Here we go…

This Sunday is the Superbowl.  The Steelers vs. some other team.

You can tell who I’m rooting for:

la

And I’m not the only one…

la

And finally, to show you just how far reaching Steelers Nation is…the Terrible Towel…in space.

It seems I can’t avoid this

Something’s been going around like the plague.  If you got it, you know what I’m talking about.  You kind of hoped it wouldn’t happen to you–you saw all of your friends get it but you held out hope.

And then it happened.

You got tagged in that “list 25 things about yourself” note on Fbook.

And you did one of two things: ignored it and hoped it would go away or sucked it up and filled it out.

Since I’m in the middle of my Chinese-New-Year-closed-all-of-our-factories-but-that-just-means-I’m-in-hard-core-local mode and I’m still swamped, I’m going to post…well…some number of things about me that I haven’t posted in my list of 101 things.

1. If I dream about someone dying I am compelled to call/IM/Fbook them the next day, just to make sure they are still alive.
2. I had a dream about a good friend of mine the other night and then got a text bounced back from his phone.  Based on #1 I immediately thought he was dead.
3. I think lunch is easy to eat at home but really annoying to eat at work every day.  Packing gets boring and buying gets pricey.
4. I hate when it’s quiet.  When I’m home alone I have to have some background noise on.  I even get cranky if Pandora cuts out at work.
5. I think the sign of a really good CD is that you want to have all of the songs playing at once and playing all of the time b/c you just can’t get enough of the music.  I currently feel that way about the new FOB cd.
6. I used to knit when I was younger and then I lost all of my knitting stuff when the baggage door to my dad’s plane popped open.  Somewhere in upstate NY there is a cow with a needle in it’s back and a really nice blanket.
7. I’ve started knitting again.  I won’t fly w/my needles anymore.
8. I hate when things are unresolved.  Especially w/people.  Sometimes I get the chance to change that and that always makes me really happy.
9. I never believed that whole “men and women can’t be friends” theory but in college I started to.  Oh well, if a boyfriend is all it took for those guys to stop being my friends, I didn’t need them anyway.
10. My roommate’s dog has an old-man beard.  This isn’t really about me except that I think the beard is awesome.
11. I used to think about getting a tattoo (sorry Mom and Dad) but I always knew that I was too indecisive to get one. Plus, I knew I’d be grounded for life.  (I swear I don’t have one guys!)
12. I used to hate having a bed time but now if I stay awake past 11 I get REALLY cranky.
13. I had a crush on Lance Bass.  I don’t care if he’s gay, given the chance, I’d totally try to mack w/him.  (Sorry Boo, I still love you!)
14. I wish I had a really sick slr camera but I wouldn’t know what to do with it.  I took a photography class in college.  That didn’t help.
15. My friend Courtney tagged me in this.  We worked at Elle together and I miss her.

Okay…you know what?  I’m rebelling against the man (Facebook) and only doing 15.  Plus, how much more could you possibly want to know about me?

Don’t answer that.

Unless you’re being nice.

It’s snowing and I’m busy…

…but I didn’t want to leave you hanging.

So take a gander at this chick:

Yes.  Those ARE high heels she’s wearing in the snow.

Yes.  She most likely IS missing brain cells.

Like I tweeted to Matt, “i kept hoping she would fall. why not pack the heels and wear boots? or at least sneakers? you don’t look cute, you look dumb.”

I was going to flesh out this lack of post with what would have been a very topical one of my LionConnection columns but since that Web site is now completely useless, it wasn’t online anymore and I didn’t think to email it to myself earlier today.

So consider this short but sweet post my snow day post–because let’s face it, who does work on a snow day?

What’s the point of a blizzard if I’m not getting a day off?

It’s supposed to snow today.

Heavy.

And it’s supposed to last until tomorrow.

And I don’t care.

News like this would have thrilled me in my younger years.  It would have meant a 2-hour delay or even better, a snow day.  It would have meant watching the news at night in the hopes that they’d delay us prematurely.  It would have meant checking the roads for snow at midnight or 3 or whenever I happened to wake up during the night.  It would have meant sledding with my neighbors, building jumps, running over bushes (wait…that’s a different story…) and drinking hot chocolate to thaw out.  Even in college it would have meant not going to my 8am classes…either by school cancellation or by choice.

Not anymore.

There’s no snow day option anymore.  There’s no 2-hr delay in the real world.  I got my first taste of this when I was an intern at Town & Gown.  It was spring semester of my senior year and we had a huge snow storm.  The roads were barely plowed and the sidewalks?  Forget about it.  But instead of staying in bed, sleeping until noon and then getting up for class, I was trekking the 3 blocks to my office (it’s so funny to type that b/c it was SUCH a trek back then).  I only passed one other person on the way to work that day and he was only up b/c he was meeting friends for breakfast.

Long story short, it sucked.

And now what?  What am I supposed to do with the weather reports calling for snow?  What am I supposed to do with the murmers of “it’s gonna be a big one!”?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  There’s nothing I can do.

How boring is that?!

No matter how much it snows tonight, if it’s barely flurrying or if it’s like last year’s big snow, it won’t matter.  Because come tomorrow, when my alarm goes off, I’m still going to have to drag my butt into the shower, pick out something warm, throw on my Uggs and pray that I don’t fall down the stairs into the subway or wipe-out in the middle of 5th avenue.

Stupid snow anyway….

Daytime vs. nighttime P.D.A., or, my day with the Disgustingtons

Saturday Rachel and I were assaulted.  Twice.  By unnecessary (and gross) public displays of affection.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate P.D.A.  Boo’s planted one on me in an empty aisle at Target or while we’re waiting for the subway.  And don’t talk to me about the goodbye kiss at the train station.  That one’s allowed, so shut up!

Anyway.

There is a time and a place for P.D.A. and Rachel and I were front row witnesses to times when P.D.A. protocol was violated.

Up way earlier than is appropriate for a Saturday, Rachel and I made our way to the Cole Haan sample sale.  We arrived at 9:10, just 10 minutes after it started and were already faced with a 30-minute wait in line.  No problem, we can easily amuse ourselves.

After about 15 minutes we noticed The Disgustingtons.  They caught my attention when the girl started complaining about how the line wasn’t moving and how “that guy should just get off his Blackberry and walk already!!” despite the fact that there was someone directing the flow of traffic to avoid having 70 people on the stairs at one time.

The next thing we know, they are going at it.  He’s got his hands all over her face and her hands are on his ass and they are macking.  Hard core.

We tried our best but couldn’t tear our eyes away.  It was like roadkill–you didn’t want to look but it was too nasty to actually avert your eyes for long.  Rachel and I decided that if they were an attractive couple we wouldn’t have been as offended.  Sadly for their sake (or I guess for ours, geeze I am MEAN) they were gross.  Girlfriend had a bleached blonde perm and sweatpants tucked into her Uggs and homeboy wasn’t much better off.

Let me remind you again that the time is now 9:25am.  No one has had their coffee.  Even if they have, there’s not enough caffeine in the world to make that level of tonsil hockey okay at that hour.  At that point we started debating the differences and societal acceptability of daytime P.D.A.

There never seems to be a time or place where that’s okay.  At night, we justified, P.D.A. is usually b/w drunk people at a bar and that’s not a big deal.  That’s standard Friday night activity.

I’d already decided that the morning’s events would become blog fodder.  I had planned to leave it at what you’ve just read.  The argument being that daytime P.D.A should be avoided at all costs but nightttime P.D.A. is doable.

Then Rachel and I hopped a 6 train at 9:30 Saturday night.

A mere 12 hours after our initial assault our eyes were again attacked.  The Old Disgustingtons, filling the car with the smell of alcohol and swaying, got on the train at 86th St., splitting a pair of guys who had gotten on together.  Before the doors even shut I saw the little lady (and she was quite tiny–barely up to the man’s shoulders) do the drunk “lean in, tilt head back, and groan…’sexily’”  Too bad the groan is never sexy when you’re as plastered as this chick was.  It was more of a moan…and again, not a sexy one.  A pained one.

Gross old man went in for the kill.  He was so tall that he had to bend his knees and fall forward before he could vacu-seal his face to hers.  Then hands were roaming, limbs were flailing and the doors kept bouncing back open.  Once G.O.M realized that he and his chicky were the culprits, he inched them forward and they continued their quest to gross out all the passengers in the car, specifically the dudes they’d split up, one of which had a front row seat–no options for his eyes except to watch them get it on or squeeze his eyes shut and pray to forget that visual.  I wanted to get a picture but Rachel wouldn’t let me.  Maybe it’s for the best.  That’s not a visual most of you could handle.

Let me remind you again that the time is now 9:40pm.

The macking continued until 59th St when the Old Disgustingtons moved from their post in front of the door to set up shop in front of 2 poor girls sitting on the bench, minding their own business.  I lost it at that point.  I was laughing hysterically, Rachel was cursing her lack of view, the lost dude, also laughing, rejoined his friend who looked totally scarred for life.  And then I looked up and saw the sheer horror on the faces of the girls on the bench.  One looked on the verge of tears.

We got off the train at 51st St and changed our stance on P.D.A.  Everything we’d thought about out-of-house macking got turned upside down in the course of 12 hours.  And we realized–daytime P.D.A. is NOT okay.  Ditto for nighttime.

Unless of course you’re good looking.

Or the people around you are as drunk as you are and don’t notice the fact that you’ve attached your face to someone else’s and are now blocking the exit.

If they aren’t, take a cab.  I hear that’s what they’re for.

THON Update: 1/21-1/25

For those of you who may just be stumbling on this site, click here to read about what I’m doing.  5 cents for every comment on every new post b/w November 12 and February 20, up to $100.  I’m not counting pingbacks or my own comments either. I’ve decided to switch things up a bit.  You guys have been great with the comments so from now until THON weekend, I’ll be donating 10 cents per comment i/o just 5!

The total for the past (admittedly short) week is:

$2.80

The total so far is:

$43.85

Keep up the comments!!!  ForTheKids!!

The bagel pouch

When I was a junior in high school I got my first real job.  Well, “real” according to The Man…don’t try and tell me that babysitting 3 boys (all under 6) and a dog isn’t real work.

I worked at Bruegger’s Bagel Bakery and it was the best.  Yes, the hours sometimes sucked (6am Saturday shifts which usually resulted in me spending my 30 minute break napping in my car) but I got all the free bagels I could eat and what’s better than free food?

The only down side to the daily consumption of bagels w/cream cheese, bagel sandwiches and breakfast bagels (with extra bacon and cheese as long as no one was looking) was that I started to develop a  bagel pouch.  The only weight I seemed to gain was this bagel-shaped protrusion circling my belly button.  It didn’t show in my face, my thighs or my arms.  In fact, b/w vacuuming at night and slicing bagels all day, my arms actually got pretty ripped (okay, fine, my ARM, I had one super massive gun).

When I went to college I decided that I would still work on breaks but after working Thanksgiving I decided that it was time to leave Bruegger’s behind.

My next job came the summer after my freshman year.  I worked at Marble Slab Creamery.  It’s one of those we’ll mix the toppings into the ice cream for you kind of places.  A lot of times we were left alone, just some high school and college kids running the place on a Saturday morning.  As you can imagine, we didn’t get a lot of traffic at noon on a Saturday so we’d spend the time coming up with our own ice cream mixes.

Did you know that if you mix the coffee and cinnamon flavors it tastes sort of like a cappuccino?

Did you know that if you mix the peanut butter and strawberry flavors it’s kind of like having a PB&J?  Same goes for peanut butter and banana.

We tried every combination possible.  Peppermint and coffee.  Sweet cream and banana.  Birthday cake and amaretto.

And do you want to know what the result of that was?  Other than coming up with some pretty fantastic ice cream ideas, I got a new little pouch.  The ice cream pouch.  Between the chocolate covered cones that we “accidentally” broke while dipping, to the “taster” spoons holding a legitimate scoop’s worth of ice cream I had managed to plump my tummy once more.

At least at this job I could even out the arms by scooping with the left hand.

As with all “breaks only” jobs, my time at MSC ended too.  When it came time to find a job at school I went the lazy easy route–cashier at the grocery store below my apartment.  I spent my nights reading the trash rags.  I was UP on my gossip but that was it.  My weight stayed normal and there was no muscle building activity.

After graduation, after the booze weight was gone, I was left with “real” jobs.  Desk jobs like the Trib, not-so-desk jobs like Elle and my current gig.

But lately I’ve noticed something a little disconcerting.

Turns out working above a deli that happens to have awesome bagels and then consuming those bagels on a daily basis will result in the return of the bagel pouch.

The only thing I can do now is start bulking up my arms again and maybe no one will notice.

Does everybody know what time it is?

The roomie and I have a bit of a love affair with Home Improvement.  We’re mad that Nick@Nite feels compelled to air Family Matters at 11 and HI at 12.  We’re never up that late!

So obviously, when we woke up Monday morning and turned the TV on, we were thrilled to be reminded that TBS shows a 2-hour block of the show EVERY weekday.

We’d just gotten through watching the episode where Tim overwaxes the dance floor for Randy’s birthday party and his annoying little crush Michelle sprains her ankle (side note, we BOTE wanted to be Michelle growing up.  Stupid Taylor boys only liking blondes….) and were slightly annoyed to see that the next episode was the one where Al is named one of the most eligible bachelors.  This is a kind of completely unrealistic scenario not to mention overplayed by a lot of the “family friendly” sitcoms of it’s day (does everyone else remember that Danny Tanner too, was an eligible bachelor?).

So the women in the audience start asking questions about Al and obsessing about his French doors (not a euphemism) until Tim yells at them.

Then, all of a sudden, a voice rings out from the crowd: What kind of windows does Al like?

The girl who said it looked vaguely familiar.  In fact, I said to the roomie, she looks a little like Lucy Liu.

Fast forward 12 minutes to the credits (or don’t if you totally cheated and clicked on that link, which, okay,  fine, isn’t really cheating b/c I put it there): it IS Lucy Liu.

Good for you LL.  Before you were kicking ass in Kill Bill and Charlie’s Angels you were kicking it with the Tool Man (no, not that kind of tool).

THON Update: 1/12-1/20

For those of you who may just be stumbling on this site, click here to read about what I’m doing.  5 cents for every comment on every new post b/w November 12 and February 20, up to $100.  I’m not counting pingbacks or my own comments either.

I’ve decided to switch things up a bit.  You guys have been great with the comments so from now until THON weekend, I’ll be donating 10 cents per comment i/o just 5!

The total for the past week is:

$7.10

The total so far is:

$41.05

Keep up the comments!!!  ForTheKids!!

What a difference a decade can make, or, when worlds collide

Today, my two worlds collided.  (That so does not right.  I know it is, but it sounds weird.  Why does collided sound so wrong?).

I found out that my 13-year-old cousin is on Facebook.

No good can come from this.

First, there will be the friend request.  Then I’ll be forced to ignore it.  Because there are things on my Fbook page that shouldn’t be seen by impressionable young eyes.

This blog, for example.

But you can’t ignore friend requests from family.  I’ll ignore her and then she’ll be hurt and then her mother will be offended and pretty soon all of the other relatives will have something to say about it.  So I’m left with no choice but to–

–what?!  What are my choices here?  I could add her, sure, and then so severely limit what she’s able to see.  But that’s no good.  I still put my blog posts in my status (b/c I’m a greedy, readership boosting blogger).

I went in to immediate panic mode.  I mean, what pictures CAN’T she see?

Silly, innocent college pictures like this:

being THAT GUY for Halloween

…are no longer acceptable.  It becomes “Oh, well why does That Guy have a thong sticking out of his pants?  What does that mean?” and “Oh, who’s that guy downing a bottle of whisky on the poster behind you” instead of simply “hahaha…that’s a pretty sweet costume.  Are those really your ex-boyfriend’s jeans?”*

And pictures like this:

team "we're not THAT drunk" at beer olympics

…become “ooh, I love your little outfits.  Wait, why do your shirts say Beer Olypmics?  Oh, it’s a WHOLE DAY of drinking games?  That sounds fun!”

And you know what, it is fun.  But it’s fun when you’re 22 (which is how old I was then).  It’s not fun when you’re 13 (because I still live in a world where I pretend that middle schoolers aren’t getting high on the playground and partaking in all sorts of sexual crap in the school bathrooms).

At 13, you shouldn’t be on Facebook.  You shouldn’t have access to your decade-older cousin’s pictures, friends or blogs.

My life will be a lot better if my cousin never knows how many bar tours I went on during my last month of college.  Or if she never finds out my thoughts on buses and assholes.  Or if she never hears (or reads) me use the word asshole!

Because here’s what will happen then.  She’ll see it or read it or whatever it.  And then she’ll want to do it.  And her mom will freak out.  And I’ll be blamed for being a bad influence when she’s the one who let her on Facebook in the first place.

Or, she’ll straight-up show her mom.  And her mom will freak out.  And I’ll be blamed for being a bad influence when she’s the one who let her on Facebook in the first place.

This is a lose-lose situation.  For me.  And for her.  NO good can come from this.

It’s like a very wise man once said on TV and then another pretty wise man told me: A George divided against himself, cannot stand!

And it’s true.  I need to keep the worlds apart.

la

la

*yes, yes they are.