Holy balls. Maverick and Preacher suck. Obviously. And stupid work is not only getting in my way of my blogger status, but also draining any and all creativity. But, as I was driving home today, I thought, OMG, my one reader must be wondering what is going on in my world. I should start thinking of ideas of what to write for when I get home. So, here are some stories about my life these days.
A few days ago I got drunk. And I don't mean a little drunk, I mean I don't remember the majority of the night drunk. In fact, as I was driving to work the next AFTERNOON, I listened to "Alejandro" by Lady Gaga on repeat. And started texting various friends that it was the "best fucking song fucking ever." Then, I get to work and walk up to one of my staff members and get too close for comfort and scream-whisper at her "I think I'm still drunk."
At work, we often do themes for the day, where everyone's name changes to go along with the theme. My staff had already decided that that day's them was going to be board games. Furthermore, they had decided that my themed name would be Monopoly. Well, I freaking hate Monopoly. And I let my emotions known. I started yelling, rather loudly, "I HATE MONOPOLY" repeatedly until they agreed to change my name. Okay, Dragon Slayer, what board game do you want to be? "MAAALLLL MADNESS!!!!" Well, in the normal world, this would have been a completely legit answer. But, in the world in which you work with a bunch of kids who were born in the 90's, this is apparently appalling. No one knew what the hell Mall Madness is. The 10 year old in me was screaming at the top of her lungs. So, I was told I couldn't be Mall Madness because I was the only one who knew what it was. This didn't appease me. I just screaming "I HATE MONOPOLY" repeatedly until they changed my name to shut me up.
But, seriously, I hate Monopoly.
This discrepancy in age is often a problem at work. Although, I don't think it is only the age thing. There is something in the water in this town they grew up in. Granted, I grew up in the city directly next to this city, but the differences between what me and my friends are into compared to them is astounding. They make fun of Twitter non-stop. This is crazy to me. They're never on Facebook. Hellllooooo, I think we already know how I feel about that. They don't like Classic Rock.
This last part has caused me, on several occasions, to get so frustrated that I have to walk away. Today, during a meeting, a colleague of mine said that he gets irritated when a certain staff member works with him because he always listens to "strange, awful" music. We asked what music and his response was "Old stuff...like The Beatles." He said this with a bitter beer face. My jaw dropped and asked him what the hell was wrong with The Beatles? They're only the greatest/most influential rock band to ever exist. Another colleague, in all seriousness, exclaims, "WHAT ABOUT METALLICA!?"
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Metallica. A lot. But, they are NOT The Beatles. WHAT KIND OF FUCKED UP EDUCATION DID THESE KIDS GET?
Ugh. I don't even know what to say.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
On Sunday Morning, Don't Speak because the Spiderwebs make the World Go 'Round in my Tragic Kingdom. You're Just A Girl, are you Happy Now?
I'm a little obsessed with this really great blog called "2 Birds, 1 Blog." Recently, they've been writing a lot about how awkward they were when they were in middle school. First, I have to ask, who the hell WASN'T awkward in middle school? Second, how in the hell do they remember so much that they can keep writing about it?
I have a hard time remembering who went to middle school with me. Shit, I can barely remember who I graduated high school with (oh shit! ending a sentence with a preposition. Middle school english teachers be damned!). But, as I was trying to conjure up some really awkward moments of my own to share, I thought of someone else's really awkward moment and found it much more amusing (probably because it happened to them...and not me).
When I was growing up, my hometown held an annual 4th of July celebration in the "downtown" area. It was so the shit. Carnies came in town and set up shop, various artists and vendors had booths to hawk their homemade, over-priced stuff and all of us 12-15 year olds finally had something to do every day. It was pure greatness. One year (I can't even remember which year it was...that is how bad my memory of middle school was), I get this call at home from this guy. We'll call him Schmody Schwhite. Schmody was a year older than I and had "dated" a friend of mine...well, at some point. Again, I don't remember. Prior to my friend and Schmody "going out," I had had a crush on him as well. But, in true "girl code" fashion, I got over it and let my friend have free reign. However, summer was here and you know what that does to school romances. Chops them dead. Anyway, Schmody calls and asks if I'm going to be at the festival that night. Duh, Schmody where else would I be but middle school mecca? He says that's great and that we need to hang out. Okay, Schmody, will do. The night comes, we meet up, we hang out (aka we walk around the festival for a solid 3 hours and do whatever we can to not spend the only 5 bucks we have for the next 3 weeks). But, he does a really stupid thing. He hands me a note he had written and then says the magic words "Don't read this until later...when I'm not around." HA! SCHMODY! You act as if we've never met.
Okay, I guess this is the time to explain my heavy obsession with the band No Doubt. It was the first band I saw in concert. It was the band in the photos that plastered my walls in my bedroom. It was the band whose logos I practiced drawing over and over until I had the ability to knock it out within minutes (and it be flawless). It was the band that my very first AIM account name was created for (NDfan327, what up!). To sum up, I LOVED No Doubt.
Back to the story. I immediately open up the note, while Schmody pleads with me to stop, and read it (luckily for him, to myself and NOT out loud). The note is deliberately written to include every song title from No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom album. Oh, how I wish I still had that note...and had it framed. If only I had known how the 25 year old me would decide one day that THAT is the note that needed to be read at her wedding (even though I would be marrying some guy who, undoubtedly, will never meet this Schmody character)...if she ever gets married. Just imagine the dedication to include the words "Spiderwebs," "The Climb," and "You Can Do It" into a 6 sentence paragraph...and for it to actually make some kind of sense. Even more so, imagine a guy thinking it was actually a good idea to call a 13 year old, emotionally vulnerable, low self-esteemed, middle school female "just a girl." If that didn't steal my heart, I don't know what will. And, at the end of the note were the 6 words every teenage girl yearns to hear from...well, almost any boy: Will you go out with me? As I tried to hide my emotion from my face (that of horror, humor and humiliation - for him, of course), I merely looked at him, while several of our friends stood by, completely unaware of the silent conversation the two us were having, and shook my head no. In my version of the story, I could see his heart break right in front of me. I just made his own Tragic Kingdom. He should have seen it coming. He either had never listened to the words of each song on that album or he was too dense to understand. Either way, we clearly weren't meant to be.
He awkwardly said "okay" and turned around and ran.
But, don't fret. I'm fairly certain Schmody Schwhite is now happily married. Well, I don't really know about the happy part. We pretty much never spoke again. But, I think I saw on Facebook that he's married.
Call me, love me, miss me.
I have a hard time remembering who went to middle school with me. Shit, I can barely remember who I graduated high school with (oh shit! ending a sentence with a preposition. Middle school english teachers be damned!). But, as I was trying to conjure up some really awkward moments of my own to share, I thought of someone else's really awkward moment and found it much more amusing (probably because it happened to them...and not me).
When I was growing up, my hometown held an annual 4th of July celebration in the "downtown" area. It was so the shit. Carnies came in town and set up shop, various artists and vendors had booths to hawk their homemade, over-priced stuff and all of us 12-15 year olds finally had something to do every day. It was pure greatness. One year (I can't even remember which year it was...that is how bad my memory of middle school was), I get this call at home from this guy. We'll call him Schmody Schwhite. Schmody was a year older than I and had "dated" a friend of mine...well, at some point. Again, I don't remember. Prior to my friend and Schmody "going out," I had had a crush on him as well. But, in true "girl code" fashion, I got over it and let my friend have free reign. However, summer was here and you know what that does to school romances. Chops them dead. Anyway, Schmody calls and asks if I'm going to be at the festival that night. Duh, Schmody where else would I be but middle school mecca? He says that's great and that we need to hang out. Okay, Schmody, will do. The night comes, we meet up, we hang out (aka we walk around the festival for a solid 3 hours and do whatever we can to not spend the only 5 bucks we have for the next 3 weeks). But, he does a really stupid thing. He hands me a note he had written and then says the magic words "Don't read this until later...when I'm not around." HA! SCHMODY! You act as if we've never met.
Okay, I guess this is the time to explain my heavy obsession with the band No Doubt. It was the first band I saw in concert. It was the band in the photos that plastered my walls in my bedroom. It was the band whose logos I practiced drawing over and over until I had the ability to knock it out within minutes (and it be flawless). It was the band that my very first AIM account name was created for (NDfan327, what up!). To sum up, I LOVED No Doubt.
Back to the story. I immediately open up the note, while Schmody pleads with me to stop, and read it (luckily for him, to myself and NOT out loud). The note is deliberately written to include every song title from No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom album. Oh, how I wish I still had that note...and had it framed. If only I had known how the 25 year old me would decide one day that THAT is the note that needed to be read at her wedding (even though I would be marrying some guy who, undoubtedly, will never meet this Schmody character)...if she ever gets married. Just imagine the dedication to include the words "Spiderwebs," "The Climb," and "You Can Do It" into a 6 sentence paragraph...and for it to actually make some kind of sense. Even more so, imagine a guy thinking it was actually a good idea to call a 13 year old, emotionally vulnerable, low self-esteemed, middle school female "just a girl." If that didn't steal my heart, I don't know what will. And, at the end of the note were the 6 words every teenage girl yearns to hear from...well, almost any boy: Will you go out with me? As I tried to hide my emotion from my face (that of horror, humor and humiliation - for him, of course), I merely looked at him, while several of our friends stood by, completely unaware of the silent conversation the two us were having, and shook my head no. In my version of the story, I could see his heart break right in front of me. I just made his own Tragic Kingdom. He should have seen it coming. He either had never listened to the words of each song on that album or he was too dense to understand. Either way, we clearly weren't meant to be.
He awkwardly said "okay" and turned around and ran.
But, don't fret. I'm fairly certain Schmody Schwhite is now happily married. Well, I don't really know about the happy part. We pretty much never spoke again. But, I think I saw on Facebook that he's married.
Call me, love me, miss me.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Fuck Off England
So here is the thing. I freely admit to being a bandwagoner when it comes to soccer and the World Cup. Beckham and Rooney are the only soccer players I could pick out of a line up.
BUT... if there are two thins that I really love it's America and sports. This combination is why every four years I give a damn about the long jump or mens gymnastics. I love the stars and stripes, and the World Cup is no exception.
So of course I was bathed in patriotic pride to watch us take on England. We really did it up right. Red white and blue beads, visors, leys, face painting... And one guy from the group really took it to the next level. Fu man choo, army belt buckle, FDNY hat and the American flag wrapped around him. God bless.
Oh, I should also note that I was drinking with a lot of politics grad students, which meant our bashing of England ranged from common (England fucks dirty dirty whores and probably has syphilis) to the nerdy (coalition governments can't rule efficiently). At one point I may or may not have recited the Declaration of Independence while standing on a table with a beer in my hand. That's just how America rolls.
At one point, because the bar was so packed they ran out of buckets to do buckets of beer so we went next door to the 99 cent store AND BOUGHT OUR OWN. Even then, getting to the bar to get drinks was a nightmare, so Mr. Fu Man Choo went out, bought us some 6 packs, and smuggled them back in UNDER THE AMERICAN FLAG.
The game itself was unreal. We were at an English Pub, so the fan base was split evenly, and to be a part of such energy between the "come on England" chants and the responding "fuck off England" chants was electrifying. The crowd outside the pub was 4 deep onto the sidewalk trying to catch a glimpse of the action.
It was awesome.
I leave you with this. It captures the sentiment nicely:
Monday, June 7, 2010
Beware of bar lighting.
So, I know we here at Get Some While You Can are reeeeeally slacking off on our duties to inform you of all of the mundane happenings of our lives. I, believe me, am the most upset because this means it is just going to take longer for my life to revolve our anonymous blogging and making my billions by making a "SIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNGGGLLLLLEEEEEE!!!!" t-shirt and selling it on the interwebs to support my lifestyle of drinking whisky and watching re-runs of Roseanne.
However, I've got to tell you, that while my biting sarcasm amuses the masses on a day-to-day level, by the time I get home and boot up the ol' HP, all of the funny has run out of me and all I can think about talking about is the fact that I was too tired to make dinner (again) so I ate Wheaties (again). Every once in a while, I'll think of something during the day that, in my opinion, would be hilarious blogging fodder, but once I get home and start a typing away, I realize I don't know funny and that I must have been inhaling paint fumes when I thought it was funny earlier in the day.
Instead, today I'm going to give you a life lesson blog. I'm sure you've heard of the phrase "don't shit where you eat" (I wonder if that would pop up if you typed in "shit" to the cliche finder web site I found for you guys last week). Well, that phrase couldn't be TRUER.
A couple of weekends ago, a friend and I went up to our local Houlihan's to partake in some mild debauchery. The weather was beautiful and we sat out on the patio and listened to the Dave's (two old guys with the same name who play covers for the drunken 20-somethings on Saturdays) playing classic rock after classic rock song. Near closing time, we struck up a conversation with a group of guys, who, after 3 long islands + 3 margaritas + 1 whisky&coke, were mighty attractive. I ended up giving my phone number to one of them thinking, as all women do, what does it matter? Men never call.
Now, perhaps I'm used to watching movies from the 80s where women bitch and moan about how a guy never calls because in 2010, a guy no longer HAS to call. Ah, the invention of the text message. Do you ever wonder if the guy who invented text messaging was some really shy, nerdy guy who could never work up the courage to call a girl? This was his savior. He no longer had to deal with one-on-one rejection. He could read it and assume she said it in the nicest way possible instead of hearing the humor in her voice as she dashed his hopes, dreams and self-esteem.
But, I digress. Homeboy texted me. I texted back. Mild flirtations ensued (because remember, in my mind, he was hunky). And we set up a date for the following week.
The date was lame. Way lame. In fact, the most entertaining part of the night was when, while sitting at the bar getting some post-dinner drinks, one of my "ex-boyfriends" (I use the term "boyfriend" very, very loosely) sat down next to us. As if a first date isn't awkward enough. *Sigh*
Maybe the signs of disinterest weren't strong enough. I understand that the majority of the male population needs things written in neon lights, but I feel that by his age (by the way, he's 6 years older than I am) he should understand that if HE is the one reaching out and making the most physical contact, I'm bored and am already wondering how my crops are doing on Farmville.
Basically, the date sucked and I have no interest of ever seeing him again.
Ha.
Too bad I didn't realize that if you ever meet a guy at a "bar," you will continuously run into him EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU GO BACK. And each time I run into him, he ALWAYS asks "so, I guess this place is turning into your new favorite place, huh?" Yeah, it could be my new favorite place or he could realize we live in the shittiest city in America and the place only has a handful of decent "bars" to frequent.
Now, I have to deal with the fact that a "bar" that I actually do enjoy is infested with him and his cronies and I can no longer go there. Unless, perhaps, I could go with a DIFFERENT guy and homeboy will finally get the picture and quit talking to me? Eh? Too mean? Even for me? Eh, fuck you.
So, moral of the story: don't go on a date with a guy that frequents somewhere you enjoy. I guess this means I can never date a guy who constantly watches Roseanne from my couch.
Call me, miss me, love.
However, I've got to tell you, that while my biting sarcasm amuses the masses on a day-to-day level, by the time I get home and boot up the ol' HP, all of the funny has run out of me and all I can think about talking about is the fact that I was too tired to make dinner (again) so I ate Wheaties (again). Every once in a while, I'll think of something during the day that, in my opinion, would be hilarious blogging fodder, but once I get home and start a typing away, I realize I don't know funny and that I must have been inhaling paint fumes when I thought it was funny earlier in the day.
Instead, today I'm going to give you a life lesson blog. I'm sure you've heard of the phrase "don't shit where you eat" (I wonder if that would pop up if you typed in "shit" to the cliche finder web site I found for you guys last week). Well, that phrase couldn't be TRUER.
A couple of weekends ago, a friend and I went up to our local Houlihan's to partake in some mild debauchery. The weather was beautiful and we sat out on the patio and listened to the Dave's (two old guys with the same name who play covers for the drunken 20-somethings on Saturdays) playing classic rock after classic rock song. Near closing time, we struck up a conversation with a group of guys, who, after 3 long islands + 3 margaritas + 1 whisky&coke, were mighty attractive. I ended up giving my phone number to one of them thinking, as all women do, what does it matter? Men never call.
Now, perhaps I'm used to watching movies from the 80s where women bitch and moan about how a guy never calls because in 2010, a guy no longer HAS to call. Ah, the invention of the text message. Do you ever wonder if the guy who invented text messaging was some really shy, nerdy guy who could never work up the courage to call a girl? This was his savior. He no longer had to deal with one-on-one rejection. He could read it and assume she said it in the nicest way possible instead of hearing the humor in her voice as she dashed his hopes, dreams and self-esteem.
But, I digress. Homeboy texted me. I texted back. Mild flirtations ensued (because remember, in my mind, he was hunky). And we set up a date for the following week.
The date was lame. Way lame. In fact, the most entertaining part of the night was when, while sitting at the bar getting some post-dinner drinks, one of my "ex-boyfriends" (I use the term "boyfriend" very, very loosely) sat down next to us. As if a first date isn't awkward enough. *Sigh*
Maybe the signs of disinterest weren't strong enough. I understand that the majority of the male population needs things written in neon lights, but I feel that by his age (by the way, he's 6 years older than I am) he should understand that if HE is the one reaching out and making the most physical contact, I'm bored and am already wondering how my crops are doing on Farmville.
Basically, the date sucked and I have no interest of ever seeing him again.
Ha.
Too bad I didn't realize that if you ever meet a guy at a "bar," you will continuously run into him EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU GO BACK. And each time I run into him, he ALWAYS asks "so, I guess this place is turning into your new favorite place, huh?" Yeah, it could be my new favorite place or he could realize we live in the shittiest city in America and the place only has a handful of decent "bars" to frequent.
Now, I have to deal with the fact that a "bar" that I actually do enjoy is infested with him and his cronies and I can no longer go there. Unless, perhaps, I could go with a DIFFERENT guy and homeboy will finally get the picture and quit talking to me? Eh? Too mean? Even for me? Eh, fuck you.
So, moral of the story: don't go on a date with a guy that frequents somewhere you enjoy. I guess this means I can never date a guy who constantly watches Roseanne from my couch.
Call me, miss me, love.
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