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:

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.

It will never be seen on a galloping horse (other fun cliches)

Okay, so I actually had a request for a new blog post. I can't freaking believe it. People love me, they really, really love me!

But, sucks for you, I can't think of any awesome stories or anecdotes for you loverlies, so instead, I give you:

Shit I've Found on the Internet (from now on: SIFONI...hmm, said fast enough, it sounds like "symphony," I take this as a sign): Part Un

The only true way to find shit on the internet is to use "Stumbleupon" or what the fuck it is called. Awesome find #1: "Cliche Finder." Here, you can pop in a word into the search engine and it will find you a cliche that uses the word. What word did I try to find first? Poop. Cliche: Do you have pigeon poop in your ears?

Use it in a conversation this week and report back.

Oh, and P.S. apparently you can hit random and 10 cliches will just appear.



Not-so-awesome find: "This Day in Music" You type in your day and month (ideally, some important date to you) and it will pop up every year's history in music (stuff like #1 hit song, etc.) While typically, this would be AWESOME for me because I do love music, but this shitty ass web site doesn't have my birth year! Is this indicative of my love of music? Did the music die for just one day?



Awesome drinking game find: "The Brainstormer." On this web site, you click the button "random" and 3 wheels spin around and eventually 3 ideas/words match up. Why? Who the hell knows, but we can totally make this into a drinking game.

Go here - http://www.distractionbeast.com/brainstormer.swf

Click "random."

If the outer ring has a word that can be associated with something in current events, take a drink.

If the outer ring has a word that can be associated with the oil spill, make an "Ocean Breeze" and take 2 drinks.

The first person to think of a sexual pose using a word from the outer ring gets to give away two drinks to anyone in the room.

If the outer ring lands on "bottomless pit," it is time for a group waterfall!

If the middle ring has a word that stereotypes someone in the room, make them drink.

If the middle ring has a word that describes the weather outside at the moment, take a drink and give one away.

If the middle ring has a word that describes what you WISH the weather was like, everyone finishes their beverage.

And, because I can't think of anything awesome for the inner ring, just shout out the words, cheers everyone, and take a drink.

As a little extra something, something - if you can think of a wicked awesome movie (with the inner ring being the title and the other two rings being in the description) make everyone else take a shot of whatever they're drinking. If more than one person thinks of a movie, the group can vote on which movie would be better.



Okay, well, I guess stumble bumble bee is having my kind of day and just not being clever. Damn you, Stumble.

Love me, miss me, call me.

I have a vagina.

Waiting rooms are kind of the bane of my existence. They're always associated with non-exciting things: doctor, dentist, orthodontist, emergency room, the car place, etc. Of course, how many people out there actually like waiting rooms? Maybe I'm not alone in this. Well, today I have had to sit in (at least) 2 waiting rooms. Here is what they have in common: really bad magazines.

Some waiting rooms try to cater to their demographic, which is sensible and all around a good idea. But, the ones that annoy me the most are the ones that cater to people in the same line of work as whatever office you're in. Let's talk about how this is NOT a good idea. Say I'm a mechanic. Why in the hell would I go to someone else, sit in their waiting room, read their Car and Driver magazine, and let them take money from me for something I can do on my own? Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you City Tire & Wheels. There are plenty of independent women in the world who can get in their air conditioned, automatic cars and drive them to the mechanic to have him change the oil, grunt, spit and fix our tires. Therefore, maybe you should think of putting out some other magazines. And you know, educated people drive cars, too! Where's Time? Or Newsweek? Or my personal fav, Vanity Fair?

But this place gets even better. At least there is a TV in here. So, you've got Car and Driver magazines (and other equally manly reading materials) on the tables and, get this, Martha fucking Stewart on TV. How does this make any sense? Shouldn't Spike TV be on or something to round out this waiting room? *sidenote* Big Bird is the guest right now. Is this their (by their I mean the man) way of enforcing stereotypes? Cause I'd at least rather it be all Oprah all the time.

Alas, the only reason I'm even writing this post is to give myself something to do. I hate having to wait in a waiting room unprepared. Stupid nail in my stupid tire.

Oh, and on a related note, just because I have a uterus doesn't mean you can convince me to buy a bunch of crap for my car that it doesn't need.

/rant.

Preacher vs. The Apt Management

I'm filling/feeling out this application sheet to live in my apt complex. Although I live in this apt currently, the management is requiring everyone to fill out a NEW AND IMPROVED application form- but they are kindly waiving the fee for all current residents. They had to reach deep down to find this kindness. I mean, I have had some WORDS with these people.

FOR EXAMPLE!! One time I asked them to change the burnt out light bulb in my front entry way. Well, APPARENTLY, that is NOT something they do. I explained to them that the problem was that that is not something I do, either. And you know what they did? THEY LAUGHED! Like I was joking! Pfft. I could see this was an official fight for dominance and I was not going to give up that easily. Since this struggle for power over my apt complex, I call at least once a week asking them to change the light bulb in the front entryway. Because of these weekly calls, 2 things have happened. 1) I learned that my apt complex does indeed have caller ID in their offices and 2) my calls are screened every time I call and I am required to leave desperate messages to a computer generated voice mail. My front entry way has been dark and grim for over 9 months now, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be the first one to give in.

ANOTHER EXAMPLE!! The HOT WATER handle on my sink unscrewed "itself" (I actually think that Samara from The Ring found me and is haunting my new apt now. BACK OFF SAMARA! BACK! OFF!) Well, I immediately panicked and called the apt complex (THANK GOD FOR WEEKEND HELP!) My name was not recognized on the caller ID and my call was answered. I explained that my apt was possibly haunted and as a result the handle on my sink was no longer attached to the sink.
She asked if there was a leak.
No.
She asked if it was actual handle or the "decorative" handle.
Well, I wouldn't call this decorative...
She asked if the part that fell off was white or metal.
White.
She explained that that was only the "decorative" part of the handle and that the hot water function of the sink did not need the "decorative" part to produce hot water.
But it's hideous.
She explained that she would send someone out sometime Monday to fix it for me.
OMG! WHAT?! Can't you send someone now?! It's UGLY!
She explained that she wouldn't use the word "ugly" and that they only did maintenance calls on the weekends for emergencies.
MY MOM'S COMING OVER (lie) AND SHE WILL THINK I LIVE IN A DUMP IF MY SINK IS FALLING APART LIKE THIS!
She told me that if I explained to my mom the difference between the "decorative" part of the sink and the "functional" part of the sink, my mom would understand that the sink is not falling apart.
BUT SHE WON'T UNDERSTAND THAT IT'S NOT UGLY!
She explained it would be fixed Monday.
BUT WHAT ABOUT MY MOM! YOU DON'T KNOW MY MOM!! SHE'S COMING TO-DAY! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!
(This is my favorite part of the conversation)
She then tells me, and I quote, "Ma'am, the events of your life do not constitute an emergency."
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Touche weekend help. You win this round.

Anyway, the application is asking for my height and weight! WTF? This makes me think they're trying to play a cruel joke on the short tubby girl in apt 123. Well, jokes on you apt managers! According to my NOTARIZED "NEW AND APPROVED" application, I'm 5'10'', 115lbs! OOOOOOOH, SNAP BITCHES!

Preacher loves you and the events that constitute your life.

If you unfriend me on Facebook, it may take a while before I realize it.

We all know about my mad love for Facebook. I mean, I think I've talked about it quite enough in the few posts I've written already. But, hell, my life revolves around that precious multi-blue-toned web site. I mean, there are times when I am out having a fabulous time with friends, but all I think about is whether or not someone has "liked" or commented on a post of mine. I just need some validation, people!

So, let's discuss Facebook some more. *Sidenote* Oh God, I really hope that at my funeral I am not only remembered for my love of Facebook. I mean, shit, I did some other stuff while I was alive...right? Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I probably won't even be able to have a real, live wedding. It'll have to be done on Facebook.

Anyway, back to my bff, FB. I'm really selective when it comes to who I "allow" to know the FB version of myself (you know - the one where only the flattering aspects - ie, photos - of you are kept around and all the others become "non-existent" -- because if they're not showing up my page, they no longer exist in the world...yes?). Therefore, I delete people and ignore others ALL OF THE TIME. I feel like you shouldn't be angry with me. It's not my fault that FB cut back on the privacy stuff. If it would just go back to not allowing ANYONE to add me on there, I would never have to ignore you. And ignore you. And ignore you. I feel like there are couple of people out there who are either too dense to realize I've already deleted and then, ignored their requests or are determined to beat down my will.

The real reason I'm mentioning this is that today, I was on a friend's FB page. Well, actually, homeboy is a friend of my brother's. So, I look over at the "mutual friends" tab and see that my brother is not there. WHAT THE FUCK? I live with the ass hat and he has UNFRIENDED ME?! I was two seconds away from storming into the kitchen (where I could hear him rumbling around in) and demand to know what the hell is going on. But, then I started thinking. You know, I get drunk and tend to do some really stupid shit. Like, this one time, I deleted EVERY SINGLE person out of my phone in a drunken attempt to delete only one person. So, now I'm sitting in my room wondering: did I get really drunk and mad at him? (Well, yes, that happens often. I tend to not like my brother in any kind of way when I'm drinking). Okay, well did I get really drunk and mad at him and whip out my Blackberry faster than you can say "Betty White is my Lord and Savior" and delete his ass to show him just how angry I was? I dunno. But, it is totally possible. So, as of now, I will sit in my room and continue to contemplate this before storming in there and throwing a beer bottle at his head.

Call me, miss me, love me.

What Women Want

Or more accurately, what I want. This post should probably be titled "how to get a piece of this hot piece."

Step One. Never call me a piece.

I've noticed that a lot of women will put up a do's and don'ts list for men. Sometimes they even do this outside of their myspace/facebook/twitter/recently published memoirs. Sometimes, they instead blast this from their lungs at every interaction with men, suitor of friend alike.

This is not one of those posts.

This, my sadly numbered audience, is a simple post about one don't that's really be grating my nerves lately

DON'T call me wifey, boo, lil mama, or anything else you've heard in the latest club remix. In fact, please refrain from any terms of "endearment" until you've learned my ACTUAL name. And oh by the way, even then, never use those listed above.