Random News Friday

I'm riding pretty high today due to two wonderful events:
1. I got my new cell phone battery FINALLY. (Yes, no more "Hi-nu-uh-shut-up-gotta-go-just-text-me" calls to my friends, compliments of EBay.)
~and~
2. I'm going home to Columbus tomorrow to see the Crazies, I mean... The family. (Double yes, and I get to meet Logan, my new nephew, for the first time.)

So I'm basically rocking on with my bad self right now, watching the minute hand on my computer's digital clock tick by.

Also: My dog got attacked on our walk home from the craft store last night by some giant, snarling, brown beast that tried to eat us. That was pretty not cool. I finally got the beast in a choke hold while simultaneously elbow dropping his owner, just in time to see Hunter limping around on his right front leg. I admit I am extremely embarrassingly attached to my dog, but for real? Playing ball with your dumb dog off his leash, in the street, at 6 o'clock on a weeknight is not exactly advisable - Dipwad. Dipwad gave me her phone number and address and told me how sorry she was all of one time. Then she said, "They just scared each other, I think. Hehehe." WTF? No, I refuse you, Dipwad, you have been refused forever and ever, Amen. Now go play in the street, just leave your dog inside.
Sidebar: Hunter is okay, he's a tough dude. You know, raised on the inner city streets and all.

Morning Java People

I think this society would function so much happier if everyone were as nice as the people at my morning coffee station. I swear, they are the hap hap happiest people this side of the nuthouse and they leave every customer with a smile in the morning. Maybe it's because they realize they are dealing in a product that signifies a daily cocaine dose to most people (ie Me), or maybe it's just because they like their jobs. It is such an endearing moment when they ask how I'm doing and what's new. Crumbles my black little soul. Now pass me the needle.

I've also brought this up to Mr. G who is equally enamored with his Coffee Cart Guy. His CCG knows when he's running late and will often tell him to "get a move on!". He always has his coffee hot and fixed just the way he likes it every morning, without fail. It's almost as if CCG is there specifically to sell only Mr. G his coffee and if that doesn't happen, the universe will totally be screwed up the rest of the day. (Quite possibly.)

These are situations that were completely foreign to both of us prior to moving to the Big City. In the Midwest, you never bump into people on your daily commute, the same person never serves you coffee two days in a row, and conversations with strangers are completely avoided if at all possible. Whereas here, I kinda feel like we're all a bunch of neighbors. Isn't NY funny that way? And don't even get me started about Brooklyn. It's too early to tear up on a Thursday, and I just put my mascara on.

Note: I rarely feel this positive about the city so I thought I better go with it today.

My Kindergarten Teacher Lied to Me

Why do they call compromising an art? Maybe a sport, or torture, or a fight to the death, but I have extreme problems with the distinction "art". There is nothing artsy about compromising. It's really more of a quantitative competition, inversely proportionate, if you will. Example: whoever does the least compromising is the winner. Likewise, whoever does the most compromising is the loser. And, I would offer that the whole "everybody wins" mentality of compromising is just an adage that the lesser of the compromisers says to his/her opponent to placate him/her. In reality, "everybody loses" is a better assessment.

Also, please explain this b.s. about "let's agree to disagree". If you agree that you both have a different position on something and you both think the other one is wrong, but you don't change your opinion, then you don't agree. Let's use a real life example, k?

Sally says animal A is a chicken.
Stew says animal A is a unicorn.

Aside from Stew's mental problems, how do they decide who's right? Well, it's important to Sally to educate Stew on what a chicken looks like so that he doesn't spend the rest of his life in ignorance, looking like a fool every time they go to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Stew wants Sally to trust his judgement and not question his decisions. Sally says chicken, Stew says unicorn. Sally explains that since the animal has wings, feathers, a beak, lays eggs, and tastes good dipped in hot sauce it must be a chicken. Stew says, no Sally, trust me, it's a unicorn, why are you doubting me, what's your problem, are you pms-ing? And scene.

You cannot possibly say in this situation, "let's agree to disagree." You must swiftly and forcibly kick Stew in the balls, and beat him into submission. This is not art to most people. Though many people in the Village might think otherwise, they are not the majority. And I'm pretty sure people aren't lining up to ask the Village People (see? how I did that? sneaky.) for relationship advice, but maybe that's just me.

The moral of my parable is that I'm right and you're wrong. Now let's go get some hot wings.

Jeopardy

Answer: 3:38am.

Question: What time did I stumble home last night because I'm an idiot seeking moronism?

Also, I can cross another thing of my list of mistakes to make in my lifetime:
'Pig out on mini quiches at 3am' - D.O.N.E.

Comments I Swear the Dog Understands

1. So help me God, Hunter.

2. You're hurting mommy's feelings.

3. I will pack your ass up and send you back to Oklahoma.

4. We should have gotten a cat.

5. Daddy's going to take you out.

6. Times are tough, Buddy. Start earning a living if you want to eat.

7. Don't be mad at me, Daddy's responsible for your missing balls.

8. After this commercial.

Sighting

I had another sighting last Monday and totally forgot to tell you about it! I'm sorry, I will never lie to you again. Don't be mad, I'll bring you flowers tomorrow.

I saw Ty Pennington on my way to the gym! Bonus: I was sporting the "sexy" work outfit that I rarely wear but hope that on a day when I do I randomly get asked to act in a movie starring myself. That one. And though no casting directors came my way that Monday, Ty Pennington sure as hell did. P.S. I don't really think he's homosexual, as does the rest of the population, but I definitely do think he's sizzlin'. Rowr.

He noticed me, but probably saw the gigantic rock on my finger and thought to himself, "Ty, maybe you better work a little bit harder and make a ton more money and save Darfur before you even think about getting a girl like that." Yep, that's how it totally went down. That's why he didn't stop me to ask if my legs were tired... From running through his mind all day.

Now I work out at that gym every damn day. Better believe it.

Tag!

So I cannot believe I haven't tagged it yet but this adorable blip of fantasticness is my oldest sister's website. My best friend's husband, who is also one of my best friends, who is also my sister's brother-in-law, (how's that for 6 degrees of separation) is a wicked web designer and he made it for them. They are five times the fun and five times the hilariousness, so I am in the process of making my sister blog about their daily doses because, I shit you not, the things that come out of their mouths will BLOW YOU AWAY. No lie.

I think one of the best stories to illustrate this point took place at my parent's house about 4 years ago when the kids were 3. My nephew, Alex, is my godson and the most fearless (and wild) of all of them. He could literally jump off a moving vehicle, army roll 15 feet, swim across a pond, save a baby seal, and still tell you a 35 minute story at the end*. * End proud godmother rant. I have also alluded to the insane maniac that is my dog here. Needless to say, the two of them have a peas-in-the-proverbial pod thing going on. Background of the story set up enough yet? Anyway, Alex is chasing Hunter around the living room while the adults attempt to carry on conversations the way we used to before our lives were taken over by children, and they stop for a rest. All of the other children had given up catching Hunter hours before and moved on to play with inanimate objects that are much easier to catch. Alex sits down next to a panting Hunter and SWEAR to God says, "Hunter, you're my kinda' guy."

Kid's sharp as a whip, just like his godmomma.

Life Size Jitters

Often I come up with these ideas about what I really want to do with my life. And then I think about it for a few weeks, talk to some friends about it, and eventually forget all about it and do nothing. But some day, I really want to do something daring with my career and my life. I just have to find the right thing to do. I've seen it happen before to people I know. They quit a good job, albeit probably boring, to venture out into the unknown, only to find their idea wasn't novel, or a huge success. Then they scramble to find work that will pay the bills and they're right back where they started. Now granted there are a few who's whim actually pays off, and those are the ones you read about on the internet or in the newspaper. But I'm sure there are many, many more who failed.

So, do I do it? Do I go to the bank, take out a huge sum of money in loans, rent out a little space, and try to sell my idea? How bad can it get? Would the satisfaction of having someone buy my idea be as thrilling as I think it would be? Could I at least make ends meet? What should I do before starting it? Me thinks I feel the spreading excitement of newness budding in my aura. It kind of feels like the first day of school jitters. And this is only with the pre-beginning stages of this new concept forming.

What do you think, Internet, should I go for it? Will my advanced education level pay off? I mean, I think somewhere along the line I must have taken a class in "Entrepreneurship for Idiots", no? Oh yeah, that's right. I didn't so much care for the "Applicable to Life" classes they were offering in college. To busy with Horsemanship 100 and 200. But not even that, when I was in college, (I say that like it was a long time ago, not 4 years ago) they weren't encouraging people to run with their idea that just maybe was a little bit better than someone else's, but here, let me show you how to find out. No one ever stood up in front of one of my classes and spoke about honing your experience into invention. It's kind of pathetic really. All we were taught was how to do it just like everybody else, assembly line style.

It's not a new idea, I just think I could do it better than other people, is all. What do you say? The old college try thing going to work here, maybe? Hopefully?

I think I need to go to the Library.

Welcome Little One

Here is my new nephew, Logan! HI LOGAN! Quit, quit right now. I'm dieing and my diagnosis is: Sickness of the Cute.

The Losing of the Purse, Part Deux

This was about 3 years ago in Chicago. I took a break from the glorious excitement of Pittsburgh to travel to visit my friends in the Windy City for the weekend. I was staying with my dear friend Amanda whom I've known since freshman year in college at the University of Dayton. To say we spent many, many waking (and passed out) moments together that year would be an understatement. On with the show, I arrived at her extremely cute apartment and immediately she had a plethora of festivities on the agenda, I love this girl. We grabbed dinner and then headed to a 80's cover rock band concert for the evening. So perfect. 7 drinks into the evening, I decide to visit the ladies room. After successfully completing my tasks, I begin the long journey back to Amanda at the front of the stage (uh, of course) which took me a good 20 minutes. Being the quickest lightning thinking drunk I've ever met, Amanda notices I am without my purse. What did I do with it, she asks? Huh? Wha? Oh shit.

I beeline it (for the next 20 minutes) back to what I thought was the bathroom, but actually was a totally different bathroom and went into the wrong stall in the wrong bathroom to boot, to look for my long-gone Coach purse. I won't keep you in suspense. It wasn't there? Bullshit, you say? The hell it wasn't? Oh but you doubt my abilities to thwart my own good times. So I panic hysterically, of course, and try to call Amanda from the bathroom because I was smart enough to keep my cell phone in my pocket back then. But the band was so freaking loud that I couldn't hear anything so I walk outside to call her, but hello, she's still inside with the loud band.

So coincidentally, I remember that I have the power to ruin two different people's perfectly good evenings by calling Mr. G. Because as chance would have it, he was in Chicago as well for his friend's Bachelor party. Ring, ring. Hi! It's your idiot fiance calling, do you know how often this is going to happen once we're married? Do you have any idea? No? Well, let me tell you then, A LOT. So he leaves his friends to come pick me up in a cab at the bar and take me back to his hotel room so I can call all of the credit card companies and banks etc that I had previously done business with to cancel said business before said business starts making 1-900 calls to Cuba and importing Asian White Leopards on my tab.

The next day is spent trying to figure out how to get me on the plane back to Pittsburgh, with no id and the only back-up id in Columbus where my parents are and who I absolutely cannot call because then I would have to explain the situation and I am 24 years old, by god, I shouldn't have to remind my parents that I've grown up into an idiot AGAIN. Randomly, throughout the day I've been trying to find a number to the bar where we had seen the band the night before through various Yellow Pages and 411 calls. Eventually, I get the number and begin calling it every few minutes but no one ever answers. Of course. After Amanda and I leave the boys to be on there merry way, we decide we better stop for some drinks to help the situation. As we're heading towards a local watering hole, she mentions we're close to the bar where I lost the damn purse, maybe we should stop by, you know, just to check.

People, I jest you not, I realize I have the ying and the yang to this "luck" thing in the bag. At times I have the certifiably and painfully worst luck, and at times I have the God-has-reached-down-from-Heaven-in-pity-of-my-stupidity good luck. We walk into the bar, and I'm all shy and stupid feeling to the hosts. Did you happen to have a purse turned in last night that was found in a bathroom? (Cringe for the blow). The two people exchange a knowing glance that says, yeah - you were that girl, weren't ya? Then one says, what color was it? A small seed of hope has sprouted, the light begins to filter into the bar one golden ray at a time. It's pink and maroon, it's Coach, I fumble out all at once. He says probably not. The sunlight is gone, the clouds are rumbling and billowing in the wind. Let me just check though, then he turns to go into the office and the sunlight is pouring in now, angels start tuning their voices in the heavens. I wait. I wait. I'm not breathing. And Jesus Christ himself walked out of that office with my purse, my FULL AND COMPLETE purse in his hands. Holy Cannoli, JC. You really had me going there for a minute. I said.

True Story.

Chop Suey is Fun

I did it. I finally released myself from the emotional chains of my hair, and moved on. It was hard to let go, it always is. But in the end I realized as the cut-hair-sweeper-upper man was brushing the last strands of my innocence into the dust pan, that I was being irrational to leave my hair so long. This world needs change and people who can accept it, brush it off, and move the hell on. So I'm moving on, Long Professional Harpist Hair. Find someone else to torment with your lengthfulness and frizziness.

Picture courtesy of: Mr. G (after several re-shoots and lighting malfunctions. During which he decided taking pictures of his hairy legs was more enticing than my new haircut.)

FYI Internet: With my new haircut, I believe I will be capable of living in this INSANITY HAVEN that is New York City a little longer. Also, I may be able to leap small buildings in a single bound, but we'll have to wait till 5 o'clock to find that one out.

And if you're wondering why I didn't put any make-up on for the "shoot", you can suck it.

I'm Sorry, Did You Say TENANT RIGHTS LAWSUIT?

I have a crazy, crazy landlady. Her name is Sally I-Love-to-Overreact-to-Complaints Johnson. Her main goal in life is to cry at her tenants when they call her about miscellaneous maintenance issues. Sally is working hard to become the very best cry-at-tenant landlady there ever was. I feel it my obligation to assist her in her endeavors, because I'm a closet feminist who thinks all elderly women should take up a second career late in life. Who's with me?

Let's start oh, 5 months back, shall we? That would make it March, which was the month I decided I had had enough of the troops of GIGANTIC child-eating "Waterbugs" (we all know what that cozy little word means) parading around my apartment, and so I put in a friendly call to Sally. Needless to say, Sally was not emotionally stable enough at that time to deal with the Waterbug Issue. She did, however, feel comfortable enough to expound on the depths with which I was forcing her spirit, by inquiring if there was an exterminator whom she knew of who I could call about our little infestation problem. Far.Be.It for me to assume that a landlord or lady (read: crazy lady) is responsible for keeping giant cockroaches from taking over the apartment building where her tenants are paying kajillions of dollars to live in BUG INFESTATION FREE. *Editor's note: Kajillions is not a word, as per my spell check, but gazillions sure is.

Maybe there are woes of the money-grubbing apartment owner lifestyle that I am not aware of. If so, please share them with me, because not having enough free time in between counting the piles of money you have painfully extracted from your tenants does not sound like it warrants a depressive episode on a daily basis to me. ! After Sally, begrudgingly gave me the information for the exterminator, she slipped in a nice, "Oh by the way, you've gone and caused me a small coronary infarct with your nagging naggingness, thank you very much," closing comment. Since I pride myself on using Pavlov's theory on anyone and everyone I come in contact with on a daily basis, I start buttering up old Sally over the coming weeks with notes and cookies, even visits from our pup which everyone loves!

So then May comes around, and I notice the actual movable space in my bathroom has diminished to about 8 square inches due to the impressive amount of Black Mold growing on the ceiling and walls of the shower that has no outside vent. Eh-hem, Sally? I wouldn't even have mentioned it, but there were painters traipsing up and down the hallway stairs re-painting from the smoke damage that I will have to use at least four posts to tell you the story about THAT one, but just know there was smoke damage that needed painting over in the hallway for a year before it actually got done. Sorry for the side-tangent, mid-tangent there. Anyway, the painters were so nice and right there ripe for the picking to ask about our bathroom situation/disaster. After one of the guys took a look at our shower, he said he'd be happy to fix it in a jiffy if it was okay with Sally. That night I called Sally and once again unaware of the precariousness of her emotional stability, kindly tried to rip her heart out by inquiring about the paint job. Again with the wailing and the sobbing and the tearing to shreds my dark, black soul. But eventually, after she had decided I had endured enough, she gave in and huffily conceded to tell the painters they could re-paint my mold infestation. (Wiping sweat from brow.)

May = Me spotting what I think is a mouse fece in the dog's bowl, and flipping out for the millionth time since we moved to this beloved little city a year and a half ago. Call Sal, she flips out in turn, I flip out again, Mr. G loses half of his hair. Exterminator comes back, and Sally says that's it, she's sick of being bothered by me and my home-care issues. Dear Sally, how I want to see you treated with heavy medication and possibly shock therapy.

Which brings us to June-July-now August, because I am too afraid of my 85 year old landlady to even ask her about what the hell is wrong with our air conditioner and is it supposed to be completely still as a ghost when plugged in and turned to the ON position? Is this some kind of new invention that is designed specifically to not give any indication that it works while it is in fact in working order? I'm thinking no, because it's hotter than 12 Lesbian Whores in Church in my apartment right now, despite the mute air conditioning units in two windows. I finally decided that I'd had enough, and bought a damn air conditioner that I then had to pay 40 bucks to get delivered to the apartment because that's what you have to do when you live in a city as big as this one with no car because the car insurance people and the street cleaning police are in conspiracy to steal all of your money and fly to Tahiti together. God Bless America.