tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45450899285381557452024-02-20T20:45:06.630-05:00Chocolate & Whiskey ...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-552523700808807312010-11-25T23:41:00.005-05:002010-11-26T01:11:49.732-05:00Is This My Future?<div><br /></div><object width="400" height="365"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4pbou_r7ODs?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4pbou_r7ODs?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="365"></embed></object><br /><br />Hi. I'm back. I tore myself away from Sydney, <a href="http://www.nothongsallowed.com/MMXXVI-11457677">kicking and screaming</a>, and have returned to the US of A. Ironically enough, on this great American holiday, I am most grateful for my year <i>away</i> from the States. Now, before you roll your eyes and call me an unpatriotic bitch, let me just say this past year was one of the best of my life. But mainly because it allowed me to say goodbye to the familiar, jump out of the sky, ride elephants, and return to friends and family who did not forget about me even though I abandoned them for tanned alcoholics who don't pronounce their R's. I have friends for life here, and if I ever doubted that before, I know that now.<div><br /></div><div>That being said, my goal in going to Australia was to "write a book". And I have to say, every time someone asks me "How's that book going?" it makes me cringe. Because before, when I lived in Sydney, I could say "I'm too busy living it to write about it!" or "My writing teacher says you can't write the beginning until you know the end!" But now, I got nothin'. </div><div><br /></div><div>My friend Andy, in a show of obvious faith that I would actually write the book I kept talking about, showed me this video last January. I laughed at him, told him that was insulting, and said "As soon as I get back I really am writing it!" But now, as I blog instead of working on my outline that I told my writing teacher I would turn in to her before our meeting next week, I wonder, "Will this book ever get done?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I certainly hope so, but I don't know that I'd recommend betting on it. In the meantime, please refrain from asking me about the g-damn book. And be comfortable with the knowledge that I haven't completely changed. I still prioritize chocolate, whiskey and <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2008/10/procrastination.html">procrastination</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh and my grandpa joined Facebook. Consider yourself fully updated on my life.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-70188139771072451162009-11-08T19:27:00.007-05:002009-11-08T19:51:22.671-05:00Chocolate and Sunshine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SvdndbkEExI/AAAAAAAAAKY/IMWw9wXUbsg/s1600-h/7123_670935033657_600839_38904998_7008579_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SvdndbkEExI/AAAAAAAAAKY/IMWw9wXUbsg/s400/7123_670935033657_600839_38904998_7008579_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401900033367085842" /></a> I was getting a little restless cooped up working from home in my NYC apartment so I decided to quit my job and move across the world to Sydney, Australia. (I've always been a little bit drastic in my actions... Surprising coming from someone as chilled out and drama-free as me, I know.) As of now I am pursuing an endless summer and plan on returning to the northern hemisphere in May just in time for the hot weather. I'm taking my blog with me and moving it over to <a href="http://nothongsallowed.com">www.nothongsallowed.com</a> in order to collect all of my Australian adventures in one place complete with pictures of all the fun I'm having. The photographs are intended to enduce envy so please, stalk away.<br /><br />For the time being please check me out at <a href="http://www.nothongsallowed.com/">No Thongs Allowed</a> instead of Chocolate and Whiskey. I know that for most of you this means adjusting your homepage but, so be it. I've had to adjust my drink orders to "Jack and dry" instead of saying "whiskey and ginger" so we are all making changes in our daily lives together.<br /><br />Kisses.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-89051347978986299252009-09-24T16:12:00.003-04:002009-09-24T16:15:03.739-04:00Sister, SisterI turn 25 today. Eek.<br /><br />This is what my sisters had to say about it:<br /><br />C — Happy Birthday Grandma!<br /><br />K — In honor of your birthday you are on my listening section of my quiz tomorrow. I'm reading a description of what you like to do and they need to answer multiple choice questions about where you are from, what you like to do, what you like to do A LOT, and what you don't like to do. For the record: you are from paraguay, you like to read, you REALLY like to eat, and you don't like to run. <br /><br />I haven't spoken to my brother yet, but he's a sweetheart so fingers crossed I'll just get a "happy birthday."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-85995952755532583042009-09-03T17:58:00.003-04:002009-09-03T18:03:29.848-04:00Bobbit is back?Me: "Hi whatsup?"<br />Molly: "Hey there I'm actually at work and I am triaging patients (which means that they write on a paper why they are here and then I am the first person to evaluate them) and someone just handed me a paper that says "rip penis". So I'll be right back."<br /><br />Well that just puts it all into perspective doesn't it? Guess this is the equivalent of me not being able to to g-chat with anybody once a celebrity dies, although that's happening so often these days I'm really learning how to multitask quite nicely.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-39770960404455676602009-08-25T12:56:00.008-04:002009-08-25T13:47:00.371-04:00Death by Jenny Craig<div>Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against fat people. Or maybe I do. But that's besides the point. I just really hate it when their life choices start interfering with me. This morning a delivery man kept incorrectly buzzing my apartment from downstairs. After the first buzz I just let him in like I do everyone else since I work from home and the FedEx people have figured this out and won't leave me alone. Then as the buzzing continued I thought it might be doing irreparable damage to my sanity, so after 15 minutes I went to my intercom and asked him who he was looking for. "Lenny Freeman" he said exasperated. "You've got the wrong person." Buzzzzzzz. "I'M NOT LENNY FREEMAN!" "I meant to say Wendy Friedman." "I am neither of those people." "Well I have your diet food delivery!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Ah, so it was clearly not for me regardless of the name. "Listen, I don't eat diet food nor do I need it, so please stop trying to push it on me. What apartment are you looking for?" He told me the apartment number from downstairs. Ah, <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/02/how-to-keep-friends-and-alienate-bitchy.html">that bitch from below</a> finally realized she was fat and ugly and was going to do something about it. "You need to press the button below mine." I calmly told him. Buzzzzzzzzz. I tried to ignore it. Buzzzzzzzz. "STOP IT!!" "Come down here!" Oh yeah right like I was going to come meet that maniac. "LOOK if you can't get this girl her food that is NOT my problem. It's probably her fault she's fat so let her gain weight and just leave it downstairs or eat it yourself but please GO AWAY."</div><div><br /></div><div>There was silence on the other end. I didn't know if he had been let up and was coming to murder me with his bags of diet food or if he had just left. But the irony of it all was that I had been about to grab lunch and was now scared to leave my apartment. So I had to sit there, starving, and thinking about how I could probably use any kind of food at the moment even diet food. Maybe this is how this program makes you lose weight. They send scary angry men to come yell at you through your intercom until you are too frightened to exit or let anyone in. Probably slims you down faster than South Beach.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-44981356300301616312009-08-11T16:08:00.008-04:002009-08-11T16:22:41.947-04:00What are you trying to tell me?I received this <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/08/10/AR2009081002317.html">Washington Post Quarter Life Crisis article</a> today from more than one friend of mine, plus a few family members. I thought that this was my favorite quote from the piece:<div><br /></div><div>"At the same time, Seppinni said, technology is breeding a generation of online sulkers. No longer limited to sharing their woes at the family dinner table or while hanging out with friends, quarter-lifers have countless opportunities to brood in blogs and on Twitter and Facebook -- anytime, anywhere. And finding fellow victims to commiserate with is never more than a click away. 'Depending on your character and moral outlook, you'll seek like-minded people, and they are all over the Internet. Someone inclined to be depressed can find people who corroborate. . . . It also leads to focusing on a lot of drama and nonsense.'"</div><div><br />But no... then I got to the end where they were talking about the girl who the entire article was focused on, and how she followed her passion: </div><div><br /></div><div>"For Buchanan, losing her job turned out to be the push she needed. Blessed with more time to work on her blog, she realized her real passion lay in writing. Now she hopes to make a living from it. 'It's a hard path, and it won't be easy,' said Buchanan, <b>whose fiance is helping to pay the bills</b> while she builds her portfolio. 'But I know what I want to do now, and I have the supportive base to get me there.'"</div><div><br /></div><div>So you are happily engaged and your fiance is willing to pay for you to do nothing but write? Tough life there champ.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-74731027428536163372009-07-31T16:02:00.007-04:002009-07-31T16:21:19.717-04:00Smirnoff Ice Was a Great Choice<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><span dir="ltr" style="zoom: 1; ">Jamie: "U</span><span dir="ltr">gh I am overwhelmed by trying to pack but omg I had the requisite evening of packing/looking through all of my old photo albums last night... I was just cracking up at pics of us all. We were such little freaks I have a lot of old high school ones here and I also busted out a collage Heather made me when we came to college that had photos of us that were HILARIOUS."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; ">Me: "Like what?"</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><span dir="ltr" style="zoom: 1; ">Jamie:</span><span dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; zoom: 1; "> "</span><span dir="ltr">AKA one of Heather and I dancing and you in the background humping her parents TV obviously drunk off of Smirnoff Ice. <span dir="ltr">I showed those all to Tim and he was like my friends and I did not do this in high school. OMG and there are some of us in NYC when I came to visit you at Penn freshman year which are also HILARIOUS because we were slightly hideous and sooo touristy."</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; ">Me: "I dont know what is more disturbing — that we were drunk off Smirnoff Ice, that I humped televisions, or that we actually took pictures in Times Square. And we were probably wearing jean skirts while doing it."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; ">Jamie: "And tiny belly tube tops. The best pictures of us are at Key West freshman year. We literally look like the epitome of aspiring baby drunk sluts."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; ">Me: "It's like we were gold diggers but not even looking for gold. Just trashy South Florida ghetto guys."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; ">Jamie: "Like who were we?! Actually... I'm sure I will look back on myself now and ask the same question."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; ">It's entirely possible but I dont know if anything will ever top looking at a picture of yourself, in badly highlighted braided pigtails wearing a wifebeater with a letter painted on it after a football game, pointing at your friend's fridge (whose parents were out of town, naturally) stocked full of a mixture of Mike's Hard Lemonade and Smirnoff Ice with a huge, beaming smile of pride.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; ">To be honest, I'm still quite proud of myself for that moment right now.</div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-8440947003299638392009-07-23T12:12:00.003-04:002009-07-23T12:23:43.680-04:00Zeus Trumps Cupid<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">My friend talking about her ex: "I'm waiting for Zeus to come down, strike him with a lightening bolt and be like 'You love her, you asshole. Get your shit together.'"</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Me: "ha! love it. making that my away message."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>[a few minutes later]</i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Me: "Someone just pointed out to me... wouldn't it be Cupid with a bow and arrow?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Friend: "Zeus's lightening bolts hurt more."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Me: "True. Why did they make Cupid a chubby little baby anyways? He should totally be a lighting-bolt-throwing, burning-down-the-house-asshole like Zeus."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Friend: "Cupid's arrow is like, cute, we have a crush. Zeus - much more appropriate for the ass-whooping that is real life relationships, especially in your 20s."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Me: "It's settled. Girls with braided pigtails tied off with pink bows who throw baking parties thought up the idea of Cupid. Blondes. No offense."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Friend: "I don't wear ribbons. Or bake."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Me: "No you don't. And that is why I'm friends with you."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Friend: "You hit girls at bars for wearing double popped collars. That is why I'm friends with you."</span></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-1005125295344840142009-07-15T17:50:00.009-04:002009-07-15T18:28:15.791-04:00It's my sister's birthday and I'll freak out if I want to<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sl5WscBT-JI/AAAAAAAAAKA/yoqKvlSmWOs/s1600-h/sister.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sl5WscBT-JI/AAAAAAAAAKA/yoqKvlSmWOs/s320/sister.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358815928053397650" /></a><div>My little sister turns 22 today. For some reason, I find that extremely more upsetting than the fact I'm turning 25 in a few months. Because, I feel like 22 was sort of an annoying birthday to celebrate. You're past all of the <i>good</i> milestone birthdays and all that's left ahead are the "DAMN I'm old" birthdays like 25, 30, 40, 50 etc. So it's utterly depressing that my YOUNGER sister has now reached the age where there's nothing to look forward to in life, in terms of birthday celebrations — which I narcissistically think are the best kind of celebrations. Obviously.</div><div><br /></div><div> I'm not one of those people that's all, "Oh I just <i>hate</i> celebrating my birthday, let's pretend it's just like any other day." No let's not. It's the day I was born. It's obviously important, and I should be treated like a goddamn princess every second of the blessed day. And showered with gifts and praise for gracing the Earth with my presence. I've always thought those nonchalant birthday people were kind of cool, I wanted to be them. But <i>puh-lease </i>like I would ever pass up the chance to be in the spotlight and make it all about me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now... I had a point. Right, about my sister. I checked her Twitter to see what she was up to on this exciting turning point in her life and she had tweeted:</div><div><br /></div><div>"My students got an 87% ave on the midterm, sweet bday gift!! I wish I didn't have 3 lesson plans to do..Do bdays mean nothing in real life??"</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly, they really don't. I remember when I started working and I was actually stunned when I realized all companies didn't automatically give you the day off on your birthday. In my defense, Lotus had always done that while I was growing up so my father never had to go into the office on his birthday.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was sitting and feeling sorry for myself that my sister was getting so old, and the implication that this in turn, makes me old, when she gchatted me the following:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Daddy said happy birthday through a fbook message ... devastating."</div><div><br /></div><div>Burn. My pity quickly shifted back to my darling sibling. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh and one more thing: Happy Birthday Sister!! I hope you are having a delightful day! Don't worry about a thing — it only gets better from here...</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-4959725050494105582009-07-06T12:30:00.003-04:002009-07-06T15:00:58.184-04:00Hot Wax and AdulteryI didn't mean to cheat. It just sort of ... happened. I've been faithfully going to <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/01/my-waxer-sadistic-comic.html">my waxer Angela</a> for over a year now. Usually I plan my appointments around her schedule, but last Wednesday I finished work later than expected and had to cancel. I stopped by the salon to see if she could squeeze me in, but the girl at the front desk told me my only options were to wait until this week or go with someone else. I felt like I was cheating on Angela, but my loyalty was no match for the fact July 4th weekend was about to begin, and I needed to lay out in my bikini sans shame. <div><br /></div><div>While waiting for this new "Irene" chick in the front room, I heard Angela's voice coming closer. I couldn't bear the thought of her seeing me and realizing my unfaithfulness, so I ducked behind a plant until she left. I'm aware of how fully ridiculous this is, but I have <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/03/friendly-reminder-with-dash-of-catholic.html">guilt issues</a>. Irene came out to escort me to a back room and as I lay down I heard a girl next to me have a mini-waxgasm. "Oh, Angela! It looks fabulous, OMG! Sooo perfect!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Slut. She was totally faking it. Her shouting was entirely too loud to be convincing — like porn star loud.</div><div><br /></div><div>All of a sudden, Irene, who was working on my brows, distracted me by saying "An artist should make paintings of your face." Well <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">hello </span>Irene! I looked up at her with new eyes and she continued in her Russian accent, "You are beautiful! I see a lot of faces, and you, you classic beauty." I blushed while secretly loving my new mistress and her praise — this whole cheating thing was turning out much better than expected. "You should model ..."(aww) "in Europe..." (too kind) "in the 19th century." </div><div><br /></div><div>Screeeeeech. What?! I instantly ransacked my brain to remember what I learned when I took Art History. Picasso wasn't 19th century right? No he was 1900s. But maybe she's like me and gets confused with the whole "century" concept of changing the numbers, and maybe she MEANT 1900s and maybe she's inspired by Picasso and she should just STOP WAXING MY EYEBROWS before she makes my whole face look uneven!</div><div><br /></div><div>I just smiled, tried to relax, and didn't say anything. "You are a classic beauty, not like the models that are popular now." I still didn't understand what she meant, but at this point, I was starting to think it wasn't a compliment. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you Jewish?" Ughhhhhh!!! I should have seen this coming. I have recently developed a complex about my nose — I'm convinced its grown bigger than my face sometime in the past year — and this wasn't helping. I tried to tell myself it was a bad angle... after all, she had moved further south at this point. I changed the subject to get her talking about Russia. When she finished, I paid her tip right on the spot instead of leaving an envelope at the front, in the hopes I could avoid seeing Angela. It made me feel like I was paying a prostitute. A very nice prostitute, but still.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now my only problem will be when I go back next month. Will I have to avoid Irene? She doesn't realize she's my mistress, so if I go to Angela she will think I was unsatisfied with her waxing techniques and unsuccessful attempts at compliments. But I can't just abandon Angela either. Disaster. As if it's not stressful enough getting waxed in the first place, now I have to worry about hurting someone's feelings. Well, there's always my modeling career in Europe waiting for me if anyone can find a time machine.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-58179858082736974692009-05-18T13:56:00.012-04:002009-05-20T23:32:54.766-04:00MFTF: Are You There Dad? It's Not Me, Your Daughter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/ShTHJNlYlWI/AAAAAAAAAJo/2Fl100_feMY/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 51px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/ShTHJNlYlWI/AAAAAAAAAJo/2Fl100_feMY/s400/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338110419420091746" /></a><div>Daddy dearest, is that you? Are you reading this right now? If so, please just don't tell me. I don't want to know you are following the stories I tell about being <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/01/series-of-hilarious-events.html">drunk</a>, <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2008/10/to-slut-or-not-to-slut.html">slutty</a>, <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2008/12/nakedly-typing.html">naked</a>, and just plain <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/04/why-hello-there-foot-meet-my-mouth.html">disrespectful</a>.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I emailed my father a bunch of my sister's graduation pictures, and he asked me why the file was so large. I rudely but lovingly told him to get with the 21st century and make a <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2008/11/e-tu-gmail.html">gmail</a> account, since he still uses hotmail. He instantly replied with just his gmail address in the body. (Being a smartass runs in the family.) I asked him when he started that account and he said:</div><div><br />"couple of years now... :-) I set it up as my job search email. I do look at it though, it's the one tied to my facebook page (yes! facebook) OMG."<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Say whaaaaaaaat!? No, your eyes are not deceiving you. No, I didn't add my own commentary into that quote. As it turns out, today is not just <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">any</span> day. Today is a very special day. Today is the day my father introduced "OMG" into his vocabulary.</div><div><br /></div><div>And through my feelings of pride and dismay, I sensed the tiniest bit of sarcasm in his response. Could my father have — gulp — found my blog? Does he know my <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/search/label/MFTF">thoughts on him and Facebook</a>? Daddy ... is that you?</div><div><br /></div><div>If it is — I ask again — don't tell me. But I would like to inform <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">you </span>darling father that I have appreciated your constant Facebook status updates, the new Robin Hood character you recently created, and the wall post from your neighbor that apologizes for her drunk husband — whom she refers to as "Monkey Man" — going "apeshit" on you at dinner. And I don't know how to properly express my genuine delight in your gift of a Jenny Appleseed plant. Only you Daddy ... only you.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-51349369452747747522009-05-15T15:04:00.008-04:002009-05-15T15:54:36.363-04:00I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that to meHere are some gems the BF has said this week. You know, just in case <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/05/thanks-for-confidence-boost.html">the cab driver had inflated my ego</a> too much.<div><br /></div><div>Incident 1 </div><div><br /></div><div>I ate chocolate and then put on flavored chapstick just as he was coming home. He walked over and kissed me, then looked simultaneously disgusted yet concerned.</div><div><br /></div><div> "Um, babe ... are you ok?"</div><div>"Yeah why?"</div><div>"Did you just throw up?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Eek. Apparently Katy Perry was wrong about the whole cherry chapstick thing. (Little known fact: I know the ex-girlfriend of the guy who wrote that song, and he based it on her. It was actually raspberry chapstick, but that was too many syllables. But, I digress).</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Incident 2</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm running out of Focus Dailies so I've been conserving my contacts for special occasions, i.e. whenever I'm seen in public. Because of this, the BF has mainly been seeing me with my glasses on. I put in my contacts and walk downstairs where the BF was watching TV. He lovingly cupped my face in his hands, stared deep into my eyes and said:</div><div><br /></div><div>"We really should get you lasik."</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, wait. It gets better.</div><div><br /></div><div>Incident 2.5</div><div><br /></div><div>The BF heads upstairs as I'm done getting dressed and putting my makeup on. He looks at me with a stunned expression.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What?" I say insecurely and pat my hair down to make sure it's not sticking up. </div><div>"Is there something on my face?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, it's just ... you look so, pretty."</div><div><br /></div><div>Now this was not said in a compliment-like way it was said more like:</div><div><br /></div><div>"You look... so... <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">pretty?!?</span>"</div><div><br /></div><div>In total confusion, as if the word got away from him somehow before he could comprehend it. When he did realize how it came out, he aimed for a quick recovery with this winner:</div><div><br /></div><div>"I mean of course you are pretty but I had just ... <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">forgotten</span>!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Nice. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>Incident 3</div><div><br /></div><div>I return from a satisfying Vietnamese dinner for my friend's birthday and crawl into bed, getting ready to doze off. The BF rolls over to cuddle up and just as I'm falling asleep he rubs my belly and suddenly says:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh yeah! How was dinner?" He then squeezes my stomach. </div><div>"I'm guessing good."</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Guess I'm not the only one in this relationship with <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/04/why-hello-there-foot-meet-my-mouth.html">foot in mouth disease</a>.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-82032443893742087742009-05-15T14:09:00.002-04:002009-05-27T12:18:05.355-04:00Maybe I'll wear a flip-flop on one foot and a galosh on the other?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sg3bCwidFeI/AAAAAAAAAJg/Iqrj2O3lNiM/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 61px; height: 51px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sg3bCwidFeI/AAAAAAAAAJg/Iqrj2O3lNiM/s400/Picture+3.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336161973939541474" /></a><div>Dear Weather.com,<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>What are you trying to tell me with this image? How is this at all helpful in preparing me for what is going on outside? Am I going to step out into a bright sunny day and then be attacked by a bolt of lightning while only half of me gets rained on? What kind of motherfreaking outfit am I supposed to wear? Is this because you have an inferiority complex since you have been so wrong lately about the weather, and this makes sure all of your bases are covered?</div><div><br /></div><div>You are about as helpful as <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/01/definition-of-mixed-signal.html">NYC traffic signals</a>.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-77174866766520690842009-05-11T11:23:00.011-04:002009-05-11T16:23:48.728-04:00Thanks For the Confidence BoostNYC Cab Driver: "So what do you do? What's your job?"<div><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SghbLatKREI/AAAAAAAAAJY/Cl3tE42oWj0/s1600-h/img_taxi.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SghbLatKREI/AAAAAAAAAJY/Cl3tE42oWj0/s200/img_taxi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334614010325779522" /></a><div><div>Me: "I'm a writer." </div><br /></div><div>Cabbie: "For what?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: "I write celebrity gossip."</div><div><br /></div><div>Cabbie: "Oh."</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">brief pause</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Cabbie: "What else do you do?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Ouch.</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-6768371562731919982009-05-01T15:32:00.006-04:002009-05-01T15:40:26.941-04:00Caught!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SftPfSUFi3I/AAAAAAAAAJI/hW_w-CnrxuA/s1600-h/pic15281.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SftPfSUFi3I/AAAAAAAAAJI/hW_w-CnrxuA/s400/pic15281.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330941982833740658" /></a><div>I love this picture I received in an email titled "Swine Flu Culprit." Loved it so much I had to post it. That and everyone is googling "swine flu" right now and I figure it'll get me a couple extra pageviews ;)<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In all seriousness, <a href="http://doihavepigflu.com/">check this out</a> if you want to know if you have been infected.</div><div><br /></div><div>When Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt are making a photo op out of what Heidi calls "pig flue" then you know we have mass hysteria on our hands.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-5228853836778563402009-04-29T17:55:00.003-04:002009-04-29T18:03:46.929-04:00I'll have the pasta with a side of abstinenceJames: "Let's talk about how I recently went on a date with a girl and she used the word fornicate at the dinner table on the first date. The convo was actually quite notable. She was talking about how she loves babies, so much so, that if she actually got pregnant she might not be able to give it up. So, she just chooses not to fornicate. Quote, end quote."<br /><br />Me: "No way did she really say that."<br /><br />James: "I shit you not. Over meatballs at inoteca on the LES."<br /><br />Ha, I'm guessing that was quickly followed by a "check, please." Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-60690404866767290332009-04-27T14:30:00.001-04:002009-04-27T14:31:31.996-04:00Oh, that's why.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SfX5-pAqN2I/AAAAAAAAAJA/gqMzrfPkCGU/s1600-h/IMG00191.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SfX5-pAqN2I/AAAAAAAAAJA/gqMzrfPkCGU/s320/IMG00191.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329440588618676066" /></a><div>Don't go to the grocery store hungry. It's a piece of advice I've never really understood. I mean, I know that you buy twice as much when you're hungry, but what's so wrong with that? I never regret it later. In fact, I am quite happy with myself the next day when I look in my fridge and it's chock full of fun stuff like maple dipped sausage links and pounds of thinly sliced deli meat and cheese.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday I was starving so I stopped by the store for some chips and salsa but ended up stocking up on the essentials: red velvet cake, pecan tarts, ham/cheese hot pockets etc. I walked to the checkout line gabbing on the phone, feeling slightly guilty like I often do about being the obnoxious person on the phone, while the lady rung me up. I felt bad enough to feel guilty but obviously not bad enough to hang up. Then I looked into my bag and realized I didn't have my wallet. Shit. Now I wasn't just the obnoxious person on the phone, I was the obnoxious bimbo standing in her bikini and cover up, with a TriDelt hat on, who had just rung up $100 worth of groceries and had forgotten her wallet at home. I hung up my cell, apologized profusely to the woman and rushed home as I weighed my options. I could go back to my apartment, grab my credit card, run back and pay for my groceries. Or I could just bask in my embarrassment, and stay at home, never to show my face at the grocery store ever again. Or at least not without a disguise. Maybe with my glasses on and a completely non-ditzy outfit. But if I didn't go back, all of that delicious food I had just purchased — or rather, picked out — would go to waste. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I returned to the store, mortified, and quickly paid the bill. I half-jokingly said to the lady, who had to wait to check anyone else out until I came back, "You probably hate me huh?" She laughed. Hmm, I'll take that as a yes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe the reason you shouldn't go to a grocery store hungry has nothing to do with how much you might buy. Maybe you shouldn't go to a store hungry because when you don't have food in your system you might not think straight, and do something stupid like try to purchase a feast when your only methods of payment are SPF 4 and a beach towel.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-56934067061152670972009-04-15T19:48:00.012-04:002009-04-15T21:01:32.302-04:00Why hello there foot! Meet my mouth.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SeZ-bbdLqbI/AAAAAAAAAIw/pZn6rBFafnA/s1600-h/foot_in_mouth.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SeZ-bbdLqbI/AAAAAAAAAIw/pZn6rBFafnA/s320/foot_in_mouth.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325082619103914418" /></a>There are a lot of stereotypical girlfriend things that I'm just not good at. I don't put on an apron, make a casserole and bake homemade cookies, for example. In fact, I don't even own an apron. I bought one once, and that night I got into a fight with the BF. It was right when we moved in together, and I remember I started to say, "I slaved over a hot stove for you and now you are picking a fight —" when I stopped myself, appalled. I was so ashamed that those cliched words had almost come out of my mouth that I took off the cute yet fashionable Anthropologie apron, threw it on the floor and made a silent oath with myself that I'd never purchase another one again.<div><br /></div><div>I also don't clean the dishes, like, ever. I'm not neat and tidy. I don't wear a lot of <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/03/cue-jaws-and-care-bears-theme-song.html">pink</a>.... well, you get the idea. I'm not the perfect girlfriend in many ways. But if there's one thing I'm consistently GREAT at it's families. Not to brag, but usually, parents love me. I've never really embarrassed myself too badly in front of a BF's family before. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well — there's a first time for everything right?</div><div><br /></div><div>I recently stayed at the BF's aunt's house on a weekend where his grandparents were also in town. I'd met most of his family before, except for his aunt and uncle. We were all seated at the dinner table and chatting, when his grandmother started telling a story about when she was younger, and went shopping at a store in NJ:</div><div><br /></div><div>"The sales associate walked right up to me and told me I couldn't afford to shop at their store. She refused to even help me look around."</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, before you judge me, I want you to stop and think if this story sounds remotely familiar at all. Does it ring any bells for you? Because it definitely did for me. And before I could properly think about what I was about to say I blurted out:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh! You were like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Stunned silence at the dinner table. Incredulously, the BF's aunt looks over at me and says, "Did you just call my mother a prostitute?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Shit. When I think of Pretty Woman I of course just think of one of my favorite movies and one of my favorite actresses... but all of a sudden I realized, yes. I had in fact, just called the BF's beloved Mimi a whore.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily Mimi and the rest of the family have a sense of humor, and laughingly poked fun at me a little before shrugging it off. Until, of course, later on when I jokingly berated a male dinner guest when he said something inappropriate towards women and I said "I'd be careful what you say, you are the only man here at a table full of girls." Oh right, except for my boyfriend who was sitting next to me and was mildly offended but mainly used it as an excuse to tell me I was on a roll.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I said goodnight to Mimi she hugged me and whispered in my ear, "You have a lot of making up to do!" I figured she was referring to my faux pas about saying it was a room full of girls, and that the making up was to the BF and not to her after implying she was a prostitute. Which was less worrisome, although a tad more disconcerting. But maybe I just have an inappropriate mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before going to bed, Mimi handed me a 17-page-story the BF's younger cousin had written, and asked me to read it and give her my opinion, since I'm an esteemed professional writer and everything. (Ok, I might have exaggerated that last part).</div><div><br /></div><div>I came downstairs the following morning and as the family was getting breakfast together Mimi asked me, in front of everyone, what I thought of the story.</div><div><br /></div><div>Absentmindedly, I answered, "Oh, I fell asleep after reading the first page."</div><div><br /></div><div>In Yogi Berra's words — it was like deja vu all over again. Everyone looked at me in silence for half a second, before I realized what I had just said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No! Sorry!! I didn't mean — it's not that I feel asleep because the writing was so boring! I meant, I was really tired so I tried to start reading it but wanted to dedicate my full attention to it today, so I put it down..."</div><div><br /></div><div>But it was no use. The damage was done. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you always say such malapropisms?" the BF's aunt asked me.</div><div><br /></div><div>No, not usually. But like I said, there's a first time for everything — even personally insulting the writing of a 12-year-old to her face, in front of her entire family. </div><div><br /></div><div>And of course, calling your boyfriend's grandmother a hooker.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-46419797666453142132009-04-03T12:30:00.001-04:002009-04-03T12:27:14.189-04:00If William Golding Set Up Wall Street in Africa<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SdKhKcQCx4I/AAAAAAAAAIg/aY0gaEbU2iM/s1600-h/zebrahead.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 399px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SdKhKcQCx4I/AAAAAAAAAIg/aY0gaEbU2iM/s400/zebrahead.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319491310632224642" /></a>I saw this in a store window while walking down Park Avenue the other day. Seriously? Boys — does this make you want to purchase this suit? Or rather, girls — do you look at this and immediately think of how your boyfriend would look in it? If the answer is yes, that's a little animalistic of you.<div><br /></div><div>It's like Lord of the Flies meets Armani. Or something out of the new Nora Roberts book Divine Evil... but that reference may be lost on 99.9% of you.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-15856371672621607002009-03-31T18:09:00.004-04:002009-03-31T18:50:24.904-04:00MFTF: My Sister Joins the Facebook Chronicles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SdKcuiaUWbI/AAAAAAAAAIY/eX5YmhoQcIg/s1600-h/Picture-2333.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 37px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SdKcuiaUWbI/AAAAAAAAAIY/eX5YmhoQcIg/s400/Picture-2333.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319486433203083698" /></a><div>I went on to Gmail the other day, unsuspectingly, and was greeted by a new email informing me my father had sent me a Facebook message. Fabulous. He told me that he couldn't remember which of my phones was working and he thought this was best way to contact me. Um... hello Daddy. Ever heard of a little thing called email? At this point I think he's just messing with me.<br /></div><br />I was retelling the story to my sister, who apparently was sick of being the only sibling not <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/01/daddys-little-drama-queen.html">friends</a> with our father. She informed me that not only had <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">she</span> friended <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">him</span>, she had written on his wall: "I really can't believe you're on facebook". Couldn't have said it better myself.<br /><br />In response to her post, continuing in his love of FB msgs he said:<br /><br />"Hey I didn't know if it would be OK to write on your wall so I'm sending you a message. I'm glad they didn't have this when I was in college...there would be too many incriminating pictures out there.<br /><br />Be good!<br /><br />Love daddy"<br /><br />So many amazing things in this message. The fact that he know it wouldn't be okay for him to post on her wall. Plus 5. His comment about incriminating pictures. Ew, Minus 5. Be good! <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/02/mftf-part-iii-mystery-solved.html">Totally expected</a>, and probably necessary. Plus 5.<div><br /></div><div>I, of course, focused in on the fact he could even write on her wall. I instantly wrote her an email to clear things up:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Can he see your wall???"</div><div><br /></div><div>"He could but then I changed it."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ha, awkward!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah well, I didn't realize. Plus a girl had just written on my wall about me baby oil wrestling."</div><div><br /></div><div>Classic.<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-53853180313618441622009-03-18T14:00:00.002-04:002009-04-03T12:51:58.316-04:00[Insert Fabulous Blog Post Here]<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/ScEv_kYOVQI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/Hz0kH_rx3ns/s1600-h/eas_8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/ScEv_kYOVQI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/Hz0kH_rx3ns/s320/eas_8.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314581804417438978" /></a><div>I decided to give up laziness for Lent, but I've been too lazy to write about it. I know, I know, it's almost too easy of an opening sentence. But it's true. I sat down a few days ago to write a blog post, and to be quite honest, it was a bad post. I've been reading <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/02/dont-jump.html">Bird by Bird</a>, and part of it talks about how writers often hang on to something that they've written, even if it's crappy, just because letting go of something you've worked on is like killing your baby. Dramatic, yes. But it's totally true. The writer was talking about a book she had worked on for years, I'm talking about a blog post that took me 15 minutes. Tomato, tomato. Anyways, this post is starting to sound like a huge digression and going down the wrong path already. </div><div><br /></div><div>Basically, you didn't miss much. In my other post I mean. I told a story about how I tried to sign up for a trial gym membership but only went once, because I was in so much pain following my boxing class I couldn't fathom standing, let alone voluntarily returning to hell. I wrote about how the sales manager at the gym was a Buckeye fan and he signed me up for an Ohio State email listserv, just for fun, since I wore a <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2009/01/series-of-hilarious-events.html">Gator</a> shirt on that one visit to the gym. (That's what I get for trying to work out.) I made some self-deprecating jokes about how I kept my aspirations low in terms of defining what is a non-lazy activity because, let's be honest, getting out of the house once a day <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/2008/11/but-i-would-totally-have-fashionable.html">counts for me</a>. But although my aspirations for Lent were low, my aspirations for this blog post were high. It was going to be hilarious, witty, and all things wonderful. But when I read it over I realized that it might have been about eradicating laziness, but it was also just long, boring, and something I was trying to cross off my list of things to do — so that I wouldn't be the ironic epitome of laziness. </div><div><br /></div><div>The post is like trying to make <a href="http://www.chocolateandwhiskey.com/search/label/So+Fetch">fetch</a> happen. It's just not going to happen.<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-26131538096043582432009-03-17T13:45:00.008-04:002009-03-17T15:18:35.549-04:00Un Autre Moi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sb_gux6oj7I/AAAAAAAAAII/2h_PyXY77w4/s1600-h/thierry+email.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 166px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sb_gux6oj7I/AAAAAAAAAII/2h_PyXY77w4/s200/thierry+email.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314213179598344114" /></a><div>I received this email a few days ago. It was actually written fully in French, which was the first hint that it might have been sent to the incorrect address. I had the BF translate it (he's fluent) and this is what the letter said:<br /></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">"Hi, as I have no news from you I decided to write. I learned from Jean Charles that Lionel “packed his boxes”!!! You have thus decided to separate…. I am sad for you two. I dare not tell the children, they would not understand, especially Laureline.<br /><br />You will pass through very painful moments and I am so sad to be far from you. The distance makes it hard to communicate, yet I think about you often without doing anything which makes it true that I have been selfish.<br /><br />I finally resumed work on March 9, but I am still not calm. I live with the sword of Damocles over my head. The end will probably be when I have my MRI before the summer and they will say that all is gone, that I have nothing more.<br /><br />I had not heard any news of Lionel since my birthday and it feels so distant, it’s no longer the same!!! I do not know if your separation will be final, but if one thing is sure it’s that I cannot imagine one of you without the other!<br /><br />I hope to have some news from you soon. I hug you very strong. Big kiss to Jessica and Chris."</span><div><br /></div><div>Seriously? Why don't people write like this anymore? Or, I guess this is current, but write like this in English? I feel like I've stepped into a Jane Austen novel. Or maybe Sartre, although if that was the case the whole MRI thing would probably have been more extended.</div><div><br /></div><div>This email reminds me of when I went to Rome and traveled by myself. I asked for directions from a nice man in his forties, Francesco, who proceeded to show me around to different places in the city on his lunch break. I didn't realize how creepy it was at the time, I can be quite naive, and I gave him my email address so he could send me more places to see. For months after, or actually until my Penn email account was erased, he sent me love sonnets he wrote himself. Some in Italian, some in Spanish, some in broken English. Usually on major Italian holidays that I'd never heard of, and especially, always, on Easter. I never replied to any of them, but I suppose it was romantic in its own, thank-goodness-you-are-on-another-continent kind of way.</div><br /> A very sick, inner dramatic side of me almost wishes this French email was meant for me. Since my inbox is mainly full of "hey, u drinking tonight?" or "LOL I have the funniest story for you", or "omg his new gf is so ugly, facebook her and confirm." Not <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">nearly</span> as literary. But then I would have a dying friend who has "the sword of Damocles" over his head, a lover whose left me, and two children. Merde!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-61583396253203557922009-03-08T11:28:00.007-04:002009-03-08T12:59:54.723-04:00A Friendly Reminder with a Dash of Catholic Guilt<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SbP5WY8MMlI/AAAAAAAAAIA/G1suy2D9k2o/s1600-h/clock_screen01.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SbP5WY8MMlI/AAAAAAAAAIA/G1suy2D9k2o/s200/clock_screen01.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310862548647293522" /></a>Good old Daylight Savings Time. So freaking confusing. I never know whether its EDT or EST and whenever anyone tries to explain it to me I just end up forgetting until the next person feels the need to clear away my confusion. Parts of Indiana don't even observe DST. Or actually, now the entire state doesn't. Or maybe it does, but it didn't used to. I just remember my dad telling me that at Notre Dame they didn't change their clocks. Okay, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_in_Indiana">according to Wikipedia</a>, Indiana became the 48th state to observe DST in 2006. But, apparently, it's a very controversial topic to people from Indiana. See? Confusing! I'm digressing. My point is, before the times of cell phones, it was easy to forget changing your clocks. <div><br /></div><div>When I was little, we went to church every other Sunday. Our family was like the child of divorced parents, the church only got custody on alternate weekends. We had to go enough so that my mother didn't feel like a fairweather Catholic that only went on Christmas and Easter. I grew up honestly thinking I was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">more </span>Christian than my friends who only went on holidays. And then I'd be more likely to go to heaven, obviously. As for my Jewish friends, I didn't think they were any less likely to go to heaven. I thought they would go to heaven, but their heaven would be like a big fun Bat Mitzvah with everyone dancing and singing and getting lifted up on chairs. The song "Sunrise, Sunset" would be playing on constant repeat in the background, a soundtrack to the Yiddish afterlife. I loved that song growing up. I think I always secretly wanted to go to Jewish heaven.</div><div><br /></div><div>One Sunday, we got dressed and went to church and when we arrived everyone was leaving. We pulled up to the front and my dad dropped off my mother so she could ask what was going on. She came back to the car and started explaining to my dad, in angry Spanish, that we forgot to change the clocks. We were an hour late to mass, and it was already over. It was always a production to get all of us dressed and to church on time so my parents were kind of annoyed at themselves for having messed up the timing. My siblings and I though — we couldn't be happier. For years afterwards, I would think of DST fondly, because it got me out of going to mass that one Sunday. I say this with a twinge of Catholic guilt, because I've become that person that only goes to mass on Christmas and Easter. Well, actually, just Christmas. I aim for Easter once in a while, if I can sucker someone else into going with me. One Easter in college a friend of mine had a costume party. I dressed up as a Catholic schoolgirl and my atheist boyfriend at the time dressed up as a priest. Every time we kissed that night, I felt like a sinner. To this day, I look at pictures of that Easter where I chose to get wasted and mock the church instead of going to mass, and I feel overwhelmed with guilt. It's not like I can blame that on any random confusing time change.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh well. There's always Jewish heaven. I'll just have to make sure I keep all rabbi and Moses costumes out of my Halloween options.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-78242815665931629312009-03-05T16:24:00.017-05:002009-03-05T16:50:09.376-05:00What do Ashley Tisdale and Ashlee Simpson have in common?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SbBIwcASG6I/AAAAAAAAAHw/ams4S19Yxjo/s1600-h/misspiggy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 162px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/SbBIwcASG6I/AAAAAAAAAHw/ams4S19Yxjo/s200/misspiggy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309823957658114978" /></a>(Besides bad music and the same first name)<div><br /><div>A friend of mine had her nose done this week and before she went in she expressed her concern about the surgery.<div><br /></div><div>"I'm not anxious about this for the reasons you would think. It's just that... to be honest, I feel screwed by God and I think its annoying I have to do this. It's like, I'm excited but I'm as excited as you can be to fix something that was already supposed to be right to begin with."<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I found that hilarious, but told her that as long as she didn't look like Miss Piggy after it was all over, I'd still be her friend. There were probably more reassuring things I could have said, but oh well.</div><div><br /></div><div>After she got out of surgery she said: "The doctor suggested I go all the way under because I seemed like the type where it would be easier if I was all the way knocked out and not talking".</div><div><br /></div><div>He sure nose what he's doing. (I couldn't resist).</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4545089928538155745.post-19727773176439861682009-03-04T16:23:00.005-05:002009-03-04T17:05:13.380-05:00[Cue a Jaws and Care Bears Theme Song Remix]<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sa76TtTy1FI/AAAAAAAAAHI/FYRlkYF8mDo/s1600-h/pinkdolphin1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 168px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sa76TtTy1FI/AAAAAAAAAHI/FYRlkYF8mDo/s400/pinkdolphin1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309456227203470418" /></a><div>Did the room around you just get a whole lot sunnier? Did you get a warm, fuzzy feeling inside you and have an urge to cuddle up to all of your old stuffed animals? Because this, my friends, is a pink dolphin. He (or she, but I would like to think of him as a fabulously gay male dolphin) was found in a lake in Louisiana. He's an albino dolphin, which is why he is pink. I have a soft spot for albinos — my band director in high school was an African American albino and he was hilarious. Well, not really, but I'm a band nerd and you have to love your director. It's band nerd law.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Regardless, I should probably hate this dolphin just on principle. I mean, he's pink! C'mon! And not like a cool hot, magenta pink. But a Pretty, Pretty Princess pink. He kind of looks like Pepto Bismol. And he's a bottlenose dolphin. Maybe Pepto Bismol can use him in their ads. Bottle...pink.. there's gotta be some joke there. Or not.</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel bad for his family members. He definitely steals all the attention away. Like the other dolphin in that picture, maybe its a sibling. And the sibling is just that regular dolphin that hangs around and hopes to get some attention from the paparazzi. It's not like the sibling could take a cue from Jamie Lynn Spears and get knocked up as a teenager to gain the spotlight for a little bit because, who cares if a dolphin gets pregnant young? Maybe if it gets jealous enough it'll turn green! That'll show everyone. Okay, corny I know. And I would delete that but it's a tribute to a history of corniness that my family has passed down through the generations.</div><div><br /></div><div>This dolphin kind of makes me want to bake cupcakes with multi-colored icing, and paint rainbows on my walls, and surround myself with puppies and kittens while singing Kumbaya. He could totally bring on world peace, and cure cancer. But only breast cancer, because... you know.. he's pink. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways, I thought you guys might enjoy him. If you start to get suicidal from all of the happiness and light in the air, I apologize. It's not easy being pink.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sa76stHHpsI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/XI2dqhig2jQ/s1600-h/pink-dolphin-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 207px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lBb-zoRMWW0/Sa76stHHpsI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/XI2dqhig2jQ/s400/pink-dolphin-2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309456656647038658" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0