Archive for March, 2009

I am a good person. I am not a slob. Sure, sometimes I throw my clothes on my chair or bed, instead of putting them away immediately. Sometimes, I’ll put off doing the dishes for a couple days. And maybe, maybe I’ve occasionally waited too long between bathroom cleanings. But, I repeat, I am NOT a slob.

This makes me want to vom.

Not my room. This makes me want to vom.

Which is why what happened last night shocked the crap out of me.

I was sitting on my bed, ready to write you all something clever and witty. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw something dart out from underneath my bed. Oh. My. God. Just as quickly, it darted back under, but I didn’t need more than glance.

I had my very first cockroach.

I’ve lived in dorms/apartments for the past 5 1/2 years – and spent a good chunk of that in Baltimore, no less. Not the cleanest city, but I’ve NEVER had any critters whatsoever. Even when the apartment down the hall had mice, my apartment was fine. Ant infestation across the way? Nope, not chez moi. So why is this happening now?

I spent the rest of the night alternately sitting in the middle of my bed, unwilling to touch the floor, and stalking the little critter, ready to stomp him or suck him up into the vacuum.

(I Googled to find a picture of the little guy and got completely grossed out. Again. It’s not his fault he’s ugly, but he is NOT welcome here.)

I nearly had him once, as he ventured out while my back was turned. I moved slowly, stealthily, and just as I raised my booted foot to stomp, he darted back to the safety of the water heater closet. That little sucker.

I called the front desk of my building, and they’re sending up an exterminator. I hope I can delude myself into thinking that it’ll be gone in one shot.

*fingers crossed* Please let it work. Please let it work.

(P.S. As I was writing this, I was afraid to turn off all my lights because I know they like dark places. Also, I was afraid to sleep because I’m afraid of it crawling on me. I think I’ve seen The Craft too many times.)

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This past Saturday, I went up to Baltimore to see some girlfriends from college. Actually, let me clarify: I went to see some girlfriends who are still in college. Sorority sisters. Saturday was Revelation – the day when the girls in last year’s new member class (i.e. last year’s pledges) get their little sisters (i.e. the newest pledge class). I went up because (a) I hadn’t been back to Baltimore in a year, and (b) my little (who graduated last year, and who I haven’t seen since) had decided to come down from New York.

I go back and forth on the pros and cons of having been in a sorority. I’d be lying if I said I liked every girl who I was “sisters” with, but the ones that were in my family (big, little, little little, etc)? I love them. And I’m so glad I got to see them. However, when I walked into the room where the whole Revelation event was taking place, I realized that I. Knew. No one outside my family. And that made me feel old.

Then, before we went out to dinner, I didn’t finish my glass (and by “glass” I mean Solo cup full) of wine. While the freshman, sophomore, senior, and last year’s grad each had multiple drinks. And I felt old (and lame).

And then, we went to Nacho Mama’s where they serve hubcap margaritas. Which are delicious. And I kept thinking, Wow, this is really good. But I hope I can still make my train back to DC. I have to be up early tomorrow.

I know it doesn't *look* like I'm thinking about leaving. But I am.

I know it doesn't *look* like I'm thinking about leaving. But I am.

Finally, in the cab on the way back to campus, I was up front while the other four were causing a ruckus in the back. The cab driver turned to me and asked, in all seriousness, “So, are you the only sane one here?” I laughed: “That’s entirely possible.” To which he replied, “That must make you the senior.” Nope. That would be the one in the back corner of the cab – part of the group who you think are crazy.

Listen, I know that two years out of college is not a big deal. I know that I’m not actually old, by any stretch of the imagination. BUT, being back on campus, and hanging out with girlfriends who are still undergrads (some just fresh out of high school)? Well, it made me realize just how long two years can actually be.

And how unbelievably glad I am for that.

(However, it has to be said, these two were ridiculously entertaining. Enjoy.) img_2091img_2080img_2094

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I really wish I had Fridays off. Or, that I was allowed to wear jeans. Or both.

But, let’s be honest, if I had Fridays off, I probably wouldn’t bother getting dressed.

Aaaanyway, here’s a little treat to get you through the day. Don’t say I’m not a giver.

If you can watch that and not at least chuckle a little bit, well, then I don’t know what to do with you.

Happy weekend!

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This is another one of those stories that isn’t really mine – and I thank God for that. It belongs to another sorority sister, except, well, she doesn’t think it’s true. But we’ll get to that. All in due time.

We were in our sophomore year of college at yet another sorority formal, and there was (of course) a commotion in the bathroom. Cla had gone to check on Clueless at the request of her date, as she’d been gone for quite some time. The scene she happened upon was confusing and chaotic, to say the least. Clueless was in the stall, on the floor, and one of her roommates, Hoolia, was crouched next to her. Hoolia saw Cla come in, and turned back to Clueless: “Honey, look. Cla’s here now. Just let us help you.

And just as Cla was about to ask what was going on and what they needed help with, Calk came running in: “I’ve got the scissors!

Scissors? In the bathroom? What the…

Yeah. Clueless had shat herself. Her thong had to be cut off of her before she was taken to the hospital. So, obviously, when she woke up, she was sans underwear.

Forgotten by the next day? Not exactly...

Forgotten by the next day? Not exactly...

The next day, while talking to another of her roommates, Faux Southern Belle, Clueless expressed curiosity about where her thong had gotten to.

FSB [after only slight hemming and hawing]: “Honey, you pooped your pants.”

With anyone else, it could have ended there, albeit with a certain amount of embarrassment, and the acknowledgment that perhaps Clueless should be a Sober Sister at the next function. But, no.

Clueless: “No, I don’t think that’s what happened. I think they just had to take them off at the hospital. I mean, I really only got sick because I just drank the champagne really fast at the pre-game.”

Oh really? Is that how you remember it? Because there are at least 15 people who know differently, and another 50 (or more), who’ve heard from them.

So how, exactly, do you convince someone that she shat herself?

Apparently, you don’t. To this day, she still doesn’t accept that it happened.

On the one hand, I feel a little bit bad. Everyone at the formal knew nearly as soon as it happened. Even her date.

On the other hand, she was a 20-year-old girl who pooped her pants and tried to deny it, even WITH witnesses!

Good luck, sweetie. *You* may not remember it, but we all sure as hell do.

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I don’t usually get too political over here. Sure, I have my opinions, but I don’t claim to be a political guru, by any means. Last night, however, I watched Obama’s news conference focusing on the economy, and felt the urge to comment.

I can’t lie – for a little while, I was having bad flashbacks to my college econ classes, hearing him throw around terms like “gross domestic product” and “structural deficits” and “fiscal responsibility.” (Responsibility? That’s just crazy talk.) And I was really only partially tuned in at first, as I was finally sitting down to do my taxes (woo.freaking.hoo.). But then, during the questions on AIG and why it took so long to react, Obama said one of the best things I’ve heard from him since he’s taken office:

It took us a couple of days [to react] because I like to know what I’m talking about before I speak.

Why am I so struck by this comment? I mean, you should expect politicians to know what they’re talking about, right? Right…? Or maybe:


You know why someecards are funny? Because they’re usually true.

It’s been said before, but the bar was set so low that anything even moderately acceptable that Obama does, is a happy surprise. Even speaking coherently. (Granted, that sentiment has faded a bit in these past couple months.)

Ideally, we should be able to look to our leaders as role models. So, maybe this whole “knowing what you’re talking about before you speak” idea will eventually sweep the nation.

Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

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I don’t know about you, but when I was a child, I was absolutely brimming with confidence. (Which lasted right up until middle school.) I had no fear. I was so sure of myself. I knew I was the bomb…or something like that.

And sometimes I miss that feeling. But I LOVE being reminded of it when I hear the comments of the kids I babysit. Two of the little girls I used to nanny for were confidence queens. But Sophie, well, she took the cake.

One afternoon, I was out with DG (the mom), Ben, Sophie, Brooke and the baby at Pizzeria Uno’s. DG and I had strategically placed ourselves around the table so that we could help any of the kids easily enough, and ended up sitting across from one another. Our waitress came over with the kids’ meals, delivering them with a smile and clearly at ease with a table of young and rambunctious children.

As she left, Sophie continued to color in her placemat, but commented: “Our waitress is really pretty.

DG looked at me, clearly proud that her daughter was saying something so nice, so genuine, so –

Then Sophie looked up: “But not as pretty as me!” And she did the cute little-kid-smirk. You know, it’s the I-know-what-I-said-was-kind-of-wrong-but-I’m-cute-so-you’re-gonna-let-me-get-away-with-it.

Me, not Sophie. But similar to the smirk she gave.

Me, not Sophie. But similar to the smirk she gave.

Just as quickly, the look on DG’s face turned from pride to something just shy of shock. “Liebchen, what do I say to that? I want to laugh, but I shouldn’t let her think she can say things like that, should I?

Seeing as I was trying hard not to laugh myself, I had very little advice to offer her. That, and the fact that she’s the mother of four, and I was a 21-year-old college senior.

Minor details.

But the fact was, that Sophie was still at an age where a) she was supremely confident in herself (at least in her appearance), and b) she could get away with saying nearly anything that was on her mind.

It just proves that you really can get away with anything when you’re that adorable.

Hey, Sophie, wanna trade places for a day?

*John Mayer, “83”

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The other week I was doing some grocery shopping – hanging out with all the other cool kids who frequent Harris Teeter on a Thursday night. It was supposed to be quick. I knew what I needed; I had my list; I was prepared to be home in time to watch the new episode of Grey’s Anatomy. (It’s a guilty pleasure. Please.) And everything was going according to plan, right up until the little old man started chatting me up by the bananas.

These are the best ones,” he told me, smiling and pointing at a particular bunch.

I laughed, humored him, and continued to pick out my fruit and veggies. And he continued to chat.

You know,” he said, as if letting me in on a secret, “I just like to do that. Because people, they’re looking for someone who knows. They don’t want to have to think about what they’re buying. They want someone to tell them the right answer. And they’re so gullible!

He kept going, “See, I can do this because I have no worries! I like to have a little fun in the grocery store!” I indulged him, smiling, agreeing that yes, people are gullible, etc. And then he finally introduced himself – as Bronco. After a few more minutes of idle chatter, we parted ways and he went on to another display. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him approach another girl at the display, and I knew he was giving more advice. Then I heard him say, “These are the best ones!

And then, even better? “Liebchen! Look! I did it again!” Apparently, we had become co-conspirators in this little ruse.

Now, I’ve met my fair share of characters over the years. It would seem that I emit a please-talk-to-me vibe that people just pick up on. (Which is funny, considering BNB once told me that I came across as standoffish.) Whether it be on the metro, in a cab, standing in line at, well, anywhere, people feel the need to strike up conversation. It’s usually older gentlemen – usually, but not exclusively.

Not my sign, but it might as well be for the way people initiate.

Not my sign, but it might as well be for the way people initiate conversation.

More often than not, I can extract myself easily enough, and I thought Harris Teeter would be no exception. Except, I continued to see Bronco in every. single. aisle I went down.

Liebchen? Can you help me find the unsweetened applesauce?

Liebchen? Do you see flax seed anywhere? I like to sprinkle it on my cereal in the morning. It helps me go to the bathroom.

Good to know, Bronco.

And finally, after everything, he gave me his card: “Call me if you want to play soccer at all [we’d been talking about how his granddaughter plays out in Virginia]. I’m like a papa for a lot of people in the area!

Maybe another time.

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1. Happy first day of spring!


For the record, I’m NOT in last place in my March Madness bracket – which is a huge achievement. Even this early on.

2. If you haven’t seen it, you should really watch this video. It makes Facebook look absurd (or, rather, more absurd than it already is with all the bells and whistles):

(The best part? My mom sent that to me.)

3. I just got my utilities bill in the mail and I’m torn on exactly how I want to pay it. I mean, sure, I could be conventional, but I feel there’s an opportunity for creativity here. First, there was the drawing:


Then, there was the (more complex than I could ever complete) math problem:


So what should I do? I’m thinking music video. I knew there was a reason I was practicing my Stanky Leg (original and other). Feel free to throw any other suggestions my way, in case I can’t get my dance moves up to snuff. But if I can? Solid gold, baby. Solid gold.

Happy Friday!

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