Whatever they came for, it isn't us.

Are you ready? Have you been training? Stretching? It's important that you stretch. Get the proper nurishments, you don't want to fall off half way through. Rest your mind, too. It's as much a mental drain as it is physical. And remember, it won't be relieving when its over. It might be more painful. But you've got to keep pushing on through and do it again next week. Some times, it will be so frustraiting that you'll want to give up. But don't. You have to keep reassuring your self that when it's all done...I mean really all done...it will be very satisfying. So get ready. Do your stretches. Rest up.
Lost starts tonight.

Arrr Mateys!

Jeff and I went to Tampa for the weekend to see my parents and also to go to Gasparilla. If you're unfamiliar, the myth of Tampa was that it was invaded by a pirate named Jose Gaspar, in which he raped and pillaged and claimed Tampa for his own. This, of course, isn't true. But for over 100 years different "krewes", ie people with yachts, "invade" Tampa Bay and then have a parade and throw lots of beads. While everyone else gets "very intoxicated". (I know those last quotation marks weren't necessary, I was just on a role.)

This was my first Gasparilla since I was 15 that I was sober not shit faced. And also with my parents. And possibly my most fun Gasparilla. I didn't get arrested. I didn't get thrown up on. I didn't pass out on the middle of bayshore blvd. I didn't throw up on anyone else. Also, for my first time EVER I caught not one, but two strands of beads. (Have I mentioned that I've gone to more Gasparillas than I can count?) If that's not "fun", I don't want to know what "fun" is. (I know, I know, it doesn't make any sense. Just go with it.)

I took a lot of fun pictures but something happened between the camera and my parents computer so...just imagine me, with a totally awesome new, short hair cut, lots of beads, and dancing with little children.

Also, imagine several pictures of my parents little Maltese wearing about 30 beads around her neck in the most precious display of gasparillary ever experienced.

Aren't those pictures just great?

Update on The Great Parking lot War of Jacksonville: In a moment of extreme passive aggression, Jeff and I decided not to take his car to Tampa on Thursday, but instead, leave it in the same spot, where you'll still find it today.

I was half expecting the tires to be flat.

Paved paradise and we still aren't satisdied

Jeff and I live in a small complex with ample parking. So ample that no one has assigned parking and there isn't even specified visitor parking. It's kind of understood that if you have visitors, you have them park in the spots that aren't directly in front of the houses, but nothing official.

Seriously, on bad days you might have to park five or six spots away from whats closest to you. Now see, there are about 2 spots in front of each house which you would think would mean you could always park in front of your house, but some of the units (including ours) are tucked away in corners. Imagine all the little sections of the complex as a V, we're in the point. So, it just doesn't work out like that all the time, but there are still enough spots for everybody.

So, last night, Jeff and I come home from happy hour...three hours after happy hour ended...and parked in the closest spot to us. Which was the last spot in our little section of the complex. It happened to be the very first spot, the top of the V, if you will.

Jeff hasn't moved his car all day. He just came back from a run and found this note on his car:



This pisses me off for many reasons.

1) We have no assigned spots, ass hole. This is not your spot. In fact, we have parked in this particular spot many times.
2) We've parked in this spot several times because we've lived here longer than you have, and yet you don't have decency to note who your neighbors are? Especially since Jeff, you know, the one who's car you put the note on, says hello to you almost every morning on the way out the door.
4) Also, we know who you are. And we know that you are a big fat lady so, seriously, would it hurt you to walk 10 feet to your door, bitch?

Why Men Shouldn't Dress Themselves Part 1: Sports Commentators Make My Soul and My Dresses Weep

I hate tv sports commentators.

They might possibly have the most unnecessary job in the history of the world.

Imagine any other activity or event in your life where someone constantly keeps you up to date with WHAT YOU'RE WATCHING WITH YOUR OWN EYES.

"Now, if you look over to this side of the room, you'll see the father-to-be is looking pretty anxious. He can't console his wife because the pain of labor is really hard on her".
"I agree, obviously, it's really hard on him too."
"That's right, Jack, but this man knows how to stay strong under pressure. He grew up in a garbage can after his parents sold him for a few slices of american cheese. He had his first job at the age of four, bagging groceries, and eventually paid his way through college, graduating by the time he was 13. It's no wonder why he's doing so great out here today."
"Boy howdy! And lets not forget about the dazzling mother-to-be! This is her third attempt at child birth. The first two were false starts. Both times she had started having contractions and took them to mean labor, but she was wrong. She was penalized 5 yards both times, but it looks like shes gonna pull through and win the game."

But if assaulting my brain weren't enough for these guys, they had to go and assault my eyes.

Seriously. Worst. dressed. ever.

Now look, I don't want to hear about your uncle who shows up to Thanksgiving dinner wearing t-shirts with holes in them, and tennis shoes with out socks but with holes in them, and cut off blue jean shorts with holes in them, and a curly mullet...which may or may not have holes in it. (oh wait, that's my uncle.) Because, the thing is, uncle Lester isn't dressing to impress. These guys hosting the NFL pregame show are.

It's like watching a really bad movie that knows its really bad versus watching a really bad movie that thinks it should get nominated for best picture.

Every time I see one of these ass clowns I can't help myself from screaming "WHO DRESSED YOU?!?! WHY DID ANYONE LET YOU ON THE AIR LIKE THAT? IT'S NOT OK TO WEAR A SHINY PINK POLKA DOT SHIRT WITH A YELLOW AND BLUE SHINY TIE, A NAVY 3 PIECE PINSTRIPE SUIT AND A PINK HANDKERCHIEF POKING OUT! JUST BECAUSE THEY ARE SINGULARLY REALLY NICE/EXPENSIVE PIECES OF CLOTHING DOESN'T MEAN YOU SHOULD PILE ON AS MANY PIECES OF IT AS YOU CAN!! YOU LOOK LIKE AS ASS CLOWN!"

Ok, so really, who dresses these guys? I have two theories.

The First theory is, the commentators have to dress themselves. Every night, someone fills their dressing rooms with Armani suits, Hugo boss shirts, etc etc, and just leave them hanging there. And every night, each one of these guys is panic stricken and terrified at the thought of what to wear. So they either turn off the lights and grab things in the dark* or they leave the lights on and grab everything of the same color so it matches**.

My other theory is that some big wigs' fuck up son needed a job after his third DUI arrest in 6 months or else he would go to jail, so his dad tells him he's now in charge of dressing sports commentators. He goes out and picks up Armani suits, Hugo boss shirt, etc. etc. and every night when he must decide how what to dress these men in, he is panic stricken and terrified. So, he either turns off the lights and grabs things in the dark* or he leaves the lights on and grabs everything in the same color so it matches**.

Either way, men should never be in charge of dressing themselves (or others.)

Because this is the out come:

*


**


Alright, I'll be honest, those aren't that bad. I searched and searched the internet and couldn't find pictures that truly represent how douchey commentators were and how their clothing reflected that.

Oh wait.

i
get your own gum, dan.

Stay tuned for part 2: The pony tailed man

It's not how you are, but how old you feel. And I feel like a bitter old man.

I look much younger than I am. I'm sure this will come in handy when I'm 30 trying to pass as a 14 year old, but until I have that desire, I've got to say...it really pisses me off.

For instance, when I was 20 and flying to Paris by myself. The woman asked me if I wanted my mom to get a special pass so she could walk me through the terminal. I politely reminded the woman that in order to be accompanied by your parent, you must be under the age of 17. She just smiled and said "yes, that's right".

Then there was last Christmas when I was purchasing new make up. I asked the woman who had been helping me for the last 20 minutes for something in particular and she looked at me strangely and said "wow, that's not something a lot of teenagers ask me for". I informed her that I was legally old enough to drink and she was taken back. This one seemed even more insulting because we had actually been engaged in a conversation for almost half an hour and she still thought I was in high school.

But yesterday, oh, yesterday. I went to the library to get myself a Duval County Library Card. First, I go to the information desk to ask where I get a card. The kind woman informs me that I apply at the check out counter, but hands me the form to go ahead and fill out before I get up there. And a pencil. I double check with her if it's ok that I fill this form out with a pencil, since, you know, erasers and official documents don't go together so well. But I mean, who's trying to get a fake library card? She assures me that it's totally fine.

So I fill it out.

Now, let me explain something. Up until this point, the two most insulting, mistaken for a child moments, listed above, I had been wearing t-shirts, blue jeans and no make up. So, it wasn't entirely their fault. But I went to the library immediately after leaving work. On a day in which I was interviewing people and felt the need to look particularly nice. I was wearing heels, a really nice pair of dress pants, a beautiful silk blouse, a sweater, a full face of make up, my hair was blown out. The only way I could have looked less like a teenager is if I had a gray wig and maybe painted on some sun spots.

So, I walk up to the check up counter and a plump woman, who I'm gonna go ahead and guess has never been mistaken for younger than she is, has the following conversation with me:

Little Ol' Me: "Hi, I'd like to apply for a card."
Fat Bitch: "Oh! Have you ever had a library card before?"
Little Ol' Me: Feeling like a really stupid question has just been asked: "um, yeah."
Fat Bitch: "Well great! Is your mom around? Because she's going to need to fill out the bottom of this form."
L.O.M.: "I'm an adult, so I'm pretty sure it's ok that I filled it out myself."
F.B.: "Oh! Excuse me! I mean, how do you tell a 17 year old from an 18 year old?"
Pretty Fucking Angry L.O.M.: "I'm 22."

She then presides to check the date on my drivers licence before she gasps and says "oh my! you are!" Because, you know, I'd lie about my age to get a library card. Again with the forgery.

She then states that, oh, look, you filled this form out in pencil. In which I tell her that the other woman instructed me to.

This is when Fat Bitch leans over the counter and in the most condescending voice anyone has ever spoken to me, says "Hooonnnneeeeyyyy, you should nnneeevvvveeerrrr sign your name with a pencil."

*Since she went ahead and took the liberty of leaning in towards me, I grabbed her shirt collar and pulled her half way over the counter. I put my face really close to hers and said, in an almost whisper, "Thank you for that wonderful piece of wisdom. You see, I've gotten so far in my life. Graduated college, signed contracts, filled out forms, but I never quite felt like I knew what I was doing. BUT NOW THAT I KNOW NOT TO SIGN MY NAME WITH A FUCKING PENCIL, IT'S ALL MAKING SENSE NOW!"

An then I took off running while she threatened to call the cops for assult. But clearly I got away cuz I'm a bad ass.

Dont fuck with me bitches. especially you fat bitches.




*It stopped being true at this point.

next...

So I'm in charge of organizing and conducting interviews for a job. We film all of the Jacksonville Suns home games and we also run the jumbotron...during the baseball season...which is April-August. We're looking for someone to run a camera and someone else to run the jumbotron. Not brain surgery, and it's a part time job, at best.

So here are some really fantastic e-mail responses I've gotten from the job listings.

"I am interested in the job. How much will you pay me?"

"I am qualified and can start right away. I am avaliable all weekdays and nights, and also weekends."

"I understand this job pertains to baseball, but I wont live in Jacksonville until September, will I still qualify?"

And my absolute favorite:

"I think I would be very good at this job, but I have a few questions? Where will I park my car? I don't like my possesions to be tampered with and I want to make sure my car is safe."

Oh, first impressions. You are a dear friend of mine.

sensual seduction

joannaq7: ive been craving getting drunk in the morning
joannaq7: thats called a problem, right?
shebangshebopbop: well, its only a problem when you aren't actually doing it

watch this for unlimited happiness

If I could by the world a coke, I would probably put the money to better use.

I'm in Atlanta, slightly intoxicated, and, for some reason, writing in my blog.

We did a lot of Atlanta-esque things today; the aquarium, the CNN behind the scenes tour (AMAZING!) and the World of Coke.

Now, if any body knows me...really knows me...then you know what a big fucking deal this was that I went. It's a brand new World of Coke. Just opened, state of the art, blah blah blah times bigger than the other one. All new new new new.

When I was roughly 14, I went to the old World of Coke and decided that they were brain washing people and were essentially forming an army to take over the world. Seriously. How I came to this conclusion isn't exactly clear to me. I know it had something to do with being forced to watch a movie before we could do anything else and how it was about third world countries struggling to survive until a truck full of coke showed up and everybody was all better.


Look, I don't know, but it made a lot of sense at the time. I was passionate about how I hated coke, and was pretty passionate about not going to the New World of Coke. But then I thought that I could actually go and take pictures, you know, document the conspiracy (seeing how I couldnt really remember anything that I was actually so offended over). So we went.

And heres my conclusion:

Coke caught on to the fact that I was spreading the truth about their terrible mind control games, thus needing to make the new world of coke (which is already more successful then new coke which only lasted for 79 days). New world of coke includes Andy Warhol paintings, 4d movies, and of course, 63 different sodas to drink to your hearts content (or til you vomit). So, of course its worth the 15 dollars, and 45% less mind controlish...i think...but, I don't know, maybe I got sucked in. I just don't trust it.

Plus, I've brushed my teeth 4 times today, because seriously, 63 different kinds of soda to drink? it makes my teeth and my brain grainy and smelly.

But I dont have a brain brush.



shannon says "tell the blogosphere 'peace' for me".
done.

Also, at a bar tonight, Shannon said "Oh the things I put in my ass..."

Also, Also, Meaghan says it probably wasn't worth the 15 dollars.

When I grow up, I wanna be...

My job situation is terrible, at best. I have this job where the people are really nice but it's a little homespun opperation and they just simply don't have enough stuff for me to do, which, roughly translates to, they don't have enough money to pay me.

I worked at a sex shop (I'm sorry, a romance superstore) before this job and took a huge pay cut (yes, the sex industry banks) because I thought it was more carreer oriented, but seriously, I'm running out of monetary resources.

Now I'm one of those people who has about a thousand things she wants to do when she grows up and don't really know anything about any of them. I would like to own a restraunt, I would like to work in television, I would like to create the mixed tapes you hear in chain restraunts and stores like the gap. Seriously, how do you become one of those people? I would so kick ass at that!

Anyways, I need money. And also, new friends wouldn't hurt either. I've come up with 2 options - but please, if you have others, let me know.

Option A - Get a job as a waitress - flexible hours, like minded people, tip money, help me figure out if I really want to own a restraunt.
A1 - I could still keep my crappy little job, but I'm not sure why i would
Option B - Quit my job and go to a temp agency and work temp jobs til I get offered a legit, bonified (but probably lame) job.

Please leave your thoughts and suggestions*.


*suggestions I dont want - Monster, career builder, hot jobs and the like. I'm being serious, has anyone ever gotten a job off of those things? A job that didn't entail some sort of marketing, be it of the tele-, door to door, or internet varieties?

I'm baaacccckkk!

I know I haven't written in this baby for a long time, but I only know of two people who actually read it, and one of them just had an amazing revelation about my feelings towards her.


"joanna: he kept saying shit in a british accent, but a terrible one
joanna: and i thought of you, because i wanted to punch him in the face
joanna: and i realized what he was doing was exactly something id do to you"

When I first read this conversation, I thought she had said "I realized what he was doing was exactly something you'd do to me", and I thought that was brilliant. But even with the dyslexia feature turned off, its still fantastic because it proves a point, Joanna and I derive an unnatural amount of pleasure from pissing each other off.


One of my most treasured moments in my life was riding in Joanna's car as we drove back to college after spending Easter weekend with our families. Joanna's had received a bag of jelly bellies for Easter, one of those big bags that are about 45% delicious and 55% want to vomit flavors. So, I made up a game where I told Joanna I was going to create delicious combinations of jelly bellies and feed them to her while she drove. (Yes, I physically placed the jelly bellies in her mouth. We actually do this often and preface said feedings with statements such as "if you eat this gummy worm, then when i die you'll have me cremated and swim in my ashes") (Did I mention we're the creepiest people alive?) But every single jelly belly combination I put in her mouth was disgusting. I'm talking "licorice-strawberry jam-pina colada" and "buttered popcorn-dr. pepper-pink grapefruit" combinations. Most of them were so bad that after she chewed them for a minute, she would spit them out of the window. But that was the thing. She would always think that this time, this next time, things were going to taste good. Sure, I said before each installment "this one is going to be so delicious" but after 3 or 4 times, wouldn't you stop believing me? Anyways, she never did and we laughed - stomach hurting howls - for about 2 hours straight. Because we truly derive an unnatural amount of pleasure from pissing each other off.