Frosty D. Snowman Feat. Ronald McD

Good afternoon and a cinammon spice tea. Sorry, that's a little homey. And misspelled. How about good ahftehnewn and a man with a British accent.

It's no secret that I don't particularly care for children. Not my thing. But I'm currently in a cafe with two adorable men, who happen to have their toddlers with them, and I must say that there's a few things about these kids that tug at my frosty heart.

1) I love the way kids wave at other kids that they don't know at all. The British dad just pushed his baby girl outside in a stroller. On the way out, British baby waved at American dad's toddler, who promptly toddled to the door after her and attempted to smack it open. As an adult who frequently pretends not to see acquaintances on the street to avoid conversation, this social instinct fascinates me.

2) Lovelorn, having lost his new best friend, American toddler decides to console himself with a pastry. No judgment, we all do it. Except we understand how a capitalist economy works (Let's Review! Supply. Demand. Adam Smith. John Locke.), while this kid knows only that he wants a pastry and that pastries are inside the glass case. So while dad is distracted with his sister, he keeps toddling behind the counter and trying to open the case to retrieve said pastry. Inevitably, he gets caught and carried back to the table, gurgling frustratedly, which breaks my heart because while I don't much enjoy children's company, nothing stirs my sympathy more than the desire for a pastry you can't have. (Especially for a kid who keeps getting so close before being thwarted by dad - just wait til he's a teenager.)

3) This is not so much something I admire about kids as something I am jealous of: On the way out, thwarted toddler breaks into a rousing chorus of twinkle, twinkle little star. Kids can sing any time they want with no understanding that it might be weird, and that's awesome. I definitely recall my infant cousin busting out Frosty the Snowman during my First Communion with a special shout out to Ronald McDonald, who I believe he thought was the priest. Here's a reentactment:



Being only about 8 years old myself, I probably would have much preferred the sacred body of the Hamburgler over the papery host wafer I received, which from a taste standpoint seemed extremely overrated. (Fortunately there was cross-shaped cake afterward and my faith was restored.) But to a child, what time is NOT the time for twinkle twinkle little star? What kind of fascists would live in a world like that?

Oh shit, I just realized I'm going to get kicked out of this café in 40 minutes and i just spent 10 minutes writing this when I was supposed to be working on a script. God damn kids are so distracting.

Aww COME ON!!!

Good evening and I was just applying some Burt's Bees lip balm, which I enjoy very much for its mintastic moisturizing properties. So HOW PSYCHED WAS I when I noticed there was a $2 coupon on the inside of the label good towards any Burt's Bees non-lip product?!

$2? Fo realz? I thought. That's a pretty fucking good coupon. Usually coupons are for 75 cents off baby wipes or buy one get one generic oatmeal. This is a coupon I could really use! I peeled back the label as instructed, taking in the slow striptease as the bar code coyly revealed itself, all the while thinking "COUPON!" Pursing my minty, moisturized lips together, I gently tore along the perforated line and ripped the fucking thing right in half.

Well, really more like 1/4 - 3/4.

I shouted a variety of obscenities so colorful that I'm surprised they didn't come out as a flock of tropical birds. Ask Jesse, he was on the phone at the time. Regardless, I just shredded my coupon and with it, my dreams of slathering my scaly winter arms with a creamy, heaven-scented tub of Burt's Bees Body Butter (uhhhhnnnnmm, it gets better with each B...)

In conclusion, Seriously?! COME ON!!!

FOCUS CROCUS!!!

I Missed Steve Martin Playing the Banjo: New Songs for the Five-Stage Bereaver

Good evening and it's mid-afternoon.

I am mourning the loss of Steve Martin. Don't be alarmed, Steve Martin is of course very much still with us. I'm mourning a personal loss resulting from the cancellation of a Steve Martin banjo concert, which was to take place this very evening in Montclair, New Jersey.

Last week, I learned too late that Steve Martin was commencing a bluegrass banjo tour to promote his new album The Crow: New Songs for the Five-String Banjo with a performance at Carnegie Hall. I learned this too late because the last time I went to SteveMartin.com was the day he posted a notice announcing an undetermined hiatus from updating his Web site. What's the secret to comedy? Timing. Discouraged, I failed to check back frequently, so unfortunately the first I heard of the concert was from someone already seated inside the venue.

Alas! (Eheu! for all you Latin scholars out there, by which I mean Simon and my brother.) Woe was me, plummeting instantly from perfectly unaware to I-cannot-live-another-day-without-seeing-Steve-Martin-play-the-banjo. Carnegie Hall was indeed lost, but seeing a glimmer of hope on the horizon, I raced urgently to SteveMartin.com, called Jesse, and shamelessly begged him to take me to the next closest show because, well, I don't have any money.

And so it happened that, having cashed in my Christmas present early this year, I spent one glorious day reveling in the fantasy that in exactly one week I would sit in the same building as Steve Martin and he would delight me with whimsical bluegrass banjo. Whimsical? Whimsical. That's my adjective and I'm sticking to it.

Whimsical indeed were my hopes, however, (see? I managed to bring that back around) for like a fleeting flight of fancy, they were fragile and not founded in fact. "Fuuuuuuck!" I exclaimed, on learning just one day later that the show had been canceled. No explanation, no apologies, no word at all except a voicemail from the ticket company saying Jesse's card would be credited.

Heartbroken, I combed the internet trying to make sense of the madness, slipping into the first of the five Kübler-Ross stages of grief: denial.

No! What? NO! I wailed into the phone, prompting Jesse to remind me that he would never joke about something so serious as a Steve Martin banjo concert. Pouring over SteveMartin.com, I found that someone had already struck the date from the tour calendar. Where Montclair, New Jersey had once been, now Washington DC sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Ontario, as if nothing had ever happened, including the invention of geography. Had it all been just a dream?

As Google search after Google search turned up nothing, I lashed out at the man whose comedy records I listened to incessantly in my youth and whose autobiography lay a few feet away on my bookshelf, demonstrating the second stage of bereavement: anger. How dare he cancel a show -- a show that people had been waiting ONE DAY to see. Well EXCUUUUUUUSE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Bargaining came next. The date of cancellation being Friday the 9th, the only dates left on the East Coast were Monday the 12th in Washington, D.C. and three or four hours upstate in Troy, New York on Oct 20th. I begged him to take me to the impending show in D.C., trying to swap it in for the canceled one. We'll take the dollar bus. We'll find a couch to stay on. You have work? We can still make an 8 pm show! When that failed, I turned to Troy. We don't have a car, but I'm sure we can borrow one? Spend the night at our alma mater in Saratoga? We can sleep on the student center couches, just like old times!

Having mostly aborted those attempts, except for a pathetic, Troy? every time Jesse schedules something into his iCal, I'm left with the fourth stage of grief: depression. The sinking feeling I felt when I first heard the news is now completely submerged. I've complained to everyone within earshot to no comfort and many replies of "Steve Martin? Like, the actor?" I've bemoaned and begrudged and bewatched innumerable YouTube clips, listened to bluegrass, rambled and gotten small, but none of it has changed the fact that tonight, I'm not going to see Steve Martin play the banjo.

Which brings us to the last in the five Kübler-Ross stages of grief: acceptance.

This past weekend, Jesse pointed to "steve martin!!!!!!" screaming in blue letters from my iCal and asked, "Don't you want to take that off there? You're just making yourself sad." All week "steve martin!!!!!!" has remained, innocuous if futile, propped up like Tiny Tim on the wobbly crutches of hope and what might have been. But tomorrow it will be a lie, and I have to delete it soon before that happens. And so I say to you universe, I accept! I lay down my sword, my cellphone and my laptop and surrender to your ultimate and unpredictable will. Unless...

Troy?

Marriage Is Like An Eggbeater...

Good evening. We are gathered here today to witness as I join some things I did last week in holy blogimony.

Newsflash: my two best friends from 3rd grade --Katie and Christine--recently got married. Not to each other, although that would have made my life considerably easier, as they both decided to do the ring thing on the exact same weekend. While attending two weddings in one weekend is a great excuse to drink and dance, being a bridesmaid in two weddings in one weekend is a good excuse to drink... and drink... and maybe drink one more...and then pass out under the DJ table.

Bridesmaiding for a friend is, of course, a great honor. But with great honor comes great responsibility, or so I have learned from a number of fortune cookies and movies featuring old chinese men. Responsibirrity... er, responsibility is cool and all... its just not really my "thing." So I was stressed enough when I learned a year ago that I'd be donning two dresses this past weekend, and then again several months ago when I agreed to sing a song for each wedding. In the weeks leading up to marriageapalooza, I was also asked to give a toast at Katie's wedding, the second of the two. At this point I considered wearing a name tag, since the wedding guests would be seeing so much of me that they might be confused who was actually getting married. But of course I was happy to comply with both brides' wishes because I'm an awesome friend and they could be reading this. And so, three days before the first wedding, when I received a message from Christine asking if I could possibly write just a quick toast to our 15 year friendship, I agreed without hesitation.

The hesitation, as it turns out, turned up when I attempted to actually write said toast. I hadn't yet started the other toast I was supposed to be writing and my mental batteries were already sputtering...I needed a jump. Diving into a box of old photos, I examined 15 years worth of incriminating evidence, hoping the perfect anecdote would shake loose from the dense ball of crud that is my memory and float to the surface. No luck. With time running out, I succeeded in crafting a half-page stumble down memory lane that was heartfelt and humorous, if not particularly eloquent. I then spent the rest of the afternoon in front of a mirror rehearsing these heartfelt words into a large yellow flashlight. it was an illuminating experience...

Now, when I got Christine's message, my first inclination was not to recite a rehearsed speech. Instead, my mind went immediately to grade school-era afternoons with the bride-to-be, doing page after page of giggling, side-splitting, drool-inducing Mad-Libs. So when I arrived at the rehearsal dinner later that evening, I joked, "Can I do a Mad-Libs speech at your wedding?" And now she didn't hesitate: "Yes," she said simply, with a thoughtful nod.

And that's how I found myself sitting in the bridal suite mere hours before the ceremony, scribbling a new toast on hotel stationary. After a test flight involving Matthew McConaughey and a couple of arachnids, we were cleared for take off. The wedding was brief and beautiful, and the guests were enthusiatic and familiar with nouns. The toast hit only a minor snag, when my request for an adverb was met with blank expressions. Special thanks to the bride for saving me by shouting out, "Something that ends in -LY!!!!"

And now, with out further ado, I give you the greatest Mad-Libs wedding speech ever written:

Thank you all so much for being here today; this is a very [putrid] occasion. I'm so happy to see all of you here, although [Bon Jovi] called to say he couldn't make it. But he told me to tell you [Ayayayeeeeee!]
Now, marriage is like a [glockenspiel], you have to [run] or [barf] really hard to make it work. But I know Christine and Jason will be [beautiful] at it, because they love each other so [swimmingly].
I've known Christine for [87] years, since we were just a couple of [cows]. I'll always remember that time we dressed up and went to [Chicopee], or all the time we spent hanging out, watching [nuns] and eating [golumpki].
So Chris, I want you to know how very [red] I am for you today, as you and Jay become [fireplace] and [rhinocerous]. I love you both, and I hope you have a very [humongous] life together.


I assure you if you'd ever been to Chicopee, you would find that very funny. Now go in peace, my children. I hope you found this entertaining and spiritually fulfilling, but if not you can go [flashlight] yourself.

Whoa, Baby

Good evening and holy crap.

Thanks to the awesome power of social networking, I just inadvertently stumbled across a picture of a guy I once hooked up with holding his... baby.

That's right…baby. And I'm not talking about his shawty with a fo'ty. I mean an actual pig in a blanket, where pig means baby and blanket stays the same.

Naturally, my first instinct when confronted with this strange and incomprehensible scene was to rationalize the elements before me into some quaint semblance of sanity. Hmm... let's see here. There's some wood paneling in the background. I see an infant... in a blanket... gazed adoringly upon by a scruffy looking man with a beard and longish hair (fabulous taste in men, I know). Could this not be a scene from a Nativity pageant? I flipped frantically through the next few pictures in search of a donkey -- no luck. All I found was I a trio of other dudes who were definitely not the three wise men, forcing me to conclude that my would-be Lord and Savior was actually begotten by he-whom-i-once-knew. (We are, after all, speaking biblically).

(Not to be confused with he-who-must-not-be-named in the Harry Potter sense. Although that would make for some HOT fanfiction.)

I don't even know how to begin describing the feeling of seeing an ex-lover, however insignificant, holding their infant child. Some things come close—that time in ninth grade when you ran into two of your high school teachers on a date at the movie theater matches it for sheer weirdness. Not to mention that same overwhelming desire to stare at something simultaneously revolting and irresistible, like an all-you-can-eat buffet full of Indian food. Just looking at it makes your butt clench, but you still can’t turn away.

Before we proceed any further, I feel it's necessary to establish that the individual in question--let's call him Joseph--was someone I knew very briefly (biblically and otherwise). He's the blank finger left pointing when I total up the romantic encounters in my life and find I forgot one. I haven’t the foggiest idea what he does now or did then... although I do remember a few key things that he didn’t do in the weekend we spent together, such as eating meat, wearing underwear, or showering. (fabulous taste in men, I know). But basic hygiene aside, this is someone I harbor no ill will towards because I harbor no will toward him at all.

That said, goddamn the smelly bastard for reproducing. Not because I even remotely care, but because I was just starting to wade reluctantly into the swamp of adulthood and come to terms with the fact that two of my close childhood friends are about to get married, when this jerkoff ups the ante.“I see your life-long commitment… and I raise you one tiny screaming person." Time to go home everyone, the keg of irresponsibility is kicked.

The point here, if there is one, which is doubtful, i love commas, is that if it hasn’t happened to you all ready, it probably will. Someday, you’ll be innocently clicking through the photo album of some mutual acquaintance and then WHAM! You’ll fall out of your chair because George Michael and that other guy will have reunited the "Manliest Pop Band of All Time.” The one person that got that will think its really funny. No, you’ll fall out of your chair because there before you will be a photo of someone you once “knew” standing there holding his tiny, pink… baby. Not a bong, or bottle of Jack Daniels, or a golden freaking marmoset, but an actual child--another life sprung from a life you'd forgotten. And when that happens, I promise you... you will look for the donkey.

New!!... and Economically Unimproved

Good evening and we're back; thanks for sticking with us through that year and a half-long commercial break where I was occasionally employed and thus could actually afford to do things other than sit at my aging and decrepit PC. i didnt mean it im sorry pleasedontbreakpleasedontbreakpleasedontbreak.

Yes, dry your eyes my cubicle-bound friend, for I am back on job hunt and here to relieve your oh-my-god-its-only-11:07am boredom attack. I know you missed me and I'm sorry. I missed you too. It was wrong of me to leave you like that, leave you for a social life brought on by work that actually generated income. I should've listened, but the joke was on me--after all this time, here I am again with you. And now I'd like to welcome the deep-voiced guy from BoyzIIMen to the stage for the heartfelt, repentant, and obligatory mid-song spoken-word plea for forgiveness...

Baby, I'm sorry
I never should have done you wrong.
If you just give me one more chance, I swear
I will never leave you for another day of real work
practice of another hobby
or another drink with a friend
i can't afford those things anymore now that I'm unemployed again anyway.

Aside from the obvious and numerous transitions in and out of employment, alot of other shit has gone down in the past year, first and foremost that I've moved out of my parents basement. GASP OF SHOCK AND AWE, i know, but don't fear, I've still got plenty to complain about -- I moved to New Jersey. The reacclimatization to sunlight wasn't easy but fortunately Jersey's thick smog cover has allowed me to adapt my subterranean powers for use above ground. My eyes are still a little oversized and lamplike, but I think I've adjusted fairly well, in that I'm just as thoroughly bored and jaded as ever before.

In fact, I'd just love to hang around and fill you in on all the intricate details of this vibrant paradise I'm currently occupying, but I was just reading a PUMA T-shirt tag that I found on my floor, and I've discovered in what must be their new corporate tagline a shockingly relevant statement that echoes my own sentiments at this exact point in time:

Start Tomorrow.

and i when i left work, i had a parking ticket.

I stepped in dog poop on my way to work this morning.

PMS stands for Punk-ass Mall Security

Good evening and the Christmas tree, which I refused to let my parents take down today- January seven -because oh shit my ramen is burning and the cat is on my lap and we all know that it is a sin of great consequences to disturb a sleeping cat on your lap.

Crisis averted. As I was saying:

Good evening and the Christmas tree, which my parents tried to undecorate and remove today a mere week into the new year. Completely unacceptable. After years of basking in its twinkling glow safely into February, I advocated against disturbing the tree, even despite the fact that this year's specimen is exceedingly pointy and sappy. Arguing that my wishes should be honored at least until Jan. 16, my 23rd birthday, I defended my "birthday tree" with as much vehemence as one can without actually getting off the couch. I prevailed. Thus I write, comforted by the fact that as long as the holiday season endures, I can justify being 23 and still living in my parents' basement.

And speaking of my age and sensitivities thereabout, I have for you tonight a very special tale of drama and passion, of power and revolution, of angry words and embittered tears, all set in that crucible of human emotion: the Holyoke Mall.

Our story takes place on Saturday, December 30, a cold and bleak day in the life of our heroine, myself. On this particular occasion, we find me leaving Victoria's Secret empty-handed, after an unsuccessful foray into my former place of employment to secure new black stockings. Although this alone would be enough to invoke disappointment and frustration in any lingerie disciple, the entire day up to this point had been one of rather unsatisfactory feelings. Firstly, the post-holiday departure of my brother the day before had left a void in the Griffin household, plunging me back into my pre-holiday solitude as the only resident of my house under fifty and without a tail. Further, even before the ill-fated visit to Victoria's, my shopping trip had yielded little returns, my quest for a suitable crossword puzzle book and black work shoes both ending in failure and frustration. Add on to all these crummy factors a healthy dose of PMS, and here we have a dark and gloomy stormcloud, quivering with bad energy and looking for some poor fuck doing a rain dance.

Enter mall security. As I strode indignantly out of VS, eyes firmly locked on the entrance to Macy's, outside of which I had parked, a kid in a white shirt and black tie stepped away from the escalator towards me. Having done nothing wrong and in no mood to take a survey, I breezed past him and continued on towards my target; I did not break stride as he called out "Are you aware of the mall's policy?" As I passed, I issued him a curt reply, which sounded like "No-o" but in no unclear terms said "No, and I don't give a rat's ass so get out of my way, half-pint." However, persistent in his line of duty, he chased after me, catching up just before I crossed into the haven of the department store. He repeated his question.

"No. WHAT policy?" I replied, turning to face him with eyes that I am frankly surprised and disappointed did not shoot lasers.

"You have to be 18 to walk around the mall alone." He stated, handing me a flyer.

"That's great. I'm 23." I snapped, and turned back without accepting the outstretched policy. Now, up until this point, I had been merely annoyed. Not particularly at him, for it was not his fault that none of the items I had driven all the way to Holyoke to purchase were available that day. Nonetheless, he was unfortunate enough to get in my way and I had absolutely no problem being extremely rude and unfriendly to deter him from taking up any more of my time. While he may have thought I was treading on his crisp button-down mall authority, I was really letting him off easy by reigning in the full force of my bitchery. Stepping foward into the store, I blew out a frustrated breath at a conflict I assumed was over.

"Do you have I.D.?"

Oh no he di-int. I spun around.

Suddenly and without warning, my eye lasers went off. Converging between his quivering brows, his head exploded into a million pieces, like a watermelon filled with dynamite.

Sorry. That didnt really happen. The real story is way better anyway:

"What?!" I barked, daring him to ask again.

"Can I see some I.D.?" he repeated, attempting the steady tone of the law. Unfortunately for him, he was clearly fresh out of high school- if even out at all-, a few inches shorter than me, and a MALL SECURITY OFFICER- a detail that seemed to be lost on him. He sounded tentative and juvenile, like an underage kid outside a liquor store asking for a favor. As it happened that day, I was all out of favors.

"Do YOU have I.D.?" I countered, stepping forward into the confrontation.

That's right. I carded the mall police. Don't ask me why I would particularly want to see his ID, as it would merely prolong the argument. But it seemed like a snappy comeback at the time, a natural and clever turn of phrase along the lines of "YOUR MOM has ID!!!"

"What?"

"Do. You. Have. Eye. Dee."

"Um...why?" he fumbled incredulously. In the flash of an eye laser, roles had reversed; gone was the valiant upholder of sacred mall doctrine, replaced by some punk kid from Holyoke with a laminated badge. I guess they dont teach much psych in the mall police academy.

"I want to see it," I replied tightly, liberally applying the people's eyebrow. "You show me your ID and I'll show you mine."

What followed this simple schoolyard proposition was the most awkward of exchanges: each of us fumbling for our green and blue state-issued Mass ID's, fingers unsteady with anger and indecision and the fact that we were eye-lasering the shit out of each other instead of looking at what we were doing. Eventually, having left my license in another pair of jeans when I went to a BAR the night before, I produced my college campus event card, which he hastily glanced at and handed back to me, eager to extricate himself from this young-looking crazy woman. I did not ask to examine his license, satisfied that he had produced it from his wallet and that although his head was fashionably shaved, he appeared to have some sort of Rico Suave haircut on his ID. I also noted that his ID was veritcal, denoting someone under the age of 21.

"How old are you?" I ventured, somewhat sated now that he had complied with my ludicrous demands.

"18."

Since he first requested to see my ID, I had been unreasonabley, unseasonabley, ridiculously pissed. Now, having just started to defuse the complex bomb of pre-menstrual emotions, I felt a new surge come over me- as if the wrong wire had been clipped. Here I am, two weeks shy of my 23rd birthday, being singled out and harassed by an 18 year old boy working at the mall- the mall which I have been going to alone or unsupervised since well before he entered high school. As so often happens that time of the month, the smoldering flames of frustration were unexpectedly overtaken by a salty tidal wave of embarassment and injustice. My eyes started to sting. In retrospect, I think it was the lasers shorting out.

Perhaps sensing the change in temperament, mr. mall security asked me why I was so particularly reluctant to be carded. "Don't you think its a little embarassing...?" I hissed lamely, biting back the rest of the sentence: "...to be detained by a mall cop?!" Before he could respond, I whipped back around, desperate to exit the mall before the levees crumbled and unleashed the full force of the now-unstoppable emotional onslaught. While I stormed through Macy's, the inevitable tears began to fall- through men's wear, down the escalator, and out through the shoe department. That's how you know I was upset: I didn't even stop to look at shoes. And as hilarious as it is to picture this now in retrospect- stomping out of the mall crying because i got carded by the freaking mall police- I can only imagine that poor kid, standing motionless outside Macy's, shaking his head in disbelief and wondering what the fuck just happened to him.

So, in conclusion, I got carded by the mall fuzz for looking 18. Even better, I took this opporunity to exercise my monthly crazy pass and card the mall police back, then burst into hysterical tears and storm out of the mall, leaving some clueless kid spinning in my wake.

Perhaps, in time, he will understand the ways of the lady. You know...when he's older.

My Blog Ate My Homework

Good evening and my vibrator ran out of batteries, forcing me out of my masturbatory coma/literary hiatus.

Back by popular complaint, first let me say that you are the most loyal, bored, obnoxious friends a girl could as for. So, after the 3rd or 4th, "I have nothing to distract me from my crappy office job anymore," I have re-dedicated myself to my late night ramblings. Just. For. You. Feel special.

That said, it's actually the middle of the afternoon. No, i'm not starting to relinquish my nocturnal habits, but when I tried to save this post last night at about 2am, blogger when sharktastic on me and devoured it whole. (because it was so delicious.) Apparently I should be running home at night and backing up.

But despite all these trials, I have perservered; I'm back, boreder than ever, and ready to tell you about the time I drove my car into the back of another car. Wooooohoooo!

That time was last Friday.

Returning home from a night of debaucherous birthday celebration in good ol' Toga town, NY, I was headed back to Massachusetts to make work at 4. Needless to say, I was exhausted, be-sweatpantsed, and feeling the familiar effects of the morning after. However, the sun was out, the road was clear, and I was making excellent time; despite being worn out and well, me, I was in a pretty good mood...

And that's when I made my fatal mistake. (duh duh DUHHHHH). In my infinite brilliance, I pulled into the Lee rest stop off I-90 for a quick bathroom run. And--lets be honest here--a medium fry.

Ok, a happy meal. With a toy.

I made this decision regardless of the fact that I HATE stopping on my way home, the fact that I was still full of Country Corner goodness, and the fact that- here's the kicker- I totally could have held it. Alas. As I eased off the ramp, I pulled into the parking lot making a right turn, indicating in hindsight that I couldn't have been doing more than about 5mph. But for drama's sake, let's say I was doing at least ten times that, and that I was on fire. So, speeding and flaming like a [insert gay joke here], I locked my sights on a spot to the left.

Now, let's pause here moment to examine the scenario. To my left, there was a parking spot. A parking spot. One lone miniscule spot, squeezed between the two least convenient vehicles available in regular transit. To the left, a Ford F-3billion roughly the size of a firetruck. To the right, a crookedly-parked SUV, whose tail end angled in towards the truck with all the subtlety of a dog in heat. (This metaphor especially apt because my car will shortly bury its nose in that SUV's ass). On the OTHER side of the aisle, there were roughly 10 consecutive empty spaces, enough room for me to pull in sideways. In an eighteen wheeler.

It would have been perfectly easy, beauuutifully easy, to pull into one of these empty spots. But no. Instead I went for the awful spot. The impossible spot. The hail mary of parking spots, which for the record should only be attempted in the most desperate of circumstances and under direct supervision of a lifeguard. Perhaps it was not the logical choice, but it was a whole 30 feet closer to fatty french-fry fantasticness. And as I eased my way around the ginormous Ford Monstrosity, carefully monitoring my left side to properly negotiate the difficult turn, I thought, "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn, I'm smooth."

Unfortunately, my car was thinking, "The HELL you are..." because it seized that exact moment to collide with the rear fender of the SUV on the right. Needless to say, I was not monitoring that side quite so carefully. Awesome. The crunch of exploding plastic and the cold harsh scrape of styrofoam against steel shocked me out of my congratulatory reverie, or mental victory dance, if you will. Backing up into one of the many EMPTY spaces behind me, I saw that the damage to the SUV was minimal, and briefly contemplated getting the hell outta dodge.

HOWEVER, upon inspecting my own vehicle, my clever escape was foiled. Where the corner of my bumper should have been, there was now an empty hole. Cables hung from what formerly was my parking light and directional, one shattered and the other embedded safely in the broken bumper, which was embedded safely on the ground. When I called my father to assess the situation, I described it as follows: "Its like...if your eyeball popped out, but you didn't lose it. It's just kinda dangling there by all those strings." As I stood, staring into the gaping socket, I noticed that my bumper consists entirely of hard plastic and styrofoam (except of course in the spot it struck the SUV, where it is made of plastic and NOTHING). It certainly is reassuring to know that in the case of a more serious head-on collison, I have styrofoam to protect me.

I would love to continue this tale of woe, regaling you with further embarassments like the myraid of guys who came over and swore that they could "catch the guy who did this," at which point I would bashfully inform them that "no, thanks, I did it myself." But my ADD has stretched this yarn out over yet another day and its now 1:30am, which is nearing a reasonable time for sleep. And so, in dramatic conclusion, I took a half hour nap in the car just to spite the world, disconnected the wires, tossed my broken bumper in the trunk, and drove on home.

Maybe if youre good, next time I will tell you about how we fixed said light and bumper using duct tape, bungee cord, magic marker, and...a shower curtain. In the mean time, have a safe thanksgiving and look out for drivers like me.

Oh shit I forgot I had a blog again. Dammit! I SUCK at this.

Sharktasmic

Good evening and this picture...

CAUTION: Leaving this wrapper unattended could lead to the suffocation of strong sad!

(Psssh... http://www.homestarrunner.com/vcr_ss.html)

What IS this?! Warning: this product may transform you into an oral sex doll? It might turn your head into a road sign? You may become a round peg in a square hole?

If only I could remember what the product actually WAS, we could all safely avoid it...

Oh well.

Dad, Stop Reading My Blog and other children's stories

Good evening and I totally forgot I had a blog for a few days there. whoops. I must have been too busy doing NOTHING because I have no life and I live with my parents. right. that must have been it.

Tonight I would like to discuss with you the concept of scientific conversion, which in my mind conjures up images along the line of -

Stop. Hammertime.

We interrupt this regularly scheduled program because there's an ad on the TV for Cellflirt. For those of you who do not stay up watching comedy central all night long (diving for the remote should Mind of Mencia spring unexpectedly upon you like a ninjapuma), Cellflirt is the paragon of hot steamy sex. And by sex I mean of course cell phone erotica that does not involve any actual sex. However, unlike the mom-and-pop phone sex operations of yore, wherein you ring up ol' Fanny Mae and get your tele-phreak on live and in person (sort of), Cellflirt has advanced sex into the next generation of telecommunications: text messaging.

In the beginning, there was sex; boring old-fashioned sex where you actually had to SEE and FEEL and SMELL (and taste!) the person you were gettin' nekked with. Fortunately, the genius of Alexander Graham Bell rescued us from this atrocity by bringing us phone sex... Either that or the graham cracker, I'm not sure which. Regardless, this invention rendered the other person extraneous to the equation, sparing you from having to see their orgasm-contorted face or experience any of those other lame "senses." The end result is that you were finally free to engage in a little do-it-yourself lovin whilst being aurally pleasured by a complete stranger- No Partner Necessary! (Void Where Prohibited, Some Rules and Restrictions Apply). Unfortunately, the crumbly nature of phone sex (or was it graham crackers?) caused a number of complications (read: ants), forcing telesexuals to come up with a new solution.

Enter Cellflirt. By simply texting 'Relax' or 'Tease' to 44321, you can now engage in some hot late night action with someone you can no longer certify is even a member of the desired sex. For all we know, there's a computer at the other end, programmed by some D&D nerd to randomly reply with one of 135, 214 sensual responses guaranteed to make it worth the small fortune theyre charging you.

Horny texter: "Tease"

SexBot5000: "Oh Baby. I'm so horny."

Horny texter: "Me 2. What R U wearing?"

SexBot5000: "Nothing."

Horny texter: "Me either."

SexBot5000: "You find a +2 Dagger of Glendor's Wrath. "

HornyTexter: "Huh?"

SexBot5000: "Nothing baby, dont stop."

All questing aside, it seems the point is to suspend this sort of disbelief: people text it up with invisible partners so that they dont have to settle for what they can get in real life. So let's say, just for a second, that there actually IS a hot young blonde or 5 on the other end of your connection, as the commercial implies. Just how are you supposed to conduct any, uh, business, when your paws are all tied up texting? I mean, personally, were I to spend actual money texting one of these hotlines, the button I would be pushing would not be found on a keypad.

Well. That post did not go even remotely where I intended, but it was an exhilarating ride nonetheless. Join me next time I remember, when we will discuss important matters concerning weights and measures and boobs. No lie.

In the mean time, watch out for ants.

i'm tired, leave me alone.

When In Doubt, Make a Fart Joke

Good evening and a huge pile of crap that I dumped in my parents kitchen before I took off for California, hoping that it would put itself away and maybe find me a job while i was gone. Unfortunately, neither of these events occured. Make that a useless pile of crap.

Regarding this less than graceful cross-country transition, I miss the west coast for a myriad of reasons. Most importantly, that there are more hours in the Californian day. Apparently, I will go to bed around 3am regardless of time zone; however, on the west coast, I get up 3 hours earlier than here...although that may have resulted from actually having something to get up for, which is not the case here in Massachusetts, unless you really really really like watching the leaves change.

Yes indeed, I am currently leading a thoroughly purposeless life, a life which I try valiantly to hide from by sleeping until about 3pm each day. My current residency in the basement aids this effort by preventing any offending sunlight from infiltrating my fortress of darkness until well into the afternoon. At this point, I drag myself upstairs to face whatever glorious activities and brilliant opportunities this sunny day -brimming with potential- has in store for me. Liiiike...taking the car to get inspected.

Today I took my Geo Prizm on over to Pro-Lube to try my luck at getting her a new inspection sticker. I made sure to take the highway over, despite the fact that the street driving directions are as follows: exit driveway, turn right at end of street, go straight for 10 minutes. My mom thought it might help to open the ol' priz up first, get her all warm and ready for that sweet inspection-action. Honestly, I would never send my girl in there to have them poke her engine cold: even a place called Pro-Lube still has to get her purring first ...Of course, my car sounds more like feline leukemia, but the same rules apply. Mostly, I just prayed that the engine wouldn't blow up and I'd have enough gas to make it two exits down 91.

As luck would have it, I successfully arrived at the inspection station, just in time to be squeezed in as the last appointment of the day. This privelege may or may not have been affected by the smallest t-shirt and the biggest fake-titty bra i own. Regardless, this left me with a good hour and a half to peruse Car and Driver magazine and ponder my own crapulent existence. (I would like to take this opportunity to note that while Car and Driver seems like something cars and drivers would read to share a communal bond, cars cannot, in fact, read, making this a stupid title for a publication.)

As I sat there, willing myself not to drink the complimentary coffee because a) i try not to consume things simply because they are available and b) its a fucking GARAGE, I began to wonder how I would measure up to a state-mandated inspection. If I had to show up at a service station once a year to be re-certified as a functioning member of society, would I pass? Would any of us? What would the requirements be? Like car inspections, would people inspections differ from state to state? Would you need to be more environmentally-conscious in California? Below a certain height in Massachusetts? Shit, in New Mexico you can get away with anything! A car is inspected to make sure it is safe for the people in it, the people sharing the road with it, and the environment. Can we all say that about ourselves? Year after year, can any of us consistently say that we aren't even slightly detrimental to ourselves, our friends, or the world at large? Does this questioning thing remind anybody uncomfortably of Sex and the City? fuck.

As I waited, hopelessly torn between Aidan and Big, I measured myself against factors that could possibly be included on the state inspection checklist for life. Employment? nope. Positive contribution to society? nuh-uh. Social skills? i have a freakin blog. Money? HA! sniff... Sense of humor? Metric volume? Balance and flexibility? A really big butt?

I don't really know what makes a person fit for society. Ultimately, it appears that there really are no defining characteristics that determine whether we succeed or fail at life, other than whether or not you're happy with yourself.


(dramatic pause)


Apparently, my car needs a little self-esteem boost. As expected, my poor little Geo failed emissions, enough to earn her a big fat R(as in -ejected) sticker on the windshield. Yet had there been a coiciding people inspection, I might be wearing a matching R on my forehead, so I still love my car. At least for the next 60 days, while I can get re-inspected for free. Maybe when I come back, we'll both be passable- or "good for another 10,000 miles!" as my gynecologist likes to say.

Returning home from this mediocre adventure, i shared my deep musings with my father, expressing concern over the concept of an inspection for life- what the criteria would be and whether or not I would pass. And in his infinite wisdom, he responded only this:

"All I know is, you definitely wouldn't pass emissions."

sometimes i get drunk and try to gorilla glue a pistachio into my belly button.

yeah...that pretty much sums it up.

why do things make noise

good ev...oh, fuck it.

i fucking hate that thing on the top of the AIM window that plays music whenever you make the slightest movement, such as breathe anywhere near it. i keep rolling over it by accident while i'm trying to do productive things lie and all of a sudden 'does that make me CRAAAAAAAAAAZZZZAAAAYYYYYYY?' comes blaring out of my brother's laptop which apparently has no sort of volume control system whatsoever. that really charms the 35 year old yuppies also doing the late-night-wireless-in-the-lobby thing. plus they already love me because im sitting here using the ONLY available power outlet...brilliant design really: free wireless, seating for seven, ONE outlet. fucking genius.

of course, thats not nearly as awkward as the time i signed on to AIM in the middle of the fourth floor of the library on my then-boyfriend's laptop, only to have it announce "SEXY GIRL IS HERE" to the entire floor. nice. nothing makes an entrance like a lady robot proclaiming your arrival to a room currently filled with COMPLETE AND UTTER SILENCE, as well as number of diligent students who now think i'm either totally full of myself or trying to pick up a 12 year old in a chat room. the kicker is that im sure i probably programmed it to say that at some point in the distant past, assuming that the hapless victim would not, in fact, be me. oh karma you are a slutty whore.

The Family That Drinks Together...Drives...Together?

I'm totally blogging in my pants right now.


Good evening and horrible soft rock-techno-pop in the lobby of my bro's schwanky apt building where i go to use the free wi-fi.

this is the EXACT same kind of music they play at victoria's secret. you know it: the kind with ONE hip-and-tragic-sounding phrase that they whisper fourteen thousand times over either a vaguely familiar or blatantly sampled beat. i seriously shudder every time i hear WHAT would she do for love? whatwouldshedoforlove? WHAT would she do for love?...I don't know what she would do for love, but I know what I would do to make her shut the fuck up, and it involves a roll of gaff tape and a pufferfish. of course, those are also my plans for friday night, if the hot chocolate guy doesnt show up. but i better get to the point here because if i have to listen to another hour of i lost myself i lost myself i lost myself i lost myself... im gonna, um...lose...my.... yeah.

Anyway, I know you have often wondered if you could possibly share a gene or two with someone as awesome as me, wondered if you could possibly contain a fraction of my intelligence, grace, and um, charming demeanor. That, or we made out and you want to make sure I'm not your cousin. Either way, after extensive genealogical research (aka a week on vacation with the fam) I have compiled a helpful guide that may assist you in tracing your Griffin roots. Enjoy.

Firstly: We Griffins are a widespread (read: promiscuous) and primarily Irish (read: drunk) bunch. As a result of these dominant genetic factors, Griffins can be found all over the world in a variety of bars, pubs, and breweries. Look in a mirror. Are you drinking? If yes, congratulations! There is an excellent chance that you are part Griffin.

Continuing on, here are a number of other sub-factors that may help you identify your Griffin heritage, all gleaned from my glorious family vacation:

-If you have a few pre-dinner beers in the hotel with your parents, followed by drinks at dinner with your family, then celebrate a night out with more beers, you may be a griffin.

-If you have ever been pressured into getting another drink by one of your parents, you may be a griffin.

-If you would never dream of having dessert with just coffee, if you MUST add a least a splash of baileys, or better yet some jamesons, or fuck it bring me a whiskey on the rocks, you may be a griffin.

-If your brother's girlfriend calls home after a week of hanging out with your family and says, "But they DRINK so much..." because you have managed to physically exhaust her with the amount of alcohol your family consumes, you may be a griffin.

-If you get wasted in a winery tasting room (the third of the day) and start singing Wierd Al songs from a decade ago, you may be a griffin.

-If you then sit outside said winery and compare feet, concluding that the length of your toes is a genetic indicator of your predispositions for certain kinds of alcohol, you just might be a griffin.

-If you devote an entire day to family drinking (aka drive through wine country) and FAIL to designate a driver because no, we thought you were driving, you may be a griffin.

-If you're father's bar manner inspires someone to ask "When did your dad become a frat boy?" and you respond, "About 30 years ago," you might be a griffin.
(incidentally if you have ever asked your dad about his UMass days and he mumbles something about throwing a mattress out a 30th floor dorm window, you're a griffin.)

-If a member of your family ever asks you to hold his or her beer while he or she makes an illegal left turn on a major roadway, you may be a griffin.

-If you come out of your stall in the ladies room and notice your father peeing in the stall next to you, to which his only response is 'you know, i thought it was funny they had no urinals.' you are unfortunately a griffin.

-If your brother's girlfriend goes out for beers with your family, orders a diet coke, and announces it a personal victory -a coup of sorts- to go out with your family and not order an alcoholic drink, you may be a griffin.

-If switching hotels involves leaving your mom on the sidewalk with a mountain of luggage...and a twelver of microbrew, you may be a griffin.

-Finally, if you feel overwhelming loyalty to defend 'Undercover Brother' as a cinematic masterpiece, you're totally a griffin.

I hope you found this guide helpful in identifying your Griffin heritage. If you did, in fact, find any traits in common, welcome to the clan! I'll drink to that. and to your health. and to my health. and to...thursday! aaand that guy! and of course: to family.


(if you did not find any traits in common, dont feel too bad...you still have your liver.)



now, if you'll excuse me, i'm getting the fuck out of this lobby.
I'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible...

did i mention the whipped cream holster?

Good evening and a wicker duck that im assuming is supposed to be here for aesthetic purposes...?

this is my last night in my very own hotel room, and there are only 3 word for that:

so.

many.

hookers.

really tho, today i went to a baseball game and it was really fucking cold and i wanted something warm and delicious but your mom wasnt around. and then i saw the hot chocolate vendor walking up and down the aisles. the man wears A TANK OF HOT CHOCOLATE on his back, with a little hose to dispense it and a whipped cream holster. allow me to repeat that: whipped cream holster. he has a holster for easy access to his two cans of whipped cream. tank strapped on tight, hose at the ready, aerosol dispensers blazing, this guy is armed and dangerous, walking up the aisle towards me like some beautiful delicious ghostbuster. fuck the game, i will pay you SO MUCH MONEY to come to my room later wearing only that equipment. im not sure you heard me: THE MAN WEARS A TANK OF HOT CHOCOLATE.

in other news, i went to the zoo today. i'd love to tell you all about it but im waiting to illustrate with the 10 or so pictures i took before my camera fucking died. ive been saving the battery all week to take pictures of animals at the zoooooooo because they are so much more fun than people, and half an hour before the lion feeding the camera f-ing dies. but man, if that camera had worked you guys would see so much gigantic rhinocerous wang you wouldnt even know what to do with yourself. everywhere i went there was a different species of rhino showing off his junk. and all i can say is, it must be good to be a lady rhinocerous.

altho its probaby pretty hard to get a whipped cream holster that size...