Wednesday, March 26, 2008

This is Really Special

Should I thank Joanna for this or what?

I bet you never knew I resembled snoop dogg so much!

Don't send a lame eCard. Try JibJab Sendables!

Saturday, March 22, 2008

We dont need no water.

Dear Joanna,

Since you are unwilling to switch to a blog provider that allows you to have comments, I will publicly announce this on my blog:

I would do your dad in a heart beat. Farrukh-in-fro, Farrukh-in-drag, or even the Farrukh-greying-slightly-around-the-edges-edition.

Faruk is on fire.

I google searched his name to make sure I was spelling it correctly and when I found this dapper picture, I just couldn't resist.

Friday, March 21, 2008

I'm probably counting my chickens before they hatch, but...

So, every year since college, Jeff and his buddies have done a march madness bracket on line, so, even though they all graduated four years ago, they can still all participate. I don't follow basketball in any shape or form but I wanted to play this little game.

There are 36 guys participating in this pool...

I'm in first place!!!

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Some days are diamonds, some days are rocks

My last post was about 2 most embarrassing moments of my life.

Ok, now; take the one about my trip home from Europe and substitute the following items:

Instead of mean airport employees, replace with ass hole restaurant patrons.

Instead of waiting at the airport forever for our plane to get there, replace with only being sat 4 tables all night but having to stay until the restaurants closed because I had the patio and it was a freakin' gorgeous night but no one wanted to sit outside, "but there might be a late night rush!" (there wasn't.)

Instead of throwing up on the flight attendant, replace with breaking every single ash tray for the front porch in one fell swoop.

Instead of breaking into tears when the only nice flight attendant wished me a happy birthday, replace with breaking into tears when the regional manager shows up at the end of the night with homemade chocolate chip cookies, and then offers me one.

The Europe trip still wins because no one accused me of being a terrorist last night.

P.S. I woke up this morning, made brownies from scratch and will probably be my breakfast and lunch. mmm. topped with ice cream. mmmm.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Stop it, you're making me blush!

Over at Shamelessly Sassy, she's holding a contest to hear embarrassing stories, rewarding the winner with 100 bucks.

So, I've been pondering this for a few days and have decided to tell you two stories. I can't decide which is more embarrassing because they are two totally different types of embarrassment. (And no, I'm not gonna talk about all the times my dad used to publicly announce if any of us had to "tillywinkle" on vacations.)

Coincidentally, both stories occurred at the age of 19.

This first story is a little more "wow, that really sucks" then funny, but extremely embarrassing.

Story 1:

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, a friend and I decided to take a first time trip to Europe. We had a lovely 3 week stay and enjoyed it thoroughly. Now, I have always had terrible, terrible, shitty birthdays and so I had decided that if I planned the trip to end on my 19th birthday and spend it on a transatlantic flight, then I wouldn't have to acknowledge it, or answer phone calls, and it could just pass on through. It was the perfect plan because if I didn't have a birthday, then nothing could happen to make it a bad one.

Or so I thought.

When you're traveling through Europe you don't spend much time checking e-mails and voice mails. So when your flight gets combined with another flight and is thus pushed two hours earlier, you aren't as likely to know. (Although, I'm not sure I would've checked to see if my flight was early even if I were at home anxiously waiting to leave)

Of course we get there several hours early anyways because we're flying international in a very recent post-9/11 world, but not as early as we need to be. There are TONS of people at the airport trying to get through security. They're screaming for anyone who is flying to JFK to come to the front of the line immediately...and seeing how half of the passengers on board are late, that's several hundred people. So I wait in line getting very, very nervous. The air port attendants keep assuring us that the plane will not wait for us, and to make sure we have our ID's and tickets ready. We got our tickets to come home 3 weeks earlier when we had left the U.S. and, oh my god, I don't have my ticket. It's not in my bag, holy crap, holy crap, holy crap.

I have to get out of line, and purchase another ticket. Not to pay for another seat, just 45 pounds(!!!) to have them re-print my ticket. And they gave me serious crap for that. Ok, so now we're for sure going to miss our plane and I really really just want to go home. We finally did make it through security and have to run to our terminal which is 30 minutes away. No exaggeration. (Heathrow = worst air port of all time, second place goes to Phoenix, AZ) There are herds of us trying not to miss our plane. We finally get there and, yeah, its not there. It hasn't landed yet.

At heathrow, instead of pulling people randomly out of the security line to shake down, they pull people randomly as they are boarding their flights. I'm steps away from walking on the plane and I get called over to a table.

"I need to see your passport and ticket, and then unzip your back pack and dump the contents onto the table."

Guess what falls out of the very bottom of my back pack? You guessed it, kids. My original ticket.

Before I even know what hits me I'm being whisked away and interrogated for having two identical tickets. What kind of game am I trying to pull? Do I think this is funny? How did I end up with two identical tickets? Was I trying to sneak someone else on?

No game. No, this is the least funny thing I've ever experienced in my life. How many times do I have to tell you that I thought I lost it? How would I sneak someone into the same seat? DO YOU THINK I'M A TERRORIST? OH MY GOD ARE YOU GOING TO ARREST ME AND SEND ME TO GUANTANAMO BAY??

They let me go after what seemed like an hour but was only about 5 minutes. The man at the loading dock is holding the door for me but asking me to hurry up. He was being very polite and was the only friendly person I had come across all day. He takes my passport and my ticket, looks at my passport for a second and then says, "Happy Birthday."

I burst into tears.

That's right. I was the absolute last person to get on the very full, international flight from London to New York and walked down the isle sobbing, for everyone to see.

I pop a xanax and sleep for 7 1/2 hours.

I wake up as we're descending and it takes me about 2 seconds to realize that I'm going to puke on the plane, which I've never done before in my life. There is no barf bag, so I stand up to run to the bathroom. The flight attendant yells at me to sit down and I motion to her that I'm going to barf. She tells me to stay where I am and she'll get me something. I was sitting in the window seat and the woman sitting in the isle said we should switch seats so I would be closer to the flight attendant when she brings me something to throw up in. So we switch, and I sit there and will myself with all of my might to not loose it all over the cabin.

The flight attendant quickly runs and leans over me to brings a plastic bag to the woman sitting in the window seat because, well, you know, that's where I was sitting. I couldn't handle it any longer and threw up alllllllll over her as she leaned over me.

Happy Birthday to me!!


Ok, this one is a little more light hearted

Story 2:

The following school year, I lived in my sorority house. As sophomores, we were the youngest ones aloud to live in the house, thus having last pick and getting the smallest rooms. Shoe box sized rooms. My dorm room was almost three times the size. So obviously, we had bunk beds because there was just no other way around it. My roommate and I had a deal, she got bottom bunk first semester, and I got it second semester. But here's the thing, my roommate was notorious for getting completely wasted and peeing her bed. It didn't make the idea of sleeping below her very appealing. But second semester rolled around and I tempted it, anyways.

Mean while, I was, for lack of a better word, dating this guy. Our relationship involved getting very drunk, going back to his house, having sex and passing out. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Seriously, I didn't know any two people who drank more than my room mate and this guy. Obviously I found something very appealing about this kind of person when I was 19, but I couldn't really tell you what it was.

So obviously there were times when the roommate would pee her bed (although it never dripped down on me, thank god). But also, this guy would pee his bed WHILE I SLEPT IN IT. And not just once, several times. Oh, and then there was the time that I woke up to see him peeing in his closet because he thought it was the bathroom.


It's St. Patricks day and I've got one class that ends at 11:30, so by 11:45 I'm at the Irish Pub on the strip. Of course room mate and guy have been there since the bar opened at 9am and I can safely assume that they are shit faced. There aren't that many people when I get there but I notice that there is a small congregation on one side of the bar, and I know a lot of the people standing around. I walk towards them and break into the circle only to find room mate and the guy, who are by no means friends, arguing over pees their bed more often.

Not accusing the other person of doing it more often, but trying to claim it as a title or something.

And seriously, people were watching this, finding it absolutely hilarious.

And then the two of them see me.



The link was instantly made with everyone in the bar. No matter what I did, no matter where I decided to rest my head, I had before, and would again get peed on.

The End.

A helpful suggestion from Netflix.

Because you enjoyed 30 Rock Season 1

We think you'll enjoy The War: A film by Ken Burns"

Maybe you've seen a version of 30 Rock that I haven't, that's more like a heavy-hearted documentary depicting a life changing event in our country's history and less like a behind-the-scene spoof of Saturday Night Live?

Saturday, March 15, 2008

maybe she's born with it...

Some people might argue that I am of the lazy persuasion. I would disagree, but I don't feel like it. I'll do it later. (zing!) Ok, it's true. I'm pretty lazy, but I'm not the laziest person I've ever met. For instance, a few weeks ago I was directing a film shoot and we were in the middle of a block, but then we needed to move to the end of the block to film the next bit. The camera girl literally wanted to walk to the car on one end of the block, load up the car with the cameras, lights, etc, and then drive to the opposite end of the block because she didn't want to walk. I finally had to convince her that the distance it would take us to walk to where we needed to film was the same exact distance we would walk to get to the car, but seriously, she was not happy about it. So, I'm not the laziest person ever, even I have a line.

That being said, I am constantly demanding that Jeff do things for me that are totally ridiculous that I don't ever actually expect him to do. They usually involve anything that is upstairs when I am downstairs, and things that he either has no business doing or just physically can't do for me. But I always ask. "Jeff, carry me up the stairs and brush my teeth for me!" "Jeff, will you put all of my clothes away?" "Jeff, will you take a shower for me?" (yes, he lives with this.)

So, two days ago, I needed to get ready for work but was enjoying my time laying on the couch, nursing a hang over, so I shot out with a request- "Jeff, will you carry me up the stairs, wash my face, and put my make up on?"

For some reason I can still not fathom at this time, he came in from the kitchen, swooped me off the couch, carried me up the stairs and threw me on the bed.

"Ok, what now?"

I couldn't believe this was happening so I decided to milk it for all its worth.

"You know those wet towelie things I take my makeup off with? In the blue box? Get those!"

***Ok, now I think its important to add a detail right in here. I never take my makeup off before I go to bed. Not because I don't ever want people to see me with out make up on, but, guessed it! Shear laziness. So I needed to take my makeup off in order to put a fresh face on***

And he gets them. And I lay there with my eyes closed as he gently rubs my face and its oh so ever so sweet and lovely and then OH MY GOD THE BURNING MY EYE HURTS SO FUCKING BAD OW OW OW OW OWWWIIIEEEE I CAN'T OPEN MY EYE!! BUT OH MY GOD IF I CLOSE IT IT FEELS LIKE THERE ARE KNIVES ON MY EYE LIDS! TINY LITTLE EYE BALL KNIVES! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!!

So, after doing everything we possibly could for about 45 minutes which included putting several forms of eye drops in my eyes, dunking my head in a bowl of water and then opening my eyes and staring directly into a shower head, we decided that I had to go to the eye doctor. I knew there had to have been something in my eye, and most likely it was mascara, but I couldn't see anything in there and oh my god did I mention the knives?

So off to the eye doctor we go. At this point, both my top and bottom eye lids on my right eye are swollen and my eye ball is red all over. The doctor looks at my eye, flips my eyelid up (a trick that required a steady hand and a q-tip) and pulled out a huge glob of mascara. Ok, it was like a spec of mascara, but considering that it was jammed up in the deep bowels of my eye ball,it was pretty huge. The he looks at both of my eyes. Then he looks again. Then again.

"Have you been sick recently?"

"Yeah, a few weeks ago"

"ok, so here's the thing. You have pink eye. In both of your eyes. When you were sick, you probably rubbed your eyes and gave your self pink eye. You can't wear mascara for at least a week, you have to go home and throw away your mascara and if you don't do anything else, don't sleep in it anymore!"

Pink eye?! That seems kinda bogus because let me tell you a symptom of pink eye...your eye turns pink. Sure, one eye was pretty red but that was because there was a big hunk of mascara in it. It was already back to normal by the time I left the doctor (Except for the bizarre eyelid swellings, that took a day) Other than that, no pinkness involved. However, why would he lie to me about having pink eye? And I mean, what if i really do and i don't throw away my mascara and I just spread it back and forth and back and forth for the rest of my life until I have kids and they end up being mutant babies with scary discolored eyes?

***Ok, here's the other important tidbit to continue my story. I'm OBSESSED with makeup. I think of makeup the way other people think of painting, it's an artwork, you can make different creations every time, plus (when applied properly) makes you look so pretty! I love doing my make up, I love doing other peoples make up, I love shopping for make get the idea. Seriously. I take this with me as my carry on on air planes. ***

Alright, taking off my mascara before I go to bed? Fine, I can do that. But throwing away all of my mascara???? Not wearing any for a week??

Ok, I will painfully throw away my mascaras...but as far as not wearing any? Well... I didn't put any on for the rest of the day!

R.I.P. Mascaras. You were good to me...until you got globs of yourself stuck in my eye...

ps, any one else totally weirded out by the word "mascara" after reading it so many times?

Monday, March 10, 2008

A Public Service Annocment:

Attention All;

Some may be becoming painfully aware that as fast as our delicious Samoa Girl Scout Cookies have entered our lives, they are quickly leaving us by way of our mouths. Of course, their chocolaty-carmel-coconut-chewiness is to blame. If they weren't so damn spectacular we wouldn't beam with delight whenever we set our sights on that precious purple box.

Have no fear, citizens of the world! Little Debbie to the rescue!

Behold The German Chocolate Cookie Ring!

These things are good.
On a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being tasting most like a samoa, and 1 being tasting least like a samoa) the official testers (jeff and myself) have ranked these cookies at an 8!
Curious about how other items ranked on this scale?
Shampoo ranked in at 1, oatmeal climbed in at 4, and Samoas, with an unexpected twist, only ranked at 9.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

March Forth!!

It's been a long while since I've written an actual post. You know, one that lets you know how shit is going down in my neck of the woods, because, I'm sure you're just on the edge of your seats waiting to find out.

So, as I mentioned before, things haven't been so great with my work situation and money was becoming an issue, so I started applying for a lot of service industry jobs about a month ago and now I have three jobs.

Job number one. My original producer job, but only working with my current clients on my own time. No longer coming into the office to do busy work for minimal pay.

Job number two. Part time at Pier 1. I applied for this job back in May when I realized that people don't line up to hand you important jobs (or any job) when you graduate. They called me while I was in the middle of applying for jobs a few weeks ago to say "I know you applied a long while ago, but are you still looking?" Talk about timing! I was, so I accepted. Part time was better than no time as far as I'm concerned. But more on Pier 1 and why I decided to keep this job after getting job number 3 later.

Job number three. Full time at a local jacksonville restaurant. To keep from full self disclosure I will refrain from naming it but I will say that it is an upscale casual restaurant that has it's own brewery.

And an extensive 7 day training program.

Apparently this place is the shit to work for. So much so that they, unlike most restaurants that can train over 100 servers a year, only has to train about 15 a year to fill there 40 person staff. Seriously. I get full benefits. And a 401K plan. And paid vacation. And I'm a server.

So, training started yesterday. We're a class of 7 people. One guy, me and 5 blond, under 21, college girls. Let me say, I'm not at all threatened by skinny blond girls. Hello, was in a sorority for 4 years. I'm not really threatened by anyone at this point, I'm just saying that I don't really like to introduce my totally weird self to anyone until I've known them for at least 2 days. So, how do I make my very very very first impression with these people? Well, it went a little something like this:

The seven of us are sitting around a table with the general manager. We haven't even had a chance to introduce ourselves when the manager passes around the training schedule. "Is this ok for everyone?" he wants to know. The one guys makes a hesitant "uhh yeeeaaahhh, i guess" noise about Tuesday. The manager wants to know. Out with it. Tell me why Tuesday could be a problem. "It's not a problem, per's just that...well...tomorrows my birthda..."

The poor dude doesn't even finish the word "birthday" before I scream...literally scream...


Everyone turns to me and stares.

I sink as deep into my chair as I can when I've realized that I've gone and revealed my total dorky nerdy weird self.

"'s the only day of the year that's a command..."

My manager answers in a I get it, but that's really stupid tone of voice, "Oh. March forth."

The birthday boy turns to me, trying to be nice and make me feel less like an idiot, "How bout that? Never heard that before in my life!"

But the 5 blond, under 21, college girls? They all looked at me like I had just tried to explain to them the theory of relativity in Cantonese.

"huh?" "what?" "I don't get it?"

These words bounced off every wall of the restaurant.

Quick. I must redeem myself. Seriously, I don't care if people think I'm strange. I am strange. Once people know me and can appreciate me I'm not afraid to let my freak flag fly, but right now, at this first impression moment, for some reason I was desperate to make myself seem cooler.

My brain tries to correct what my mouth has done and thinks "let them know you were in a sorority, let them know you were in college, let them know this was just some dumb stupid inside joke between you and your sorority sisters."

Brilliant! I tell myself.

What comes out of my mouth sounds like this:
" tells really cheesy jokes...and um...when I was in my liked my dads cheesy"

I hate when I can't rescue myself with my charm and wit.

Really though? Joke = totally on them. See, at this restaurant that brews 6 of its own beers, we are aloud to drink beer at every staff meeting before each shift, whenever our shift ends, etc. It's totally encouraged because they want us to like the beer and know the beer so we can successfully sell it to the guest.
In fact, during our training, every day we try about 15 (!!!!) items from the menu and then have to drink/discuss each of the beers.

Oh wait, unless you're under 21. Then you just get to watch me and the guy drink 6 beers, get sloshed, and get paid for it. Every. Day. This. Week.

March forth, bitches.

Best. Day. Ever.

What's the only day of the year thats a command?!?

Monday, March 3, 2008

Dear Blog,
It's not that I'm ignoring you because I'm mad at you, or not caring for you because I don't love you anymore, I haven't written in you because I am so wholly uninspired.

This isn't abandonment, I promise.