tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9188535064181630262024-03-13T08:53:08.504-07:00Desperate HousedaughterLiving with my Parents, among other issues.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-9541931802552215242012-02-18T07:52:00.000-08:002012-02-18T07:52:35.536-08:00OMG<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfN_Vxd1sU-IXG5rFaUvM8mfgD0zra-Q5l1ZnpjPFqUmm4Lp8MPbvXqvAvgJv_DTjyZVDUUKmvD4isN0cQFQXTZhubmmKrc2QnlEKae3lYt0wA4ruWgyich0g8xNpk125QjF7kks_bfCw/s1600/imagesCA7H67RS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfN_Vxd1sU-IXG5rFaUvM8mfgD0zra-Q5l1ZnpjPFqUmm4Lp8MPbvXqvAvgJv_DTjyZVDUUKmvD4isN0cQFQXTZhubmmKrc2QnlEKae3lYt0wA4ruWgyich0g8xNpk125QjF7kks_bfCw/s1600/imagesCA7H67RS.jpg" yda="true" /></a></div><br />
OMG Y'ALL. First off, it's been 3 (or 4) months since I've written here, and also it's been about the same amount of time that I've been working as an ESL teacher, and it's been about the same amount of time that, wait for it, I've moved BACK. BACK HOME. TO MY PARENTS' HOUSE. WTF?!?!??!?!?!?!<br />
<br />
Let me enlighten you. My dear sweet Fatty decided to injure herself, to wit, I came home one day and Fatty boo boo was not looking quite right. I asked my parents when she started looking and acting like this, and they looked at me blankly. Well, they hadn't even noticed she was off, at all. I took her to the vet, wa wa wee wa her tail was injured, and fast forward now and she's all good. At that time, though, I decided that living with the cat and making sure she was doing fine trumped living outside of the house where I couldn't have the cat live with me. Sigh.<br />
<br />
Having a pet you love is much like having a child, and anyone who tries to say that's not true is either a moron or an assbag. Fatty says hi, btw, and she's doing fine. Her poor tail was not functioning for a while there, but now it's back in action.<br />
<br />
SOOO now I'm here, at the parents', working as an ESL teacher, and I have so much to tell you in that regard, so let's get started!<br />
<br />
Teaching ESL is so much like babysitting that it concerns me a little bit. I'm one of those people who has known I haven't wanted children since I was 4 years old, so trust me when I say that babysitting is one of my least favorite activities in the entire universe of possible activities that I could do. And for those parents out there balking at this statement, I don't agree that it's different with your own children - no matter what, kids are kids, and they're ANNOYING.<br />
<br />
Well, I was super excited when I first stepped into the classroom - after all, teaching ESL seemed SO FUN!!! I walked in that first day (nay, week and month), enthused, ready to go, and excited to teach! Well, let's just say that by New Year's Eve, 2 months later, my opinion and attitude had changed quite a bit.<br />
<br />
Teaching the 18-25 crowd, and even the 25+ crowd, is not unlike daycare. You shush everyone all the time, you play bingo and hangman, and you constantly tell them to look up here! Eyes up here! Everyone here now! Clap clap clap - LOOK UP HERE!!!!! PAY ATTENTION!!!!!<br />
<br />
I always hated babysitting, and let's face it, teaching...yeah. It's not great. So we'll see what happens, but chances are, it won't be happening that much longer.<br />
<br />
So living at home again...it's special. So special that it'll be getting its own series of posts. Until then, ta ta!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-41766885391710577832011-11-02T13:38:00.000-07:002011-11-02T13:43:10.671-07:00ESL Class<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDFLhuhwYIgptR7zJt0d-9kPOJO04bVkfQmgnItR3R8RJGfDBgqZEWV2q8YRFkiCZsG5H7BY7DtAm8uBGKA2Lq_J-J0cw3qYnDDQtM0manYmb4B6ZLiY58Mr9KX_ViuenJV0YsOUVDrWM/s1600/ESL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDFLhuhwYIgptR7zJt0d-9kPOJO04bVkfQmgnItR3R8RJGfDBgqZEWV2q8YRFkiCZsG5H7BY7DtAm8uBGKA2Lq_J-J0cw3qYnDDQtM0manYmb4B6ZLiY58Mr9KX_ViuenJV0YsOUVDrWM/s320/ESL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Friends, I've been holed up in Kenmore Square for the last 4ish weeks, receiving training to become a certified teacher of English as a foreign language. DAS RIGHT. In just a couple of days, universe willing, I will be certified to teach!!! <br />
<br />
As a long-running, potentially card-carrying member of the unemployed clan, I'm delighted to have found something that strikes my fancy and that I seem to be good at! I hope others agree, and so far it seems they do!<br />
<br />
Just wanted to share my joy with you. Carry on your day!<br />
<br />
XO<br />
DHUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-31327432644764027042011-10-20T04:22:00.000-07:002011-10-20T04:25:25.877-07:00Separation Anxiety - Cat Style<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLnXi-ozqKun8IatAmxtttHHXfKFlvKJ34ybhwPR9aK1jFAASFMgTMaThUhJAc8ImeZgJoDZZsfHwf8Cf5qfxFjNZTMYcxGx50Op5fMjWDhD70GoTTMR0TuLh1NHci1jtRrfeADaQaWI/s1600/FATTY%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLnXi-ozqKun8IatAmxtttHHXfKFlvKJ34ybhwPR9aK1jFAASFMgTMaThUhJAc8ImeZgJoDZZsfHwf8Cf5qfxFjNZTMYcxGx50Op5fMjWDhD70GoTTMR0TuLh1NHci1jtRrfeADaQaWI/s320/FATTY%2521.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>Just look at her pretty face!!!<br />
<br />
<br />
My move out has been hard on everyone. Ok, that's a lie, it totally hasn't been hard on me at all! In fact, I feel great!!!! My mother has taken it well (though every time she sees me, she clutches me to her bosom like I fell off the Titanic and she's only recently discovered that the daughter she never got to know is alive and well), and my father keeps calling me to ask me for help around the house and to subtly imply he misses me by telling me that Fatty has been asking about me.<br />
<br />
There is one lady, though, that hasn't been taking my non-constant presence well. And that, dear readers, is my sweet and wonderful Fatty!<br />
<br />
Fatty is feeling mixed emotions. While she's happy that I've finally bucked up and proven that, in fact, I can take care of myself to an extent, she's wondering why she is not part of the packaged deal??? Fatty's well read, and she is especally fond of the Philip Pullman series, "His Dark Materials." She is pretty sure that she's my daemon, so she's not clear as to how she can live in my parents' house while I gallivant to and fro, hanging out with my roommate's cat and cockatiel.<br />
<br />
Fatty knows I've been cheating on her. The first few times I came home, she sniffed me like I was a total stranger, turned herself around, and left the room. She's lightened up since then, and now she does the usual run up, meow, plop over, and roll around to which I am accustomed. I can tell, though, that she harbors resentment, but it's that kind of resentment based in true undying love.<br />
<br />
For example, when I try to pick her up (which she normally hates), she lets me do it, but not with at least 4 meows of disgust. But she doesn't get all tense and uncomfortable and unsqueezably board-like like she would when I lived at home and would hug her 24/7. My fat cherub misses me.<br />
<br />
Fatty is a master of the "WHAT? Why are you leaving the house?????" look whenever I go out, but now, it's soooooooooooo much more deeply pathetic. It used to be just a look, or maybe a mild gaze. It has turned into a full-body rejection. She walks across the room, turns her back to me, then turns her head over her right shoulder, the whites of her eyes showing all around. She looks simultaneously enraged and deeply depressed. Thank goodness I don't have a cat who goes and pees on all my stuff when she's mad. She's too classy for that.<br />
<br />
Fatty, this is an open letter to you: I LOVE YOU!!!! YOU'RE THE ONLY CAT FOR ME! In fact, the only animal for me! I'll come squeeze you a lot, so have no fear!!!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-52753647419966427552011-10-09T06:56:00.000-07:002011-10-09T06:56:02.974-07:00The Inevitable Has Occurred<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYasKcZHZmvOGLjd8HljUg-HMcSLWA-cQxzN9QHxiTrpohJCwtotFkQ1mmwAkt3AHAdxma1hQOFIzphXx9WeRTqn6nFtxEWMRVYdbbsAZP5gy-b1AfeauQ2NLsd_YpzG3eBwtyBIuLx-o/s1600/go-home-to-parents-house-eat-all-the-things.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYasKcZHZmvOGLjd8HljUg-HMcSLWA-cQxzN9QHxiTrpohJCwtotFkQ1mmwAkt3AHAdxma1hQOFIzphXx9WeRTqn6nFtxEWMRVYdbbsAZP5gy-b1AfeauQ2NLsd_YpzG3eBwtyBIuLx-o/s320/go-home-to-parents-house-eat-all-the-things.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Friends, readers, friend-readers - THE DAY CAME! I MOVED OUT OF MY PARENTS' HOUSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAOAOHWOAHHAHAAAOOOOO!!!!!!<br />
<br />
That's right, DH finally got her shiznackle together and decided to haul ass to her own locale. I have many people and things to thank for this, including but not limited to the following: my parents, a certain bestie named Sarah H------g, turning 29, the South, and of course, my therapist. What? I'm like Ron Artest/Metta World Peace. It's the 2011's, people!<br />
<br />
I have moved to a not-so-distant semi-urban neighborhood that is a short jaunt to my parents' home (and my dearest Fatty who will not be living with me for the time being). I'm also starting a class to get certified to teach ESL, so I'll be occupied doing that.<br />
<br />
Ok enough about me! Let's talk about how moving out does not actually disqualify you from still being, even in absentia, a Desperate Housedaughter!<br />
<br />
Example A: Not 2 days after my arrival in my new apartment, I get the following phone call:<br />
<br />
[Phone - ring ring!]<br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: Hello? Hi Dad!<br />
<br />
<em>Dad</em>: I don't friggin' understand this friggin' thing, what the FRACK?<br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: Dad, what are you talking about?<br />
<br />
<em>Dad</em>: The clothes washer! Do I turn the button to the left or to the right or under the...??<br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: What? What button? Are you doing laundry? No no no no make Mom do it! You'll screw it up.<br />
<br />
<em>Dad</em>: [Whining] DH, c'mon please just explain it to me :(..... [Incidentally, not only have I explained to him how to do laundry at least 5 times before, I've also physically showed him at least 10 times. Seriously, he's 61!!! Get with the program, yo!]<br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: Ok, turn the dial all the way to the equivalent of 8 o'clock on a clock.<br />
<br />
<em>Dad</em>: WHAT? It's 8 o'clock????????????<br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: NO! OMG for realz dude, the button. 8 o'clock. DO IT.<br />
<br />
12 minutes of explaining later, I think he got it working, but honestly, who knows.<br />
<br />
<br />
Example B:<br />
<br />
[Phone - ring ring!]<br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: Hello? Hi Dad!<br />
<br />
<em>Dad</em>: UGHHHHHH<br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: Oh boy, what now?<br />
<br />
<em>Dad</em>: I have to take my car to get an oil change. Can you do it?<br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: Um, why?<br />
<br />
<em>Dad</em>: Please? <br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: Why can't you do it over the weekend?<br />
<br />
<em>Dad</em>: PLEEAAAASE??? <br />
<br />
<strong>DH</strong>: Shit, dude, are you for real? [click]<br />
<br />
<br />
There was a third phone call involving a request to get a friend, drive the friend to my Dad's car parked in a parking lot, and have the friend and I drive the two cars home so Dad could take the subway to the airport and not leave his car behind in the process. Mm hmmm. Seems like my Dad is the one who is missing the housedaughteriness more than he imagined!<br />
<br />
Anyway, readers, since a housedaughter's work is never done, I'll keep coming to you with my stories, so please keep reading, and sorry for the 2 month gap! I'm back better than ever, though!<br />
<br />
Kisses,<br />
DHUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-37555856251630186572011-08-15T06:41:00.000-07:002011-08-15T06:41:37.500-07:00Dr. Bentley, We'll See You Next Week<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtPqSIw3YJ3pFY9xICshZX5SlC2AOyP6Ak0ahsRzSlIWHg42B_yq9B1WCyXe0DZjlaGQpxMhYq3kChX87ZI9YrgFIv3IuWYzuewCWU4juXxBLwD0qlgPet0ZxI9cPuFq2nSGFtqO7C5ec/s1600/DSCN0817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtPqSIw3YJ3pFY9xICshZX5SlC2AOyP6Ak0ahsRzSlIWHg42B_yq9B1WCyXe0DZjlaGQpxMhYq3kChX87ZI9YrgFIv3IuWYzuewCWU4juXxBLwD0qlgPet0ZxI9cPuFq2nSGFtqO7C5ec/s320/DSCN0817.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
When poor darling Fatty has to go to the vet, she gets very very very upset. <br />
<br />
Fatty is (thankfully) afraid and respectful of me as her most present, large, and loud authority figure, so she'll comply with me when I have to shove her into her Fatty carrier and put her in the car for her appointment. However, from a specific incident involving 2 parents, a Desperate Housedaughter on vacation in California, and a non-compliant feline who ran and hid under the bed at the sight of her carrier being pulled out mere minutes before the vet appointment, I have learned that I must take out Fatty's carrier ahead of time. Specifically, at least one week in advance for her to see it, acclimate, and then be shoved into it at an unknown and random time. I just took it out today for her appointment next week, in fact!<br />
<br />
Lest you find this method cruel, please try it yourself. It works amazingly. The element of surprise is critical. Poor Fatty doesn't see it coming, and it's hilarious!!!! Getting her in requires one firm shove, and then it's over. Truly miraculous!<br />
<br />
En route to the vet is when Fatty is the worst. She meows the entire way there, and by meows I mean great big loud moans of disgust and horror like a baby whale dying. The production only gets more intense as we stop the car, head into the waiting room, and then inevitably hang out for a bit until they're ready for her. She wails so loudly that the people behind the desk look at me the way I look at moms of 4 year olds in the grocery store checkout line. Sorry ladies, I get it now and will stop judging.<br />
<br />
After we're escorted to the exam room, the vet tech attempts to lure Fatty out of her carrier, with no success as Fatty has now smushed herself to the furthest back point in the container and cannot be reached. Super! So then we just go with the flip the carrier on its side "dump-and-let-gravity-do-the-work" method, and the cat has no choice but to slowly slide down and plop onto the stainless steel exam table. She shoots me an angry stare but then focuses her attention on the vet tech and hypervigilance. I've watched enough Cesar Milan to know that I shouldn't coddle Fatty while she's at the vet, so I just ignore her and discuss the appropriate percentage of protein that should be in her diet.<br />
<br />
When the vet tech leaves to get the doctor, Fatty makes sure she sits with her back fully turned to me. I attempt to console her with the result that she turns her fluffy face toward me, unleashes a string of meowing profanity, and clearly wills me dead with what she wishes were her eye guns. I never get a look so injurious from this animal except in this exact scenario, and she wants to make sure I know that what is going on here is UN. AC. CEPTABLE. The look she's giving me implies the feeling I have anytime Fatty wakes me up at 5 AM (when I'll often mentally picture her bursting into a furry ball of flame). She'd like me to go up in smoke and go to hell, in whatever order.<br />
<br />
Then the doctor comes in, and BAM! Fatty turns the tables big time!! The loathing-filled creature of 15 seconds ago has been replaced by a sweet Southern belle greeting Dr. Bentley like she's a long lost relative. Maybe it's her defense mechanism, but Fatty is so freaking nice to the vet that I have to stop and thank Jeebus for sending me a lovely fluffpuff like her. I used to have one of those cats that unleashed fury and madness on the vet, clawing and attacking and injuring before escaping onto the highest shelf in the room, out of reach for at least 30 minutes. Once a vet had to get stitches because of him. Trust me, vets hate you after that. <br />
<br />
Not Fatty, though! She's a sweetheart. She gets felt up, told she's fat (not unlike my own doc appointments), and then is allowed to leave. My fluffy baby jumps back in her carrier as soon as its made available, and she's generally quieter on the way home. As soon as we get home, she runs and hides for hours, giving me the cold shoulder until her next meal or she reaches forgiveness, whichever comes first.<br />
<br />
Tell me about your pets, readers! I love a good going to the vet story. <br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-21788817599929129602011-08-03T06:18:00.000-07:002011-08-04T20:09:10.999-07:00The Funk of 40,000 YearsI have a storied and somewhat ill-evolved history with squirrels. For over 25 years, whenever someone called them rats with a fluffy tail, I defended their fluffy cuteness. When walking through the Public Garden, I would often stoop down to feed one of them a potato chip directly from my hand. When I would see one crossing the street, I would slam my brake and swerve to avoid hitting them. In short, I was a squirrel's friend and a real delight.<br />
<br />
Then came San Francisco. Behold the photographic evidence:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2_9ei6VZdTKa6HqrmZHVoKdbYaXv82km3hFoxq1U2Y0FiXha0llMQkEeZ0yNqdepdYhrLaj5fdUxVQioIx4w1eDyBs7pwUho1qdgMct3cxCqz2StV8c0X6QQmJY-xFEl5S-Qogo4AzY/s1600/squirrel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2_9ei6VZdTKa6HqrmZHVoKdbYaXv82km3hFoxq1U2Y0FiXha0llMQkEeZ0yNqdepdYhrLaj5fdUxVQioIx4w1eDyBs7pwUho1qdgMct3cxCqz2StV8c0X6QQmJY-xFEl5S-Qogo4AzY/s320/squirrel.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
See that little grey blur right in the middle of the picture? That's a squirrel charging at me in Golden Gate Park. That little bugger not only chased me down, it also climbed my pant-leg to get to my chocolate chip scone. I shook it off, but not without severe emotional trauma. <br />
<br />
Look, I was so pro-squirrel, even after this event, that I just laughed at the cherished memory of it scaling my leg past my kneecap in order to swipe food from me. But squirrels, you have done me wrong now. Very very very wrong.<br />
<br />
The date: this past Monday night. The time: 9 PM. The scene: Me going to the fridge to eat something despite the fact that I wasn't hungry. Scene:<br />
<br />
DH: "Mom, WHAT is that smell????????????"<br />
<br />
Mom: "Your dad ate some canteloupe [sidebar: I hate canteloupe and it smells like horrible rancid crap to me, so this was a likely scenario.]<br />
<br />
DH: "NO no no no no no no this is WAAAAAHAAAY worse than that. EW! [sniffs air while fridge door swings shut] It's coming from there [points toward study, two rooms away]!!!!!!"<br />
<br />
DH and Mom walk towards study, stench gets severely worse and very very overwhelming.<br />
<br />
DH: "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww WTF it reeks in here!!!!!!!! It smells like DEATH. I told you we have critters in the attic! The effing pest guy came and everything! It must have died in the wall!!!!!! BLECH."<br />
<br />
Mom: "I don't smell it." [ calls dad over]<br />
<br />
Dad: "I don't smell anything."<br />
<br />
DH: "BBBRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!" [calls fire department]<br />
<br />
<br />
The fire department came over and told us, yes it's a dead squirrel somewhere in the wall, stinking up our house for conceivably the next 4-6 weeks or more until it decomposes and gives us respite from it's disgusting malodorous body smell. <br />
<br />
In short, squirrels of the world, I'm SO OVER YOU. You've lost an ally this week. I might just go buy this mug:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTVJ4SuuABtx9b7ADvwsXC5D8Ylc1g2nOLo_bv4JKrFz8wfgl6KRzYKI3K9TxKI0A19u_AOLxN6FCdkAOid03OnJHkhetzkiKapleCTCV_NxIteKzwV_9doopbBGEKG4mM-Ag4m0U2ko/s1600/i_hate_squirrels_in_the_scope_cup_mug-p16891874127638359821yff_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTVJ4SuuABtx9b7ADvwsXC5D8Ylc1g2nOLo_bv4JKrFz8wfgl6KRzYKI3K9TxKI0A19u_AOLxN6FCdkAOid03OnJHkhetzkiKapleCTCV_NxIteKzwV_9doopbBGEKG4mM-Ag4m0U2ko/s320/i_hate_squirrels_in_the_scope_cup_mug-p16891874127638359821yff_400.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Update: As of right now, 8/4/11 at 11 PM, the smell has VANISHED. WTF??????</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-17976706246144818372011-07-18T08:28:00.000-07:002011-07-18T08:29:51.823-07:00Reveeeeyahhhh BEACH!<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFAap42HfT7nGW8Dg9smO8-0d33C2W65Tz-FYQUy5JHRlitJ2fxcDhtruXg1DBWObhfi8Scs6BGz_J4tXh2yooYbLhR81BdrDl0ojcOq4xhVgCh81Mrq1aShzZhmAcOSW_ShXSxYpb_U/s1600/IMG_2078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFAap42HfT7nGW8Dg9smO8-0d33C2W65Tz-FYQUy5JHRlitJ2fxcDhtruXg1DBWObhfi8Scs6BGz_J4tXh2yooYbLhR81BdrDl0ojcOq4xhVgCh81Mrq1aShzZhmAcOSW_ShXSxYpb_U/s320/IMG_2078.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Here's a delight for your Monday morning, my lovely blog readers! Last evening I went to the Revere Beach Sandcastle Competition to view the creations, and let me tell you, even at 8:30 PM, the crowds were abundant. Although it was my idea, I credit my generally very enthusiastic mother for dragging the combined dullness of me and my father out of the house. The above sandcastle was actually strung with holiday lights and itself was about 5 feet tall, and it was perched on a 5 foot tall mountain of sculpted sand that I didn't get in the picture. It was eeeeenormous.</div><br />
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I overheard some ladies saying this next one was the winner, but I have no idea. It was the most striking, however. The whole inside of the shell was hollowed out!<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Have a lovely Monday! And if you want a tinge of bitterness to your Monday, just think about how these sandcastles will be destroyed by today's thunderstorms! I almost wish I could be there to watch it. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-83300561693261332142011-07-06T06:42:00.000-07:002011-07-07T14:33:28.346-07:00Brains do the Darndest Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivggoC7oZuRRNUzQ7ymMvC7esTZeCzb33gujUhlnrncBT823TyAsHc9BP_2xWc8F69VP2bMk5fhotcW9kxqbMcMWdF-z7CVh_vg7ebjrN_odwpsW-wGTgMplbCqDnQEzDp0scsq7Ng7Fw/s1600/family-matters3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivggoC7oZuRRNUzQ7ymMvC7esTZeCzb33gujUhlnrncBT823TyAsHc9BP_2xWc8F69VP2bMk5fhotcW9kxqbMcMWdF-z7CVh_vg7ebjrN_odwpsW-wGTgMplbCqDnQEzDp0scsq7Ng7Fw/s320/family-matters3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This morning I woke up and looked at the clock to see "7:30" in glowing red digital numbers. I promptly rolled over, closed my eyes, and seconds later re-opened them to the glow of "9:00." What happened inside my head and behind my eyes during that hour and a half was possibly the best, most 90s, most odd, and most awesome dream of my life.<br />
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I had watched a few episodes of "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Huge-Complete-Nikki-Blonsky/dp/B004AZ7ZKE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1309959307&sr=8-1">HUGE</a>" before bed which I blame for my throwback to high school state of mind, but beyond that, I can only credit my brain for coming up with such an amazing bit of dreamworld.<br />
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I arrived at the Family Matters home of characters Harriette and Carl, which in my dream was a bed and breakfast. I booked my usual room there and proceeded to their family room which promptly turned into a giant cavernous room and began to fill with some of my childhood favorites. First, in walked the New Kids on the Block, then my best friend from childhood, then one of my gay husbands from college. The room slowly filled with more of my childhood friends and tv family such as all of the cast of TGIF, The Backstreet Boys, and various other late 80s and 90s sitcom characters.<br />
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I remember turning to my best friend and telling her, "If the New Kids on the Block sing 'The Right Stuff,' I will pass out!" She agreed.<br />
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The scene then turned into a giant dessert bar, and we all gorged to our hearts content (that I'll blame squarely on my pre-sleep tv watching) and suddenly our surroundings were a lush tropical porch in Hawaii. <br />
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I woke up then, notably forcing my body awake at the ridiculous thought of Chicago, IL suddenly becoming Maui. Apparently that threw me over the edge mentally, not the idea that Steve Urkel's neighbor's house was really a B+B I frequented.<br />
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Tell me your funniest or most memorable dreams in the comments, creative readers!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-25400194592717001672011-06-24T11:04:00.000-07:002011-06-24T11:04:23.993-07:00Craigslist Transactions are Shady by Nature (Not Cause I Hate Ya)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0sCkJchwgOult5VU2WOaCFifUp2Pu39sqRzjR-1bcNUUSCPoaX9aerhKtThZzJ0dO3iTbaBZIbjH7SV1WUs9uv1zLJUSt_8HF8z0O1MdoV9njY9R6S-vAa23vzYqPevC54Wi3KNkZIE/s1600/20purses_jpg-main_Full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0sCkJchwgOult5VU2WOaCFifUp2Pu39sqRzjR-1bcNUUSCPoaX9aerhKtThZzJ0dO3iTbaBZIbjH7SV1WUs9uv1zLJUSt_8HF8z0O1MdoV9njY9R6S-vAa23vzYqPevC54Wi3KNkZIE/s320/20purses_jpg-main_Full.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I have tons of sh** to sell. Coming off of many years of being a spendthrift (I'm newly inititated into the "Do I REALLY need that?" mentality), I have amassed a certain, well, prodigious collection of purses and other girlish accoutrements that really needs to be whittled down. <br />
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I do not particularly enjoy the usage of ebay if I can sell things more locally. Ebay requires packing items for shipment, convincing the post office that sending perfume via ground is legal according to their website, and giving Ebay a cut of the profit which itself requires money and time and drives to the post office. To that I say, NOPE. Instead, I enjoy when I meet someone around the corner at the bagel shop and sell them $300 worth of old jewelry. Thus began my relationship with Craigslist.<br />
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Craigslist has been fine for me over the years while apartment hunting and giving things away for free, so I figured, let's give it a shot with all this stuff I need to sell. Most of the people that contact me have been thus far average and not scary, so I would say that Craigslist is still being good to me. That said, here are some of the gems I have come across (none of these are spam) in attempting to sell via Craigslist:<br />
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<u>In seeing a purse in person</u>:<br />
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DH: "Here you go, it's the Calvin Klein."<br />
Customer: "You said this was silver in the ad. It's really more of a grey with a shimmer and some metallic inflection."<br />
DH: "So, in other words, silver."<br />
Customer: (15 minutes later) "Yeah, I really am looking for something darker silver than this."<br />
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<u>In negotiating price:</u><br />
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DH: "Great! So that'll be $200 as we discussed. That is 50% off retail value."<br />
Customer: "Will you take $75 for it?"<br />
DH: [Inhaling deeply with eyes closed] "No. We already discussed price via email, didn't we? We came to an agreement?"<br />
Customer: "Yeah, I'm really only looking to pay $75."<br />
DH: [Shoving back chair and standing up] "Thanks for letting me know now instead of before. Buh-bye!"<br />
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<u>In picking a meeting spot:</u><br />
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DH: "Let's meet at the bagel shop in the town center."<br />
Customer: "Let's meet in the rear of the Whole Foods parking lot in the center."<br />
DH: "There's no Whole Foods in my town."<br />
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<u>In providing too much information as to why a particular item is desired for purchase</u>:<br />
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DH: "The shoes are size 11." (What? I have big feet.)<br />
Customer: "Great! Would you be willing to sell to a man with a shoe fetish?"<br />
DH: "TMI, bro! If you'd just said, 'I want to buy them,' we wouldn't have had a problem!"<br />
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<u>Upon discovering via Google that the customer has a criminal record:</u><br />
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DH: "Holy ****** ****! WHAT IS WITH PEOPLE????"<br />
Fatty: "MRROOOW!"<br />
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Craigslist, I do love you most of the time, but I needed to get this off my chest. Please help me find some more real customers and less freaky deaks. Oh, and darling readers, if you're in need of any new purses, perfumes, or jewelry, please do get in touch! I have many for sale.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-50970637906371147302011-06-10T09:42:00.000-07:002011-06-10T09:42:39.877-07:00Mon Jardin des Plantes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRYL-W-OCjsd1RlwOU4Y6Etlln0Qs5hWnFiWCLJm_E4WBNAtInRah7-iVTpR2uD0QYalJhOn6jvQ7_Xgktsvci11Mdl1T9jlzBQf1GCyRxt50Bf7Hrhl964WFWhQ_5njRCMKU7MgaKTg/s1600/IMG_1959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRYL-W-OCjsd1RlwOU4Y6Etlln0Qs5hWnFiWCLJm_E4WBNAtInRah7-iVTpR2uD0QYalJhOn6jvQ7_Xgktsvci11Mdl1T9jlzBQf1GCyRxt50Bf7Hrhl964WFWhQ_5njRCMKU7MgaKTg/s320/IMG_1959.JPG" t8="true" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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Friends, don't be jealous! I have a container garden (raising the roof - you can't see me, but I'm doing it). That's right, this is the kind of crap Desperate Housedaughters get excited about when they don't have things like jobs and boyfriends. <br />
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Please voila my gorgeous lettuce container:<br />
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Also, please enjoy one of the members of my herb garden:<br />
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Mr. Mint has been repotted to a much larger container since this picture was taken, and let me tell you, it is satisfying to have a little jardin des plantes on my deck. Iranians eat herbs by the handful (as opposed to delicately sprinkling them over meats and veggies like white people), so it'll be great to grow piles and piles of mint and basil for us to eat. <br />
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Container gardening is kind of cool, even posh! I like the idea that it's not in my yard where I'd have to do things like weed the garden and fend off bunnies (one of my friends has a gorgeous outdoor garden and tells me all kinds of tales about squirrel/tomato robberies), and I also like that sweet Fatty can go luxuriate her fat self underneath the shade of the Heliotrope. <br />
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I will say, though, that the number of strange and somewhat unattractive insects I've encountered on the deck throughout the potting of said garden is ICKY. I will spare you photographs, but suffice it to say that adult jumping spiders are approximately tarantulas that are the size of a quarter. And about an inch tall. YEAH.<br />
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Do you all keep container gardens? If so, what do you grow? I need an excuse to go to Home Depot and buy more potting soil so the cutie dude there can carry it out to my car for me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-42341952747013416032011-06-09T06:30:00.000-07:002011-06-09T06:34:06.586-07:00Dinner Expectations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHtmKG63AgIam0yimonCtRlIw2rgGzUhOHlLzFvn2i5lYwNnZ-jybk9mSLb9nwwXP6ylQ4lF8MP8DrGSx486-F74sgThNPZkAhpqhSXlVCWrvNl4NG0xB4S-i8TfLKCvFql1XlLi0ayVs/s1600/taco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHtmKG63AgIam0yimonCtRlIw2rgGzUhOHlLzFvn2i5lYwNnZ-jybk9mSLb9nwwXP6ylQ4lF8MP8DrGSx486-F74sgThNPZkAhpqhSXlVCWrvNl4NG0xB4S-i8TfLKCvFql1XlLi0ayVs/s1600/taco.jpg" t8="true" /></a></div>Dinner. It's what's for dinner. Wait, what?<br />
<br />
Cooking dinner is part of the housedaughter equation of expectation which looks something like this: Desperate Housedaughter + free time + no job + vague household skills = dinner. Each and every night, I receive two phone calls, usually in this order:<br />
<br />
4:30 PM - Dad calls. "Housedaughter, what's for dinner tonight? I'm on my way home on the train."<br />
<br />
Me: "Dad, WTF? I'm so sick of getting these calls about dinner! I can't make dinner every single night! I already do all the laundry, 75% of the dishes, [blah blah prattling and whining about all the housework], so I don't feel compelled to make dinner, AGAIN!"<br />
<br />
Dad: "Fine I'll eat bread for dinner."<br />
<br />
Me: "FINE!"<br />
<br />
<br />
5:30 PM - Mom calls: "Housedaughter, what's for dinner?"<br />
<br />
Me: [Turning red with rage] "PFFFTTTTTT WHAT?"<br />
<br />
Mom: "What. Is. For. Dinner?" (She's adorable and thinks I didn't hear her. I love optimists!)<br />
<br />
Me: "Thanks, I heard you. Tacos. From last night."<br />
<br />
Mom: "Ok, I'll just eat a muffin from the grocery store."<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh dear. I try hard to avoid the carb-loaded dinner fate for my parents, but let's be clear - I hate cooking. Baking is fun and enjoyable, but cooking, NOOOOO! I don't find anything about it fun. So when dinner is laid squarely on my shoulders all the time, I get exhausted.<br />
<br />
In the last 7 days, I've made dinner a shocking 3 times! BBQ burger/veggie extravaganza, tacos, and spaghetti and meatballs (well, I only made the meatballs). When my Dad makes dinner just once every 3 months, he gets mad if we ask him to make dinner again during that time. And I laugh at him copiously. What gives, people? <br />
<br />
It's good to be a housedaughter in a way, because now I know (unless I married some super rich dude who regularly bought me Prada and we had a prenup) that I could never be a housewife. The expectation of dinner is just too much for me. It tosses me over the edge. Alas, I must now take my leave of you to go make my breakfast oatmeal. Let me confess that cooking breakfast is an exception to my cooking hatred. I make a delicious breakfast, so come on by anytime before 10 AM! But please don't ask me to make you dinner. Ever.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-67233452601951497012011-06-06T06:10:00.000-07:002011-06-06T06:10:50.327-07:00RepairmenMy parents freely make appointments with repairmen and expect me to be home during the long windows of time in which they'll potentially arrive. Apparently, as a housedaughter, it's part of my job description. [Sidebar: I'm still waiting on the official job description...hmmm maybe Fatty is HR. I should ask her.] Today, for example, the AC repairman will be arriving somewhere between 12-6. Let's talk about this. <br />
<br />
12-6???? Can you imagine if my mom made an appointment with her patients and said, be here from 12-3, and I'll see you somewhere in there. YEAH NO. I get it, I get it, she's in an office, blah blah no travel time, blah blah crap. But a 6 hour window? The repairmen of the world are getting a little too comfortable with us being comfortable with their time window system.<br />
<br />
I think a 2 hour window is fine. 3 hours, pushing it. Above that? You should bring me lunch, a soda, and guarantee an attractive and age-appropriate repairman with every repair. I know Hillary Clinton told us that it takes a village to raise a child, and I often find that she is right, except that it takes a village to maintain a damn house. If I weren't home for these appointments, my parents would have to wait months to have the AC repairman come, and by then mice could eat through the wires again (that's what happened last time).<br />
<br />
I think next time I make an appointment somewhere, I'll try to make it in a window of time and see how well that goes. Hi, friend I'm meeting for lunch? I think I'll arrive somewhere between 8 AM and 9:30 PM. Let me know if that works for you. Toodles!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-83435158508287399462011-05-27T13:56:00.000-07:002011-05-27T21:56:20.007-07:00She got GAME!UPDATE: Mom has called me twice from the restaurant to confirm that yes, in fact, Todd is taking care of them and is awesome, nice, and hot. Oh, and that the food is fabulous. She was on dessert number 4 the second time she called me. Seriously, if I didn't think I was a Desperate Housedaughter before, I think having a mom that has cooler weekend plans than you with random celebrities she befriends at lunch makes you pretty D.H.-y. Fo' realz.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
EARLIER TODAY:<br />
Ohhhhh NO you will not believe the phone call I just got from my mom who is currently partying it up (under the guise of a dental conference) in NYC with her fellow Iranian lady dentist friends!!!! WHOOAOAOA!!!!<br />
<br />
Apparently my mom and her lady friends decided to head to the Park Plaza (pronounced PAhhhk Plahhhzahhh) hotel for lunch, cause, they fancy. So I guess at the Park Plaza they seat you at long tables, so you end up sitting with other random people. So this handsome man sits next to my mom and greets her. She greets him back, and they have a short conversation. When she turns back to her friends, they're all FREAKING OUT. Why??? Because that dude is TODD ENGLISH. YES. And so my mom turns back and starts talking to Todd again, and they become insta-besties. That's right, my mom got game.<br />
<br />
So Todd and my mom and her friends chit chat and finally Todd says, "do you ladies have plans for tonight?" To which my mom says, "no, not yet!" So Todd says, "I'm opening my new restaurant Crossbar tonight. Would you please join me at the opening? I'll take care of you." My mom was all, "let me check with my friends, Todd, and we'll get back to you." Ok, that was in my imagination. What they really said was, "YES YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES," and then squealed with delight.<br />
<br />
My mom calls me, and casually mentions that Todd English invited her to dinner. WHAT A PLAYA!!!! <br />
<br />
Mom, you outdo me all the time, and I'm so proud! Go shake it, sister! And mention to any celebrity you meet that I have an awesome blog and that my sister is a stand-up comedienne. Oh, and take lots of pictures - me and my readers need the dish (pun intended)!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-26627709921623553822011-05-26T06:50:00.000-07:002011-05-26T06:52:04.799-07:00Online Dating...is fun?Desperate Housedaughter is single and ready to mingle! Ok, that's kind of a lie. I'm single and <em>hesitant</em> to mingle. I'm generally afraid of people and prefer to watch Ugly Betty reruns rather than, well, a lot of stuff. Because of this proclivity, you can imagine that although I go out quite often and try new things, I tend to do so with my Mom or other person with whom I have solid rapport already. Mom, you're in NYC this weekend partying with your friends! I miss you!<br />
<br />
Yeah that's right I just gave a shout-out to my Mom. Due to being a 28 year old who gives mom shout-outs on her blog, I've had many friends suggest to me that I buck up, join the current population of Earth instead of continuing to behave like I'm in Ye Olde Days, and sign up for online dating. I reminded them that I came to blogging about 15 years too late, but they said that's no excuse and I need to get on board more quickly. So, finally, after much struggle and waves of nausea, I signed up for one of them websites last weekend.<br />
<br />
My friends have been SO SUPER EXCITED!!!! They've helped me with my profile, decided on pictures, and were, and are, generally all perky and encouraging. Despite their efforts, however, instead of feeling like this about online dating:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3E6a9nNgHW7drESPRMFleFcaKcvy10UmN3CagZlSPYw76k6OXKUkGsD_XijB547DX34p_rzm00PNi3UrI1Bis9C3Spqt_wo0j5oRhNBwSKaNDwncLS-vdT4PoIGox4Yh21CQpkKEHHJk/s1600/yay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3E6a9nNgHW7drESPRMFleFcaKcvy10UmN3CagZlSPYw76k6OXKUkGsD_XijB547DX34p_rzm00PNi3UrI1Bis9C3Spqt_wo0j5oRhNBwSKaNDwncLS-vdT4PoIGox4Yh21CQpkKEHHJk/s1600/yay.jpg" t8="true" /></a></div>I feel more like this:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGn3fBfXWoYwwmy57HT5CakpHDp7siMGu4DM_oshBbudfAe6OOGAA8s_PGBEaxOgVQj41jHALFBhQVAEl1nBuwwyrah8NEToqTt4tT_QYKWN-zkEiKGUB-6fJFdIeCBaMc8x1XjYELks/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGn3fBfXWoYwwmy57HT5CakpHDp7siMGu4DM_oshBbudfAe6OOGAA8s_PGBEaxOgVQj41jHALFBhQVAEl1nBuwwyrah8NEToqTt4tT_QYKWN-zkEiKGUB-6fJFdIeCBaMc8x1XjYELks/s1600/images.jpg" t8="true" /></a></div><br />
My friend Anna told me not to have a bad attitude. Oh, Anna, while you speak words of wisdom, you know I'm incapable of following them! I'm a Virgo and I know that if I don't like something right away that I will probably never like it. There have been exceptions to this, of course, but yeah. Does not bode well. And let me admit that I have a VERY bad attitude about online dating.<br />
<br />
I got the standard creeps right away sending me messages like, "you r hot. nice pics" and "let's get together and speak Persian" but written in Persian/English. LAAAME. The danged thing even matched me with a high school friend's older brother. That was particularly enlightening, especially because I had a minor week-long crush on that kid when I was 14. But I digress.<br />
<br />
Then I got messages from two seemingly nice, normal guys. They both have jobs, are into music, are freakishly tall (not a requirement, but entertaining nonetheless), and are age appropriate. Despite their on-the-surface normalcy and my attempt at open-mindedness, I gotta tell you, I have pretty much no interest in meeting either one of them in a romantic type of setup. <br />
<br />
This is my question, and here, beautiful readers, you can advise me since you all are brilliant and go on many dates and aren't holed up like this Desperate Housedaughter: How does one figure out dating? I realize this is the age-old question, and many tv shows, movies, and books have been dedicated to it, but it's like I'm feeling it for the first time! I am CLUELESS. <br />
<br />
Do I go on dates like I go on job interviews - to even the ones I'm pretty sure I don't want just to get more practice and give it a shot, or do I not think of it like that because it's a real dude and his real $25 buying me dinner? I don't freaking know. Help me, readers! I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm not sure I'm that into it, so I beseech you to help me figure out what to do and improve my attitude! Comment me some advice, you lovelies, cause I NEED IT.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-82254626047345998692011-05-12T10:27:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:49:34.615-07:00PantsI'm generally an advocate of pants. They're fun and cover up people's usually gross/too hairy legs, mine included. Just to be clear, I mean real, honest, well-fitted, full-length pants, such as these:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPT_H722MOyM8WHY-Z1MJuScINQDlOSPhutZU9kZ2NQ0c5OG82rbRar77IAi-6J1kOcI1BuYZqTW0lZRqnn9Kaf-nHGCczHqtrLqr7r3Q3ZHH_XLPWQJgqYJ0L6P5CgjXSsB4XQEOGB6E/s1600/imagesCA8W4CAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPT_H722MOyM8WHY-Z1MJuScINQDlOSPhutZU9kZ2NQ0c5OG82rbRar77IAi-6J1kOcI1BuYZqTW0lZRqnn9Kaf-nHGCczHqtrLqr7r3Q3ZHH_XLPWQJgqYJ0L6P5CgjXSsB4XQEOGB6E/s1600/imagesCA8W4CAL.jpg" /></a></div>Not these:<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UE0Q0tKcBS8_3f_uj-rJQ-DsrD2XwoArFn-Zae9Kk7cawRxct1QsS47uAFO-VXb6bo-6Dz_J4OBsGt_Var90trdz6z_LijT1fPQ_QRgARV-F0vraQZvjVjuAyALgQLc8ejQ90kyEUtM/s1600/imagesCAOEK1QY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UE0Q0tKcBS8_3f_uj-rJQ-DsrD2XwoArFn-Zae9Kk7cawRxct1QsS47uAFO-VXb6bo-6Dz_J4OBsGt_Var90trdz6z_LijT1fPQ_QRgARV-F0vraQZvjVjuAyALgQLc8ejQ90kyEUtM/s1600/imagesCAOEK1QY.jpg" /></a></div>or anything else attempting to be pants, i.e. leggings, jeggings, or tights of varied opacity. Please, people, they ain't pants.<br />
<br />
Being a Desperate Housedaughter, though, I don't always need to be worried about the appropriateness of my pants. Who the heck is looking at me while I'm sitting home all day? The cat? She doesn't wear pants! <br />
<br />
There are times, though, when I have to put on the pants. Like for example, 5 minutes ago. I ordered a salad for lunch, and since gas is $587.32 per gallon, I feel less bad these days about paying $1 per item for delivery. It saves me trouble, and money. The only problem with ordering delivery, though, is that I have to put on some pants.<br />
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My typical uniform of housedaughteriness is a college t-shirt (GO HOP!), some inappropriate mid-length harem shorts thing I bought from Old Navy, and my at-home glasses (not to be confused with my in public glasses - my at home glasses are more German Architect while my in public glasses are more Sexy Librarian). But when the delivery man is coming, the jeans must be put on. I want him to keep delivering me my salad, so I figure it's a fair trade.<br />
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What kind of pants do you wear at home, if any (you saucy readers)? Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-44320295209178676552011-05-10T08:30:00.000-07:002011-05-10T08:30:36.846-07:00"Rick Cohen" of Minnesota, WTF?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhncei6JxfKd0jYxhyphenhyphenoAyshEDuzyasyxW1icCc1W4iwILcvk5DOmmvFLSWjZFjyo7DonWJyjl4jNLWwUQFkU1PA4FRRhCX04AF4LwPXz0pSqQxyES31VOpX4ZvTSeIrqGy8bP9MteC_fAg/s1600/sample-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhncei6JxfKd0jYxhyphenhyphenoAyshEDuzyasyxW1icCc1W4iwILcvk5DOmmvFLSWjZFjyo7DonWJyjl4jNLWwUQFkU1PA4FRRhCX04AF4LwPXz0pSqQxyES31VOpX4ZvTSeIrqGy8bP9MteC_fAg/s320/sample-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
"Rick Cohen" of Minnesota just gave me a call. Before I go into the details of the call, I'd like you to know that when you google "Rick Cohen Minnesota," it goes to a state representative's page - Richard Cohen. But no, friends, Rep. Richard "Dick" Cohen didn't call me, Rick Cohen (or so he claims) called me. Why, you may ask?<br />
<br />
My convo with Rick went something like this:<br />
<br />
Me: Hello?<br />
<br />
Rick: Hello?<br />
<br />
Me: Yes, hello.<br />
<br />
Rick: Hello. How are you?<br />
<br />
Me: Fine, how are you.<br />
<br />
Rick: I'm Rick Cohen.<br />
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Me: Good for you.<br />
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Rick: Blah blah blah blah blah I'm trying to get in touch with your neighbor so and so, do you know them?<br />
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Me: No. [Pause - slight embarrasment and shame that no, I have no idea who these people are. And there are only 6 houses on my street. EEeek we New Englanders take this stoicism way too far. Maybe I should get to know my neighbors? Block party?] How did you get my number? <br />
<br />
Rick: From blahby blah insurance blah manual with names and addresses blah.<br />
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Me: Mmm hmm. Hold on. [Me going to the computer, googling Rick Cohen. Is this a senator?]. Ok, yes?<br />
<br />
Rick: So they own a travel agency and I have an important issue. They are not picking up.<br />
<br />
Me (thoughts to self): WTF? This guy is weird. What's he calling about? Is this mad shady? Is this this guy's way of picking his victims if he's a serial killer? Maybe I should hang up? Maybe he's just some nice midwesterner confused by our New England cold blooded ways? No, this is shady.<br />
<br />
Me (now to Rick again): Mmm hmmm. I don't even know you, so why would I give them your message? Bye. <br />
<br />
Then I further googled the phone number Rick provided, and it turns out it's JSA Collections. Fun! I love debt collectors. One time this guy called our house 500 times a day, insisting that someone with a last name similar to my mother's, but not hers, lived here and that we were lying. He was soooo aggressive and rude and would say the most unbelievable things over the phone. [Sidebar - reminded me of when I lived in DC, and within 5 hours of hooking up my home phone, I had 7 calls from debtors for 7 DIFFERENT people. Before 24 hours was over I got rid of my land line]. Luckily, here chez les parents, I live in a small town where the police have time to help with this stuff, so they called the debtor back and insisted that whomever he was searching for did not in fact live in my house. Thanks po-po! <br />
<br />
Basically, this Rick was calling neighbors to see if they could help him in his debt collection. WHAT? I googled this concept immediately. Apparently, it's totally legal for debt collectors to call neighbors or co-workers or anyone whose number they can get their hands on in order to collect a debt. However, they apparently must stop calling neighbors and others if those people tell them to stop. I assume I'll be testing that theory sometime soon.<br />
<br />
Rick Cohen, here's a written warning to you: STOP CALLING MY HOUSE. If you call again, you'll face my wrath. And no, I'm not going to go talk to my neighbors re: their delinquency. For one thing, I don't even know what they look like, and this isn't the way to find out! For another thing, it is WAY tacky to call people's neighbors and shame them into paying their debts. I mean, honestly. <br />
<br />
Please, dear readers, tell me your own debtor stories in the comments! I love to share these horrible stories so we can all feel solidarity!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-30765453014042561682011-05-07T07:38:00.000-07:002011-05-07T07:38:25.585-07:00Shut Up and Drive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6VsTJq3eDSFuTvIFissmn1Ik0fhg2LVK5ZotptlGv-4-NF59hD3BWFtQrNBgSnJWULOhmr0OvI7DqnIHHhqq2ftmNAheBZSKWcBXu2fd9atEthFIU90VjPSe4GdvvTR1surjf32yNsY/s1600/imagesCAXZC5QN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6VsTJq3eDSFuTvIFissmn1Ik0fhg2LVK5ZotptlGv-4-NF59hD3BWFtQrNBgSnJWULOhmr0OvI7DqnIHHhqq2ftmNAheBZSKWcBXu2fd9atEthFIU90VjPSe4GdvvTR1surjf32yNsY/s1600/imagesCAXZC5QN.jpg" /></a></div>We almost got into no less than 5 accidents last night (one right in front of a cop - super!) because my mom was too busy dancing to pay attention to being behind the wheel. Fueled by ice cream and Iranian music, concentration had no chance to win over booty-shaking. She probably should have just pulled over, danced, and then drove.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-86835992189949759612011-04-24T15:06:00.000-07:002011-04-24T15:07:09.273-07:00I just gave Cesar Millan a run for his $$$<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0u-1oo5zNt1e3TLvKb9RJFziV8RDM2T0V1t1m0OIATHRGdtSQPer76AN8cOcou-RdhHYD43XNX6GiwZTPVcQldJrVEtRI1ygoDfGSvq5gmsE9H0zgaJ-vIAvF6gepW1H1upqtdBs1YdM/s1600/SiberianHuskyNorm2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0u-1oo5zNt1e3TLvKb9RJFziV8RDM2T0V1t1m0OIATHRGdtSQPer76AN8cOcou-RdhHYD43XNX6GiwZTPVcQldJrVEtRI1ygoDfGSvq5gmsE9H0zgaJ-vIAvF6gepW1H1upqtdBs1YdM/s1600/SiberianHuskyNorm2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Seems like mentioning Cesar a couple of posts ago channeled something in me.<br />
<br />
Our neighbors have a variety of pets - a charming Maltese named Cookie, a mixed terrier named Jackson (Fatty's boyfriend who would oft visit her on our deck), and last but not least, today's culprit, the gorgeous white Siberian Husky, Nanook.<br />
<br />
Oh Nanook, how lucky you are that I am an animal lover! Just minutes ago I saw a huge white blur zip across our front yard, and I opened the front door to see if someone had brought their dog for a walk in the conservation land across the street. That's the usual reason there are dogs in our yard, but there was no one there. The big white dog was then running across the street and into the woods. "Is that Nanook?" I thought. We have coyotes all over this neighborhood, so seeing pets joyrunning without their owners nearby really worries me. I yelled his name a few times, but nothing. Then I looked down to see Fatty attempting to sneak past my leg out the front door. Good try, cat, but NOPE. <br />
<br />
Nanook was still in the woods, so I yelled, whistled, and clapped, but nothing. I took a pause, then whistled a bunch of times in a row. Yes! Nanook stopped galavanting and looked up, then suddenly took off running toward me. SUCCESS! His owners weren't outside looking for him, so I didn't think they had a clue he'd escaped. <br />
<br />
Nanook came to our front door, and like the good boy he is, sat immediately when I pushed down on his hind quarters and grabbed his collar. PS, it's not that easy to hold down a really freaking large dog with one hand on his collar. I admire L.L. Cool Cesar for that. I threw on my sneakers one handed and hauled that large white fluffpuff over to his house, and his owners met me halfway down their driveway in their truck, clearly on their way to dog-hunt. "How did you get him to come to you???" they asked.<br />
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Neighbors, here's your answer: It's cause I'm awesome. Not only do I keep criminals off our street, but I also rescue puppies. I'm about 15% down the path to my dream job of being a vigilante :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-55502341203756893532011-04-23T11:44:00.000-07:002011-04-23T11:44:05.346-07:00GET OFF MY LAWN, YOU DANG-ED KIDS!So, I called the cops on some kids yesterday. Yeah. I'm a little torn about it. I mean on the one hand, AWESOME. And on the other hand, I feel like a snitchy mean old crusty person.<br />
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They show up on my street religiously, every weekend, and now on Fridays too, to smoke weed and drink Bud Light and whatever else they're up to, and they park on the one end of the cul-de-sac where they can basically be invisible to anyone in their houses. That is, except to me! Why? (Binoculars). Yeah, I'm totally creepy!!!<br />
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I saw their car drive by yesterday while I was on the phone with my sister, and this is like the 30th time I've seen it in the last 2 weeks, so I was like, EFF THIS. I'm calling the cops! My parents pay serious property taxes to live here, and waa waaa old boring people reasoning, these kids need to FIND A NEW PLACE FOR THEIR DEBAUCHERY! I get it - I did some dumb sh*t in high school, but that's what the woods are for!! Not my street!<br />
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So the cops were like, where are you calling from, so I was like, my cell phone. Come get these damn kids. About 5 minutes later, BAM! 2 cop cars, one kid making a fast getaway on his bike, and a handful of other kids getting BUSTED! It was, I'm not gonna lie, Ah-Ma-Zing to watch their stupid scrawny rich 16 year old butts get hit by the letter of the law. I hope their parents hung them out to dry when they got home.<br />
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I realize it's kind of crusty of me, and if I lived in a city I wouldn't even look twice at drunk kids, but the suburbs have gotten me uptight and old lady-ish! Even my 38 year old sister was aghast, laughing at me nonstop and mocking me openly for calling the cops on some kids! And I kept on defending myself!! I hate those stupid kids! If I had a huge guard dog, I'd send it to go bite them! <br />
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So yeah, I think I did the right thing, and I hope those stupid kids never show up here again. Take your party elsewhere. Oh, and PS, if you hadn't yelled rude shit at me and my mom one time when we were walking by you, I never would have busted you. So maybe be nice, and don't do drugs :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-54649360784812371942011-04-20T06:16:00.000-07:002011-04-20T06:17:49.912-07:00My Cat Is Some Kind of Humanoid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4gL8ATQXBZzl5x53yH25I7Rbq_GTmXJRB370I_Ch2wPAPlh1EFs7QqROFua3yPjzh3rVfLyLTsojVywCYFuFssXggo60MP_txnBBMDeshe4rTJFfIig20Zx4eE6EV3Gy_zAQQDJE8V4/s1600/IMG_1394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4gL8ATQXBZzl5x53yH25I7Rbq_GTmXJRB370I_Ch2wPAPlh1EFs7QqROFua3yPjzh3rVfLyLTsojVywCYFuFssXggo60MP_txnBBMDeshe4rTJFfIig20Zx4eE6EV3Gy_zAQQDJE8V4/s320/IMG_1394.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I suspect that Fatty might actually be a very oddly shapped, furry human. With magic powers. Please review:<br />
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1) Her new morningtime ritual involves (after being fed) meowing loudly from downstairs until I wake up, toddle over, and wave to her. Then she runs up to my room and rolls around on the floor. She appears to like having company around. I thought cats were solitary? But guess what - humans aren't!<br />
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2) Fatty is currently rubbing her face on the computer screen. Ok, that's not human-y, but it's a little weird. Maybe she wants to use the internet to check the Petco site?<br />
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3) Fatty can read my mind (magic power) - she knows I'm writing about her, so she has now installed herself on my bed while I type, at approximately my ankles, and is staring at my fingers intensely. Don't worry, Fatty, it's not slander!! I love you, you fluffy puff!<br />
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4) Fatty enjoys manipulation - she is now purring and looking extra cute in an attempt to get me to stop typing and give her the loves. It's a cat version of batting your eyelashes at a cute boy, really.<br />
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5) Fatty now has full on conversations with not just me, but pretty much anyone who meows at her. She meows back, then you ask her a question, then she meows again. It used to be meow-meow on both sides, but now I just ask her questions in English and she answers in meows. It's adorable, but when it starts to make sense to you, unless you're Cesar Millan or Doctor Doolittle, maybe it's time to either see a therapist or check to make sure your cat isn't growing opposable thumbs.<br />
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When I meet other people's cats, they just aren't like this! I wonder if it's because she's always been an only cat, so she's more people-y than other cats? Any thoughts, my fellow cat-owners?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-82277030881844396232011-04-17T08:51:00.000-07:002011-04-17T08:51:24.766-07:00The Only Phone in our HouseMy family is one of the only families, potentially on Earth and not just in the USA, who has only one phone in the entirety of the house. We have cell phones, sure, but when it comes to the land line, there's only one, and it's in the kitchen.<br />
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Our house has an open layout, and the kitchen is at the center of the home. The net result of this is that anyone using the landline can be heard clearly and loudly throughout the entire house. The effect is not that different from sitting next to a really irritating cell phone user when you're stuck on the train or walking behind them on the sidewalk - you're hearing one side of a conversation, and it ain't interesting.<br />
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When someone is on the phone, no one else in the house can make any noise. Why? Because then the person on the phone can't hear their own conversation (again due to the nature of our house). So that means no TV, no typing too loudly on the computer, and no having your own cell phone conversation anywhere on the first floor. <br />
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The TV is another issue - it's located in our family room, the only room with slightly more potential to generate house-filling noise than the kitchen. Thanks, friendly architect! When someone is watching TV here, it permeates the pores of your skin and makes your intestines shake. And when your dear father is hard of hearing, wearing earplugs around the house doesn't seem like the weirdest idea anymore.<br />
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Since I'm being a huge bizatch today, my mom is making phone calls so that she can achieve her appropriate human interaction quota. Unfortunately, that is making me grouchy since I'm trying to have a quiet day, but I can hear her conversations throughout our house. Maybe I'll have a bowling lane installed in my room, and that'll solve everyone's problems!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-50503475836058397442011-04-17T08:31:00.000-07:002011-04-17T08:31:23.941-07:00ME CRANKY, YOU PERKYI've experienced many living situations in my life so far, from living with random roommates to having my sister as a roommate to living alone in a teeny studio apartment to the current chez les parents situation (not all involved a feline, sadly). All of these have pluses and minuses, and I generally prefer to live with others for the simple but real reason that no one's there to check any of my neuroses when I live alone, so they fly too freely on the crazy flagpole!!<br />
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Though infrequent, however, there are times when I wake up in the morning and am utterly incapable of interaction with another being - feline, human, or otherwise. And that's today, fo sho. My threshold for socialization has already been met this weekend - I had a busy day of friend-time yesterday, and consequently, today the only friends with whom I'd like to interact are the Real Housewives of New York and the comically touching staff of TGS. I have phone calls to make and a cat to feed, but other than that, YOU SHALL NOT PASS!<br />
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So in comic intervention from the universe, today is, in addition to being a day where Fatty decided to wake me up multiple times starting at 6 AM with various mews and grunts to express her displeasure at being hungry and unfed, one of my mom's perkiest days EVER. <br />
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Maybe it's because we test drove a Prius on Friday (I'll check under her bed for a unicorn), but my Mom woke up today with sunshine in her eyes and rainbows coming out of her fingertips. She's delighted to be alive, and she's not afraid to show it. I, to represent the other hand, want to hide under my bed with my TV, cut the phone lines, and ignore all other life forms until tomorrow. <br />
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Poor Mom has tried everything - feeding me blackberries, smiling at me a lot, and ignoring the fact that I ate a turkey sandwich at 10 AM for breakfast (not easy for her, trust). She's invited me to go out and frolic with her, but nothing's working, Mom, and it's not you, it's definitely me! ME WANT TV AND NAPPING.<br />
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Poor Mom isn't the only one suffering my wrath. I'm so tired that I told my dad during his breakfast monologue/bad joke gag reel that maybe he should write new material. I stopped short of telling him to keep his day job. He looked sullen. Even the cat steered clear of me after I fed her, too. At least that b*tch can read body language.<br />
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Dear readers, what am I to do? I have a case of the "leave me alones," but I have one perky and one meh parent staring at me with hope, despite it all. Coffee?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-5672894712561308492011-04-12T08:54:00.000-07:002011-04-12T08:54:45.700-07:00Parental Supervision, or "Mom, Dad, I'm not 12 anymore"Ah my lovely parents. I am so proud of them for their behavior this weekend! I went to NYC to visit one of my besties from college on Saturday morning, and I got back last night.<br />
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I was impressed by the following things on the course of my trip:<br />
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1) Astoria - what a little oasis in a hectic city of freak show! <br />
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2) Route 15, Merritt Parkway in Connecticut - waaaay prettier than 95, and faster!<br />
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3) My parents - for the reasons detailed below:<br />
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My parents, against every instinct that they have as people, did not call me ONCE during my weekend in New York. Not even to check and make sure I'd made it there safely. They didn't even ask me to call them when I arrived or ANYTHING. This was so shocking to my friend I was visiting (she knows them well) that she mentioned multiple times, "DH, I can't believe you parents haven't called you yet!! I'm proud of them!"<br />
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One might assume that like typical parents of a 28 year old woman, they would seize the opportunity to galavant around town, forget they have a fully capable adult child living at home with them, and basically HAVE FUN. But I know them, and I know that they got itchy fingers and picked up the phone, pushed almost my entire phone number, and hung up before the line connected, knowing they needed to give me space. <br />
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So congratulations, my parents - you did it! You spent a weekend not talking to me, and all was well! And I hear you went into Boston and partied, so good for you!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-53530345825243562002011-04-04T10:09:00.000-07:002011-04-04T10:09:40.662-07:00Having a Virus - Me, not the ComputerReaders! Lovely gorgeous friends! I apologize for not blogging since last Monday. Sometime between Monday and Tuesday, I managed to become a snot filled sinus achey cranky sicky poo, and that lasted till approximately Saturday evening, when I had a spontaneous recovery and went out for ice cream. Glorious! Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-918853506418163026.post-19289859081249098492011-03-28T08:46:00.000-07:002011-03-28T08:46:12.309-07:00Fat Women - Society's Purest EvilBarbara Walters just said matter-of-factly to Ricki Lake on today's "The View", "As a kid who [wa]s overweight, you probably didn't have friends." And Ricki didn't say a word.<br />
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I need a moment to breathe. One second.<br />
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Ok, so WHAT?!?!??!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!!? Have we really reached the point as humans that saying absolutely any horrible, even false thing about fat women, even and ESPECIALLY if you're Barbara Walters, is not only acceptable but also deemed instantly true?? And Ricki, seriously? You were such a charismatic young woman with your own talk show and Broadway starring roles and fun personality that I would be APPALLED to learn that you didn't have friends. You couldn't speak up? Have you joined some new "not fat" club where you can't admit you used to be fat? I'm writing a letter to The View about this right now, but I really wonder if anyone else will???<br />
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For one thing, I was a fat kid. And guess what? I'm a big fat fat lady now too. And I've ALWAYS had friends. I daresay, I had more friends than I could handle. Being fat didn't get in my way making friends. You know what, this pisses me off gloriously. <br />
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As much as kids say what's on their mind in any situation, the truth is, adults are still, and always have been, the ones instilling hate and prejudice into kids' minds. Kids don't know that they're supposed to hate fat people. Adults tell them to hate fat people. So they listen.<br />
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If even one kid was awake during The View today and heard Barbara's comment, they might go be mean to the fat kid at school that they would have otherwise befriended, or at the very least left in peace. FUCK YOU Barbara Walters, and the other Barbara Walters' of the world.<br />
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As a fat woman, I am constantly reassured by people like Barbara Walters, random males on the street of all ages, Michelle Obama, and pretty much any form of media, that I am committing a huge crime by merely existing publicly. The number of times I get harrassed for being fat is shocking. Any time I walk by a group of men, I get tense. You know why? Because people like Barbara Walters are saying that it's normal, and indirectly inferring that it's acceptable, to be mean to, shun, and dislike fat people. Which automatically translates to fat women, and even more so since we don't have male privilege on our side. So men driving by me in cars can scream "oink oink" and cackle at me when I'm walking down the sidewalk. True story. One of many. Maybe one day I'll tell you more.<br />
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Thanks, Barbara, for making my point for me. You're disgusting, and so are all of your loser counterparts spreading these messages. You should be ashamed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13