Editors Note: After moving home to New Jersey in early September, en route to my eventual destination of London, I have contracted the highly contagious, nearly incurable disease blogitis. Symptoms include an overwhelming desire to sleep until noon, an obsessive need to watch old episodes of 90210 on the Soap network, extreme ice cream consumption while sitting on the couch all day and an utter inability to be creative in the face of multiple movies playing on the eleven channels of HBO.
My only hope is a risky treatment doctors are calling "get the hell off your ass and move out of your parents house." I will be embarking on a rigorous course of the prescribed treatment beginning tomorrow. This recent bout of illness and search for a cure make it near impossible to blog on a regular basis. Thus I apologize for the lack of new material and ask for your patience while I regain the strength and livelihood required to write new posts. Alas I am not sure how long it will be until you hear from me again; until that time, good night and good luck!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
24 Things I've Learned at 24
As sand through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives. It's about that time of year when the lushes of green leaves turn a brilliant orange before crumbling and falling to their death. The time of year when bicycles are locked in garages and backpacks dusted off to be filled with pens and notebooks. The time of year when eternal youth realizes its expiration date and darkness creeps into late afternoon like the angel of death waiting on its prey. The change of season reminds me of my own life cycle, alas I am getting older.
Another birthday come and gone. Monday (that's September 7 for those of you that want to put it in your ICal or Google Calenders, this is especially wise for the M clad friends who forgot to call, text, facebook, or telepathically wish me good tidings on the anniversary of my birth) I officially entered my mid-twenties as I celebrated my 24th birthday. This milestone which is kind of like the death rattle on my way to middle age has me waxing philosophic and I can't help but look back on my life and think of all the many things I have learned over the past twenty four years. Why my accumulated knowledge could fill a book! The kind of book that would help any young person on their journey to self-fulfillment, navigating the windy roads of thinly veiled narcissism and a constant yearning for attention. It would be selfish of me not to share the knowledge my 24 years on this spinning planet we call home has garnered-thus I give to you twenty four things I've learned over the past 24 years. While this is not necessarily a definitive guide to happiness and prosperity, it will certainly get you on your way.
24. Greasy hair is unattractive. No one should ever be able to tell that you are on an every other day shower schedule. If people ask you if its raining outside when they see the seeming sheen of wetness on your greasy unwashed hair, you have a serious problem. I my friends, have the solution...baby powder. When used properly it can soak up the grease and reduce the appearance of dinginess. Sprinkle in the problem area and massage it in so you do not look like you are playing George Washington in a school play. While some say cleanliness is next to godliness, I say the appearance of cleanliness gets your ten extra minutes of sleep in the morning.
23. Your body is a temple. My mother passed this gem on to me during my turbulent adolescence. She took care to remind me (multiple, multiple times) that my body was a temple and everyone needed to pay their dues to get in. But make sure the money is clean if you get my drift (penicillin don't come cheap, not without socialized health care anyway).
22. Don't bother with vegetarianism. In case you haven't seen the Lion King let me summarize, we are all part of one big food chain. You are born, then your dad's evil brother plots your father's death with his hyena friends (note, your dad is the Lion King of the African plain). The plot manifests itself with wildebeests stampeding and killing your father. You convince yourself its your fault (since you, the cub, couldn't stop the stampede) and you run away to some enclave and befriend some ambiguously gay smaller animals. The evil uncle ascends to the thrown. Then you sing a bunch of songs and grow up into a manly brave lion who eventual reclaims the crown and exiles the evil uncle. You have thus completed the circle of life. Animals die, we eat them, bacon is AWESOME.
21. Don't cut your own bangs. Run for dear life if you see a parent who is not a hair stylist by profession coming at you with a scissor. Nobody looks cute with a kitchen bowl cut or bathroom side bang, please take my word for this.
20. Get overdraft protection. Bank of America is a bitch as are most banks. Give in, sign up for overdraft protection. Eventually you will be low on money (if you are young and irresponsible) and on the same night as your rent and utilities check clear you will get drunk and you will think buying a round of Jagger shots for you and six other people is a good idea. I beg of you, get overdraft protection.
19. Lie to get yourself out of trouble. This life lesson only works if you are blessed with no real moral compass and an ability to think on your feet. If you posses these qualities then I whole heartedly encourage you to take advantage of them. Lying is great. Didn't finish your homework, no problem your house burned down. Late for work, don't sweat it you went momentarily deaf at the precise moment your alarm went off. Canceling plans with that friend you don't really even like, its not your fault you have meningitis. Lying is great. Just be sure to remember the details and you should be fine. There is one caveat here, don't lie to the police. If you are going the wrong way down a one way street (which you know to be one way because you live on said street), you cannot get out of the ticket by explaining to the lady cop that you have to pee very very very badly and would never have gone the wrong way otherwise.
18. Don't pay for condiments, napkins or toilet paper in your home. Have you been to Starbucks lately? I can only assume that they are charging $4 for a coffee because of the abundant sides that come with it. I'm referring to the splenda, equal, sugar, brown sugar, honey packets and napkins. Toilet paper can be easily "purchased" from your office and even public libraries. Napkins are everywhere, ask for extra.
17. Don't eat more than one Fiber One product in one day. You don't have to take my word for this but I promise you'll regret it if you don't.
16. Always wear underwear. There are so many ways in which going commando can back fire. One minute you are walking down the street enjoying the sun on your shoulders, the next thing you know your ass up splayed across the side walk. Damn uneven cement. Don't go commando.
15. Dairy is great. Ice cream and cheese are the cause and cure of all problems (largely those relating to the stomach).
14. If you are unfortunate enough to require orthodontia, wear your retainer. I came out of the womb with perfectly straight teeth so I'm not really familiar with braces, palate expanders and the lot. But my sisters, Memma and Mannah, they had some pretty jacked teeth. Memma battled a serious gap tooth and Mannah had a literal dog tooth sticking out of the side of her gum for like two years. Their refusal to wear the orthodontist mandated retainers and shit caused our parents thousands of dollars in bills and years of unsightly metal in their teeth. Let this be a lesson, either be born perfect a la me, or listen to your dentist.
13. Prank phone calling never gets old. You don't know what fun is until you've called someone you barely know and acted as though you are their best friend, all while speaking in a British accent.
12. Don't buy anything off of TV. If Billy Mays death and the Sham Wow guy's recent coke bust haven't taught you anything then let me be the voice of reason, it's never quite 'as seen on TV.' Whether it's QVC or Miss Cleo you must resist. Turn off the TV, leave the house, and go to the mall. I promise you the products being hawked after 2 a.m. on a Sunday night are not worth those three easy payments of $19.99 (plus shipping and handling).
11. There is simply no way to lose ten pounds in one day unless it involves amputation. I'm all for fad diets but at some point we must acknowledge the limits of the human body and reality. If you are willing to cut off your arm, then sure, you can lose those pesky unbudging ten extra pounds before your high school reunion tomorrow morning. However, if you are both physically dependent and emotionally attached to your limbs, then its unlikely you are going to shed the excess weight before the sun rises. Also, you can't order a tape worm offline.
10. Soliciting money from family never gets old, no matter how old you get.
9. DVR is worth the investment. Not that I have ever been fortunate enough to have TIVO or DVR, but I imagine its utterly amazing. Having to stay home on a Wednesday night so that you don't miss Bravo's Real Housewives of Atlanta (because God knows Bravo never reruns things), or scheduling Friday night plans around The Soup really inhibits a healthy social life. Moreover its just embarrassing to refuse a coworkers invite to happy hour because you have a eight o'clock date with Fox's More to Love (think Fat Bachelor).
8. You cannot put Styrofoam, tin foal or plastic in the microwave.
7. Crime doesn't pay. You're thirteen. You're in Macy's. You see this really cool pair of Sketchers. You and your friend try on the Sketchers. God they're cool. You have to have the Sketchers. You look in your wallet, you have a Macy's gift card and cash, your friend has her parent's credit card. You discuss the options. Purchasing the shoes is feasible, easy even. But then you realize that stealing them would be way cooler, way more bad ass. You grab a pair of the shoes. You surreptitiously stick the bulky box in the Gap bag you have from earlier in your shopping extravaganza. You walk out of the store. Suddenly, out of no where, two thuggish security guards appear and ask you to come with them. You are busted. You spend the next four hours sitting in the Macy's security office waiting for the police to come, cause hey, Macy's takes theft seriously. You're parents lose all respect for you. You are grounded for a month. The family court Macy's sends you to makes you take a mail order "Why shoplifting is bad" course. Crime doesn't pay.
6. Don't do the running man while wearing sunglasses in a dark house. Only broken bones and embarrassment will result.
5. Do not engage in an eating contest hours before any sort of significant event. Going to a Pizza Hut buffet and daring your friends to see who can eat the most the afternoon of your high school graduation is probably not the best idea. Seven slices of pizza, two slices of desert pizza, and numerous breadsticks are not going to ease the transition to adulthood, they will however send you to the bathroom for about four hours.
4. Avoid appearing on reality TV. Because who comes out of that looking intelligent and well adjusted? No one.
3. While in flight, do not tell the stewardess that the balding middle aged man sitting across the row is a terrorist unless you have hard evidence. Not only will you appear crazy, but no one likes to be called a terrorist.
2. Everything is best in moderation. This isn't something I've mastered, but you know, it's probably the smartest advice I've ever ignored.
1. Wear sunscreen. And also the underwear thing.
Another birthday come and gone. Monday (that's September 7 for those of you that want to put it in your ICal or Google Calenders, this is especially wise for the M clad friends who forgot to call, text, facebook, or telepathically wish me good tidings on the anniversary of my birth) I officially entered my mid-twenties as I celebrated my 24th birthday. This milestone which is kind of like the death rattle on my way to middle age has me waxing philosophic and I can't help but look back on my life and think of all the many things I have learned over the past twenty four years. Why my accumulated knowledge could fill a book! The kind of book that would help any young person on their journey to self-fulfillment, navigating the windy roads of thinly veiled narcissism and a constant yearning for attention. It would be selfish of me not to share the knowledge my 24 years on this spinning planet we call home has garnered-thus I give to you twenty four things I've learned over the past 24 years. While this is not necessarily a definitive guide to happiness and prosperity, it will certainly get you on your way.
24. Greasy hair is unattractive. No one should ever be able to tell that you are on an every other day shower schedule. If people ask you if its raining outside when they see the seeming sheen of wetness on your greasy unwashed hair, you have a serious problem. I my friends, have the solution...baby powder. When used properly it can soak up the grease and reduce the appearance of dinginess. Sprinkle in the problem area and massage it in so you do not look like you are playing George Washington in a school play. While some say cleanliness is next to godliness, I say the appearance of cleanliness gets your ten extra minutes of sleep in the morning.
23. Your body is a temple. My mother passed this gem on to me during my turbulent adolescence. She took care to remind me (multiple, multiple times) that my body was a temple and everyone needed to pay their dues to get in. But make sure the money is clean if you get my drift (penicillin don't come cheap, not without socialized health care anyway).
22. Don't bother with vegetarianism. In case you haven't seen the Lion King let me summarize, we are all part of one big food chain. You are born, then your dad's evil brother plots your father's death with his hyena friends (note, your dad is the Lion King of the African plain). The plot manifests itself with wildebeests stampeding and killing your father. You convince yourself its your fault (since you, the cub, couldn't stop the stampede) and you run away to some enclave and befriend some ambiguously gay smaller animals. The evil uncle ascends to the thrown. Then you sing a bunch of songs and grow up into a manly brave lion who eventual reclaims the crown and exiles the evil uncle. You have thus completed the circle of life. Animals die, we eat them, bacon is AWESOME.
21. Don't cut your own bangs. Run for dear life if you see a parent who is not a hair stylist by profession coming at you with a scissor. Nobody looks cute with a kitchen bowl cut or bathroom side bang, please take my word for this.
20. Get overdraft protection. Bank of America is a bitch as are most banks. Give in, sign up for overdraft protection. Eventually you will be low on money (if you are young and irresponsible) and on the same night as your rent and utilities check clear you will get drunk and you will think buying a round of Jagger shots for you and six other people is a good idea. I beg of you, get overdraft protection.
19. Lie to get yourself out of trouble. This life lesson only works if you are blessed with no real moral compass and an ability to think on your feet. If you posses these qualities then I whole heartedly encourage you to take advantage of them. Lying is great. Didn't finish your homework, no problem your house burned down. Late for work, don't sweat it you went momentarily deaf at the precise moment your alarm went off. Canceling plans with that friend you don't really even like, its not your fault you have meningitis. Lying is great. Just be sure to remember the details and you should be fine. There is one caveat here, don't lie to the police. If you are going the wrong way down a one way street (which you know to be one way because you live on said street), you cannot get out of the ticket by explaining to the lady cop that you have to pee very very very badly and would never have gone the wrong way otherwise.
18. Don't pay for condiments, napkins or toilet paper in your home. Have you been to Starbucks lately? I can only assume that they are charging $4 for a coffee because of the abundant sides that come with it. I'm referring to the splenda, equal, sugar, brown sugar, honey packets and napkins. Toilet paper can be easily "purchased" from your office and even public libraries. Napkins are everywhere, ask for extra.
17. Don't eat more than one Fiber One product in one day. You don't have to take my word for this but I promise you'll regret it if you don't.
16. Always wear underwear. There are so many ways in which going commando can back fire. One minute you are walking down the street enjoying the sun on your shoulders, the next thing you know your ass up splayed across the side walk. Damn uneven cement. Don't go commando.
15. Dairy is great. Ice cream and cheese are the cause and cure of all problems (largely those relating to the stomach).
14. If you are unfortunate enough to require orthodontia, wear your retainer. I came out of the womb with perfectly straight teeth so I'm not really familiar with braces, palate expanders and the lot. But my sisters, Memma and Mannah, they had some pretty jacked teeth. Memma battled a serious gap tooth and Mannah had a literal dog tooth sticking out of the side of her gum for like two years. Their refusal to wear the orthodontist mandated retainers and shit caused our parents thousands of dollars in bills and years of unsightly metal in their teeth. Let this be a lesson, either be born perfect a la me, or listen to your dentist.
13. Prank phone calling never gets old. You don't know what fun is until you've called someone you barely know and acted as though you are their best friend, all while speaking in a British accent.
12. Don't buy anything off of TV. If Billy Mays death and the Sham Wow guy's recent coke bust haven't taught you anything then let me be the voice of reason, it's never quite 'as seen on TV.' Whether it's QVC or Miss Cleo you must resist. Turn off the TV, leave the house, and go to the mall. I promise you the products being hawked after 2 a.m. on a Sunday night are not worth those three easy payments of $19.99 (plus shipping and handling).
11. There is simply no way to lose ten pounds in one day unless it involves amputation. I'm all for fad diets but at some point we must acknowledge the limits of the human body and reality. If you are willing to cut off your arm, then sure, you can lose those pesky unbudging ten extra pounds before your high school reunion tomorrow morning. However, if you are both physically dependent and emotionally attached to your limbs, then its unlikely you are going to shed the excess weight before the sun rises. Also, you can't order a tape worm offline.
10. Soliciting money from family never gets old, no matter how old you get.
9. DVR is worth the investment. Not that I have ever been fortunate enough to have TIVO or DVR, but I imagine its utterly amazing. Having to stay home on a Wednesday night so that you don't miss Bravo's Real Housewives of Atlanta (because God knows Bravo never reruns things), or scheduling Friday night plans around The Soup really inhibits a healthy social life. Moreover its just embarrassing to refuse a coworkers invite to happy hour because you have a eight o'clock date with Fox's More to Love (think Fat Bachelor).
8. You cannot put Styrofoam, tin foal or plastic in the microwave.
7. Crime doesn't pay. You're thirteen. You're in Macy's. You see this really cool pair of Sketchers. You and your friend try on the Sketchers. God they're cool. You have to have the Sketchers. You look in your wallet, you have a Macy's gift card and cash, your friend has her parent's credit card. You discuss the options. Purchasing the shoes is feasible, easy even. But then you realize that stealing them would be way cooler, way more bad ass. You grab a pair of the shoes. You surreptitiously stick the bulky box in the Gap bag you have from earlier in your shopping extravaganza. You walk out of the store. Suddenly, out of no where, two thuggish security guards appear and ask you to come with them. You are busted. You spend the next four hours sitting in the Macy's security office waiting for the police to come, cause hey, Macy's takes theft seriously. You're parents lose all respect for you. You are grounded for a month. The family court Macy's sends you to makes you take a mail order "Why shoplifting is bad" course. Crime doesn't pay.
6. Don't do the running man while wearing sunglasses in a dark house. Only broken bones and embarrassment will result.
5. Do not engage in an eating contest hours before any sort of significant event. Going to a Pizza Hut buffet and daring your friends to see who can eat the most the afternoon of your high school graduation is probably not the best idea. Seven slices of pizza, two slices of desert pizza, and numerous breadsticks are not going to ease the transition to adulthood, they will however send you to the bathroom for about four hours.
4. Avoid appearing on reality TV. Because who comes out of that looking intelligent and well adjusted? No one.
3. While in flight, do not tell the stewardess that the balding middle aged man sitting across the row is a terrorist unless you have hard evidence. Not only will you appear crazy, but no one likes to be called a terrorist.
2. Everything is best in moderation. This isn't something I've mastered, but you know, it's probably the smartest advice I've ever ignored.
1. Wear sunscreen. And also the underwear thing.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Fat Camp
In truth I never actually went to Fat Camp. I only watched the MTV series "True Life: I Go To Fat Camp," which documents the experience of four teens and young adults as they conquer their fear of leafy greens and lose the weight (only to gain it back when summer ends and Christmas cookies are served). Obesity (especially childhood obesity) is a serious threat to both our national security and prestige. Sky rocketing health care costs are endangering our economy. America is outgrowing the world and not in a good way. Where once Americans were considered hot and chic, we are now considered fat and lazy. Obesity is an epidemic terrorizing all things trendy and organic.
I was not always so aware of the danger that deep fried cheese puffs, funnel cake, and bacon, egg and cheese bagels posed. My love of all things caloric and fattening has over the years been balanced with yo-yo dieting and sporadic exercise. I hope my story can be an example to all borderline chubby Americans.
Ah to be thin. I am not intimately acquainted with Skinny, we have more of a fleeting relationship that comes and goes. I largely blame my parents for any physical defect I exhibit. Whether it's clearly genetic like my unusually large feet, or something blatantly acquired like the bump resulting from my broken nose, they are undoubtedly somehow to blame. My mother is guilty of predisposing me towards a life of gluttonous desire by fattening me up before I even popped out of the womb. Melizabeth, a weight conscious woman herself, saw pregnancy as a 9 month free for all during which she maintained a steady diet of hamburgers, french fries, and milk shakes. Its a wonder I didn't come out smelling like McDonald's.
My father, a man concerned with looks and fitness (it is from him that I inherit my unabashed shallowness), made sure that my food neuroses were firmly in place by the time I was elevens, when unable to fit into clothes from the Kids section I was forced to buy Junior's jeans. It was then he put me on a strict bacon diet. Long a fan of hotel and restaurant breakfast buffets and lazy Saturdays filled with sizzling pork, I craved bacon at all times. My father banned me from the food I yearned for in hopes that it would curb weight gain and make my fingers less greasy. I remember those dark mornings, sitting at the kitchen table eating eggs and grapefruit watching as my thin sister munch away at the bacon in "moderation."
As time passed I turned to other foods to quench my undeniable hunger for grease. Grilled cheese and brownies were among my favorites. By thirteen I snapped into a slimjim everyday on my way home from school. Once home I settled into the sofa with a bowl of cereal and box of cookies. I was not exactly following the federal governments guideline to health via the food pyramid. The only things pyramid like in my diet were pizza and brie.
There were of course half hearted attempts at eating reform throughout the years. I remember the Richard Simmons days fondly. I found his infomercials inspiring and his short shorts ballsy. He rocked his jewfro with confidence and his man tanks with unbridled pizzaz. Maybe I too could put down that piece of chocolate cake and shake shake shake my booty to a new healthier me. Alas Richard and I were not meant to be. He advocated things requiring spandex and dedication, neither of which were my forte.
Then there was the eat only on the weekends diet. Microwave pizzas and cookie dough vanished the moment I got home from school on Fridays but come Monday morning it was celery and water. This worked shockingly well until the weekends started including Friday mornings and soon Thursday nights. It slowly devolved into an eat all the time and eat a lot diet.
My all time favorite diet was the brainchild of my father. It was Atkins inspired and involved low carb high protein foods. The trick was to eat absolutely no carbs (this included liquid carbs). There was of course a twist for one hour each day you could eat whatever you want - bread, pasta, chips, deep friend bagels, you name it. My father encouraged my sister and I to try out this outrageously unhealthy diet after his girlfriend at the time lost weight on it. It was the summer before I entered high school. I had just joined the freshman field hockey team and was working out for the first time in my life, change was afoot.
It's worth mentioning that at the time I was a vegetarian (who didn't really like vegetables). A no meat no card diet was limiting to say the least. 23 hours a day were filled with eggs, fish and a fuck load of cheese. When the 24th hour rolled around all bets were off. I shoveled food into my mouth like I was a freight train running on coal. No breaded food in a five mile radius was safe. At the end of that hour I couldn't move. I had to be rolled to the couch were a long session of lethargic TV watching was in order.
The diet continued into the beginning of the school year. My lunches, which I had always packed and taken from home, were reduced to blocks of cheese and hard boiled eggs. I reserved my carb hour for dinner when I would eat an entire box of pasta followed by a gallon of ice cream with a bottle of diet coke to wash it down. My cholesterol level slowly creeped higher and shockingly (and inexplicably) my waistband slowly got smaller.
Now I don't know a lot about nutritional science or how normal, adjusted people eat-however I do know a lot about crash diets and calorie content. I'm pretty sure that both streams of thought say the same thing about this poor excuse for a weightloss system, that it's bat shit crazy and unbelievably unhealthy. That didn't really bother me though; I got carbs, I got cheese and I got skinnier. I was a happy camper.
That is, until the heart attack.
I was not always so aware of the danger that deep fried cheese puffs, funnel cake, and bacon, egg and cheese bagels posed. My love of all things caloric and fattening has over the years been balanced with yo-yo dieting and sporadic exercise. I hope my story can be an example to all borderline chubby Americans.
Ah to be thin. I am not intimately acquainted with Skinny, we have more of a fleeting relationship that comes and goes. I largely blame my parents for any physical defect I exhibit. Whether it's clearly genetic like my unusually large feet, or something blatantly acquired like the bump resulting from my broken nose, they are undoubtedly somehow to blame. My mother is guilty of predisposing me towards a life of gluttonous desire by fattening me up before I even popped out of the womb. Melizabeth, a weight conscious woman herself, saw pregnancy as a 9 month free for all during which she maintained a steady diet of hamburgers, french fries, and milk shakes. Its a wonder I didn't come out smelling like McDonald's.
My father, a man concerned with looks and fitness (it is from him that I inherit my unabashed shallowness), made sure that my food neuroses were firmly in place by the time I was elevens, when unable to fit into clothes from the Kids section I was forced to buy Junior's jeans. It was then he put me on a strict bacon diet. Long a fan of hotel and restaurant breakfast buffets and lazy Saturdays filled with sizzling pork, I craved bacon at all times. My father banned me from the food I yearned for in hopes that it would curb weight gain and make my fingers less greasy. I remember those dark mornings, sitting at the kitchen table eating eggs and grapefruit watching as my thin sister munch away at the bacon in "moderation."
As time passed I turned to other foods to quench my undeniable hunger for grease. Grilled cheese and brownies were among my favorites. By thirteen I snapped into a slimjim everyday on my way home from school. Once home I settled into the sofa with a bowl of cereal and box of cookies. I was not exactly following the federal governments guideline to health via the food pyramid. The only things pyramid like in my diet were pizza and brie.
There were of course half hearted attempts at eating reform throughout the years. I remember the Richard Simmons days fondly. I found his infomercials inspiring and his short shorts ballsy. He rocked his jewfro with confidence and his man tanks with unbridled pizzaz. Maybe I too could put down that piece of chocolate cake and shake shake shake my booty to a new healthier me. Alas Richard and I were not meant to be. He advocated things requiring spandex and dedication, neither of which were my forte.
Then there was the eat only on the weekends diet. Microwave pizzas and cookie dough vanished the moment I got home from school on Fridays but come Monday morning it was celery and water. This worked shockingly well until the weekends started including Friday mornings and soon Thursday nights. It slowly devolved into an eat all the time and eat a lot diet.
My all time favorite diet was the brainchild of my father. It was Atkins inspired and involved low carb high protein foods. The trick was to eat absolutely no carbs (this included liquid carbs). There was of course a twist for one hour each day you could eat whatever you want - bread, pasta, chips, deep friend bagels, you name it. My father encouraged my sister and I to try out this outrageously unhealthy diet after his girlfriend at the time lost weight on it. It was the summer before I entered high school. I had just joined the freshman field hockey team and was working out for the first time in my life, change was afoot.
It's worth mentioning that at the time I was a vegetarian (who didn't really like vegetables). A no meat no card diet was limiting to say the least. 23 hours a day were filled with eggs, fish and a fuck load of cheese. When the 24th hour rolled around all bets were off. I shoveled food into my mouth like I was a freight train running on coal. No breaded food in a five mile radius was safe. At the end of that hour I couldn't move. I had to be rolled to the couch were a long session of lethargic TV watching was in order.
The diet continued into the beginning of the school year. My lunches, which I had always packed and taken from home, were reduced to blocks of cheese and hard boiled eggs. I reserved my carb hour for dinner when I would eat an entire box of pasta followed by a gallon of ice cream with a bottle of diet coke to wash it down. My cholesterol level slowly creeped higher and shockingly (and inexplicably) my waistband slowly got smaller.
Now I don't know a lot about nutritional science or how normal, adjusted people eat-however I do know a lot about crash diets and calorie content. I'm pretty sure that both streams of thought say the same thing about this poor excuse for a weightloss system, that it's bat shit crazy and unbelievably unhealthy. That didn't really bother me though; I got carbs, I got cheese and I got skinnier. I was a happy camper.
That is, until the heart attack.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Prosthetic Fingers and Wooden Legs
It's hot and sticky and no one wants to get out of the pool. The start of third year is days away and a sort of drunken melancholy permeates our carefree life as we realize that college is half over. It's all down hill from here, we joke. I'm days away from my 20th birthday and nostalgia overtakes me as I realize I'm leaving my teen years behind. The real world is bearing down on me and responsibility is looming with the start of the school year.
We go to the University bookstore and stock up on overpriced spiral notebooks with UVA written in gold letters on the orange card stock cover. We hit up the Clinique counter and grab some flip flops before heading to the check out where we put the whole purchase on Mommy and Daddy's credit card. We sit around and play would you rather, wasting time and avoiding reality. "Would you rather have a wooden leg or a hook for an arm?" We all agree on wooden leg though admittedly it would be easy to barbecue with a hook for an arm. Kebabs would be a cinch!
We are planning a big night out for the evening before the start of classes. Drink away our sorrows and ignore the start of our third year. We start at Maty's. My upstairs neighbor and best friend. She lives with three other best friends and our two apartments are essentially communal living. I eat more of their food than I do my own (this is largely because I refuse to buy anything that is unhealthy and refuse to eat anything healthy).
Maty has been working at Buffalo Wild Wings all summer. BW3's as we call it, is not the classiest establishment around. In the idyllic college town that is Charlottesville there exists a dichotomy in population. There are the students and university professors; wealthy and preppy and all things pastel and ribbons. The kids coming from Virginia, the Northeast and the south sport their popped collars and boat shoes like they are modeling for LL Bean. Outside this bubble of Lilly Pulitzer and J.Crew exists the rest of the world. The student ghetto borders the actual ghetto. Bums meander around the streets of students looking for stale beer sitting in cups left over from the night before on the front porch. Men missing teeth deliver the late night pizza. BW3's attracts less of the college crowd and more of the local crowd. It had flavor to put it mildly. Maty has known to mingle with the obese black bouncer Antwon, or the mullet sporting bartender from time to time. Essentially, she is a tad on the sketchy.
The night before classes rolls around and we pregame, hard. We head out to bars and things begin to unravel almost immediately. Some want to go to Orbitz, some want to go to Coupes. The group splits. I head to Coupes with Maustin and Mmelissa. Maty goes to Orbitz with Mmeg and Maura. More drinking ensues. We gulp down bourbon and diets like they are water in the desert. We are drunk. My phone rings over and over again. I don't answer it because I don't hear it and I don't care. We leave Coupes to find food or friends or something along those lines.
Finally I look at my phone. I have about twenty missed calls from Maty. This is not unusual. Maty begins her evenings exclaiming her love for everything and everyone she knows. "I love you forever lets be best friends until we die!" might be something she says while pregaming. By the end of the night however its a different story. Over the course of three hours she turns into a mess of hate and wickedness. "I hate you, never speak to me again." Is the sort of thing she tell you only hours after calling you to be her bestest friend. Knowing this propensity for violent mood swings I am not surprised to see Maty called me repeatedly and I have no doubt that her messages are a string of love/hate proclamations.
My phone rings again. Feeling slightly bad for ignoring my best friend I answer. Snippets of wailing screams are audible and then the phone cuts out. While this is also not unusual I begin to worry. Three more times Maty calls crying and then gets cut off before she tells me what is wrong. Finally I get a call from Maty's roommate, Maura. She says we need to go to the hospital, that Maty is there.
Holy shit. I know she is alive as I've heard her distinctive cry on the phone but the hospital is NOT good. Maura picks us up and along with Mmelissa we head to the hospital. We attempt to sober up, that fails. We arrive at the hospital and head to the emergency room. We inquire about Maty and are instructed to wait in the chairs section. We then come across a strange sight. A boy, whom we know, is laying face down, spread eagle, sleeping in the middle of the waiting area. We try and rouse him, calling his name and pinching his cheeks. It doesn't work. Coincidence we think. Ten minutes later nurse comes out. She ask us if one of our names is Mephanie. I tell them that's me. They bring me back.
I walk into a room and Maty is lying, convulsing on a bed. She is covered in a sheet that is pulled up to her chin. Shit. I quickly conclude that the lower half of her body has been amputated. She has no legs. Maybe no torso. I will have to carry her head around in one of those weird bags meant for small dogs. When we go out to dinner I'll have to feed things to her. I'll probably have to take notes for her in class.
"Mephanie," she wails. Her face is red and blotchy and her make up is smeared all over. Her hair looks like birds are nesting in it. "Mephanie. My finger got cut off at Orbitz, you have to make someone go get it." She rips off the sheet and I see that the tip of her finger is missing and bleeding profusely. I stifle laughter. Her limbs are otherwise fine. I will not have to carry her in a hang bag. I comfort her and she cries. Then the nurse comes in to give her more pain medication.
I go into the waiting room and let our other friends know that A. Maty will survive and B. one of them needs to go fetch her finger tip at the bar. They laugh and refuse. I return to Maty. The doctor is now in with her. He is on the young side and really good looking. Maty is still wearing the tank top and jean skirt she went out in. She is not wearing underwear, her skirt is short and her legs are flailing. This is not good. She is trying to smile at the doctor as he explains that the whole finger isn't missing; its just large chunks of nail and skin. She nods eagerly.
"Oh Doctor, thank you so much. You are soooo kind!" Maty is trying to flirt with the doctor.
He leaves and I sit down next to her. "Do you think he thinks I'm cute?" Maty's voice is wobbly but hopefull. I can see pretty much her entire croch region.
"Maty, pull your skirt down." I try and help her cover up the goods.
"He's really cute, I wonder if he's married!" Maybe its the painkillers maybe the alcohol we've been drinking all night, Maty is out to lunch. For the next hour she alternates between hysterical crying over her finger and attempting to seduce the doctor. It's kind of funny to watch. Finally the doctor tells us we can leave and gives me all the information for the necessary follow up appointments. Apparently Maty will need finger surgery.
Out in the waiting room our friends are ready for bed. We decide to be good samaritans and pick up the sleeping spread eagle boy, Meff. We load him and Maty in the car and head home. Meff sleeps on the couch and after we change Maty into pajamas and attempt to wash her up, she goes to bed.
The morning hurts, bad. Meff, the boy we found on the hospital floor is gone when we wake up. No one has slept and classes are in full swing. The birds are singing the sun is shining and I'm vomiting on my way to my 9:00 a.m. The day is long and I pretty much want to die, not as much as Maty though. She doesn't remember a lot but what she does remember isn't good. Apparently she slammed her finger in a bathroom door, scraping off all the skin. She starts crying and is freaked out by the profuse amount of blood. She tells our friend Mmeg that she needs to go. Mmeg has met a boy and insists Maty will be fine. Things then get very very hazy. The next thing she knows she's at the hospital and I'm in the room with her. I remind her she tried to hook up with the Doctor, she cringes.
Months later we find out, via Meff's blog, that it was him that took a bleeding crying Maty to the hospital. While waiting he fell asleep. The next thing he knew he was on our couch.
The moral of the story is, don't slam your finger in doors and always wear underwear.
We go to the University bookstore and stock up on overpriced spiral notebooks with UVA written in gold letters on the orange card stock cover. We hit up the Clinique counter and grab some flip flops before heading to the check out where we put the whole purchase on Mommy and Daddy's credit card. We sit around and play would you rather, wasting time and avoiding reality. "Would you rather have a wooden leg or a hook for an arm?" We all agree on wooden leg though admittedly it would be easy to barbecue with a hook for an arm. Kebabs would be a cinch!
We are planning a big night out for the evening before the start of classes. Drink away our sorrows and ignore the start of our third year. We start at Maty's. My upstairs neighbor and best friend. She lives with three other best friends and our two apartments are essentially communal living. I eat more of their food than I do my own (this is largely because I refuse to buy anything that is unhealthy and refuse to eat anything healthy).
Maty has been working at Buffalo Wild Wings all summer. BW3's as we call it, is not the classiest establishment around. In the idyllic college town that is Charlottesville there exists a dichotomy in population. There are the students and university professors; wealthy and preppy and all things pastel and ribbons. The kids coming from Virginia, the Northeast and the south sport their popped collars and boat shoes like they are modeling for LL Bean. Outside this bubble of Lilly Pulitzer and J.Crew exists the rest of the world. The student ghetto borders the actual ghetto. Bums meander around the streets of students looking for stale beer sitting in cups left over from the night before on the front porch. Men missing teeth deliver the late night pizza. BW3's attracts less of the college crowd and more of the local crowd. It had flavor to put it mildly. Maty has known to mingle with the obese black bouncer Antwon, or the mullet sporting bartender from time to time. Essentially, she is a tad on the sketchy.
The night before classes rolls around and we pregame, hard. We head out to bars and things begin to unravel almost immediately. Some want to go to Orbitz, some want to go to Coupes. The group splits. I head to Coupes with Maustin and Mmelissa. Maty goes to Orbitz with Mmeg and Maura. More drinking ensues. We gulp down bourbon and diets like they are water in the desert. We are drunk. My phone rings over and over again. I don't answer it because I don't hear it and I don't care. We leave Coupes to find food or friends or something along those lines.
Finally I look at my phone. I have about twenty missed calls from Maty. This is not unusual. Maty begins her evenings exclaiming her love for everything and everyone she knows. "I love you forever lets be best friends until we die!" might be something she says while pregaming. By the end of the night however its a different story. Over the course of three hours she turns into a mess of hate and wickedness. "I hate you, never speak to me again." Is the sort of thing she tell you only hours after calling you to be her bestest friend. Knowing this propensity for violent mood swings I am not surprised to see Maty called me repeatedly and I have no doubt that her messages are a string of love/hate proclamations.
My phone rings again. Feeling slightly bad for ignoring my best friend I answer. Snippets of wailing screams are audible and then the phone cuts out. While this is also not unusual I begin to worry. Three more times Maty calls crying and then gets cut off before she tells me what is wrong. Finally I get a call from Maty's roommate, Maura. She says we need to go to the hospital, that Maty is there.
Holy shit. I know she is alive as I've heard her distinctive cry on the phone but the hospital is NOT good. Maura picks us up and along with Mmelissa we head to the hospital. We attempt to sober up, that fails. We arrive at the hospital and head to the emergency room. We inquire about Maty and are instructed to wait in the chairs section. We then come across a strange sight. A boy, whom we know, is laying face down, spread eagle, sleeping in the middle of the waiting area. We try and rouse him, calling his name and pinching his cheeks. It doesn't work. Coincidence we think. Ten minutes later nurse comes out. She ask us if one of our names is Mephanie. I tell them that's me. They bring me back.
I walk into a room and Maty is lying, convulsing on a bed. She is covered in a sheet that is pulled up to her chin. Shit. I quickly conclude that the lower half of her body has been amputated. She has no legs. Maybe no torso. I will have to carry her head around in one of those weird bags meant for small dogs. When we go out to dinner I'll have to feed things to her. I'll probably have to take notes for her in class.
"Mephanie," she wails. Her face is red and blotchy and her make up is smeared all over. Her hair looks like birds are nesting in it. "Mephanie. My finger got cut off at Orbitz, you have to make someone go get it." She rips off the sheet and I see that the tip of her finger is missing and bleeding profusely. I stifle laughter. Her limbs are otherwise fine. I will not have to carry her in a hang bag. I comfort her and she cries. Then the nurse comes in to give her more pain medication.
I go into the waiting room and let our other friends know that A. Maty will survive and B. one of them needs to go fetch her finger tip at the bar. They laugh and refuse. I return to Maty. The doctor is now in with her. He is on the young side and really good looking. Maty is still wearing the tank top and jean skirt she went out in. She is not wearing underwear, her skirt is short and her legs are flailing. This is not good. She is trying to smile at the doctor as he explains that the whole finger isn't missing; its just large chunks of nail and skin. She nods eagerly.
"Oh Doctor, thank you so much. You are soooo kind!" Maty is trying to flirt with the doctor.
He leaves and I sit down next to her. "Do you think he thinks I'm cute?" Maty's voice is wobbly but hopefull. I can see pretty much her entire croch region.
"Maty, pull your skirt down." I try and help her cover up the goods.
"He's really cute, I wonder if he's married!" Maybe its the painkillers maybe the alcohol we've been drinking all night, Maty is out to lunch. For the next hour she alternates between hysterical crying over her finger and attempting to seduce the doctor. It's kind of funny to watch. Finally the doctor tells us we can leave and gives me all the information for the necessary follow up appointments. Apparently Maty will need finger surgery.
Out in the waiting room our friends are ready for bed. We decide to be good samaritans and pick up the sleeping spread eagle boy, Meff. We load him and Maty in the car and head home. Meff sleeps on the couch and after we change Maty into pajamas and attempt to wash her up, she goes to bed.
The morning hurts, bad. Meff, the boy we found on the hospital floor is gone when we wake up. No one has slept and classes are in full swing. The birds are singing the sun is shining and I'm vomiting on my way to my 9:00 a.m. The day is long and I pretty much want to die, not as much as Maty though. She doesn't remember a lot but what she does remember isn't good. Apparently she slammed her finger in a bathroom door, scraping off all the skin. She starts crying and is freaked out by the profuse amount of blood. She tells our friend Mmeg that she needs to go. Mmeg has met a boy and insists Maty will be fine. Things then get very very hazy. The next thing she knows she's at the hospital and I'm in the room with her. I remind her she tried to hook up with the Doctor, she cringes.
Months later we find out, via Meff's blog, that it was him that took a bleeding crying Maty to the hospital. While waiting he fell asleep. The next thing he knew he was on our couch.
The moral of the story is, don't slam your finger in doors and always wear underwear.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Meather and Mephanie Confront Pegleg
Note: This is a follow up to the preceding post, please read in tandem.
London is approaching and my friends love me so they come and say goodbye one by one. Meather's turn is tonight. She arrives around seven and we decide to cook brownies because nothing goes better with shit talking and over analyzing other people's relationships than baked goods. No surprise that over our gossip we hear the techno blaring upstairs. Meather doesn't have internet at her job as a coal miner and has not yet read today's blog entry. As we mix the double fudge brownie batter I regale her with the tale of the techno listening, peg leg dragging, loud ass neighbors who kept me awake until four am the previous night. Meather, liking all things male and hating all things techno, insists that this is NOT okay and a confrontation is in order.
We put the brownies in the oven and head upstairs. We knock, nothing happens. We ring the door bell, nothing happens. We knock again. The techno music is far too loud and there is no way our the feeble sound of our hands slamming against the oak door. Meather reaches through the gate that adorns almost every DC town house door and tries the doorknob. It opens.
"Hello!" We scream into the empty hall. "It's your friendly neighbors from downstairs!"
"Hold on!" A male voice comes out of the depths of the house.
We wait. A tall blond boy suddenly appears at the gate. He is good looking and hurriedly putting on a shirt. His pants fit tightly he is wearing white keds. He is a hipster.
"Mid-afternoon rave?" I inquire.
He laughs. "Hi!"
"So are you practicing your DJ-ing skills?" Meather asks. We have been speculating about what sort of mid nineties club head listens to techno and trance music all day and night.
"Oh I have a gig on Saturday!" He says, a little proud. We are flabbergasted. He actually is a DJ. I expect a peg leg to come hobbling out of the corner. "Sorry is it too loud?"
"A little bit, yeah."
"Shit, come on in you can meet all the roommates and yell at us together!" He fumbles for a key and yells for his roommate. Meather and I exchange awkward glances and prepare to enter.
Three more boys come jogging down the stairs and from various other rooms in the house. To my shock and relief they all appear to have both arms and legs in tact. After a short struggle with the gate lock we enter. The walls have all be painted with a bit of a mural, a jungle theme with dogs, vines and tigers peering around doorways and corners. A large globe sits in the front room, there are ornate chairs and an armor that looks antique. This does not jive with the with the futon I can see in the back room and the hookah sitting on an old trunk. I am introduced to the other three boys. They are seemingly nice.
I inquire about there status in life. In addition to part time DJ-ing they are going into their final year at GWU. They are all hipsters but the tall one who answered the door is by far the best looking. I feel bad about my intended rant and make nice explaining that unfortunately I am in the working world and am forced to rise bright and early each morning at 7:30 a.m. They apologize and explain they have been waiting for the neighbors to complain. I tell them I'm happy to pop the neighbor complaint cherry. We laugh. I think we are best friends! They give us a tour and show us their intended crack den. This is what they tell us, that they are hoping to turn the family room of this 1.2 million dollar house into a literal crack den. They show us the rest of the house. It is bizarrely decorated, a mixture between some rainforest theme park ride and a frat house.
We ask them to blast some better music, preferable the Rolling Stones or maybe some Kings of Leon (I mean they're pretty hip right?). They agree to vary the music selection. We go downstairs to fetch our brownies. They are cute but I'm glad I'm moving out.
London is approaching and my friends love me so they come and say goodbye one by one. Meather's turn is tonight. She arrives around seven and we decide to cook brownies because nothing goes better with shit talking and over analyzing other people's relationships than baked goods. No surprise that over our gossip we hear the techno blaring upstairs. Meather doesn't have internet at her job as a coal miner and has not yet read today's blog entry. As we mix the double fudge brownie batter I regale her with the tale of the techno listening, peg leg dragging, loud ass neighbors who kept me awake until four am the previous night. Meather, liking all things male and hating all things techno, insists that this is NOT okay and a confrontation is in order.
We put the brownies in the oven and head upstairs. We knock, nothing happens. We ring the door bell, nothing happens. We knock again. The techno music is far too loud and there is no way our the feeble sound of our hands slamming against the oak door. Meather reaches through the gate that adorns almost every DC town house door and tries the doorknob. It opens.
"Hello!" We scream into the empty hall. "It's your friendly neighbors from downstairs!"
"Hold on!" A male voice comes out of the depths of the house.
We wait. A tall blond boy suddenly appears at the gate. He is good looking and hurriedly putting on a shirt. His pants fit tightly he is wearing white keds. He is a hipster.
"Mid-afternoon rave?" I inquire.
He laughs. "Hi!"
"So are you practicing your DJ-ing skills?" Meather asks. We have been speculating about what sort of mid nineties club head listens to techno and trance music all day and night.
"Oh I have a gig on Saturday!" He says, a little proud. We are flabbergasted. He actually is a DJ. I expect a peg leg to come hobbling out of the corner. "Sorry is it too loud?"
"A little bit, yeah."
"Shit, come on in you can meet all the roommates and yell at us together!" He fumbles for a key and yells for his roommate. Meather and I exchange awkward glances and prepare to enter.
Three more boys come jogging down the stairs and from various other rooms in the house. To my shock and relief they all appear to have both arms and legs in tact. After a short struggle with the gate lock we enter. The walls have all be painted with a bit of a mural, a jungle theme with dogs, vines and tigers peering around doorways and corners. A large globe sits in the front room, there are ornate chairs and an armor that looks antique. This does not jive with the with the futon I can see in the back room and the hookah sitting on an old trunk. I am introduced to the other three boys. They are seemingly nice.
I inquire about there status in life. In addition to part time DJ-ing they are going into their final year at GWU. They are all hipsters but the tall one who answered the door is by far the best looking. I feel bad about my intended rant and make nice explaining that unfortunately I am in the working world and am forced to rise bright and early each morning at 7:30 a.m. They apologize and explain they have been waiting for the neighbors to complain. I tell them I'm happy to pop the neighbor complaint cherry. We laugh. I think we are best friends! They give us a tour and show us their intended crack den. This is what they tell us, that they are hoping to turn the family room of this 1.2 million dollar house into a literal crack den. They show us the rest of the house. It is bizarrely decorated, a mixture between some rainforest theme park ride and a frat house.
We ask them to blast some better music, preferable the Rolling Stones or maybe some Kings of Leon (I mean they're pretty hip right?). They agree to vary the music selection. We go downstairs to fetch our brownies. They are cute but I'm glad I'm moving out.
And I'm Ranting
Those of you that know me know that I am not prone to hyperbolic melodramatic rants. I'm not a complainer, I'm a stoic optimist. I see the good in people and assume their intentions to be benevolent and their hearts pure. So what follows should be understood as an anomaly to my general good cheer. But holy fucking shit a peg leg has moved in upstairs from me and I might have rabies.
Some background. I live in a lovely English Basement apartment in the quaint gayberhood of Dupont in DC. An English basement is code word for ground level townhouse apartment. My bedroom is in the back of the apartment and has both a large window and a door to a small patio area. This patio area is attached to the houses garage. Directly above all this is a deck. Any sound that is made in the garage or on the deck is clearly audible from my room. Likewise any loud thud, yell, or scream in the main house can be heard throughout my quaint English basement.
For the past year the upstairs house has been occupied by my out to lunch sixty something landlord and her husband. They have a dog. The dogs name is puppy. They like to let puppy outside in MY patio area, the garage and the deck then vigorously call her back inside for hours at a time. "PUPPY. COME HERE PUPPY" has woken me many a hungover Saturday morning. This was mildly annoying but my rent is cheap and I like my area so whatever, I dealt with it and secretly cursed them and their stupid dog.
Since the day I moved in my landlord has been threatening to move to California and rent out the house. This summer it appeared that this might actually happen. After hearing them "move out" for six weeks straight there was a lull. A heaven sent lull. The last three weeks have been marked by relative peace and quiet. Puppy and her owners have peaced the fuck out and once again I can sleep passed 8:00 a.m. on the weekends. It also so happens that my time in the apartment is winding down. This Sunday I'm leaving the humidity behind and moving to London (following a short stay with the parentals in the ever lovely New Jersey).
Imagine my surprise when this past Friday I come home from work and there is a semi-strapping young lad moving things into the house upstairs. Just my luck, I think as I prance around outside pretending to pick up the mail and daintily take out the trash, that a boy moves into the house upstairs as I am on my way out. I didn't see the boy again until I arrive home from work last night. I am packing my room (and watching the Real House Wives of Atlanta and eating a cupcake) when I hear the voices of young males outside of my window. I crack the blinds and what do I see through the slats but multiple shirtless young males moving things into the house via the back door. While I can't see their faces in my imagination they are hot and looking for a one week fling.
I continue packing up my room and eating cupcakes until around 11:00 when I succumb to exhaustion and plop down on my bed to catch up on TV and relax. Over the sound of the television I hear chairs being dragged onto the deck immediately outside of my bedroom. Voices of girls can be heard. Techno music begins to blare. Shit. It's a Monday night, I have had a long weekend involving a lot of food and a lot of liquor. I have two back to back meetings the next morning. I want to watch the Daily Show and go to sleep. No way, I tell myself, no way are they having a party on a Monday night.
By 11:30 I switch off my TV and put my pillow over my head hoping to drown out the conversation being had on the deck and the fucking trance music coming from their speakers. The pillow does nothing.
Boy 1: Yeah I saw this light moving really quickly in the sky changing colors.
Boy 2: Yeah it was moving too fast to be a star and it was too far away to be a plane.
Boy 1: And did you know Mexico city is like the number one place to see UFO's.
Girl 1 (note she had the voice of a hyena): No that's area 51 in New Mexico.
Boy 1: Whatever. UFO's are real. Ghosts are bullshit but aliens are pretty legit.
Blather ensues. I heard every word of their god damn conversation. Twenty minutes later it got even more exciting.
Girl 2: I love hash. I didn't know what it was at first and everyone was like Kelly how do you not know what hash is (vapid giggle).
Girl 1: God Amsterdam is sooo cool. I am so cool. I smoked weed in Amsterdam. I love Europe.
Boy 2: I have a hookah, lets be cliche and smoke out of it.
Boy 1: I can't find my lighter!
I consider calling the police to tell them hoodlums are partying in the house above my apartment. Finally after what seems an eternity they move inside. While their voices are still audible the sound is now muffled and I think sleep may be near. The music is still going but at least I don't have to hear them talking about goddamn UFO's and their super trendy drug habits.
I'm dozing, images of flowers and rainbows coloring my head. THUD. Holy fuck, I'm awake. Thud, drag, thud. When I spied the boys moving in about six hours earlier they all appeared to have both legs but now I realize one of them must have a peg leg. More thuds. Techno music. I look at my clock, its 1:00 a.m. I have to be up in six hours and the fucking wooden legged pirate upstairs is having a god damn dance party. I get up and go out to the living room to sleep on the couch. My roommate is sitting there, bleary eyed and pissy looking. We exchange what the fuck glances and I go back to my room.
"Lets play drinking games," someone screams around 2:00 a.m. I am going to get out of bed and go up there. So what if they are hot. They could be a house of male models and I wouldn't care at this point. IT'S MONDAY NIGHT. I consider what I'll say. I might tell them that I am pleased to make their acquaintance on this fine evening and I too question the existence of ghosts. I might also relay that I understand how hard it must be missing a limb but is there a quieter way to get around. Can he get a cushion for the leg?
I mull over my script. Its too nice. "Fuck you and be quiet." That sounds better. I remember that I am wearing an over sized t-shirt that says "Hug Don't Hit" and bright blue pajama pants. I decide to stay in bed and silently cry myself to sleep.
My alarm goes off the next morning and I feel like shit. I get ready and curse the stupid boys upstairs who kept me awake until nearly 4:00 a.m. I somehow make it out the door on time and to my surprise the garbage I had taken out the night before has been ripped open and the contents splayed across the side walk. Ironically enough three of those bags had food waste and one had papers, receipts and various other personal items I threw away while packing my room. Guess which bag was broken and what now litters the street. That's right my birth control packaging, my dirty tissues, my CVS receipts, old pictures and keepsakes.
I now need to clean this up and re-bag it before the garbage dude gets there. I glove my hand with a plastic bag and start loading a new bag. As I am tossing old mardi gras beads a homeless man walks by.
"Scuse me miss, you throwin' those beads away?" The homeless man asks.
"Yeah."
"Can I have them?"
Why the fuck not. I hand over the beads to the homeless man happy to see I have made his day. I repackage the trash, wash my hands of the rabies I have probably just contracted and head to work.
Some background. I live in a lovely English Basement apartment in the quaint gayberhood of Dupont in DC. An English basement is code word for ground level townhouse apartment. My bedroom is in the back of the apartment and has both a large window and a door to a small patio area. This patio area is attached to the houses garage. Directly above all this is a deck. Any sound that is made in the garage or on the deck is clearly audible from my room. Likewise any loud thud, yell, or scream in the main house can be heard throughout my quaint English basement.
For the past year the upstairs house has been occupied by my out to lunch sixty something landlord and her husband. They have a dog. The dogs name is puppy. They like to let puppy outside in MY patio area, the garage and the deck then vigorously call her back inside for hours at a time. "PUPPY. COME HERE PUPPY" has woken me many a hungover Saturday morning. This was mildly annoying but my rent is cheap and I like my area so whatever, I dealt with it and secretly cursed them and their stupid dog.
Since the day I moved in my landlord has been threatening to move to California and rent out the house. This summer it appeared that this might actually happen. After hearing them "move out" for six weeks straight there was a lull. A heaven sent lull. The last three weeks have been marked by relative peace and quiet. Puppy and her owners have peaced the fuck out and once again I can sleep passed 8:00 a.m. on the weekends. It also so happens that my time in the apartment is winding down. This Sunday I'm leaving the humidity behind and moving to London (following a short stay with the parentals in the ever lovely New Jersey).
Imagine my surprise when this past Friday I come home from work and there is a semi-strapping young lad moving things into the house upstairs. Just my luck, I think as I prance around outside pretending to pick up the mail and daintily take out the trash, that a boy moves into the house upstairs as I am on my way out. I didn't see the boy again until I arrive home from work last night. I am packing my room (and watching the Real House Wives of Atlanta and eating a cupcake) when I hear the voices of young males outside of my window. I crack the blinds and what do I see through the slats but multiple shirtless young males moving things into the house via the back door. While I can't see their faces in my imagination they are hot and looking for a one week fling.
I continue packing up my room and eating cupcakes until around 11:00 when I succumb to exhaustion and plop down on my bed to catch up on TV and relax. Over the sound of the television I hear chairs being dragged onto the deck immediately outside of my bedroom. Voices of girls can be heard. Techno music begins to blare. Shit. It's a Monday night, I have had a long weekend involving a lot of food and a lot of liquor. I have two back to back meetings the next morning. I want to watch the Daily Show and go to sleep. No way, I tell myself, no way are they having a party on a Monday night.
By 11:30 I switch off my TV and put my pillow over my head hoping to drown out the conversation being had on the deck and the fucking trance music coming from their speakers. The pillow does nothing.
Boy 1: Yeah I saw this light moving really quickly in the sky changing colors.
Boy 2: Yeah it was moving too fast to be a star and it was too far away to be a plane.
Boy 1: And did you know Mexico city is like the number one place to see UFO's.
Girl 1 (note she had the voice of a hyena): No that's area 51 in New Mexico.
Boy 1: Whatever. UFO's are real. Ghosts are bullshit but aliens are pretty legit.
Blather ensues. I heard every word of their god damn conversation. Twenty minutes later it got even more exciting.
Girl 2: I love hash. I didn't know what it was at first and everyone was like Kelly how do you not know what hash is (vapid giggle).
Girl 1: God Amsterdam is sooo cool. I am so cool. I smoked weed in Amsterdam. I love Europe.
Boy 2: I have a hookah, lets be cliche and smoke out of it.
Boy 1: I can't find my lighter!
I consider calling the police to tell them hoodlums are partying in the house above my apartment. Finally after what seems an eternity they move inside. While their voices are still audible the sound is now muffled and I think sleep may be near. The music is still going but at least I don't have to hear them talking about goddamn UFO's and their super trendy drug habits.
I'm dozing, images of flowers and rainbows coloring my head. THUD. Holy fuck, I'm awake. Thud, drag, thud. When I spied the boys moving in about six hours earlier they all appeared to have both legs but now I realize one of them must have a peg leg. More thuds. Techno music. I look at my clock, its 1:00 a.m. I have to be up in six hours and the fucking wooden legged pirate upstairs is having a god damn dance party. I get up and go out to the living room to sleep on the couch. My roommate is sitting there, bleary eyed and pissy looking. We exchange what the fuck glances and I go back to my room.
"Lets play drinking games," someone screams around 2:00 a.m. I am going to get out of bed and go up there. So what if they are hot. They could be a house of male models and I wouldn't care at this point. IT'S MONDAY NIGHT. I consider what I'll say. I might tell them that I am pleased to make their acquaintance on this fine evening and I too question the existence of ghosts. I might also relay that I understand how hard it must be missing a limb but is there a quieter way to get around. Can he get a cushion for the leg?
I mull over my script. Its too nice. "Fuck you and be quiet." That sounds better. I remember that I am wearing an over sized t-shirt that says "Hug Don't Hit" and bright blue pajama pants. I decide to stay in bed and silently cry myself to sleep.
My alarm goes off the next morning and I feel like shit. I get ready and curse the stupid boys upstairs who kept me awake until nearly 4:00 a.m. I somehow make it out the door on time and to my surprise the garbage I had taken out the night before has been ripped open and the contents splayed across the side walk. Ironically enough three of those bags had food waste and one had papers, receipts and various other personal items I threw away while packing my room. Guess which bag was broken and what now litters the street. That's right my birth control packaging, my dirty tissues, my CVS receipts, old pictures and keepsakes.
I now need to clean this up and re-bag it before the garbage dude gets there. I glove my hand with a plastic bag and start loading a new bag. As I am tossing old mardi gras beads a homeless man walks by.
"Scuse me miss, you throwin' those beads away?" The homeless man asks.
"Yeah."
"Can I have them?"
Why the fuck not. I hand over the beads to the homeless man happy to see I have made his day. I repackage the trash, wash my hands of the rabies I have probably just contracted and head to work.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Editor's Note
There will not be any new posts until next Monday, this is because I have been lazy this week and didn't feel like finishing the two stories I started (Fat Camp and Prosthetic Fingers and Wooden Legs). Sorry and have a nice weekend!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)