The other day as I was typing up Fucking Birds (part 2), there was a power outage in my neighborhood. The power outage in question managed to happen while the gas company was at my house in yet another attempt to fix my heat. And of course, I hadn’t managed to save the blog I was typing, almost finished with actually…
So I go storming downstairs, damn near ready to bash the gas man’s head in with a wrench, and when I get downstairs, he’s complaining about the power outage too. Apparently it’s not his fault. He’s lucky.
It’s too late though, because I’m already off on a tirade. Within another minute or two, the power came back on and I run back upstairs and turn the computer on. While it’s booting up, I immediately call X and leave him a very frantic voicemail because he knows shit about computers and I want my blog back. And I’m sick of the flashbacks I’m having of my teachers and professors constantly reminding us in class to back up our work.
B: IT’S ME. I NEED YOU TO CALL ME BACK ASAP. I’M HAVING A COMPUTER EMERGENCY.
As soon as I hang up I sent him a text message too. Just to drive the emergency point home.
The computer finally comes back on and I can’t find my blog. I decide to open up Word, just to check. Low and behold, there it is.
I was just starting to relax, and to finish writing the blog when my phone rings. It’s X and he’s a bit worried.
X: Hey…are you ok? What’s wrong?
B: Oh…nothing. The power went out and I thought I lost the blog I was writing and I knew you’d know how to get it back. But when the computer came back on, it was there. In Word.
X: (laughing, and presumably thinking I’m fucking crazy) Ok…I’ll talk to you later.
That X…he’s a good egg. I’m also fascinated with how I can go from normal, to an unhealthy state of insanity, and back to normal within minutes. Oh well…that’s what makes me so much fun!
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Fucking Birds (part 2)
If you haven't already read Fucking Birds (part 1) you should scroll down and do that. This story will make more sense when you do.
So now you know I hate birds. And rightly so. I haven’t had any problems with them lately, unless you count that rogue bat in Tennessee. That is until the other night.
I’ve sort of been on a clean living kick (well, as clean as I can get.) This involves not smoking any cigarettes during the day and not going out as much. So last week, on one of my “healthy nights” where I wasn’t going out, I was going to stay home and relax and watch TV, I decided I could splurge and smoke one cigarette…considering I wouldn’t be out drinking and smoking. One cigarette wasn’t so bad…right? It definitely was.
So I head out onto my front porch and light one up. I’m taking a few puffs off of it and everything is fine and dandy. Until I catch something fluttering around out of the corner of my eye. And when I turn and look, this fluttering thing makes a beeline for my fucking head. So after a very dramatic duck and cover I look up and realize that there isn’t just one flying creature, but two. And number two was coming straight for my head too. Fuckers. Now I’m yelling…for a lot of reasons. Firstly, it’s happening so fast that I can’t quite tell if they’re birds or bats. They appeared to have feathers, but I didn’t get a good look. Secondly, I’m yelling because now I think my hair is on fire, because that’s bound to happen when you huddle up into a ball with a cigarette in your mouth. And thirdly, I’m yelling because I don’t like things flying at my fucking head. Birds, bats…anything.
I finally come up for air…and to see if my hair is fully engulfed in flames (I have done that before…it can happen) or if it’s just singed. Thankfully, only a few pieces got stuck on the end of the cigarette, so all is good. Except that these stupid birds can’t seem to get away from my porch. So now they keep fluttering by me and slamming into the house. They appeared to be afraid to fly past the hanging flower baskets. I don’t know what they’re so fucking afraid of, considering they make nests in the damn things. I flick my cigarette out onto the lawn because I don’t want to burn anything else, and who knows when I’ll have to take cover again.
I go back into the house to a very excited dog. She’s a Lab and she thoroughly enjoys chasing wildlife. It’s her instincts. Between me yelling and the birds banging into the house she is now trying to break out the front door in a Lassie like attempt to save me or something. I don’t really think it had anything to do with me…I’m sure she just wanted to chase the birds. Whatever, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and continue to think of her as my savior.
I come to find out from Crazy Nanny that they were in fact birds and not bats. She (thinks she’s a wildlife expert) is sure that they were sparrows and they were making a nest in one of the baskets.
I’ll tell you one thing though. That’s enough with clean living. I marched right to my room that night and changed my clothes. And promptly headed to The Ark. Where I drank beers and smoked cigarettes and had no more interactions with crazed wildlife. Well…that is if you can consider all the regulars at The Ark to be human…and not crazy.
Below, my fearless hero:
So now you know I hate birds. And rightly so. I haven’t had any problems with them lately, unless you count that rogue bat in Tennessee. That is until the other night.
I’ve sort of been on a clean living kick (well, as clean as I can get.) This involves not smoking any cigarettes during the day and not going out as much. So last week, on one of my “healthy nights” where I wasn’t going out, I was going to stay home and relax and watch TV, I decided I could splurge and smoke one cigarette…considering I wouldn’t be out drinking and smoking. One cigarette wasn’t so bad…right? It definitely was.
So I head out onto my front porch and light one up. I’m taking a few puffs off of it and everything is fine and dandy. Until I catch something fluttering around out of the corner of my eye. And when I turn and look, this fluttering thing makes a beeline for my fucking head. So after a very dramatic duck and cover I look up and realize that there isn’t just one flying creature, but two. And number two was coming straight for my head too. Fuckers. Now I’m yelling…for a lot of reasons. Firstly, it’s happening so fast that I can’t quite tell if they’re birds or bats. They appeared to have feathers, but I didn’t get a good look. Secondly, I’m yelling because now I think my hair is on fire, because that’s bound to happen when you huddle up into a ball with a cigarette in your mouth. And thirdly, I’m yelling because I don’t like things flying at my fucking head. Birds, bats…anything.
I finally come up for air…and to see if my hair is fully engulfed in flames (I have done that before…it can happen) or if it’s just singed. Thankfully, only a few pieces got stuck on the end of the cigarette, so all is good. Except that these stupid birds can’t seem to get away from my porch. So now they keep fluttering by me and slamming into the house. They appeared to be afraid to fly past the hanging flower baskets. I don’t know what they’re so fucking afraid of, considering they make nests in the damn things. I flick my cigarette out onto the lawn because I don’t want to burn anything else, and who knows when I’ll have to take cover again.
I go back into the house to a very excited dog. She’s a Lab and she thoroughly enjoys chasing wildlife. It’s her instincts. Between me yelling and the birds banging into the house she is now trying to break out the front door in a Lassie like attempt to save me or something. I don’t really think it had anything to do with me…I’m sure she just wanted to chase the birds. Whatever, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and continue to think of her as my savior.
I come to find out from Crazy Nanny that they were in fact birds and not bats. She (thinks she’s a wildlife expert) is sure that they were sparrows and they were making a nest in one of the baskets.
I’ll tell you one thing though. That’s enough with clean living. I marched right to my room that night and changed my clothes. And promptly headed to The Ark. Where I drank beers and smoked cigarettes and had no more interactions with crazed wildlife. Well…that is if you can consider all the regulars at The Ark to be human…and not crazy.
Below, my fearless hero:
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Fucking Birds (part 1)
I have bad luck with birds. I used to like them when I was a kid, that was until my parakeet went bonkers and killed my other one. I’ll have you know that it’s a bit traumatic to come home at seven years old and find poor Petey stiff as a board on the bottom of the cage with the top of his head pecked in. All because Petunia wanted to sit next to the mirror. She was a bitch and she lived for what seemed like forever. All the while flinging herself at your hand to bite it the second you tried to give her more water and food. My mother had finally had enough of her and pawned her off onto Crazy Nanny. Where she continued to live and prosper for even longer, and still viciously attacked everything in her sight.
The uneasy feeling I have towards birds isn’t just because of Petunia. It’s directly related to a few other experiences as well. One time, while vacationing in Florida as a kid, my parents took me to one of those gator farms. Obviously they had plenty of gators to see, but they also had other animals too. Some of which were parrots. And of course, my father, paying little or no attention at all to the “Don’t Touch The Birds” sign, sticks his hand in the cage in an attempt to pet the parrot. This fucker lunged at him so fast and clamped down on the metal bars like a vice grip. He had barely escaped a finger amputation…but he didn’t learn his lesson.
Years later, we happen to be in Vegas and the hotel we were staying at has a variety of exotic birds on display around one of their bars. Well, sure as shit, my father has to disregard the Don’t Touch signs and play with them. So there are these two medium size purple and green birds sitting on a perch together. And they let my father pet them. And the one was loving him, making cooing noises and rubbing it’s head into his hand. All was well until it had enough of being played with. Instead of pulling its head back or walking away, it bit into my father’s finger, ripping a chunk out of it between the knuckle and tip. It bled like a bitch…and of course all I could do is laugh. And the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, because here comes my mother, walking down the corridor back from a shopping trip. To find her husband bleeding profusely and her daughter hysterically laughing at him. She laughed too though…that’s what you get for not reading the signs.
I also had my own “miscommunication” with a bird. I was working at a movie studio in New York for a film I happened to be on. And the guy at the studio had a pet cockatiel (it might be a cockatoo, I have no idea, nor do I care enough to know what the difference between the two is.) Everybody loved the bird. It seemed like the whole damn production staff loved the bird. I, on the other hand, would not go near it. I had way too many close calls with the fuckers as I was growing up to know that they can’t be trusted. Finally after some coaxing by my coworkers, I relented and acknowledged the bird with something other than a cautious glare. And low and behold, he liked me. He liked me so much that he would do a little dance for me and make happy noises and act real cute (I should have know, I had seen this act before from the bastard in Vegas). Before long, the guy who owned the studio was telling me I should let him on my shoulder. Shoulder? I told him I wasn’t so sure about that.
B: That’s a little too close to my face. Too close to my ear. He could get pissed and bite my nose…peck at my eye.
Studio Owner: Nah, he’s sweet. He doesn’t bite. And he really likes you.
B: (Still very skeptical, but feeling guilty) Ok. Fine. But only for a minute.
The guy seems happy that I’ll let his stupid bird on my shoulder so I figured it would be fine. Besides, I hadn’t seen an aggressive act from this bird all damn day. I stick my arm out in an attempt to let him climb up to my shoulder. But he doesn’t get on it. He actually starts doing a little dance similar to the one he had been doing for me earlier. Apparently this time it wasn’t a dance. It was some sort of agitated bird ritual they do…RIGHT BEFORE THEY FUCKING BITE YOU. He snapped his beak down on my forearm so hard and so fast I couldn’t even react. The studio owner jumped up to help me and the bird finally let go. And in an instinctual moment I went to backhand him off of me, and the fucker knew it…because he immediately jumped back out of the way of my hand.
With my arm feeling like it’s on fire and already starting to bruise, I asked the guy what the fuck that was all about…
B: What the fuck? I thought he didn’t bite…and he liked me. I knew I shouldn’t have let him on my shoulder.
SO: (In between asking me about a hundred times if I was ok, obviously in an attempt to have me not sue him.) He normally doesn’t…you didn’t put your hand out.
B: (Now I’m getting madder, because somehow this has become my fault.) What? You didn’t tell me I had to put my hand out a certain way. What the fuck?
SO: Yeah, he can’t climb onto your arm. You have to put your finger out.
B: Why didn’t you tell me this when you saw him getting pissed off?
SO: I thought you knew.
BECAUSE I SPEAK BIRD? Now I want to backhand this asshole. I had just spent the better part of ten hours keeping a safe distance between me and that fucking pit viper with wings and when I’m finally going to let him up on my shoulder he just assumes I know what the fucking thing wants. I then had to spend the rest of my day convincing the producers of the film that I didn’t need to go to the emergency room. Beaks aren’t necessarily that sharp unless they actually pull when they bite…and thankfully this fucker didn’t really pull so it barely broke the skin. The only pain came from the pressure…they are much, much stronger then they appear.
Anyway…there was a point to this random babbling about why I hate birds, a funny incident involving me and birds from the other night…but I feel like I’ve been typing a lot, so I’m going to continue it tomorrow. I apologize, I had no idea my hatred for birds was as long as it is.
The uneasy feeling I have towards birds isn’t just because of Petunia. It’s directly related to a few other experiences as well. One time, while vacationing in Florida as a kid, my parents took me to one of those gator farms. Obviously they had plenty of gators to see, but they also had other animals too. Some of which were parrots. And of course, my father, paying little or no attention at all to the “Don’t Touch The Birds” sign, sticks his hand in the cage in an attempt to pet the parrot. This fucker lunged at him so fast and clamped down on the metal bars like a vice grip. He had barely escaped a finger amputation…but he didn’t learn his lesson.
Years later, we happen to be in Vegas and the hotel we were staying at has a variety of exotic birds on display around one of their bars. Well, sure as shit, my father has to disregard the Don’t Touch signs and play with them. So there are these two medium size purple and green birds sitting on a perch together. And they let my father pet them. And the one was loving him, making cooing noises and rubbing it’s head into his hand. All was well until it had enough of being played with. Instead of pulling its head back or walking away, it bit into my father’s finger, ripping a chunk out of it between the knuckle and tip. It bled like a bitch…and of course all I could do is laugh. And the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, because here comes my mother, walking down the corridor back from a shopping trip. To find her husband bleeding profusely and her daughter hysterically laughing at him. She laughed too though…that’s what you get for not reading the signs.
I also had my own “miscommunication” with a bird. I was working at a movie studio in New York for a film I happened to be on. And the guy at the studio had a pet cockatiel (it might be a cockatoo, I have no idea, nor do I care enough to know what the difference between the two is.) Everybody loved the bird. It seemed like the whole damn production staff loved the bird. I, on the other hand, would not go near it. I had way too many close calls with the fuckers as I was growing up to know that they can’t be trusted. Finally after some coaxing by my coworkers, I relented and acknowledged the bird with something other than a cautious glare. And low and behold, he liked me. He liked me so much that he would do a little dance for me and make happy noises and act real cute (I should have know, I had seen this act before from the bastard in Vegas). Before long, the guy who owned the studio was telling me I should let him on my shoulder. Shoulder? I told him I wasn’t so sure about that.
B: That’s a little too close to my face. Too close to my ear. He could get pissed and bite my nose…peck at my eye.
Studio Owner: Nah, he’s sweet. He doesn’t bite. And he really likes you.
B: (Still very skeptical, but feeling guilty) Ok. Fine. But only for a minute.
The guy seems happy that I’ll let his stupid bird on my shoulder so I figured it would be fine. Besides, I hadn’t seen an aggressive act from this bird all damn day. I stick my arm out in an attempt to let him climb up to my shoulder. But he doesn’t get on it. He actually starts doing a little dance similar to the one he had been doing for me earlier. Apparently this time it wasn’t a dance. It was some sort of agitated bird ritual they do…RIGHT BEFORE THEY FUCKING BITE YOU. He snapped his beak down on my forearm so hard and so fast I couldn’t even react. The studio owner jumped up to help me and the bird finally let go. And in an instinctual moment I went to backhand him off of me, and the fucker knew it…because he immediately jumped back out of the way of my hand.
With my arm feeling like it’s on fire and already starting to bruise, I asked the guy what the fuck that was all about…
B: What the fuck? I thought he didn’t bite…and he liked me. I knew I shouldn’t have let him on my shoulder.
SO: (In between asking me about a hundred times if I was ok, obviously in an attempt to have me not sue him.) He normally doesn’t…you didn’t put your hand out.
B: (Now I’m getting madder, because somehow this has become my fault.) What? You didn’t tell me I had to put my hand out a certain way. What the fuck?
SO: Yeah, he can’t climb onto your arm. You have to put your finger out.
B: Why didn’t you tell me this when you saw him getting pissed off?
SO: I thought you knew.
BECAUSE I SPEAK BIRD? Now I want to backhand this asshole. I had just spent the better part of ten hours keeping a safe distance between me and that fucking pit viper with wings and when I’m finally going to let him up on my shoulder he just assumes I know what the fucking thing wants. I then had to spend the rest of my day convincing the producers of the film that I didn’t need to go to the emergency room. Beaks aren’t necessarily that sharp unless they actually pull when they bite…and thankfully this fucker didn’t really pull so it barely broke the skin. The only pain came from the pressure…they are much, much stronger then they appear.
Anyway…there was a point to this random babbling about why I hate birds, a funny incident involving me and birds from the other night…but I feel like I’ve been typing a lot, so I’m going to continue it tomorrow. I apologize, I had no idea my hatred for birds was as long as it is.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Dancing with The Devil
I need to preface this blog with the simple fact that I don’t get star struck. Well, hardly ever. After quite a few years of working on films and television shows, and now being relegated to bumping into the network news anchor in the hallway (my certain networks big guy almost wore my Lean Cuisine dinner once…that would have been fabulous), I’ve learned that famous people are nothing more than really popular regular people. They’re all pretty cool and down to earth and of all of them I’ve ever worked with, there’s only one who was actually a bitch to the point of me despising her…but, I’ll never tell who she is. Anyway…there’s not too many people I can say that I would get overly excited about seeing. I could name a few, but they’d all be girls and it would be for purely sexual reasons…
Ok…so now you know, I don’t get star struck. But, back in the spring of 2006 I was working on the show Hope & Faith. And Hope & Faith just so happened to film at Silvercup Studios in Queens. And at the very same time I was working there, the film The Devil Wears Prada was shooting there as well. You know, the one with my idol…Meryl Streep.
TDWP was a gigantic production and I didn’t know their schedule, like when they’d actually be in the studio or out on location. And after weeks of not having seen Meryl, I’d given up all hope of seeing my hero. I absolutely love her. I think I can trace it back to when I was a kid and saw her in She-Devil. I loved that movie…and obviously, I know that’s not her best work and my taste in film has gotten significantly better since then as well. So having been a fan of hers for almost twenty years, I suppose it’s understandable that I’d love the chance to bump into her. And it would have to be by chance, because I would never go searching her out or asking for her autograph…I’m not like that.
Sometimes things happen when you least expect them. And that’s how it went with Meryl. It was the end of a very long Friday. We had been shooting H&F all day. The crew had just started wrapping and I brought a cart down to the set green room to get the leftover food and wine that was there for the actors and their guests. I loaded the cart like every other Friday night and wheeled it from the stage to the hall that lead to the elevator. And as I was doing this, I wasn’t even thinking about TDWP. In fact, I didn’t even think they were in studio.
So off I go, carting down the hallway, oblivious to everything. The hallway is pretty wide too, but it gets narrow in certain spots where staircases come down from the dressing rooms. And just as I was about to walk past a staircase, somebody comes down the steps and spins into the hallway. And they’re bearing down on me. That’s when I look up and see, of all people, Meryl Streep. In full Devil wardrobe. Apparently, she was in full Devil character too, because she wasn’t stopping. She just kept charging towards me, with an evil glare…and no words were necessary for her to say, “Get the fuck out of the way. Now.”
So now, of course, I’m scared. And star struck all at the same time. So I stop pushing the cart and start backing up, pulling the cart towards me until I clear the stairwell. I quick pull the cart over to the side and wait, way out of her way, under the stairs for her to pass. And as she passed me, she turned towards me and narrowed her eyes into an even more evil looking stare and shot me one of the nastiest looks I’ve ever received. Then she snapped her head back and marched to a stage door and stopped. And turned her head to the two people who were following behind her. She never said a word to them…but they knew what she wanted. They told her it was the wrong door, so she spun on her heel and went to the next door and entered onto their stage.
That was the last I saw of her. But I have to say, it was one of the coolest moments of my life. Bumping into her anywhere would have been great, but seeing her in full character like that, and being scrutinized by the Devil herself, even if it was for just a moment was amazing.
Ok…so now you know, I don’t get star struck. But, back in the spring of 2006 I was working on the show Hope & Faith. And Hope & Faith just so happened to film at Silvercup Studios in Queens. And at the very same time I was working there, the film The Devil Wears Prada was shooting there as well. You know, the one with my idol…Meryl Streep.
TDWP was a gigantic production and I didn’t know their schedule, like when they’d actually be in the studio or out on location. And after weeks of not having seen Meryl, I’d given up all hope of seeing my hero. I absolutely love her. I think I can trace it back to when I was a kid and saw her in She-Devil. I loved that movie…and obviously, I know that’s not her best work and my taste in film has gotten significantly better since then as well. So having been a fan of hers for almost twenty years, I suppose it’s understandable that I’d love the chance to bump into her. And it would have to be by chance, because I would never go searching her out or asking for her autograph…I’m not like that.
Sometimes things happen when you least expect them. And that’s how it went with Meryl. It was the end of a very long Friday. We had been shooting H&F all day. The crew had just started wrapping and I brought a cart down to the set green room to get the leftover food and wine that was there for the actors and their guests. I loaded the cart like every other Friday night and wheeled it from the stage to the hall that lead to the elevator. And as I was doing this, I wasn’t even thinking about TDWP. In fact, I didn’t even think they were in studio.
So off I go, carting down the hallway, oblivious to everything. The hallway is pretty wide too, but it gets narrow in certain spots where staircases come down from the dressing rooms. And just as I was about to walk past a staircase, somebody comes down the steps and spins into the hallway. And they’re bearing down on me. That’s when I look up and see, of all people, Meryl Streep. In full Devil wardrobe. Apparently, she was in full Devil character too, because she wasn’t stopping. She just kept charging towards me, with an evil glare…and no words were necessary for her to say, “Get the fuck out of the way. Now.”
So now, of course, I’m scared. And star struck all at the same time. So I stop pushing the cart and start backing up, pulling the cart towards me until I clear the stairwell. I quick pull the cart over to the side and wait, way out of her way, under the stairs for her to pass. And as she passed me, she turned towards me and narrowed her eyes into an even more evil looking stare and shot me one of the nastiest looks I’ve ever received. Then she snapped her head back and marched to a stage door and stopped. And turned her head to the two people who were following behind her. She never said a word to them…but they knew what she wanted. They told her it was the wrong door, so she spun on her heel and went to the next door and entered onto their stage.
That was the last I saw of her. But I have to say, it was one of the coolest moments of my life. Bumping into her anywhere would have been great, but seeing her in full character like that, and being scrutinized by the Devil herself, even if it was for just a moment was amazing.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Ass Full of What?
I figure everybody is in need of another Crazy Nanny story. I also figure it sheds some light onto why I’m so fucked up. Genetics are a bitch!
This story takes place back in July. My family was throwing a surprise 80th birthday party for Nanny in August, and along with that, we all decided to have a family picture taken. You know, one of those cute ones where we’re all in matching outfits and looking so happy and sweet. Yeah. We did it. Except instead of matching outfits, each one of Crazy Nanny’s children had to wear a different colored polo shirt and their significant other and children had to match them. So now we look like a fucking gay pride family. What’s also very funny about the pictures though is that Crazy Nanny was holding a bottle of water in almost everyone. Of course she was.
I should have known the whole event was going to be trouble while we were still on our way up to the beach. I drove up with Nanny and my mom, and I spent most of the ride trying not to spill the fruit punch I was drinking on my shirt. Because I would look extra cute with a big red stain on my shirt. Anyway, we turned off of Rt. 35 onto Osborne Avenue, as this leads to East Avenue and the beach entrances. Just as we were about to turn onto East Avenue, I notice a guy and a girl on bikes in the middle of the road (It’s a one way street and everybody rides down the middle and they move over for cars) and I’m sure my mom did too. Apparently so did Nanny, because before we had even made it all the way around the corner, she shouts from the back seat, scaring the crap out of both my mother and I…
CN: “HONK YOUR HORN BETTE ANNE. THESE TWO MUST WANT AN ASS FULL OF FENDER.”
What? Has she lost her fucking mind? I start cracking up and my poor mom can do nothing but shake her head. And when I turned around and looked at her, she just started laughing and told me I’m lucky that I have such a “hip” grandmother. Oh sure…if that’s what you want to call it. But, honestly, there’s nothing better than hearing your 58 year old mother get called by her first and middle name, like she just got caught cutting school or something.
Another bright moment at this little excursion was my dopey uncle. All of us adults spent the majority of the time keeping the four little kids away from the ocean. If I heard, “GET AWAY FROM THAT WATER!” once I heard it a thousand frigin’ times. But of course, 38 year old E. strolls down to the edge and gets smashed by a wave. So he now spends the remainder of the time getting his picture taken in soaking wet pants.
Ahhh. Family time is always so much fun!
This story takes place back in July. My family was throwing a surprise 80th birthday party for Nanny in August, and along with that, we all decided to have a family picture taken. You know, one of those cute ones where we’re all in matching outfits and looking so happy and sweet. Yeah. We did it. Except instead of matching outfits, each one of Crazy Nanny’s children had to wear a different colored polo shirt and their significant other and children had to match them. So now we look like a fucking gay pride family. What’s also very funny about the pictures though is that Crazy Nanny was holding a bottle of water in almost everyone. Of course she was.
I should have known the whole event was going to be trouble while we were still on our way up to the beach. I drove up with Nanny and my mom, and I spent most of the ride trying not to spill the fruit punch I was drinking on my shirt. Because I would look extra cute with a big red stain on my shirt. Anyway, we turned off of Rt. 35 onto Osborne Avenue, as this leads to East Avenue and the beach entrances. Just as we were about to turn onto East Avenue, I notice a guy and a girl on bikes in the middle of the road (It’s a one way street and everybody rides down the middle and they move over for cars) and I’m sure my mom did too. Apparently so did Nanny, because before we had even made it all the way around the corner, she shouts from the back seat, scaring the crap out of both my mother and I…
CN: “HONK YOUR HORN BETTE ANNE. THESE TWO MUST WANT AN ASS FULL OF FENDER.”
What? Has she lost her fucking mind? I start cracking up and my poor mom can do nothing but shake her head. And when I turned around and looked at her, she just started laughing and told me I’m lucky that I have such a “hip” grandmother. Oh sure…if that’s what you want to call it. But, honestly, there’s nothing better than hearing your 58 year old mother get called by her first and middle name, like she just got caught cutting school or something.
Another bright moment at this little excursion was my dopey uncle. All of us adults spent the majority of the time keeping the four little kids away from the ocean. If I heard, “GET AWAY FROM THAT WATER!” once I heard it a thousand frigin’ times. But of course, 38 year old E. strolls down to the edge and gets smashed by a wave. So he now spends the remainder of the time getting his picture taken in soaking wet pants.
Ahhh. Family time is always so much fun!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Save the Boobies
I figured the title would get your attention. I saw this sticker on the back of a car the other day and felt inspired to let you all know that October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.
I just think this is important and wanted to pass on the information. A simple donation can help a lot. And helping with breast cancer can possibly lead to prevention of other cancers and possibly a cure.
Below are a couple of websites with more information on prevention and detection...and also how to make a donation and other fundraising events.
http://nbcam.org/about_nbcam.cfm
http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/
I just think this is important and wanted to pass on the information. A simple donation can help a lot. And helping with breast cancer can possibly lead to prevention of other cancers and possibly a cure.
Below are a couple of websites with more information on prevention and detection...and also how to make a donation and other fundraising events.
http://nbcam.org/about_nbcam.cfm
http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/
Friday, October 10, 2008
Wildlife Kingdom
Well…I told you I’d tell you some of the Puerto Rico stories, so here’s the first one. It’s about the fucking tarantula that decided to stop by one night. As if the place wasn’t like a frigin animal amusement park. There were lizards EVERYWHERE, stray dogs, roosters, mice and a bull frog, that according to C, “was the size of a small dog,” as he dramatically held his hands out like somebody trying to describe the size of the fish they caught.
I should start out by telling you that I’m petrified of spiders. PETRIFIED. I am completely freaked out by them and have been for most of my life. The only other creatures that might bother me more are snakes. I’ll get my panties in a bunch over a regular old spider…so imagine my delight when I saw this fucking armor plated behemoth walking through our kitchen. You could almost hear its hooves clacking on the floor.
Thankfully, I wasn’t the one who saw it first. C spotted it and yelled, rather high pitched, to KB for a paper towel. I was standing only a few feet from C and as I turned and saw it I was literally paralyzed. KH and X were standing next to me and they turned when he yelled too. So KB hands C a wad of paper towels and C bends down to kill it. As he does this though, he realizes that he “would like a little more than a paper towel” between him and this arachnid tank. So he quickly thrusts his arm up and the tarantula runs toward him. FUCK. I’m still standing there and all I can manage to do is yell, at the top of my lungs, “KILL IT, KILL IT, KILL IT…” You get the point.
KB is now pissed because C jumps out of the way and now the thing is running into his room. So C yells back at KB that he should kill it. So KB picks up a frying pan off the counter and marches into his bedroom. C follows to supervise. X is now saying that we should catch it and let it go. KH is laughing at me, but also encouraging them to kill it. And I’m still standing in the same spot, yelling, “JUST KILL IT, DON’T CATCH IT. JUST KILL IT…JUST KILL IT.”
All I can hear from the bedroom is a lot of yelling and commotion. And that thing is still not fucking dead yet. I can hear the sound of furniture being shifted around and KB and C shuffling all over the place out of fear the thing was going to pop out from under something any second. And then it finally did. And thankfully I had regained movement and moved to the doorway just in time to watch C make a standing jump onto KB’s bed. Frankly, I didn’t know he had those kind of reflexes or athletic capability for that matter, but I suppose giant poison spiders are motivational.
Anyway, not knowing where the thing is, I retreat back into the kitchen. X is still mumbling something about catching it and I want to punch him in the face. There is no part of me at all that feels bad about this thing dying. The sooner the better…and I certainly don’t want it to have another chance to get back in the house and possibly wind up in my room the next time.
Finally, after more yelling, shuffling and furniture moving we hear a loud bang. And then another and then a third. Out walk KB and C, like victorious soldiers coming home from war. It was dead.
Thank God there were only two nights left though, because I couldn’t sleep for shit. Even after getting drunk. I know those things reproduce…who knows how many more could have been lurking.
Below is Pepe, the stray dog we adopted for a couple of days. We fed him and gave him a bath and in return he showed us lots of affection...by humping our couch incessantly.
I should start out by telling you that I’m petrified of spiders. PETRIFIED. I am completely freaked out by them and have been for most of my life. The only other creatures that might bother me more are snakes. I’ll get my panties in a bunch over a regular old spider…so imagine my delight when I saw this fucking armor plated behemoth walking through our kitchen. You could almost hear its hooves clacking on the floor.
Thankfully, I wasn’t the one who saw it first. C spotted it and yelled, rather high pitched, to KB for a paper towel. I was standing only a few feet from C and as I turned and saw it I was literally paralyzed. KH and X were standing next to me and they turned when he yelled too. So KB hands C a wad of paper towels and C bends down to kill it. As he does this though, he realizes that he “would like a little more than a paper towel” between him and this arachnid tank. So he quickly thrusts his arm up and the tarantula runs toward him. FUCK. I’m still standing there and all I can manage to do is yell, at the top of my lungs, “KILL IT, KILL IT, KILL IT…” You get the point.
KB is now pissed because C jumps out of the way and now the thing is running into his room. So C yells back at KB that he should kill it. So KB picks up a frying pan off the counter and marches into his bedroom. C follows to supervise. X is now saying that we should catch it and let it go. KH is laughing at me, but also encouraging them to kill it. And I’m still standing in the same spot, yelling, “JUST KILL IT, DON’T CATCH IT. JUST KILL IT…JUST KILL IT.”
All I can hear from the bedroom is a lot of yelling and commotion. And that thing is still not fucking dead yet. I can hear the sound of furniture being shifted around and KB and C shuffling all over the place out of fear the thing was going to pop out from under something any second. And then it finally did. And thankfully I had regained movement and moved to the doorway just in time to watch C make a standing jump onto KB’s bed. Frankly, I didn’t know he had those kind of reflexes or athletic capability for that matter, but I suppose giant poison spiders are motivational.
Anyway, not knowing where the thing is, I retreat back into the kitchen. X is still mumbling something about catching it and I want to punch him in the face. There is no part of me at all that feels bad about this thing dying. The sooner the better…and I certainly don’t want it to have another chance to get back in the house and possibly wind up in my room the next time.
Finally, after more yelling, shuffling and furniture moving we hear a loud bang. And then another and then a third. Out walk KB and C, like victorious soldiers coming home from war. It was dead.
Thank God there were only two nights left though, because I couldn’t sleep for shit. Even after getting drunk. I know those things reproduce…who knows how many more could have been lurking.
Below is Pepe, the stray dog we adopted for a couple of days. We fed him and gave him a bath and in return he showed us lots of affection...by humping our couch incessantly.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Jersey Representin’
Here’s another little Tennessee story for you. There’s more, I just needed to take a little break from them…
My friends and I like to take fun vacations. Which I’m sure you’ve already figured out from reading the previous Tennessee blogs. Prior to that trip, we had all spent a week together in Puerto Rico back in the spring. It was a great time and there are plenty of good stories I should write about for you. While there, we discovered that Rincon, PR is some sort of winter hideaway for Jersey slackers. There are hordes of young people that spend their winters in PR surfing and bartending, then, come spring time, they head home to do the same thing back in Jersey. Really not such a bad idea…
Anyway, I figured this trip to Tennessee wouldn’t involve bumping into people from Jersey. I was right…for the most part. We were Jersey free until the night we went to the strip club. We actually met up with them on the way home…in the car.
Yes, I said in the car. We were on our way home from The Mouse’s Ear (I know, I know…it’s ridiculous, but I didn’t name it.) when we discover that we’re a bit lost. But, I suppose that’s what you get when you ask a stripper for directions. Shame on us. So we’re tooling around downtown Knoxville, I think A might have been driving. Or was it G? Of course I have no idea, because I was drunk, in the back seat of my own car staring out the window and reliving the rafter humping in Technicolor.
We wind up stopped at a light in what seemed to be the middle of the U of Tennessee campus, and I’m snapped out of my drunken day dream by some guy frantically waving his hands at me from the car next to us. I roll down the window and with my head still in a fog, he starts rattling off questions about where someplace is. Everyone else in the car is now asking me what he wants. There’s something familiar about this guy, but I couldn't quite place it. I was a little too drunk to notice that he didn’t have a southern accent. In fact, he sounded a lot like me. And he was very animated, talking real fast and waving his hands.
I finally respond to him…
B: Sorry man, we’re from Jersey. And we’re lost. I have no frigin idea what you’re looking for.
Guy: Hey…we’re from Jersey too. Newark. We’re looking for blah blah blah (I can’t remember what he said.)
B: Oh well…good luck.
G: Yeah, well we can’t find it…so you guys wanna buy some ecstasy?
B: Nah man…we’re all wasted. We want to go home and go to bed.
G: Ok. Take it easy.
We all start laughing…of course the guy from Newark that we run into in Tennessee wants to sell us drugs…who wouldn’t this happen to!? And sure enough, as the light changes and we pull away, I look over and see his license plates. I love the Jersey camaraderie though. Just because we’re from the same state and he can’t find the “clients” he’s looking for, we’re automatically ok to offer drugs to. How the hell did he know we didn’t all work together in the DEA or something? I guess we looked delinquent enough…which is a definite possibility after our night.
Perhaps people like that are why the rest of the country hates our entire state. Oh well…fuck ‘em. It’s the greatest place in the world.
My friends and I like to take fun vacations. Which I’m sure you’ve already figured out from reading the previous Tennessee blogs. Prior to that trip, we had all spent a week together in Puerto Rico back in the spring. It was a great time and there are plenty of good stories I should write about for you. While there, we discovered that Rincon, PR is some sort of winter hideaway for Jersey slackers. There are hordes of young people that spend their winters in PR surfing and bartending, then, come spring time, they head home to do the same thing back in Jersey. Really not such a bad idea…
Anyway, I figured this trip to Tennessee wouldn’t involve bumping into people from Jersey. I was right…for the most part. We were Jersey free until the night we went to the strip club. We actually met up with them on the way home…in the car.
Yes, I said in the car. We were on our way home from The Mouse’s Ear (I know, I know…it’s ridiculous, but I didn’t name it.) when we discover that we’re a bit lost. But, I suppose that’s what you get when you ask a stripper for directions. Shame on us. So we’re tooling around downtown Knoxville, I think A might have been driving. Or was it G? Of course I have no idea, because I was drunk, in the back seat of my own car staring out the window and reliving the rafter humping in Technicolor.
We wind up stopped at a light in what seemed to be the middle of the U of Tennessee campus, and I’m snapped out of my drunken day dream by some guy frantically waving his hands at me from the car next to us. I roll down the window and with my head still in a fog, he starts rattling off questions about where someplace is. Everyone else in the car is now asking me what he wants. There’s something familiar about this guy, but I couldn't quite place it. I was a little too drunk to notice that he didn’t have a southern accent. In fact, he sounded a lot like me. And he was very animated, talking real fast and waving his hands.
I finally respond to him…
B: Sorry man, we’re from Jersey. And we’re lost. I have no frigin idea what you’re looking for.
Guy: Hey…we’re from Jersey too. Newark. We’re looking for blah blah blah (I can’t remember what he said.)
B: Oh well…good luck.
G: Yeah, well we can’t find it…so you guys wanna buy some ecstasy?
B: Nah man…we’re all wasted. We want to go home and go to bed.
G: Ok. Take it easy.
We all start laughing…of course the guy from Newark that we run into in Tennessee wants to sell us drugs…who wouldn’t this happen to!? And sure enough, as the light changes and we pull away, I look over and see his license plates. I love the Jersey camaraderie though. Just because we’re from the same state and he can’t find the “clients” he’s looking for, we’re automatically ok to offer drugs to. How the hell did he know we didn’t all work together in the DEA or something? I guess we looked delinquent enough…which is a definite possibility after our night.
Perhaps people like that are why the rest of the country hates our entire state. Oh well…fuck ‘em. It’s the greatest place in the world.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Abracadabra
I’ve been taking a little break with the Tennessee stories (there’s a couple more, don’t worry) to tell you about my Sunday night a few weeks ago. I get myself into the damndest situations sometimes.
I was out for “date night” with C and A, we started at the Patio and then we headed to the Ark, of course. X met up with us there and we were all hanging out, having a good time. All was well until I went outside for a cigarette and X’s girlfriend made friends with the some chick bartender from another local bar.
X’s girl and the bartender are chatting about clubs and dancing and the bartender girl, who appeared to be straight, mentioned how she loves to dance at Paradise because the boys won’t bother her. So I say that of course none of the boys will bother her because it’s a gay bar. She starts laughing at me and says something like no shit, implying that of course she knows what kind of bar it is.
She then gets up and walks over to me…and X apparently, is a bit more intuitive than I am because he ushers his girl back into the bar, as if he knew what was going to happen. I’m so oblivious sometimes it’s not even funny. Anyway, bartender girl is now in my face, yanking my hat off and proceeding to make out with me. Ok. Great. Are we done yet, because this isn’t actually kissing, it’s more like she’s eating my face. She’s now telling me how cute I am and I told her that the last time I saw her was on Christmas night when we left the Ark for a little while and went to her bar. I remember because she was dressed like a slutty elf. She thinks it’s hysterical that I was there that night and that I remember her. And then I told her that she’s a lucky charm for me because I hooked up on Christmas too. More hysterics. I’m not really that funny…she’s just that wasted.
I get her to come back inside and as soon as we get in the back door she drags me back outside. Christ. I’ve had enough of her for the moment and I know word of my making out has spread like wildfire through the bar and I would like the chance to defend myself.
I finally got back inside and sure enough, I am the topic of conversation and there’s a lot of pointing and laughing going on. Fuckers. And X comes over to me and says,
X: Isn’t that the bartender from Christmas that you told me you wouldn’t fuck with my dick?
B: Yeah.
X: Ha.
B: Ha your ass. I didn’t fuck her yet. And I’m not planning on it.
And it only gets worse, because bartender girl is pretty relentless. She decides I need a massage. And I keep drinking and am not one to pass on a rub down, so I straddle the stool like she requests. So she slams my head down onto my arms that are folded on the bar and goes fucking crazy. She is kneading on my lower back so hard I can barely take it. And every time I pick my head up she slams it back down and whispers, “Oh baby, you need this. I’ll take care of you.” What the fuck. I finally glance over to my friends and they’re being as supportive as you’d expect. Still laughing and pointing, but now C is taking pictures of this mess on her phone. Thank God she had her camera out, because now bartender girl is taking my shirt off…and sticking her hands in some very inappropriate places. I’ve had enough, so I stand up. She asks me how I liked the massage and I tell her it was just fucking fabulous. She didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm.
As more time passes, I seem to be getting a bit drunker. I finally sneak away from the girl and beg my friends not to let me go home with her. They’re a great bunch. Really.
And after more conversation with her, I find out she has a nine year old kid and she is currently dating a magician. Although the relationship just recently ended. A magician? Are you serious? She’s very serious. And now she wants to know if I’ll give her a ride home. The moral dilemma kicks in. Do I really want to sleep with some drunk ass chick with a kid, who most recently dated a magician? Am I getting too mature for foolish one night stands, because I’d rather be in a relationship? And I’m still kicking myself for screwing up the last one. All of this is racing through my mind when I finally decide what I’m going to do.
And now, the only question that remains is, did I take her home, or did I let her take a cab?
Well, I don’t think that’s any of your damn business!
I was out for “date night” with C and A, we started at the Patio and then we headed to the Ark, of course. X met up with us there and we were all hanging out, having a good time. All was well until I went outside for a cigarette and X’s girlfriend made friends with the some chick bartender from another local bar.
X’s girl and the bartender are chatting about clubs and dancing and the bartender girl, who appeared to be straight, mentioned how she loves to dance at Paradise because the boys won’t bother her. So I say that of course none of the boys will bother her because it’s a gay bar. She starts laughing at me and says something like no shit, implying that of course she knows what kind of bar it is.
She then gets up and walks over to me…and X apparently, is a bit more intuitive than I am because he ushers his girl back into the bar, as if he knew what was going to happen. I’m so oblivious sometimes it’s not even funny. Anyway, bartender girl is now in my face, yanking my hat off and proceeding to make out with me. Ok. Great. Are we done yet, because this isn’t actually kissing, it’s more like she’s eating my face. She’s now telling me how cute I am and I told her that the last time I saw her was on Christmas night when we left the Ark for a little while and went to her bar. I remember because she was dressed like a slutty elf. She thinks it’s hysterical that I was there that night and that I remember her. And then I told her that she’s a lucky charm for me because I hooked up on Christmas too. More hysterics. I’m not really that funny…she’s just that wasted.
I get her to come back inside and as soon as we get in the back door she drags me back outside. Christ. I’ve had enough of her for the moment and I know word of my making out has spread like wildfire through the bar and I would like the chance to defend myself.
I finally got back inside and sure enough, I am the topic of conversation and there’s a lot of pointing and laughing going on. Fuckers. And X comes over to me and says,
X: Isn’t that the bartender from Christmas that you told me you wouldn’t fuck with my dick?
B: Yeah.
X: Ha.
B: Ha your ass. I didn’t fuck her yet. And I’m not planning on it.
And it only gets worse, because bartender girl is pretty relentless. She decides I need a massage. And I keep drinking and am not one to pass on a rub down, so I straddle the stool like she requests. So she slams my head down onto my arms that are folded on the bar and goes fucking crazy. She is kneading on my lower back so hard I can barely take it. And every time I pick my head up she slams it back down and whispers, “Oh baby, you need this. I’ll take care of you.” What the fuck. I finally glance over to my friends and they’re being as supportive as you’d expect. Still laughing and pointing, but now C is taking pictures of this mess on her phone. Thank God she had her camera out, because now bartender girl is taking my shirt off…and sticking her hands in some very inappropriate places. I’ve had enough, so I stand up. She asks me how I liked the massage and I tell her it was just fucking fabulous. She didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm.
As more time passes, I seem to be getting a bit drunker. I finally sneak away from the girl and beg my friends not to let me go home with her. They’re a great bunch. Really.
And after more conversation with her, I find out she has a nine year old kid and she is currently dating a magician. Although the relationship just recently ended. A magician? Are you serious? She’s very serious. And now she wants to know if I’ll give her a ride home. The moral dilemma kicks in. Do I really want to sleep with some drunk ass chick with a kid, who most recently dated a magician? Am I getting too mature for foolish one night stands, because I’d rather be in a relationship? And I’m still kicking myself for screwing up the last one. All of this is racing through my mind when I finally decide what I’m going to do.
And now, the only question that remains is, did I take her home, or did I let her take a cab?
Well, I don’t think that’s any of your damn business!
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