I don’t endorse candidates, and I don’t know who I’m voting for and it’s too early to know what party I’m even leaning towards to this race, yada yada yada. But this campaign commercial is hilarious and apparently totally legit.
Archive for November, 2007
It’s been two days of nothing but apartments, apartments, apartments, all over Arlington. In 48 hours, I’ve seen 15 different high rise buildings, and most of them have had multiple floor plans available to rent at multiple different price points. The higher you go, the more you pay. Good thing I don’t like heights and am cheap. Anyhoo, I’ve never realized how exhausting apartment hunting can be and how much I hate this. My brain is the consistency of the Potomac, which, by the way, some of these places claim is visible from the windows (when they did, I just smiled and nodded instead of bothering to arch my back, turning left, standing on my right foot and straining my neck 94.2 degrees to see the smidgeon of view I would be paying extra for).
Apartment shopping in DC is nothing like apartment shopping in Columbus. First, there’s a small thing I’ve had to face called cost of living adjustment. It’s about killing me. Rent in Cow Town was $640 a month. Triple that and then add a few hundred more just to round it out to a nice, even number. Then tack on random amenities fees and pet rent each month (plus the up front non-refundable pet rent that’s a couple hundred bucks) and monthly trash fees and then maybe, maybe, maybe the cost will be comparable to what I will now be paying per month here. Thank God I don’t have to pay for parking since that’s generally another hundred a month. Oh, and that grand total doesn’t include utilities. With what these places charge, couldn’t the management company throw a bone and at least provide free water or something? Or at least washer and dryers that were made after I was born?
Anyway, aside from sticker shock, I am also going to become a master of closet organization if I have any hope of fitting all of my clothes and shoes into these “walk-in closets.” Touted on every piece of literature and every website, in person, they are big enough for an anemic midget to walk into. Maybe. One woman showed me around yesterday and said she was able to fit her entire show collection into the closet with room to spare. I asked how big her collection was just as she opened the closet door. “Six pairs of shoes,” she said proudly. I knew then and there I would not take the apartment. Any place where the leasing agent bragged about a shoe “collection” of six, yes SIX, pairs of shoes, was not some where any self respecting shoe collector would be caught dead. And I am beyond shoe collector; I am a shoe whore. So, I will figure it out. I refuse to sacrifice the shoes.
There are other Very Important Considerations in my apartment hunt. Like how far do I have to haul groceries by wheelie cart and how steep are the hills I will have to climb when I go places since the area around here is particularly hill-laden. It’s like a cracked out Athens and it seems like every place I like is in the valley of a series of hills so to go anywhere I am going to have to hike Everest first. Yes, God is laughing at me. But give me a year and I’ll have killer legs. Or a heart attack.
I will be in DC in about one week and for the last two days, I’ve been frantically preparing. That’s meant getting high from cleaning fumes mixed with an extreme lack of sleep and trying to run errands amid seeing friends last minute. If I tape one more box or take another load of stuff out to the Salvation Army, I will poke my eyes out with my labeling marker (which I am continuously misplacing in my rush out the door to meet so and so). But finally, everything is packed expect for the stuff I am still using daily and the computer and that one shelf system I still have to take down and the corners I still have to put on my pictures. It shouldn’t take me more than another two hours to pack what’s left and another hour to clean. Well, let’s be realistic. Six hours. It always takes twice as long as originally anticipated. Wait. Seven hours. I forgot I have to pack up my food still. Drat. But wait! Little Sister has been forcefully lodged at my place for the Thanksgiving holiday so she can be corralled into helping. Haha! I have another pair of reluctant hands I can force into working. Back down to four hours. Thank you, Great Packing God. I am therefore going to be while it is still technically Monday.
I’m not kidding. Read all about it here.
Useless factoids. Some of which is actually really interesting and will be brought out at my going away cocktail hour on Friday.
Um a rather strange post that describes 100 ways to say I love you.
Pictures of the insides of people’s fridges. The poor man’s version of Cribs, I guess.
This is one way to find the person you missed on the morning commute.
A new report from The Onion: outsourcing of childcare.
Art made of nothing but toothpicks and nails. Man has skills. And too much time on his hands.
One of my cats snores. I realized it last night when the horrifically loud sound woke me up. And as I just typed in that last blog entry, they are curled up together on the floor by my feet and one of them is doing it again. I can’t figure out which one it is since they are so intertwined, but my goodness it is loud. It must only happen when she is in a really deep sleep in the wee hours. It’s so loud, I don’t know how the other one can sleep through the noise, but with the Great Escape this morning, I guess Bionic Kitty and Number Two are a little beat and innocent party can ignore the other.
Yeah, I openly admit I am pathetic. I guess it is because I never really watched any of those stupid TV shows aimed at teenagers in high school or in college. What little I got consisted of Real World and My So Called Life and even that intake was limited. I only watched a little bit of 90210 in 8th grade. Oh, and I owned the calendar. It was a Christmas present. The amount of Saved By the Bell I’ve seen can be counted on one hand. Basically, I’ve missed the whole teen TV show phenomenon and for some odd reason, I’m making up for lost time in my late 20s. It’s like a strange disease and all of a sudden I have got to watch every teen show ever created. RIGHT NOW. Blockbuster can’t get them to me fast enough.
Currently, I’m finishing up Felicity and am counting down the hours until the next Gossip Girl episode. I’m on my third go around of Gilmore Girls because it is witty and wonderful and funny and I love it. If MTV and the CW had a love child, it would be me. And I believe that all the male characters on Smallville at some point have been is my secret boyfriend crushes. This is beginning to be a problem. I think I need to get back to work pronto. Two more weeks of not working might be too much time spent with the TV.
It’s gotten so bad that I checked out the CW’s website today to see what upcoming programming looked like. They have a show coming up based on finding the next Pussycat Doll. What’s this going to make? Doll number 86? Do they really need another one for the no talent group that is really made of some uber-trashy Britney Spears wannabes? As much as I adore teen programming these days, under no circumstances will I ever, ever, ever, ever watch anything related to the Pussycat Dolls. It’s the principle that a whole bunch women who are just this side of dressed are dancing around in a so called competition. That’s what Skinamax is for, not the CW. Plus, it’s why my favorite show of ALL TIME got cancelled. I’m openly bitter and resentful. Reality TV, like the stupid Pussycat Dolls, is getting old fast, especially when I’m all into teen angst and overly gushy melodrama. Or the witty banter that only shows like Freaks and Geeks or Veronica Mars seem to have. Oh, and Undeclared. Yes, I want my mind to rot in teen trash, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. And I’m drawing the line at the Pussycat Dolls. So take that, CW.
The night before trash day, for the last couple of weeks, I have been going out and filling up my neighbors’ trash cans with stuff from my apartment. In the course of this move, I am downsizing from a nice, two bedroom townhouse with a full basement and 1.5 bathrooms to a glorified shoe-box that will cost me 250% more in rent each month. I knew I was going to have to downsize but when I was in DC two weekends ago looking at places, I realized that my concept of smaller and the reality were vastly different. I thought I would be able to take half my stuff. I’ll be lucky to fit myself, the cats and the vast shoe collection. Maybe even bed and a martini glass if I install a really high shelf. So now, once a week, I go all covert opps and in the dead of night fill up my neighbors’ trash cans around the complex with things that have been judged
1.) non-essential for DC life;
2.) not good enough to sell;
3.) no friend has expressed a desire to have;
4.) nobody has wanted for free on Craigslist and;
5.) the thrift store rejected.
Yes, even the thrift store has standards and they are pretty high these days.
Last night it happened to be raining so I wasn’t able to put my own trash out, let alone do my usual fill up routine. I melt in non-sanitized water, etc. Everything was stacked neatly by the backdoor, ready to go out and the alarm was set for 7:45 sharp. The garbage men never come before 11:00 so I reasoned that would give me plenty of time to do my thing. But this morning, at 7:30, I was woken up by the sounds of the garbage truck in my complex. The beep beep, clank clank sound that only that truck can make as it raises and lowers the special City of Columbus distributed regulation trash cans somehow penetrated my usually hibernation quality sleep. Crap. They changed the route for the first time all year.
I dashed out of bed, desperately tried to pull my crazy bed head hair into a semblance of a pony tail, slip on tennis shoes and put on a bra at the same time. Finally, I decided to skip the bra thing. No time. In thirty seconds flat, I hauled out the back door, with all my large chested jiggle glory going on, one shoe half off and neither shoe tied, side pony tail rockin’. There I was, draggin’ the large green trash can that weighs more than my car and trying to haul a standing fan at the same time. The garbage truck was one townhouse in past mine all ready.
Me: (shouting) Mr. Garbage Man, please, sir. Mr. Garbage Man. Could you please take my garbage? I’m moving and I really need to get rid of this stuff and it was raining last night so I couldn’t put it out. (desperate shouting) Please. Pretty please. With sugar and stuff on top.
(The guy on the back of the truck who lifts the cans looks at demented old me)
Me: Um, yeah. I have more. Can you take it? (secretly thanking whatever made me wear a tight, low cut t-shirt instead of my usual big t-shirt to bed last night and that the trash guy likes big girls with the anatomy that part of the package deal)
Him: (leers and wipes drool) Happily. But make it quick.
Me: Sure thing.
I walked back to my place as quickly and as bouncily and I could. Hey, if he was taking all my trash, I reasoned I could give the Trash Pervert a little jiggle quid pro quo. Two rounds of pro quoing later, I realized I left the back door open in my haste to get the trash out. And I was down one Bionic Kitty. Sh!t. Sh!t. Sh!t!!!
For the next three hours, more or less, I looked for her. In one hand, I was shaking a tupperware container of dry cat food and in the other, I was holding another container of horrifically smelly wet liver based food Bionic only gets for a treat. I had a cat nip bag in my pocket, a long and shiny cat feather toy hanging out of my back pants pocket, and I was crawling around the apartment complex parking lot on my hands and knees, looking under everything, at anything that moved, periodically shaking the two tupperware food containers under cars and at back porch areas. Still sporting no bra and the side pony tail, I was hysterically crying and calling out for my missing cat. Oh, and doing a lot of bargaining with God. During that time period, also I think I met the multitude of neighbors I had never gotten to know in the two years I’ve lived here. While they were all sympathetic to my lost cat cause, they all looked a little askew at my Jem and the Holograms side pony tail, sans shirt, and crying for three hours look. Understandably, but I had a lost cat and had a run in with the perverted trash dude before I had even brushed my teeth for the morning. Don’t judge me. It would have been a rough morning even for Saint Oprah.
Anyway, after I had circled the entire complex on hand and knees twice, I was ready to go and start driving around to look for Bionic Kitty. I went inside, grabbed the keys and went to the car only to find Bionic Kitty sitting on the hood looking directly at me. She hadn’t been there twenty seconds earlier. She meowed once, all very, Please Take Me Inside, This is a Horrific World Out Here; Not At All The Lap Of Luxury To Which I’ve Become Accustomed. And Please Feed Me Some Cat Treats And Spoil Me Rotten For Awhile. So I did.
Oh, and I owe God no more boob quid pro quoing. Plus some other stuff that I would prefer not to mention.
An article from my friend Phil…
I started cleaning out the pantry last night. Among the casualties that were going into the dumpster was a Sam’s Club sized, almost full box of Lucky Charms. But my garbage can is round and the super sized rectangular box didn’t fit. Silly me just put it on top.
Of course Bionic Kitty got into the Lucky Charms. I should have seen that one coming. Now I have Limited Edition Double Clovers that have seen the inside of a cat stomach all over my kitchen floor. And about a zillion and a half marshmallows and frosted oats that she just scattered but didn’t eat. When I found the mess, Number Two was sitting at the entrance to the kitchen with this expression that just reeked of smug superiority. It was so, I would Never eat something like Lucky Charms.
Since I’m not working for the next month, I decided this was the perfect time to grow out my unibrow and get it professionally reshaped. I do this about once every two or three years, where I just suck it up and let nature have its way with my face. It’s a month of utter humiliation as Old Man Hairs magically spring up. From somewhere in my fine European ancestry, I’ve inherited a particularly thick and luxurious brow with a couple of really grizzly hairs. At some point, I am sure it all served an evolutionary purpose that allowed my ancestors to survive the harsh climate and all that, but now it’s just a pain in the butt to pluck daily. What I wouldn’t give for a couple extra hundred bucks for some hardcore electrolysis.
Anyway, it’s been about a week where I’ve stopped all usual maintenance and things are looking a little scary in the brow area. I’ve got some straggler hairs, I’ve basically doubled the usual brow thickness and there is no distinction between the two brows. Thank God for glasses. At least with them, it looks like I have two distinct eyes.
This morning, I was at the grocery store getting milk and cat litter. The little boy in the check out line before me was decked out in those super cute European style clothes and his mom, all skin and bones and with no business looking like that in Columbus, Ohio, was watching the housekeeper unload the cart. The little boy looked up at me and pointed at the new unibrow.
“Mommy, she looks like Charlie Chaplin.”
“Good association, Wade.”
I got out the tweezers.
And I no longer like the name Wade.