The wheels on the bus go slow slow slow

My bus ride back from Saratoga took 5 hours. 5. Hours. It was supposed to be 3 and a half hours. I booked a ticket on the fast bus with no transfers on purpose. But since Adirondack Trails and GreyHound both hate me, I took 5 hours. Not to mention the 2 hour waiting time at the Saratoga bus station, which is conveniently located behind a diner. A diner that has a large fiber glass horse on top of bit. With betting stations inside. Talk about getting local flavor.

In the bus station I happeined to overhear a man trying to book his friend a trip on a bus. From Saratoga. To Mexico. MEXICO. How long would that take? 3 days and 19 hours. With stops everywhere and many transfers. And it cost about 300 bucks. I wanted to lend him my laptop and introduce him to expedia.com but maybe he likes bus travel.

The only plus about the whole ride was my bus driver from Saratoga to Albany (where I transferred) was my bus driver (who we had to wait for so he could switch and dirve our bus because he can't go into Montreal --some delicious sex scandal I presume). he looked just like Jim from The Office. He was adorable and he kept glancing back in his rear view mirror. I think he wished we could go to Montreal together.

He wanted me to be his Pam I know it.

Maybe he likes to sit next to 8 year old children from Albany on their way to Georgia. Maybe he would have liked Chantelle, the little girl who decided to plop down next to me.

Meet Chantelle, I mean Satan.

Here is just a smidgen on what my ride was like:

• 4:45 - Chantelle looks at me sweetly and asks me if she can sit in the vacant seat next to me.
• 4:46 - Chantelle starts putting down her 18 bags of child-friendly crap, puts down her tray and asks me where I am going.
• 4:48 - Chantelle asks me what I'm doing.
• 4:49 - Chantelle begins a brigade of questions, making me ef up my game of diner dash on my cell phone. She then inquires if I had beat the game. When I respons with a "No." she says that she is really good at video games.
• 5:00 - Chantelle starts leaning over the seat talking to her sister. They both ask me questions about my pink Razr phone, which I then put in my bag for fear of theft. They were drooling at it.
• 5:30 pm - Chantelle tells me about her Dad's trips on his Harley motorcycle, and about the accident that left him with cement burns and exposed bones.
• 6:00 - Chantelle takes out her disc man and puts it on her tray preventing me from being able to get up and pee.
• 6:15 - She asks me if I have a disc man. I tell her I have an iPod. She drools at it so I immediatley put it on to drown out her next story about her and her cousin.
• 6:45 - Chantelle invites said cousin down from the front of the bus. As the short stocky little boy comes over she invites him to sit with us. In a two seater. I explain that it might be uncomfortable. She says "No it won't. I'll just squeezze closer to you." Luckily, Chantelle's grandma saves the day!!!! Then Chantelle tells Grandma that she may get "Bus sick" and that she's feeling woozy.
• 7:00 - Chantelle pulls a chicken breast (cooked) out of her bag of tricks. It smells. She offers me some and asks me "Why, don't you eat?" when I say no thanks.

It smelled like spices.

• 7:30 - Chantelle harasses the people behind me, exclaiming that she doesn't want to see New York City and that she hates George Bush and that she doesn't know who the mayor of her hometown is.
• 7:59 - We pull into Manhattan and Chantelle takes 20 minutes to gather her items and get off the bus. Chicken included.
• 8:00 - Chantelle waves goodbye to me and I repress every muscle to not give a child Dane Cook's Su-Fi on my way out of Port Authority.

And I'm actually really good with kids. Just not with a case of dehydration and exhaustion. And when they have chicken.

I am not a homeschooled jungle freak, that's a less hot version of Regina George!

I told my co-workers about my weekend and they keep referring to me as Lyndsay Lohan. Shoot me now.


I'm Lyndsey Lohan and I have diabetus.

Don't call it a come back...

Ahh Saratoga Springs, New York. The wonderful land of quaint small town shops and bars, beautiful parks around a famous race track. And now home to one of my most embarrasing moments.

Some people bring home souveneirs, I bring home shame.

I headed up to Saratoga on Friday after work. Amtrak did it's job, getting me there in under 4 hours, and I even got a seat (it seems that AMtrak--like Greyhound--like to overbook, more on that later) next to some local Saratoga folks who gave me the inside skinny on the local hot spots and a lecture about the gentrification of the town (OH MY GOD--STARBUCKS!).

Best Dressed's Saratoga home was adorable and a great place for me to spruce up to hit up the local bars. Who knew that SS, NY had such a booming night life? Streets closed off, crowds of people in the road, a million bars, bands playing on small stages--I haven't seen anything this sick since my Austin, TX trip back in '03. Needless to say, beers were consumed by Little and myself but I kept it under control. I was fully aware that we had a long day ahead of us the following day as we had to be up at 9 am to go to the race track.

When we woke up the following morning, I felt groggy and had a headache but it wasn't anything a shower, tylenol and a morning mimosa couldn't fix--or so I thought. We showed up at the track and were shown to our tent. Best Dressed's dad had hooked us up with table in the owner's tent. It had a huge buffet, waitress service and we were right on the rails. It was amazing--except for the heat. I started sweating (and I didn't even wear a hat!) profusely but thought nothing of it since everyone else was drenched too. When our first orders of mimosas showed I took one look at them and started to feel ill. The kind of ill you feel after a long night of drinking when you are about to have a projectile puke. Gross. Luckily, we had also ordered water and I grabbed an ice cold Dasani out of the bucket and took a few sips. No help there. At. all.

I totallyw alked out of a conversation with the college crowd and stood in front of an industrial fan. You would think it would help. But blowing 95 degree hot air at industrial force only made me sweat more. And then feel like my legs couldn't stand.

So I sat. And then I closed my eyes. And then I put my head down.

The next thing I knew, Little and a Best Dressed's dad were dousing me with water soaked cloth napkins and ice. I was forced to drink small sips of water and crunch on ice chips. Then. it. happened. I heard the fateful words:

"I NEED A MEDIC!"

Tengo sed.

And did the medics come. I heard about 5 showed up, asking me invasive questions (They kept asking me if I was preggers in front of ALL of my friends and I wasn't even wearing an empire waist dress!). I was in and out for the next few minutes and I couldn't really tell what was going on around me because I couldn't open my eyes.

Then came the wheel chair. Yes, an effing wheel chair. That I had to be picked up and put in. I was wheeled out of the fancy pants tent, and I can only imagine what everyone was thinking ("Did she drink too much?" - No, the frigging races haven't even started yet. "Is she pregnant?" - No, totally impossible...trust me, it's been a bit of a dry spell).

Oh but it gets better. Outside of the tent, the medics proceeded to place an oxygyn mask on my face and take my pulse and blood pressure. Little's good friend LT followed me in the chair, a nice gesture so Little wouldn't miss any of the races (and a picture in the winner's circle and all this fun stuff that happened when I was melting).

I was wheeled across the entire grounds to the medic station. As soon as I felt the air conditioning I started to feel a lot better. A doctor grilled me ("Are you pregnant?") and a nice nurse brought me some Lemon/Lime Gatorade. I was quicly on the road to recover with a wet cloth and ice pack on my head. LT and I started laughing, only because it was sort of funny...I mean really, who gets an oxygyn mask. The saddest part, once I started feeling better and it was decided I didn't need an IV, we were the most concerned on whether I could drink or not or if I would make it out that night.

When I made it back to the tent I was greeted with applause. I was the comback kid--a wise one who stuck to water for the remainder of the races.

BUT--

Once the sun went down, I started proclaiming that we all had to "PUMP IT UP!" since we were all exhausted. After dinner, I thought a celebratory beer would be appropriate. And indeed it was. The boozy floozy was back. And while most of the party pooped out by 12:30, Jonesy was in the last cab home still proclaiming that we needed to "PUMP IT UP!"

Pump it up, You've got ot pump it up.

I had a great time (minus the almost passing out and extreme public embarassment). I learned to bet on the ponies, I learned all about Saratoga Springs history (thanks train friends!) and I learned to always chug a few glasses of water after a long night of drinking.

And most of all I learned that a good rally from a short, pale Irish girl in a dress is definitley impressive.

I hate Mozilla Firefox

I was all ready to publish my new post about why I am starting to hate my tv when my browser "unexpectdly quit."

Bitch.

Now you'll never know why I am starting to hate my tv. Like you cared anyway.

And they're off...

Don't be surprised if you se me coming down the stretch on the back of one of these beauties.

This weekend I am heading up to Saratoga Springs for Hats Off Weekend. Which I guess is a horse race event that you don't have to wear a hat to. Which is good for me, since I really don't like hats. I mean, I look good in them, great in fact, but I hate that they hide your face and make your head sweat. Nothing worse that a pretty gal with a sweaty punnum.

The reason I am heading upstate to uncharted territory is a birthday party for a college friend, (who I'll call Best Dressed since I have NEVER seen her wear the same thing twice). Due to our busy lives, I don't get to see her that often--it's been over a year. I will also get to see Angel (who I haven't seen since January's college reunion event) and her new beau. She's pretty serious about this one, so I'm pretty psyched to get to see what he looks like.

Hat's = a bad idea.

Also in attendence will be Little, who I haven't seen since February and one of my many Mrs. Robinson affairs. Beachhead (named so since she looks like she should always be on a beach) will also be there.

It's like the perfect storm of old college gals getting together. And since it's my frist summer weekend post-wedding, I assure you that I will Get rediculously drunk and make an ass of myself. Hell, I'm short enough, maybe I'll end up riding one of the horses over the finish line. I may not know what my first trip back down drunk single girl ally will hold, but I can tell you this:

I will not have a sweaty head.

I bet this guy had a hat on.

Here comes the bride...with Jonesy right behind!

BFF is now officially now Mrs. BFF. Despite my complete exhaustion now, I can say that I had a fantastic time.

Her calla lillies galore (and I mean galore, she got them on even the tiniest details like her garter and the ring bearer pillow and the box that had the almonds in them.) made the reception hall look absolutely AMAZING! I mean, who thinks of freezing flowers in an ice sculpture? Mrs. BFF!!!!

As maid of honor I had to make a speech at the reception. Literally, the speech had been giving me anxiety since my birthday in 2004, the day they got engaged. I hate speaking in public and being that there were 300 guests at the wedding, it was definitley public.

I wrote my speech based on little notes I had taken for months and it all finally came together. I kept my speech in my purse in the bridal suite, and when it came time for us to do our grand entrance, I realized I couldn't carry my bag. I tucked my speech into my girdle of a bra, and prayed that my nervous sweat wouldn't smear the ink.

It went pretty well, I didn't stutter (I can turn into Piglet when I'm nervous) and strangers ended up complimenting my speech. I guess I have a gift for mushy congratulatory prose but I can honestly say I meant every word.

Then I officially started boozing. I have learned that I have to watch the booze intake during cocktail hour because I tend to eat very little at weddings (when I'm in them) and it's easy to get drunk when say, an entire bottle on wine, and some champagne and some vodka hits the belly before 7 pm. Needless to say, parts of Spanish's reception are a blur. But luckily, she was well aware that I had drunk bridesmaid written all over me when she asked me to be in her wedding.

Innappropriate, innnapropriate...I promise, no Old School moments

Then it was time for Mrs. BFF's mama to start her matchmaking. I was introduced to someone like this:

"Jonesy have you met your future husband? You're both so smart your kids will be in MENSA."

Lucky for me the guy was actually cute and I didn't feel so dateless the rest of the night because everyone kept telling me that I was going to have babies with this guy that I had just meant. Apparently, our kids will be beautiful. Spanish even pointed it out when she saw pictures, his tan skin and my light eyes will make adorable kin.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker make me a match...

It was weird, but I laughed it off. To bad for Jonesy, future husband lives in Washington DC. And his mother was sitting with him when I said goodbye. Typical. Oh yea, and did I mention that he watched me pour a galss of wine all over myself...classy. But hey, that's a wedding! And I wasn't that much of a boozy floozy.

Here comes the bride....and my booty.

BFF IS GETTIN' HITCHED!

BFF's wedding day is this weekend so I'm bogged down with all sort of preparations (and TONS of work).


I may not be able to post...But I will leave you with this....


Last week I went out for drinks with a few coworkers. As it usually happens, when I have 2 beers I want more. So I decided to pop home, use the ladies and meet Carly for drinks with her work friends.

I hopeed out of my building and starting walking (hard runway walking as I bopped to Sean Paul's "Temperature."). I live across the street froma raggedy ass parking lot. The attendants like to sit outside and stare at passersby. I ignored them and bopped right past until I heard someone screaming "MISS! MISS!"

I ignored it at first, figuring that it was a typical cat call, which tends to happen if you live in New York and have a vagina. The man kept callin out "MISS! MISS!"

It was then that I realized my skirt was tucked into my underpants. My thong underpants. My white butt was on full view to Hell's Kitchen.

Only I had a thong on....

The best part was, I untangled my skirt and ran. Full on ran. Not back to my apartment, no. Down the street and aroun the corner, just to get away from the people who I had literally blinded my the whiteness of my behind.

I have a case of the bends...and it ain't from diving.

Did you ever have the kind of friendship that was completely one-sided? Like you invite a person everywhere and they never come, they never call, and if you want to spend time with them it's on their terms??? Not in a Nicole Richie way, more like Abby Morgan on Dawson's Creek, who had to get drunk and die at the party Dawson and Joey were catering.

Nicole Richie even gives directions to lost drivers....soooo not a bend.

No? Ok then, I'm just a big loser. Because I have tons of these friends, whom I like to call bends (short for bad friend). Which, I guess aren't really friends. More like distant enigmas that I see every so often when they feel like enjoying my company. They don't return calls, emails or respond to any other flare that may send the signal "Hey, I might need your hlp/someone to talk to/advice." Dicks. They only respond to questions about themselves or anything involves them and their lives. Myself on the other hand, make ssacrifices every so often for the sake of a friendship. Like going to a bar I hate so I can hang out with a certain person, or letting an annoying comment go just because I know it's not worth the headache. Bends don't do that. Because htey don't have souls.

Here is a typical exchange between me and one of my many bends:

Moi: "Hey, What's up?"

Bend: "I am going to give you a 30 minute rundown of my life. My job is awesome and I'm doing really well, I go out ALL the time and have so much fun, I might not make a lot of money but I'll spend it on anything except for maybe cab fare/train ticket to come hang out with you, I totally met this celebrity last week, they were not a cute as you think. Oh yea, and I got a promotion and a raise and a this and mememememememememememememe, mineminemine, IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII......."


Moi: "Sounds like things are going really great for you. Glad you're happy. As for me, I've been really stressed out lately because..."

Bend: "Well, um, I have to go do something wonderful for me like give myself a pedicure/make dinner/date a rockstar/do anything other than listen to you or hang out with you."

Moi: "Oh. Ok. Maybe we can do something this week? Dinner?"

Bend: "Maybe, I have to check my datebook...oh I mean to tell you..."

Moi: (actually excited that Bend thought of me for a second) "What?!"

Bend: "That guy you said was cute that time? Yea, I saw him last week at that party I went to the night I never called you back and he told me he didn't like you and then we made out. Talktoyousoonbye!"

I think you get the idea.

So like the teenage gossip girl in the dropped call commercials I will put up with this NO MORE!!!! Gone are the days of having terrible bends stuck in my life. I declare, today is my Independence Day.

Monica Keena aka Abby Morgan...can you see the evil in her grin? She ruined Jen Lindley's life, even from beyond the grave.

Bends will no longer:

Be invited to any of my fun events that I put together.
Receive phone calls from me, even when I am bored on the weekends.
Burden me with their drama.
Borrow anything of mine.
Steal my look of the week.
Make me feel embarrassed for showing a little skin. (bends are usually less attractive than me and like to make comments on what I wear.)


My cure of this disease: decompressing with my good friends a la a birthday party this weekend. That and taking some lessons from a pre-rexic pre-cokewhore Lyndsey Lohan in Mean Girls. I'll let you know how it works out.

What the Duck?

I have officially had the most crappy weeks of my life all fall on top of each other.

It started with the day that was spawned from Satan and Star Jones. Then things got a little better with an extended weekend over July 4th. But with every ray of sunshine there seems to be a shower, and now here I am, Monday morning, back at my desk until Friday.

I thought I should be productive and gets my ducks in a row this week. I was at a family BBQ yesterday and since everyone was discussing the rising cost of New York real estate and how everyone will have to move and other adult type things (I sat in the corner with a beer), I figured today would be a good day to enroll in my 401K. I have no idea about finances, so I asked my mother too look at the documents. She told me how much of my fledgling salary to put away.

Cue Joe, the man who works for T.Rowe Price who, over the phone, convinced my that I am an idiot who has no idea about finances, savings and/or retirement. I told Joe how much I wanted to come out of my check to go into this thing called a 401K. The conversation went something like this:

"Hello, Hey Joe, Wanna Give It a Go?"

Me: "I want you to take this much out of my pay check."

Joe, the money man: "Ok, that's great, now we just have to convert that into a percent. Do you know how much your annual salary is."

Me: "Not down to the dollar, no, it's some number or something."

Joe: "Well, ok, do you know how much you make an hour?"

Me: "Well, sort of, but again, not down to the exact number."

Joe's Ducks.

Joe: "Hmm, ok then."

Me: "Oh! I still have my offer letter here, here it is...."

Joe: "Great. So you want to put away 2%."

Me: "That's it 2%?"

Joe: "Yes, that's how much you said you wanted to put away."

Me: "Ummm...ok. "

Joe: "Now, where would you like the money to go?"

Me: " Ummm, wait, what? I want it to go in my 401K."

My ducks.

Joe: "Yes, the money will go in your 401K, but you have to choose an investment."

Me: "Like stocks? (thinking it would be a great time to invest in something really cool, like toys or something. )"

Joe: "Well, you can do that if you would like to take the hands on approach, but in that case you would have to monitor your money very closely. There is another option where someone takes care of it for you, and you invest in diversified (I start hearing blah, blah)...mutual...blahblahblahblah....portfolio...blahblahblah.

Me: "Ok I'll do that."

Joe: "Are you sure?"

Me: "Yes? (asked like a question)"

Joe: "Ok good, now, let me explain about taxes....blah....pre-tax...blah....blah....loan. ok?"

Me: "Yep."

Joe: "Ok, now, we have to set the term of your account according to the year you retire. I see you are 24, so it's safe to assume that you won't be retiring any time soon?"

Me: Shocked at this point, that Joe, my financial phone guru, had managed to ascertain that I had no rich boyfriend and/or husband in sight and would have to work until I found Mr. Sugar Daddy. "Yes. That is safe to assume."

Joe: "So, since you'll be working until 65, I'll set you up with a 2045 retirement date."

Me: "Well.....okaaaaaaayyyy...ummm" I see all hopes and dreams slowly melt away and envision myself at 65, at the same desk, on the same phone. Single, Childless and alone....perhaps with cats. Then I realized that when I am 65, my boss will either be dead or like 104. The picture just gets worse and worse in my head until Joe interrupts the daydream.

Joe: "Of course that doesn't mean you HAVE to retire in 2045, you can work longer if you like, or, you can retire early."

Me: "OK!" Sigh of relief. Maybe I won't turn into an old cat lady with Joe from T. Rowe Price as my only companion afterall. Perhaps Joaquin Pheonix or some other male actor who has the look that he's always lonely will find me today and marry me and pay my bills. Damn, Joe, interrupts the daydream again.

Joe: "Ok, you're all set! We'll be sending you some literature in the mail, you may want to look it over."

Me: (feeling totally stupid for having no idea what was going on thorugh this whole process) Ok, Joe, will do.

So officially, I am a financial idiot who really needs to learn about:

1. investing
2. what a mutual fund is
3. about retirement
4. what an IRA is (apparently my mom has set one up for me)
5. how to not block out perfectly nice phone financial advisers when they are explaining the above to me so I can make an appropriate decision.

But I bet Joe would suck at Cranium. And that's all that matters to me.

I may just be the greatest Cranium player of all time...I AM the Star Performer.