Flavor of Jones

Since it seems that the news is now completely dominated by celebrity goss, I am trying something new. Inspired by FLAVOR FLAV! I have decided to bust out a few names of my own for some famous people, so we don't have to go to the trouble of remembering (or for that matter even learning) their real names until we are sure we actually give a shit about them.

1.

From know on, thou shalt be known as Senator Tailcoatz.

2.

Why do I get the feeling these guys will be visiting your local trailer park sometime soon. It's Lyfe Ruiner and Pathetick.

3.

How you doin Plasstick? Tell ya sister Jeenyis I said hey.

4.

Look, it's everyone's favorite fake couple! Know to be known as Beerd and Clozited.

5.

Hide your diet pills and get your barf bags ready for Skynnie and Starvz.

6.

Say hello to my new friend Drugz.

7.

His name may not be on the back of his jersey, but you can call him Wayste of Doh.

8.

He sang about him and dressed like him so I now dub him: Jeezus.

9.

Oh look, it's everyone's favorite child star, Cleeshay.

10.

This one is obvious. Meet Siphiliss.

What becomes of the broken heeeeeeaaaarrrrrrrrrrted?

A day of heartbreak.


1. The Mets-we won't even go there. I still love them dearly but let's not. even. go.




2. Haley Joel Osment sees drunk people now.



3. I still have my plague on MySister'sBacheloretteParty Eve.




4. T.R. Knight (aka George O'Mally, my McDreamy) cleaned out his closet and found his McGay. Women like me all over the world die a little inside. I should have seen it coming.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

The verdict: Guilty of heartbreak in the first degree. I hope some nice guy makes a McDreamy out him.

Happy Birthday to me!

As some of you know, I turned 25 this past Monday. And karma decided a suitable gift would be strep throat, a wicked headache and an awful fever. So sorry for the lack of wit and recap of my party. Let's just say that I am paying for my sins of the weekend...

Who would I give a Volvo to? Apparently unhappily married couples with wackjob kids.

Ok, I love kids. They are cute and cuddly and say the darndest things. But if I see this little girl on TV one more time I may just have to swallow some bleach.

Let's analyze:

1. So it looks like she's being picked up a little late by Daddy. Or maybe it's a little early. Because she puked or pooped herself. And they already used her extra set of clothes that they make everyone bring in the first day of kindergarten so teacher dressed her in the rejects from the 3rd grade production of "Annie."

2. WTF is she saying? "...they're really good and they lived in the house that he likes the most but one day they wanted to change the color of him..." Umm, that sounds racist. Looks like teacher was reading "Song of the South" that day. Let's continue...

"Just a pretend stick but it really thin and it has legs and I don't know what it is..." Yea. I do. It's called a switch. Or a whip. Like the one they used to hurt Jesus like you saw in "Passion of The Christ" yesterday in your crazy teacher's class. And if you don't make this floor shine like the top of teh Chrysler building...I digress.

"And there's worms and some bugs." Yes. That's what you see when you die.

"Mom talked about it. But his head is so tiny..." Yes Daddy, mom told me your head is so tiny. But not the one on top of your neck...

This guys looks like a cross between Michael Jackson and Stephen King

3. Maybe racist teacher told this little girl that if she was creative and told Daddy stories, that maybe just maybe, he won't leave, or hit her anymore, or make her wear the Amishiest clothes I have ever seen. Maybe. I wonder what he's thinking.

"It's so easy. I just pull the car in the garage, let her out and shut all the windows. Then I'll be able to go to sleep. Forever."

OR

"Damn bitch. She said adopting would make us feel like Angelina and Brad or Madonna and Guy."

OR

He's has a commercial stuck in head all day long and can't get it out so he's gonna gop home and take it out on his blog.

Total Request ew

Hi, my name is Jonesy from New York, NY and I want to give a shout out to my girlies that live on the Upper East. And at number one today is my request for Carson Daly to go eat a sandwich today..WOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAA!

I know, I know

I've been a bad Jonesy. I've been a little crazed so I haven't had to much time to post, but here's a little weekend love for you all. In case you missed K-Fed on CSI last night...



Unfortunately, they don't have his full performance on YouTube in which he quotes the line:

"This little piggy cried wee, wee, wee all the way home."

You can't make TV gold like that up. If anyone finds it let me know!


In other news, My birthday party is this weekend, so I'm sure I will have fun tales of debauchery from this Saturday night, when I slowly drink my youth away!

I heart this soooo much!

An Open Letter to the New York Mets

Dear New York Mets (most importantly Willie, Carlos, David, Carlos2, Jose, Paul, Jose2, Endy, Tom, Steve, Orlando, Chris, and Julio):

Hi guys. Just wanted to let you know that I am a huge fan of yours. Like really huge. Not meaning that I'm fat, I just really like you guys A LOT.

It all started back in 1986. I was 5. David, you were just 3 or 4. My Dad wanted to spend more time with his daughters and since that other New York team (which he is a fan of) wasn't doing so well, he decided to take us to see baseball played at its best. I don't remember too much about Shea Stadium back then. But I remember liking the hotdogs and the name Dykstra (I still heart you Lenny). I remember the song of that year (We got the team work, to make the dream work, Let's Go! Let's go Mets!) I was too young to remember Game 6 (I bet Bill Bucker still has someone kick him in the balls every night for his mistake) of that World Series, and the Game 7 win.

This:

led to This!!!!:

As I grew up we grew apart for awhile. I didn't come to your house for many years because, well, you were in Queens, I didn't have a car, and I liked cheerleading more than baseball. I didn't sell out like some others, I just kind of forgot about you and you well, forgot how to play baseball. Let's face it, you really sucked. But deep down I still loved you and supported you.

Flashforward to me as a teen. I found you again. You got your shit together. I supported our dear friend Mike with open arms. I clapped for Rey Ordonez even though I knew that most of the time, he was going to strike out. And then you came through. In 2000, you shocked us with your Wild Card win. And then actually playing like magic to make it to the World Series. That was great! Deep down, I knew you wouldn't win but I was overjoyed! You didn't suck! No one could make fun of us! Actually, the obnoxious fans of that other New York team could but they are obnoxious and mostly ugly and probably play on dodgeball teams called The Hotness.

But then what happened? Half of you left leaving Mike to carry a torch with a fat first baseman and a team that he couldn't commuincate with because no one spoke English. It felt like the early 90's all over again. But I stayed. And I cheered. I gave you everything. I even accepted Mike's blond facial hair. Give me some credit here.

Much like Jason Giambi's weirdo 'stache, in the days of yore, Piazza rocked some odd hair.

Flash to 2005. A shining ray of hope in the form of a very very very HOT third baseman named David. He came to us. And it was good.

The tongue thing just does it for me.

I understand why Mike had to go. He was getting a little old and lets face it, no team can have that much hotness at one time. You said next year is now. And while the division was tough last year and you were all so close, next year ended up not being now.

This year you told me it was the team and the time. And I believe you. I bought tons of tickets. I even travelled to that other New York team's house to play with you. I have spent more than I can afford of $6-7 beers and $4 hotdogs (which, by the way, you should have never have gotten rid of Kahn's, they were so much better). I have invested my time in you. And it's paid off. You've been working hard. You want to do well.

So I have one small favor to ask. Please don't ef this up. Even the Red Sox fans are counting on you. You scared me last week with your nonsensical losses. So play well, be strong, and I'll see you Thursday. I'll be the one screaming in the blue and orange.


Sincerely,

Ms. Jones
(David's future wife)

P.S. Really, though, just do your best. Let's go Mets!

Example:

Please refer to around 4:05 of this clip to see what I mean:

We need Patches O'Houlihan

Dodgeball Game #1 Recap:

Last night marked game 1 of my dodgeball season this fall. I joined the team to be social ("demented and sad but sort of social") and to have fun with my friends. Apparently the teams we drew in the first round were in it for different reasons. Scary reasons.

Let me describe:

Team 1:

Name: The Hotness

Uniform: They brought their own tie-died t-shirts with nicknames on the back that included but are not limited to: The Rock, Johnny Boy, Clutch and "The Shocker" (he literally had the phrase "one in the stink" printed on his back.) Oh yea, and The Rock wore wrestling shoes and a headband.

Description: This collection of B&T guidos on came to kick ass and get rid of their roid rage while their skinny minnie girlfriends hung in the back. They not only aimed for girls more than boys, they aimed for girls in the head. One of them literally yelled "PUT HIM IN A BODY BAG JOHNNY" as if our "friendly" game was equivalent to the final battle in The Karate Kid.

Ralph Macchio I am not. Damn you Kobra Kai.

Team 2:

Name: ZS4 (ZS=Zog Sports, the peole that created the league)

Uniform: Purple zog sports t-shirt

Description: A collection of obvious dorks who didn't have enough friends to form a team of their own. One scary player, which someone dubbed the Tsunami, would wail the ball at girls with no shame. He would hide in the corner and just peg people. Then there was scary red head who I think misplaced her crazy pills before she showed up. The two combined looked like this:

Team 3: Us

Uniform: Sage Green T-shirts (could we get a weaker color?)

Description: A collection of former athletes who in the past 7 years have well, let's just say we aren't really "athletes" any more (with the exception of one or two).

We need to work out like these kids.

So yea, when only 8 of our 12 showed up I realized I would have to play. Play against the scary guidos. My strategy was to hide in a corner (which I got yelled at for). That didn't work.

So then I actively tried to throw caution to the wind, disregard everything I have ever known to be true and try to get some of these people out. And again, I proved to myself that I throw like a 4 year-old. No aim, no rhyme or reason and ever so softly. Every time I th
rew, I was out.

My teammates stayed strong, and one back injusry and 8 sore bodies later, we ended the night 1-2-1, not too bad considering we faced a Rock and a Tsunami.

We play again on 10/11 (we have a week off). Hoepfully, I won't have sit an entire day with a heating pad on my back after that one. And worse comes to worse, we will no doubt get the best drinking team award. Nothing helps a bad back like a big glass of cider.

Saved By The Bell: Still Ruining my Life

Read this from The Daily News Rush and Molloy Column:

"He may have played nerdy eighth-grader Samuel (Screech) Powers in the sitcom "Saved by the Bell." But former TV geek Dustin Diamond can now take his place with Colin Farrell, Tommy Lee and Kid Rock as the star of his very own sex tape.

Everyone who remembers Diamond as a lovable putz is in for a shock once they see a 40-minute video in which he engages in a kinky three-way with two women, sources tell us.

We can't get too graphic here, but word is that the action includes some bodily functions and an act known as a "Dirty Sanchez."

Phoenix-based agent David Hans Schmidt, who has brokered some of Hollywood's biggest celebrity-skin deals, confirms that he's acquired the rights to a tape featuring Diamond.

"Just when you think you have seen everything in this business," he tells us, "mankind has raised the bar another notch. Or lowered it."....

The sex vid's working title is "Saved by the Smell." Ewwwww."

I just hope Tori Spelling doesn't make an special guest star appearence as Violet Bickerstaff.

Effing 4G!!!!!

To the bastards down the hall:

When the delivery man came to your door with MY tacos and MY quesadilla that you obviously didn't order why did you not point out that you are 4G not 4J. You took my food. The messed up part is that I didn't pay for it yet. You paid for my food and ate it. You PAID for it. That's so weird.

I can forgive you for making me listen to your stupid conversation about the VMA's and who Jared Leto is. Oh, and the name of his band is 30 Seconds to Mars, not 20 seconds to Jupiter. Jerks.

And when Tiny Dancer (who just wanted to see if you got the food and the taco place wasn't lying) knocked on your door, you came to the door, looked outside and didn't answer the door. You sat back down and turned up the Yankee game.

So 4G this is WAR!!! I will get you back. Hard Core. I will tackle your delivery men in the hallway and take all of your orders from now on. And I'm gonna spit on your door knob and other such shenanegins. Bastards.

Now you'll never see me naked. And one of is you is fat and smells like dirty sweat.

Love,

Someone who hates you

A Fond Farewell

Last Sunday I was at my mom's house recovering from the festivities of my sister's bridal shower. I laid in her bed chatting away and flipping channels and then we stumbled on something that was at the same time both wonderful and sad.

The WB 11 was airing all of the pilots of their most popular shows. It was their wayof saying goodbye to my generation, the kids who grew up watching Buffy, Felicity and my favorite of all time Dawson's Creek.

I haven't seen the DC pilot in years. I own it, but I usually skip over it because I knew the plot line. For years I have been proclaiming that I practice Dawsonism. It's my religion of sorts, in which, whenevr faced with a life problem, I refer to DC wherein I will always find the answer.

I thought this was a completely original idea.

Nope.

As I watched the pilot, I learned that I totally stole this idea from Van Der Beek himself. Dawson and his Speilberg theory (the same as my Dawsonism) is introduced within the first hour.

While I watched the magical montage in the last few moments, I saw my teenage years flash before my eyes. And then I realized how much I suck because the one basic priciple that I always thought that I had dreamed up actually came from the place it was based on.

Really though, I suck

Crap or should I say crack.

I must have been on crack. I signed up to be on a dodgeball team. With the most athletic girls I know. Crap. Let the maiming begin.

I wasn't kidding.

She can already do blue steel. Just make sure she doesn't kill the Prime Minister of Malaysia.

I want a DNA test...that I pay for.

Vanity Fair is so nice to give us our first look at Suri Holmes-Cruise.

Yes, Suri has been hiding in Tom's jacket the ENTIRE time! And doesn't Kat(ie)e look like she's confused? She's like, who is this kid and why am I here? The baby is the only one who can look us in the eye. And that's because she's too young to lie.

She's adorable (but no Shiloh), but I can't help but be reminded of a certain really rediculously good looking person:

Whoa here she comes, watch out boys she'll chew you up

In my drunken stupor last night I texted one of my young ones (this one is actually still in college). He always writes or calls back immediately and with enthusiasm. He is adorable, but why do I do these things when he is a half a country away and let's face it, young?

It's because I have decided to become the cougar/puma/jaguar that Hall and Oates were singing about, let's see how that works out for me.

Happy Labor Day weekend...and happy end of summer.

It could have ended upon Jay Leno's headlines...

I almost posted this on a friend's myspace, as I know she will be at the beach all weekend.

"Don't let Ernesto get you too wet!"

Meaning the hurricane. I'm the worst.

Apparently my boss thinks I need a boyfriend too....

After a discussion about Valentine's Day cards and how there is nothing really new about them and how e-cards are lame he says:

"Well when was the last time you sent a Valentine?"

Do I smell like single or something???? I just thought I needed some lovin'. Go figure.

"This is why I need a boyfriend Goddammit!"

I am not handy. Not at all. I can't reach the lightbulbs in my apartment, Spike has to change them for London, Tiny Dancer and myself. When our dishwasher broke, I just stared at it. It took us over a year to fix our DVR. My closet doors were broken when I moved in. Needless to say, they still are.

So you can only imagine how I felt on Saturday, when, as I was rushing to hop in the shower for the Future Mrs. Krabbypatty's (FMK) birthday party, I heard the loud clango f metal hitting the floor. The bed that I had been so peacefully napping in not too long before, had decided to, well, dismantle itself. Oh. Dear. God.

A reeactment: Replace the smirk on his face with sheer horror.

Since I had helped my Mom assemble the thing when I moved in, I made a weak attempt at lifting the mattress and box spring and the metal bed frame to try to fix it. Nope. Then I enlisted London and our other friend to help. Nope. Useless. All of us.

London and company had to leave for an appointment at the Genius bar at the Apple Store leaving me to my own devices. So what does a single girl in New York City do when she faces a dilemma right before she has to go to a party? She starts using her resources. I called all of the Westchester folks to see if they happened to be taking the West Side Highway so one of the husbands could help me. Nope. The party was on the UES so I pretty much knew I was screwed.

So what does a single girl in New York City do when she is really screwed? She cries. Wrapped only in my towel in my hot bedroom after a half hour of trying to fix my twin bed (which has survived Jdate, Mr. Brightside and Cougar Bait) I sat down on the floor and started balling. And I shouted over the phone to London: "This is why I need a boyfriend Goddammit, to like, you know, fix stuff!" I was a sad little girl.

In the end, I stacked some books under the bed, got rediculously drunk and at the party, and came home and had it break all over again. This time I took in stride, got up, puked and then crawled into Tiny Dancer's bed. The following day, London and I took apart the bed and now I sleep on top on the mattress and box spring on the floor. My decorating style has become ghetto feng shui. Come and get it boys!

I know. I need a grow up bed.

And yes, I know I don't need a boyfriend to fix stuff. I just need vodka.

Life Is Not A Fairy Tale or Why Fantasia Barrino Owes me Two Hours of My Life Back

Yes, I DVR's Fantasia Barrino's biopic on Lifetime. In a moment of weakness and in a post-So You Think You Can Dance (VIVA BENJI) state of insanity, I ensured that I would view the life story of the Season 3 (a weak season) of American Idol. And I wish someone would have stopped me.

1. She played herself in the movie.

2. It clearly illustrates that she dresses like a hooch, skips school and makes out in the back of yellow pick-up trucks. And her boobs are so not those of 16-year-old.

I swear she wore that shirt in the movie.

3. She has a speaking role. Tiny Dancer says she sounds like a muppet. I think Elmo has more range.

4. They show too much of her sad times. Sure, she had it hard, but did I need to see the montage of people laughing (only in her head) when she returns to school after pressing rape charges? No, the Lifetime film with Candace Cameron and Mark Paul Gosslaar handled it better.

5. She looked preggers when she wasn't supposed to be.

6. They show "her first time." I would rather watch Chicken Little's first time.

Besides his sick dance moves I bet he has a gentle touch.

7. The literally show her vomit. I thought YouTube would have that video by now (like the girl on Flavor of Love who made boom on his floor). I cna only imagine the sscript looked like this:

Setting: Fantasia's friend's apartment in the Projects. It is summer in said Projects, hot and sweaty where veryone drinks Colt 45, Boone's Farm and smokes Newports.

Interior: Fantasia's friend's house. Kids running around haphazardly. Fantasia at table eating breakfast.

Friend: Fantasia, you gotta start telling your man Rodney that this ain't his house so he can't be leaing his stuff lying around.

Fantasia (or muppet, whoever can stand in): Just make a big pile and I'll do the laun bleh hack, huaaa, blech [vomit spills out of Fantasia onto table, remain with a wide shot of Fantasia so the audeience gets all the puke action, and in turn, vomit on themselves].

SCENE

Classy, real classy.

8. She confesses she can't really read at the end of the movie to relate that to her American Idol experience. Like that was her big hardship. Ummmm, Fanny, listen, I think that having Dwayne Wayne as your father, getting raped, dropping out of high school and getting knocked up by a guy who ends up beating you up is your hardship, not the fact that you're a weak reader okay?

So Fantasia, please write me a check for two hours of my life plus my good sense in television. I'm sure your American Idol dollars can pay for that. And get yourself a Phonics book while you're at it.

Sick Days

Today I took a sick day from work because I woke up with a ginormous headache. But as I sit her in my pajamas I leave you with this exciting tidbit from my weekend, more specifically at Shea Stadium Saturday night for the 1986 reunion/Mets v. Rockies:

Me as Paul Lo Duca steps up to bat during the 4-0 defecit: Hey Paulie! Hit it like it was a 19-year-old girl!

And indeed, the nasty cheater did.

Crap Fest 2006

This week sucks. For everyone I know (with the exception of Gotittogether who is sporting her new rock and is on vacation) and everyone I read. And as I wrote that I just took a sip of cold coffee that was once hot and now tastes like crap...hence the title CRAP FEST 2006!

Since I have been working way too late and am on the verge of burn out I will redirect you to some of my favorite bloggers who are also celebrating CRAP FEST 2006:


loggedhours.blogspot.com

evidiot.blogspot.com

I don't think they work for the same company as me, but seriously what is with the workload this week. It's like all of the big boss men decided to get together to crush the spirits of twenty-somethings who just want to get ahead and get a raise this week.

Damn the man. Damn him to hell.

Another B2B!

Gotittogether just became a B-2-B. Her BF, now fiance, who I like to call Krabbypatty (because he is a nasty meanie in the morning) popped the question on Friday!

So to the future Mrs. KrabbyPatty I say Congrats! And I look forward to getting wasted and trying to make out with someone at your wedding. (just kidding...sort of).

Honey, you can Lego of my hand now....

weddings make me lame.

I got rescued at The Drift and all I got was a Miller Light tank top

When I was a little girl, my mom would take me and my sister's to a friend's house in East Hampton. She also took her boss. Who happened to be a nun. I loved it because they had a pool and that's all I needed to be happy. As I got older, I stopped going on the trips because I was either working, or didn't want to go hang out with my mom and a nun. Why would I when instead, I would have parties at my house and smoke cigarettes freely on the porch?

My mom stopped asking me to join her when I went to college. Now I beg her to take me. Why? Because it's like Zoolander, only rediculously fun-looking.

This past weekend, as promised, DM invited me to her share house. We met at Penn Station (which I think is my version of what hell would be like, literally, people do not understand personal space in thhat joint). We hopped on the Long Island railroad (which is quite nice once you get on the actual train) and two hours later, I was on my way to drunken fun.

Just two hours east of Manhatty lies to land of beer, boys and sick dance parties.

Here is what happened in my typical bulleted list style which means I am being full on lazt because I am tried from work and want to watch the Hell's Kitchen finale:

Friday:

Many Beers + Shots (I think there may have been more than one) + Dance Party to Journey's Don't Stop Believing+Winning a free tank top in a beer taste test+making out with a youngin (yes, more cougar action!)+one innaproproate but HYSTERICAL joke+DM making out with a boy who looked foreign+taking and advil and some other brown pill before bed = a kick ass night with minimal hangover.

Saturday:

Perfect beach day with funny stories and beers on the beach. And I hate the beach. It was really close to the weather on what I call "THE BEST DAY EVER" but that's a story for another time.

Saturday night:

I was made friends with the 007

I got to hang out with fun people

I finally "got rescued"

I learned what Drift foot is

And that's all I can remember. I do have 97 pictures from the weekend, all photographic evidence of the following things:

1. I have sick dance moves.

2. My friends like the big pink pole.

3. We like to get drunk and dance. And when I say dance, I mean like full on Napolean Dynamite, Flashdance, with your heart and soul dancing. It's. awesome.

Are these sick moves? Indeed.

So thank you DM for a very necessary break from reality. And I'm so in for a share next summer. Better work on some new moves for next year.

The .50 cents was for the compliment

Today was much less hot than it has been in the past few weeks, but it was still a scorcher on the asphalt and cement pavement along Fifth Avenue. It didn't help that a bajillion tourists kept knocking into me as I tried to make my way to what I call "the good H&M."

I started sweating, and after the Lohan incident about a week ago I decided to buy a bottle of water to hydrate myself as I burned calories and hole in my wallet. No delis or bodegas in sight (of course not, it's Fifth Ave). So I hiked to a hot dog vendor and asked for a Poland Spring.

I figured it would be a dollar so I was prepared with my folded up single in my sweaty palm. As we made our exchange Mr. Weiner Seller barked at me for another 50 cents.

The risked of Lyndseying out again was to great, so I started to dig for two quarters so I wouldn't have to break a twenty. I pushed my sunglasses up on my forehead to get a better look and eventually found my needed currency. As I handed them over (a little peeved) Mr. Weiner Vendor said, "You have beautiful eyes."

WORTH EVERY PENNY!

(and no this is not me in the shot, I would never be caught dead with a large white clip and a half french twist)

And it made my day. So yea, compliments are worth paying for. I may have to hire someone in the near future (because this week, all the Bends were out of control).

I'm hot as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore...

It's effing hot in Manhattan and like no one knows how to use air conditioning. It reminds me the sweat which I lived with in London last summer because there wasn't air ANYWHERE, not even in my bedroom. My roommates AC is broken (her AC provides the air for our living room), the super is ingnoring our calls and they are painting our building so it reeks.

I'm annoyed. But I have found the cure for the hot Manhatty summer blues, Marino's cherry Italian ices. Two to be exact. I eat two every night, to my frozen sugar water delight as I feel my temperature going down on the couch. VIVA LA ITALIAN ICE!

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.