When I drink, there are three things that I really like: lipstick, speaking in a British (awful) accent and making out with strangers (or friends).
1. Stephane
Last week I got a call from a number I didn't recognize and they didn't text or leave a voicemail, so I didn't think anything of it. Then they called again a couple days later. I texted back to see who it was. The poor boy, he was a stranger that I kissed right after the part where I kissed my friend and drove uptown two weekends ago.
This boy's name is Stephane. He's a beautiful French-African dude. I know this because he sent me his picture, which I will now use to avoid him just in case I happen to be at that bar on a Saturday night ever again. That was a fluke though. That is still the only weekend I have ever gone out to the bars on my block. I intend to keep it that way.
So Stephane keeps texting me and wants to hang out. I did make plans that I was happily able to break this past Tuesday, I would feel bad about it, but...oh, no there are no reasons to feel bad about it.
2. Daniel
This past Sunday a couple of friends of mine came down from DC to see another friend's band play here, coincidentally at the same bar I made out with Stephane in. Anyway, my friends were kind enough to buy me several shots of whiskey, among other things.
After our friend's set was over we walked to the bar that I live above and continued the party there, where I met Daniel.
I'm sure he's a lovely fellow, really, but he called me the next day. Before noon. Even if I get up before noon, there are few circumstances when I will answer my phone before then. Anyway, my friend passed me my phone and told me it was "Daniel" - I had programmed his number into my phone this time. Progress!
He first commented on how I wasn't actually British. Nope. Not a lick. I'm from Drunk.
Then he continued to text me incesssantly with emoticons and improper grammar. Neither of those are preferred qualities.
3. Evan
This past Tuesday I went to a party followed by dinner, followed by filling out an application at a bar (I'm not really sure how that happened, but please call me back!) and then karaoke. All of it was "fantastic." I used that word almost all of my tweets that night, and can only imagine that I said it, in my British accent, even more.
It was at the karaoke joint that I made out with and exchanged numbers with Evan, who after a text the next day, has a girlfriend. Sorry, Girlfriend, 1) for making out with your boyfriend and 2) that you're dating a dude who makes out with other people, unless you're into that, then great for you!
The lesson learned here is that boys are silly, and don't understand that a girl really can just kiss you and absolutely not ever want to hear from you again, but give you her card to be polite.
P.S. Related, if someone gives me their card, I always email first, as should you, though if someone is giving you their card and not just their number, they are probably okay with never seeing you again and just being polite.
Showing posts with label whoops. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whoops. Show all posts
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Lesson Learned
I have rules against going out before 10 pm. Nothing good happens if you do. You get drunk too early, you're shitfaced by the time you need to go home, do and say things you shouldn't, etc. I typically don't do shooters (save for shots of whiskey) and I'm not a catch-up drinker. All of this is to say, I attempt to be responsible, most of the time.
This past Saturday I lost my shit.
I was invited to play "bar poker" - $5 buy-in, five bars, draw a card at each bar, whoever has the best hand at the end of the night wins. We met up at 8:30 and were at our third bar, and five drinks in by ten.
I remember going to the first four bars, none of them were bars I frequent as I don't usually hang out in my neighborhood. It attracts suburbanites that wear Ed Hardy like it's their job, I'm not into it. And I'm not into "dancing" to top 40 singles. Nothing about my neighborhood really appeals to me after 10 pm Thursday through Saturday nights, but I thought I'd give it a go. I would not have had a good time were it not for the people I was with and the amount of shooters I did.
By 11:30 I was gone. The only reason I know this is because of the drunk texts the next morning that I had no recollection of sending. I left my friends around one after smothering one in lipstick and thought it was a great idea to walk upstairs to my apartment, grab my phone charger and bag, because I only had my wallet and my phone was dying (it's an Android, go figure). And then I thought it was a brilliant idea to drive uptown. How I managed to not kill anyone, myself, or get arrested is still beyond me. Feel free to judge, but know it's not something I'm proud of, but I can't change it and I'm thankful that none of the above happened.
Anyway, I drive uptown, park, but can't remember my friend's address and my phone keeps dying so, from what I vaguely remember I plug my charger into someone's porch outlet and eventually get to my friend's house around 3 am. By that time I'm more aware of what's happening. We end up watching TV and eating cereal and fall asleep on the couch. In the morning I can't find my bag, but I have my phone, my charger and my keys so I figure it's somewhere I'll find it later and go back to sleep.
I was wrong. We searched everywhere, closets, the basement, random storage areas and could not find it anywhere. From this point I can only premise that I left it on someone's porch. Fuck. This is terrible. Really terrible, but we both have places to be so we search for my car instead. It was parked a lot closer than either of us thought it would be.
I get home and find my apartment trashed. I managed to knock everything that could be knocked over, over, which also explains all the bruises I've found on my body since then. But I'm still bag-less, wallet-less, ID-less, money-less, so after sulking for a bit I head back uptown and walk the streets in about a two block radius around my friend's house looking on people's porches, knowing how creepy I must look to those passing by.
And nothing, except a pink post-in note with my friend's address scribbled on it illegibly.
Sunday ends and I can't sleep, so I clean. Subconsciously, I'm pretty sure I was punishing myself - my mother used to always make me clean things as punishment and at really inconvenient times. I'm terribly anxious after I lose things, not because of the credit cards or various IDs, but the totebag and all the buttons on it that I've been collecting from shows and elsewhere since I was fourteen, and the clutch I use as a wallet that an alcoholic, chain smoking, retired nun gave me.
I checked the activity on my cards and there was none, but I canceled my debit card just in case, and went to the DMV to get a new license. Afterward I had to drop some things off at my sister's, my sister who has never had a drink in her life and rolls her eyes anytime I mention my drunken stupidity, as she should.
Monday evening, I wait until it starts to get dark and I attempt to retrace my steps again, hoping that the dark may jar some memory of Saturday night. It doesn't and I go home and attempt to sleep again. Monday night's sleep was worse than Sunday's. I woke up around 4 am and fall in and out of sleep at odd intervals after that, by sunup my neck is in knots.
Tuesday morning I arrive at work in a hurry for my 9 am appointment, and I find my totebag, complete with wallet, cards and IDs in the back room, on the table where I presumably left it and at the front desk, where I clock in, is a stack of pink post-it notes.
This past Saturday I lost my shit.
I was invited to play "bar poker" - $5 buy-in, five bars, draw a card at each bar, whoever has the best hand at the end of the night wins. We met up at 8:30 and were at our third bar, and five drinks in by ten.
I remember going to the first four bars, none of them were bars I frequent as I don't usually hang out in my neighborhood. It attracts suburbanites that wear Ed Hardy like it's their job, I'm not into it. And I'm not into "dancing" to top 40 singles. Nothing about my neighborhood really appeals to me after 10 pm Thursday through Saturday nights, but I thought I'd give it a go. I would not have had a good time were it not for the people I was with and the amount of shooters I did.
By 11:30 I was gone. The only reason I know this is because of the drunk texts the next morning that I had no recollection of sending. I left my friends around one after smothering one in lipstick and thought it was a great idea to walk upstairs to my apartment, grab my phone charger and bag, because I only had my wallet and my phone was dying (it's an Android, go figure). And then I thought it was a brilliant idea to drive uptown. How I managed to not kill anyone, myself, or get arrested is still beyond me. Feel free to judge, but know it's not something I'm proud of, but I can't change it and I'm thankful that none of the above happened.
Anyway, I drive uptown, park, but can't remember my friend's address and my phone keeps dying so, from what I vaguely remember I plug my charger into someone's porch outlet and eventually get to my friend's house around 3 am. By that time I'm more aware of what's happening. We end up watching TV and eating cereal and fall asleep on the couch. In the morning I can't find my bag, but I have my phone, my charger and my keys so I figure it's somewhere I'll find it later and go back to sleep.
I was wrong. We searched everywhere, closets, the basement, random storage areas and could not find it anywhere. From this point I can only premise that I left it on someone's porch. Fuck. This is terrible. Really terrible, but we both have places to be so we search for my car instead. It was parked a lot closer than either of us thought it would be.
I get home and find my apartment trashed. I managed to knock everything that could be knocked over, over, which also explains all the bruises I've found on my body since then. But I'm still bag-less, wallet-less, ID-less, money-less, so after sulking for a bit I head back uptown and walk the streets in about a two block radius around my friend's house looking on people's porches, knowing how creepy I must look to those passing by.
And nothing, except a pink post-in note with my friend's address scribbled on it illegibly.
Sunday ends and I can't sleep, so I clean. Subconsciously, I'm pretty sure I was punishing myself - my mother used to always make me clean things as punishment and at really inconvenient times. I'm terribly anxious after I lose things, not because of the credit cards or various IDs, but the totebag and all the buttons on it that I've been collecting from shows and elsewhere since I was fourteen, and the clutch I use as a wallet that an alcoholic, chain smoking, retired nun gave me.
I checked the activity on my cards and there was none, but I canceled my debit card just in case, and went to the DMV to get a new license. Afterward I had to drop some things off at my sister's, my sister who has never had a drink in her life and rolls her eyes anytime I mention my drunken stupidity, as she should.
Monday evening, I wait until it starts to get dark and I attempt to retrace my steps again, hoping that the dark may jar some memory of Saturday night. It doesn't and I go home and attempt to sleep again. Monday night's sleep was worse than Sunday's. I woke up around 4 am and fall in and out of sleep at odd intervals after that, by sunup my neck is in knots.
Tuesday morning I arrive at work in a hurry for my 9 am appointment, and I find my totebag, complete with wallet, cards and IDs in the back room, on the table where I presumably left it and at the front desk, where I clock in, is a stack of pink post-it notes.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Not Keeping My Opinions to Myself
I knew that as soon as I posted this that someone would take it the wrong way. Though, my thinking this didn't keep me from posting it. That's what's great about a blog, I don't feel the need to use a filter. I can write about anything, but I try to be respectful of my friends and family as not to reveal anything that they wouldn't want me to, Christina I'm looking at you and please note that I still haven't posted a certain conversation from when we were fourteen and had a very skewed idea of everything. (Bwahahahahaha...I bet you're wishing right about now that we had never written all that down.)
I woke up this morning to an email from my mother that read, and yes I know what I wrote above, but this was just too ridiculous: My friend said she read your blog and she had no idea that you hated her because she was fat. Her feelings were hurt that you wrote those things. I didn't realize that I had singled any one person out. The idea that this person took my blog post so personally is upsetting, it's upsetting that there are people that I don't know who allow blogs written by some girl to offend them. And beside, if I "hate" someone, I'm not going to write a passive-aggressive blog post about it, I believe in confrontation, and the next time that person did something to slight me I would most likely confront them about it.
Anyway, I responded to this email, and I hope that this clears some things up: I don't know which friend you're talking about, but I'm sure I don't hate her. I am just generally annoyed by obese people. Most obesity is not hereditary and is nurture, not nature. Americans are not overweight because it's in our genes, it's because we live in a world of convenience and people don't take time to take care of their bodies. And then when I hear these larger people that don't take care of their bodies in the first place complain about how difficult it is to do things, I have no sympathy. They've made unhealthy choices and are obviously not motivated to make the necessary changes in their lives. It is absurd how large the average person has become in this country.
If Americans as a whole were to change their attitude towards food and eat healthier, exercise more - they would be healthier, fitter, and probably a helluva lot happier. I am in no way advocating that everyone should have a 26 inch waist, just that people should be conscious of what is and isn't healthy and work at keeping their body feeling good. I understand that some people struggle with weight their entire lives while others go years without taking care of their bodies and have it catch up with them later.
I had a roommate who used to always be on diet, but never ate well or exercised. Somehow people have still not figured out that "diets" don't work, but they're probably easier than learning portion control and learning how to make healthy things and take a walk every now and again. People don't educate themselves about food, about sex, about most things and would rather watch Good Morning America and learn about "superfoods" than get the facts. If you're interested you might want to read this, and this, and kudos to you if you're not bothered by it. I'm not prejudice against overweight people, I'm annoyed by lazy people who complain about things that are well within their power to change.
I woke up this morning to an email from my mother that read, and yes I know what I wrote above, but this was just too ridiculous: My friend said she read your blog and she had no idea that you hated her because she was fat. Her feelings were hurt that you wrote those things. I didn't realize that I had singled any one person out. The idea that this person took my blog post so personally is upsetting, it's upsetting that there are people that I don't know who allow blogs written by some girl to offend them. And beside, if I "hate" someone, I'm not going to write a passive-aggressive blog post about it, I believe in confrontation, and the next time that person did something to slight me I would most likely confront them about it.
Anyway, I responded to this email, and I hope that this clears some things up: I don't know which friend you're talking about, but I'm sure I don't hate her. I am just generally annoyed by obese people. Most obesity is not hereditary and is nurture, not nature. Americans are not overweight because it's in our genes, it's because we live in a world of convenience and people don't take time to take care of their bodies. And then when I hear these larger people that don't take care of their bodies in the first place complain about how difficult it is to do things, I have no sympathy. They've made unhealthy choices and are obviously not motivated to make the necessary changes in their lives. It is absurd how large the average person has become in this country.
If Americans as a whole were to change their attitude towards food and eat healthier, exercise more - they would be healthier, fitter, and probably a helluva lot happier. I am in no way advocating that everyone should have a 26 inch waist, just that people should be conscious of what is and isn't healthy and work at keeping their body feeling good. I understand that some people struggle with weight their entire lives while others go years without taking care of their bodies and have it catch up with them later.
I had a roommate who used to always be on diet, but never ate well or exercised. Somehow people have still not figured out that "diets" don't work, but they're probably easier than learning portion control and learning how to make healthy things and take a walk every now and again. People don't educate themselves about food, about sex, about most things and would rather watch Good Morning America and learn about "superfoods" than get the facts. If you're interested you might want to read this, and this, and kudos to you if you're not bothered by it. I'm not prejudice against overweight people, I'm annoyed by lazy people who complain about things that are well within their power to change.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Summervention - Tubing Edition
Two weekends ago I drove from Richmond to DC to go dancing and make out with strangers at my friend's party - which totally didn't happen this time (sad face). Then I drove to Baltimore the next day for dinner, and then I had planned to drive back to Richmond. But I ended up drinking and dancing in the rain in Columbia Heights where it was decided that we, the people currently there, were going to go tubing the following Sunday. I didn't actually think it was going to happen, though since going on the Fourth I've wanted a re-do.
Tuesday rolled around and plans were underway and what started as a drunken suggestion was coming to fruition. (note: Fruition is really fun to say.) Then Saturday morning I got a text message that started "Pt. 1 of 2..." explaining all of the details for the trip. You probably don't care about these details, but these small details are huge. You see, I am a planner. I like planning things. I have always had to be the person to plan anything that I've ever wanted to do. I mean, seriously I have planned every single birthday party I have ever had except for my 18th birthday where my mom attempted to give me a surprise party that turned into a roast, "write down something you've always wanted to say to Amanda, it doesn't have to be a compliment..." THANKS, MOM! Anyway, I have given up on birthdays and generally other people planning things because other people are lazy and prefer to wait around for someone else to do all the work. I got to be one of those lazy people this time. AND included in the plans was a driver and a van "so that everyone can drink." Yes. YES!
So yesterday I picked up a chick and we headed to the van! And the van not-so-quickly filled up with people and soon Brite - that's "beer plus Sprite" (actually Bud Light Lime), was being consumed and Powerade bottles were being emptied as to be filled with mixed drinks later. So everyone got their electrolytes and was fairly hydrated before we hit the river.
Once on the river we managed to not make it to the far, less rocky side like you're supposed to, but we too occupied with making sure that we were close to the coolers. And each rock we came to then became a "bar." Pretty soon we were divided and people had floated away but I fortunately (or unfortunately) was tied to the person tied to a cooler. This made going over and around rocks all the more fun, and as we caught up with people more attached themselves thanks to the rope and knife our Planner had brought.
When the rain came, and the tornado sirens were going off and it was raining harder, we stayed in the river and watched the lightening and finished our bottles of various fun things. It was at some point during the rain that we untied our "crafts" and the cooler tube got away before we were able to close the cooler. The cooler was saved as was an actual Sprite bottle full of vodka. And after that it's mostly a blur, a really fun, messy, painful blur.
I lost my tube at some point and somehow, thankfully, but not really helpfully, the Planner found it and returned it. Because he got back way before me. I'm pretty sure it was the lack of tube that resulted in all of the scrapes and bruises on my body. Except for my feet, they are perfect because I wore these.
Last night when we probably should have showered and sprayed our bodies down with bactine, we didn't. But if we had, our bodies may have felt slightly better this morning. I haven't seen all the spots on my body, but every time I move I feel something new that I didn't know could hurt before. It's all fine, I can deal, except for the gash on the left side of my left middle finger. For all you right handed people, the idea of this happening probably isn't very distressing, but for me I can't properly hold things and my handwriting has been reduced to third-grader scrawl.
The exchanges today have been along the lines of "my body hurts" and the reactions have been "what the hell happened to you?" But the best reaction was my sister who explained to her husband that I looked like "someone locked me in a cage with a rabid cat."
Tuesday rolled around and plans were underway and what started as a drunken suggestion was coming to fruition. (note: Fruition is really fun to say.) Then Saturday morning I got a text message that started "Pt. 1 of 2..." explaining all of the details for the trip. You probably don't care about these details, but these small details are huge. You see, I am a planner. I like planning things. I have always had to be the person to plan anything that I've ever wanted to do. I mean, seriously I have planned every single birthday party I have ever had except for my 18th birthday where my mom attempted to give me a surprise party that turned into a roast, "write down something you've always wanted to say to Amanda, it doesn't have to be a compliment..." THANKS, MOM! Anyway, I have given up on birthdays and generally other people planning things because other people are lazy and prefer to wait around for someone else to do all the work. I got to be one of those lazy people this time. AND included in the plans was a driver and a van "so that everyone can drink." Yes. YES!
So yesterday I picked up a chick and we headed to the van! And the van not-so-quickly filled up with people and soon Brite - that's "beer plus Sprite" (actually Bud Light Lime), was being consumed and Powerade bottles were being emptied as to be filled with mixed drinks later. So everyone got their electrolytes and was fairly hydrated before we hit the river.
Once on the river we managed to not make it to the far, less rocky side like you're supposed to, but we too occupied with making sure that we were close to the coolers. And each rock we came to then became a "bar." Pretty soon we were divided and people had floated away but I fortunately (or unfortunately) was tied to the person tied to a cooler. This made going over and around rocks all the more fun, and as we caught up with people more attached themselves thanks to the rope and knife our Planner had brought.
When the rain came, and the tornado sirens were going off and it was raining harder, we stayed in the river and watched the lightening and finished our bottles of various fun things. It was at some point during the rain that we untied our "crafts" and the cooler tube got away before we were able to close the cooler. The cooler was saved as was an actual Sprite bottle full of vodka. And after that it's mostly a blur, a really fun, messy, painful blur.
I lost my tube at some point and somehow, thankfully, but not really helpfully, the Planner found it and returned it. Because he got back way before me. I'm pretty sure it was the lack of tube that resulted in all of the scrapes and bruises on my body. Except for my feet, they are perfect because I wore these.
Last night when we probably should have showered and sprayed our bodies down with bactine, we didn't. But if we had, our bodies may have felt slightly better this morning. I haven't seen all the spots on my body, but every time I move I feel something new that I didn't know could hurt before. It's all fine, I can deal, except for the gash on the left side of my left middle finger. For all you right handed people, the idea of this happening probably isn't very distressing, but for me I can't properly hold things and my handwriting has been reduced to third-grader scrawl.
The exchanges today have been along the lines of "my body hurts" and the reactions have been "what the hell happened to you?" But the best reaction was my sister who explained to her husband that I looked like "someone locked me in a cage with a rabid cat."
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
on being a girl
On Sunday I wore one of my favorite dresses and as I left one friend to meet another - oh, a walk of about six blocks - a couple of men on bikes made comments and/or whistled at me. The bike part is important.
When I got to the restaurant, I removed my messenger bag that I always have slung across my back. Except this time when I removed it, I felt the back of my dress fall. It had ridden up significantly and those dudes on bikes were kind enough to not tell me. Awesome.
I need to invest in a new bag. Recycled rice bag messenger bags unfortunately don't go with everything. Especially that dress.
Actually that dress doesn't really go with much. When I was in San Francisco I wore it my last day there and as I was walking around Haight Ashbury it repeatedly blew upwards - I had many Marilyn Monroe moments that day. And it was on my way back to my friends place just before I was to leave that a man said, "Nice titties" to me. This dress is in no way provocative, I've had it for two years, and I really like it. But I may need to take a break from wearing it for awhile.
Though, the most important lesson to be learned here is that you should always wear cute underwear. You just never know who may inadvertently be seeing them.
When I got to the restaurant, I removed my messenger bag that I always have slung across my back. Except this time when I removed it, I felt the back of my dress fall. It had ridden up significantly and those dudes on bikes were kind enough to not tell me. Awesome.
I need to invest in a new bag. Recycled rice bag messenger bags unfortunately don't go with everything. Especially that dress.
Actually that dress doesn't really go with much. When I was in San Francisco I wore it my last day there and as I was walking around Haight Ashbury it repeatedly blew upwards - I had many Marilyn Monroe moments that day. And it was on my way back to my friends place just before I was to leave that a man said, "Nice titties" to me. This dress is in no way provocative, I've had it for two years, and I really like it. But I may need to take a break from wearing it for awhile.
Though, the most important lesson to be learned here is that you should always wear cute underwear. You just never know who may inadvertently be seeing them.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
the closest I've ever come to getting arrested
A few weeks ago I got a ticket for having my front headlight out. A total bullshit offense, right? I mean, I wasn't speeding, or swerving or remotely causing anyone harm. I AM NOT A VIOLENT PERSON. Just because I say "I'm going to punch (fill in the blank) in the face" all the time does not mean I would actually do it. For the record, I have never punched anyone, and I've only slapped two people ever - my friends older brother when we were like thirteen because he was being a dick, and a dude that I was totally not seeing last year for being a dick (after getting into a fight with me, it's best to apologize before making certain other remarks). Anyway, the ticket. I was issued a ticket for something other than being a crap driver, because I am not a crap driver. I am a fantastic driver, aggressive, slightly, but totally safe.
Completely unrelated: Since getting my front end suspension replaced earlier this year, my car totally doesn't shake anymore when I hit 70. And if I go faster (NEVER!) it still doesn't shake. YAY!
So, today was my court date. I woke up and took a shower and put on a cute vintage dress with cute sandals, and did not have to do my hair because !!! it is finally a length where it looks good when it air-dries! Anyway, I looked really cute today because court, like church, is an opportunity to boost my already extraordinarily inflated ego because I know that the likelihood of me looking cuter than most of the people around me is really high. Most days this frustrates me, I mean why don't people put in a little more effort?
I've been in a weird mood today, and apparently I'm taking it out on everything intangible.
I left my apartment with ample time to find parking, I thought. I was so wrong. I drove around for a fucking hour looking for a fucking parking spot. By the time I finally found a spot, I was half an hour late for court. Then I had to go through security. I had prepared myself for this part. I took everything that I knew was in my purse and not allowed in the courthouse out and left it in my car - my iPod, my phone, the granola bar. Apparently I had a spoon and the hardware from my curtain rod, a bottle of nail polish and my ipod headphones in my purse. And apparently, despite it not being listed anywhere (save the glass bottle of nail polish), those items are not allowed and I had to take them back to my car.
By this point I was really upset, but trying to retain my composure. This is something I am terrible at, what with all the crying I do. And then I read the sign above the door stating what is and isn't allowed in the courthouse, and it did not say anything about extraneous pieces of metal or headphones. Ugh. So, you know what I did? I threw my keys at the sign. At some point or another, I will throw my keys at everything. And if my phone happens to be in my hand, I throw that too.
A cop saw me do this and wouldn't let me go back inside because I was "hysterical." And he was "unsure" of what I might do once inside. Ummm... let's rewind for a moment, I'm a cute girl in a cute dress and I'm crying and yeah, I threw my keys. And this fucko was worried about me hurting someone. Seriously? Yes, and then another officer came outside and asked me what happened and I told him that apparently throwing my keys at a sign is illegal. To which he said "yes..." as though it was common knowledge. They went on to explain that I needed to calm down and that throwing something at government property could be considered vandalism, blahblahblah, and then they told me to calm down again. And Officer 2 explained that if I didn't calm down Officer 1 could arrest me. Arrest me? Amanda Pittman? The crying girl who just wanted to go to court to get her ticket dismissed? And they wonder why everyone hates them.
After this incident I had to go through security again, where I was told yet again to calm down. Like crying is a fucking crime. I cry, OKAY! I turned to the officer and told him that I would appreciate it if he didn't talk to me anymore because telling me repeatedly to calm down was in no way helping the situation. He stopped.
I found my way to the right room and they were on the Gs. Whew. So I pulled out my book and read for a full twenty minutes before another officer told me to put my book away. Seriously. I closed my book, but that wasn't good enough, no, I had to put it in my purse under the bench. I was still crying at this point, not for any particular reason, but because sometimes I just can't stop. Ugh. So I sat there silently making sure that the officer could see every scowl I cast in his direction until it was finally my turn. Though, I first had to listen to an officer and a defendant argue about french fries - true story. The officer said the defendant had McDonald's and the defendant claimed his fries were from Five Guys. Finally it was my turn and the charge was dismissed.
Finally.
Just when I was kindasorta starting to like Richmond, they had to remind me why I thought this city was stupid in the first place. This is why.
Completely unrelated: Since getting my front end suspension replaced earlier this year, my car totally doesn't shake anymore when I hit 70. And if I go faster (NEVER!) it still doesn't shake. YAY!
So, today was my court date. I woke up and took a shower and put on a cute vintage dress with cute sandals, and did not have to do my hair because !!! it is finally a length where it looks good when it air-dries! Anyway, I looked really cute today because court, like church, is an opportunity to boost my already extraordinarily inflated ego because I know that the likelihood of me looking cuter than most of the people around me is really high. Most days this frustrates me, I mean why don't people put in a little more effort?
I've been in a weird mood today, and apparently I'm taking it out on everything intangible.
I left my apartment with ample time to find parking, I thought. I was so wrong. I drove around for a fucking hour looking for a fucking parking spot. By the time I finally found a spot, I was half an hour late for court. Then I had to go through security. I had prepared myself for this part. I took everything that I knew was in my purse and not allowed in the courthouse out and left it in my car - my iPod, my phone, the granola bar. Apparently I had a spoon and the hardware from my curtain rod, a bottle of nail polish and my ipod headphones in my purse. And apparently, despite it not being listed anywhere (save the glass bottle of nail polish), those items are not allowed and I had to take them back to my car.
By this point I was really upset, but trying to retain my composure. This is something I am terrible at, what with all the crying I do. And then I read the sign above the door stating what is and isn't allowed in the courthouse, and it did not say anything about extraneous pieces of metal or headphones. Ugh. So, you know what I did? I threw my keys at the sign. At some point or another, I will throw my keys at everything. And if my phone happens to be in my hand, I throw that too.
A cop saw me do this and wouldn't let me go back inside because I was "hysterical." And he was "unsure" of what I might do once inside. Ummm... let's rewind for a moment, I'm a cute girl in a cute dress and I'm crying and yeah, I threw my keys. And this fucko was worried about me hurting someone. Seriously? Yes, and then another officer came outside and asked me what happened and I told him that apparently throwing my keys at a sign is illegal. To which he said "yes..." as though it was common knowledge. They went on to explain that I needed to calm down and that throwing something at government property could be considered vandalism, blahblahblah, and then they told me to calm down again. And Officer 2 explained that if I didn't calm down Officer 1 could arrest me. Arrest me? Amanda Pittman? The crying girl who just wanted to go to court to get her ticket dismissed? And they wonder why everyone hates them.
After this incident I had to go through security again, where I was told yet again to calm down. Like crying is a fucking crime. I cry, OKAY! I turned to the officer and told him that I would appreciate it if he didn't talk to me anymore because telling me repeatedly to calm down was in no way helping the situation. He stopped.
I found my way to the right room and they were on the Gs. Whew. So I pulled out my book and read for a full twenty minutes before another officer told me to put my book away. Seriously. I closed my book, but that wasn't good enough, no, I had to put it in my purse under the bench. I was still crying at this point, not for any particular reason, but because sometimes I just can't stop. Ugh. So I sat there silently making sure that the officer could see every scowl I cast in his direction until it was finally my turn. Though, I first had to listen to an officer and a defendant argue about french fries - true story. The officer said the defendant had McDonald's and the defendant claimed his fries were from Five Guys. Finally it was my turn and the charge was dismissed.
Finally.
Just when I was kindasorta starting to like Richmond, they had to remind me why I thought this city was stupid in the first place. This is why.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Cartwheel Fail!
"I'm running late. I may or may not have fallen..."
"You are too old to be scraping your knees."
"Drinking wine and then doing cartwheels is a bad idea."
"Duh."
"But I'm usually coordinated enough to do relatively simple, fun tasks on whims."
"Did you skin your knee?"
"And my hands."
"How did you do that?"
"I did a cartwheel that started on the grass and ended on the sidewalk."
"Was there alcohol involved?"
"Yes..."
"Well I wasn't sure what was happening. One minute you were walking beside me, the next you were like, falling in slow motion, and I couldn't do anything at that point."
"My knee! Watch the knee!"
"How does my face look?"
"Beautiful."
There was this one time, not at all related to the above, where my sister thought it was a good idea to do a cartwheel on my bed and got her foot stuck in the wall. Unfortunately we have neither cartwheel incident on video, so I found this instead.
And this:
"You are too old to be scraping your knees."
"Drinking wine and then doing cartwheels is a bad idea."
"Duh."
"But I'm usually coordinated enough to do relatively simple, fun tasks on whims."
"Did you skin your knee?"
"And my hands."
"How did you do that?"
"I did a cartwheel that started on the grass and ended on the sidewalk."
"Was there alcohol involved?"
"Yes..."
"Well I wasn't sure what was happening. One minute you were walking beside me, the next you were like, falling in slow motion, and I couldn't do anything at that point."
"My knee! Watch the knee!"
"How does my face look?"
"Beautiful."
There was this one time, not at all related to the above, where my sister thought it was a good idea to do a cartwheel on my bed and got her foot stuck in the wall. Unfortunately we have neither cartwheel incident on video, so I found this instead.
And this:
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Among Other Things
I had the following exchange Sunday morning. My friend who was crashing at my place is Jewish and had complained about his roommate who kept texting him Easter related things. He also made me watch part of some basketball game Saturday night. Apparently my lack of interest in televised sports is a character flaw.
Dude: Do you know what today is?
Me: The day Jesus rose from the grave?
Dude: No. It's the first day of baseball season.
I should probably start feigning interest in sports more. It's not that I don't like them, I do like them, I would just rather be watching them in person. I can only watch volleyball and figure skating on tv and sometimes Premier League Football (because of all the faux-Europeans I know in DC) and sometimes swimming, but that's only men's swimming. Have you ever met a male swimmer that was out of shape? Exactly.
And tonight I met with a classmate to work on our project for PoliSci. We had never really talked before and we ended up talking for awhile. He uses Linux. And is an only child. And knows a hell of a lot more about what's going on in Gaza right now than I do. Our project is about that particular conflict, more specifically Ehud Barak, but that's all beside the point. We were talking about parties in Richmond, or how loud the Fan is or something when this exchange happened:
Dude: My neighbor called the cops on me the other night...
Me: That's odd, what for?
Dude: Acetone doesn't burn at a very high temperature......
Me: ...
Dude: ...it's not like gasoline...
Me: I have no idea what you are going on about.
Dude: I set this dude on fire..
Me:..
Dude: Well not really him, but his pants.
Me: I can't tell if you're being serious or not.
Dude: It was acetone, he was fine, I've done it before.
Umm...hilarious? Awesome?
And then I went to see the Screaming Females and Antlers, but it was sold out. At Gallery 5. The place has a capacity of 150, but I have been there several times before and it has never had more than fifty people in attendance. People in Richmond never pay for shows unless it's something huge at The National. And even then, if it sells out before the day of it's because people from everywhere except for Richmond bought tickets after the show in their city sold out (think Spoon, Wilco, Morrissey, My Bloody Valentine, etc.). Anyway, bummer.
So I went to my sister's to pick up the remainder of my laundry that I had started at her house earlier today. And she, being with child, decided to read to me from all the check-lists and pamphlets her doctor had given her. She has decided to have a natural birth.
April: Ten centimeters? Why is that the magic number? I don't want to start pushing until eleven.
Me: Well, that's roughly five inches, and that's about the diameter of a baby's head.
April: No. Have you seen my head? My baby is going to have a big head.
Me: But what about your husband?
April: No, my head has always been big. Have you seen my baby pictures? My baby is going to have a big head.
...
April: Mom is going to want to be in the room.
Me: I thought you didn't want her there.
April: It's going to be your job to remove her when I get annoyed.
...
April: Having a kid is going to be so hard.
Me: Are you just now realizing this?
April: Yes. Do you want it?
Me: No. I am quite happy being childless at the moment.
April: Oh.
Me: Why did you want one?
April: I thought it would be fun.
Me: No way. It's going to be hard and terrible. But kids are the opportunity to put the best of yourself into the world.
April: That's true. Who told you that?
Me: No one. That's why I want to have kids, one day.
Everyone in my immediate family will be a parent by the end of this year except for me. Currently I don't want to have kids until I'm at least thirty. April keeps telling me that I'll change my mind in an effort to "catch up" with my siblings. This may end up being true. I am younger than all of them by at least eight years - my whole life has been an attempt to catch up with them. It hasn't mattered though. To them I will always be five, or at least the age they were when they moved out.
I also want to spend my twenties moving every couple years. I mean, I grew up in the same house for the first eighteen years of my life, I should see something different. The life I want, or have slightly planned in no way includes other people. I want to be out or Richmond by 2012, and hopefully move to Austin, but that as well as everything else is tentative. Maybe I'll move to Topeka and write about Westboro Baptist Church, or to Tombstone and be a tour guide at the OK Corral, or Montreal and learn Canadian French, or Stolkholm and form a Swedish-pop band, or to Sicily and drunkenly marry a beautiful man who doesn't speak English, or to Russia and drink lots of vodka and pretend to be Julie Christie in Dr. Zhivago, or to Fiji because I don't know anyone who has ever been there, or Iceland just to be the new girl.
Or anywhere and be Julie Christie. You should Netflix Billy Liar, especially if you're a Morrissey fan.
"She's crazy, she just enjoys herself."
Story of my life:
Dude: Do you know what today is?
Me: The day Jesus rose from the grave?
Dude: No. It's the first day of baseball season.
I should probably start feigning interest in sports more. It's not that I don't like them, I do like them, I would just rather be watching them in person. I can only watch volleyball and figure skating on tv and sometimes Premier League Football (because of all the faux-Europeans I know in DC) and sometimes swimming, but that's only men's swimming. Have you ever met a male swimmer that was out of shape? Exactly.
And tonight I met with a classmate to work on our project for PoliSci. We had never really talked before and we ended up talking for awhile. He uses Linux. And is an only child. And knows a hell of a lot more about what's going on in Gaza right now than I do. Our project is about that particular conflict, more specifically Ehud Barak, but that's all beside the point. We were talking about parties in Richmond, or how loud the Fan is or something when this exchange happened:
Dude: My neighbor called the cops on me the other night...
Me: That's odd, what for?
Dude: Acetone doesn't burn at a very high temperature......
Me: ...
Dude: ...it's not like gasoline...
Me: I have no idea what you are going on about.
Dude: I set this dude on fire..
Me:..
Dude: Well not really him, but his pants.
Me: I can't tell if you're being serious or not.
Dude: It was acetone, he was fine, I've done it before.
Umm...hilarious? Awesome?
And then I went to see the Screaming Females and Antlers, but it was sold out. At Gallery 5. The place has a capacity of 150, but I have been there several times before and it has never had more than fifty people in attendance. People in Richmond never pay for shows unless it's something huge at The National. And even then, if it sells out before the day of it's because people from everywhere except for Richmond bought tickets after the show in their city sold out (think Spoon, Wilco, Morrissey, My Bloody Valentine, etc.). Anyway, bummer.
So I went to my sister's to pick up the remainder of my laundry that I had started at her house earlier today. And she, being with child, decided to read to me from all the check-lists and pamphlets her doctor had given her. She has decided to have a natural birth.
April: Ten centimeters? Why is that the magic number? I don't want to start pushing until eleven.
Me: Well, that's roughly five inches, and that's about the diameter of a baby's head.
April: No. Have you seen my head? My baby is going to have a big head.
Me: But what about your husband?
April: No, my head has always been big. Have you seen my baby pictures? My baby is going to have a big head.
...
April: Mom is going to want to be in the room.
Me: I thought you didn't want her there.
April: It's going to be your job to remove her when I get annoyed.
...
April: Having a kid is going to be so hard.
Me: Are you just now realizing this?
April: Yes. Do you want it?
Me: No. I am quite happy being childless at the moment.
April: Oh.
Me: Why did you want one?
April: I thought it would be fun.
Me: No way. It's going to be hard and terrible. But kids are the opportunity to put the best of yourself into the world.
April: That's true. Who told you that?
Me: No one. That's why I want to have kids, one day.
Everyone in my immediate family will be a parent by the end of this year except for me. Currently I don't want to have kids until I'm at least thirty. April keeps telling me that I'll change my mind in an effort to "catch up" with my siblings. This may end up being true. I am younger than all of them by at least eight years - my whole life has been an attempt to catch up with them. It hasn't mattered though. To them I will always be five, or at least the age they were when they moved out.
I also want to spend my twenties moving every couple years. I mean, I grew up in the same house for the first eighteen years of my life, I should see something different. The life I want, or have slightly planned in no way includes other people. I want to be out or Richmond by 2012, and hopefully move to Austin, but that as well as everything else is tentative. Maybe I'll move to Topeka and write about Westboro Baptist Church, or to Tombstone and be a tour guide at the OK Corral, or Montreal and learn Canadian French, or Stolkholm and form a Swedish-pop band, or to Sicily and drunkenly marry a beautiful man who doesn't speak English, or to Russia and drink lots of vodka and pretend to be Julie Christie in Dr. Zhivago, or to Fiji because I don't know anyone who has ever been there, or Iceland just to be the new girl.
Or anywhere and be Julie Christie. You should Netflix Billy Liar, especially if you're a Morrissey fan.
"She's crazy, she just enjoys herself."
Story of my life:
Monday, March 22, 2010
Airport Departure: Part 1
I am sitting in the airport in Austin, Texas. I am at the same gate that I was at seven hours ago. The same gate that my 6:55 am flight left from. The same flight that I missed due to the longest security line I have ever seen. Guys, I'm from Washington, DC, the capital of security. I mean, really, this line was out the door, down a block or so and then back again. Over an hour in a security line, and now I'm stranded in this airport, at this gate, where there is a woman wearing pajamas waiting for a standby flight for herself and her 16 month old son. The pajamas. Ohdeargod, sure this isn't 1964, I don't expect people to dress up, but pajamas in public are unacceptable.
Really, I don't care that much, but am projecting my frustration towards her. And the Delta worker's makeup. One lady had on an awful shade of reddish-brown eyeshadow on, but only had it on half of the eyelid and did not blend it with anything. Another lady lined her lips in a similar shade, but filled it in with a shimmery pink. Ugh. Unless you're Middle Eastern, you probably don't have the complexion to wear those shades appropriately.
I wish it was 1964 and all the stewardesses were still stewardesses and not flight attendants and were really good looking and wore those awesome uniforms designed by someone in the fashion industry and not someone who took sewing in Home Economics in the seventh grade. In my perfect world they would also be wearing fabulous shoes, and not flats with white socks.
I need a hug.
I couldn't sleep last night because I was worried about over sleeping. Then I had this awful dream about going to South by Southwest (SXSW), and in the dream I kept having horrible things happen to me that would have probably prevented me from going to SXSW, but in my dream I was intrepid and invincible and shameless - there was definitely a make-out break in my dream, you know, between car accidents and catastrophes. Apparently making-out is something that I value, a lot. (Hi, Dad. If you are reading this, please know that I only kiss Aryan looking, return missionaries who are officers in the Armed Forces.)
Anyway, I woke up well before my scheduled wake-up call, and tried to sleep some more, but it didn't work. Then the call came and then my phone's alarm went off. I was out the door by about 5:10 am. I walked to the bus stop where the Airport Flyer was supposed to pick me up, but it was late. I was trying to save money. I mean, the bus was only a dollar, a taxi would have been about thirty plus a tip. I should have made plans for the earlier bus, but I honestly thought an hour would be fine. I was sorely mistaken, and now, because I didn't pay full price for my ticket I am not a top priority.
I have talked to everyone this morning - my mom, dad, boy, other boy, girl, etc. And of course there is nothing that any of them can do except offer some level of empathy. My parents are worried, boy 1 was empathetic and in a different airport, boy 2 was in same airport but his flight was leaving on time, and girl has offered to pick me up in Richmond whenever I get back. It's too bad my brother is a pilot for American and not Delta, I don't know if he could do anything for my cause, but it would at least be a start. Here, I have nothing.
So, I have read and slept and paid eight dollars for internet access so that I didn't completely lose it. And now there is some dude who keeps looking at me. I want him to stop it.
I should probably start my SXSW write-ups or do some homework, but I am a zombie and in no condition to do anything productive.
Really, I don't care that much, but am projecting my frustration towards her. And the Delta worker's makeup. One lady had on an awful shade of reddish-brown eyeshadow on, but only had it on half of the eyelid and did not blend it with anything. Another lady lined her lips in a similar shade, but filled it in with a shimmery pink. Ugh. Unless you're Middle Eastern, you probably don't have the complexion to wear those shades appropriately.
I wish it was 1964 and all the stewardesses were still stewardesses and not flight attendants and were really good looking and wore those awesome uniforms designed by someone in the fashion industry and not someone who took sewing in Home Economics in the seventh grade. In my perfect world they would also be wearing fabulous shoes, and not flats with white socks.
I need a hug.
I couldn't sleep last night because I was worried about over sleeping. Then I had this awful dream about going to South by Southwest (SXSW), and in the dream I kept having horrible things happen to me that would have probably prevented me from going to SXSW, but in my dream I was intrepid and invincible and shameless - there was definitely a make-out break in my dream, you know, between car accidents and catastrophes. Apparently making-out is something that I value, a lot. (Hi, Dad. If you are reading this, please know that I only kiss Aryan looking, return missionaries who are officers in the Armed Forces.)
Anyway, I woke up well before my scheduled wake-up call, and tried to sleep some more, but it didn't work. Then the call came and then my phone's alarm went off. I was out the door by about 5:10 am. I walked to the bus stop where the Airport Flyer was supposed to pick me up, but it was late. I was trying to save money. I mean, the bus was only a dollar, a taxi would have been about thirty plus a tip. I should have made plans for the earlier bus, but I honestly thought an hour would be fine. I was sorely mistaken, and now, because I didn't pay full price for my ticket I am not a top priority.
I have talked to everyone this morning - my mom, dad, boy, other boy, girl, etc. And of course there is nothing that any of them can do except offer some level of empathy. My parents are worried, boy 1 was empathetic and in a different airport, boy 2 was in same airport but his flight was leaving on time, and girl has offered to pick me up in Richmond whenever I get back. It's too bad my brother is a pilot for American and not Delta, I don't know if he could do anything for my cause, but it would at least be a start. Here, I have nothing.
So, I have read and slept and paid eight dollars for internet access so that I didn't completely lose it. And now there is some dude who keeps looking at me. I want him to stop it.
I should probably start my SXSW write-ups or do some homework, but I am a zombie and in no condition to do anything productive.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
So Classy
A little over a week ago, when I drove to Northern Virginia to be with my family, whom I love, my car wanted to die. Okay, not die in the stop-working kind of die, but the if-I-had-the-capacity-to-make-decisions-I-would-stop-and-strangle-my-operator. When I arrived and had finished digging out a parking spot for my car with my brother, Joseph, he pointed out that I had something dragging under my car.
I did hear something on the way up, but I figured it was just the sound of chunks of ice hitting my car from the road. It wasn't, well it was, but it was also the sound of a giant piece of torn plastic scraping against the road. Awesome.
The cover of the bottom of my engine cracked and subsequently tore. Fortunately it wasn't affecting the engine, it just made an awful sound whenever I drove anywhere. I drove around like this for a week; it wasn't until Saturday that other people started to take notice.
Saturday was the first day that the weather was nice and people were out and the ice had mostly melted, and I could not stop at a stop sign or light without everyone in the general vicinity looking to see where that godawful noise was coming from. Some even knocked on my window to let me know, as if I was unaware. I assured them everything was fine, I just hadn't had a chance to cut it off. But one lady was insistent on having me pull over so that something could be done. She, while I was stopped at a red light, got down in front of my car and started fiddling with the plastic. Really. So, I put my hazard lights on and got out and tried to explain that I lived three blocks away, and that my engine was fine, and...her bus finally came.
I then drove all the way to DC with that flap sounding the entire way, and probably tearing more as I drove over ten inch thick slabs of ice down T Street. No one in DC said anything though, because like me originally, they probably just thought it was the sound of ice - or didn't care. This is something I appreciate about the people in DC.
After tiring of looking for parking, I parked a good ten blocks away from the Cat and made my way to Mousetrap. There, I ended up offering a ride to a chick who had Metro-ed in. But, the Metro closed early, so she would have had to take a cab out to Northern Virginia, and it was kind of on the way to my parent's house. (Note: I didn't tell my parents that I was coming.)
As we made our way down 14th Street, a cute guy knocked on my passenger's window. I thought he was going to tell me about my plastic situation, but he didn't he offered me twenty bucks to drive him and his brother to Glover Park because they were tired of trying for a cab. I looked to the girl, the very wide-eyed, nervous looking girl, then to the cute guy and said yes. Mind you, this girl, we don't really know each other. At all. And I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm insane. That's okay.
The brothers scooted in and we were on our way. And the window-knocking one, he was really cute, and he thought I was really cute, and he lives in Manhattan. Story of my life. When we got to their stop, they invited us in. I being the one flirting mercilessly was game, Girlie-friend was not. She said she was just going to call a cab, but I'm a woman of my word and exchanged numbers with Mr. Manhattan and took her home. Scraping the entire way.
The next afternoon, when I finally woke up, my parents complained about the plastic still hanging off my car. But I thought the idea of paying someone to cut it off was absurd, so I took a pair of hedge trimmers, put on my mom's Ugg-knock-offs (that used to be mine, and then I learned better, and then she kept them when I was going to give them to Goodwill), and squatted in my mini skirt to cut the thing off.
I did hear something on the way up, but I figured it was just the sound of chunks of ice hitting my car from the road. It wasn't, well it was, but it was also the sound of a giant piece of torn plastic scraping against the road. Awesome.
The cover of the bottom of my engine cracked and subsequently tore. Fortunately it wasn't affecting the engine, it just made an awful sound whenever I drove anywhere. I drove around like this for a week; it wasn't until Saturday that other people started to take notice.
Saturday was the first day that the weather was nice and people were out and the ice had mostly melted, and I could not stop at a stop sign or light without everyone in the general vicinity looking to see where that godawful noise was coming from. Some even knocked on my window to let me know, as if I was unaware. I assured them everything was fine, I just hadn't had a chance to cut it off. But one lady was insistent on having me pull over so that something could be done. She, while I was stopped at a red light, got down in front of my car and started fiddling with the plastic. Really. So, I put my hazard lights on and got out and tried to explain that I lived three blocks away, and that my engine was fine, and...her bus finally came.
I then drove all the way to DC with that flap sounding the entire way, and probably tearing more as I drove over ten inch thick slabs of ice down T Street. No one in DC said anything though, because like me originally, they probably just thought it was the sound of ice - or didn't care. This is something I appreciate about the people in DC.
After tiring of looking for parking, I parked a good ten blocks away from the Cat and made my way to Mousetrap. There, I ended up offering a ride to a chick who had Metro-ed in. But, the Metro closed early, so she would have had to take a cab out to Northern Virginia, and it was kind of on the way to my parent's house. (Note: I didn't tell my parents that I was coming.)
As we made our way down 14th Street, a cute guy knocked on my passenger's window. I thought he was going to tell me about my plastic situation, but he didn't he offered me twenty bucks to drive him and his brother to Glover Park because they were tired of trying for a cab. I looked to the girl, the very wide-eyed, nervous looking girl, then to the cute guy and said yes. Mind you, this girl, we don't really know each other. At all. And I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm insane. That's okay.
The brothers scooted in and we were on our way. And the window-knocking one, he was really cute, and he thought I was really cute, and he lives in Manhattan. Story of my life. When we got to their stop, they invited us in. I being the one flirting mercilessly was game, Girlie-friend was not. She said she was just going to call a cab, but I'm a woman of my word and exchanged numbers with Mr. Manhattan and took her home. Scraping the entire way.
The next afternoon, when I finally woke up, my parents complained about the plastic still hanging off my car. But I thought the idea of paying someone to cut it off was absurd, so I took a pair of hedge trimmers, put on my mom's Ugg-knock-offs (that used to be mine, and then I learned better, and then she kept them when I was going to give them to Goodwill), and squatted in my mini skirt to cut the thing off.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I must suffer and cry for a longer time
I don't believe that black cats, or broken mirrors, or stepping on cracks cause bad luck. I am not usually supersticious. But as of October 5, 2009, something has happened. That day my thirteen month old Compaq computer fritzed out. It was exactly a monthy over warranty and fixing it would have cost the same as buying a new computer, so my daddy-who-loves-me bought me a Dell - the same computer I had requested a year earlier, but he bought the Compaq because it was cheaper...On that day in October my dad got a phone call detailing how upset I was (in addition to a thousand other things that had gone wrong that week). I proceeded to have a panic attack and sit on the loveseat for the next four hours.
Two weeks later my new Dell made everything better, until...
Halloween. I don't ever leave my Ipod in my car over night, and I never leave it visible in my car when I do leave it there. I have this weird feeling that I should never have all my "valuables" on me at the same time. Like, what's worse, getting mugged or having your car broken into? And if either happens, which is more likely? And how horrible would it be if I was mugged and had everything in my bag/car robbed and left everything in my car?
Anyway, Halloween, some friends and I parked and walked to a friend's apartment and I left my Ipod in my car, because I'm stupid and we hadn't been listening to it, and it was still in hiding, and I was preoccupied with a multitude of other things, like getting out of my blistering heels and into jammies. Though, I did make sure that all the doors to my car were locked. Fastforward to Monday morning when I discovered that my car had been broken into, and of course the Ipod was gone, as was the shitty adapter (I had been meaning to replace the adapter anyways). I spent the next few hours calling all the pawnshops, getting yelled at by the people that work in them (Really, you work at a pawnshop, who are you to judge me? Assholes.), and filing a police report. It ended with me on a friend's cathair covered couch watching christmas movies.
Then, last Friday, Black Friday, my brand new Dell Inspiron computer's hard drive went kaput. Six weeks. SIX WEEKS! That is how long I had it and it died. But, it was under warranty, and today I got the new hard drive in the mail, and was able to put in my computer myself. And let me say, Dell's technical support and generally how the company operates is so much better than Compaq. I still had to call Comcast to set up my internet, again, and the last three months have generally been a shit storm, but here's to hoping it's over.
Only some strange strike of horrible luck could explain this. I like to blame my Irish heritage.
And as a constant reminder of why something fabulous hasn't happened yet, the always wise Morrissey. This song fixes just about everything.
Two weeks later my new Dell made everything better, until...
Halloween. I don't ever leave my Ipod in my car over night, and I never leave it visible in my car when I do leave it there. I have this weird feeling that I should never have all my "valuables" on me at the same time. Like, what's worse, getting mugged or having your car broken into? And if either happens, which is more likely? And how horrible would it be if I was mugged and had everything in my bag/car robbed and left everything in my car?
Anyway, Halloween, some friends and I parked and walked to a friend's apartment and I left my Ipod in my car, because I'm stupid and we hadn't been listening to it, and it was still in hiding, and I was preoccupied with a multitude of other things, like getting out of my blistering heels and into jammies. Though, I did make sure that all the doors to my car were locked. Fastforward to Monday morning when I discovered that my car had been broken into, and of course the Ipod was gone, as was the shitty adapter (I had been meaning to replace the adapter anyways). I spent the next few hours calling all the pawnshops, getting yelled at by the people that work in them (Really, you work at a pawnshop, who are you to judge me? Assholes.), and filing a police report. It ended with me on a friend's cathair covered couch watching christmas movies.
Then, last Friday, Black Friday, my brand new Dell Inspiron computer's hard drive went kaput. Six weeks. SIX WEEKS! That is how long I had it and it died. But, it was under warranty, and today I got the new hard drive in the mail, and was able to put in my computer myself. And let me say, Dell's technical support and generally how the company operates is so much better than Compaq. I still had to call Comcast to set up my internet, again, and the last three months have generally been a shit storm, but here's to hoping it's over.
Only some strange strike of horrible luck could explain this. I like to blame my Irish heritage.
And as a constant reminder of why something fabulous hasn't happened yet, the always wise Morrissey. This song fixes just about everything.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
I have six email addresses
After I helped my sister remove wallpaper from her new house a couple weeks ago, I decided that I was going to start a wallpaper removal business this summer. I mean, I was suprisingly good at it and I could use the money, and Richmond is probably full of ugly houses that could use my help. A couple days ago I decided to create a Craigslist post advertising my service, and I created a new Gmail account specifically for it. Somehow my login email address for blogger changed to the new one without my knowledge. And it's taken me two days to figure it out.
Sorry, I've been away. I'll catch up, probably tomorrow, when I'm not studying for my Biology final.
Sorry, I've been away. I'll catch up, probably tomorrow, when I'm not studying for my Biology final.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
let's talk about that thing that makes you and you're mom really uncomfortable
Today I had to give a presentation in Focused Inquiry about a topic I've been researching for a paper that's due next Monday. I am usually late for this class due to my living on the other campus and the fact that parking is virtually non-existant. Because parking always takes forever, I decided to take the bus. I knew that it came at 11:56 am and that it was supposed to come every ten minutes. So, logically this means that if I get out there by 11:40 I should be able to get on the earlier bus. WRONG! Instead I waited for about twenty minutes for a very full bus. I was luckily able to squeeze in and was just as late for class as I would have been had I decided to drive. Ugh.
My topic was "hooking up culture" - SURPRISE! Because I don't talk about sex and sex-related things enough already. Just about everyone else chose some political issue, or some historical figure. I care about those things, and don't mind reading about them, or hearing people debate about them, but listening to a nineteen year old list off their sources mostly without an explanation of why they chose their topic or why I should give a damn (despite whether or not I do already) become monotonous fast.
Anyway, my presentation was...lively? I'm not sure exactly what the right word is, but the class was definitely paying attention, even if they were uncomfortable. I'm not really sure how I'm so comfortable with it, I mean my parents are Mormon and my mom likes to pretend that people don't have sex.
I'm thinking about changing my major to international affairs, or something. I would really love to travel around and talk to people of both genders and all ages about sex and safety, etc. I'm not really sure where I would work, obviously a non-profit, and I'd still like to write, so we'll see. Someone was telling me about NYU's Sexology graduate program. Definitely something I'm going to look into.
My topic was "hooking up culture" - SURPRISE! Because I don't talk about sex and sex-related things enough already. Just about everyone else chose some political issue, or some historical figure. I care about those things, and don't mind reading about them, or hearing people debate about them, but listening to a nineteen year old list off their sources mostly without an explanation of why they chose their topic or why I should give a damn (despite whether or not I do already) become monotonous fast.
Anyway, my presentation was...lively? I'm not sure exactly what the right word is, but the class was definitely paying attention, even if they were uncomfortable. I'm not really sure how I'm so comfortable with it, I mean my parents are Mormon and my mom likes to pretend that people don't have sex.
I'm thinking about changing my major to international affairs, or something. I would really love to travel around and talk to people of both genders and all ages about sex and safety, etc. I'm not really sure where I would work, obviously a non-profit, and I'd still like to write, so we'll see. Someone was telling me about NYU's Sexology graduate program. Definitely something I'm going to look into.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
flushed down the drain
Have you ever recieved an invitation to a group on Facebook titled "I lost all my phone numbers..." ? Yeah, me too. But that's not my problem. I like all of those people dropped my phone in the toilet. Well, actually, it feel out of the torn pocket of my hoodie. And I usually keep my phone in my pant's pocket, but of course today I didn't, and of course this happened. Ugh.
After I retrieved it, and rather quickly I may add, I dried it off with a paper towel and then rinsed it off with a damp one, AND THEN I took it apart and used a blow drier to make sure it was really, really dry. I called my roommate to make sure that it still worked, and it did, but then it didn't as well. So I quickly jotted down all of my numbers in my address book, you know, just in case.
Well, THANK BABY JESUS, because now my keyboard isn't operational. My phone will still turn on and off and the time is still correct, but that is the only key that works. I'm hoping that this is a temporary thing, but I doubt it and I'm going to get it checked out tomorrow.
This is ridiculous, it's like having a sick child. I am at a complete loss. I'm mostly upset that I've lost all my text messages because THAT IS HOW PATHETICALLY SENTIMENTAL I AM. But there's nothing I can do about it now, and I suppose this isn't a horrible thing, and I will totally get over it. Totally.
Monday, March 30, 2009
let's pretend that this is totally legal
On the Monday after Thanksgiving I was driving back to Richmond in an effort to be on time for my 10 AM class (I have since given up on 10 AM classes). In Hanover, Virginia I was pulled over for speeding at about a quarter after nine. I'll admit, I was not nice to this officer, and when I couldn't make myself cry I resorted to being bitter. Pathetic, I know. He ended up giving me a ticket and I ended up telling him what a horrible person he was/is.
In January I went to court to try and get out the ticket, or at least get it reduced in some way. I was very polite and smiled a lot and the judge admitted that he shouldn't, but allowed me to go to a driving clinic rather than get more points on my driving record. Apparently you're not supposed to be allowed to go twice with in a year, especially when you've gotten four tickets in two years.
If you've ever been to a driver's clinic before you know how awful they are. I mean, really awful. The first time I went was in Alexandria to some place my friend Sam had been to. It was a room about the size of my dorm filled with about twenty people and a TV. It was hot and the instructor was a very irate Pakistani guy. We sat and watched videos and did busy-work for eight hours.
This time around I thought I'd check the DMV website. I looked for the one closest to me, called, made an appointment (or thought I did) and didn't think too much of it. There were several locations listed and when I had talked to the guy about it he didn't specify a location. This was a huge mistake, I assumed, wrongly (as I usually do) that because the location was listed on the DMV website, that it met weekly. I showed up on Saturday, almost on time, and would have been on time had it not been for the marathon trapping me in the Fan. I asked the concierge about the class and she had no idea what I was talking about. After that I borrowed the computer in the lobby and called all the loctions listed until I found the one that was hosting the class that week. It was too late at that point to attend, so I called the company's number and left a lengthy message about them needing to be more specific as to their hours, locations, etc.
I have never responded to messages like the one that I left. I usually assumed that the patient was angry and would call back or come in at some point, and I was usually right. I never called and left an equally "obnoxious" voicemail. Obnoxious was the word that the driving-school-dude used. The fact that he responded to my message at all makes me hate his southern drawl all the more.
After hanging out in the hotel lobby and calling every driving school listed on the DMV website, I finally found one that offered classes on weekdays. I have to have my class finished and reported to the DMV by Friday. I made a reservation, and went today. The class was supposed to two days, four hours each day. I got there at five-thirty and was out by nine AND I don't have to go back tomorrow!
There was next to no instruction and the only other person in the class was this high school chick. We spent the majority of the time discussing how much police officer's in the area suck, and the best ways to get out of tickets. He called that part "Knowing Your Rights" - slick. I got an eight hour course done in three and a half hours. I may have missed Gossip Girl, but I don't have to go back tomorrow and it was so worth it.
In January I went to court to try and get out the ticket, or at least get it reduced in some way. I was very polite and smiled a lot and the judge admitted that he shouldn't, but allowed me to go to a driving clinic rather than get more points on my driving record. Apparently you're not supposed to be allowed to go twice with in a year, especially when you've gotten four tickets in two years.
If you've ever been to a driver's clinic before you know how awful they are. I mean, really awful. The first time I went was in Alexandria to some place my friend Sam had been to. It was a room about the size of my dorm filled with about twenty people and a TV. It was hot and the instructor was a very irate Pakistani guy. We sat and watched videos and did busy-work for eight hours.
This time around I thought I'd check the DMV website. I looked for the one closest to me, called, made an appointment (or thought I did) and didn't think too much of it. There were several locations listed and when I had talked to the guy about it he didn't specify a location. This was a huge mistake, I assumed, wrongly (as I usually do) that because the location was listed on the DMV website, that it met weekly. I showed up on Saturday, almost on time, and would have been on time had it not been for the marathon trapping me in the Fan. I asked the concierge about the class and she had no idea what I was talking about. After that I borrowed the computer in the lobby and called all the loctions listed until I found the one that was hosting the class that week. It was too late at that point to attend, so I called the company's number and left a lengthy message about them needing to be more specific as to their hours, locations, etc.
I have never responded to messages like the one that I left. I usually assumed that the patient was angry and would call back or come in at some point, and I was usually right. I never called and left an equally "obnoxious" voicemail. Obnoxious was the word that the driving-school-dude used. The fact that he responded to my message at all makes me hate his southern drawl all the more.
After hanging out in the hotel lobby and calling every driving school listed on the DMV website, I finally found one that offered classes on weekdays. I have to have my class finished and reported to the DMV by Friday. I made a reservation, and went today. The class was supposed to two days, four hours each day. I got there at five-thirty and was out by nine AND I don't have to go back tomorrow!
There was next to no instruction and the only other person in the class was this high school chick. We spent the majority of the time discussing how much police officer's in the area suck, and the best ways to get out of tickets. He called that part "Knowing Your Rights" - slick. I got an eight hour course done in three and a half hours. I may have missed Gossip Girl, but I don't have to go back tomorrow and it was so worth it.
Monday, November 17, 2008
What the Cool Kids Drive
I have had my car for about two weeks. The first day having it I got two flat tires. Not one, but TWO! I still have no idea how this happened.
It was a Sunday morning and I was on my way to Millie's to have brunch with April and Steven. I had parked on the street the night before and nothing was wrong then. And then Sunday morning I didn't notice the front passenger side until I was turning up twelfth street and noticed a funny sound. It was a nice day, so I had my windows down. I pulled over, emptied the trunk, only to find that I didn't have a jack. I then flagged down some dude to see if he had a jack, he did, but we couldn't figure out how to remove it from his trunk.
I then proceeded to call April, over and over again, she didn't answer, so I called Steven, thankfully he did answer.
By the time they arrived I was done crying. And Steven took care of everything, and then we all hopped in their car and drove to the gas station to fill the tire with air and check for any leaks. We couldn't find any leaks, but we put the spare on anyway just in case. Well, then the spare went flat. So I pulled into an empty parking lot and we all drove back to their house to get some tools that Steven needed and then he and I drove back to try and fix it yet again.
One of the bolts (I think that's what they're called) was almost impossible to remove, even with the electric wrench (?) that Steven had brought. He eventually got it off, but we found that it had skipped a thread and part of it and the screw had been stripped. So, adding to the adventure, we drove to three car part stores, finally found one that was open and were able to get all the parts we needed, and eventually were able to get the original tire put back on and drive safely back to April and Steven's house.
I am a Pittman, and should have anticipated something to go wrong, because it always does.
And not a week later, I got a huge semi-circle shaped crack on my windshield from a rock hitting it on 95.
And now my car is always hot because the heat doesn't turn off. I would expect the opposite to happen, but no, even when the switch is turned all the way to the off position, heat is definitely still being blown from the air vents. I should probably be more worried about this, but as it happens, it is winter and there are worse things that could happen; and with my luck, I'll take what I can get.
On the upside, it gets tremendous mileage, I go to DC and back on about half a tank of gas. That is awesome. And it is cleaner than all of my friends' cars, though it could use a vacuuming. I'm kind of a freak about not having junk in my car. I'm not an exceptionally tidy person, but I am very OCD about odd things (thank you, Dad), and clean cars is one of them.
Monday, September 22, 2008
I love Sarah Palin almost as much as I love Strawberry Mentos
I was running late to Focused Inquiry today, and about halfway there when Emily (from class) texted me to let me know that our professor never showed. Huzzah! I hate that class. Afterwards Lessa called and we ended up chatting about politics among other things for almost an hour when I realized I was late for an interview.
I ran by Rite-Aid to pick up some cassettes, to record the interview, and was distracted at the checkout by Mentos. More specifically, Strawberry Mentos. STRAWBERRY MENTOS! I've had them before, but they don't carry them everywhere, and Mentos are the best candy, so making them strawberry flavored just gets me giddy! I bought a box, and a box of sugarfree mixed berry. Mentos aren't particularly fattening, but they are unhealthy, so making them berry flavored and getting rid of the sugar..Whoa! It just keeps getting better.
After suffering from a short sugar overdose, I hopped on my bike and headed to the Republican Headquarters of Richmond...to interview a Republican for Ink (the school magazine). I was worried about being late, but he wasn't there. So I sat, and waited for them to give me some information about how to reach him later. While I was waiting a woman came in, in a very large, very red shirt. Across the front it said SARAH!
I had some "promotional" bags from Images and thought I'd give her one, I really need to build my clientele. She wouldn't take it but said, "I get my hair done in my neighborhood, AND I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU!" And she tossed me an identical red shirt, in an extra-large.
I wasn't going to pass that up! A free shirt! That supports Sarah Palin! What more could a woman want? Nothing, that is the correct answer.
So, now I have a giant, red, tent that says SARAH! on it. I haven't yet decided what I'm going to do with it. Maybe a halloween costume? Maybe a "gift" for my mom? I don't know, but it's pretty sweet.
*Guys, look what I found, they should not be allowed to sell such large quantities to the general public.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
My Dad is Crazy: 3
(Mr. Brann, brace yourself, I'm about to rag on my Dad)
Yesterday,I went to my very first professional sports game: Pittsburgh Pirates v. Washington Nationals. The Pirates won; I think it was 11 to 4?
Anywho, I went with Ian and a few of his friends. Overall we were having a good time, until...my dad called Ian, to invite him down to Woodbridge to get his hair cut here, and to have a steak.
My dad called me first because he said that he had the wrong number and was shitting bricks over it. Not that that is anything new.
I'm used to my dad making a complete fool of himself, and I understand that it is never going to stop, because he thinks he's being intimidating when really he's being an ass.
In addition to calling Ian he e-mailed Brightest Young Things and told them what horrible people they were for "making me" work at their relaunch party (tonight), when I volunteered, because I would like to continue writing for BYT and maybe, one day, get to pick what I write about, or just continue writing there because it'll look great on future applications/resumes.
Cale received the e-mail, called me, read it to me, and agreed that my dad is crazy, but he doesn't want me to get into trouble.
Typically my parents are nervous, but they let me go do whatever as long as I tell them where I'm going, who I'm going to be with, etc. Usually, if it's the weekend, I'm home by 2 am. This does not see unreasonable, I'm young, they are not, and I know they stayed out - especially my dad. Last night, my dad tried to tell me that I had to be home by midnight, and he's trying to do the same tonight. That did not happen last night (1:15 ish) nor will it happen tonight.
Oh, what are they going to do when I don't live here anymore/go to college? I feel like they should be ready to get rid of me, but they aren't, at all.
So, Dad, if you're reading this, I plan on getting DRUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNKKKKKK TONITE! and totally having lots of promiscuous sex in the make-out tee-pee, because I think STD's are super cool, so is being irresponsible, and getting into car accidents, and hanging out with crack heads, doing crack = COOL! Other cool things that I enjoy, that you should worry about me doing are: shooting up, getting piercings in "unique" places, hanging out in alleys in southeast, waking up that ho-bo and asking them for change, Crack! - seriously, there is no greater drug (and look how thin I'm getting), watching gay porn (that's what I've been into lately), talking to people online that I don't know and then meeting up with them in person in said dark alleys, (insert anything else utterly absurd here, because I obviously enjoy it, obviously).
Yesterday,I went to my very first professional sports game: Pittsburgh Pirates v. Washington Nationals. The Pirates won; I think it was 11 to 4?
Anywho, I went with Ian and a few of his friends. Overall we were having a good time, until...my dad called Ian, to invite him down to Woodbridge to get his hair cut here, and to have a steak.
My dad called me first because he said that he had the wrong number and was shitting bricks over it. Not that that is anything new.
I'm used to my dad making a complete fool of himself, and I understand that it is never going to stop, because he thinks he's being intimidating when really he's being an ass.
In addition to calling Ian he e-mailed Brightest Young Things and told them what horrible people they were for "making me" work at their relaunch party (tonight), when I volunteered, because I would like to continue writing for BYT and maybe, one day, get to pick what I write about, or just continue writing there because it'll look great on future applications/resumes.
Cale received the e-mail, called me, read it to me, and agreed that my dad is crazy, but he doesn't want me to get into trouble.
Typically my parents are nervous, but they let me go do whatever as long as I tell them where I'm going, who I'm going to be with, etc. Usually, if it's the weekend, I'm home by 2 am. This does not see unreasonable, I'm young, they are not, and I know they stayed out - especially my dad. Last night, my dad tried to tell me that I had to be home by midnight, and he's trying to do the same tonight. That did not happen last night (1:15 ish) nor will it happen tonight.
Oh, what are they going to do when I don't live here anymore/go to college? I feel like they should be ready to get rid of me, but they aren't, at all.
So, Dad, if you're reading this, I plan on getting DRUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNKKKKKK TONITE! and totally having lots of promiscuous sex in the make-out tee-pee, because I think STD's are super cool, so is being irresponsible, and getting into car accidents, and hanging out with crack heads, doing crack = COOL! Other cool things that I enjoy, that you should worry about me doing are: shooting up, getting piercings in "unique" places, hanging out in alleys in southeast, waking up that ho-bo and asking them for change, Crack! - seriously, there is no greater drug (and look how thin I'm getting), watching gay porn (that's what I've been into lately), talking to people online that I don't know and then meeting up with them in person in said dark alleys, (insert anything else utterly absurd here, because I obviously enjoy it, obviously).
Monday, April 7, 2008
Peeing in the Dark
me: close the door when you pee, mom!
mom: well, emmy (the dog) was in here!
When I've asked my mom about this odd habit she says that it's left over from having little kids in the house. Also, she pees with the lights off, thus making it harder to realize at first that there is a person in the bathroom.
She sees nothing wrong with this.
Dear God, please deliver me from this insanity.
mom: well, emmy (the dog) was in here!
When I've asked my mom about this odd habit she says that it's left over from having little kids in the house. Also, she pees with the lights off, thus making it harder to realize at first that there is a person in the bathroom.
She sees nothing wrong with this.
Dear God, please deliver me from this insanity.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
because Ben thinks I'm mean
Just for the record, I am not a cold-hearted, mean-spirited, person. I do my best to get along with those around me. I may not like certain people, and they will know that I'm not their biggest fan, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to go out of my way to be rude and disrespectful to them. I'm very opinionated, and somewhat confrontational, and have to be in a very sour mood to be blatantly mean to someone.
Now, contrary to popular belief, I like people. I also think people are stupid, ignorant, close-minded, intelligent, open-minded, pretty, ugly, fugly, gross, delightful, engaging, insecure, "too cool", etc. I find people to be all these things. Mostly, people amuse me and sometimes bother me.
When they amuse me I laugh. When they bother me I tell them.
I've made people cry, and then I start crying because they're crying, and I'm so sorry if I've done this to you, but then I usually feel bad and apologize, but really if you're reading this and you think I'm mean, and I didn't apologize to you, well then, I must really hate you. I'm pretty sensitive to people's feelings, and expect people to be sensitive to mine. This is a mistake on my part, because I expect too much from people, especially this.
Now, contrary to popular belief, I like people. I also think people are stupid, ignorant, close-minded, intelligent, open-minded, pretty, ugly, fugly, gross, delightful, engaging, insecure, "too cool", etc. I find people to be all these things. Mostly, people amuse me and sometimes bother me.
When they amuse me I laugh. When they bother me I tell them.
I've made people cry, and then I start crying because they're crying, and I'm so sorry if I've done this to you, but then I usually feel bad and apologize, but really if you're reading this and you think I'm mean, and I didn't apologize to you, well then, I must really hate you. I'm pretty sensitive to people's feelings, and expect people to be sensitive to mine. This is a mistake on my part, because I expect too much from people, especially this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)