignored the (majority of) the bread it came with.  Mostly because my torso was so crammed full of barbecue I thought I was going to vom all over the rest of the cast and if the world did in fact end, I was pretty sure I couldn't outrun the zombies if I ate anymore.

I'm going to write a blog post for real.  Maybe tomorrow.  Probably Monday.

I should really go back to sit ups and push ups anyway.  Goddamnit.

What I no longer look like.  Damn food!

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Say Yes to this Mess

When I was two, my parents took me to McDonald's and ruined my adult life.

Visits to the golden arches were basically the only reason my two-year old self existed.  I remember sitting in the back seat of our Subaru begging my dad to pull over so that I could eat chicken nuggets and play at the Play Place.  I loved the ball pit with its faint stench of puke, care of sugar-high toddlers, and the gaudy plastic tunnels covered in a thin film of boogers and ketchup.  However, my parents were more concerned with providing their tiny midget of a daughter with nutrition, rather than the euphoria of the ball pit (remember how much it hurt to get pelted by one of those suckers?!) so McDonald's happened rarely. 

On one particular day, my dad had been worn down and brought the giant 90's video camera along to document my adorable consumption of fast food and play with whichever crappy plastic figurine that they dumped in the Happy Meal.  By the third nugget I'm literally shrieking with delight at my good fortune and my father turns the camera on.  

Dad: Hey Scooter, look at me!  

*Incoherent gleeful babbling happens for a good five minutes before he goes in for the kill*

Dad:  You know what, we could have your wedding reception here.  Would you like that?  You could eat chicken nuggets at your wedding!!!
Small Moron:  YES!!!!!!!!!!  I CAN BE A PRINCESS AND A BRIDE!!!!! *runs around in a circle waving fries overhead*
Dad:  Look at me, Princess.  Do you promise to have your wedding here!?
Dad: Wait, say "Daddy, I promise to get married at McDonald's"
Tiny Ashley:  DADDYYYYYY I PROMISE TOooo get... get.....
Dad: married
Tiny Ashley: MARRIED!!!!  LIKE A PRINCESS!!!!
Dad: McDonald's
Mom from off-camera:  Cool.  Baby, sit down, please, and eat your dinner.
Mom:  Yes you are.  Daddy's going to hold you to it, too.

So that will be the food.  Luckily, my dad cries while watching "Say Yes to the Dress" so we'll go to Kleinfeld so he can pick out my wedding gown.  He's convinced he's better than Randy.

Kelsey (L) and Ash at Kels' bachelorette party last Saturday

One of my good friends is getting married a week from Saturday.  She has impeccable taste so I'm really excited to dress up, gawk at her princess gown, and eat loads of delicious Italian food.  Plus she's so infectiously happy.

"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. " -Emerson

Saturday, May 7, 2011

The Worst

In the order that they came to me.

1.  Parents who let their children run around restaurants (or stores for that matter) like the employees are contractually obligated to watch them.  Good luck raising yourself, young wild animals, I ain't yo' mama!
2.  Gaucho pants.  May have gotten into a heated argument with the cast last week regarding this subject.  I'd say I won, but then I got some maliciously embarrassing blocking to pay for my lip.... but they still suck.
3.  BIRDS.  They are horrifying and swoopy and poop from the sky and vermin with wings.  More on this later.
4.  Being farted on.  Kate farted in my bed once.  It's my final weapon when we argue.
5.  Being treated like a child.  I am a grown ass woman, please do not call me "Sweetie" or "Honey" when you want me to fetch something for you.  I understand that my job makes me appear to be a de-humanized golden retriever, and my enormous blue eyes and unassuming expression makes me even more adorable, but trust me when I say that if it happens one more time I am going to hurl your dinner into your lap.  And I will not pay to dry clean your fugly and ill-fitting pants.
6.  Not being able to poop.  You know it's true.
7.  Woman books.  Books that are written by women for women who are alone and eat their feelings.  They generally involve a slovenly protagonist that somehow ropes a gorgeous and successful man into her train wreck of a life.  Also typical are drawn out sex-scenes, men that "say the right things" (which would actually be  horrendously awkward and hilarious if uttered aloud), one-dimensional characters, and a best friend that is even more pitiful than the bland leading lady herself.
8.  Running into people you never liked but at such close proximity that you feel obligated to ask them about their lives and pretend that you care more than you actually do.  Being personable to people you don't care about is so time-consuming, I wish it was socially acceptable to ignore people you don't wish to speak to and tell those that approach anyway that you don't have anything to say to them and are perfectly content with critically eyeing their hair style and clothing choices from a distance.  It's not bitchiness, it's laziness.
9.  Tip of the tongue phenomenon.
10.  BEING POOR!!!!!!!!!!!!

I had a really bad day at work.

Five Months Later...

Looks like I'm back.

I went to England in March, it was ballin'.  Three pictures are below:

This was the best day of my life.
Stanage Edge is my version of unadulterated bliss.  

We want to be Celtic warrior princesses.
She's wonderful and beautiful and I love her very very much.

This man's name is, in fact, Rich Quick.
He also thought I looked like Zooey Deschanel and
wanted a picture taken with me.  Unfortunately for Sir Quick,
we used my camera, and he thinks my real name is Rose.

 Extra picture because he's English and fly.