Post-Christmas signs

Today was my first day back at work after a blissful 5 days straight off. It is sad to be here, but it's a 3 day week so I think it will be okay. I need to take a break from eating so much anyways. Who ever thought that I would ever tire of eating prime rib, stuffing and mashed potatoes???

However, around 10:30am here in my cubicle, the power went out. My computer screen went black. My spaceheater shut off. I had a mini-blackout within my 5x5 space.

I took it as a sign that I shouldn't be here at work.

I suspect that the girl behind me had turned on HER new space heater, which her crazy boss got her for christmas (my other coworker thinks it was ordered through Staples on our office's tab). The space heater is much bigger than mine and probably shorted out the fuse. Very annoying.

I'm ready to go home.

ADDENDUM:
Later that afternoon, I broke the copy machine too. Apparently, asking it to make copies from 1-sided to 2-sided, sorted, and stapled was just too much for it and it freaked out. I managed to clear out the multiple paper jams, but it said there was a stapler problem. I wasn't going to go near the stapler thing. I sure as hell didn't want to lose an eye.

The admin people in the office asked me to stay away from anything electrical for the rest of the day.

A little bunny love

Maddog is taking care of her class bunny for the Christmas holiday. The bunny's name is Stewart. Stewart is quite cute and looks very much like my old bunny, Annabelle (RIP).















He's cute, right?

Well, Stewart REALLY likes me. He can't keep away from my foot & leg. I haven't kept it still for long enough, but I really think he's trying to hump my leg.

Did I mention Stewart has not been neutered? He's got enormous testicles that drag on the ground. At first I thought he had poop stuck on his butt. Nope, they were his balls. Yup, those are them in the pic below. It doesn't show the full effect, but it's hard to get a good shot with him hopping around. And yup, that's poop stuck to his butt right above. We're not sure if he's got some GI problems, or if it's because he's not been fixed and it gets in the way of , er, proper excretion.

So this all just makes it even grosser that he's trying to hump my leg. I really don't like thinking about some little bunny rubbing his unmentionables on my foot. So now I am not so thrilled to hang out while he's around. I told my sister he has to stay in his cage during Christmas dinner. I want to be able to enjoy the meal, with both feet on the floor, and not in fear that some rabbit is going to molest my feet.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

Holiday cheer. Or lack thereof.

I received the following email from our administrative manager here at work:

Subject: Snazzy Holiday Time

Now that the cold weather is here to stay, let’s start diving into the holiday spirit! Feel free to jazz up your work areas with fun decorations and pretty, sparkly things. I’ve got a red bow, a tiny glass tree, and a small stuffed snowman at my desk. Can you top THAT?? Have fun!

Good lord. I love the holidays and all (okay, except for New Year's) but this is a little ridiculous. Don't people have better things to do at work, like blog or email their friends?

A twitch in time

This past week I have had a wicked twitch in my right eye. A coworker of mine said that that means someone is talking about me. If this is true, then someone is talking a whole lot of shit about me this week. Please stop. The twitch is very distracting and unattractive.

Thank you.

Fortune Cookie

Winter storm hits Midwest...

...and then the newscaster goes on to show footage of OKLAHOMA.

Perhaps I am just overly sensitive since I happen to be from a true midwestern state (go gophers!), but there is no way in hell that Oklahoma is a midwest state (except to East Coast people since anything west of NJ seems to be considered Midwest until you hit California.) Bible belt, yes. But, I guess they can't say that on the news. Southern, maybe. Southwest, unlikely. NM and AZ seem to be the only states that are given that designation. It's more Mid-South.

Maybe OK is still finding its geographical identity?

Know thy neighbors

I don't normally talk to my neighbors much. I am not unfriendly or anything, I just give people their space. Sure it would be nice to have someone I could stop by and borrow a cup of sugar or something, but those sorts of relationships can get complicated. I don't want to end up catsitting for people I don't really know. However, during the whole Dark Waters incident, I got to meet some of my neighbors. The ones who also had water damage. That was kinda nice. Although the girl who lives upstairs is seriously getting on my nerves. It sounds like she is moving enormously heavy pieces of furniture around at 11pm. Or it's a really bad form of tap dancing.

Anyways, I must be giving off some sort of "talk to me" vibe to my neighbors of late, because they keep chatting with me randomly in the elevator. Or maybe it's just because I'm so darn cute (they are all men in my approximate age group).

Like the previous post, I will number the incidences:

Elevator conversation #1:
Back from grocery shopping for an impending potluck, I hold the door for a young couple who were carrying a whole lot more crap than I was. I'm facing the elevator door, minding my own business, and suddenly I hear (very loudly) "HI, I'M ZACH! THIS IS MY GIRLFRIEND ____. HOW LONG HAVE YOU LIVED IN THE BUILDING?" um, 2 years or so. "SO WHAT DO YOU DO IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD?" weird question. does he want to know what I do in my freetime? where I frequent? because I don't think any New Yorker actually has the luxury of working in the same 'hood they live in. so this is what I learned about Zach (other than he so obviously has not lived in NYC for long): He doesn't live with the girlfriend and he is a student at Bank Street. He lives on the 6th floor.

Elevator conversation #2:
It's about 1am and I had consumed several drinks and was ready to be home and in bed. I get my mail. Borat is on the cover of Rolling Stone. This other guy is in the elevator with me. Again, in loud voice (even with my headphones on) "OMG, HAVE YOU SEEN THE BORAT MOVIE YET?!" no. "I HEAR IT IS REALLY GOOD BUT HAS TO BE TAKEN WITH A GRAIN OF SALT, YOU KNOW? IT'S LIKE..." offensive? I didn't learn much about that neighbor although I suspect, aside from being drunk at the time and a very loud talker, that he might also live on the 6th floor.

Elevator conversation #3:
I came home last night, got my mail and was waiting for the elevator with yet another dude (who I think I had just seen in Duane Reade buying some AirBorne). Get in the elevator, flipping through my TimeOut. It's the Pizza Issue. Again, loudly (no headphones this time): "I WONDER WHAT PIZZA PLACE THEY PICKED FOR THIS NEIGHBORHOOD?!" um, i don't know. probably Coronet since they always pick that place. (It has gianormous slices for cheap. a Colulmbia University staple.) "THAT PLACE SUCKS! I CAN NEVER FINISH A SLICE THERE. THE CHEESE IS TOO MUCH." yeah, i don't like it either. "THEY SHOULD PICK MAMA'S ON 106TH. I'VE TAKEN FAMILY FROM ITALY THERE AND THEY THOUGHT IT WAS GREAT TOO!" good to know. I will have to try it. Dude lives on the 6th floor. I wonder if all three of them live together?

The day that never ends

I am bored out of my mind at work today. There is nothing for me to do and my boss is at "Diversity Training" for the next two days. You would think this would be a great situation, right? Alas, there is only so much internet surfing I can do. My eyes water too much from the brightness of the screen after a while.

My apartment has not been repaired and my coat closet has this nasty damp smell remaining from the "Dark Waters" damage. It makes me a little sad. Especially since I have a closet-ful of stuff that is now homeless and strewn about the rest of the apartment. I called my landlord, since Miguel, my super, has promised me several different times to fix it in the past two weeks, but has never actually fixed it. My landlord promised it would get fixed by next week. (Miguel is going to the doctor today and won't be able to fix it. Too much information, I know.) And in the interim I should go buy that stuff that "looks like an OxyClean tub" but soaks up moisture.

Off to Home Depot I go.

I really should know better. Home Depot puts me in a foul mood almost as soon as I walk through the doors. Part of the reason is that I have unnecessarily high expectations of how my experience will be based on those commercials where everyone who works in the damn store is nice and knowledgable. But this is New York City.

Bad Home Depot Experience #1:
I went there once looking for a drill and I have to say, not only was the employee in the drill section a total asshole who clearly did not want to be working there, he was absolutely no help. I also asked him what kind of file I should get since one of my closet doors won't open all the way. The man told me I needed a wood shaver to shave off the bottom. I mean, WTF?! Do I look like kind of person who is gonna get a fucking wood shaver? I left home depot empty handed, aside from my blackened mood.

Bad Home Depot Experience #2:
Okay, so despite #1, I went back to HD to find this tub of dehumidifying stuff. The HD near my work is like 3 floors big and organized more like a maze than orderly aisles. I stopped some sketchy looking dude in orange who looked most likeliest to be an employee. He told me the stuff was called DampRid (makes sense) and it's in the Paint section. I'm dubious, but he would know better than I, right? WRONG. I go to the paint section. Can't find it. Ask the paint guy. He has NO IDEA what the hell I'm talking about. He says, "you should try putting bleach on the walls and then let it dry." As my sister says, it's fucking HOME depot, not GHETTO depot. I'm pretty frustrated at this point and I tell the guy that the other guy had told me it was in this section. He directed me to Household, Aisle 4 (which is as far away from the Paint section as possible). I am completely dubious.

But lo and behold, my DampRid was there! And only $3.75 a tub.

Happy I had completed my mission, yet still pissed off at how disappointing my HD experience was, I departed. The saddest thing is that I am not even sure the stuff will work.

A bleak day for fowl

I hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving. It is not a big holiday for my family--none of us particularly like turkey (although I am quite fond of stuffing), my sister goes down to Atlanta for a week of in-law duty, and I have no desire to watch football or shop on Black Friday.

However, some friends and I had a little second thanksgiving potluck this weekend and my friend Aaron (who makes some of the best meatballs in the world AND dressed up last year as an easter bunny--yes, on easter--to hand out treats to the kiddies), told us by far the worst Thanksgiving experience ever:

One year during college, Aaron had been dating this girl. She convinced him to spend Thankgiving with her family, saying that they always go out to this "really nice restaurant." Aaron goes. That "really nice restaurant" was one of those Old Country Buffet type places (but better than a Sizzler). Her family thought it was the best thing. Aaron was not impressed.

But it gets better.

Girlfriend's Grandpa is there and he's old and probably sick--but still eating away at the buffet (it's Thanksgiving and all). In the middle of Thanksgiving meal, Grandpa dies. Yes, you heard me, he dies. The details weren't clear, but he was definitely dead. They had to come with a gurney and take Grandpa's body out of the restaurant. Aaron attempted to get the hell out of there, but the girlfriend wanted him to stay and be with her during these difficult times.

Hands down the suckiest Thanksgiving, right?

And no, he's no longer dating the girl. But he did get that famous meatball recipe of his from her mom...

Gobble gobble.

Like a really bad Japanese horror flick...

Today I was minding my own business, enjoying a leisurely Sunday afternoon and trying to clean up my kitchen a little before making a grilled cheese sandwich. I hear this noise of movement and of course I think it is the "fucking bastard", or mouse. But oh no, it wasn't mousie. Instead, I see a STREAM of dirty water coming through the wall and down the floor of my kitchen. HOLY FUCK, WHAT THE HELL IS IT? IS MY APARTMENT POSSESSED BY A REALLY PISSY EVIL SRIRIT?? It sounded like a waterfall was in my apartment, and I don't mean in that very zen water trickling way.

I frantically grab my nice bath towels and any other absorbent material in an attempt to stop it. SO MUCH water was coming down. I check my coat closet and it's streaming down the heat pipe in there and spattering on my newly dry cleaned coat. DAMMIT.

More bath towels.

But now it's dripping from the ceiling in the kitchen so I have to put buckets down. Water is filling up into my bathroom light fixture. THIS CANNOT BE A GOOD SIGN.

I run upstairs thinking I need to ream out the girlupstairs. She has the same problem. Except:

1. She doesn't have a coat closet like I do (interesting)

2. She just moved in so her shit is still in boxes and easy to move out of the way of the deluge. I have 2 years of stuff in those closets.
Anyways, we run into other neighbors. We call the super. He's "5 hours away in NJ". Is there really any place in NJ that is 5 hours away? Because I can drive PAST Providence to visit Sonya in less time than that. WTF. We call the landlord, but really, what can a call service to for us when water is running down the walls. We call 911 so the fire department can come and shut off the water. God Bless NY's Bravest.

And so, I have now moved all of the shit out of my closets and out of the way of the nasty ass water. There are no longer streams of water flowing down my floor or along the walls, although my ceiling is still leaking. Look at my recycling bin:

Yes, that is half full of nasty dark water. So disgusting.

And now I am a very, very sad cookie who is wet, dirty and stressed out. I never got a chance to make that grilled cheese either. BOO.

Trippy treadmills and other tales of the gym

First off, in case any of you were wondering, I haven't caught that goddamn mouse yet. Mom hasn't come through with her bacon suggestion either. That might be the problem. But mousie has been laying real low of late--I am hoping that maybe he just moved out without saying good-bye.

So, I went to the gym today because apparently I was getting used to going regularly. It's been two weeks and my muscles were getting antsy. Really. It was like some weird, mild form of Restless Leg Syndrome or something.

Now, I attempted the treadmill for the first time and quite frankly, it was a little scary. I'm not a runner so I thought some fast walking (believe it or not, faster than I normally walk) would be good. It's hard getting used to walking on a conveyor belt, and super trippy getting off. I don't know if it was a combination of fatigue and hunger, but when I got off, the ground was coming up at me and I was a little unstable. Freaky. And no, I was not on hallucinogens.

But let me tell you about one of my especially disturbing gym experiences:

So I was at the gym and was already dressed and in the large room that is specifically for us ladies to dry our hair and put make-up on. It's always very empty. I'm drying my hair, minding my own business, and this older woman, very heavy, comes and stands RIGHT next to me. Now, I know the towels are small--they barely fit around me--but for some reason she thinks it's more necessary to cover her upper half rather than her bottom half. Seriously, I tried so hard not to look, but she was right next to me in front of a wall of mirrors. Oh, man! Her belly was so big that it kinda pooched over and hid all of her unmentionables. A friend of mine calls this "bubble crotch." Needless to say, it was a little traumatic.

And to wrap things up, one last story about my very first gym experience:

My gym, like most, has TVs attached to the cardio machines. The first time I went on one of them, I could not for the life of me get the damn TV to work. I thought perhaps it was some sick reward system and you have to exercise hard enough to get it to work. Kind like mice on a wheel. But then I saw some very old woman biking away slower than MadDog can peddle her trike and HER TV was working just fine. I was at a total loss and instead tried to inconspicuously watch the TV of the person next to me, with the voices in my head as accompaniment. Finally, a friend of mine explained that the TVs don't work unless you plug your headphones in. LAME.

V for Vendetta. M for Mousie.

I have a new roommate. Like most, an unwanted roommate who 1. doesn't pay rent and 2. leaves his shit (literally) all over the place.

My new roommate is a mouse, and he has some serious issues with me.

Now, I understand that the cold weather just started and I live in an apartment building in New York City. Mice happen and I can live with that. What I cannot live with is when the little fucker comes into my bedroom--yes, you heard me right. he came into my bedroom--TWO nights in a row at 5:00AM and woke me up. He was rustling through my little file cabinet, apparently going through some of my old tax forms. It remains to be seen if the IRS will now be auditing me. When i turned on the light, he just sat there and looked at me. I have a feeling that if he could have, he totally would have flipped me the bird. There was some serious bad feeling I was getting from him.

I think I know why: when I first noticed the mouse, it was approximately 9pm on a weeknight and I was home watching some TV. The little bugger ran across the wall of my living room and hopped through the unbelievably small crack where the radiator pipe was. Fine. That weekend I got some steel wool and plugged up the hole. With mousie not in there, I guess. So now he's pissed at me and is trying to make my life hell.

So after being woken up at 5:00AM two days in a row, I decided to bust out the big guns and put out some glue traps. Yes, yes, they are totally gross and inhumane, but less bloody than a snap trap (which doesn't always kill instantly either), and more effective than the no-see-um hockey puck traps I got.

Well, 3 days later and I still haven't caught him. I think he suspects something b/c I haven't heard a peep from him. I still wake up in the middle of the night, but that's my own paranoia and/or heavy drinking that is the cause. My mom just got into town, so I explained the whole situation to her, in case the mouse's vendetta is automatically transferred to my family members. And this was the conversation that ensued:

Mom: What kind of bait are you using for the traps?

FC: Peanut butter. Chunky kind.

Mom: Oh no, that won't do. New York City mice prefer bacon.

FC: WTF? How the hell do you know they like bacon?

Mom: I've lived in NYC for years so I know this. Minnesotan mice are like country mice and they like peanut butter. But NYC mice want something better.

FC: I don't believe you. (sarcastically) Do they like the thick cut, non-fatty bacon the best?

Mom: Yes. I'll pick some up tomorrow. You'll see. I'll catch that mouse.


No lie. This is the conversation I had with my mother.

I'll keep you updated on whether or not the bacon traps work...

BUSTED! in the Land of 10,000 Lakes: REDUX

So remember that police bust in MN? Well, turns out my friend's tenant upstairs has been busted this time:

Mitchell law standout charged in visa scheme

http://www.twincities.com/mld/twincities/15783872.htm

Apparently, he was pretending to be a congressman and getting U.S. visas for his family in Cameroon. Totally sketchy. But a little more white collar than say dealing crystal meth, right? Then again, nine counts of fraud in federal court isn't so great either...

Track Nyack: My life as a checkpoint girl

Dirty recently hosted a bike race. I was selected as one of the check point girls. Now, fixed gear and track bikes are not my thing. I play no part in that subculture. I don't even know how to ride a damn bike.

Luckily, this was not a required skill for running a checkpoint.

Sure, it sounds fun: People in teams of two get on their bikes and ride as quickly as they can to the checkpoint in Central Park, eat a Devil Dog as fast as they can and then ride off to some bike track in Queens. No sweat. Riiiiight. I do not participate in competitive sports and I guess it brings out the worst in people sometimes. We were not exactly prepared for it. Some nasty bastards came through. And quite a few vegans. We tried to convince them that there were no animal products in a Devil Dog. It's probably all synthetic or some variation of high fructose corn syrup. But some very nice racers also came through also. Usually they were the ones who had no chance of winning. They would sit down and chat with us. And in the end, we didn't even find out who won since they still had another hour or so of riding.



There was a lot of thrown up Devil Dog around the checkpoint area. The squirrels and rats probably had a feast that night. Gross.



It was a good time, but I think next year's check point will rock even more. I may consider bringing a baseball bat next time too.

BUSTED! in the Land of 10,000 Lakes

I recently went back to my beloved home state of MN for a conference. What better way to visit than on work's dime!

After a two-night stay at the downtown Minneapolis Hilton, and two days of an extremely boring conference where everyone there seemed to contribute to our nation's obesity epidemic by drinking way too much soda (one girl there drank three cans of coke before 8:30am!), I made my way to the sweeter of the Twin Cities, my hometown of St. Paul.

That's when things started to get interesting. The first evening I think I saw enough people I went to high school with to qualify as a high school reunion. It isn't quite as frightening to me as it used to be and everyone generally seems much nicer (and less sober) than they did back in the day. Some people also have children that are over 10 years old. Very disturbing. I also met some dude who used to live up the block from me. His nickname is "Tuffy." Enough said.

I was staying with a friend of mine and the next morning I wake up to get some water. I hear all of these voices, which is strange since my friend had said she had a conference call from home that morning. I thought the voices were really loud for a conference call, but maybe my friend is going deaf and had the volume on high. So I walk into the dining room and there are like 6 people sitting at her table. Definitely not a conference call. And most of the people sitting were in S.W.A.T. gear with POLICE written across the front. We thought it was a drug bust (my friend has tenants living upstairs and you never know when people might be running a meth lab in their apartment.) Well, turns out to be Immigration & Customs Enforcement coming for her upstair tenant's cousin. The tenant is a political asylee from Cameroon who's in law school. He's here legitimately. We're not sure about the cousin but supposedly he's here legitimately also. But they still took him away in cuffs. Everyone was in their pajamas (not the cops) and they almost took him away without shoes. Rude. At this point, he is still being detained and may possibly be deported. It's very scary what limited rights immigrants have here.

I am sure the police thought it was interesting that not only did my friend have two African refugees in her house, but then some Asian girl walks in during the bust. They didn't even ask me for my ID.

Needless to say, I am glad I didn't get deported. Although I am not sure where they would deport me to since I am U.S. citizen...

Candy that lasts forever

I just got a bag of Smarties. I happened to look at the expiration date on the bag: August 10, 2009. That is about THREE YEARS from now. I find this very disturbing. Hopefully I will finish the bag off before then.

Dummies are people too

From my twin, who recently moved to Canada, on her first week at her new job:

On the downside, they are using these mechanical dummies as simulated patients for practice, and these dummies moan. And they moan long and loud. The first time I heard it, you can imagine what I thought I was hearing, but pretty sure I wasn't hearing, but worried that I might be hearing.

I thought that was pretty hilarious.

P.S. Apparently they have now given the dummies the capability to pant (it's supposed to sound like they have shortness of breath.) Good times!

The stressful way to a surprise wedding shower!

Gosh, September has started off crazy! Fortune Cookie has been a busy bee of late.

This past Saturday was the surprise wedding shower for team member Cookie D.

The Original Plan: D's fiance E was going to get her out of the house that afternoon so we could get things ready.

It did not go as planned.

So this is how it went down:

Thursday before:
Frantic emergency email from Little Cookie (now residing down below the Mason-Dixon Line in NC); Aunt Jean decided to invite them to spend the night in NJ. They accepted. They wouldn't be back until Saturday afternoon. We needed a Plan B to get D out of the house. It was up to me and Murphy. We both contacted D about getting together on Saturday. Her original response? I think Sunday may be the nicer of the days so maybe we could aim for that?

Yeah, not gonna work.

Friday before:
But we pulled through and got her to agree to Saturday (go Murphy!)

Saturday (Day of the shower)
12:00PM No word from D. Is she back from NJ? Because she needs to get out of that house before 3:00PM.

12:03PM Anxious call to Little Cookie. She hasn't heard anything either.

12:05PM Murphy calls. D is supposed to arrive approximately 2:00PM. We decide we will just meet up and that will force D to leave her house and come meet us.

2:00PM Waiting on the Queens Plaza subway platform after realizing the train is running express. 3 voicemail messages on my cell. As I'm checking them Cookie D calls. I answer. The train goes by. LOUDLY. She's on the platform too. SHIT.

2:01PM Riding the subway with D & E. Call Murphy. A plan B subpart 1 is formed. I will go back to the apartment with D & E so they can drop stuff off and then we'll meet her at a cafe. Perfect.

2:45PM Euro Delight cafe. Eating crepes. Having lovely time. All is going well. Little Cookie calls for confirmation that the coast is clear. It's a go.

3:30PM Done with the crepes. Crap. We still have to keep her occupied for another two hours.

4:15PM Murphy and E order another round of coffee. More time wasted. Conversation is continued.

4:45PM Panicked call from Little Cookie. They cannot get into D & E's apartment. The lock is funky. They are camping out in the hallway right now. SEND. HELP. FAST.

4:46PM I send a rather obvious signal to E. He gets up to pay the bill, I go up to us the lav. On my way I tell him the situation and that he needs to get over there pronto.

4:50PM I suggest we go get Italian Ice. And the 99 cent store. E says he needs to go home to use the toilet.

4:51PM I love 99 cent stores and can spend hours in them. We managed to drag it out for about 15 minutes.

5:05PM Italian ice is my friend.

5:12PM Stop at new restaurant to peruse menu.

5:14PM Murphy pulls off the best acting job of her life: fakes leg cramp. Stops at a tree to stretch it out.

5:21PM We return to Cookie D's apartment building. We enter the elevator and there is tape all over that says "CAUTION: WILD GIRLS!" and a poster of a cartoon dude in a cheetah speedo. D says "what is up with the tenants in this building!?".

Murphy and I play dumb.











5:22PM SURPRISE!!!! She didn't suspect a thing.

Hee.

p.s. the neighbors totally hated us even though we were well behaved during the party (note: this was posted after they had taken down the decorations in the elevator.)

Bad reputation

So I was waiting for the elevator at work and chatting with one of the recent college grads I train. He asked how I was doing, I told him I was well, except I was a little tired for some reason, possibly because I had some coke the night before.

He pauses. Then asks, "You mean coca-cola, right?"

Um, yeah. Do I look like the kind of person who does a few lines in the bathroom before bed? Crikey. I wonder what sort of reputation I have amongst these young 'uns at work!

Also, in a strange turn of events, at happy hour the other night BFF Bartender was telling us about his personal problems. I thought this was weird since he's the bartender and isn't he supposed to listen to OUR problems? I mean, we're the ones paying, not him. I guess that just means that we are truly regulars and our relationship with BFF has been taken to a new level? hmmm...

I woke up this morning to the weather report on the radio. Something about 40mph winds. This doesn't seem right. Or safe.

There's nothing better than coming to work drenched in sweat from the commute

Today is one of the hottest days of the year. The high is supposed to be about 105F, with a heat index of 115F. Excuse my language, but that is just too fucking hot. We should all just call it a day and stay home in the A/C (kept on Economy/Energy Saver so as to avoid a major blackout, of course) and watch Netflix. And eat massive quantities of watermelon and ice cream.

Onto my diatribe for the day (the heat is making me cranky and now the full blast A/C at work is giving me a bit of a head cold as it freezes off any residual perspiration):

One of my biggest pet peeves is when people forward me annoying emails. Sure, on occasion I will forward things that are of specific interest to specific people (and perhaps they are secretly hating me for it), but I like to think I use discretion. I'm talking about those emails about that damn Neiman Marcus chocolate chip cookie recipe that's supposedly secret and worth a half a million dollars or those poems about female empowerment or friendship. Which isn't so terrible, except the person forwarding it to me has not even bothered to delete the 18 pages worth of all the other million previous forwarding headings since the original email was first passed on. This particularly bothers me when they are forwarding an email so they can supposedly earn money or a trip to Disney World off of Microsoft. And don't even get me started on the random religious ones I get from coworkers. I don't care what you practice, more power to you, but don't send me anything with "God" or "the Lord" in it--or "Satan", for that matter. Especially if I don't even like you.

However, I got one of those chain emails today from a friend and despite my pet peeve, I actually read it. And at the very end, it says:

Friendship is like peeing your pants, everyone can see it, but only you can feel the true warmth.

I have to admit, that made me chuckle.

And the babies just keep on comin'...

I have been at my current place of work since January 2005. Up until now, there has always been someone pregnant in my office. If I tallied correctly, there have been six, count 'em, six babies coming out of my coworkers. The director of our department recently had a baby. No word that there were any other pregnancies so we thought the baby chain was broken and it was safe to drink the water again.





WRONG.




One of my coworkers (who got back from maternity leave, oh, about six months ago) is pregnant again. Four months pregnant, to be exact. Sure, I'm happy for her but WTF!?!

I guess I work in a baby-making factory or something...

Also work related, I went out with a co-worker of mine (not the one who's pregnant) the other night and had such a rip-roaring time that I had to leave work early the next day, I was feeling so awful. I think it was much worse than the Margarita Incident of 2002. I swear they serve undistilled grain alcohol at happy hour. Not pretty. I later received a text picture from him of the black eye he recieved over the weekend while at some club. He tripped and hit his face on the edge of a table. Definitely not pretty. I think perhaps that I should no longer hang out with this type of person. He could be a bad influence.

In other news, E-money is finally warming up to me. For a while he was playing dead when I was around. He also used to feign sleep. But I figure, it's okay if it took him 2 months to come around. It takes time to get to know people, right? Two months is nothing in one little kid's lifetime.

Wednesday night spoiler

I get riled up about many things (the state of our nation, the MTA, the high price of cereal, FedEx package slips left on my front door, etc), but what really upsets me these days--and is much closer to home--is when something disrupts my Wednesday night happy hour. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. This particular week it was a person who caused me grief:

There was a very drunk man who kept harassing me. This sort of thing never happens to me--apparently my intimidation skills do not work on drunks or something. He comes RIGHT up behind me like he's my backside siamese twin and offers to buy me a drink. My glass was still 2/3 full so I politely refused. He ordered one regardless. Now, first off, I'm in my home-bar with BFF bartender. I'm only going to pay like $2 for my drink anyway. And secondly, I refuse to touch a drink that a stranger buys for me and handles. For christ's sake, don't touch my fucking straw or lime!!! Oh, and stop breathing down my neck...

We had to move twice to avoid this man. Thank god my friends were there to try and protect me by sitting on either side of me in corners. I kept giving BFF bartender dirty looks for continuing to serve the guy. I was also worried he might vomit on us. Granted, this guy was pretty pathetic--there are obviously issues at hand if you've been drinking alone for 7 hours straight. But eventually he set his sights on some other girl in the bar so I was free to enjoy the rest of my evening in peace. With our $22 tab.

If he's there (and drunk) the next time I go, I may have to throw down. There's a large Corona beer pinata I can hit him with...

And now it's Dirty's turn for a very happy birthday

It was the Dirty one's thirty-one earlier this week and I didn't get around to posting (yeah, I know, it's been a while...). Anyways, a happy belated birthday to you, Dirty! He's off to fulfill his best man duties elsewhere. If we're lucky, perhaps he'll post his speech?

In other news, I am bored out of my mind at work and struggling to keep awake. Perfect opportunity to blog, no? Ninety more minutes until I can leave. Tick tock. Tick tock.

I don't have any good stories at the moment, so let me tell you about my July 4th weekend:

Saturday: helped some of the Regulars move into their new apartment. At 9am. After a late night. From El Barrio down to East End Avenue. Fancy. In an unmarked yellow truck. Ghetto. The move went relatively smoothly, but you wouldn't know that from all of the bruises I have on my body. It looks like I was in some sort of brawl. You know, the kind where you can hit anywhere but the face? Not pretty. It also didn't help that I slammed my wrist in the closet door in my apartment a few days later. What's one more large bruise among several dozen, right? The best thing is that 2 blocks from their new apartment, on my way to the crosstown bus, I came across a 7-Eleven. That Slurpee was the best thing EVER. It totally made up for all the sweat and pain.

Sunday: woke up early again to catch a bus to Pennsylvania where some friends always have a long weekend camp & cook out. I historically never go, but this is the year of new things, apparently. Not only do I now eat mac-n-cheese, as well as mixing cheese with meat (mmm. grilled cheese with ham: my hangover remedy), I am now willing to go to the camp out. Which essentially entailed me hanging out at the pool with my best friends and reading In Touch magazine. Nnd when not sunning myself, I was stuffing my face with food. Any place with a 45lb rib roast on an outdoor spit can't be half bad.

Monday: I worked. And I emailed people I have been meaning to email over the past three years in a desperate attempt to get some response while trying to make it through the day. We got out early and I high-tailed it to the store to buy Dirty's birthday present. I can't say the camping store people were top notch in customer service, but at least they didn't seem quite as sullen as the employees of every Blockbuster Video store in the nation or the dim sum restaurants of Hong Kong.

Tuesday: Independence Day! My one day to sleep in this whole long weekend. Of course I was up at 8am. Dammit. I watched the fireworks from the 28th floor balcony of my friend and old prof, Dr. P. She baked us lemon meringue pies. I think it made up for the lack of A/C (and fans) in her apartment. I am not a big fireworks girl, having been dragged to see them by Mom every year of my childhood, but I have to admit they are pretty. This year they had cool ones that looked like jellyfish. Much cuter than the littler spermy ones.

And so a good week comes to an end. Now I only have another hour to waste before I'm off like a prom dress...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MADDOG!!!

My favorite little girl in the world, MadDog, turns the big 4 today, so a happy birthday shout-out to her! She is currently preparing for a princess puppet party (Beauty & the Beast theme) with a princess castle-shaped pinata. I am jealous and plan on arriving after all the dozen or more kids leave and I can eat my cake in peace. Plus, then I can play with the Barbie Totally Real House I got her without having to fend off several 4 year old girls.

Top on MadDog's birthday wishlist was a boy doll. We had a hard time deciding which one to get her. Eerily reflecting reality, there appears to be so many more women than men in Barbie's world. Is Prince Ken in his tights better than surfer Blaine who doesn't come with any clothes (or a job)? I wanted to get Bride Groom Ken, because at least he's ready to commit and he's got a nice suit on. (As my friend aptly put it, we don't want any broken families moving into the new house.) However, the options at the store came down to Beauty & the Beast Prince or Surfer Blaine. MadDog preferred B&B Ken even though he had a bad ponytail and a Beast mask. Barbie could totally kick his ass. But at least he's not a beach bum.

So what's it like to be four years-old? She faces quandries such as these: how to deal with days of the week princess panties. First off, she can't read, so she has to ask her mom which Princess she's supposed to wear that day. But then it gets complicated. If you take a bath on a Saturday night, do you wear the Saturday panties? It will soon be Sunday, so would those be more practical? I'm more than 25 years her senior and I don't have an answer to this. This is another reason why I shower in the mornings...

Royal flush

I went to see X-Men3 recently and afterwards, there was a super long line for the ladies' room. Not unexpected. Except I noticed that the handicapped restroom was empty. I realize that there is some social protocol (and the American Disabilities Act) that requires those who are able-bodied to not use those stalls and if we do, to feel really guilty and try to pee as quickly as possible in case there is an irate person in a wheelchair waiting (and I have heard of this happening. No joke.) I feel this is fair. However, this is what I want to know: if there is a 20-person line for the bathroom, does a handicapped person have to wait in line or can she roll by and make a beeline for the handicapped stall?

On another note on bathrooms, I find myself constantly perplexed by the bathrooms at work. The kind of toilet paper that is offered changes EVERY day. In fact, I noticed today that the extra roll in my stall was completely different in texture and ply (one roll was two-ply, the other single-ply.) How can this be?! You would think that a large institution would consistently order the same kind of toilet paper. This boggles my mind.

By the way, my little nephew's new nickname is E-Money. Between him and MadDog, my sister has herself a little gang in her home.

buffalo wings, waffle fries and celery, oh my!

Apologies for the incommunicado. I wasn't trying to break up with you in some passive-aggressive fashion or anything. For real. The past two weeks have been a little hectic with visitors and way too many birthdays to count, culminating in tonight's mandatory Team Cookie meeting to celebrate Little Cookie's birthday. This celebration consisted of eating far too many buffalo wings and waffle fries and an attempt to counteract that all with half a plate of celery with blue cheese dressing.

Hey, at least I wasn't drinking also. But I'm having a fat week and this isn't helping. Perhaps that was an overshare...

Sooooo, let me do a bulletpoint highlight of what has occurred over the past two weeks:

1. I got a promotion! BLING BLING. Okay, not really, but the raise should cover my Wednesday night happy hour habit and a few choice wardrobe additions.

2. We returned to BFF Bartender last Wednesday night and he came through for us in full force (even the hater of the group, ahem, you know who you are Mr. EastSideGangSignThrower, warmed up to him when served his beer of choice without even having to tell BFF). I missed it, but the Regulars decided it was time for some eastside action and cheated this week. No word yet on how successful they were at getting free drinks elsewhere.

3. I am currently in a training to learn how to "Present with Confidence." I am the best presenter in the class and I learned that I actually don't gesticulate quite as wildly while I talk as I had thought. Whew. I had been concerned that I might take out someone's eye one of these days.

4. Baby E.T. has gained about a pound in his less than three weeks of life. He's getting chubby. But only in the belly and face. He still has skinny old-man legs. MadDog is dealing well with having a little brother and is very quick to hold his hand when he cries. On the other hand, she is also quick to ditch the family when the opportunity to go do something fun arises (Bronx Zoo, cherry lime rickies, etc).

5. I went to a party and my friend's brother had on penny loafers with pennies stuck in them. Um, and no, he wasn't five years old. More like 35. You'd think someone would tell him that that was so 1992, right?

That's about all I can think of right now. I guess that it's been busy, but I can't remember all of the usual inane fodder to post about...

My (brief) life as a single mother

Happy Mother's Day! And a very special shout out to all of the single mothers out there, my own mom included.

Okay, I have spent the last 48 hours as a single mom of a 4 year-old, so bear with me.

My sister went into labor Friday afternoon. I missed seeing my nephew born by approximately 15 minutes. But just in time for the afterbirth. Yay! Baby and mom are all well. We'll call him ET, and he is a cutie. Mom, Dad and baby had to stay in the hospital for 2 nights, so that meant Auntie Fortune was taking care of MadDog for the weekend.

It was a lot of work taking care of a kid. Lots of attention (I didn't want her getting hurt on MY watch) and activity, including a 4 year-old birthday party. Picture about 20 little kids dressed up as pirates and princesses running around for 2.5 hours. Especially after a huge piece of birthday cake, ice cream and candy from a pinata. It couldn't have been more insane if they were handing out speed. Although MadDog is a good girl and I adore her, I was most relieved when her parents walked through the door this afternoon. Nearly as happy as MadDog was, if not more.

People, I'm exhausted. I can only imagine what a full-time mom feels like. This is why moms totally ROCK!

Um, could I get a little mojito with my sugar?

Happy hour was rather uneventful last night. We went back to the sangria place in El Barrio. Live music came on. Good music, but so loud I think I now know what a dog feels like when someone blows one of those whistles that no human can hear. Terrible, I say. We had to move onto another bar down the street. After a very inconspicious "walk-by" to make sure we wouldn't totally get our asses kicked if we went in there. The waitress was quite nice and gave us our third round free. (For the record, I didn't have a third round.)

Now, for those of you who know me, I have no problem traveling around the city to meet up. South Williamsburg for Cinco de Mayo? Si. Beer garden in Astoria for Dirty's Thirty? For real. South Bronx for a bbq? Yo. LES for a white russian? Need you ask?

El Barrio for sangria? Hell yeah...Although, actually, perhaps not.

I have developed a beef with East Harlem: for one of the least gentrified 'hoods in Manhattan, why the hell are the drinks so freakin' expensive!? I mean, $8 for a mojito is a lot for E.116th and First Avenue. And there was so much sugar in that baby, I woke up this morning with a stomach ache. Seriously. Am I paying for the street cred or something? Because, quite frankly, I am perfectly happy being a West Side girl who drinks practically free walking distance from home.

"We're friends. I like you. Now go away."

Little MadDog is growing up fast. At parent-teacher conferences this week, MadDog's teachers told them she was doing very well in school and got along well with all the kids. She is the most popular girl in her class. Apparently when she walks in to class, everyone gets up and yells "MadDog's here!!!" That's my girl.

There is one boy in particular, Alex, who loves MadDog more than a 4 year-old boy should. He gets in her face a lot and cries when they walk home together and it's time for them to go their separate ways. Her teachers said that during one of these instances, MadDog told him "Alex, we're friends. I like you. Now go away." Ah, the delicacy of a diplomat.

This kid is going to rule the world, I tell you.

I am feeling cranky and under the weather this week, so I am nursing my bad mood with some milk and cookies. I have been on a bit of a social sabbatical the past few days, so I don't have any good stories to tell. Perhaps Thursday will bring new blog fodder, as it usually does...

Your friends and neighbors

I have a knack for forming personal relationships with the people around me. My gynecologist is really great. Anne knows me even though I only see her once a year and is always happy to see me. She's nice to the friends I refer to her. We talk a lot about public health and such. She tells me that she wishes we could hang out longer, but she has like 5 patients who have been waiting for hours to see her. She also hugs and kisses me on the cheek goodbye. Some find this weird, but let's think about this: if someone is spending time with my privates, I should be getting a kiss good-bye rather than just a note (or prescription, in this case) slipped under the door, right?

Maybe that was an overshare.

I also have a relationship with my hair stylist, Stacie. We are the same age and turned 30 a few months apart. That was a strong bond between us. Plus, she gives me good haircuts. I brought her back a small birthday present from Prague. She also hugs and kisses me goodbye. Granted, I also tip her well, but we have a connection.

And then there is BFF Bartender, but you've already heard about him previously. Ditto on the kiss goodbye. (I have a special way with bartenders in general and am known for getting free drinks frequently. I just wish I had this special way with bakery or Haagen Daaz employees instead. Or even donut cart people.)

So, I think I have made progress in forming a relationship with my ConEd man. Wait, let me preface this with the fact that he is a nice, attractive, young man. Not some old creepy dude. Anyway, it's been a much longer process developing a relationship. The man reads my gas meter every month. (Although it's been more of an every other month schedule.) This takes about 2 minutes. Nothing so involved as poking around my privates annually, cutting my hair every 3-4 months, or serving me numerous drinks every Wednesday night. But we chat, and say "I haven't seen you in a while. Where've you been? How's it going?" and he'll tell me he was on vacation, but working his second job. Or I'll tell him that I was on vacation (but without mentioning I was on my Eastern European Trifecta tour, because that sounds so bourgeois). We'll discuss the weather and things like that. And that's it. But this morning, I got a handshake goodbye. I was touched. Now, I don't need a hug and kiss goodbye from the ConEd man. That would be weird. But I like to think that I am one of his favorite meters to read in the building. And no euphemisms there, kids.

Eightball in the pocket

I try not to participate in height inflation. The measuring stick tells me I am 5'7", but other women my height say they are 5'8''. Which means that in man-height, I am about 5'10''. Last night I went out with some Brooklyn girls, and for the first time ever, I was the shortest one. It was definitely weird, and I can't say I liked it one bit.

The lovely ladies: Murphy (pool name: Jackhammer), Wick (pool name: Petri Dish), Zube (pool name: Wall. Or was it Flower?), and myself (pool name: Flower. Or maybe Wall. I can't remember).

We had a few drinks and went to play some pool. (Note: I do not play pool, but am always a willing observer. Dirty will back me up here.) We came across two gentlemen to play pool with. Both were from Indiana. Both were essentially married. Both seemed psyched to hang out with four lovely birds that weren't their wives. The first guy, Married (pool name: The Anvil, partner: Jackhammer) seriously had the weirdest twang. Definitely not how anyone I know from Indiana talked. Almost like that big rooster in those Looney Toons cartoons (Foghorn Leghorn). He also had the most ridiculous chuckle. Egads. He laughed a lot. He also wore pleated khakis.

The other dude, Almost Married (pool name: Bacteria, partner: Petri Dish), loved Wisconsin (Zube was from there) and would not stop talking about how great people from Wisconsin were. Now, that's all fine and dandy, but Wisconsin is also my home state's rival. Crikey, it's not THAT great of a state (Cheeseheads, please don't hate). At least MN has Prince, bless his purple-loving soul.

All in all, pool was played, the reigning pool sharks were usurped (props to Bacteria & Petri Dish), stories were told, and bedtime was late. Good times.

nervey nerve birds

dirty cookie here, fortune's partner in crime. she has been kind enough to share her space o' blog with moi bc i have absolutely no interest in having my own blog. none. zilch. zip. nada. but i like guest appearances. a lot.

pan fried dumplings are delicious. it has been my new favorite dinner as of late. fry up a couple a bad boys, steam up the rice, break out the seaweed. excellent meal. quick, cheap, and makes me feel like my own private chinatown.

pan frying dumplings while severely intoxicated is not a good idea. last night i got home and decided i would have a few beers (4) before cooking dinner. needless to say, today, my forearms are lacking in the hair dept. and i have several small splotchy red burns all over my face. something like a nouveau freckle. luckily most of my stuffed animal collection survived the small blaze.

sigh.

anyways, my whole point on writing this initial entry was to cut and slander the women of nerve who apparently have an absolute oligarchy (is there any other kind?) which has obviously decreed a moratorium on contacting me. sweet innocent little me!

well here i was, last night, the smell of singed hair, bottles of beer and fried dumpling gently wafting through my les bachelor pad! the smoke detector had finally succumb to my curses and life was looking better. which of course led me to try and find something to get pissed about.

(the pigeons have left and the squirrels havent figured out how to get in again)

it was during my 5th beer (completelyfuckingshitfacedhere) that i remembered my recent strike outs with nerve, (many messages written, no replies back) (its FREE ladies) and i thought it would be a "fun" thing to post about these girls and why i think, they wont go out with me! (really, actually, probably a bad thing to do)

enter the yahoo.

i was on the cusp (justrightnowiswear) of posting about the first girl, here (we shall call her soilent green) when yahoo popped up and said "you have one new message from "****** ** *** *****". she will have to remain anonymous, of course, until i see how things have panned out.

can it be? a rogue? a girl willing to strike about against the oppressive nervey bird-ness? my own personal *female* Henry David Thoreau? (reading civil disobedience, sorry). i am so excited.

and of course i will report back.














over and out - dirty

Personality disorder

Dirty was telling me about this guy last night who is one of those people who is obviously "not in control of his life". Someone who carries like five bags around at one time with stuff falling out of them, disheveled, fly open, toilet paper sticking to their shoe (note: mothers with small children and homeless people do not apply). You know the type. Thankfully, I am not this kind of person. Nor is anyone I am friends with this kind of person. But since I don't know any of these people, I am curious as to what type of person they are and why they can't just get their shit together?

I love personality tests. There is something satisfying about answering a few questions and being placed in a discrete category of person. I know some people don't like them because they think it's a bunch of bullshit ("What's the color of your aura?"), or they don't want to be categorized ("Jung's extrovert/introvert (EI), sensing/intuitive (SN), feeling/thinking (FT) and judging/perceiving (JP)"), or maybe they are scared of the results because sometimes they hit close to home--I remember when a boyfriend of mine took an EQ (emotional quotient) test and he had an extremely low score. He was a little outraged that they told him he wasn't emotionally healthy or something like that. I laughed it off (it's hard to notice those glaring red flags with flashing lights when you are in love). Needless to say, the test was RIGHT ON THE MONEY. Oops. Needless to say, that one didn't work out well. I still have a high EQ though.

On a brief side note, we revisited our usual BFF Bartender last night to celebrate Carina's birthday. She has this ingenious way of reminding us of her birthday, which is 4/26: 4+2=6. Because of this little bit of mathematics, I have never forgotten her birthday in all the years I've known her. BFF Bartender was sporting a terrible faux-mohawk/mullet combination. He had some technical difficulties with some flaming shots and essentially just set all of the glasses and part of the bar on fire. But all was forgiven when I went to close out my tab. He looks at me and says, "You don't have a tab." Um...gosh...okay...thanks. THIS is why he is BFF Bartender.

I bet he has a high EQ.

Because all you can drink sangria does not mean you have to drink all you can

I was hoping to avoid this for a while, but let's get personal. Wine is not my friend. It is evil, just plain evil. I had my usual Wednesday night happy hour, but at a different location. (I have to admit, I felt like I was cheating on our regular BFF bartender or something, but shoot, he took last Wednesday off to go to some concert so we had to pay regular price for our drinks. Hmph.) So we're up in El Barrio at ladies' night: all you can drink sangria for $10. Not a bad deal, right? And the sangria was GOOD--the bartender was good to us and kept our glasses full. I am not sure how many I had, but I am positive it was a number between 5 and 10 (definitely not 10, though). No need for an intervention or anything--the glasses were very small.

I was tucked in by midnight.

Then I woke up an hour before my alarm with a splitting headache. I don't normally get headaches from drinking. This is why wine is evil (sulfites=poison). This is why vodka is my friend and clear, colorless drinks are the way to go. I have learned my lesson.

However, I think all of the pain was worth it: that night I managed to successfully co-mingle two groups of friends. The co-mingling of friends is always an unpredictable social experiment. You always think that because you like all of these people, how could they not like each other, right? Wrong. You connect with people at different levels and for different reasons and they don't always mesh with each other. I've been guilty of greatly disliking the friends of my friends too. But the planets were aligned for this interaction. One group we'll call the Regulars, since we have a standing Wednesday night happy hour date, and the others I will call the Spillers, because they managed to spill 3 glasses of sangria that night (including in my shoe) and there was also the incident when I took them to my usual watering hole, and they spilled a flaming shot and almost burned the place down. Enough said. When we all sat at the table it was like a United Colors of Bennetton ad. Except for alcohol. I felt like I was the UN ambassador for sangria drinkers.

The bottom line is that a good time was had by all, everyone can just get along, and I hope I am not the only one with a headache.

Childhood ideals crushed

I have recently had another one of those moments when I found out that something I believed since childhood was a lie. I'm not talking about something so dramatic as finding out your older sister was right and you were actually adopted or that your puppy didn't actually get sent away to the farm and was sent to the Elmer's glue factory instead--just kidding, that's where they send ponies, not puppies. This is more along the lines of how crushed I was when I found out two years ago that the wedding cake guests get served is a sheetcake in back and not the pretty three-tiered one the bride and groom cut from. (I'm still recovering from that one, thanks.)

My almost-four year old niece MadDog has learned to play cards. No, no, nothing like Three Card Monte or anything. Although she's smart and sly enough to hustle a little--she plays a mean game of CandyLand. Currently her favorite game is Go Fish, also a favorite of mine since I never learned to play poker and I always forget how to play rummy. But I guess my sister and I grew up playing some sort of ghetto Taiwanese version or something because we played it where you only ask one person for one rank with the goal of getting a pair. The person who gets rid of all their cards first wins. Isn't this how everyone played it? Apparently not.

Here are the official rules:

1. Five cards are dealt to each player, or seven if there are only two players.
2. The player whose turn it is to play asks another player for his/her cards of a particular rank. For example, "Jill, give me your fours." (note: I would recommend asking Jill a little more politely than that) A player may only ask for a rank of which he/she already holds at least one card. The recipient of the request must then hand over all cards of that rank. If the call was successful, the same player has another turn. If the player who was asked has no cards of that rank, he/she says "Go fish" (or simply "Fish"), and the asking player draws the top card from the pack. The turn then passes to the player who was asked.
3. When one player has all four cards of a given rank, they form a book, and the cards are placed face up on the table.
4. The game ends when all thirteen books are formed, and the player who won the most books wins.
5. If the player whose turn it is has no cards left in hand, the game is not over, but he/she simply draws the top card from the pack and the turn passes.

So now I know I have been playing it wrong all these years. It's a bit of a blow, but I think I'll survive. The problem is, MadDog plays our simplified version now too. and so it has become a vicious cycle. Just wait until she learns how to play mahjong...

In the beginning...

Upon insistence from a particular friend of mine, um, let's call him Dirty, I have created a blog. I have some hesitation, since as much as I enjoy telling stories to my friends, this is one more step through the door of oversharing. Plus, I've read other blogs and sometimes I'm just embarrassed for them or I end up really liking them but upon seeing their myspace profiles, realizing they are total tools.

Perhaps I'm just a hater. I suppose this will unfold as time goes on.

Today is Good Friday. I am a born and raised heathen so this has very little significance to me except that i get to leave work at 3pm today and Christians may give me dirty looks if I eat steak tonight. Good Friday also reminds me that Easter candy will be on sale Monday morning. (aside: I turned down a mini-cadbury egg offered by my sister the other day and she looked at me as if I had just told her i was going to sell her soon-to-be-born baby to the asian slave trade. Actually, I think she was more appalled than if I had said that...)

Also, for the second year in a row, I have missed the boat for buying a Peeps Easter basket for my niece, Mad Dog. I guess it is the most popular Easter basket because I can never find one except immediately after Christmas when stores start putting out Easter stuff. Contrary to popular belief, it is not made of Peeps, but rather, is of the fuzzy, stuffed variety. SO CUTE. However, if I were to ever find this holy grail of an Easter basket, I would not fill it with Peeps.

Why, you ask? Aside from the fact that there is much better candy out there to be consumed, of course.

Per Harper's Index:
Estimated number of Marshmallow Peeps that will be consumed around Easter this month: 800,000,000

Estimated number of pigs who died to make them: 125,000

Holy crap, that is gross (and totally not kosher). I really didn't need to know that, but this just adds to the many other reasons why I do not eat Peeps. Too bad they are just so damn cute and happy. Well, they aren't necessarily happy, since they are essentially made out of pig product, but they make me happy when I look at them.

Lesson learned: Peeps are for looking at, not eating.