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Archive for April, 2009

Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

During our winter break, freshman year in college, a few friends and I decided to take a ski trip to Julie’s mountain house. If you remember, I don’t ski (at least not well), but I was more than ready for the inevitable drinking part. We stocked up on food (i.e. pasta), beer, and one of those margarita tubs. Because we’re classy like that.

One of our trip "achievements"

One of our trip "achievements"

One of our nights of drinking eventually turned into a game of Kings which is either never a good idea, or always a good idea – depending on how you look at it. Once we ran out of beer, we proceeded to keep our cups full with the mix from the margarita bucket. (As an aside: I “made” the margarita bucket. And it confirms my belief that I should never be allowed to make mixed drinks in any form, as I think I added nearly double the amount of tequila necessary.)

As we neared the last of the cards, things started to fall apart. Julie bounced from the table, and we later found out that she threw up in the sink. (And by “found out” I mean, we saw it. Because the sink was then clogged.) Why did she throw up in the sink? Because the bathroom was already backed up – which is why Peter disappeared outside, to pee in the snow, leaving me, Keith, and Costa at the table to finish the game.

It’s hard to remember at this point, but I imagine that the last card must have been a waterfall. And that I was last. Keith and Costa finished their drinks, and I put mine down – with just a little bit left in the cup. Costa went to check on Julie (his then girlfriend), and Keith proceeded to “chastise” me.

Come on, Liebchen, you have to finish that.”

Keith, if I finish that, I’m going to vomit.

Just finish it. You can throw up outside.

I don’t have my shoes.

I’ll carry you.

Always susceptible to goading, and unable to turn down such a gentlemanly offer, I agreed. He carried me, bride-over-the-threshhold style, and I carried my beverage.

Ready?

Ready.

I gulped down the last of it.

How do you feel?

Except, in the winter, not summer. And green, not pink.

Except, in the winter, not summer. And green, not pink.

I’m at least thankful that I made it over the railing and not on her deck, but, still, after I was done a neon green pool stood out nicely against the fresh white snow.

And Keith carried me through all of it. Those friends – the ones that don’t just hold your hair, but literally hold you – might actually be one in a million.

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As a single girl who lives by herself, at least two hours away from the closest family member, I’ve often wondered just who I should designate as my “person”. My Liebchen-is-in-the-hospital-and-we-thought-you-should-know person. Of course, Mama’s listed and I know she’d make the trip down from Philly in record time if I needed her. But what if the need is more immediate? When I lived with Cla, we’d occasionally list each other as emergency contacts, but now that we’re not living together, is that still appropriate?

I bring this up now because, well, my mother is a worrier.  (To be fair, we both are. We just pick different issues.) She worries about me running. Outside. And alone.

And I get that.

When I run outside, I don’t keep my cell phone on me. I tried that once, a button got jammed, and I ended up sending over 40 blank text messages, one right after the other, to a poor, unsuspecting friend. And it’s not like I wear a nametag, or carry my license with me when I run. It’s usually just me and my iPod.

So Mama (and I agree with her) wants me to have this, just in case:

products_wristid_lg

As we talked about it last night she said, “I just don’t know what other numbers you’d want on it. I obviously put myself as a contact, but it looks like people put their significant others (nope) or their roommates (not anymore) on there, too. Who would you put?

That, Mama, is an excellent question.

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All of this spring summer weather that we’ve been having lately has reminded me of something that’s been lacking in my life (or rather, my closet): sundresses. Cute, strappy, I-can-wear-this-anywhere, so-much-more-comfortable-and-breezy-than-clinging-shorts sundresses.

sun-dresses

You’re starting to see them more and more out on the DC streets now. Gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve noticed the recent abundance of shorter skirts showing just a bit (or a lot) more leg. And I’ve been taking notice, too. I often find myself wanting to tap on the shoulders of women on my way to work, and ask them where they’ve been shopping. Unfortunately 1) I’m not that friendly in the morning and 2) I’m not that forward, in general. I could, quite possibly, scare someone.

This desire for an updated warm weather wardrobe, though, has also reminded me of something else that’s lacking in my life: money.

As naive as it may sound, I’ve felt nearly (not totally, I’m not an idiot) recession-proof for a little while (though I knew it wouldn’t last). I knew people who were losing their jobs and taking pay cuts, but also people who were finding jobs, and making good money. And I knew others, still, who were moving back in with mom and dad, trying to weather the storm for a bit. But I was still doing all right. Until, at our last staff meeting, El Jefe officially announced that there would be no raises this year. We all knew it was coming. We knew. Yet, we all still hoped that maybe something, anything would turn around in our favor.

However, as if in answer to BOTH of these “problems”, I received a happy surprise in the mail yesterday: my tax refund! (Is it a refund? A rebate? A return? Whatever it is, it’s money back.)

It’s like the government was reading my mind! As much as I had complained about doing split state taxes, apparently it worked out in my favor. I gave Virginia too much money, so they’re giving a little back. Woohoo! And now that it’s sunk in that I’m not at all recession-proof, I’m fully aware that the majority of the check should go into savings.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t spend a little bit on summer fashions, right? It’s good for my mental health.

Thanks, Virginia. You made my day.

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I may be 23, but today I feel like this:

dead-mouse-chinatown

Actually, I was going for feeling like the old lady, but maybe it’s more accurate to say that I feel like the dead mouse on the ground. That she’s stabbing with her cane.

I’m thinking it’s a mix between the race yesterday, and the fact that I was so exhausted that I passed out last night around 7:30pm, fully clothed, practically sitting up, yet still somehow lying on something that did NOT do good things to my neck/back.

Clearly, my life is really hard.

What does a girl have to do to get her own personal masseur?

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A few things today, to usher in the weekend:

1) After watching Miss America the other night, I cannot get “Untouched” out of my head. It’s catchy. And makes me dance a little when I listen to it on the way to work. (And, let’s be honest, I’m dancing in my desk chair, listening to it now.)

2) A friend shared this with me, and I still swear it has to be a joke ad. He maintains that it is not. Perhaps you’ve already seen it, but if not…enjoy. Mow the lawn, indeed.

3) I’ve been tagged twice now to share a photo, just as I am while reading the blogs of those who tagged me. First, from Marie and then from f.B. Since I do most of my blog reading at work (shh! don’t tell!) the picture presented a bit of a problem. But, since I just remembered to do it now, you get the most natural (nearly) photo I could snap.

photo-23Oh so attractive with my unkempt, still wet, post-shower hair and sleep t-shirt. I know what you’re thinking: hot. I’m pretty sure this look is making a comeback. You heard it here first.

Thank God it’s Friday!

Now, is it 5:30 yet?

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Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

Today’s TMI is brought to you in the form of gchat – because I just couldn’t relay the conversation any better. (Emphasis added by yours truly – as if it were needed.)

me: haha – i love it
are you back from vacay?
Peter: yea
me: how was it?
no injuries, i hope
Peter: wishful thinking, sam might have lost a testicle
me: you’re joking….right?
Peter: umm….no
i wish i were
me: omg! what happened?
Peter: he got what is known as testicular torsion, its when your ball wraps around the vein giving it blood and slowly kills it
he didn’t get into surgery quick enough to fix it properly
me: how does that even happen? is he okay? (if you’re playing with me, i’m gonna be so mad)
Peter: im not playing with you i swear

he’ll be fine
he still has one working ball
me: holy crap….
Peter: no one has believed us when we told them
it wasn’t even a skiing accident
me: so how did it happen?
Peter: well, it happened while he was skiing but its just something that can happen when you are doing physical activities
me: how many people have you told? does he really want it spread around? would it make you feel like any less of a man to have one ball?
Peter: well sam wasn’t exactly “manly” to begin with (side note: Sam=Crush, from this story)
he’ll live though
he is telling people, im sure its not something he wants screamed for the rooftops but he isn’t hiding it
me: wow
Peter: it was pretty crazy to have all that happen
me: did you guys have to go to the hospital out there?
Peter: yea
he was rushed into surgery when we went to the hospital to try and save his ball
me: but you just didn’t get there in time for it to be saved?
Peter: we weren’t even close
he waited a day to go in
he thought he just pinched his nuts and they were sore from that
so he didn’t go in until the next day at which point there was nothing the doctor could do
me: well, i suppose that’s quite the eventful ski trip…
could he ski after the surgery? or was it the last day?
Peter: it was the 2nd day
he’s actually bed ridden for 4-6 weeks to heal from the surgery
me: oh god…that really sucks
Peter: yea it does
other than that the trip was fantastic
Cheers, kids.

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Remember when I told you about that roach that was an unwelcome tenant in my apartment? Well, shortly after that post, I got him. I saw him creep out from the closet, but sluggishly this time, as though he’d been drugged. And he was moving slowly enough that I had time to pull on my winter boots (which went great with my extra large sleep t-shirt), and squash the ever-living shit out of him. There was much rejoicing, and many triumphant texts sent (at least three). And I clearly didn’t feel bad at all because, well, he was just gross.

In fact, as a general rule, I don’t feel bad killing bugs that may get into my apartment (or any building, for that matter). I won’t squish you when I walk outside, just don’t follow me to my home. Simple enough rule. I had a bit of a dilemma last night, though, when I saw two teeny spiders (honestly, no bigger than my pinky nail) crawling around near the end of my bathtub. I wasn’t concerned about them, and, frankly, I expected a couple bugs, as I’d left my windows open yesterday morning.

My normal m.o. would be to turn on the water and let them go down the drain. The prior rule stands. BUT, for some reason, I started thinking about James and the Giant Peach. You know how all those creatures get, well, giant? And do you remember what Miss Spider’s gripe was with the two horrible aunts? They killed some of her relatives by sending them down the drain. Look, I know Roald Dahl is just fantasy, but would you want to be on the bad side of this?

james1

I sure as hell wouldn’t.

I think I’m safe for now, as I haven’t seen any old men peddling glowing, magic seeds recently, that would result in abnormally large creatures. (Though, in DC, you never can tell.) But the impact of that book is almost enough to make me want to gently usher the critters onto a piece of paper and out onto the window ledge.

Almost.

(I’m sorry, Miss Spider. Please don’t get me.)

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