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.

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!!!

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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