an * to explain the use of **, ** shall be substituted for the name of the place of which I was once employed, I fear using the real name of it..... somehow, I just know I could get sued, even though none of this is libel or defamation. ** just... scares me.
Me: Hello, Welcome to **!
Customer: Oh, why Hello lovely worker!
Me: Oh hello! My name is Lizzie I will be your goodness guide for the evening. Have you all been to ** before?
Customer: No, we have not been to this lovely place of swirly goodness before!!
Me: Oh my goodness! And golly gee! Well welcome to **. ** serves frozen yogurt! All of our yogurt is made fresh daily, has over a billion live and active cultures, and is non-fat, except for our delicious chocolate flavor which is low fat. (insert smile here!) At this location, we swirl six flavors, we have our delectable tart original unique to **, as well as coconut, mango, pomegranate, chocolate and our newest featured flavor, BLOOD ORANGE! you can mix any two flavors if you would like! what kind of samples can I interest you in?
Customer: I will try all of them because I have nothing to do with my day and LOVE frozen yogurt!
Me: SURE THING!
oh wait. that never happened. I've recently quit my job at the esteemed **, and I have never been happier. Well, I'm happy for now, but my sushi five times a week diet is sure to suffer in the near future. sorry for being a spicy tuna addict. love me.
anyway, I recently quit my job at the pristine clean uber trendy (three years ago) **. The little role play I gave earlier was a fantasy that the company has, assuming that each customer actually gives an eff about their yogurt. this is what actually happened 90% of the time...
Me: HELLO, WELCOME TO **
(not even as much as an eyebrow lift from customer who is typing furiously into their blackberry, andriod, or iphone. let's be honest, ** is so expensive, no 1990's flip phones are ever seen in the shop... )
Me: My name is Lizzie, I'll be you----
Customer: Ya, I need five medium originals all with strawberry, fruity pebbles, and pineapple.
(make yogurts furiously)
Customer: LET ME TRY YOUR CHOCOLATE.
Me (stop making yogurt and get sample: Here you are! Let me know what you think!
Customer: Ew, tastes like pudding. Let me try your coconut.
Me: Oh of course!
Customer: oh, god, tastes like rotten cottage cheese. back to the originals. is there anyone else working here that can help you?
Me: I'm so sorry, everyone is on their break! (this is a symptom of the fact that ** at most has 4 employees at any given time, ** workers are worked into the ground, not paid over time, and literally nap in the back whenever I work...)
Customer usually doesn't respond despite my best attempts at a smile...
Finally we make it to the register.
Customer: what?!?! THESE YOGURTS WERE 4.95 A PIECE? IT SAYS 3.50 ON THE MENU.
Me: well, let me review the menu with you, it says 3.50 without topping, 4.95 with topping, see the bottom row includes topping price.
Customer: I thought it was toppings per price, how many toppings can I get?
Me: Well, you can fit as many toppings as fit comfortably in the cup.
Customer: You never told me that, throw some of that chocolate goop on the yogurts then.
Me: oh the milk chocolate crunch!? delish. it will be 50 cents extra per scoop.
Customer (glares that could kill are usually received at this point): granola on the five yogurts, then.
Me: Of course! (thinking to myself that if you would have let me give my little speech at the beginning instead of cutting me off and checking into ** on your godforsaken iphone, you may have known this before.... but sure thing, let me unbag, un-ice, un-top five yogurts, refill the granola, and top your yogurts again.... I know you are in such a rush, so I will awkwardly try and run to and fro in my converse and dickies. yes. minimum wage jobs.)
let me just tell you something, people. are. terrible. if my job taught me anything, it is to be tolerant of the worker behind the counter. because, LBH here, it's more than likely that you are the b****, and they are just trying to do their jobs. people really know NO bounds, unless of course, they realize they know you.
no names used here, but you would be surprised at the number of times that I talk to a La Canada parent, and get them to drop a tip for me, because I know them, and the other workers would look at me in awe. you got HER to talk to you? she's usually so rude and pyschotic....
proving that no matter how low you are, or where you are, it's all about who you know.
I move forward today, less racist than I was before, you can't help but start to stereotype races for their preferences.
asians=original, mochi, blueberry
indians= mango
whites= pom, mango
armenians= coconut, pom
african americans(anyone ever think saying the af. am's is almost like less PC than just saying "black"? no one knows, I'm just trying to be as politically as correct as I can while still being openly stereotypical.... life. is. a. paradox. thank you and goodnight rick mohney)= still mad the watermelon is gone.
I move forward today, not judging, not having a pre-conceived notion of what kind of yogurt certain races would most likely order. Because, I have a dream.
I have a dream that one day, behind the clean counters of **, that the sons of all yogurt buyers will be able to sit together, at a clean white table, bleached by an underpaid worker.
I have a dream, that one day, even in the state of California, a state dripping with the sweat of health freaks and fro-yo addicts, will be transformed into an oasis of real food, and a place free of yogurt induced stereotypes. I have a dream that one day, children in high school will not judge others for the yogurt they buy, but they will be judged on the content of their character.
you're right. I probably took that way, way too far. jambs. life goes on.
at least I'm not subject to wearing a 100 percent polyester outfit, complete with an apron that fits no one with female "lady lumps" (thank you fergie) properly.
at least I no longer spend 15 hours a week under the scrutiny of cameras watched by big brother, receiving phone calls when you accidentally put the chocolate in the original machine. (IT WAS ONE TIME).
at least, I WALK FREE FROM YOGURT OPRESSION AND NO LONGER FEEL GUILTY EATING DOLCHE MANGO AND 21 CHOICES.
at least.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
top ten things every doctor show needs
1. a slender main character who isn't the most book smart but as a big heart and a traumatic past. these people always have a twinkle in their eyes and usually a good smile.
2. at least one pompous asshole type who partied too hard in college and med school but gets by because they are attractive, a liar, and ultimately a charmer. this character usually ends up dating half the cast.
3. the all attractive older wise doctor who everyone pawns after until he settles down with one of the other characters in the show. think clooney from ER, mcdreamy from greys, etc.
4. a place where all the doctors drink after work. most doctor shows also have someone who loves tequila and is debates an alcoholic. why have no surgeons sued tv networks for portraying them all as drinking obsessed nocturnal freaks. either surgeons are too busy to watch tv, or are truly drunk at the bars every moment of their free time.
5. a chronically ill patient who steals the heart of one of the characters. if the show goes on long enough, there is eventually more than one.
6. the perfect, usually ivy league graduate, OCD, competitive freak that you know you would absolutely despise in real life, but no one on the show ever has a problem with. they are heartless until they kill a patient, then they are depressed, then heartless again. even if they killed a patient in their past, before the show starts, they are eventually in their heartless stage again by the time in their lives that the show takes place at.
7. an unlimited supply of fake "epy injections". even I know at this point that if someone dies without being cut open, you induce them to have an elliptic seizure. "GET ME AN EPY NOW".
8. at least one black doctor that is the shit. even scrubs has turk. no other genre of show makes such an effort to have black people presented as intellectuals who save lives. i'm not saying it's bad, it's just true. jambo. this doctor uses comprises atleast one half of the guarenteed interacial couple on the show, and is often combined with another non white.
9. an either super weird or super badass chief of surgery. the chief may try and retire, but he never will. I should have said he/she, but it's always a man. doctor shows are openly sexist.
10. a truly minimal number of nurses. even if they are in the OR with scrubs, they aren't usually identified by name and just usually hand the surgeons the scapels. doctor shows are generous if they name the nurses, and under normal circumstances there isn't more than one.
2. at least one pompous asshole type who partied too hard in college and med school but gets by because they are attractive, a liar, and ultimately a charmer. this character usually ends up dating half the cast.
3. the all attractive older wise doctor who everyone pawns after until he settles down with one of the other characters in the show. think clooney from ER, mcdreamy from greys, etc.
4. a place where all the doctors drink after work. most doctor shows also have someone who loves tequila and is debates an alcoholic. why have no surgeons sued tv networks for portraying them all as drinking obsessed nocturnal freaks. either surgeons are too busy to watch tv, or are truly drunk at the bars every moment of their free time.
5. a chronically ill patient who steals the heart of one of the characters. if the show goes on long enough, there is eventually more than one.
6. the perfect, usually ivy league graduate, OCD, competitive freak that you know you would absolutely despise in real life, but no one on the show ever has a problem with. they are heartless until they kill a patient, then they are depressed, then heartless again. even if they killed a patient in their past, before the show starts, they are eventually in their heartless stage again by the time in their lives that the show takes place at.
7. an unlimited supply of fake "epy injections". even I know at this point that if someone dies without being cut open, you induce them to have an elliptic seizure. "GET ME AN EPY NOW".
8. at least one black doctor that is the shit. even scrubs has turk. no other genre of show makes such an effort to have black people presented as intellectuals who save lives. i'm not saying it's bad, it's just true. jambo. this doctor uses comprises atleast one half of the guarenteed interacial couple on the show, and is often combined with another non white.
9. an either super weird or super badass chief of surgery. the chief may try and retire, but he never will. I should have said he/she, but it's always a man. doctor shows are openly sexist.
10. a truly minimal number of nurses. even if they are in the OR with scrubs, they aren't usually identified by name and just usually hand the surgeons the scapels. doctor shows are generous if they name the nurses, and under normal circumstances there isn't more than one.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Bobbing Around
My sincere apologies to those who I pretend follow my blog and have been wondering why there hasn't been a more recent post.
This past weekend, I went to Camp Roberts for Y and G TRAINING AND ELECTIONS the second, aka BOB 2, the colloquialism needed for such a lengthy title.
Saturday morning 5 am:
delegates start to filter into the gym. some even bring parents. disgruntled mothers, (somehow perfectly made up, as if y staff, children, and other women also awake at the ungodly hour are out to judge them.... I really hate signs that high school really does never end), early rising fathers, and half asleep high school students who no doubt were out way too late (I didn't sleep at all....) make up the jovial crowd in the YMCA's glorified MPR. I hope no one minded my over excitement and uncomfortable dancing to the Fleetwood Mac that was blasting.
Buses arrive. Despite this being some people's sixth bob, there is endless confusion and a pre-concieved notion that lining up by the doors to the bus an hour before you will get on will somehow earn you the best seat possible. It's not cochella people.... It's a godforsaken bus...
I have nothing to say about the bus ride up, except that I slept the entire time and am frankly disappointed that there is not a picture of me drooling up on facebook yet.
We arrive at our barracks.
Utter madness ensues.
The race to find enough bunks, next to cool enough people, so that you and all your friends can slumber next to each other begins.
The next 10 minutes are filled with
"SENIORITY. WE GET TO ALL SLEEP NEXT TO EACH OTHER."
"Oh my GAH, her parents got divorced when she was 8, she really needs us right now"
"SERIOUSLY, I'M CALLING MY MOM AND GOING HOME I WILL NOT SLEEP NEXT TO SOMEONE WHO GOES TO MY SCHOOL, IS IN MY DELEGATION, AND I SEE ATLEAST ONCE A WEEK. WHAT IS THIS? THE HOLOCAUST? JESUS."
what never fails to make me gig is that by the time everyone's head hits the pillow at night, no one even talks. everyone is too tired. take night one, I walk into the barrack rather delirious and hyper, only to find everyone sound asleep at the mere hour of 11:15? I'm an officer in the program, when I'm down for some rambunctious behavior before lights out, I don't expect to be alone. (side note: I like how I am pretending that being an officer makes me not want to have fun, insinuating that if I'm looking for some cabin style fun and no one else is, that it is a serious issue. how far from the truth this is. LAWWWLZING.)
Back to being chronological and sequential, we attend our first joint session.
how good were those corn dogs? but really. goes to show not even BOB food (which is usually compared to a lovely mix of dog vomit, rocks, and moles) can mess up a corn dog. God bless.
Time for my first session, Constitutional Convention, affectionately called con con for short.
We speed date, except not really, because our dates are all given a political topic before they start, so no one actually has to be awkward and meet new people. Not to mention all the political topics are pretty one sided so no one gets mad. I swear at one point they asked if we thought that George W Bush looked more like an elf than a man. Seriously. (BTW the answer to that is a faerie, aka female elf).
Lunch time. I drink another red bull and skip the cabbage and liver they offer in the food line.
Second session, this time it begins with a special announcement. For the con con group, there will be 7 "directors" (the leader of the group, Tim, called them bucket heads which sent his wife, Cherokee, who also leads the group, into an absolute tizzy. it was epic.). We continue to speed date, but this time, our dates resemble more of a "group hang" (who watched OC season 2, where seth, ryan, and zack try and have a boys night out, marissa, summer and lindsay try to have a girl's night out, and they all end up meeting at alex's trendy music bar and have a "group hang" instead... anyone? just me? OCcrazy01 was my screename. live it. love it.) anyway, back to my political group hang, there are now 8 people discussing broader political issues with four rotating each time to a different group. Those trying for this aforementioned director/bucket head positions are so obvious. Group discussion is a place of combat.
"So, what do you think about that"
"Everyone needs to participate"
"I'm a great leader. just saying"
"If I was a leader, I'd be like batman, I mean if batman was real"
The "subtle" hints are hilarious. Mainly because I ran for a director's spot and didn't get it. but don't even get me started on the anarchy that constituted an election. 102 kids in this program area, 40 run for the 7 director spots, no speech, just a hi I'm Lizzie Miller... and then everyone votes. It's no surprise that all the kids who won have outrageously cool names. One is a season, another is Hawaiian, whatever, just. so. cool. THANKS MOM AND DAD.
another meal, and it's time for a political party convention. because y and g is a place of high school imagination and fun (yay!), the political parties consist of golden, wolf pack, ying yang, and rational, and unaffiliated which is an oxymoron because unaffiliated candidates then run unaffiliated and only those unaffiliated can vote for them. it's a wonderful paradox.
Enter tent, have flash back to last year where a certain AMAZING class of 2010 dancer and I dance battled two epic black kids.. and won with a songie regime. Good times.
Before I know it, I'm battling again. It really is uncanny how often I forget that I am white, and white people can't dance. I'm battling, I'm doing the stanky face, I'm actually telling people I'm from the bay area.
Time to question the candidates.
I raise my hand and get picked.
"Pro-life or Pro-Choice? But wait, there's a catch. Incorporate Jambo into your answer."
Let me just tell you, this question did not go well. Epic in the most watching an idea simply explode into small pieces that smell like mustard and dirty feet. So sad.
The rest of the PPC (political party convention) is pretty much dance battling, needless to say, I remained in the tent reppin my s$%^ long after it was socially acceptable.
After a few other things which I am cutting out because this post is already too long and I feel weird, is the DANCE.
To all y and gers, we know the dance as a place so crowded, so sweaty, that if you jump in the air, you can actually be suspended and move around the dance floor. Deans stand on a stage with small flash lights, the music occasionally goes in and out, and mosh pits to "tell me when to go" are a given.
To those outside of y and g, y and g dances are portrayed as giant orgies where everyone is beautiful, happy, and getting some.
It's pretty funny actually.
Sorry if I've crushed the fantasy of many readers...
That's all I'm going to say about the dance. Moving on. haha.
The last day, of my last bob, of my last year of high school (too much nostalgia?) begins nice and early. As a delegation, we walk to breakfast, and a few notable moments can't help but escape me. I can't help but reflect upon my previous years in y and g, bob memories if you will, and remember:
Being chair of the sex (reproductive rights.. lol, we called it sex, so esteemed and qualified to do so as sophomores) committee, and making "what a good chair does" jokes to my other best friends who were also chairs. these jokes could range from "a good chair is always punctual" to "a good chair always counts their chickens before they hatch" to "a good chair always hides nipple piercings underneath classy sweaters". Good Chair jokes must always be said in a pretentious British accent. If you can't play by the rules, sit down.
OR
chicken fighting (out of water of course) in the barracks, actually physically impaling each other, while older delegates looked at us in fear. we of course dismissed them as "such judgmental beyotches" where as today, if I saw 15 year old girls wrestling chicken fight style, there would be a lot more than some dirty glares. ahhh life's ever changing perspective.
OR
putting hair extensions in my shirt and telling people I had chest hair. (I also repeated the phrase "chest hair" at the friendship service at the end of the year, causing people to this day to believe I have an inordinate amount of inappropriate female body hair. I'd like to say here and now, I DON'T.)
OR EVEN
the psychotic rain of BOB 2 last year where delegates stripped and ran the mile or so to their barracks in the buff, yelling FREE RODNEY KING... When people fell in the mud and it was every man for himself, because looking back was pointless, all you saw was water. If anyone ever made it back to the barrack, they were applauded. RIP to those members we lost. kidding. probs too soon to joke about drowning. my apologies.
on that note... MEHRRR....
the weekend ends with a closing joint session, an epic record time clean up, nick naming, and a bus ride home.
I've always liked to save the best for last (omg who stalked my bob album! trendy!), and I can say without a doubt, this bob was the best (and clearly the last).
I LOVE YOU CCY.
This past weekend, I went to Camp Roberts for Y and G TRAINING AND ELECTIONS the second, aka BOB 2, the colloquialism needed for such a lengthy title.
Saturday morning 5 am:
delegates start to filter into the gym. some even bring parents. disgruntled mothers, (somehow perfectly made up, as if y staff, children, and other women also awake at the ungodly hour are out to judge them.... I really hate signs that high school really does never end), early rising fathers, and half asleep high school students who no doubt were out way too late (I didn't sleep at all....) make up the jovial crowd in the YMCA's glorified MPR. I hope no one minded my over excitement and uncomfortable dancing to the Fleetwood Mac that was blasting.
Buses arrive. Despite this being some people's sixth bob, there is endless confusion and a pre-concieved notion that lining up by the doors to the bus an hour before you will get on will somehow earn you the best seat possible. It's not cochella people.... It's a godforsaken bus...
I have nothing to say about the bus ride up, except that I slept the entire time and am frankly disappointed that there is not a picture of me drooling up on facebook yet.
We arrive at our barracks.
Utter madness ensues.
The race to find enough bunks, next to cool enough people, so that you and all your friends can slumber next to each other begins.
The next 10 minutes are filled with
"SENIORITY. WE GET TO ALL SLEEP NEXT TO EACH OTHER."
"Oh my GAH, her parents got divorced when she was 8, she really needs us right now"
"SERIOUSLY, I'M CALLING MY MOM AND GOING HOME I WILL NOT SLEEP NEXT TO SOMEONE WHO GOES TO MY SCHOOL, IS IN MY DELEGATION, AND I SEE ATLEAST ONCE A WEEK. WHAT IS THIS? THE HOLOCAUST? JESUS."
what never fails to make me gig is that by the time everyone's head hits the pillow at night, no one even talks. everyone is too tired. take night one, I walk into the barrack rather delirious and hyper, only to find everyone sound asleep at the mere hour of 11:15? I'm an officer in the program, when I'm down for some rambunctious behavior before lights out, I don't expect to be alone. (side note: I like how I am pretending that being an officer makes me not want to have fun, insinuating that if I'm looking for some cabin style fun and no one else is, that it is a serious issue. how far from the truth this is. LAWWWLZING.)
Back to being chronological and sequential, we attend our first joint session.
how good were those corn dogs? but really. goes to show not even BOB food (which is usually compared to a lovely mix of dog vomit, rocks, and moles) can mess up a corn dog. God bless.
Time for my first session, Constitutional Convention, affectionately called con con for short.
We speed date, except not really, because our dates are all given a political topic before they start, so no one actually has to be awkward and meet new people. Not to mention all the political topics are pretty one sided so no one gets mad. I swear at one point they asked if we thought that George W Bush looked more like an elf than a man. Seriously. (BTW the answer to that is a faerie, aka female elf).
Lunch time. I drink another red bull and skip the cabbage and liver they offer in the food line.
Second session, this time it begins with a special announcement. For the con con group, there will be 7 "directors" (the leader of the group, Tim, called them bucket heads which sent his wife, Cherokee, who also leads the group, into an absolute tizzy. it was epic.). We continue to speed date, but this time, our dates resemble more of a "group hang" (who watched OC season 2, where seth, ryan, and zack try and have a boys night out, marissa, summer and lindsay try to have a girl's night out, and they all end up meeting at alex's trendy music bar and have a "group hang" instead... anyone? just me? OCcrazy01 was my screename. live it. love it.) anyway, back to my political group hang, there are now 8 people discussing broader political issues with four rotating each time to a different group. Those trying for this aforementioned director/bucket head positions are so obvious. Group discussion is a place of combat.
"So, what do you think about that"
"Everyone needs to participate"
"I'm a great leader. just saying"
"If I was a leader, I'd be like batman, I mean if batman was real"
The "subtle" hints are hilarious. Mainly because I ran for a director's spot and didn't get it. but don't even get me started on the anarchy that constituted an election. 102 kids in this program area, 40 run for the 7 director spots, no speech, just a hi I'm Lizzie Miller... and then everyone votes. It's no surprise that all the kids who won have outrageously cool names. One is a season, another is Hawaiian, whatever, just. so. cool. THANKS MOM AND DAD.
another meal, and it's time for a political party convention. because y and g is a place of high school imagination and fun (yay!), the political parties consist of golden, wolf pack, ying yang, and rational, and unaffiliated which is an oxymoron because unaffiliated candidates then run unaffiliated and only those unaffiliated can vote for them. it's a wonderful paradox.
Enter tent, have flash back to last year where a certain AMAZING class of 2010 dancer and I dance battled two epic black kids.. and won with a songie regime. Good times.
Before I know it, I'm battling again. It really is uncanny how often I forget that I am white, and white people can't dance. I'm battling, I'm doing the stanky face, I'm actually telling people I'm from the bay area.
Time to question the candidates.
I raise my hand and get picked.
"Pro-life or Pro-Choice? But wait, there's a catch. Incorporate Jambo into your answer."
Let me just tell you, this question did not go well. Epic in the most watching an idea simply explode into small pieces that smell like mustard and dirty feet. So sad.
The rest of the PPC (political party convention) is pretty much dance battling, needless to say, I remained in the tent reppin my s$%^ long after it was socially acceptable.
After a few other things which I am cutting out because this post is already too long and I feel weird, is the DANCE.
To all y and gers, we know the dance as a place so crowded, so sweaty, that if you jump in the air, you can actually be suspended and move around the dance floor. Deans stand on a stage with small flash lights, the music occasionally goes in and out, and mosh pits to "tell me when to go" are a given.
To those outside of y and g, y and g dances are portrayed as giant orgies where everyone is beautiful, happy, and getting some.
It's pretty funny actually.
Sorry if I've crushed the fantasy of many readers...
That's all I'm going to say about the dance. Moving on. haha.
The last day, of my last bob, of my last year of high school (too much nostalgia?) begins nice and early. As a delegation, we walk to breakfast, and a few notable moments can't help but escape me. I can't help but reflect upon my previous years in y and g, bob memories if you will, and remember:
Being chair of the sex (reproductive rights.. lol, we called it sex, so esteemed and qualified to do so as sophomores) committee, and making "what a good chair does" jokes to my other best friends who were also chairs. these jokes could range from "a good chair is always punctual" to "a good chair always counts their chickens before they hatch" to "a good chair always hides nipple piercings underneath classy sweaters". Good Chair jokes must always be said in a pretentious British accent. If you can't play by the rules, sit down.
OR
chicken fighting (out of water of course) in the barracks, actually physically impaling each other, while older delegates looked at us in fear. we of course dismissed them as "such judgmental beyotches" where as today, if I saw 15 year old girls wrestling chicken fight style, there would be a lot more than some dirty glares. ahhh life's ever changing perspective.
OR
putting hair extensions in my shirt and telling people I had chest hair. (I also repeated the phrase "chest hair" at the friendship service at the end of the year, causing people to this day to believe I have an inordinate amount of inappropriate female body hair. I'd like to say here and now, I DON'T.)
OR EVEN
the psychotic rain of BOB 2 last year where delegates stripped and ran the mile or so to their barracks in the buff, yelling FREE RODNEY KING... When people fell in the mud and it was every man for himself, because looking back was pointless, all you saw was water. If anyone ever made it back to the barrack, they were applauded. RIP to those members we lost. kidding. probs too soon to joke about drowning. my apologies.
on that note... MEHRRR....
the weekend ends with a closing joint session, an epic record time clean up, nick naming, and a bus ride home.
I've always liked to save the best for last (omg who stalked my bob album! trendy!), and I can say without a doubt, this bob was the best (and clearly the last).
I LOVE YOU CCY.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Traveling and the Natty. (its a lengthy one)
SO. where has Lizzie J been the past few days?
No. I'm not deathly ill, but thanks to all who pitched on the dozens of bouquets and installed the giant "Save Lizzie" balloon on my roof.
you're great.
Since my last blog posting of winter formal, I have been traveling.
Sunday morning began rudely, let's just say I wasn't feeling too hot from post winter formal celebrations.... But I still managed to wake up due to insane excitement. I was going to the natty baby. And I had a flight to catch.
DAY ONE
My sister and I began the drive to burbank airport. 15 minutes into the ride, my cell phone is missing. I reached for my phone to call the police and report this, but of course, it was no where to be found to make such call.
Meghan (sister for those of you unsure of this "Meghan" character): Wait, do I get on the 5 N or stay on the 134?
Me (in a panic unsure of where my beloved blackberry has disappeared to): 134! WHERE THE HELL IS MY PHONE?
well for those of you who know how to get to Burbank, we should have gotten on the 5. one hour till our flight leaves and where are we? By the LA Zoo. Zooming down a two lane street, divided of course by the hated double yellow... Keep driving... forest lawn cemetery on the right and a lovely pile of dirt on the left... no where to turn around...
she does it. she flips a bitch on the double yellow. back towards the freeway.
arrive at airport. park no problem in the lot closest to the terminals.
the shuttle is parked about 50 feet away. is it waiting for us? a woman in uniform (assumed by us to be the driver) exits the shuttle and starts walking in the opposite direction. I guess she really needs a stog or she is plain refusing us service... we turn and begin walking towards the airport, when the shuttle moves! who knew there were to be two drivers in ONE shuttle. of course, we change directions and start to chase the shuttle down the rows of cars, luggage and all.
I guess this isn't prototypical for the Burbank air port, as the shuttle driver begins to shout out the three inch space called a "window" STOP 5 STOP 5. eventually we sit at stop 5 like civilized humans and watch the shuttle finish its snake through the lot and it picks us up. classy.
in the airport. security check.
for those of you who do not know, Burbank does not yet have the high tech scanners that see you nudey. So don't bother to nervously laugh when you walk through them like I did. You will get followed by a TSA officer.... not kidding. the fact the officer followed me into the shop where I bought a soduko book and rollos and then promptly walked out without my purchases or change probably didn't help either... pretty sure I was classified as a threat. jambs.
board plane. of COURSE, I am flying southwest. for those new to the blog, I hate southwest. somehow, my sister and I are the very last to board the plane. There are virtually no seats, no game of who looks the most normal. Spotted. two seats against the very back of the plane open. I lock eye contact with the woman occupying the aisle seat. "CAN WE SIT WITH YOU? SAVE THOSE PLEASE!" (little did I know that this was a flight attendant... pretty sure I confirmed previous walkie reports about the deranged white Caucasian woman in the green dress...) by the way, we entered from the front of the plane not realizing you could also enter from the back so please feel free to visualize two idiotic struggling passengers each with two carry-ons working their way from the front of the plane to the very back. southwest allows for two way trafficking down the aisle, so I take this moment to sincerely apologize to all those who I bulldozed in an effort to get to the back of the plane.
also, little did I know that not only choosing your seat is a free- for- all with southwest, but overhead space is a commodity to gamble for.
guess who had to last minute check their bags due to lack of space? this guy.
plane lands. luggage is supposed to be at carousel four. well. it's not. anxiety builds... I hear a couple suits say "typical phoenix, of course the Burbank luggage is actually at six, not four". thank god for these suits. and for anyone traveling to Phoenix in the near future, remember its "typical Phoenix" to put your luggage on random carousels. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Also, all the doors in Phoenix are numbered. Our driver told us to exit door four, but signs dictated door two would have been the proper exit. Feeling a bit like a contestant on price is right, I couldn't help but wonder what was behind both number 2 and 4. I chose 4. I'll never know if there was a new living room set from ikea waiting for me behind door number 2.
Outside door number four though, was a town car. Trunk open with not one thing in it, with a female driver. Seemed to meet the criteria we were looking for... Well, let me tell you another thing about Phoenix. It's the social norm for women to drive black town cars with spotless trunks popped open outside door number four. That wasn't our driver, just some normal woman going to pick up her sister from the airport....
I'll just let you readers assume how uncomfortable was taken to the next level in that situation....
After an embarrassing number a few past several phone calls are made to our driver, we find her. Meet Martha. Martha proceeds to take us on the "scenic" route of Arizona, taking an hour and a half to travel all of 22 miles. Thank you, Martha. Tempe, Scottsdale, and Phoenix are truly beautiful cities. I kid you not, this woman thought we were touring the streets of London, expecting my sister and I to wag our heads out the window like wind-blown dogs and admire miles of cactus and adobe. I think not. At one point she said, ARE YOU GUYS SLEEPING BACK THERE? well, Martha, we were really trying to. Dream Big.
Finally, we arrive at the hotel. Our room is around several bends and takes longer than I'd like to walk to. I swear at one point I heard Morgan Freeman's voice narrating our walk. Maybe it was just exhaustion induced hallucinations. No one knows.
After a brief moment to settle, Meghan and I hit the town and head to Olive Garden (sarcasm). Meet Robert, our OCD server who "likes a clean table, here girls give me those straw wrappers. THOSE WRAPPERS... IS EVERYTHING OKAY?....here, let me pat your breadsticks one more time. mom i'm scared.
back to the hotel. maybe a nice walk around the gift shop? follow arrows. Walk by a room with three vending machines (one for drinks, one for snacks, and one for advil and tampons). keep walking. oh wait, that was the gift shop.
after one more adventure walking around the sketchy parking lot of a "metro mall" (right, what is that? metrosexuals only? we stayed clear and just cruised the parking lot on foot in an effort to find another entrance to the hotel, due to our excessive walking around the lobby to find the gift shop...) and we are in for the night.
DAY 2 (game day)
the day begins with a mile and a half trek to find breakfast. we see a woman go into cardiac arrest outside a CVS and talk to the same homeless man not once, but twice. good times.
back to the hotel. board a van, which takes us to another hotel, to board a bus, which then takes us to the game. we once again are the last people on the bus, those last two seats right near the bathroom are the only one left. between southwest and the busing, I really was beginning to feel a bit like Rosa. For real this time, not like on the party bus. lawlzy.
now pay close attention to this part, for those of you who have decidedly droned off and started foaming out the mouth, looking for office supplies to commit suicide with, or those just reading absentmindedly. we get off the bus and the driver says, "AFTER THE GAME, I WILL PICK YOU UP RIGHT HERE. I'M BUS NUMBER 17. WRITE THAT DOWN, (pen is passed between all 100 passengers) WRITE IT ON YOUR BUS TICKET."
we enter the espn sponsored tailgate. the majority of fans are aged 60 plus and in orange. our "complimentary" meal looks like pork sandwiches and potato salad that has been in the sun for god knows how long. we skip out of there to meet up with some friends of Meghan.
cars are parked in rows that are caged in by fencing...
we have to hop not one but two gates to make it over to the tailgate.
I see a man in a suite helping two older looking women traverse these gates.
he greets Meghan and I next and helps us over.
I thought he worked there until a lingering pat of the ass told me otherwise.
I really need to stop trusting men in suits.
We make it. I meet a few people including someone awesome who tells me all about their nipple piercings. it's all fun and games until someone passes out and is sprawled in a deep sleep in the car. I, of course, find it funny and take a picture. This guy's best friend doesn't.
let me tell ya, I thought I'd met some pretty angry drunks in my time, but this guy takes the cake. I thought the moment would pass after I deleted the picture and kept my distance, but I'm pretty sure that everyone in the nearby 10 mile radius eventually was told the story of the "bitch in the green tights" aka me. I can only imagine what kind of individual those who heard the story envisioned. I'm thinking along the lines of a little elf with green tights and a camera much too big for their body with a devilish grin and beady red eyes out to kill. so if word ever spreads as I assume it will (this guy was determined to make a satan worshipper out of me) I'm the bitch in the green tights. moving on.
pit stop at the bathroom before the game. lovely porta potties. PORTA POTTIES ARE OUT OF TOILET PAPER. I know right? exciting. There's a point I promise.
Meet Saint Toilet Paper.
I kid you not, there was a woman at the front of the line handing out toilet paper, but only to duck fans.
"free TP for duck fans! take as much as you need!"
What's funny about this is some people are saying "oh my god I don't need this much! so generous!" all the while auburn fans dart nervous glances at each other wondering if they will have to shake and dry, or pay five dollars per square of Saint TP's tp. Hilarious and mildly psychotic all at the same time. I do love bowl games.
I'm not to apt to give a full on re-cap of the game, although I can say that it was an emotional roller coaster no one was prepared for and it was a GREAT game to be in attendance for. oh, and that it took me about two risky plays to realize that people around me were actually chanting "BIG BALLS CHIP" and making suggestive groping hand motions, not yelling "WE LOVE CHIP." other than that, they gave away some free chips that tasted like black beans. pretty good.
game ends, tears fall. back to the bus we walk. number 17 right?
well, when we got there there was about 30 buses all parked with at least 10 feet of space in front, behind, and to each side of them.
the parking lot is now unrecognizable with about 250 buses all parked bumper to bumper.
so... where's #17?
chaos erupts. we are truly never getting back to the hotel. fear builds, sweat pours. I have no idea what color our bus even was.... OH SPOTTED. MAN WITH HEAD SET, BEANIE, AND LEGIT LOOKING FLEECE ZIP UP WITH SECURITY EMBROIDERY. Let me just tell you, if you ever see a man like this, do not trust him.
Untrustworthy security foe: where you guys headed? (looks at our tickets)
us: uhm bus number 17? back to the chaparral suites?
Untrustworthy security foe: Oh, right this way. (weaves through a mass of buses and people at a dead sprint.) KEEP UP, KEEP UP, OTHER PEOPLE NEED HELP.
arrive at bus which is not the bus we came on, nor is our driver "17" anywhere in sight
us: is this number 17?
USF: no, what the hell are u talking about?
us: uhm well our bus driver said he would meet us after the game, uhm bus 17.
enter group of drunk college boys, "ayooo where is dennis at?"
USF: oh dennis, two buses down.
us: wait, so this bus is going back to the chaparral?
USF: yes, get on.
once again, there are two seats left on the entire bus. do I even NEED to tell you where they were? back row.
we sit for an hour and a half waiting for all buses in front to move before we can.
awkward 50 year old man cracks jokes, "god it sounds like a morgue in here! jeez guys!!!"
no one responds.
it's a bus full of duck fans, we only just lost the national championship in the last two seconds of the game... did he not know?
sweaty hobo comes out of bathroom puking.
cute.
we drive, I fall asleep for a few moments, wake up, and realize we are near the airport.... why are we near the airport? maybe driving through to avoid traffic? no one knows.
bus stops at airport. oh maybe this is just a pit stop. yeah. no. everyone calmly exits the bus. it's just meghan, the driver and I?
me: is this going to the chaparall?
JERK BUS DRIVER: HAHAHAHAHA YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU GOT ON THE WRONG BUS HAHAHAHA GOOD LUCK.
btw, just for a time of reference its 1 am.
tears fall. we're. so. screwed.
go into airport.
where the hell is everyone who was just on the bus? are these people all catching red eyes? all flights into Alabama are canceled.... WHERE ARE ALL THOSE PEOPLE AND WHAT ARE THEY GOING TO DO?
frantically follow signs to cabs.
almost get killed jumping in front of cab.
cab stops.
cue this: random black guy gets up from official looking chair/ podium thing and hands me and my sister pieces of paper. "you guys need to fill these out."
me: what the f*@%, who the f*&^^ are you?
cab driver sports confused look.
get into cab.
Meghan is still outside talking to this guy.
we both still have no idea who he is or what he was saying, just for the record.
pay an insane fare back to the hotel, only to find out room service is closed, and the nearest food is two miles away.
well at least they have a gift shop...
oh wait.
nothing like a can of sprite and some Cheetos to comfort an exhausted and emotionally drained soul. jeez.
maybe a good tv show will be on? nope, only game high lights and no name comedian skits. why is that comedians are always on when you are staying in a hotel? it's uncanny.
for lack of anything better to do, I fall asleep.
DAY 3
wake up, get in car with two auburn fans who ramble the entire car ride about how great auburn is. WOOHOO.
(they actually were really nice and I was asking them questions, I just thought mentioning this outside of parentheses would kill the whole cynical planes, trains, and automobiles-esque theme I have going on...)
Meghan heads to the United Air Ways terminal.
I, of course, am still flying southwest.
Go through security. Phoenix actually does have the nude scanners.
Let me tell you, that lady gave me a smirk when I walked through. SHE DID.
who does that?
screw you tsa.
bags are through the machine... I think everything is fine until I am approached by a man wearing rubber gloves... oh my god, oh my god, why is he wearing rubber gloves? I KNEW THAT WOMAN SMIRKED AT ME.
rubber glove man: do you have a bottle of water in your bag?
me: yes, yes I do.
close call.
make it to my gate.
hmmm what to watch on tv? tuscon's own food network (spare me) or a cartoon show featuring blue squares that dress in yellow business attire...
maybe I'll read.
pull out Me talk Pretty One day by David Sedaris.
everyone go out and buy the book. its amazing.
(he also discusses how he writes using a type writer, inspiration for using courier new today as my font. who noticed the change of pace? LOL)
for once, I am not seated last on the plane, but actually one of the first. I pick a window seat in the middle of the cabin, keep reading, and hope someone picks me.
my two seat companions become a business man obsessed with his ipad and a woman reading a book called the help. pretty normal, no aussie hotties or someone that smells. I'll take them.
oh, before I forget, I should mention this. why is it that when you travel alone, the entire world is out to help you? it's wonderful. from the kindness of the rubber glove tsa officer, to the ipad man who helped me with my bag, to another man who carried my bag down the stairs to get off the plane... SO NICE. I've decided even when I'm not traveling alone to pretend I am, just because people are weirdly so nice to you.
I suggest you do the same.
Get off the plane, get on a shuttle with what I assumed to be a chubby Mexican man as the driver (there was a mustache, clearly groomed and very thick, meant to be noticed, turns out the bus driver was a woman? i think? her/his voice was definitely female? couldn't tell if it was a man with a sex change or a woman with one. either way, definitely interesting combination of facial hair and breast tissue...) get dropped off at my car and speed along home.
let me tell you,
there really is no place like home.
No. I'm not deathly ill, but thanks to all who pitched on the dozens of bouquets and installed the giant "Save Lizzie" balloon on my roof.
you're great.
Since my last blog posting of winter formal, I have been traveling.
Sunday morning began rudely, let's just say I wasn't feeling too hot from post winter formal celebrations.... But I still managed to wake up due to insane excitement. I was going to the natty baby. And I had a flight to catch.
DAY ONE
My sister and I began the drive to burbank airport. 15 minutes into the ride, my cell phone is missing. I reached for my phone to call the police and report this, but of course, it was no where to be found to make such call.
Meghan (sister for those of you unsure of this "Meghan" character): Wait, do I get on the 5 N or stay on the 134?
Me (in a panic unsure of where my beloved blackberry has disappeared to): 134! WHERE THE HELL IS MY PHONE?
well for those of you who know how to get to Burbank, we should have gotten on the 5. one hour till our flight leaves and where are we? By the LA Zoo. Zooming down a two lane street, divided of course by the hated double yellow... Keep driving... forest lawn cemetery on the right and a lovely pile of dirt on the left... no where to turn around...
she does it. she flips a bitch on the double yellow. back towards the freeway.
arrive at airport. park no problem in the lot closest to the terminals.
the shuttle is parked about 50 feet away. is it waiting for us? a woman in uniform (assumed by us to be the driver) exits the shuttle and starts walking in the opposite direction. I guess she really needs a stog or she is plain refusing us service... we turn and begin walking towards the airport, when the shuttle moves! who knew there were to be two drivers in ONE shuttle. of course, we change directions and start to chase the shuttle down the rows of cars, luggage and all.
I guess this isn't prototypical for the Burbank air port, as the shuttle driver begins to shout out the three inch space called a "window" STOP 5 STOP 5. eventually we sit at stop 5 like civilized humans and watch the shuttle finish its snake through the lot and it picks us up. classy.
in the airport. security check.
for those of you who do not know, Burbank does not yet have the high tech scanners that see you nudey. So don't bother to nervously laugh when you walk through them like I did. You will get followed by a TSA officer.... not kidding. the fact the officer followed me into the shop where I bought a soduko book and rollos and then promptly walked out without my purchases or change probably didn't help either... pretty sure I was classified as a threat. jambs.
board plane. of COURSE, I am flying southwest. for those new to the blog, I hate southwest. somehow, my sister and I are the very last to board the plane. There are virtually no seats, no game of who looks the most normal. Spotted. two seats against the very back of the plane open. I lock eye contact with the woman occupying the aisle seat. "CAN WE SIT WITH YOU? SAVE THOSE PLEASE!" (little did I know that this was a flight attendant... pretty sure I confirmed previous walkie reports about the deranged white Caucasian woman in the green dress...) by the way, we entered from the front of the plane not realizing you could also enter from the back so please feel free to visualize two idiotic struggling passengers each with two carry-ons working their way from the front of the plane to the very back. southwest allows for two way trafficking down the aisle, so I take this moment to sincerely apologize to all those who I bulldozed in an effort to get to the back of the plane.
also, little did I know that not only choosing your seat is a free- for- all with southwest, but overhead space is a commodity to gamble for.
guess who had to last minute check their bags due to lack of space? this guy.
plane lands. luggage is supposed to be at carousel four. well. it's not. anxiety builds... I hear a couple suits say "typical phoenix, of course the Burbank luggage is actually at six, not four". thank god for these suits. and for anyone traveling to Phoenix in the near future, remember its "typical Phoenix" to put your luggage on random carousels. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Also, all the doors in Phoenix are numbered. Our driver told us to exit door four, but signs dictated door two would have been the proper exit. Feeling a bit like a contestant on price is right, I couldn't help but wonder what was behind both number 2 and 4. I chose 4. I'll never know if there was a new living room set from ikea waiting for me behind door number 2.
Outside door number four though, was a town car. Trunk open with not one thing in it, with a female driver. Seemed to meet the criteria we were looking for... Well, let me tell you another thing about Phoenix. It's the social norm for women to drive black town cars with spotless trunks popped open outside door number four. That wasn't our driver, just some normal woman going to pick up her sister from the airport....
I'll just let you readers assume how uncomfortable was taken to the next level in that situation....
After an embarrassing number a few past several phone calls are made to our driver, we find her. Meet Martha. Martha proceeds to take us on the "scenic" route of Arizona, taking an hour and a half to travel all of 22 miles. Thank you, Martha. Tempe, Scottsdale, and Phoenix are truly beautiful cities. I kid you not, this woman thought we were touring the streets of London, expecting my sister and I to wag our heads out the window like wind-blown dogs and admire miles of cactus and adobe. I think not. At one point she said, ARE YOU GUYS SLEEPING BACK THERE? well, Martha, we were really trying to. Dream Big.
Finally, we arrive at the hotel. Our room is around several bends and takes longer than I'd like to walk to. I swear at one point I heard Morgan Freeman's voice narrating our walk. Maybe it was just exhaustion induced hallucinations. No one knows.
After a brief moment to settle, Meghan and I hit the town and head to Olive Garden (sarcasm). Meet Robert, our OCD server who "likes a clean table, here girls give me those straw wrappers. THOSE WRAPPERS... IS EVERYTHING OKAY?....here, let me pat your breadsticks one more time. mom i'm scared.
back to the hotel. maybe a nice walk around the gift shop? follow arrows. Walk by a room with three vending machines (one for drinks, one for snacks, and one for advil and tampons). keep walking. oh wait, that was the gift shop.
after one more adventure walking around the sketchy parking lot of a "metro mall" (right, what is that? metrosexuals only? we stayed clear and just cruised the parking lot on foot in an effort to find another entrance to the hotel, due to our excessive walking around the lobby to find the gift shop...) and we are in for the night.
DAY 2 (game day)
the day begins with a mile and a half trek to find breakfast. we see a woman go into cardiac arrest outside a CVS and talk to the same homeless man not once, but twice. good times.
back to the hotel. board a van, which takes us to another hotel, to board a bus, which then takes us to the game. we once again are the last people on the bus, those last two seats right near the bathroom are the only one left. between southwest and the busing, I really was beginning to feel a bit like Rosa. For real this time, not like on the party bus. lawlzy.
now pay close attention to this part, for those of you who have decidedly droned off and started foaming out the mouth, looking for office supplies to commit suicide with, or those just reading absentmindedly. we get off the bus and the driver says, "AFTER THE GAME, I WILL PICK YOU UP RIGHT HERE. I'M BUS NUMBER 17. WRITE THAT DOWN, (pen is passed between all 100 passengers) WRITE IT ON YOUR BUS TICKET."
we enter the espn sponsored tailgate. the majority of fans are aged 60 plus and in orange. our "complimentary" meal looks like pork sandwiches and potato salad that has been in the sun for god knows how long. we skip out of there to meet up with some friends of Meghan.
cars are parked in rows that are caged in by fencing...
we have to hop not one but two gates to make it over to the tailgate.
I see a man in a suite helping two older looking women traverse these gates.
he greets Meghan and I next and helps us over.
I thought he worked there until a lingering pat of the ass told me otherwise.
I really need to stop trusting men in suits.
We make it. I meet a few people including someone awesome who tells me all about their nipple piercings. it's all fun and games until someone passes out and is sprawled in a deep sleep in the car. I, of course, find it funny and take a picture. This guy's best friend doesn't.
let me tell ya, I thought I'd met some pretty angry drunks in my time, but this guy takes the cake. I thought the moment would pass after I deleted the picture and kept my distance, but I'm pretty sure that everyone in the nearby 10 mile radius eventually was told the story of the "bitch in the green tights" aka me. I can only imagine what kind of individual those who heard the story envisioned. I'm thinking along the lines of a little elf with green tights and a camera much too big for their body with a devilish grin and beady red eyes out to kill. so if word ever spreads as I assume it will (this guy was determined to make a satan worshipper out of me) I'm the bitch in the green tights. moving on.
pit stop at the bathroom before the game. lovely porta potties. PORTA POTTIES ARE OUT OF TOILET PAPER. I know right? exciting. There's a point I promise.
Meet Saint Toilet Paper.
I kid you not, there was a woman at the front of the line handing out toilet paper, but only to duck fans.
"free TP for duck fans! take as much as you need!"
What's funny about this is some people are saying "oh my god I don't need this much! so generous!" all the while auburn fans dart nervous glances at each other wondering if they will have to shake and dry, or pay five dollars per square of Saint TP's tp. Hilarious and mildly psychotic all at the same time. I do love bowl games.
I'm not to apt to give a full on re-cap of the game, although I can say that it was an emotional roller coaster no one was prepared for and it was a GREAT game to be in attendance for. oh, and that it took me about two risky plays to realize that people around me were actually chanting "BIG BALLS CHIP" and making suggestive groping hand motions, not yelling "WE LOVE CHIP." other than that, they gave away some free chips that tasted like black beans. pretty good.
game ends, tears fall. back to the bus we walk. number 17 right?
well, when we got there there was about 30 buses all parked with at least 10 feet of space in front, behind, and to each side of them.
the parking lot is now unrecognizable with about 250 buses all parked bumper to bumper.
so... where's #17?
chaos erupts. we are truly never getting back to the hotel. fear builds, sweat pours. I have no idea what color our bus even was.... OH SPOTTED. MAN WITH HEAD SET, BEANIE, AND LEGIT LOOKING FLEECE ZIP UP WITH SECURITY EMBROIDERY. Let me just tell you, if you ever see a man like this, do not trust him.
Untrustworthy security foe: where you guys headed? (looks at our tickets)
us: uhm bus number 17? back to the chaparral suites?
Untrustworthy security foe: Oh, right this way. (weaves through a mass of buses and people at a dead sprint.) KEEP UP, KEEP UP, OTHER PEOPLE NEED HELP.
arrive at bus which is not the bus we came on, nor is our driver "17" anywhere in sight
us: is this number 17?
USF: no, what the hell are u talking about?
us: uhm well our bus driver said he would meet us after the game, uhm bus 17.
enter group of drunk college boys, "ayooo where is dennis at?"
USF: oh dennis, two buses down.
us: wait, so this bus is going back to the chaparral?
USF: yes, get on.
once again, there are two seats left on the entire bus. do I even NEED to tell you where they were? back row.
we sit for an hour and a half waiting for all buses in front to move before we can.
awkward 50 year old man cracks jokes, "god it sounds like a morgue in here! jeez guys!!!"
no one responds.
it's a bus full of duck fans, we only just lost the national championship in the last two seconds of the game... did he not know?
sweaty hobo comes out of bathroom puking.
cute.
we drive, I fall asleep for a few moments, wake up, and realize we are near the airport.... why are we near the airport? maybe driving through to avoid traffic? no one knows.
bus stops at airport. oh maybe this is just a pit stop. yeah. no. everyone calmly exits the bus. it's just meghan, the driver and I?
me: is this going to the chaparall?
JERK BUS DRIVER: HAHAHAHAHA YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU GOT ON THE WRONG BUS HAHAHAHA GOOD LUCK.
btw, just for a time of reference its 1 am.
tears fall. we're. so. screwed.
go into airport.
where the hell is everyone who was just on the bus? are these people all catching red eyes? all flights into Alabama are canceled.... WHERE ARE ALL THOSE PEOPLE AND WHAT ARE THEY GOING TO DO?
frantically follow signs to cabs.
almost get killed jumping in front of cab.
cab stops.
cue this: random black guy gets up from official looking chair/ podium thing and hands me and my sister pieces of paper. "you guys need to fill these out."
me: what the f*@%, who the f*&^^ are you?
cab driver sports confused look.
get into cab.
Meghan is still outside talking to this guy.
we both still have no idea who he is or what he was saying, just for the record.
pay an insane fare back to the hotel, only to find out room service is closed, and the nearest food is two miles away.
well at least they have a gift shop...
oh wait.
nothing like a can of sprite and some Cheetos to comfort an exhausted and emotionally drained soul. jeez.
maybe a good tv show will be on? nope, only game high lights and no name comedian skits. why is that comedians are always on when you are staying in a hotel? it's uncanny.
for lack of anything better to do, I fall asleep.
DAY 3
wake up, get in car with two auburn fans who ramble the entire car ride about how great auburn is. WOOHOO.
(they actually were really nice and I was asking them questions, I just thought mentioning this outside of parentheses would kill the whole cynical planes, trains, and automobiles-esque theme I have going on...)
Meghan heads to the United Air Ways terminal.
I, of course, am still flying southwest.
Go through security. Phoenix actually does have the nude scanners.
Let me tell you, that lady gave me a smirk when I walked through. SHE DID.
who does that?
screw you tsa.
bags are through the machine... I think everything is fine until I am approached by a man wearing rubber gloves... oh my god, oh my god, why is he wearing rubber gloves? I KNEW THAT WOMAN SMIRKED AT ME.
rubber glove man: do you have a bottle of water in your bag?
me: yes, yes I do.
close call.
make it to my gate.
hmmm what to watch on tv? tuscon's own food network (spare me) or a cartoon show featuring blue squares that dress in yellow business attire...
maybe I'll read.
pull out Me talk Pretty One day by David Sedaris.
everyone go out and buy the book. its amazing.
(he also discusses how he writes using a type writer, inspiration for using courier new today as my font. who noticed the change of pace? LOL)
for once, I am not seated last on the plane, but actually one of the first. I pick a window seat in the middle of the cabin, keep reading, and hope someone picks me.
my two seat companions become a business man obsessed with his ipad and a woman reading a book called the help. pretty normal, no aussie hotties or someone that smells. I'll take them.
oh, before I forget, I should mention this. why is it that when you travel alone, the entire world is out to help you? it's wonderful. from the kindness of the rubber glove tsa officer, to the ipad man who helped me with my bag, to another man who carried my bag down the stairs to get off the plane... SO NICE. I've decided even when I'm not traveling alone to pretend I am, just because people are weirdly so nice to you.
I suggest you do the same.
Get off the plane, get on a shuttle with what I assumed to be a chubby Mexican man as the driver (there was a mustache, clearly groomed and very thick, meant to be noticed, turns out the bus driver was a woman? i think? her/his voice was definitely female? couldn't tell if it was a man with a sex change or a woman with one. either way, definitely interesting combination of facial hair and breast tissue...) get dropped off at my car and speed along home.
let me tell you,
there really is no place like home.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Formal Formalities
the night officially began as I arrived a half hour late to the pre-dance picture taking. the pre-dance event brings evokes both love and hate for me. kidding. how cliche is that? love and hate are both carry too much weight to be used to describe something as trivial as pre dance picture taking.
what I want to know is who started this whole group photo op thing? I mean, in every high school movie the dance scene involves a boy picking up a girl from her house and the parents taking a few awkward posed photos. But when did this small event turn into an 100 person undertaking with appetizers and the occasional bottle of wine to share among the parents? no longer is it just the pic or two with the date, but each dance album quickly becomes a mini yearbook.
"y and g pic!"
"chamber pic"
"that one time we had a sleepover pic"
and of course the dreaded group photo where every parents stands in a jumbled sense of a line and attempts to take a picture of 50 kids with a digital camera.... these pictures are by far the funniest, each person is staring directly at their camera and not any one elses...
and don't even get me started on no matter where you are, that you are always somehow stuck in a lawn. seriously, yesterday I was worried I would have to call a crane to dislodge my stick heel from the patch of grass I had sunken so deeply into. It's like when you stand in shallow water at the beach and let layers of wet sand cover your feet until you are so far sunk in that it takes more effort than you would like to admit to actually see your feet again. Just like that, but in six inch heels.
after every camera has run out of battery (before the event even starts), the bus arrives. Sleek, black, and... too small?
after "listening" to the rules of the party bus, and a trip down the red carpet (nice touch), we all finally board the bus. but there is not enough room.
couples sit on laps (this promoted a lot of lap dancing that I frankly considered to be a bit "too soon"), and the stripper pole becomes more of a support pole, and our esteemed and trendy party bus reminds me more of a subway than a luxury form of transportation. At one point I even called a moment of silence for Rosa Parks. I'm sure dear Rosa is turning in her grave at the suggestion that prentenious teens having to endure a standing ride to city walk in a party bus is even slightly comparative to the racist bus seating of historical montgomery, but hey, what's life without a little offensive humor?
the group arrives at Buca. We are led up three flights of stairs (thank god I had my inhaler. but really. between the half mile trek from parking lot to resturaunt coupled with the soreness I felt from the previous day of heels, I was grateful to make it up those stairs without severe cardiac arrest. anyone in my group knows EXACTLY what i'm referring to). the meal is good, only one major trip of girls to the bathroom... haha I know boys, WHAT ARE WE ALL DOING IN THERE TOGETHER. If we told you, we'd have to kill you...
the meal ends, and the real adventure begins.
amazing race season 27: to the dance.
it only took a few minutes for us to all realize that the last people on the bus would become the rosa parks of the group and be seatless. I began a dead sprint in my heels, I would not recieve the ultimate shaft of having to stand. Couples raced hand in hand through the massive throngs of people at city walk. At one point, I'm pretty sure I assalted a seven foot russian male, but not even a massive forgiener could stop me. Sweat dripped from my forehead... I was falling behind, but only because other competitors had ripped off their heels. Heels came off. I had to win... I made it. I was in the parking lot first... but wait, where was the bus. WHERE WAS THE BUS?!??!?! it was a race without a definitive finish line. SERIOUSLY WHERE WAS THE BUS??!?!?!?!?!??! FJLDAJFA.
oh wait, it hadn't been called. the group waited anxiously, the most strategic couples kept a look out and only falsey engaged in conversation to distract opponets. Every. Man. For. Himself. BUS! spotted. Heels were back on, but I was unstoppable. I'd just like to once again tell everyone that I was the first female on the bus with heels. Just saying. I'm not weirdly overly competitive or anything. Don't worry about it.
Arrive at the dance.
Tall men with thick accents tell us to seperate into two lines, one side will be men, one side will be women. (oh my god. did no one else feel creepy Halocaust vibes?). We made it into the dance.
picture time.
nailed it. so glad at this point we are all so far beyond taking a normal dance photo and many of us bring props. Let me tell you, inhaler=clutch.
to the dance floor.
on and off the stage within the first five minutes. well played comrades, well played.
instantly so sweaty. besides possibly a suana or a summer day in vegas, there are no other places in the world that evoke such severe perspiration.
I often want to yell "I'm melting... I'm melting" but then I would have to equate myself to the wicked witch of the west... and it's just too soon for that kind of self mockery.
did anyone else feel awkward with the amount of dubstep that was played?
sorry everyone was sober.
after a few epic rounds of "mixing the cake", "texting while driving", the "lawn mower" and of course the popularized "q-tip, throw it away" moves (you all know exactly who you are) the dance was over.
we wait for our bus to come pick us up. the admin watch my group and I like hawks. I wished they would have breathlized us instead of glaring, every single one of us would have come up 0.00. take that admin. TAKE THAT. seriously, it was almost comical. I felt as though certain administrators expected us all to yell IM DRUNK or start vomiting on the streets of hollywood. it's funny, I could have listed off 50 drunk kids at the dance last night, but the admin is so concerned with who they deem to be trouble makers that most of the drunkards escape without so much as a second look because of one isolated incident at homecoming..... "I can't go to winter formal" classic.
next posed the problem of what to do after. It always strikes me as funny, no matter what dance, there are NEVER any "after parties". Rumors about a few parties start sometime at the dance and by the time it's over, texts fly between party buses and limos about these alleged parties. who starts these rumors? whoever you are, throw something yourself and stop spinning lies. I bet you started the station fire too, spawn of lucifer.
we arrive back at square one. the party bus pulls away and we sit like bums on a curb. people type furiously into their smart phones, each person trying to get in touch with their connections. still... nothing...
one bold friend finally steps up.
"you know what guys, I'm gonna have a kickback. we can go to my house."
cheers erupt.
tops are thrown carelessly into the air.
victory dances ensue.
some (aka me) pick up the heroic hostess and shake them.
its christmas and new years combined.
IT'S AN AFTER PARTY.
the rest of the night cumulates in reconnecting with that one old friend (tangent: I love how when people get together, you always find that one person who you don't normally hang out with and they become your instant buddy for the night... seriously, you know its true and then you always have that "one" night with them that you laugh about for the next two years. ) , dance highlights (or just complaining about the dj) , more dancing, and of course, MORE PICTURES.
eventually the drivers get tired, someone pukes, and its time for everyone to head home.
rumor has it that this morning works bagels were sold out at goldstiens. nicely done LCHS. nicely done.
what I want to know is who started this whole group photo op thing? I mean, in every high school movie the dance scene involves a boy picking up a girl from her house and the parents taking a few awkward posed photos. But when did this small event turn into an 100 person undertaking with appetizers and the occasional bottle of wine to share among the parents? no longer is it just the pic or two with the date, but each dance album quickly becomes a mini yearbook.
"y and g pic!"
"chamber pic"
"that one time we had a sleepover pic"
and of course the dreaded group photo where every parents stands in a jumbled sense of a line and attempts to take a picture of 50 kids with a digital camera.... these pictures are by far the funniest, each person is staring directly at their camera and not any one elses...
and don't even get me started on no matter where you are, that you are always somehow stuck in a lawn. seriously, yesterday I was worried I would have to call a crane to dislodge my stick heel from the patch of grass I had sunken so deeply into. It's like when you stand in shallow water at the beach and let layers of wet sand cover your feet until you are so far sunk in that it takes more effort than you would like to admit to actually see your feet again. Just like that, but in six inch heels.
after every camera has run out of battery (before the event even starts), the bus arrives. Sleek, black, and... too small?
after "listening" to the rules of the party bus, and a trip down the red carpet (nice touch), we all finally board the bus. but there is not enough room.
couples sit on laps (this promoted a lot of lap dancing that I frankly considered to be a bit "too soon"), and the stripper pole becomes more of a support pole, and our esteemed and trendy party bus reminds me more of a subway than a luxury form of transportation. At one point I even called a moment of silence for Rosa Parks. I'm sure dear Rosa is turning in her grave at the suggestion that prentenious teens having to endure a standing ride to city walk in a party bus is even slightly comparative to the racist bus seating of historical montgomery, but hey, what's life without a little offensive humor?
the group arrives at Buca. We are led up three flights of stairs (thank god I had my inhaler. but really. between the half mile trek from parking lot to resturaunt coupled with the soreness I felt from the previous day of heels, I was grateful to make it up those stairs without severe cardiac arrest. anyone in my group knows EXACTLY what i'm referring to). the meal is good, only one major trip of girls to the bathroom... haha I know boys, WHAT ARE WE ALL DOING IN THERE TOGETHER. If we told you, we'd have to kill you...
the meal ends, and the real adventure begins.
amazing race season 27: to the dance.
it only took a few minutes for us to all realize that the last people on the bus would become the rosa parks of the group and be seatless. I began a dead sprint in my heels, I would not recieve the ultimate shaft of having to stand. Couples raced hand in hand through the massive throngs of people at city walk. At one point, I'm pretty sure I assalted a seven foot russian male, but not even a massive forgiener could stop me. Sweat dripped from my forehead... I was falling behind, but only because other competitors had ripped off their heels. Heels came off. I had to win... I made it. I was in the parking lot first... but wait, where was the bus. WHERE WAS THE BUS?!??!?! it was a race without a definitive finish line. SERIOUSLY WHERE WAS THE BUS??!?!?!?!?!??! FJLDAJFA.
oh wait, it hadn't been called. the group waited anxiously, the most strategic couples kept a look out and only falsey engaged in conversation to distract opponets. Every. Man. For. Himself. BUS! spotted. Heels were back on, but I was unstoppable. I'd just like to once again tell everyone that I was the first female on the bus with heels. Just saying. I'm not weirdly overly competitive or anything. Don't worry about it.
Arrive at the dance.
Tall men with thick accents tell us to seperate into two lines, one side will be men, one side will be women. (oh my god. did no one else feel creepy Halocaust vibes?). We made it into the dance.
picture time.
nailed it. so glad at this point we are all so far beyond taking a normal dance photo and many of us bring props. Let me tell you, inhaler=clutch.
to the dance floor.
on and off the stage within the first five minutes. well played comrades, well played.
instantly so sweaty. besides possibly a suana or a summer day in vegas, there are no other places in the world that evoke such severe perspiration.
I often want to yell "I'm melting... I'm melting" but then I would have to equate myself to the wicked witch of the west... and it's just too soon for that kind of self mockery.
did anyone else feel awkward with the amount of dubstep that was played?
sorry everyone was sober.
after a few epic rounds of "mixing the cake", "texting while driving", the "lawn mower" and of course the popularized "q-tip, throw it away" moves (you all know exactly who you are) the dance was over.
we wait for our bus to come pick us up. the admin watch my group and I like hawks. I wished they would have breathlized us instead of glaring, every single one of us would have come up 0.00. take that admin. TAKE THAT. seriously, it was almost comical. I felt as though certain administrators expected us all to yell IM DRUNK or start vomiting on the streets of hollywood. it's funny, I could have listed off 50 drunk kids at the dance last night, but the admin is so concerned with who they deem to be trouble makers that most of the drunkards escape without so much as a second look because of one isolated incident at homecoming..... "I can't go to winter formal" classic.
next posed the problem of what to do after. It always strikes me as funny, no matter what dance, there are NEVER any "after parties". Rumors about a few parties start sometime at the dance and by the time it's over, texts fly between party buses and limos about these alleged parties. who starts these rumors? whoever you are, throw something yourself and stop spinning lies. I bet you started the station fire too, spawn of lucifer.
we arrive back at square one. the party bus pulls away and we sit like bums on a curb. people type furiously into their smart phones, each person trying to get in touch with their connections. still... nothing...
one bold friend finally steps up.
"you know what guys, I'm gonna have a kickback. we can go to my house."
cheers erupt.
tops are thrown carelessly into the air.
victory dances ensue.
some (aka me) pick up the heroic hostess and shake them.
its christmas and new years combined.
IT'S AN AFTER PARTY.
the rest of the night cumulates in reconnecting with that one old friend (tangent: I love how when people get together, you always find that one person who you don't normally hang out with and they become your instant buddy for the night... seriously, you know its true and then you always have that "one" night with them that you laugh about for the next two years. ) , dance highlights (or just complaining about the dj) , more dancing, and of course, MORE PICTURES.
eventually the drivers get tired, someone pukes, and its time for everyone to head home.
rumor has it that this morning works bagels were sold out at goldstiens. nicely done LCHS. nicely done.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
the build up.
So. I didn't realize that when I started a blog that people would actually read it. I mean, yes I thought that my good friends that I begged to support me during my in-securing endeavor to actually publish my thoughts might read the first posting... but now the pressure is on.
competitive bloggers (the sneaky narwhal) as well as other readers of the first post have made the second post an exciting but slightly anxiety provoking task.
not to mention blog spot wasnt working for about 10 minutes which caused me to ponder if it was a sign that tonight was not the night for posting 2... thanks to all who commented the status, you gave me the inspiration to power through.
what to write about?
the fact that once again I am putting off school to attempt a blog? not studying for a certain test I have first period tomorrow despite threatening emails sent from a certain severe chinned conservative concerning my attendance in her class.... jambs... of course I can't make it on time/ if at all... the class begins before 8 am. sorry for senioring.
or do I write about senioring? the fact that kids you once assumed were going to yale now DGAF on the weekdays, iming you saying things like f*@% the stats homework, i'm passing out... at the mere hour of 11? this is concerning. if these idolized students are sleeping, what does that mean for me... oh right. it means blogging. haha.... and then watching garden state.
should I write about my day? no that seems a little boring and cliche... I went to school. yup. so did everyone else.... alrightie then...
winter formal is coming!!! woohooo. school wide temporary eating disorders in attempt to find one stunning and slim profile picture while you are done up. good luck ladies. I ate baja fresh tonight, guess I'll hold out on the award winning prof pic...
possibly I could discuss COLLEGES... oh wait, every conversation i've had with an adult since august has been concerning my future. as soon as I lie and tell most parents that i'm applying to USC, conversations tend to hault and parents are allowed to discuss their golden years at the university of southern california. (please don't egg my house trojan fans, its not anything against USC as a university, I just need to get away. southwest... wanna get away? great advertising. not... south west sucks. no tvs. stale peanuts. flat soda. pick your own seats, so you not only get stuck next to weirdos but have to make the determination for yourself and then kick yourself in the ass when you thought the nice old lady who was dead asleep when you sat down actually lives in La Canada, hates the new sport chalet, and of course, went to USC. or worse, you sit down first in an empty row and wait for someone to pick you and sit near you as you inconspicuously flip through a magazine, cover down so creepy adult men don't give you the once over for reading cosmo. suddenly, youre back in seventh grade PE again staring at debby's (mrs hayos for those of you not on first name basis) epic monochramtic sweatsuit and hoping that someone picks you to be on their soccer team despite your less than athletic looking physique... longest parentheses ever, but really, all that needed to be said.)))
ANYWAY I'M SO SICK OF TALKING ABOUT COLLEGES. I'M SORRY I APPLIED TO WEIRD SMALL LIBERAL ART SCHOOLS YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF AND WANT TO STUDY PHILOSOPHY IN A ROOM WITH 12 OTHER PEOPLE WHO ARE EQUALLY AS WEIRD AS I AM. JAMBO.
AND NO. I'M NOT GOING TO JOIN A SORIORITY.
the all-caps was a bit much, but what's life without a little melodrama....
or how about the fact that I'm trying to get m trips dvd player to work and neither of us can because there are 7 different clickers to choose from... when did this happen? technology is our best friend until we can't figure it out. I just want one damn remote with a big button that says "ressurect dobby the house elf. he will bring you a diet coke and chicken mcnuggets with sweet and sour sauce"... if only all that would fit on a remote. maybe I would accept two remotes. one for my house elf and one for my tv/dvd. anyway.
so what was I going to write about for my second blog posting?
competitive bloggers (the sneaky narwhal) as well as other readers of the first post have made the second post an exciting but slightly anxiety provoking task.
not to mention blog spot wasnt working for about 10 minutes which caused me to ponder if it was a sign that tonight was not the night for posting 2... thanks to all who commented the status, you gave me the inspiration to power through.
what to write about?
the fact that once again I am putting off school to attempt a blog? not studying for a certain test I have first period tomorrow despite threatening emails sent from a certain severe chinned conservative concerning my attendance in her class.... jambs... of course I can't make it on time/ if at all... the class begins before 8 am. sorry for senioring.
or do I write about senioring? the fact that kids you once assumed were going to yale now DGAF on the weekdays, iming you saying things like f*@% the stats homework, i'm passing out... at the mere hour of 11? this is concerning. if these idolized students are sleeping, what does that mean for me... oh right. it means blogging. haha.... and then watching garden state.
should I write about my day? no that seems a little boring and cliche... I went to school. yup. so did everyone else.... alrightie then...
winter formal is coming!!! woohooo. school wide temporary eating disorders in attempt to find one stunning and slim profile picture while you are done up. good luck ladies. I ate baja fresh tonight, guess I'll hold out on the award winning prof pic...
possibly I could discuss COLLEGES... oh wait, every conversation i've had with an adult since august has been concerning my future. as soon as I lie and tell most parents that i'm applying to USC, conversations tend to hault and parents are allowed to discuss their golden years at the university of southern california. (please don't egg my house trojan fans, its not anything against USC as a university, I just need to get away. southwest... wanna get away? great advertising. not... south west sucks. no tvs. stale peanuts. flat soda. pick your own seats, so you not only get stuck next to weirdos but have to make the determination for yourself and then kick yourself in the ass when you thought the nice old lady who was dead asleep when you sat down actually lives in La Canada, hates the new sport chalet, and of course, went to USC. or worse, you sit down first in an empty row and wait for someone to pick you and sit near you as you inconspicuously flip through a magazine, cover down so creepy adult men don't give you the once over for reading cosmo. suddenly, youre back in seventh grade PE again staring at debby's (mrs hayos for those of you not on first name basis) epic monochramtic sweatsuit and hoping that someone picks you to be on their soccer team despite your less than athletic looking physique... longest parentheses ever, but really, all that needed to be said.)))
ANYWAY I'M SO SICK OF TALKING ABOUT COLLEGES. I'M SORRY I APPLIED TO WEIRD SMALL LIBERAL ART SCHOOLS YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF AND WANT TO STUDY PHILOSOPHY IN A ROOM WITH 12 OTHER PEOPLE WHO ARE EQUALLY AS WEIRD AS I AM. JAMBO.
AND NO. I'M NOT GOING TO JOIN A SORIORITY.
the all-caps was a bit much, but what's life without a little melodrama....
or how about the fact that I'm trying to get m trips dvd player to work and neither of us can because there are 7 different clickers to choose from... when did this happen? technology is our best friend until we can't figure it out. I just want one damn remote with a big button that says "ressurect dobby the house elf. he will bring you a diet coke and chicken mcnuggets with sweet and sour sauce"... if only all that would fit on a remote. maybe I would accept two remotes. one for my house elf and one for my tv/dvd. anyway.
so what was I going to write about for my second blog posting?
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A New Year's Resolution
I sat on a couch holding the hand of a drunkard. No music played, someone apparently had figured out how to turn off all the electricity in the house in an attempt to set the mood for the eminent 12 o'clock sloppy make out seshes that loomed in the near future. I looked around and I laughed. Is this how the mormons felt at every party? I was sober on New Year's Eve... still recovering from a sleepless night after my debutante ball.. Glad I came into society with such poise and grace.... People rolled around on the ground together, unable to get up. Oooops. another thong spotted... I suppose I will help them up.
Being sober around black out drunk people is probably the biggest ego boost I've had since Rick Mohney said I had a brilliant comment regaurding john keats (the most depressed person on the face of the earth, glad I understand him so well... he and sylvitha plath... Hi, i'm president of the virginia wolf fan club. Alanis Morrisette and I are the only members. We meet at panera thursdays at 5 if you would like to join. Wait, why is the entire world always at panera. So see and be seen. the food isn't even that good.. just me? too bad they know me by name there now... my panera card is getting worn down... hi tangent of the year, back to my blog..) about a month ago. Seriously though, why is it that girls I've never met before suddenly find me beautiful and love me when they are intoxicated... I mean, it's flattering but is the majority of LC's females closet lesbians? Not that i'm judging. We all remember the embarassing sophomore year stunt where all my friends and I coined names that suggested less than heterosexuality... Hi, I'm Jamie.
Everyone around was making shallow connections... But were they shallow? It seems when you are drunk you truly let go of the projection you are attempting to show others and are able to be flawed. Too bad the instant anyone is sober they dismiss this vunerability as being "SOOOOOOO DRUNK" and apologize to every single person they met... I love how people do this via wall posting... that way anyone who even saw someone stepping out of their box and meeting someone new will also recognize that being outgoing for five minutes was a severe embarassing moment and an error in judgement. It makes me lawlzy.
New Year's struck. While others started off the new year on the verge of unconsciousness licking the faces of people they barely knew (whoever started this tradition ought to be shot.... starting off a year like this is depressing...January 1 tops any awkward Monday) I assisted a good friend get out of the parents bed and find their clothes. When I host the best friend awards in June, I am self nominating myself. But this was just the beginning. The friend who was barely conscious suddenly found a second wind as soon as they were dressed and began to violently run through the party....Anyone who knows me even mildly well knows I am incapable of running... Why do you think I played softball....
After finally chasing down the forest gump esque drunk, I had a lovely conversation with the parents who just arrived home. Wonderful people. Truly. They hadn't seen the broken window yet. Jambs. The first car of people was taken home. One ride down, several to go.
Back around for round two. Spotted: someone belligerent attempting to stick their keys into a car that doesn't belong to them. Later, they actually got into a car that was not their own because the neighbor left it unlocked. Epic.
The night ended with one final crying phone call for a 3 am ride. Somebody's mom was going to kill them. How often do we as teenagers insinuate our parents are cold blooded murderers? If half the stuff we said was taken literally, most of my friends mom's would put good old Capone to shame. Not to mention how many friends of mine would be dead, because let's face it.. High School is "suicidal".
"Suicidal" yes, but hilarious also. It is because of this that I have decided to start writing a blog. Life is too funny not to properly document.... Not that starting a blog entitled the "jambo nucleus" is really proper documentation at this point... but in a world where most people have intimate conversations over facebook chat, it's the best I can do. It is my resolution to start documenting life. I thought about working out, but felt it was cliche and I have bronchitis.
Better get started on my mohney homework. My facebook status lied. I actually do have homework.
Being sober around black out drunk people is probably the biggest ego boost I've had since Rick Mohney said I had a brilliant comment regaurding john keats (the most depressed person on the face of the earth, glad I understand him so well... he and sylvitha plath... Hi, i'm president of the virginia wolf fan club. Alanis Morrisette and I are the only members. We meet at panera thursdays at 5 if you would like to join. Wait, why is the entire world always at panera. So see and be seen. the food isn't even that good.. just me? too bad they know me by name there now... my panera card is getting worn down... hi tangent of the year, back to my blog..) about a month ago. Seriously though, why is it that girls I've never met before suddenly find me beautiful and love me when they are intoxicated... I mean, it's flattering but is the majority of LC's females closet lesbians? Not that i'm judging. We all remember the embarassing sophomore year stunt where all my friends and I coined names that suggested less than heterosexuality... Hi, I'm Jamie.
Everyone around was making shallow connections... But were they shallow? It seems when you are drunk you truly let go of the projection you are attempting to show others and are able to be flawed. Too bad the instant anyone is sober they dismiss this vunerability as being "SOOOOOOO DRUNK" and apologize to every single person they met... I love how people do this via wall posting... that way anyone who even saw someone stepping out of their box and meeting someone new will also recognize that being outgoing for five minutes was a severe embarassing moment and an error in judgement. It makes me lawlzy.
New Year's struck. While others started off the new year on the verge of unconsciousness licking the faces of people they barely knew (whoever started this tradition ought to be shot.... starting off a year like this is depressing...January 1 tops any awkward Monday) I assisted a good friend get out of the parents bed and find their clothes. When I host the best friend awards in June, I am self nominating myself. But this was just the beginning. The friend who was barely conscious suddenly found a second wind as soon as they were dressed and began to violently run through the party....Anyone who knows me even mildly well knows I am incapable of running... Why do you think I played softball....
After finally chasing down the forest gump esque drunk, I had a lovely conversation with the parents who just arrived home. Wonderful people. Truly. They hadn't seen the broken window yet. Jambs. The first car of people was taken home. One ride down, several to go.
Back around for round two. Spotted: someone belligerent attempting to stick their keys into a car that doesn't belong to them. Later, they actually got into a car that was not their own because the neighbor left it unlocked. Epic.
The night ended with one final crying phone call for a 3 am ride. Somebody's mom was going to kill them. How often do we as teenagers insinuate our parents are cold blooded murderers? If half the stuff we said was taken literally, most of my friends mom's would put good old Capone to shame. Not to mention how many friends of mine would be dead, because let's face it.. High School is "suicidal".
"Suicidal" yes, but hilarious also. It is because of this that I have decided to start writing a blog. Life is too funny not to properly document.... Not that starting a blog entitled the "jambo nucleus" is really proper documentation at this point... but in a world where most people have intimate conversations over facebook chat, it's the best I can do. It is my resolution to start documenting life. I thought about working out, but felt it was cliche and I have bronchitis.
Better get started on my mohney homework. My facebook status lied. I actually do have homework.
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