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.