TGIT

TGIT is in multiple parts.


Part 1.

The clue lurking on my desk, alerting me that there I had somehow gotten black marker all over myself. Yes, I am apparently five.

Part 2.

The culprit.

Arm into wet sharpie, upon over aggressive crossing out.

Good: It is still September, and Delta is still on the calendar. We roll deep.
Great: Even when it is no longer September, aka tomorrow, I will still have September hanging in my cubicle. Why? To exemplify that hard work and cooperation actually pays off, even with a bunch of 20-something girls whose only true form of communication is through an old sorority listserve.
TGIT: I didn’t notice that my arm was repetitively sticking to my calendar until my desk (and arm) was completely covered in black magic marker. Maybe we shouldn’t be so eager in hurrying away the month, there Kristin.

*please also note the fashion risk-a-cita, red skinny jeans. Yeah, I did.

Pet Peeve: The Chronic Serious Liker!

The implementation of social media has caused a vast majority of consumers to lose their social best judgment.

I am talking to you, Mr. Friend Who “Likes” When A Friend Gets Out Of A Relationship.

Perhaps in the real world, you might privately tell Steve, your old college roommate who just broke up with his girlfriend of 3 years, that you like that he broke up with his girlfriend. Maybe she was horrible, maybe it was only a matter of time, maybe she cheated on him with a 45 year-old with a boat, maybe she broke up with him and you were just trying to help with the coping process. Whatever the reason, a comment such as this is only appropriate when with a close group of friends, or between two confidants.

I doubt, however, that you would ever publicly announce that you like Steve’s recent marital change face-to-face with all of his friends, frenemies, colleagues, parents, and the very-recent-ex-girlfriend all in one place. Even if everyone is glad that Steve finally broke up with the loser/really annoying drunk girl/cheater/whatever, you certainly shouldn’t publically judge your friends in an unrestricted, open conversation. People would think of you as a jerk, as they rightfully should.

Facebook is that very forum. The single forum where all of Steve's social connections can see his life updates in one place. All of his social connections. All of them.

This is why the whole topic of virtual “liking” completely perplexes me when it comes to serious social situations.

Yes, I am the first to like someone’s status if I find it to be a) funny, b) an achievement or c) especially “likeable” in one way or another, but I only use the “like” button during light hearted situations. Break ups is not one of them.

Tell me, Mr. Friend Who “Likes” When A Friend Gets Out Of A Relationship, why it is that you would most likely never publically “like” this situation face-to-face with all the people who may encounter it on facebook, but have no problem doing so when it is from the comfort of your computer screen?

The very act of “liking” the situation only makes a mockery of their entire relationship [which was most likely fairly serious, since it hit Facebook to begin with], showing that it is now nothing but a joke to you. I am so glad you were able to recover from Steve’s break-up so fast. Let’s also hope that Steve has recovered faster than you, as this would be counterproductive for your relationship if he is still emotionally wounded.

Similarly, your “liking” will certainly hurt feelings in the most passive aggressive way possible, and you do not have the right to publically humiliate the very-recent ex-girlfriend, even if she was unkind, mean, or otherwise unappealing. Your job, as Steve’s friend, is to help Steve recover, not hinder the recovery of the ex. That isn’t going to fix anything.

Perhaps you should just focus on keeping Steve’s personal life off facebook, and take him for a drink, where you can privately tell him that he is better off without the cheating/backstabbing/all around not fun ex-girlfriend. By doing this, you are still getting your point across, but still keeping your integrity intact.

Just some food for thought…

Double Vision?

Lets play spot the difference (or lack there of)

Below is a picture of the South Hall Lobby of the Los Angeles Convention Center.
I can identify the LACC in any picture, as I have logged over 70 miles within these walls over the last two years (accumulated over 6 days, mind you)

Below is a picture of “the airport” in this week’s episode of Parenthood (my favorite show in the entire world, duh)

Are we seeing some very odd similarities here?

So being the naturally curious detective that I am, I froze two separate pictures to compare the similarities to prove to myself that I am not, in fact, going crazy. Yet another example of how I just cant manage to let things just occur, without over analyzing

Detective skills at work:

1. Signage placement and font similarities, I mean hello, I am in marketing
2. railings= same
3. columns=same
4. column placement in relation to its surroundings = same
5. escalator = same
6. floors, both here and on the lower floors = same
7. background = same.

Overall analysis: They are the same place. Can just put a potted plant and a garbage can in the middle of my domain and tell me its an airport. Its just not going to happen.

Don’t believe me?

Here’s another angle so that I can further feel good about my useless detective skills:

Hall connecting West and South Lobbies.


Parenthood “Airport Security”
Gee, weird, they look so similar!

1. the style of the hall = same
2. floors match previous LACC picture shown above
3. walls/windows along right = same
4. hanging signage = same

Need I prove it further?

I just need to give myself a pat on the back, and reassure myself that it is normal to recognize a scene in a television show, and completely lose all involvement in the plot. Thank the lord for DVR.

Okay, I feel better.

I May Have Just Killed Someone...Again

I hate segways.

You know, these things.

Segways are yet another reason while Americans are getting increasingly more obese. Why walk/commute/get a bit of exercise when you can stand on this platform-on-wheels and essentially relocate to a new area without exerting any time of energy to get there?

Right.

Boston has taken this to a new level. People no longer walk the freedom trail (gosh, that is so ten years ago) but rather, tourists now segway the freedom trail.

You know how tourists aimlessly walk with little to no direction, stopping whenever they please to snap a photo, look at a map, or just stop to inconvenience the Bostonian population? Well now do the same thing, but put said tourist on a lifted, motorized, fast moving vehicle…and traveling in a pack. It is traumatic when being passed by a school of segwayers, who have little to no understanding of the fact that they are on a moving vehicle, capable of seriously hurting pedestrians around them aka me.

At any rate, this weekend, in a pure fit of rage, I may have said something along the lines of this: “I hate segways. Whoever invented them should die.”

Childish? Yes. Reactionary? Of course! Therapeutic? Absolutely.

Many agreed, so I cannot take full responsibility for this but….

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/09/27/jimi-heselden-segway-boss_n_739983.html

…I cant help but feel partially responsible.

I mean, if not 24 hours before I had just said that he was no longer worthy of living life, but I certainly didn’t mean that to be taken literally, Mr.Jimi.

Clearly, I have learned my lesson. I will never say “…should die” unless I really truly want them too.

I’m kidding, but seriously I feel like a horrible person.

This hasn’t happened since 2008, when I told my cousin that our [very old, but still very alive] relative would never die.

She died a month later.

I still suffer guilt from that one.

Guess I need to keep my mouth shut.

Franken-fish

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/39265727/ns/health-food_safety/

Saw this little conundrum on the news earlier and thought it was an appropriate conversation to open up to my [semi understanding, but educated] blog audience.

The Cliff Notes:

Scientists have figured out a way to grow salmon twice as big, twice as fast through altering their genetic make up

• Scientists: more salmon for everyone, and maybe salmon prices will go down (leave it up to Americans to figure out how to supersize yet another food group)
• Health Conscious Public: haven’t Americans learned that when we change things from natural to, well, unnatural, there is always a greater danger down the road? Fake boobs pop, diet soda is so bad for you [insert current cultural freakout], and diet pills now cause you to grow a third leg.

The FDA isn’t sure if it is safe for the American public to consume next to natural Atlantic Salmon

• Scientists: Salmon is salmon. Scientist claim that the fish haven’t been chemically altered, merely just genetically tweaked.
• Healt Conscious Public: This superhuman salmon might cause some awful side effect/cancer/other cultural freak out somewhere down the road. The American public will only learn about the epidemic when the modified salmon start growing in our stomachs and someone gives birth to one out in Utah somewhere, claiming to have been impregnated by Poseidon.

The FDA is concerned about the reproduction of mutating fish

• Scientists: Don’t worry, we will keep all genetically altered fish completely separate from natural Atlantic Salmon. There will be no way for them to reproduce with unmodified fish.
• Health Conscious Public: a) what happens if some get loose and then start reproducing with normal salmon, what happens when it becomes a situation like the North Dakota genetically altered canola plant that is resistant to weed killer, which has now been carried by the wind and is creating a superweed across much of middle America. Freakoutfreakout! b) If this salmon is as safe as you say it is, then why isn’t it alright for the fish to reproduce with “normal” fish. Stop contradicting yourself, fools!

This fish really isn’t fish

• Scientists: yes, it is
• Health Conscious Public: what if there is a mysterious chemical that causing some Americans an allergy, then what if you aren’t allergic to the natural salmon, but are allergic to the modified salmon, and what if I wont know which is which. panicpanicpanic

So after all this bickering is said and done, I ask myself: “Self, if you knew that the fish you were about to ingest was genetically mutated would you eat it?”

The answer: I still have no idea.

Hallo-ween Or Loss?

Tis’ that time of year again. Time for trick-or-treat

Time for candy (don’t eat anything already opened, of course!), pumpkins, crunchy leaves, and neighborhood kids running on our streets uncontrollably (wait…).

Tis’ the season for another important event: my overanalyzed, overthought inner monologue regarding what I will be for Halloween.

I can never decide. I am bad ad making decisions.

Since I had this very problem when I was deciding on what colleges I wanted to apply to, I will take my mother’s advice [again] and list the things I do not want to be for Halloween.

My List of Things I Won't Be this Halloween;
Cat: Are you 6? Are you completely and totally lazy and/or unoriginal? If you answered “yes” to either of those questions, then it is completely appropriate for you to be a feline friend. If you answered “no,” then perhaps you should think of something else to prance around in on October 31.

The Over Slutty Disney Character: Little Miss Muffit certainly didn’t wear that when she was eating her curds and weigh, so neither should you. Similarly, calling yourself “Poke-a-hot-ass” doesn’t make you creative, it only makes you look easy and unoriginal. Lastly, the point of Halloween is to dress up in a costume, and since you paid over $60 dollars for your Snow-white-sloot outfit, I am assuming that you are most certainly trying to show off your goods for all to see. The fact that you chose this slutty number proves that you are in fact slutty, not just pretending to be. Next year try really dressing up, maybe as a nun or even a good role model, neither of which you are in your day-to-day reality. Same goes to you, nurse, French maid or sailor.

Pimp: You are no pimp, so in theory this costume should work; however, the fact that you are a complete tool in reality greatly outweighs the humor and/or perfection of your outfit.

Dorothy: Follow the yellow brick road, go to the Wizard, and ask the Wizard to give you an original costume idea!

Sarah Palin: It was funny in 2008, and it was slightly amusing [but overdone] in 2009, but for the love of all things holy, please do not be Sarah Palin anymore. The “I can see Russia from my house” line expired long ago, and I would rather see you dress up as a cat. Plus, the Palin reference always sparks some sort of political debate, and I don’t like listening to people bicker between costumed keg stands. [Yes, I usually end up at parties involving kegs. I have high caliber friends]

Anything involving a Scream mask: Scream came out in 1996. You had almost 15 years to wear the scream mask, the glow-in-the-dark Scream mask, and the bleeding scream mask. This year, let’s try to use props that your 10 year-old brother wont steal from you afterwards
Ghost: I know! I’ll put a sheet over my head, cut out two eye-holes, and call it original.
Kissing Booth: I know last year was the year of Swine Flu, but seriously that is just yucky.

What else should be added to this list? Whats the worst halloween costume you've seen?

tgit

Good: Last night was family fun night to celebrate the birth of my mom. We saw Wicked as a family. Yes, that’s right…all four of us and there was [little to] no fighting.

Great: We had amazing seats, you go Bob!

TGIT: Wicked caused me to completely re-evaluate my role at the Wicked Witch of the West in our third grade play. I feel as though I completely misrepresented her, and I am a little bitter at my music teacher for not telling me the whole story. Then again, the Wicked Witch was pretty wicked, and I did have a pretty killer cackle, so given the information I had, I nailed it. Time for a weekend.

Overall, I still like Jersey Boys better.

Participation Anticipation

Class Participation.

(Anxiety. Anxiety.)

I used to hate class participation, specifically due to an event that occurred circa third grade when I thought the capital of Massachusetts was Springfield, and the entire class laughed at me. [I still specifically remember my teacher saying the capital was Springfield, but whatever.] At any rate, after that day, it was easier to force myself off the side of a building than it was to force myself to participate inside an educational classroom.

In high school, participating in English was usually easy for me, mostly because I had always done my homework and had highlighted my book for pertinent quotes to use in upcoming papers (yes, I was that kid.)

It was math that was my stressor. Calculus and I didn’t get along, which was always difficult for me to grasp since I had gotten along with Alegbra, and even Pre-Calc, so well. Sigh.

At risk for losing my LSRHS Scholar standing, (Eek! Gasp! The Horror!) I needed to magically change my C+ to a B-. This heightened my anxiety level for an entire year. Anyways, like any good goody-two-shoes, I moseyed to my teacher for after school help, set up regular tutoring, and attempted to get her to like me so that maybe she would just magically turn my C to a B. [Remind me to blog about the follow up situation involving said calc teacher telling me I had an anxiety problem. Gee, thanks for that insight, jackass.]

No dice, in fact, she fed me the very line I hated hearing the most.

“Kristin, you can boost your grade if you participate more in class.”

Yes, yes. I was an educational studies minor. I understand the fundamentals behind participation and how it can nurture the educational process for all students in a classroom, not just those who are struggling. I will also take this moment to spit out the traditional teacher line, which is: “If you have a question, chances are that someone else is wondering the exact same thing.” This is what the “adult” voice now says in my head.

I didn’t have that voice in Calculus.

Whatever.

Riddle me this, Mrs. I-teach-calculus-and-you-need-to-participate-more-if-you-want-that-B-. If I am not doing well on my quizzes, why is it that you want me to participate more in class? Clearly I am not retaining the curriculum. Isn’t it counterproductive to ask a student who doesn’t understand what is going on to participate in a discussion? Wouldn’t that further confuse other confused students, and only agitate those who did understand it? Further, wouldn’t it be time better spent for me to sit and attempt to learn the information you are presenting to me, rather than spewing the what-I-think-to-be-correct answers into the classroom, and polluting everyone’s learning experience?

The answer was always “no Kristin. In order for you to get a better grade, I want you to spew your incorrect version of what you think the answer should be, and then use you as an example in front of the whole class.”

Here I go again, making a personal agenda out of every non-personal situation to every exist.

GooGoo For GaGa?

Lady GaGa needs to make one really good, honest [slightly neurotic, germaphobic] friend.

Why?

This is why.

Someone let her leave her house/mansion/overpriced hut wearing that.

Since no one else is willing to be, I am volunteering to be GaGa’s said really good, honest [slightly neurotic, germaphobic] friend.

Gaga, it is time to be frank when I tell you that your fashion risks are becoming unsanitary.

Lets, if only for a moment, forget about the giant slabs of meat that you wrapped around your body/appendages and called it fashion. We will come back to that.

Let’s start with last year first.

Yes, it was a smart PR decision for you to wow the crowd and captivate the spotlight whenever possible. You were up-and-coming, and needed all the exposure you could get, even if that did mean framing your face with a giant, white wreath. I will let that slide, because as your supportive, germaphobic friend, the only potential danger I would be worried about is if a bird mistakenly took your face wreath as a nest and began to build her home there.

As a friend, the first outfit I would like to talk to you about is this one.

Love the lace, love the cut, however that isn’t where my eyes are immediately drawn to. Agree? I wish you had told me that your outfit was to include a frontal crown, described somewhere between Max’s headdress in “where the wild things are” and Wilson from “Castaway.” I would have been a true friend and told you that maybe there were better options.

Your hair after your removed said crown, looked fantastic. Who let you put that awful thing over your head?!

Oh, and as a friend, I wont even bring up your whole bleeding onstage saga. A true friend will just let you forget that ever happened. You are welcome.

Moving onto some of your other spectacles over the past year.

Your sister’s graduation.

Who said this was a good look?

I get it. Your high school years were tough, and you wanted to send a message to all those mean girls who terrorized your life during your days at your alma mater. Newsflash: they won’t be there, and they already know that they effed up and now will never get free concert tickets or perks. I don’t think you need to wear an outfit of mourning to your sister’s graduation to prove how miz you were when you went there. I think your multi-million dollar empire speaks for itself.

Plus, as a friend, I think its important to let your sister be the center of attention for once. Maybe this is the mother in me, but perhaps on her one day to shine, you could have let the spotlight focus on her, if only just for a moment. This may have been your opportunity to set her free from behind that giant shadow of yours. No? No, you are right, you should have all of the attention, all of the time.

Now lets move on to Sunday’s major malfunction.

Yes, I understand your intention of creating a personal statement through your outfit. I do not, however, understand the logic behind using raw meat as the fabric, and below is a list of reasons why:

1. um, its raw meat?
2. PETA will be pissed. Unless you someone walking behind you, reading a disclaimer citing that no actual cows were harmed in the production of this dress, don’t be surprised when PETA people show up and throw red paint all over you at your next red carpet event. You know better than that, girlfriend.
3. The smell. I am sure all of your neighbors appreciated your stench after you had been sitting in raw meat after a few minutes. I’m sure that felt equally as wonderful.
4. Disease. Maybe I am being selfish, but the sight of you hugging people in your gown du cow made me feel nauseous. I am your friend, but friends don’t make friends hug them when they are draped in raw meat. Everyone knows that. Yes, it was baller when you asked Cher to hold your meat purse, but it won’t be so baller when Cher ends up with Mad Cow’s disease. Just Sayin’.
5. The high risk of a wolf attack. You are a walking butcher’s shop, and asking for it. Might as well chum the water and jump right now, diva.

Spoiler Alert: NFL Breakdown (well, kinda)

Sunday Night Football: the all you need to know, based on my opinion:
(this is when you will realize that my Dad raised me as if I were a boy…at least during football season)

• The New York Football Giants are currently undefeated. Not that I was able to watch the game, because of it being blacked out in my geographical “go Pats or go die” location, but I was able to obsessively watch status updates at the bottom of the television screen. My dad, who was also obsessively checking the score, also made “Yes,” “Oohs,” and “Ughs” so really I was completely up-to-date on the game without even watching it.
• Another season is starting, and still no one has talked Michael Strahan back into playing with the Giants again. My heart is now completely broken.
• Everyone needs a haircut. I am talking to you Tom Brady and A.J. Hawk.
• Michael Vick, another reason to hate the Philadelphia Eagles, as if you need another.
• There is something personally satisfying about seeing Terrell Owens and Chad Ochocinco both playing in Bengal uniforms, both living out of Cincinnati. Who would have thought there was enough space in Ohio for both their egos!
• I support the New York Football Giants, the Patriots (when they aren’t playing the Giants) as well as anyone who beats the Cowboys and/or Eagles. Yesterday, the Redskins and the Packers were golden in my eyes.
• Knowing that either Tony Romo or Donavan McNabb would absolutely lose their first game of the season? Priceless.
• Results in aforementioned match up ending with a Romo/ Cowboys’ loss? (Insert evil laugh here.) I mean they still have their brand, spanking new stadium to fall back on, plus those cheerleaders and Jessica Simpson! Oh, wait.
• Discussion. 99% of Bostonians know that Tom Brady was in a car accident last week. 99% of Bostonians know that Tom Brady walked away from the accidently, shaken up. 1% of Bostonians know that Boston PD needed to use the jaws of life in order to get those injured out of the other car (oh, you didn’t know there was another car involved, but you did know that Brady was standing on the side of the road using his cell phone for 45.9 seconds and that the car he was driving was a gift from his recent charity work? Weird!) Now back to you at the station, John!
• Who is Kevin Kolb, where did he come from, why is he so good looking, but most importantly, why on God’s good earth is he playing for the Eagles?
• Manny, excuse me, Randy Moss needs to realize that divas don’t get contracts, they get traded. Right, TO?
• I still really wish that Plaxico Burress hadn’t shot himself in the foot. I just really miss him and his amazing, bobcat like reflexes. Sigh. Maybe when he’s realised from prison, Coughlin will think about picking him up again, I mean its not like he killed dogs or anything, do you agree
• Go Wes Welker! I mean seriously, the state of Massachusetts has doubted this little man’s abilities since the word “recovery” came out of his mouth. I am glad he was able to show those blockhead Pats fans that an injury doesn’t mean he looses all of his skill, maybe just some.
• Every time I watch a football game, I wonder if I missed my calling as a NFL cheerleader. Hi, dancing, spandex and football? That is like my dream evening in a package! That or being Pam Oliver, sans the whole really bad critiquing and bad makeup/wardrobe choices.

Anger Alert!

Forget Amber, we have a serious, serious copywriter infringement problem.

If you recall, back in the day, I blogged about two words that had become near and dear to me, the first being obliterated, and the second being nom nom. If you don’t recall, catch up.

Nom nom has been a word in my vocabulary for over 10 years, beginning when we got our cat/dog, Smudge.

When I was five years old, we got our cat. I wanted to name him Fluffy, Snowball, Figuro, Snowy and/or any other lovey-dovey name a five year old could think of. Thank you Dad for coming up with the name Smudge, we wouldn’t know how appropriate that name would be until he grew into it…literally. Smudge was no Snowflake.

Anyways, Smudge was the apple of my eye for the next 18 years of my life. He was a good nurse when I was sick, a good companion when I was scared or sad, came when you called for him [even outside] and was an excellent snuggler [he is also the reason I can fall asleep, and stay asleep comfortably, in half of a twin bed.] He wasn’t your typical cat and acted [and weighed] more like a dog. I hated all other cats except for Smudge [and my best friend Jackie’s cats, of course].

Now that we are through the back story, I’ll cut to the chase. The neighborhood vet referred to Smudge as “Arnold Schwartza-kitty” because of his massive size [we preferred the term big boned, thank you very much] and often told us that he needed to be on a cat diet.

Smudge’s life revolved much around habit- I will explain briefly:

• He very knew exactly where we kept the cat treats, and very quickly learned how to open and slam the cabinet shut when he wanted one of us to get some for him.
• If we didn’t come fast enough, he would continuously open and slam the door shut so that we knew he was waiting. Our cat had trained us.
• He learned that people food was much more delicious than his boring, old Mariner’s Catch cat food (which was, by the way the only kind he would eat) and we constantly shared dinner with him as he got older.
• Smudge’s favorite culinary items were milk, warm chicken, mashed potatoes and the juices from canned tuna, some people may argue that feeding Smudge these things were harmful to him, but he lived until he was 18 years old, which converts to about 88 years in “people life.” Beat that, Bette White.

Upon being fed, Smudge would mange face, no matter what it was he was eating. He would eat so fast that he would begin to make uncontrollable noises when he ate, sounding much like nomnomnomnom. Smudge was the only animal I had ever known to make noises whilst eating. Often times I envisioned it as what an obese person would sound like if they were to eat as fast as possible, while thinking they would never eat again.

The term “nom nom” is born. I was eight.

Fast forward to last night, and we have a serious problem.

As my mom and I were laying on the couch for a lazy Sunday night television session, we stumbled upon the Food Network show called “The Great Food Truck Race,” clearly we were hurting for something to entertain us, and we’d already seen the episode of Criminal Minds, standard.

Regardless, as we begin to watch, one of the food trucks was named, you guessed it, Nom Nom.

Gasp! The Horror! No! They copied me!

Our family room was in an uproar, and for the first time ever, it wasn’t me doing the over reacting.

Insert my mom’s [very defensive, very motherly] rant about how I created the term “nom nom” and how I should be getting rights to said Nom Nom truck and all public appearances associated with it.

Sigh, just another example of how I am living a trend setting life, even as an 8 year old.

"Love Your Jacket! Didn't Know They Made Them Anymore!"

New Pet Peeve?

Backhanded compliments.

Excuse Mr. Backhanded-compliment-giver, what kind of reaction were you hoping for when you told me that “I am much smarter than I look?” Why is it that you are surprised to see my reaction being anything but gracious?

What he meant: You are smart!
What he said: You’re smart, but you look stupid.
What you heard: “I have thought you looked stupid for a long time, but after getting to know you better, I know you just look a lot dumber than you actually are.”

You essentially just admitted that your thought process re: me has gone from dumb blonde to less dumb blonde? Uh, thanks? This comment still leaves room for loop holes though, as if you think I look incredibly unintelligent this could mean that you still find my intelligence level to be below average, but above what you originally thought. So really, this is no compliment at all, but is left up to personal interpretation.

Just because you find your level of astuteness to be impeccably high, you know, since you were the one to decipher the fact that I am actually intelligent, doesn’t mean that I also need to praise you for your fine detective skills. Thanks though, James Bond.

Same goes to you “You age well” say-er.

What he meant: Hey, you look good!
What he just said: You’re visibly getting older, but you are still easy on the eyes.
What you heard: “Time to throw away that anti-wrinkle cream you’ve been using, since your lines/crowsfeet are definitely starting to show, but for an old person you look good. I mean, you don’t look anything like how you looked in your 20’s but I mean that was so long ago who would.”

Pardon me as I refrain from showering you with praises after you so generously complimented me. Its not that I don’t want to its just that at my old, archaic age, I might aggravate my arthritis in doing so.

You aren’t off the hook either Mr.“You look great, did you loose weight?” say-er.

What he meant: Wow! You look great!
What he said: You look so much better than you used to, and we’ve all noticed because you used to be so big.
What you heard: “Wow, you look so great when you aren’t a giant fatty. The whole time you were chunky I found you to be completely unattractive, but now I can look at you without my eyes burning! Guess I have to stop calling you Shamoo, now eh?”

Okay, so this is one of those backhanded compliments that really might have had good intentions and just came out wrong. Unless you are a close friend of my [to which then it is completely acceptable to say] then I would rather you just drool over my new hot bod without letting me know that you knew I was a heifer beforehand. Since weight doesn’t lose itself, I most likely knew I was on the larger side since your comment proves that you’ve noticed a physical change in me. Thank you for highlighting something that is most likely a very personal subject for me .

I mean, even the name is deceptive here. A backhanded compliment is really no compliment at all, but rather an insult disguised as a compliment. Can’t fool me pig!

Why don’t we re-name them to be passive insults. Go with it.

Gee, yet again I have taken this whole subject to a ridiculously unnecessary level. Who wants to trade brains?

On another note, today I learned that I realllly reallyyyy don’t like cooked celery in soups, so if you are going to make me soup, make it sans celery.

TGIT

Three Eeps! One Shot



Good: Foreground: the woman in the bikini provided us with several wonderful discussions re: the make up of her boobs. Final conclusion? They were real.

Great: Midground: man passed out on dock with one flip flop on. We were going to go lay down next to him to take a picture, but other girls beat us to the punch.

TGIT: Background: the five man spooning session occurring on the dock. Yes, you read that correctly, five men spooning. We obviously needed a further look, so my friend and I discretely walked toward the end of the dock looking for our “lost friend.” It made sense at the time, I mean I am 9 drinks more sober currently.

The Smiths: The Sequel

Well, we have ourselves another case of psychic blogging.

Yes, just Wednesday, if you recall, I blogged about our families being the frumpy, old-fartsy family of the neighborhood.

Well, in just a few short days I have additional events that will further ostracize our family from those other, not as cool, extremely jealous families.

#1: The Basketball Scrimmage Vs Our Car(s)

This is not the first incident my parents have had with the neighbors that live directly to our left. Just months ago, their basketball hoop fell over and knocked one of the side mirrors fresh off my mother’s car, which was parked in the turn around of our driveway. We aren’t sure how or when the hoop fell, but regardless it did, and it broke the mirror. Unfortunately, there is no other place for us to park our cars, but that is beside the fact, as we are parking in our own driveway. See picture below for clarity.



Note that this picture doesn't do the situation justice, but it was a picture I already had saved in my crackberry.


Anyway, our neighbor’s solution? Turn the hoop so that it no longer faces our cars? No, no, they decided just to put rocks on top of the base so that the chances of it falling over are less. It is also a particularly smart solution when their children enjoy taking the rocks off the base of the hoop, essentially undoing their ingenious solution. I am not bitter. Moving on.

Flash forward to last evening and we have our next round of neighborly basketball encounters. What’s wrong this time? Well, our little neighbors have taken up the fine sport of basketball. Since our young neighbors are no Larry Bird, they mostly miss the basketball hoop, but instead are very good at aiming for our cars, parked in said round about in our driveway. So while the first time it was only a hoop falling on our cars once, now our precious cars are being pelted by basketballs repetitively. Sigh. Older Teenage Boy Smith and Older Teenage Boy Smith’s friend went outside and moved the cars, effectively making our driveway a functioning tandem parking lot. He also had his first verbal interaction with said kids which was simple and to the point: if you want to play basketball, come tell me and I will move my car. My mom, Mrs. Smith also went out and talked to the kids, explaining why its okay for them to ring our doorbell. She is very good at kid speak/

Where are the parents and why haven’t they stepped in to inform the children that pelting the neighbor’s cars with basketballs could be slightly expensive for Mommy and Daddy? Excellent question, one that I asked myself as well. The parents were too busy parked in lawn chairs gossiping and drinking in our other neighbor’s driveway. They were far too busy raging to be concerned about their small coup of children wreaking havoc on the neighbor’s cars.

Disclaimer: back in the day, our neighborhood families used to gather for an occasional Sunday funday and we would too be little neighhorhood menaces, but if we ever did anything like that, our parents would have cut our hands off so that we weren’t able to play basketball…period.

Next Match up:

#2: Girls At Bus Stop Vs My Car

Remember how I mentioned how I only wave at the kids I like when I drive by the bus stop? Well from now on, I won’t waving ever. Why? Because I will be too busy with both hands on the wheel scanning the road for children who literally run out in front of my car.

Explanation? Sure thing. When approaching the bus stop, I saw three of the [very cute, old favorite] girls standing on the curb. I notice as they each run back and forth across the street, not looking for traffic. This seems smart. As they see my car approaching, rather than clearly moving to the side and waiting for me to pass by, they stand there and stare, and once I get closer pretend to start running across, causing me to need to suddenly brake in order to avoid hitting them. Then after I begin to crawl by them in my car again, they do it again. Its like a giant, lethal game of chicken that I do not want to be apart of, especially at 7:45 AM the morning after a long weekend.

Where are the parents while their children are playing in traffic? Oh, they are standing there watching them do this, no doubt hungover from their neighborhood rager yesterday, when their children were throwing basketballs at our car. They are literally standing there watching, talking and drinking coffee. They don’t have the energy to tell their children to stop repetitively running in front of my car, but the somehow muster up the energy to all smile and wave and me after I pass by them.

I am now fighting with all the neighborhood moms. This is going to be a long school year.

Stay tuned for the continuation which I bet will feature:
#3: Neighborhoods who don’t Listen Vs. Mr. Angry Smith
#4: Our Family and Friends Vs. Incompetent Parents

TGIT

Good: We won’t be alone on the third floor anymore! We are getting neighbors! Yay for new awkward bathroom and elevator encounters.

Great: Our office building loves renovations as a way to keep our offices ahead of the architectural trends.

TGIT: In addition to their very quiet execution and demolition [note sarcasm], they also provide extra hard hats for those who may not have one of their own. They are so thoughtful!

MR. WILSON

This blog is dedicated to Abby Georgina Meeks.

When we were kids, we used to make fun of the families in the neighborhood with older children. Lets refer to them as the "Smith Family."

We tried to stay away from the Smith house, mostly because we were completely terrified by it. There were never any people outside, besides Mr. Smith when he tended to his gardens on weekends, and their two teenage kids were always coming and going in their cars. They never waved, so we never waved. There was an awkward animosity between us, so really we couldn’t have cared less about whether we were inconveniencing them when we would be flying down the road on our bikes.

Mr. Smith was a working man. The only time we really saw him was when he would get the mail on the way home from work, and outside in his garden during the summer months. He was very scary, and we did our best to avoid playing near the Smith house because he would get very angry if balls/Frisbees/any other flying object would land in his yard. Sometimes we often wondered if our toys had a magnetic attraction to his garden. Regardless, when it was a toy we loved too much to let go, we often RPSed [Rock Paper Scissored, for all you nons] to see who the unlucky retriever would be. Most of the time it was me. Insert mad dash to and from toy in hopes of not getting shot by Mr. Smith’s landscape protection Beebe gun.

Teenage Boy Smith was also scary. He always had other [older, rebellious, equally scary] friends over, but also biked to and from his friends houses on a regular basis. We tried to give him space when we saw him because even though we didn’t know him, we knew he was older, and that meant automatic road respect… not to mention the fact that we were completely and totally petrified of him. You never waved to Teenage Boy Smith, because that just simply was uncool. If he ever waved at one of us, we would become instant celebrities in the eyes of the other neighborhood kids.

Older teenage girl Smith was less scary than both Mr. Smith and Teenage Boy Smith. She sometimes used to babysit for us, so at one point she had to know our names and care about our well being. If I was feeling particularly friendly, I would wave to Older Teenage Girl Smith and she would always wave back and smile. Sometimes, she would wave at me, and I would immediately smile, wave, and greet her. I always felt like we had this secret connection, I always idolized her and she always noticed me. I would immediately feel cool whenever she acknowledged me. Here she was, off to some super important, trendy, and happening event, but she would take the time and energy to wave and smile to me. I want to be just like her, oh my god, she is so popular. Often times, our moms would be talking at the end of the driveway, and I would rush out to join if I saw her joining in. She always knew my name, and that made me feel awesome.

Mrs. Smith was the nicest of all the Smith family. She would always wave every time she drove by us, and often times she would roll down her window and say hello. She was friends with my mom, so that meant she would kill us, solely because she talked to my mom, so we knew we were safe around her. If she was in the vicinity, we would casually walk into the Smith’s yard and get it, because Mrs. Smith wouldn’t let Mr. Smith get grumpy with us. Life was good when Mrs. Smith was around.

Today I realized that my family has become the Smith Family.

All of the neighborhood kids and parents are scared of my dad. He is known for keeping his lawn pristine, and yelling at neighbors who let their dogs use his lawn as a restroom. I like it when Bob gets really feisty and says things like: “Next time I see their dog pooping on my lawn, I will go poop on theirs.” You show ‘em, Dad!

Matt is totally Teenage Boy Smith. He rarely talks to the neighborhood kids and spends most of his time in the red putt-putt, our basement, or the various other batcaves of his friends. Most interaction Matt has had with a neighborhood kid? A fun game of cat and mouse trying to avoid hitting the kids as he backs out of our driveway. Always a fun game to play first thing in the morning.

I am the Older Teenage Girl Smith. I realized this today when I waved at one of the neighborhood girls in her cute second day of school outfit standing at the bus stop. I also realized that I am not nice to the ones who like to strategically play in the blind spot of my reversing car during the summer. Basic life lesson: if you can’t see me, I can’t see you. I would hit you if for only a minimal amount of self satisfaction, but vehicular homicide wouldn’t be good for my insurance crisis and/or my driving record. I should probably work on that mentality. Regardless, I try to be nice, but I don’t always succeed.

My mom is Mrs. Smith. The neighborhood kids love her. She always waves to all of them when they race her on their bikes, and she always says hello to her favorites, even if that means rolling the window down and screaming to the kids halfway down the road. She talks to all the moms and is always fully aware of the neighborhood happenings. Overall, if I were seven, I’d want to be friends with her out of any of us.

Sigh. We are like the Wilsons of Guzzlebrook Drive. But Wilsons can menace too, right Georgie?!