Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Floridians

As a last hoorah before school begins at the end of August, my siblings and I decided to take a sibling vacation. Where you ask? The southern haven for snow birds, long borders, beautifully sculpted men and women (as well as their unfortunate, blobby counterparts), and all other manner of cold-loathing, sunshine-seeking specimens of the human species. So, Florida.

Venturing this deep into the South means that paying a visit to my Great Aunt and Uncle is inevitable. My Great Aunt is a square angel. No, really, she is the shape of a square. We call her Spongebob. 




The Uncle, though... a true boob of a man. Unknowingly insulting, lazy, stupid. So. Stupid.



That potato is a glorified version of my Uncle. Whenever we see him he says, "You'll have to come up and visit us sometime!" Like I live in Cuba or something. I'm from upstate New York. His name. Ready? His name is Great Uncle Dick. Never has a human being been more appropriately named.

An example of Dick's stupidity: Upon arriving at my Aunt's house, which is bright pink, a black lab greets us at the door. I notice her milky eyes and ask about them.

"Oh, that's Alice. She has diabetes and poor thing is blind from her cataracts," my Aunt explains.




"Yeah, that's Alice. She is a great watchdog, aren't ya Alice?" Dick says.

I'm like....

Image Source
Pretty sure that dog is blind, Dick.

Next, we meet Ranger.


Ranger is obese, arthritic from his obesity, and often will simply look at you from the floor and whine. It's sad, really.

"Oh, yes, we are trying to get Ranger to lose some weight so his arthritis doesn't hurt him so much," Spongebob declares.

"Yep, big guy gotta lose some weight! Ranger, come here. Come. Come. Ranger, come. Come.... He's not one much for walking," Dick cackles. Eventually, Ranger comes.

"Don't you dare, Dick," Aunt Spongebob spits, her eyes boring into his soul.

"He's hungry, sweetie," Dick muses as he gives Ranger the rest of his plate of bacon, eggs and sausage.

"Your'e gonna kill that dog." Spongebob is terse.

"Honey, I--"

"Shut up, Dick."

I'm like...



He really just doesn't get it. And that's basically how I was the rest of the visit with my Aunt and potato.

Anybody else have ridiculous family members that just drive you to be like...



Sunday, September 1, 2013

Have You Ever Been Killed Before?

Back at school means back to school parties right? I suppose so. I've discovered that now that I'm an old person in the realm of collegiate education, I don't really like crowded places. I don't want to ever run the risk of being dance raped again. Happening once in the basement of the Jewish fraternity by way of a boy grabbing me from behind and essentially swinging his junk against my ass in his own loose interpretation of what dancing with a female should be like was quite enough for me thanks.

Him:

Me:

So I know that when I agree to go to a highlighter party, I don't actually want to be in the thick of the party until after it's actually ended. Though of course, this will prove to be just as hazardous.

The people left over at the end of a frat party are divided into two groups that are vastly different from one another. The first is the group of people who actually belong there, and the second is the group that happens to still be there. Those that belong there are brothers and their actual friends. Those that happen to be there are drunkards and girls who are about to make a really unfortunate error in judgement.

I'm with a group of friends, all of us people who are actually supposed to still be there, when a gentleman approaches us. Now, remember that I said this was a highlighter party; this man is wearing a black tank top with the MTV logo on it (henceforth he will be known as MTV tank)



He asks, in incoherent, misogynist speak, which one of us is going to get up on that pole. We casually ignore him, knowing that he's not worth our best "get the fuck away from me" material yet. Those kind of cutting one liners must be saved for when they're really worth it.

He continues to tell us that we have to get up on the pole because apparently when females are in the vicinity of a pole, they have to swing about on it otherwise they are being cruel and taunting harpies. I don't know what it is about alcohol, men, and stripper poles but they certainly feel justified in absolutely seeing their fantasies come alive.



 Finally, I ask him why he doesn't get on the pole. He's only too happy to oblige me, and we're able to gravitate away while he feels like he's captivating us with a jumbled series of hip thrusts.



We're able convene in peace for a while longer, safe from the creepers. Though MTV tank returns, putting his arm around one of my friends, no doubt mumbling sweet nothings into her ear. All of us are all:


He doesn't. She asks several times for him to leave her be, and finally another friend in our group pushes him away bulldozer style. For those of you who are not familiar with this method of getting rid of unwanted attention, you merely have to place your hands on their chest and push them where you want them to go. You do however run the risk of them just following you back, so have a contingency plan.

Again, we're granted a reprieve from MTV tank, but after fighting off yet another drunkard, he moves around our group to hit on another one of my friends. Sober, she is having none of it.


She takes off his douchey looking hat and flings it across the room, telling him to go and get it. Apparently, that hat is nothing to him in the face of true beauty because he remains, still hanging all over her. At this point, I've had enough of him and have been waiting for an excuse to live out my fantasy of throwing a drink on a person all night.  As he is still hanging on my friend, refusing to oblige her requests to leave her alone, I see my opportunity.


With precision and appropriate nonchalance, I overturn the contents of my alcoholic beverage onto his head. His arm removes its pressure from my friend's shoulder and I turn back to my phone to send a text.


"What the fuck," says MTV tank. I ignore him. he's peering over my shoulder now, demanding my attention which I am loathe to give him (honestly I'm also a bit scared as well. Consequences are starting to play out in my head)

"Are you trying to get killed?" he asks.


I decide that it's fair not to ignore him anymore, and repeatedly ask if he's threatening me as he repeatedly asks me if I'm trying to get killed.

"How many times have you been killed before?" He asks.

I'm ashamed to say I wasn't quick enough to say that since I am still alive, I have obviously never been killed. Instead, I just ask again if he's threatening me.

In answer to my repeated question he makes a gun using his hand and pokes me in the forehead with his finger gun multiple times. I just stand there, fuming, and frankly, a little terrified that I'm going to be punched in the face soon. I've never been punched in the face, but it might have very well have happened in that time.

His friends usher MTV tank away and begin apologizing profusely to me. "I really apologize for him; he's an idiot; he just gets like this when he's drunk." My group of friends waste no time telling them that that's a real problem.

It is a funny thing when you think about it though, how quickly men are willing to abandon their friends good moral character in the face of an angry woman. As soon as their friend has pissed off a woman, they are all about telling you how much of an idiot their friend is.  It really begs the question, why are you friends with him? I rarely have to apologize on behalf of my female friends.  Thoughts gentlemen readers?

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Adult World: Raw Meat and Other Enemies

First of all, deepest apologies are in order for not blogging for so fucking long. My co-author and I are very sorry. Weirdly enough our lives have not had that much to report apart form paralyzing self-doubt as we inch closer and closer to the real adulthood cliff. Being 18 does not count as adulthood. Graduating of college does...kind of.

This summer I am interning in Washington D.C.


This means that I am in an apartment with 5 other girls (which is a totally other story), waking up at 7:15 every morning,


and heading to work by 9am in scorching heat and humidity. It also means that my mother is not around to cook for me, which is bullshit. I'm just supposed to cook for myself now!?


I thought that cooking would be easy. I've watched my mother do it for years; I've even helped her prepare dinner. I quickly learned that I was fucking wrong. Cooking is hard and because I'm not good at it, it is also stupid.

I will now describe my brief foray into the culinary arts, learning with crushing disappointment that I will never be as wonderful as Julia Child.

Meryl is disappointed in me

Now the first thing I tried to cook was quite simple. Chicken. Pasta. Asparagus. All of it baked together with cheese. 


It was a simple, Pinterest recipe which is essentially a unicorn in it of itself. Yeah the picture looks delicious but it has 20 ingredients that you'll never ever use again in any recipe ever and has about 30-93 steps.  This recipe seemed just rookie enough to suit me. However, I don't know if any of you know this, but raw chicken is disgusting. It is like having solidified yet still slimy snot in your hands. Sorry I'm not sorry for that analogy which probably just ruined chicken for you.


So I'm dethawing this chicken, and my mother told me to do it in the sink with warm water but that takes a long time. Certainly too long for my patience because I started cooking when I was already hungry...and I'd gotten off of work which at the time was an 8 hour day of clicking buttons on a computer screen.


So the chicken's in the microwave and it starts to smell funky...because naturally it's kind of cooking because no matter what the microwave says, the dethaw feature will of course begin to cook your chicken. God Dammit why? Nonetheless, I get the chicken dethawed to my satisfaction, cutting off the weird semi-cooked parts, and kind of gagging at the smell. I put some olive oil in a pan and put my chicken in there, not at all anticipating the reaction of the chicken and oil. Immediate sizzle, kind of burning my arm and coating our stove with a small layer of grease.



Meanwhile I'm boiling water to cook my pasta in, which I can actually do.


I put the frozen asparagus in the microwave because it came in one of those cool steamer things (note: these are good for peas NOT asparagus), and the chicken has cooked up nicely. I think I'm ready to bake. I think that things are going to go smoothly now. How hilarious. I throw my concoction in the oven after following Pinterest's deceptively simple directions, pop it out of the oven and I'm ready to fucking attack my food that has required me to dirty approximately 500 different bowls and plates and pans to produce.


And then I think to myself...remember how gross that chicken smelled? What if it's still kind of raw? Sure you essentially dissected each piece of meat in the pan while cooking but what if...could you ever get over biting into raw chicken. The answer to that is a decided no. I begin picking around the chicken enjoying a meal that is decidedly bland. Mother fucker.

We'll skip over the time I made stuffed peppers that were also kind of bland (I should have used taco seasoning in the ground beef), and led me to purchase some hot sauce which is still sitting, unused in my fridge, and move on to the time when I tried to make a burger. What miserable failure that was.

My apartment complex has a roof. With a pool.


It also has a plethora of grills up there and as it is summer, people utilize these grills, creating a plethora of wonderful smells. These smells give me a near constant desire for grilled burgers and chicken. This particular day I think to myself that I will go and buy a burger later for dinner, but then I remember that I have ground beef, I have cheese, and everything else I really need to make a burger. Let's do this!

I call my father and make him walk me through turning on the grill after I've dethawed my ground beef (an ordeal..again with that smell) and head up to the roof feeling like a champion. I even Instagram a picture of me grilling on the roof I'm so confident in myself.


You'll notice that the burgers aren't on the grill yet--here explains my over confidence. Again, I've watched my dad cook burgers and it just doesn't look that hard. I place my burgers on the grill, call a friend and prepare to leisurely wait. 

Disaster strikes when I attempt to flip the first burger; it kind of falls apart...as does the other one. No matter, my dad told me to just leave them on the grill a bit longer when they do this. They'll harden up. I've got this shit. 

Now I'm watching my burgers carefully and slowly realizing that they're just not looking right. They're grey, and not overcooked grey. They look kind of mushy and grey. I know that that's wrong. In a panic, I throw them out, choosing to instead walk 30 minutes to Good Stuff Eatery (if you're ever in D.C. GO THERE, ITS DELICIOUS)


I call my mother on the way and do the mature thing, blaming her for my cooking ineptitude. "I'll never be a housewife. I can't cook and I have no interest in cleaning." She counters by asking what I'll do if I have children. I tell her that none other than my co-author will just have to move in with us. My mother points out that my husband may not be keen on that. "Of course he will, that's how I'll know I should marry him," I tell her. I mean really.

Once at Good Stuff, I'm paralyzed with self doubt. I have no idea what I want. There are so many versions of burgers. I turn to let the person behind me go, seeing that he is in fact a congressman. He orders smoothly, turning back to me who is still staring, essentially drooling at the menu.

"You know, I could just order for you," he says in good-humor.

"Oh no," I say, my awkward laugh having a shining moment. I quickly step up and order a simple burger and coke.

Jesus, whoever thought that growing up and doing things for yourself was easy is a fucking liar. No wonder Carrie Bradshaw and her friends are literally never eating at their own homes. None of them cook, ever. Charlotte might...MIGHT. I resign myself to a life of cheese and crackers like God intended.

Do any of you have good cooking stories or even better, tips? Let us know!

P.S. sorry again for the blogging absence...I'm sure you all just carried on about your day like this never existed but we'll try harder to make you emotionally dependent upon us forever.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Petty Larceny

The week is at its close which means that I wil be departing college in favor of the colder climates of home for a week on Spring break. It also means that the level I care about school this week is at a real low.  Therefore when it came time for my Modernism class and I realized that my book was upstairs, I certainly did not go upstairs to retrieve it. I mean come on, I'm supposed to walk up stairs now? Why don't I just go sprint a mile? 



In class we sit in very close corridors, sitting in a large rectangle made up of small tables. Therefore it's already awkward when this blonde girl squeezes over to sit next to me. To be fair, she has to, there is no other seat available at the table, so I don't silently smite her, but I still can't cross my legs without accidentally brushing against her leg...not ideal. As neighbors go, she's not the worst, though she is the one who eats full meals in class which I just don't approve of. Eat meals on your own time. Especially when that meal consists of rice, ham, egg, and lima beans...



My neighbor has also set her book out on the table face down and open, which while rude to the book, is acceptable to me. Now as we are seated at at table, it appears as though the book could be either hers or mine. It is hers though. Hers. I continue to remind myself of this as I zone out and end up glancing at the book. That is your book...no. That is not your book, is on a constant loop in my head.   Meanwhile the book is just there...looking at me.

Eventually of course I zone out and without even thinking, reach out and pick the book up, neatly closing it before realizing that that is not my book.


The girl turns, obviously noticing that I've robbed her.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," I say handing her back her book. "I thought this was mine," with my ever reliable awkward laugh.

"I mean you can look at it if you want..." she says, like that book is some sort of 8th world wonder that I was just so transfixed by, I couldn't resist. No. I'm just a weirdo. Also now seems like a reasonable time to say that I was not picking up the book so that I could look at it, I was only picking it up to close it neatly and set it next to myself, which makes it look like I was so annoyed that she left her book out I decided she no longer deserved it.

The two of us continue this repeated exchange awkwardly for a moment longer, attracting the attention of my favorite professor, forcing me to explain that I had stolen accidentally from my classmate.  Then  I glance at my classmates who have begun to notice...


The professor thankfully directs our attention to the text, my neighbor opens her book, angling it so I too can look along, and I, feeling like I need to prove that I never wanted her book, stare pointedly at my notebook.

Monday, March 4, 2013

Lost and Not Found

I am procrastinating so obviously I found this time in space to be an appropriate time to blog about how I have lost my car keys, and I can only suppose that they have been sucked up in some sort of vortex.


I was supposed to drive a group of people to Chipotle (because Chipotle is delicious) when I noticed that my car keys were not where they were supposed to be. Here begins my search.

1. Search clutch multiple times hoping that the keys have magically appeared in said clutch since I last scoured it.  No such luck.


2. Go to friend's house to search there even though they told me the keys weren't found. You must search yourself after all. No one would look harder than you...except my mom. She always finds things I've lost...too bad she's 6 hours away.

3. Crawl around bedroom floor, moving around the mountains of things that have been accumulating on your desk over the past few weeks. I found a lot of dust bunnies...it was disconcerting. Did I clean them...of course not.



Here is where a digression must occur.  As anyone does when they have a major yet not embarrassing or life threatening problem, I complain about it and tell everyone I know hoping that it will either go away or fix itself. I was in the middle of my spiel of all the things I had exhausted when one girl pipes up and says, "Have you checked your room?"


Really. Do you think I would have endured all that I had endured if I had not checked my room?! I give her a look and she tells me to just really search my room.  I mean REALLY search. OH I'M SORRY WHAT WAS I DOING BEFORE WHEN I WAS CRAWLING AROUND LIKE I WAS IN A WHITE SNAKE VIDEO!?


4. Call the venue that I attended the previous night to no avail.

5. Call Taco Bell (yes, I was in a Taco Bell at 3 in the morning the evening before, what do you want from me?)

My interaction with the staff was brief as I was told that they did not have my keys, though I made them describe the keys they did have to me anyway, not trusting them. I trust no one who is employed at at Taco Bell.

6. Shine flashlight into car at night to see if keys are in car.  Unable to see and self-conscious of how shady I appear, I retreat back into the house.

7. Thought I got the number for a bus I was in the evening before - actually got the number from the attractive DJ.  Good thing I didn't leave a voicemail...though, now, of course, I have the attractive DJ's phone number. A silver lining? I think so.


8. Watch a Youtube video on how to break into a vehicle...I'm worried for my friend's search history now.

9. Attempt to mimic said video with poor results. Jacking cars will not be a future of mine. I would also like to point out that several people I didn't know walked by while I tried this and not a single one of them questioned my motives.  Perhaps they saw the crazed look of determination in my eyes...or maybe they just didn't give a shit. That's city living for ya.

10. Call AAA to get them to open my car. They are successful; however, my car alarm immediately begins sounding. The man tells me that I have to use the keys to stop it. I tell him that that's the issue.. I thought that maybe my keys would be inside. He pursed his lips at me and gradually retreated leaving me with a beeping car.  Again, no one was all that concerned, except for myself...I was writing around in a pool of embarrassment.

I still have not found my keys. I have also had to endure a phone call with my mother where she informed me that it will be a real inconvenience to only have the key and not the button unlocker thingy. Thanks mom.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Hitting Low Points

It's that time in the semester when things start to get annoying and life starts to get messy. In this time, my body and my mind are subject to primal instincts and cravings, regardless of what is socially acceptable.

I have a ridiculous class from 6:45 p.m. -10:00 p.m. on Mondays. Well, it's not that ridiculous because it's an acting class and we literally start each day with group stretching, breathing, and cooperation exercises. Pretty relaxed, so we can all say:


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 The point is, when this class rolls around, I have been in class since 12:45 p.m. During my rushed one hour break, I run back to my apartment (12 minutes) eat and run to class, which is in the depths of this wretched city (20 minutes).

My limited amount of time to eat leaves me largely unsatisfied and I crave something more... but what? With one foot out the door already, it clicks and I run back into the apartment in a beeline to the automatic m&m dispenser (wave your hand underneath, handful of m&ms). I wave my hand three times.. and put all the m&ms in my coat pocket... and eat them like popcorn as I walk.

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8:30 p.m. rolls around and we are granted a brief ten minute respite. I reach into my coat pocket when I assume no one is looking and feel what's left of my desperate snack. What comes out of my pocket is a color-stained couple of fingers and a dirty-ish clump of what was once m&ms. DAMN IT, I curse to myself.. it had been 'freezing rain' while I was walking and some must have found its way into my addict-snack-pocket. The worst is yet to come.

A guy just a couple of chairs down from me asks me a question as I raise the stale, chocolaty mass to my mouth. I also notice a hair stuck to the clammy shell of one of the m&ms and eat them all anyway. Imagine a cute, dry golden retriever. Now, make that golden retriever wet, muddy, and smelly. He's still cute, so you want to pet him but when you do, you regret it because it's awful. That's essentially the sly trick these chocolate morsels played on me.. I felt sick the rest of the class.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

New Year's Resolutions

Hello, friends. Since it is now February, I thought it might be a good time to check in with everyone and see how those resolutions are going. We have had over a solid month to get going and settle into a new routine to better our 2013. I'll share my progress: absolutely god damn nothing. While I have made almost zero attempt to fulfill my resolutions, I will share them with you anyway.

1. Read for at least an hour a day

This I have been able to accomplish. But does it count if I'm reading stuffy textbooks that talk about market demographics and how you should change the way you speak to get a fucking job? No. No it does not count. That's why I purposely cut into textbook time by enjoying Compendium One of The Walking Dead or a little Lord of the Rings. Ooh boy, when I get to read The Walking Dead:


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2. Write for at least an hour a day

This I sadly have not done. I'm simply a failure in this category. When I write, it's in confused 15-20 minute bursts. Then, I get distracted by Facebook or a hangnail or have to pee as soon as I have a good idea. God hates me.


3. Get a job

I was all pumped this semester because I am rather proficient in French and just finished my minor in it. So, I thought a good way to keep my language up and to make a little money would be to tutor those degenerates who just couldn't grasp a foreign language. All proud, I sent a polite email to the tutoring center explaining how I had spent my last semester abroad and had completed my minor and far exceeded the qualifications listed on the tutoring website. Turns out they have no need for any French tutors; "check back at the end of the summer." Mother fuck. I will obviously never be her:


Image Source How could I resist this?? Look at that neck!!
I dig what's in her hands, but, sweet beaver, look at her neck.


4. Exercise at lest three times a week.

Just no. In lieu of going to the gym, I have taken up chewing my food much more vigorously to burn calories.


5. Paint at least one thing a month

Well, January is over... but I did paint one thing in December and that was before the New Year started, meaning that I took initiative... so I am going to just carry that over for my January painting.



I am just so bad at resolutions. I hope you have all done a better job than I have.

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Monday, February 4, 2013

Winter Specimens

If you're a dumb ass like me, you chose to live somewhere unnaturally cold, gray, dry and blustery for, what seems like, year-round. Every day is like walking into a lung-incapacitating vortex that threatens to cripple you where you stand.

Now that the scene is set, let's explore the type of people who inhabit this deathly wasteland.

1. Unidentifiables

I like to pride myself with belonging to this group. We are the select class of winter-goers who hate life and show it by the way we dress. GIANT parkas, hoods that triple the size of our heads, boots that could walk through the River Styx and not be affected, mittens that hideously deform our hands into penguin flippers, and scarves that leave only our squinting eyes left visible. Trust me, we wish we could wear eye-muffs if such a thing existed. The best part is, no one knows who the fuck you are and thanks to the parka, you can walk and fart to keep warm. Basically, by the time you get to where you're headed, you're sweating and you're fucking proud of it.

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2. Sexual Illusions of Warmth

These are the people who wear sexy, wool coats that hug their lovely shoulders and slender arms and hang to the mid-thigh. Son of a bitch, these motherfuckers are classy. They may casually toss a knock-off Burberry print scarf over their shoulder and haphazardly loop it around their neck. They often beg the question, what's a hat? because their hair is so ungodly beautiful as it somehow resists the whipping winds of icy hate. Instead of looking like they have rosacea, their cheeks only adopt a lovely pink warmth and their lips retain all their color and plumpness instead of shriveling up into what appears to be an old woman's chapped vagina. Such horrid beasts they are.. they wear fitted leather gloves that allow them to have all of their fingers instead of some sad imitation of a flightless bird's wing plus a stocky thumb... I like to think that they are beautiful, yet hating themselves every second for how cold they are. Quite frankly, they are a majestic, snowy animal:


and I am..

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..fat.. and confused.


3. IDGAF - I Don't Give A Fucks

Then there are those who just... don't get it.

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