This guy called me last week while I was in the waiting room of my doctor's office. I texted him back saying I couldn't talk because I was at the doctor.
Guy: "Ew. The vag doctor?"
Me: "You're mature."
Guy: "Ask him if he has any information on labia reconstructive surgery. Then say, 'but it's not for me. it's for a friend.'"
Conversations like this make me wonder why I'm not a lesbian...
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
If
If I were a color, I’d be somewhere between deep purple and magenta red, puffs of anger enhancing my darkness.
If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness of your grip beginning to jade my core.
If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.
If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.
If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to run free when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.
If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.
If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in terms of substance.
If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.
If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.
If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness of your grip beginning to jade my core.
If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.
If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.
If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to run free when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.
If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.
If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in terms of substance.
If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.
If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
I need a break.
I have a tendency quit books right before the end. Not quitting for good. I see it more as a break. Like I reached a good stopping point with less than a chapter to go. I had ten pages left in Helter Skelter for a year and a half. And those are a pretty significant ten pages. But I'm like, "damn, I've had enough reading for now" even though a reasonable part of me is like,"seriously? you've got ten pages to go?!" And often times I'll find a new book because, hey, I'm almost done. All the while, I'll have every intention of finishing the old one soon. Sometimes it happens, sometimes not.
In psychology they talk about pregoal and postgoal arousal. Basically, it means people are motivated by the prospect of accomplishing a goal and by reaching it. Some people show a stronger tendency towards one or the other. People who go to med school, for example, are excited enough about reaching a goal that they don't seem to mind that it won't actually be accomplished till they are about hundred years old. Postgoalers, on the other hand, might be so pumped that they graduated from high school that they can sail on that (perhaps in their mother's basement) for a good decade or so before they need something new.
I think the assumption is that it's healthy to have a good mix of the two.I'm pretty sure that I'm a pre/post goal kinda person (even if the actual category doesn't technically exist). I love the endings. That's why I think the greatest thing about a book is you can stay in the ending for as long as you want. How cool would that be if you could stay 23 for a few more years? I would gladly sell (or maybe just rent?) no sell, my first-born to stay 23 for few more years .. hit a few more parties .. hook up with a few more guys (gulit free cuz, duh, I'm only 23).
Forget the honeymoon phase, I'm not that into beginnings. I despise the awkwardness of first dates; the beginning of a semester always made me sick; and no matter how tired I am, the prospect of falling asleep is no where near as enjoyable as those last cherished minutes before you have to get up. And I don't care what the concluding line of Hope Floats says, the middle is NOT the best part. It's the darkest part of the tunnel. Who cares how cool the tunnel is? Fuck the tunnel. I think I'm getting to a point where I'm ready to put a book mark in my life and set it down for a bit.
I'll finish it eventually ... but right now? Yeah, not so much.
In psychology they talk about pregoal and postgoal arousal. Basically, it means people are motivated by the prospect of accomplishing a goal and by reaching it. Some people show a stronger tendency towards one or the other. People who go to med school, for example, are excited enough about reaching a goal that they don't seem to mind that it won't actually be accomplished till they are about hundred years old. Postgoalers, on the other hand, might be so pumped that they graduated from high school that they can sail on that (perhaps in their mother's basement) for a good decade or so before they need something new.
I think the assumption is that it's healthy to have a good mix of the two.I'm pretty sure that I'm a pre/post goal kinda person (even if the actual category doesn't technically exist). I love the endings. That's why I think the greatest thing about a book is you can stay in the ending for as long as you want. How cool would that be if you could stay 23 for a few more years? I would gladly sell (or maybe just rent?) no sell, my first-born to stay 23 for few more years .. hit a few more parties .. hook up with a few more guys (gulit free cuz, duh, I'm only 23).
Forget the honeymoon phase, I'm not that into beginnings. I despise the awkwardness of first dates; the beginning of a semester always made me sick; and no matter how tired I am, the prospect of falling asleep is no where near as enjoyable as those last cherished minutes before you have to get up. And I don't care what the concluding line of Hope Floats says, the middle is NOT the best part. It's the darkest part of the tunnel. Who cares how cool the tunnel is? Fuck the tunnel. I think I'm getting to a point where I'm ready to put a book mark in my life and set it down for a bit.
I'll finish it eventually ... but right now? Yeah, not so much.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
The Tide is High
I know I am a leaky vessel, but do I need to be reminded of it every day?
This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled Metal Mulisha t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I make my way to the bathroom, I hit my funnybone on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I curse and rub my elbow furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.
Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. A sore elbow.
And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.
Few know that I'm thirty and am still scared of rapists. When I get home late at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.
Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am completely exposed.
Then I toss and turn and wonder ... how can this ship ever sail with so many holes in it?
This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled Metal Mulisha t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I make my way to the bathroom, I hit my funnybone on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I curse and rub my elbow furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.
Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. A sore elbow.
And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.
Few know that I'm thirty and am still scared of rapists. When I get home late at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.
Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am completely exposed.
Then I toss and turn and wonder ... how can this ship ever sail with so many holes in it?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Right up my alley
Place: Townie bar.
Song: Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers
Scene: Old guy attempts to dance with me, when I refuse, picks up chair and begins to waltz.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
a tribute to the delictable pink pills which currently reside in my purse
Dear Pink Pills,
It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost a whole year since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I don't live 15 minutes from Tijuana anymore and couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription. As much as I love you, my pride forbade me from providing sexual favors for doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication.
But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees,begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness and light in those hours I couldn't rely on my main man, Jack Daniels, to take the pain away. (Fabulous as he is, he isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess he made the last time I enjoyed his company on the train? Not. Good.)
You've helped me through some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted by a baseball bat (though others may not agree, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of baseball counts as a form of assault), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a ballet (pulled groin) related injury. But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain when I fractured my wrist trying to save my bottle of Patron. I thought I was going to die from the pain and you saved me. You even made my week one day shorter by allowing me to slip into a mild coma for 36 hours.
And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains, you have gotten me through the last eight hours. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of Mr. Daniels. You know I love you - he's just more fun in social situations.
Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may just be an aid to combat pain, but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated happiness.
Eternally yours,
Rebecca
It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost a whole year since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I don't live 15 minutes from Tijuana anymore and couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription. As much as I love you, my pride forbade me from providing sexual favors for doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication.
But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees,begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness and light in those hours I couldn't rely on my main man, Jack Daniels, to take the pain away. (Fabulous as he is, he isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess he made the last time I enjoyed his company on the train? Not. Good.)
You've helped me through some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted by a baseball bat (though others may not agree, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of baseball counts as a form of assault), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a ballet (pulled groin) related injury. But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain when I fractured my wrist trying to save my bottle of Patron. I thought I was going to die from the pain and you saved me. You even made my week one day shorter by allowing me to slip into a mild coma for 36 hours.
And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains, you have gotten me through the last eight hours. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of Mr. Daniels. You know I love you - he's just more fun in social situations.
Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may just be an aid to combat pain, but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated happiness.
Eternally yours,
Rebecca
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
It's been a year ...
If tears could build a stairway
And memories were a lane,
I would walk right up to heaven
To bring you home again.
No farewell words were spoken.
No time to say good-bye.
You were gone before I knew it,
And only God knows why.
My heart still aches in sadness
My secret tears still flow.
What it meant to lose you,
No one will ever know.
I miss you so much, Nicky.
Monday, March 10, 2008
An Impromptu Tour of My Brain.
Among my many quirks is this - I get obsessed with things fairly easily. The length of obsession generally varies. Sometimes its with people. Sometimes its things. When it happens, I am amazed at how quickly I am completely consumed. The more there is to learn about something, the more voracious I become.
For example, in eighth grade I became fanatical about Charles Manson. Yeah, I know, it's kind of weird coming from a cute little thing like me. I hung the cover sleeve from Antichrist Superstar on my bedroom door and would dance pirouettes around my room to Iron Maiden.
Six years ago, I became quickly infatuated with anything Russian. Don't ask. From there, I jumped into the whole saga of Nicolas and Anastasia, which was even darker and more plagued with dirty, Russian secrets. Those thick, heavy accents, the filthy snow and ragged serfs begging for food. Autocracy and despotism. I was all over it.
There have been other obsessions: Chuck Palahniuk novels, vanilla perfume, John Bonham, cake decorating, the Dirty South, Irvine Welsh, deep sea creatures, tornado's, the poetry of Philip Larkin, Mark Strand, the plagues of the Bible, Hunter S. Thompson. You name it, I have been completely consumed by it for at least twenty-four hours.
But by far, nothing has captivated me more than music history. Though, specifically between the years of 1967-1972 in England and New York. Yeah, I'm talking about the Punk Rock movement. I know a lot of you already know how insane I am over this shit ... and it doesn't even apply specifically to this era - I love SoCal punk bands who played night after night in the garage beneath my unit, who play at Pacific Beach Pub on a Wednesday night. If you're dirty, loud, full of ink and have some sort of substance dependency ... there's not a day my heart won't find you.
My obsession remains unwavered.
And for a chick like me -that means something.
For example, in eighth grade I became fanatical about Charles Manson. Yeah, I know, it's kind of weird coming from a cute little thing like me. I hung the cover sleeve from Antichrist Superstar on my bedroom door and would dance pirouettes around my room to Iron Maiden.
Six years ago, I became quickly infatuated with anything Russian. Don't ask. From there, I jumped into the whole saga of Nicolas and Anastasia, which was even darker and more plagued with dirty, Russian secrets. Those thick, heavy accents, the filthy snow and ragged serfs begging for food. Autocracy and despotism. I was all over it.
There have been other obsessions: Chuck Palahniuk novels, vanilla perfume, John Bonham, cake decorating, the Dirty South, Irvine Welsh, deep sea creatures, tornado's, the poetry of Philip Larkin, Mark Strand, the plagues of the Bible, Hunter S. Thompson. You name it, I have been completely consumed by it for at least twenty-four hours.
But by far, nothing has captivated me more than music history. Though, specifically between the years of 1967-1972 in England and New York. Yeah, I'm talking about the Punk Rock movement. I know a lot of you already know how insane I am over this shit ... and it doesn't even apply specifically to this era - I love SoCal punk bands who played night after night in the garage beneath my unit, who play at Pacific Beach Pub on a Wednesday night. If you're dirty, loud, full of ink and have some sort of substance dependency ... there's not a day my heart won't find you.
My obsession remains unwavered.
And for a chick like me -that means something.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Quote of The Day
"We can't even be friends."
which is a close second to my favorite:
"I'm gonna to take a shit on your picture."
which is a close second to my favorite:
"I'm gonna to take a shit on your picture."
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
"I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you."
I love Fleetwood Mac.
Thankfully, I was blessed with a father who loved great music and ensured this passion was ingrained in his children from birth (he taught us about Zeppelin, Floyd and CCR before he taught us table manners).
The thing about The Mac that I was always drawn to was the Lindsay /Stevie angst - it's fucking divine. This particular performance is off the chain, because "Silver Springs" is about immortalizing a love affair through art. Stevie has said that she hoped her songs about Lindsay would ensure that she'd be burnt into his psyche forever. The music they made together guarantees they will be dicking each other over in spectacular fashion for all of eternity.
Even if you hate Fleetwood Mac, you have to at least watch the end of this. The way she looks at him when she sings "Never get away..." CHA-HILLS runnin' up my spine, brother!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Confessions
To the girl I pushed out of my way and called an idiot because she stood still on subway escalator and blocked people (me) from passing. I may have overreacted. A bit.
To the guy from Tonic, sorry I didn't come to your place and have sex with you like you suggested. Apart from the fact that I'm not a whore, your place was the opposite direction of my house and I really didn't care for your jacket.
To the other guy who sat at the bar for 3 hours and ogled me. Thanks, but you weren't my cup of tea. Also, I wouldn't be interested in someone who has wiry orange hair billowing out of his argyle twin set.
To the SkaterBoy, sorry I didn't like you as much as your heavyset friend but he had a beautiful smile and refused to laugh at my story the second time he heard it. Additionally, you were too forthcoming with your "grooming rituals" ...if that's your deal, fine - I don't judge, but that's something best kept to yourself methinks.
To Heather Levin, sorry I let your older brother feel me up twice (2x) in the tent in your backyard after your birthday party.
To Crash, yes I did and it was awesome.
To Michael, I was the one moving the controller on the Ouija board.
To Allison, sorry we threw that going away party for you the day after you moved.
To the lady in the automotive dept., sorry I reared back like someone was trying to force my face into a bear trap when you were talking to me. A little mustache on a girl can be endearing, but that thing looked like one of Peter Gallagher's eyebrows. I swear when you turned to say something to me, your whiskers scratched my eyeball.
To Nicole, no it wasn't my fault, it was yours. You were wearing a maternity shirt.
To Doug Atwell, - D.K never really screwed your girlfriend like I told you. My brother did. Oh, and the part where I said she was a filthy slag? That was true.
To Jen S., sorry I drank half a bottle of your mom's Stoli replacing it with water. I didn't know she'd ground you. You wouldn't have liked the Apple River trip anyway.
One for my friend:
To the girl with the (possibly) lazy eye in the sunglasses from the Laguna art festival, my friend Jeremy would like to thank you for the spirited blow-j - but he couldn't help but wonder why you selected U2 as the soundtrack for your activities. He found it be be very distracting and repetitive.
And he's sorry about your hand towel.
To the guy from Tonic, sorry I didn't come to your place and have sex with you like you suggested. Apart from the fact that I'm not a whore, your place was the opposite direction of my house and I really didn't care for your jacket.
To the other guy who sat at the bar for 3 hours and ogled me. Thanks, but you weren't my cup of tea. Also, I wouldn't be interested in someone who has wiry orange hair billowing out of his argyle twin set.
To the SkaterBoy, sorry I didn't like you as much as your heavyset friend but he had a beautiful smile and refused to laugh at my story the second time he heard it. Additionally, you were too forthcoming with your "grooming rituals" ...if that's your deal, fine - I don't judge, but that's something best kept to yourself methinks.
To Heather Levin, sorry I let your older brother feel me up twice (2x) in the tent in your backyard after your birthday party.
To Crash, yes I did and it was awesome.
To Michael, I was the one moving the controller on the Ouija board.
To Allison, sorry we threw that going away party for you the day after you moved.
To the lady in the automotive dept., sorry I reared back like someone was trying to force my face into a bear trap when you were talking to me. A little mustache on a girl can be endearing, but that thing looked like one of Peter Gallagher's eyebrows. I swear when you turned to say something to me, your whiskers scratched my eyeball.
To Nicole, no it wasn't my fault, it was yours. You were wearing a maternity shirt.
To Doug Atwell, - D.K never really screwed your girlfriend like I told you. My brother did. Oh, and the part where I said she was a filthy slag? That was true.
To Jen S., sorry I drank half a bottle of your mom's Stoli replacing it with water. I didn't know she'd ground you. You wouldn't have liked the Apple River trip anyway.
One for my friend:
To the girl with the (possibly) lazy eye in the sunglasses from the Laguna art festival, my friend Jeremy would like to thank you for the spirited blow-j - but he couldn't help but wonder why you selected U2 as the soundtrack for your activities. He found it be be very distracting and repetitive.
And he's sorry about your hand towel.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Football & Stomach - Two big upsets in one night.
First off, I'd like to say congratulations to the New York Football Giants for an absolutely amazing game. I started out at a bar for the night, but the free Jim Beam and mini soy corn dogs did not sit well in my already temperamental stomach. I was forced to go home during the first quarter to lie on my couch with a bottle of Pepto. Not fun.
Now, this is one of the few, if not only times I will cheer for the Giants. I hate them. I dated a Giants fan during the 2002 NFC Championship debacle, and I never heard the end of it. I took a lot of pleasure watching the Vikings destroy the Giants this year. However, the short-sleeved force of evil known as Bill Belichick needed to be stopped. I swallowed my pride, and attempted to muffle my laughter when Eli got another delay of game penalty. THAT'S how badly I wanted the Pats to lose.I found myself jumping up and down in my apartment alone when Stems Plexiglass caught the game winning touchdown. Then I stood there in awe when something occurred to me. Something I never thought would ever happen in a million years.
I was impressed...by Eli Manning.
I'll just let you guys marinate in that one a little bit.
At that very moment, I was almost proud to be residing on the same coast as this great team. The ultimate underdogs. It was like last year's NCAA Fiesta Bowl and the Giants were Boise State, and the Patriots were Oklahoma U. That's how it felt. Miraculous. Seeing that fucking smug, cheating bastard in his red hoodie (NOT the game to change it up, yo) abandon his entire team on the field with 1 second left made me almost throw my TV out the window.
Anyway, that's my Superbowl night in a nutshell. So0000 not the same as the parties we would throw in the courtyard of the unit - but hey, I'm back in Canada. I'll take what I can.
Now, this is one of the few, if not only times I will cheer for the Giants. I hate them. I dated a Giants fan during the 2002 NFC Championship debacle, and I never heard the end of it. I took a lot of pleasure watching the Vikings destroy the Giants this year. However, the short-sleeved force of evil known as Bill Belichick needed to be stopped. I swallowed my pride, and attempted to muffle my laughter when Eli got another delay of game penalty. THAT'S how badly I wanted the Pats to lose.I found myself jumping up and down in my apartment alone when Stems Plexiglass caught the game winning touchdown. Then I stood there in awe when something occurred to me. Something I never thought would ever happen in a million years.
I was impressed...by Eli Manning.
I'll just let you guys marinate in that one a little bit.
At that very moment, I was almost proud to be residing on the same coast as this great team. The ultimate underdogs. It was like last year's NCAA Fiesta Bowl and the Giants were Boise State, and the Patriots were Oklahoma U. That's how it felt. Miraculous. Seeing that fucking smug, cheating bastard in his red hoodie (NOT the game to change it up, yo) abandon his entire team on the field with 1 second left made me almost throw my TV out the window.
Anyway, that's my Superbowl night in a nutshell. So0000 not the same as the parties we would throw in the courtyard of the unit - but hey, I'm back in Canada. I'll take what I can.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Why is my left arm numb?
I went out and drank a few (nine) drinks last night and it was fun. So fun that I forgot to eat dinner.Upon waking up (late) this morning, I was hit by the "Jack Daniels Gut-Rot" coupled with intense starvation. I rushed through a shower and out the door, ran to the subway, caught my train - then as I was walking by McDonald's I was captivated by the poster for the Country Breakfast Burrito ....bacon, eggs, hash browns, AND cheese all rolled conveniently into a nice utensil-free meal. Anyone who know's me knows that I am eternally devoted to the breakfast burrito, so......I went for it.
It was f'n delicious but I think I'm having a heart attack.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Just another Saturday night
You know you shouldn't have any more wine when you go to crack open a fifth bottle, and can't. The corkscrew is bent. At least that's what you tell me when it rips out and takes the middle section of the cork with it in shreds of waste. Well, this bottle is ruined, so now what? You mention driving to go get some but DUI's are real expensive. You're not thinking of the vans full of children, because...why would you think about them? But, oh right, you're not drunk...just DUIable.
So the next best (and yes, reasonable) idea --push the cork into the bottle. You stab a steak knife into the cork and twist it a bit. Shreds of cork fall both onto the floor and into the wine. You jerk the knife wildly, working yourself into a good sweat, but that cork won't budge. You give up on the steak knife and move to a phillip's screwdriver. You're fixated at this point. You resemble a chimp with his stick at the ant hill. A final burst of strength pops the cork inward, and because you're not interested in the sciences, you're unprepared for what happens next. You didn't know a wine bottle is an air-tight vessel (?)- when the cork is being pushed through, a suction force is created - and what you refer to as a "vacuum" has now sucked up the shredded remainders of cork well into the body of your '92 Chianti, and at an impressive speed.
Hey, you're the one who wanted wine.
A shower of wine is what you get - on your hands, shirt, the kitchen counter, the stove, the walls and the ceiling. You wipe the wine off your face and forearms and then pour it into a pint glass. Right to the rim. Cork shrapnel sinks to the bottom, which is surprising, but nice. That way you can consume the wine off the top and not worry about eating cork.
But you eat cork anyway.
That's when you realize it's probably not a good idea to drink anymore wine.
Hello Tom Green!
So the next best (and yes, reasonable) idea --push the cork into the bottle. You stab a steak knife into the cork and twist it a bit. Shreds of cork fall both onto the floor and into the wine. You jerk the knife wildly, working yourself into a good sweat, but that cork won't budge. You give up on the steak knife and move to a phillip's screwdriver. You're fixated at this point. You resemble a chimp with his stick at the ant hill. A final burst of strength pops the cork inward, and because you're not interested in the sciences, you're unprepared for what happens next. You didn't know a wine bottle is an air-tight vessel (?)- when the cork is being pushed through, a suction force is created - and what you refer to as a "vacuum" has now sucked up the shredded remainders of cork well into the body of your '92 Chianti, and at an impressive speed.
Hey, you're the one who wanted wine.
A shower of wine is what you get - on your hands, shirt, the kitchen counter, the stove, the walls and the ceiling. You wipe the wine off your face and forearms and then pour it into a pint glass. Right to the rim. Cork shrapnel sinks to the bottom, which is surprising, but nice. That way you can consume the wine off the top and not worry about eating cork.
But you eat cork anyway.
That's when you realize it's probably not a good idea to drink anymore wine.
Hello Tom Green!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
To CC or not to CC
Emails were shooting around today between the boys regarding the Buick Invitational which happens each year in La Jolla - and uh-oh, Elliot was downgraded to the "cc" column by Wood. He didn't take too kindly to that - here's the email that came back:
By Elliot
Re: Cc This, Muhfucka.
Thanks for the fucking courtesy copy, Wood. What the fuck. Is it too much to ask that I be included among those whom the email was intended to be received by? I mean what is the point of really going out of your way to specifically single me out as somebody not worthy of the same consideration as those whom the email was directly sent to?
I understand that you are basically saying “You are my friend so I want to keep you in the loop, but I know that you probably won’t go because you are too busy awesoming in Hollywood.” But is it too much to ask that you just include me with the rest of your friends? Or has 15+ years of friendship gone by the wayside? By adding my name to the “To” column, rather than the bitch-ass “Cc”, I promise you that I will not feel pressured to attend the fucking Buick Invitational. In fact, maybe I would be more inclined to attend because I would feel as though I were part of a fraternity where my input was valued and appreciated. But instead, I am treated as a third-class citizen, relegated to the periphery, hoping that one day I can be in the in-crowd of those in the “To” column.
I got news for you, fucking Steve: I have the memory of an elephant (who smoked a lot of weed over the span of their elephant life) and I won’t soon forget the treatment I received today. As you can see through those squinty little bloodshot eyes of yours, I have sent this email to my favorite little blogger to ensure that this day will be remembered a long time from now as the day when yours truly stood up and said, “FUCK THAT”!
PS. Wood was cc'd.
PPS. I bolded and enlarged the most important sentence in this post. Why? Cuz I can.
Peace.
By Elliot
Re: Cc This, Muhfucka.
Thanks for the fucking courtesy copy, Wood. What the fuck. Is it too much to ask that I be included among those whom the email was intended to be received by? I mean what is the point of really going out of your way to specifically single me out as somebody not worthy of the same consideration as those whom the email was directly sent to?
I understand that you are basically saying “You are my friend so I want to keep you in the loop, but I know that you probably won’t go because you are too busy awesoming in Hollywood.” But is it too much to ask that you just include me with the rest of your friends? Or has 15+ years of friendship gone by the wayside? By adding my name to the “To” column, rather than the bitch-ass “Cc”, I promise you that I will not feel pressured to attend the fucking Buick Invitational. In fact, maybe I would be more inclined to attend because I would feel as though I were part of a fraternity where my input was valued and appreciated. But instead, I am treated as a third-class citizen, relegated to the periphery, hoping that one day I can be in the in-crowd of those in the “To” column.
I got news for you, fucking Steve: I have the memory of an elephant (who smoked a lot of weed over the span of their elephant life) and I won’t soon forget the treatment I received today. As you can see through those squinty little bloodshot eyes of yours, I have sent this email to my favorite little blogger to ensure that this day will be remembered a long time from now as the day when yours truly stood up and said, “FUCK THAT”!
PS. Wood was cc'd.
PPS. I bolded and enlarged the most important sentence in this post. Why? Cuz I can.
Peace.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Ahhh, Dusty. You stupid little bugger.
This is a new record for me. Three posts in one day ... and YES, I do have a job and I am actually quite busy - but I couldn't resist. Here is a little ditty (courtesy of Wood) about our favorite boy wonder, Dustin.
By: Wood
Here’s Dustin’s weekend in a nutshell:
Friday Night – He and Troy go party somewhere in Mission Beach – one of Troy’s friends. I guess they also stopped by Jessie and Jenna’s new place. Dustin was apparently very drunk. Then they went to Sand Bar, which Dustin doesn’t remember at all– again, very drunk. Comes home around 1am and stays up to play poker until 5:30. Loses his ass and doesn’t remember going to sleep, or whether or not he was up or down winnings-wise…
SaturDAY – He wakes up around 10:30, makes a cup of coffee, eats some potato chips, makes a drink, aaaaaaand goes back to sleep.
Saturday Evening – Wakes from his nap at 6:15 - and at 6:30 he retires to his room and is asleep by 7PM.
Sunday AM – We all wake up to start watching football, so we obviously commence with the drinking. At 11am we start with some tequila shots and vodka drinks - then the Charger's lose and he is not happy. We drink more, finish off with some red wine, which I proceed to spill on his pants (just a little, not like throwing my drink on him or anything). He freaks out cuz they’re his favorite pair of pants, so I tell him to take them off and put them in water, so the stain doesn’t set. He then puts them in the bathtub (with about 4” of water). Naomi mentions to me before we go to bed that I’m going to have to deal with his pants in the AM (as I’m always the first to shower). Damnit.
Monday AM – I wake up, crawl to the shower, only to discover the wet pants in the bathtub that I forgot about. As I’m cussing to myself, draining the water and hanging his pants, I feel something clumpy in one of his pockets. Yep, it was his wallet… just sitting in 4” of water ALL NIGHT LONG!!!!!! All of the sudden, I was kinda glad I had to “deal with his pants” in the morning - I really needed the laugh. I don’t wish bad upon him, or anything, but it was pretty funny how utterly fucked his wallet (and weekend) was at that point…
Shanda's take on this weekend:
By: Shanda
Dustin was hammered at Sandbar on Friday and was getting yelled at by these huge vato Mexican guys because he wouldn't dance with me. They were all, "hey homie, your girl wants to dance...be a man and dance with her. Don't let her dance by herself." Dustin refused to dance. This made the vatos a little uspet so they approached him again. Finally, Dustin realized that if he didn't dance with me he was probably going to get his ass kicked, so he decided to dance. So there's Dustin, dancing in the middle of a whole group of vato guys and black guys who were just staring him down. He totally wanted to move somewhere else, but I was having too much fun watching him dance in fear (I know, I am mean, but it was so fun).
Then he started getting all pissed off (yes, he was drinking redbull and vodkas) so I decided we should go to the other side of the bar because Snakes McEchols was going to come out and he would have gotten his ass kicked. I admit it would have been hilarious to see Dustin step up to these guys (with Troy as his back up), but I didn't want them to get hurt so thought it was best to move.
Dustin - Thank you.
Sincerely.
You cured my case of the "Mondays".
Dustin's response to this post:
Hahaha…just laugh it up…my antics are just soooo funny aren’t they? Yes that’s what I’m here for…to amuse all you bastards! One of the shittiest weekends ever!!
By: Wood
Here’s Dustin’s weekend in a nutshell:
Friday Night – He and Troy go party somewhere in Mission Beach – one of Troy’s friends. I guess they also stopped by Jessie and Jenna’s new place. Dustin was apparently very drunk. Then they went to Sand Bar, which Dustin doesn’t remember at all– again, very drunk. Comes home around 1am and stays up to play poker until 5:30. Loses his ass and doesn’t remember going to sleep, or whether or not he was up or down winnings-wise…
SaturDAY – He wakes up around 10:30, makes a cup of coffee, eats some potato chips, makes a drink, aaaaaaand goes back to sleep.
Saturday Evening – Wakes from his nap at 6:15 - and at 6:30 he retires to his room and is asleep by 7PM.
Sunday AM – We all wake up to start watching football, so we obviously commence with the drinking. At 11am we start with some tequila shots and vodka drinks - then the Charger's lose and he is not happy. We drink more, finish off with some red wine, which I proceed to spill on his pants (just a little, not like throwing my drink on him or anything). He freaks out cuz they’re his favorite pair of pants, so I tell him to take them off and put them in water, so the stain doesn’t set. He then puts them in the bathtub (with about 4” of water). Naomi mentions to me before we go to bed that I’m going to have to deal with his pants in the AM (as I’m always the first to shower). Damnit.
Monday AM – I wake up, crawl to the shower, only to discover the wet pants in the bathtub that I forgot about. As I’m cussing to myself, draining the water and hanging his pants, I feel something clumpy in one of his pockets. Yep, it was his wallet… just sitting in 4” of water ALL NIGHT LONG!!!!!! All of the sudden, I was kinda glad I had to “deal with his pants” in the morning - I really needed the laugh. I don’t wish bad upon him, or anything, but it was pretty funny how utterly fucked his wallet (and weekend) was at that point…
Shanda's take on this weekend:
By: Shanda
Dustin was hammered at Sandbar on Friday and was getting yelled at by these huge vato Mexican guys because he wouldn't dance with me. They were all, "hey homie, your girl wants to dance...be a man and dance with her. Don't let her dance by herself." Dustin refused to dance. This made the vatos a little uspet so they approached him again. Finally, Dustin realized that if he didn't dance with me he was probably going to get his ass kicked, so he decided to dance. So there's Dustin, dancing in the middle of a whole group of vato guys and black guys who were just staring him down. He totally wanted to move somewhere else, but I was having too much fun watching him dance in fear (I know, I am mean, but it was so fun).
Then he started getting all pissed off (yes, he was drinking redbull and vodkas) so I decided we should go to the other side of the bar because Snakes McEchols was going to come out and he would have gotten his ass kicked. I admit it would have been hilarious to see Dustin step up to these guys (with Troy as his back up), but I didn't want them to get hurt so thought it was best to move.
Dustin - Thank you.
Sincerely.
You cured my case of the "Mondays".
Dustin's response to this post:
Hahaha…just laugh it up…my antics are just soooo funny aren’t they? Yes that’s what I’m here for…to amuse all you bastards! One of the shittiest weekends ever!!
I'm just sayin' ....
I have been trying not to use the word "HATE" when describing the way I feel towards something as HATE is such a strong word. So I’m just going to say this….
I "don't appreciate" the Pat's in general - but now more than ever I wish them impending doom for stealing my dream of the Charger's playing in Super Bowl XLII.
And who the fuck plays an entire season undefeated, anyway?? Where the hell is the excitement in that?
Bastard.
(oh sorry, that would be his son)
BURN!!!
C.H.A.L.L.E.N.G.E.!!!
My cousin is in sixth grade and got a Mac notebook for Christmas. I know. Totally jealous.
At any rate, yesterday I helped him create a podcast. When we were done, I went downstairs to eat and my cousin picked up his computer, and the AC adaptor, and left the room. Thirty seconds later I heard a loud crash. I walked into the room to find smashed glass and water gushing out all over the floor. Turns out he had been swinging the AC adaptor over his head like a lasso and the heavy white square part crashed into a glass vase on a shelf, breaking it into smithereens.
Do you remember being a child and having such a freewheeling and irresponsible relationship to material objects? I once accidentally kicked a pair of heels off in a hissy and broke a stained-glass window. I remember my sister and I were once chasing each other around the island in my parents kitchen, each with a full glass of water in our hands and then suddenly, like drunken whore's, clanked the glasses together, shattering them and drenching each other. I feel like I haven't gotten carried away with that kind of fun in a long time. Sad.
That said, I am fully committed to break something carelessly this week - believe me when I say, I'm due for some serious destruction.
Game on, bitches!!
At any rate, yesterday I helped him create a podcast. When we were done, I went downstairs to eat and my cousin picked up his computer, and the AC adaptor, and left the room. Thirty seconds later I heard a loud crash. I walked into the room to find smashed glass and water gushing out all over the floor. Turns out he had been swinging the AC adaptor over his head like a lasso and the heavy white square part crashed into a glass vase on a shelf, breaking it into smithereens.
Do you remember being a child and having such a freewheeling and irresponsible relationship to material objects? I once accidentally kicked a pair of heels off in a hissy and broke a stained-glass window. I remember my sister and I were once chasing each other around the island in my parents kitchen, each with a full glass of water in our hands and then suddenly, like drunken whore's, clanked the glasses together, shattering them and drenching each other. I feel like I haven't gotten carried away with that kind of fun in a long time. Sad.
That said, I am fully committed to break something carelessly this week - believe me when I say, I'm due for some serious destruction.
Game on, bitches!!
Friday, January 18, 2008
Paging Mr. Sandman
Insomnia. It's here, and it's here with a vengeance.
It's hard to point to the cause as this is a relatively common issue with me. But I feel like I've probably had two nights of sleep in the past week. It's getting brutal. Today I woke up at 3:00 AM, and lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep. And eventually, I did. I fell back asleep at about 6:30 AM. 30 minutes before my alarm went off. Awesome.
Have you ever had insomnia so badly that you start drifting into madness? I think it's starting to happen to me. It started out normally... and then I started thinking, (which is the kiss of death for insomniacs). I thought about work. I thought about California. I then started thinking about whiskey, and what my favorite brands are. I thought about Irish vs. Bourbon, and decided I'm definitely more of a "Dirty South Bourbon" kinda gal. I then started listing my favorite Led Zeppelin tracks, and wondering how anyone could possibly create such unbelievable music and still have enough genius left over to make the 'The Song Remains the Same'. I then decided to write something about John Bonham (because I'm eternally obsessed with the drummer). I even started composing it in my head. It went downhill from there.
Finally, I was staring insanity in the face.
I called my ex-BF (which is my go to move when I can't sleep). We discussed different methods regarding how one may be able to induce sleep - he wondered (seriously): Could a person punch themself hard enough in the face to knock themself unconscious? I mean, I'm a relatively small person, but he's confident that if I got my weight behind it, I could knock myself out. Sure, I might break my hand, but the point is - could I turn that on myself? I decided the physics and the angling just wouldn't work. So instead I got up and went to the bathroom. Upon exiting the bathroom, he suggested... "what if you just charged towards the bed, and deliberately slammed your head into the wall above the bed? You'd get knocked out, and then just collapse onto the bed". It seemed a perfect plan, except the force would probably snap my neck. Back to whiskey. I thought, "I've got a couple bottles. Maybe I'll just go drink a mess of whiskey and pass out." I abandoned this thought because a) drinking alone is indicative of a much larger issue b) I had already slammed half a bottle Nyquil and c) probably not the best plan when I have to be at work in four hours and I am just beginning to get over the flu.
Then, miraculously, I fell asleep without having to drink myself into submission or crack my skull. And then 30 minutes later my alarm went off. Despite my preference for ditch-pig profanity, I couldn't possibly type out the words I used this morning. It was that bad. I mean, big points for creativity.
Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is... I'm really fucking tired.
And I think I need to go to the hospital.
It's hard to point to the cause as this is a relatively common issue with me. But I feel like I've probably had two nights of sleep in the past week. It's getting brutal. Today I woke up at 3:00 AM, and lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep. And eventually, I did. I fell back asleep at about 6:30 AM. 30 minutes before my alarm went off. Awesome.
Have you ever had insomnia so badly that you start drifting into madness? I think it's starting to happen to me. It started out normally... and then I started thinking, (which is the kiss of death for insomniacs). I thought about work. I thought about California. I then started thinking about whiskey, and what my favorite brands are. I thought about Irish vs. Bourbon, and decided I'm definitely more of a "Dirty South Bourbon" kinda gal. I then started listing my favorite Led Zeppelin tracks, and wondering how anyone could possibly create such unbelievable music and still have enough genius left over to make the 'The Song Remains the Same'. I then decided to write something about John Bonham (because I'm eternally obsessed with the drummer). I even started composing it in my head. It went downhill from there.
Finally, I was staring insanity in the face.
I called my ex-BF (which is my go to move when I can't sleep). We discussed different methods regarding how one may be able to induce sleep - he wondered (seriously): Could a person punch themself hard enough in the face to knock themself unconscious? I mean, I'm a relatively small person, but he's confident that if I got my weight behind it, I could knock myself out. Sure, I might break my hand, but the point is - could I turn that on myself? I decided the physics and the angling just wouldn't work. So instead I got up and went to the bathroom. Upon exiting the bathroom, he suggested... "what if you just charged towards the bed, and deliberately slammed your head into the wall above the bed? You'd get knocked out, and then just collapse onto the bed". It seemed a perfect plan, except the force would probably snap my neck. Back to whiskey. I thought, "I've got a couple bottles. Maybe I'll just go drink a mess of whiskey and pass out." I abandoned this thought because a) drinking alone is indicative of a much larger issue b) I had already slammed half a bottle Nyquil and c) probably not the best plan when I have to be at work in four hours and I am just beginning to get over the flu.
Then, miraculously, I fell asleep without having to drink myself into submission or crack my skull. And then 30 minutes later my alarm went off. Despite my preference for ditch-pig profanity, I couldn't possibly type out the words I used this morning. It was that bad. I mean, big points for creativity.
Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is... I'm really fucking tired.
And I think I need to go to the hospital.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Thick and thin ... you can always count on Rubio's
When I was back in California in September they were erecting a new fast food restaurant in my ex-BF's neighborhood- every once in a while we'd drive by and I'd comment, "Mmmm, we have to try that restaurant when it opens."So, while I was back again over New Years my friend Holly told me that said new restaurant is one of her favorite fast food places. And I re-told this story to ex-BF, reiterating the fact that we should try it sometime.
He replied, "Nasty."
"How do you know? Have you been there before?"
"Yeah. A grip of times."
And before I even had the logical thought of "Dude, if it's nasty, why have you gone a grip of times?", I'm thinking, WHAT!!? You went to a new restaurant without consulting me? Don't you know that you must check in with me before doing ANYTHING IN LIFE because I might want to do it too? How dare you stop at a very convenient restaurant that is exactly on your way home from work to eat when I am 2000 miles away? Here I was counting the days to try the restaurant with you so we can enjoy an experience TOGETHER, only to find out you are off discovering new restaurants and new shops and new cities and probably new women!!!!!
I was actually getting quite bitter about it - because I am an irrational asshole and I need to be punched in the face. Luckily, he knows me well enough to laugh at my emotional outbursts ... and then take me directly to Rubio's for fish taco's.
All's well that ends well.
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