Thursday, March 30, 2006
You should have feared the plastic owl.
I got my very first housewarming gift today! YAY! Thanks Goober.
Now...if only I had a kitchen to put it in. Sigh.
In other news of the apartment, I saw a pigeon perched on the owl this morning.
All I ever wanted.
And you all know the motto: "What happens in Vegas, appears on the blog Tuesday afternoon."
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Scrap the talking points, people. No matter what they say or write, you respond:
Dick Cheney shot a guy in the face.
HA! Works every time.
The officer cited 47-year-old Denise Grier for her bumper sticker that takes a dig at President Bush. It combines Bush's name with a vulgar four-letter word, as in "I'm Tired of All The BUSHIT."
The officer cited the registered nurse at Emory University Hospital for violating a state law prohibiting lewd or profane stickers and decals on vehicles.
Grier says the sticker is a political statement.
Grier, the officer and an attorney for the American Civil Liberties Union will meet in court next month when Grier contests the misdemeanor charge which carries a $100 fine.
Well, one can only assume it's cause officers in Decatur have nothing better to do.
I'm an irredeemably eejitous, liberal, tight as fuck, pathetically simple-minded, dribbling child!
See how compatible you are with me!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
I am 83% compatible with Big Orange Michael.
Sculptor makes statue of Sean Preston Spears crowning.
Ahhh, and today's theme?
Scalia claims reporter "misinterpreted" gesture.
But Scalia said in his letter the gesture is not obscene at all, but dismissive. Scalia said he had explained the gesture's meaning to no avail to the reporter, whom he referred to as "an up-and-coming 'gotcha' star."
To back his interpretation of the gesture, Scalia in his letter quoted from Luigi Barzini's book, "The Italians:" "The extended fingers of one hand moving slowly back and forth under the raised chin means 'I couldn't care less. It's no business of mine. Count me out."'
I guess Mississippi and South Dakota would now arrest her.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Never hire a contractor to inspect your main contractor's work.
Cause here's what'll happen:
Contractor 2: Who did this? You paid money? For this?
Contractor 2: Deep sigh. Look, I don't even know where to start. But we're gonna have to break these walls and rewire the entire living room.
And then when he leaves, you have to find another contractor to evaluate Contractor #2's inspection, because that fuck accidentally set fire to your brand new albeit still unfinished kitchen cabinets and well, he just doesn't inspire any confidence.
AMERICAN IDOL BLOGGING
Hey, Creed, I think I've found your missing lead singer.
Hey, Paula, stop hitting on the young boys.
Hey, Paris DAMN GIRL. Work it out.
Hey, Simon, KEEP TALKING SHIT ABOUT CLAY AND YOU'LL SEE WHAT YOU GET.
Oh, and how old was that dude? 28-29 my ASS. Try 50-60.
“I don’t know. I think all these years of going for quantity over quality was a tactical error” –a wide-eyed Dawn Summers.
With all my poker playing, blog posting, TV watching, and memo writing --- doing anything that involves actual face to face conversation and standing upright is a veritable red carpet event in my life.
Stir in guest appearances by the now famous air quote girl “Scarlett,” and brother of F-train, Princess Anonymous' thirtieth birthday party was an all star event. Her boyfriend Brian organized a surprise 30th birthday party for her (complete with setting up a stealth email address “Princesssurprise30thbirthdayparty@yahoo.com) and invitees spanning her entire 30 year existence (hmmm...how many times can I point out that Princess is 30 in one post? Let’s find out.)
I’d only eked out about four hours sleep before my painters came to the apartment, so by the time they left at six, I knew I would have to keep myself awake or else there was no way I would make the party in time for the appointed 9 p.m. surprise hour.
Unfortunately, I chose “The Constant Gardener,” as my evening’s entertainment.
When I woke up again, it was 7:20 and that horrible movie was still going in the background.
“Dear God, now he’s actually gardening,” I exclaim in despair.
I decide to watch some poker – WPT – my show of choice on Saturdays. That perks me up.
I rewatch Ardebili’s 23o coming from way behind to beat A2.
Poker is nasty, brutish and …oops, wrong blog.
I get to Princess’ 30th birthday bash about ten minutes after 9.
The bouncer waves me through to the back area. As I walk away from the door, I see him card a guy with a receding hairline and a middle aged girlfriend at the door.
WHAT? Dude, did you see these bangs?? My neon green scrunchy? You should be carding meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
I put him on my revenge list.
I walk to the back…I don’t recognize anyone.
Except there are many people who look and talk like Princess.
I assume that this is the right place, but not feeling particularly bold, I retreat to a corner and surf the web on my Treo until I see familiar faces.
Ten minutes later Dawn 2 and Alceste arrive, she introduces me to Princess’ dad.
He spots the Star of David hanging from my necklace.
“HEY! Are you one of us?”
Well, I’m a New Yorker.
“No, a friend gave it to me many years ago.”
“Ah, I thought you might be Jewish.”
Nope. I could be more Catholic, but then I’d have to live in Rome. We talk about where I went to college and he says "ahh, the ivy league. I didn't go, but I got to pay for two Ivy League tuitions," referring to both his 30-year-old Penn alum daughter and her brother. I do not point out that with Princess' law degree, that's probably three Ivy League educations.
Turns out Dad of Princess used to play basketball with the name partner of my firm.
At the back of the room, a pair of security guard emerge from a long hallway. When they cleared the doorway and the door closed behind them, I noticed that the “door” was disguised as a bookcase. (Wait…or should that read the door was disguised as a “bookcase?” Can we get a ruling from air quote girl? Hmm…can you have air quotes in the printed word? Another ruling please.)
“Oh my gosh! It’s like Indiana Jones. If I lean against the bookcase I could fall into the secret hallway back there.”
“Yeah, I hear that they have guards back there that beat you up for that,” Alceste flatly opines.
But I’m a girl. They wouldn’t hit a girl, I say eyeing the burly guys guarding the “bookcase.”
I watch the “doorcase” open again to let in another two people, I quickly scan for signs of the rich and/or famous.
It shuts. Foiled again.
By now the back of the room is filled with like 900 people. Dawn 2 and I combine our vast mental resources to identify the familiar faces.
“Hey, Laura Michaels, what’s up?”
“Hmm..we know that guy right?”
“Jim, good to see you.”
Two Dawns: twice as good as one.
Maybe four times.
It is way past the designated surprise hour. I orally wonder how on earth Brian was going to trick Princess into climbing down to the lower east side alleyway, that precedes the speakeasy-disguised-as-a-toy-factory bar.
A moment later, whispers of “She’s here” litter the crowd.
Someone nearby makes an attempt to sign happy birthday. It doesn’t catch on and the aborted effort dies in a flat "happy."
I spot my "roommate" for the upcoming Fall wedding and go over to say hello.
And I just want to say, I cannot believe that my readers tried to talk me into bailing on her – she’s totally awesome and it will be a blast. You guys should be ashamed of yourselves.
We make our way through the crowd and wish the 30-year-old birthday girl a happy thirtieth.
“Hey! Scarlett is here!”
And she’s brought her pre-screened boyfriend! Oooh…YAY!
She introduces Rhett to Dawn 2 and Alceste and then says:
“And this is Dawn Summers from Clareified.”
“Ohh…cool! I read your blog.”
Well, I could tell right away that this was a perfect, fantastic, charmingly wonderful person with a discerningly high intellect. Dawn wholly approves.
We chatted about fascinating world of securities law for a while, when suddenly a ten-feet-tall figure with a gigantic baseball for a head walked in.
In addition to being classmates and former colleagues, Princess is one of the handful of native New Yorkers that I know, who is a huge Mets fan.
So Brian hired the mascot of New York’s best baseball team (or as Rhett commented later...”well, of all the New York sports teams, I guess I hate the Mets the least.”) to make a surprise appearance at her party.
Scarlett was the first one to get a picture with him as he made the rounds. It was such an adorable shot, the rest of us decided that there really was no point in anyone else taking a picture with him. The camera would just sigh with disappointment.
I did shake his hand and tell him he was my favorite mascot. (Ok, don’t tell anyone, but I said the very same thing to Maddie, the New York Liberty mascot in the summer of 1999… but I didn’t really mean it.)
He signed his name on a shirt for me.
Three little known facts about Mr. Met --- hmmm…if I had the Drudge alarm codes, we’d inject them here to herald the little seen “Clareified Exclusive:” He only has four fingers, isn’t allowed to talk and might be named Matt.
As he departed the festivities, I totally decided I would pay any amount of money to watch him leave the speakesy through the narrow underground alleyway.
Watching him bend his head through the doorway alone would have been worth it.
F-train arrived at the tail end of the Mr. Met appearance, so I was still totally hyper when he introduced me to his brother and sister-in-law.
“This is Dawn. She’s a losing poker player,” he said, undoing a day’s worth of positive affirmation.
“No, I’m not. You are,” I countered in Clarence Darrow-esque rhetorical flair.
“No. I have won thousands and thousands of dollars playing poker.”
“But how much have you lost,” sister-in-law of F-train countered.
And for the second time that night I could immediately tell that this was a perfect, fantastic, charmingly wonderful person with a discerningly high intellect.
F-train left to say hi to the rest of our merry band, I seized upon my once in a lifetime opportunity to get the drop on my nemesis.
“So, brother of F-train, you have to give me all the dirt.”
He smiled knowingly, but didn’t say anything.
“Come on…did he steal your parent's car and crash it in a ditch?”
“No, that was me.”
“Did he sneak out of the house at night to go smoke in bars during junior high?’
“No…that was also me.”
I laughed and pressed on.
“See, he can’t tell you, cause then F-train will tell on him,” S-I-LOF explained.
I looked at BoF, who was just back from his second tour of duty in Iraq.
“Umm…you do know that you can snap F-train's little twig manboy body with your pinky toe, right?”
Sadly, the best I got was that F-train played the trumpet in high school (but did not attend any sexually promiscuous band camps) and was on the wrong end of a bat wielded by brother of F-train in the third grade.
“Eh, I’m sure he deserved it,” I assured BoF.
Oh, yeah and he was a mama’s boy tattletale.
“HA! You played the trumpet,” I said triumphantly when I saw F-train a few minutes later.
“Yeah, I did,” he said, not at all humiliated and exposed, “did they tell you I led the marching band in my senior year.”
“No, dude. I was not going for “F-train accomplishments and moments of distinction."
“Oh, ok,” he shrugged nonchalantly.
Grrrr….I’ll get him yet.
I was about to head back to my hermit’s existence when I saw the huge cake shaped box with “Veniero’s” written across the top.
Now, aside from the Magnolia’s cupcakes, Veniero’s is probably the very best dessert food my fine city has to offer.
We all sang happy birthday in honor of Princess’ umm…wait…which birthday was it again? Oh, right…in honor of her thirtieth birthday and ate delicious, delicious cake.
Brian had managed to organize 5000 guests (AND provide us with free alcohol), hired Mr. Met AND scored Veniero’s dessert? Seriously, if only he read my blog, he’d be tied with Rhett for best boyfriend ever.
I left the party a bit after twelve, but due to some technical difficulties at the coat rack, didn’t leave the bar until after one.
A word of caution: don’t wear a new coat to a popular bar in NYC and then hang it up on a dark, unmarked coat rack.
You will inevitably come within seconds of deciding to abandon the maybe-it-was-navy-with-a-fur-hood coat and leave your friend’s 30th birthday party in a flimsy spring dress despite the winter chill and light rain.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
For reasons that are not entirely clear, it’s dawn on a Saturday morning and I am in a fierce staring competition with the pigeon perched on my balcony ledge.
Under all rules of play, I have won.
She has broken from my gaze at least six times since I started counting. Her neck bends first left, then right. The wind ripples through her blue tinted breast feathers.
Now she struts away from my window completely, prancing half-way down the balcony ledge.
But, she comes back. Our eyes meet and the game is once again afoot.
She watches me as I furiously tap at the window – futilely attempting to scare her and her loud cooing away, so that I can get some sleep before the painters show up tomorrow morning. Correction. In four hours.
Still, she watches.
Now, I am straining to pull up the window – maybe I can yell her away.
It doesn’t budge. I yell anyway. And tap. Yell and tap. All the while never taking my eyes off of her. It.
She turns away again.
Dawn: 7 Stupid filthy dirty pigeon: 0.
Well, that’s not exactly accurate.
In fact, I may win every staring battle with this bird between now and when I sell this place to some hipster doofus for a million dollars, but the fact that she is there at all, signals that I have most definitely lost the war.
You see, ever since I’ve been Our lady of the Terrace, I have battled with the pigeons.
My mother suggested sprinkling cayenne pepper to get rid of them, then ammonia, then cayenne pepper flavored ammonia. To no avail. Every morning, moments after the first rays of the sun hit my eyes (because I haven’t yet figured out how to bring the blinds down), I hear them. Cooing. Then prancing and fluttering.
What was I thinking? My Panamanian raised mother, who now lives sans balcony in the East Coco Beach, is not going to help me get rid of my pigeon problem.
No, no. This was going to take something or someone bigger than my mom. A google times bigger.
Indeed, Mr. Google was chock full of ideas. A thousand dollar device that sends ultrasonic radio waves that send pigeon distress signals, some sodio-dicloraxide which goes for $50 a gallon, or a twenty dollar ceramic owl.
Ding ding ding. We have a winner.
The owl arrived today, er, yesterday.
I eagerly opened the box that would rid me of my problem.
There it was…a 22 inch, brown ceramic owl, with huge yellow eyes and a bobble head type spring for a neck.
Tell ya the truth, it was kinda freaky.
I ripped the plastic off and set it outside on my patio table.
That’ll learn those pigeons but good.
I ran quickly back inside, lest the owl decide to peck my eyes out for good measure.
Now, I wait.
I went back to my regular apartment life – my kitchen cabinet-less existence of eating take-out on my bed for want of a dining area or utensils
(how much do we hate our contractor? Lots and lots.)
Around six, as I chatted with Karol on the phone, I went to my home office to finally log out of my AOL thing, which has had been idling for like six days. I see something dart across my range of vision.
“What happened?” Karol asks on the other line.
“FUCK. That owl scared the shit out of me!”
“I got the plastic owl thing to keep the pigeons away.”
“OK, let me get this straight. You got a plastic owl to scare away pigeons and, instead, you scared yourself?”
“It’s very creepy, bobbing around out there.”
“You need help. And quick.”
I closed my eyes, hit the computer’s power button (certainly no time or sight for logging out and proper shutdowns) and then closed the door behind me. Damn owl.
Which, of course, brings me back to my current staring contest with the pigeon perched on my balcony ledge.
While I am terrified of the bobbing, yellow-eyed owl sitting on my patio table, the pigeon seems, not only unfazed by the owl, but completely and utterly oblivious that its natural predator sits just inches away ready to attack at a moment’s notice.
And yes, I can hear Fisch’s voice saying “a ceramic owl? That’ll never work. These are city pigeons. They’ve never seen an owl,” in between puffs of Karol’s Marlboro lights.
But you know what? Whatever. Because as I watch the pigeon finally fly off into the sunrise, I surrender.
They can have the damn balcony, cause as long as that freaky ass owl is out there, I won’t be using it.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Quaid filed a lawsuit Thursday in Los Angeles County Superior Court alleging producers got him to work cheap by falsely claiming "Brokeback" was "a low-budget, art-house film, with no prospect of making any money."
"Yet from day one, defendants fully intended that the film would not be made on a low budget, would be given a worldwide release, and would be supported as the studio picture it always was secretly intended to be," the lawsuit says.
Quaid agreed to waive his usual seven-figure fee and share of gross profits in favor of a much smaller payment, the lawsuit claims, although it doesn't say how much he was paid.
Are the Quaids the ones with the old dad or is that the Baldwins...
However dumb the subplots get on 24, we must always remember: Jack Bauer does not jump the shark. The shark swims over and asks permission to jump the Jack. Jack will then proceed to throw the shark against the wall, choke the shark, demand to know who it's working for and proceed to trade it net immunity and a copy of the DRY list for what it knows. Because, as we all know, that shark is their only lead, the perimeters have failed and the superiors at Division have sent the herring to bring him.
24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck. 24 does not suck.
Seriously, there are three things people should never mess with, lest they face the wrath of Dawn. (DAAAAWWWWWWWNNNNNNNN!!!!)
Yale is one of them.
Now, I haven't really been following the "Taliban admitted to study at Yale" news item which started this, but the "Nail Yale" protests have caught my attention.
Now, I would assume, and please, correct me, if I'm wrong. But the country (and its government/law enforcement agencies) are on the lookout for terrorists.
I further assume that if they catch wind of a terrorist, they are gonna be all over said terrorist like white on rice. I dunno...I figure they might question/arrest/deport/kill anyone they determine is a terrorist, former terrorist or a terrorist enabler. Am I wrong? If so, then what the hell is the Bush administration doing cause all I hear them talk about is the War on Terror.
Which brings me to Yale admitting a "Taliban guy" as one of the commenters over on "on the fence" so cleverly put it. Since this story has been floating in the ether for weeks now, I'd guess that this "Taliban guy" is not a terrorist, criminal or threat to the U.S. in anyway. Again, if I'm wrong, see above.
Send angry letters to Ashcroft II.
If I'm right, then this guy is entitled to the same protection from instrusive eyes into his academic record or application materials that was afforded to whichever one of the Bush twins graduated from Yale a year ago (I believe it was the Not Jenna one.) Who the hell is Evan Coyne Maloney, a reportedly B student at Bucknell to trespass on my campus --ostensibly posing as a Yale student (lord knows that sweatshirt is not the height of fashion)--- demanding answers to anything?
He's a journalist? Fine, call the President's office and make an appointment. As a student journalist at Yale -- with a tuition paid right to speak to the University president and the like --- I couldn't very well barge into his office whenever I pleased, in the name of truth, justice or bad food in the dining hall.
I'm astounded that the conservatives believe that "Yale has something to answer for" or deserves to be punished by alumni for admission choices because they let in a student from Afghanistan. (Again, that's all he can be without Homeland Security coming a knocking.) It's the very height of ignorance and flies in the face of everything a great University strives to be. Should Yale close its doors to all students from the Middle East?
Well...actually...that might not be such a bad idea. My Iranian freshman year roommate used to totally hog the shower in the morning and I might have had a better shot at getting to class on time if she wasn't around.
If the U.S. "war on terror" machine sees fit to leave this guy alone, what cause then do you have to "nail Yale" over his presence? If Yale's President Levin is such an enemy to America, why did the President appoint him to the committee investigating intelligence failures in Iraq?
If you believe "the Taliban guy" is a war criminal who poses a threat, then shouldn't you be "nailing" Homeland Security and the Bush administration?
But somehow I'd bet we won't see the conservatives rallying to arms against Bush over this, it's not like they want Homeland coming for them.
|Your Birthdate: July 8|
Watch out Donald Trump! You've got a head for business and money.
You'll make it rich some day, even if you haven't figured out how yet.
A supreme individualist, you shouldn't get stuck in a corporate job.
Instead, make your own way - so that you can be the boss.
Your strength: Your undying determination
Your weakness: You require an opulent lifestyle
Your power color: Plum
Your power symbol: Dollar sign
Your power month: August
Thursday, March 23, 2006
I'm on line at Duane Reade (as opposed to being online at duanereade.com) and a guy on the line next to mine, is throwing out the names of neighborhoods in Brooklyn to the black chick ringing up my items.
Guy: Bed Stuy?
Guy: Red Hook?
Chick: No mon. (Yeah, she's got a little island flava)
Chick: FLATBUSH? NO! Me not on welfare.
Guy: Where then?
Chick: Cyprus Hill.
For those of you new to my blog, "Flatbush" is the real world name for East Coco Beach.
I give her SUCH a look -- cause, I'd hella rather be in Flatbush than in Cyprus nee East freaking New York Hill.
She quickly breaks my gaze, and then, to no one in particular, says:
"I hope no one round here lives in Flatbush."
I plugged my name in on imdb.com, turns out I was an actress in Monster's Ball.
Note to self: Get Oscar from Halle.
"Dad forgot baby was in the car, parked the car, got on the Metro," said Lucille Baur, a spokeswoman for the Montgomery County, Md., Police Department.
"I don't know exactly when he got the memory flash, but he was in D.C. when it was the horrible defining moment, 'Oh my goodness, I think I've left my child back in my car,'" Baur said.
But my favorite line of the article:
"Child Protective Services was comfortable with releasing the child back to the mom," said Baur. "We all believe that the child was not intentionally left in the car."
hahahahahahahahahahahhahahaha...I suspect he'll be sleeping in the car for the next few years.
via Karol, who I think sent it to me to see if I knew this guy. But no. I don't. Princess Leia's dad is not that dumb.
Although...he did let the stroller go...twice.
Clinton v. McCain will be the 2008 presidential match up.
The very best part of this news? Well, no matter who wins, Karol will kill herself.
Hate the shirt...in fact, let's just get rid of the shirt.
When someone realizes that their life is not even remotely headed in a direction that they feel is meaningful (of course each person finds meaning in different things, for some money, others love, and others altruistic acts…) why should they be happy?? THEY SHOULDN’T BE. And if some sort of medication is going to make this person happy, I don’t believe in it. It's fake.
It's funny cause it's true.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
I was a precocious child.
When I was young -- too young know know any better -- I used to tell my father "if I grow up to be like you, please shoot me." Looking back, I think I said that because my dad was losing his hair, growing in the midsection, and unable to run around with me and my brother for any length of time. He just seemed, well, beaten down a bit. I don't think I understood how cruel such a statement could be.
But, my father laughed it off.
He was, after all, a lawyer at a big firm. He was gone all week, and he tried to make up for it with Saturday morning trips to the bakery to buy me and my younger brother a cookie before he went back to work. (When I say "a cookie" I don't mean just any cookie. These things were bigger than our heads. I always went for chocolate chip and my brother chose sugar. But I digress). I loved those trips to the bakery. But don't think this is some psycho-babble "I miss you daddy" line. I loved those trips because those cookies were just that good.
I went to visit my father two weeks ago and he asked how things were going. I told him I was a bit nervous to start my new law firm job, that I was mid-way through shedding the 30 lbs my last law firm job put on my frame, that I got winded played tag with my young cousins the other day, and that I still felt, well, beaten down a bit.
An evil glint shone in my father's eye.
"Shall I shoot you now?" he asked, as his mouth slowly drew into a big smile.
I thanked him, but declined. I'm not him ... yet. If nothing else, my hairline is where it always was.
But, I did take him out to the Corner Bakery for a cup of coffee and a cookie that was bigger than his head.
NOT SO RANDOM THOUGHT
How many times do you go to answer your phone when the 'Deal or No Deal' banker phone goes off?
Whiny babies grow up to be conservative.
Remember the whiny, insecure kid in nursery school, the one who always thought everyone was out to get him, and was always running to the teacher with complaints? Chances are he grew up to be a conservative.
At least, he did if he was one of 95 kids from the Berkeley area that social scientists have been tracking for the last 20 years. The confident, resilient, self-reliant kids mostly grew up to be liberals.
I will be "Bloggerman." I won't fight evil, per se, but I'll link to people who do and make witty comments about their efforts.
I wonder if he'll have Link Girl and his loyal pet Via Dog.
I just don't get why military personnel still tend to vote Republican.
"I'm only ten and I've already got two mortal enemies."-Bart Simpson
Me too. Except I'm not ten. I'm twenty-five. But really, so is Bart. Anyhoo.
Welcome Superfischel (and no, Karol, it's not like "Super"man, it's like the word-but spelled wrong.)
Of course, after Saturday's resounding poker beating, Fisch is enemy numero dos and should sleep with one eye open, while looking looking over his shoulder.
Although, I am impressed with his Karol handling skills.
Apparently, she had paid for his lightbulbs over his objection.
She refused to take the money back, but he vowed that he'd repay her.
"Revenge is a dish best served cold," blah blah blah blah.
Anyway, at Saturday's game, after Fisch and the ringers from Georgia took mine and Karol's money -- she asked to borrow twenty bucks to rebuy.
At the end of the night, she only had like 11 dollars left, so as she begins to say she'll pay me the rest later, Fisch tries to give her a five dollar chip to cover the lightbulbs.
She refuses to take it.
Instead he tosses me the chip.
"Take it off what she owes you."
"No!" Karol says trying to get the chip back.
"Keep it, Dawn. "
"Damn you both."
Fisch, ever humble in his victory, says "See, actually, it's perfect because I know, you're not going to pay Dawn twice and let her keep the extra money."
Now maybe he'll blog something this week. It's not like he's sleeping.
I agreed to share a room with another wedding guest.
We booked said hotel room about a three months ago for a wedding to take place in early Fall. However, I recently found out that a friend of mine is moving to the town where the wedding is taking place. I am certain I could stay with her, saving myself the astronomical costs of the hotel.
Can I bail on the room?
Really want to bail on the room and save the money for a really nice wedding gift. Or playing poker. One or the other.
I play poker at Poker.com
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Blogosphere: March 13, 2006
Happy Birthday, Ari. May you begin to enjoy the spoils of the Social Security checks.
Electrodes on the testicles, hoods, leaving them naked and unattended with a crazy chick...fine, war is war, but this...THIS is too much even during wartime.
A jury found an Army dog handler guilty Tuesday of abusing detainees at Iraq's Abu Ghraib prison by terrifying them with a military dog, allegedly for his own amusement.
Shame on us.
Monday, March 20, 2006
FEAR AND LOATHING IN BROOKLYN
When my co-blogger suggested that we take the visiting Gibs for a driving tour of Brooklyn, I readily agreed.
After all, she's writing a whole tour guide book on the sights and attractions of the borough.
So thrilled was I at the prospect, as we drove to Manhattan to pick up Gib and his wife, I exclaimed "Yay! Now, I'll get to know my borough too."
Sure, if I consider my borough to be the second floor of the Century 21 discount clothing store and the Duane Reade next door, which, I do not.
For some reason that may or may not have to do with the third anniversary of the Iraq war, (Karol: What is going on? Gib: Well, I think the war started three or four years ago around today. Me: Which war? Karol: The one that started three or four years ago, doofus. Me: Oh yeah.) traffic was atrocious.
It took an hour to get to Manhattan, an hour to get to the Gibs' hotel and an hour to get back.
Essentially, just enough time for things to go terribly, terribly wrong.
We were already running late, so we got to the Gibs something like two hours after our agreed meet time.
"I'm so sorry, we're late. It was Karol's fault."
"No, it was most definitely, Dawn's fault, but we also had some really bad traffic."
And then in unison, we said:
Karol: But mostly it was Dawn's fault.
Dawn: But mostly it was traffic's fault.
I made the mistake of letting Karol drive my car in order to get to Manhattan quicker, so the Gibs got to 1. see road rage 2. experience several pedestrian near hits and 3. Listen to baaaaad Russian music.
Again, I apologize.
I suggested we take the Brooklyn bridge across to start off the tour right --instead, Karol took the more scenic route through the longest underwater vehicular tunnel in the world.
Seriously, umm...so sorry.
Mrs. Gib said that she didn't mind that we were late, because it gave her a chance to get more shopping time in.
"Oh, where'd you go?" Karol asked.
"Daffy's," Mrs. Gib replied (Hmmm...or she might have said TJ MAXX...one is apparently just like the other except for one thing which I missed due in large part to the tuning out upon hearing the word "shop.")
"Have you ever been to Century?"
Danger, Danger, Will Robinson!!
"Well, we could go to the one in Brooklyn."
"There's a Century in Brooklyn?" I ask, stupidly, I might add.
"Only the best one there is."
"Sure, I'd love to go."
And so it was, our fates sealed.
Century 21 in Bay Ridge.
I'm no Scrabble champion, but I'm sure if you play with the letters they will form the phrase "12th circle of hell"
I guess it's hard to describe the scene on a Staurday afternoon, of hundreds of people clawing through racks and rows of haphazardly lined merchandise searching for the twenty dollar Chanel suit.
The din of salespeople shouting for price checks, mothers yelling at their kids, and spouses looking for their wives is dizzying. I ducked out to do some grocery shopping at Duane Reade. When I returned, I had lost track of Karol, the Gibs and pheelepopopok, who had been tricked into coming along with promises of a free ride to Brooklyn.
I started my search for them in the unlikeliest places (men's italian designer shoes) and slowly wound my way through various other departments (children's clothes) until I ended up at the "Karol most likely to be found here," sunglasses counter. Whenever I find myself in these shopping situations, I always try to kill as much time upfront in the hope that my delay tactics will result in finding my party at the checkout counter, all finished.
It has never yet worked. Saturday was no different.
I got to the sunglasses counter and no Karol. I had already called her cell twice and now decided to have her paged over the loudspeaker.
If she's not in sunglasses, she's left the store.
And then I saw it.
My heart sank as an entire floor of wall to wall bargains and women fashion came into view.
I found Karol fairly quickly.
She had two dresses draped over her arm and was pouring over a third.
"I'm looking for something to wear to Mike's wedding. Does this look like resorts chic?"
"You're actually shopping? Are you kidding me? It's like five thirty."
"We're fine. We have time."
I anxiously followed her and pheelepopopok until they headed to the underwear section.
I am not going to help anyone pick out underwear, unless it's an under-12-year-old person with the last name Summers whom I am legally obligated to feed, clothe and house under penalty of imprisonment.
Pheelepopopok had a different view of the matter. "You gonna try the stuff on in the aisle? cause that'd be cool."
Ok, time to find the Gibs.
We all finally met up at the check-out counter around 7:15.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. This item doesn't have a tag, we'll have to send someone upstairs to find out the price." the check-out girl said to Karol as she dangled a flimsy piece of lace material above the counter.
"I think it was the last one."
"Well, there's no way for me to know what it costs..."
"Well, maybe there's another one. I'll wait while you send someone upstairs to look."
"Dude. Just leave it. We haven't eaten yet and we've got to meet Alceste in like fifteen minutes."
"Well, just call him. Say we're running late."
"Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot that you are heading back to Georgia tomorrow and will never again have an opportunity to buy that $3 strip of lace...oh, wait. YOU LIVE HERE."
She doesn't budge. I call Alceste for the fourth time, again, getting the voicemail. (Quick, Pearatty, close your eyes.)
Why do people bother having cellphones if they never answer them?
The delay causes Mrs. Gib's eye to catch the tie section and she was off! Moments later she had purchased a tie and had it wrapped in a fancy box.
Karol was still waiting.
"I got a box," Mrs. Gib said in a happy singsong voice.
"Hmm...it's for Gib and yet you seeemm waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay happier about it, than he does."
Cut away shot to Gib's, deadpan, emotionless mug.
Did I mention, KAROL WAS STILL WAITING.
How much do we hate Karol? How much? A. Lot.
FIIIIIIIINALLLY, the long shopping nightmare was over.
We were going to grab pizza at the vastly inferior parlor over by Coney Island, because, at least, the Gibs could see one Brooklyn landmark during their visit.
But we had to pick up Karol's Poker Hero, Fisch, so we needed to go back to Karol's house and borrow her brother's car.
I drove behind her in the Honda on the way to KPH's house and then on to the pizza parlor.
As she pulled out of the driveway and I shifted behind her into the turning lane, I said out loud to the Gibs:
"I hope she remembers who is following her."
In addition, to insane lane shifts to "go around that guy," as she is fond of saying when we are in the same vehicle, she also insisted on making every barely yellow light between bensonhurst and coney island.
"DON'T MAKE THAT LIGHT!" I'd yell in vain as the Porsche whizzed through the intersection.
Insert Dawn shaking her fist and Karol slamming on the brakes on the other side.
Finally, by our last light, she figured out the whole stopping at the yellow -- which, ironically, was also the point at which I was fully prepared to speed through behind her.
I silently laughed at the narrowly evaded rear-end collision. Who would never get to drive her brother's fancy car again? Who?
At the pizza place, I finally met Fisch. He looked exactly like his myspace photo, except for he doesn't walk around with an adorable little girl on his left, and he was wearing a Halliburton hat.
We ordered two large pies and talked about poker (Me:"waaa, my pocket kings got cracked by a guy with a set of jacks."), the drive over (Me:"dude, what's with the speeding through the yellow lights? Karol: mmiunno. Did you see when I pulled over to wait for you though? pheelepopopok: oh, you're talking about an actual yellow light? I thought you meant that poker thing you do.), and the law (pheelepopopok: You know, compared to the scum of the earth lawyers, you guys aren't so bad. me: That's going on my blog: Dawn Summers: Not so bad for the scum of the earth.)
It was almost nine by the time we finally made it back to my apartment. I had futilely called Alceste a crapload of times, so I decided to swing by the lobby to see if he was there.
"Hey, did anyone come by looking for me?"
The doorman said no.
"THAT JERK! I cannot believe he bailed! He is soo dead to me."
The Gibs laughed.
We hung out upstairs for a while, before Karol and her crew finally made their way over.
The doorman buzzed them up.
"Karol is here...and she has people."
"Umm...send up the people...leave Karol down there."
Moments later, the seven of us, gathered around my table for the very first poker game at my new digs.
Due to high poker content, the story will continue over on that other blog. However, imagine my violent rage when I get a call from Karol at around six p.m. Sunday saying:
"Guess where I am?"
"Nooo...come on, guess."
"I just did."
"Well, you were wrong. Guess again!"
"No...you just guessed that."
"No, I didn't. I guessed Las vegas."
"Fine. No. I'm at CENTURY!"
Great. So glad I wasted an hour of my life for that price check when you were going back the very next day.
Seriously. Hate her and everything she stands for.
I forgot my ipod at home today.
My office blocks all streaming media.
I AM DYING.
Seriously, we may have to go buy a radio at lunchtime.
"One of my favorite examples of chutzpah was Sirhan's statement to the parole board in 1982: 'If Robert Kennedy were alive today, he would not countenance singling me out for this kind of treatment.' I suppose that it is just Sirhan's bad luck that somebody killed Robert Kennedy."
It's a big week for the Yates'. Andrea gets a new trial, while Rusty gets new wife.
And every since I heard the news, I've been a little bitter. Yeah, Andrea killed her kids and deserves whatever she gets (I've been told that the death penalty is forever off the table...although since she was only prosecuted for three deaths, I don't know if it's still prohibited if she were tried for the other two...).
But Rusty Yates was the only one in a position to both know that his children were in danger and protect them.
Rusty was telling the media that she had suffered bouts of serious depression since the birth of their fourth child two years earlier.
Why had they had another kid? Why wasn't someone watching Andrea watching the kids at all times? Why wasn't Andrea kept away from the kids?
And just like the government can build a case against "20th hijacker" for not telling all he knew, the state of Texas should be prosecuting Mr. Yates for five counts of negligent homocide, or at the very least, child endangerment. He should be sitting side by side with his wife at the defense table or in prison serving his sentence. Not sipping champagne with his young, blond bride on his honeymoon.
Friday, March 17, 2006
[Eva] Longoria stars opposite Michael Douglas, Kiefer Sutherland and Kim Basinger in the thriller "The Sentinel," set for release next month.
She divorced Tyler Christopher, who stars on ABC's "General Hospital," last year, after three years of marriage.
So, for non fans of GH during the 90s, Tyler Christopher was engaged to Vanessa Marcil for like five years, before she broke it off.
Now, here's the creepy part -- Eva Longoria used to do the sub-in/blocking shots for the character 'Brenda' when the actress who played her was busy doing other stuff, because the two shared a similar body type. And the actress who played Brenda? Yep, Vanessa Marcil.
Christoper literally married the substitute for the girl who dumped him.
How Eva didn't put that together...
Thursday, March 16, 2006
I assumed "no more blogging during the workday" really meant, "no more blogging." Who blogs during their free time?
With hurricane season less than three months away, Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff said in an interview that he too was worried about the situation. Not only are the trailers lightweight, they are often placed next to partly reconstructed homes and debris that can turn into dangerous projectiles when the wind picks up, Mr. Chertoff said.
Or...as a wise man once told me...nothing God hates more than a double wide.
Buoyed by his incredible successes in Iraq and Afghanistan, President Bush made clear his willingness to march onward to Iran.
It accused the regime of supporting terrorists, threatening Israel and disrupting democratic reform in Iraq. Bush said diplomacy to halt Tehran's suspected nuclear weapons work must prevail to avert a conflict.
"This diplomatic effort must succeed if confrontation is to be avoided," Bush said.
Bush went on to say: "We may face no greater challenge from a single country than from Iran. For almost 20 years, the Iranian regime hid many of its key nuclear efforts from the international community. Yet the regime continues to claim that it does not seek to develop nuclear weapons."
I am on the edge of my seat to watch the requisite "authorization to use force" hearings.
Will Britian and Poland fight with us?
But the vote, essential or not, put Republicans in the embarrassing position of calling officially for more debt, and it let Democrats speak out for fiscal restraint. Only three Republican senators, Tom Coburn of Oklahoma, John Ensign of Nevada and Conrad Burns of Montana, voted against raising the debt limit.
Who's my little opposition party? Who? Who?
Yes, you are.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Ever since I moved into my new schmancy building with a garage in the basement, I've had car fever.
Well, I can only assume that such a malady is to blame when a woman, whose car has 20,000 miles on it -- after five years-- and who, honestly, was probably behind the wheel only half of those miles, decides, on whim, to drive down to D.C. and back in a 48 hour period.
I would have thought that my car fever would have broken as I rolled over Saturday morning to the high pitched sound of my alarm going off at 7 a.m.
I obeyed its siren wail, hopped out of bed, showered, and watched an irritating interview with president Bush's nephew -- who, at nineteen, seriously lacks the maturity or intellect of a child a quarter of his age (I'm no good at math, is that about five or six...cause, that's what I was going for -- a five year old would have been a better expert on the UAE ports deal...hahaha, like Jon Stewart's segments when he has children reenact "great moments in punditry." Sorry, I digress.), I clicked off the TV -- twenty minutes in advance of the timer -- and headed to the garage.
The drive was extremely easy through New York and New Jersey.
My car made fast friends on the highway with a Ford Navigator. We went something like 80 MPH through South Jersey together, but it turned off before the Delaware leg, without so much of a goodbye.
Delaware --dude...what's with Delaware? How it isn't attacked by Jersey or Maryland and swallowed whole, I'll never figure.
Now, Maryland. What.the.Hell?
For the first ten miles, the Speed limit is 40; then it goes to 65, then, just as suddenly, it becomes 55, and then, just to mess with your mind, it's 15. I usually try to obey all traffic laws, particularly as a black woman driving alone through the South, but I'll tell you, on principle I decide to take Maryland at 100, just to get the hell out of the state as soon as possible.
But -- now, this is a funny story --turns out, the friends I was going to see...the ones with the "new" baby, who live in D.C.? Yeah, not so much with the D.C.
They live in Maryland..."just outside D.C."
Fortunately, we decided to consult the Mapquest directions, just in time to slam the brakes and "smoothly" shift into the Baltimore lane.
Ahh, whosoever said I was a sucker for paying 300 bucks for new brake fluid has obviously never had to shift lanes at 75 miles per hour before.
It was a sick, sick, beautiful day all up and down the East Coast, so as I made the final leg of the trip, I did so with my windows down and the Avenue Q soundtrack blaring through the windows.
The purpose of the trip, in addition, to satiating my car fever, was to meet Lola and Polo's daughter, whom, when last I saw, was trapped in her mother's stomach threatening to be the largest baby born in the history of birthin' babies. She was, in fact, last mentioned in this space as "the gigantic fetus." I guess my having topped triple digit speeds, caused me to arrive in record time, cause when I got there, Princess Leia and her mom were still asleep. I called my mom to tell her I had reached and she wanted to make sure that Leia was getting alll the presents I bought for her.
"Did you give that pig to the baby?" (yes, I had been playing with it all the day long)"Not yet, she's sleeping."
"Because," and this, I love that she felt needed saying, "you are too old for toys."
"I'm giving it to her as soon as she wakes up."
But until then, I will press its nose and make it shake and shake as long as I please, woman!
Seriously, if you have a six month old cover story, go right out to Toy R Us and get the Brilliant Basics Shake and Giggle pig, you won't be sorry.
The house was covered with signs of babyhood. Diaper changing table, baby jail, play area in front of the TV, high chair, baby swinging thing, bouncing chair, you name it.
"Hmm...how many babies live here ?" I mean, I used to joke with Lola that she was having twins and all...
I chatted with Polo until Her Highness woke up from her nap.
Her mom brought her downstairs and there she was all pink and smiling with her perfectly round face and bright brown eyes:
"Say hi to Aunt, Dawn."
Giggle, giggle, smile.
"Oh, she is sooo cute."
Giggle, giggle, smile.
"Here, hold her."
No more giggling, no more smiling.
"Hey, why are you crying? Babies LOVE me!"
Well, let me correct that -- it wasn't quite so sudden.
Dawn holds baby.
Baby looks at Dawn.
Baby processes that Dawn is not mom or dad.
Baby registers unhappiness.
Baby sticks out bottom lip.
Baby's face curls in disapproval.
Baby opens mouth.
Baby commences bawling.
Tears POUR down her face.
She goes back to her mom.
Giggle, giggle, smile.
"Why you little ---"
I know one baby not getting a Shaking Pig.
But Leia remained fairly adorable as long as I didn't touch her in anyway. She has every expression known to man, down pat.
Happy, curious, puzzled, Sad, getting to sad, tired oh, and don't get me started on her pout!
Her pout just says "suck, it Angelina."
After some tough negotiations, we decided that I would manage her career and get fifteen percent of all her modeling contracts. I figure we'll start her out doing print media, move to commercials within the year and by the time she's talking, we'll get her a sitcom called "Leia!" The exclamation point was her dad's idea. At five, she'll take on her first dramatic movie role and win the Oscar at six, making Tatum O'Neal look like a Grandma.
Watch your back, Dakota Fanning.
With a fully developed sense of style, she immediately started to make fun of my bangs -- pointing and laughing as babies are wont to do --- then, she apparently decided that I would look better with no lips.
So, as her mom held her, she stretched across and proceeded to twist my mouth off my face.
"OK, ok, you can have the pig. and the ball and the train...just let me live."
We went out to lunch a couple of hours later and Leia was set up in a high chair at the table's edge.
I took a sip of the water and reluctantly swallowed it.
"Yeah, D.C. water is kind of...poisonous."
Greeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaattttttttt. "Waiter! Coke please."
By now, Leia had taken one of the spoons on the table and began to devour it with impressive commitment.
"You know, if you think that spoon tastes good, you should really try it with a heaping scoop of ice cream," I suggested to her Highness.
Her parents gasp audibly.
"NO! Ice cream is bad."
"Babies aren't supposed to have cow's milk for the like the first two years, maybe longer. Or sweets. Otherwise they won't eat their vegetables."
No ice cream? No candy? And people are all over Michael Jackson and Britney Spears for child abuse?
When Princess Leia tired of her spoon eating, she promptly threw the utensil down on the table with a loud clatter, assumed the bawling face and proceeded to cry until her loyal subjects found adequate replacement amusement.
We decided that this was to be found at the zoo.
It was an incredible 80 degrees, so Polo figured that we should take the Metro as the parking lots would probably be filled with other zoo goers seeking to amuse their children.
Leia was transferred from her car riding contraption to her stroller contraption and we were off. As we descended the ramp to the Metro, Polo let the stroller handle go and gravity carried young Leia down.
Leia laughed. Lola did not.
"What is wrong with you!@!!??"
"Do not let the stroller go again."
"WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"
Apparently, being married is like having two children.
We all made it to the zoo in one piece, and sure enough, the exhibits, the common areas, benches -- everywhere---was filled with throngs of DC-area families.
"Oh my God, it's a ZOO in here," Lola said laughing.
After reading about my close encounters with the Geoffrey at Toys R Us, Lola took great joy in pointing out the giraffes to me.
"Come on, one picture."
We agreed to go to the surprisingly smelly small mammal house--it was a rousing disappointment.
"Eww...the naked mole rat, is disgusting," Lola commented.
"Hey! Don't you watch Kim Possible?"
"Is she a mole rat?" Polo asked
"Noooo. Rufus, Ron's pet is a mole rat. He solves crimes." Sheesh...you'd think this kind of stuff would be in the parenting handbook they get.
At one point, Polo took Leia ahead to go see the sea lions and her mom immediately started to worry.
"Where is my baby? I hope he isn't feeding her to lions."
"HAHAHHAHA...he lets go of the baby stroller one time and now he's feeding the kid to the lions!"
"Twice," she corrected, while still scanning the crowds for signs of a lion eating a baby.
We'd been walking for an hour or so, and I was parched. For some ridiculous reason, everything in the vending machine cost 7.75 -- water, juice, soda, candy?
Having already determined that the water fountain would just be D.C.'s poison water, as soon as we left the park I dashed off to a store to get bottled water.
Unfortunately, they only had Perrier. A huge quart bottle size. I knew I was gonna get mercilessly mocked, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
"Well, well, well, our water is not good enough for the fancy New York corporate lawyer. She has to have French sparkling water."
"Yeah, I don't know if our guest room is going to be good enough for her."
On our way back on the Metro, Princess Leia sprung a leak. She laughed as she covered her dad's hands and shirt in liquid.
"Are you wet," her mom asked him.
"What do you think," he replied pawning off his still giggling baby to her mom.
"Wow. You guys are totally a commercial for the other brand of diaper," I observed, stepping as far away from the leaking baby as possible.
"Nah. We've tried all the rest, these are the best ones."
Seriously? So, if the best diapers leave you covered in pee after less than two hours, what are the crappy diapers like?
Note to self: potty train kid in the womb.
"Aww, you don't have to worry about pee. Urine is sterile. It's the poop you have to worry about," Lola explained as I once again declined any holding of the dripping child.
Note to self: Send my mom some cash.
When we got home and changed the wet little Princess. I took another pass at holding her.
"Are you going to cry again?"
She thought it over. Smiled. And then totally pooped.
Giggle, giggle, giggle.
Hmm...from bawling her eyes out to crapping her pants on me, in a matter of hours...progress...though I'm not sure in which direction.
Her mom changed her. AGAIN.
And we resumed playing on the couch.
"This little piggy goes to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy has roast beef, this little piggy had none, this little piggy went wee weee all the way home," Lola cooed at the baby.
Something was off.
"Dude...the little toe goes wee wee all the way home. The big toe goes to market!"
"Yah...you've set back this child's development like five years! How will she ever catch up?"
For dinner we played that uniquely suburban game of restaurant duck, duck, goose.
Drive up the Houston's.
"40 minute wait." Duck.
Drive up to Friday's.
"30 minute wait." Duck.
Drive up to Applebee's.
"20 minute wait." Duck.
Drive up to Ruby Tuesday.
"Immediate Seating." GOOSE!
It was fairly late, so Princess Leia went straight to sleep in the restaurant. Unfortunately, she was nursing at the time, so Polo had to cut up Lola's food for her since she couldn't move her arms without WAKING.THE.BABY.
Now, I don't know if you've spent much time with parents of babies, but apparently WAKING THE BABY is only one step removed from killing the baby, and if you happen to WAKE THE BABY, you'd best be wearing running shoes because they will KILL YOU.
"Ha! Who's got two children now?" Polo beamed as he was slicing Lola’s steak into little pieces.
Furthermore, since Lola was still breastfeeding, there's evidently a North Pole length list of foods that she can't eat, so I was a little skeptical when Polo offered to make chocolate chip cookies for dessert when we got home.
"What's the catch?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know...is it real chocolate or like chocolate flavored flax seed?"
"No, it's real chocolate."
"Whole wheat flour?"
"No, real flour."
"Carob soy sugar substitute?"
"No, nothing like that...except we'll have to use margarine, instead of butter."
Hmm...I've never really been able to tell the difference between those two anyway, so I agreed to the cookies.
Of course, when we stopped at "Whole foods" to pick up a few things, my suspicions flared again. I went in the store with Lola.
Aside from the fact that the "brown sugar" was organic, all the ingredients seemed on the up and up.
No fruity vegan cookies for Dawn, no sirreee Bob.
We passed the night eating cookies and playing my ill-fated game of Scrabble.After my shellacking, I decided to go to bed.
"Good night. Don't wake the baby, cause I will be forced to break your face," Lola sweetly whispered.
I walked on tiptoes and held my breath all the way to my room. I curled up in a little quiet ball as far away from the baby as possible.
Oh the stress of parenting.
The next morning was to be a huge milestone for Princess Leia!
She was going to have her first solid food.
And by "solid" I mean pureed within an inch of its life and by "food" I mean an ice cube tray size dollop of liquefied squash.
She took the first spoonful well.
She mightily resisted the second.
Her dad ate some to set an example.
She took another bite. Her face contorted into the very expression you'd expect to find on the face of someone eating cold, squash mush.
Her mom then decided to take a bite.
"Ugh...It's bitter!" I couldn't help laughing.
"See, Leia, mommy tried to trick you into eating it, but she tricked herself!"
Needless to say, when they offered me some breakfast -- I pointedly suggested we go to IHOP.
Since Leia hates, hates, hates her car seat, we decided to walk the four thousand miles to the restaurant.
"Are we there yet?" I gasped.
"Stop whining, Leia could walk it there."
"Hey, she's young and full of energy!"
Of course, when we got there, the wait was predictably in the double digits. So, we turned around and headed back.
I got crushed in another game of Scrabble before heading home.
Polo tried to teach me some non-mapquest way of getting back to New York that was "faster," but I figured I ought to stick to the paper.
Unfortunately, the directions back were not as easy to follow as the ones down. After weaving in and out of lanes on the Wooster Pike looking for the on-ramp to 355, I gave up and decided to ask directions.
After getting lost again, I decided that if I couldn't find the highway in the next ten minutes, I was just going to pull over, rent an apartment and start a new life in whatever town I happened to be in.
Luckily, I drove past a sign pointing to 95, shortly after my pledge, and I was able to return to my rightful place as New York City landowner and drinker of non-poisoned water!
Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve got to figure out how to send Princess Leia a nail file with a chocolate cake inside!
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Judge officially closes Milosevic trial.
Wednesday's hearing will not be the first time Sirhan's fate could be influenced by a member of the Kennedy family. At Sirhan's May 1969 sentencing, Edward Kennedy wrote to the LA District Attorney asking for Sirhan's life to be spared.
"He would not have wanted his death to be a cause for the taking of another life," he wrote. "If the kind of man my brother was is pertinent, we believe it should be weighed in the balance on the side of compassion, mercy and God's gift of life itself."
In spite of Kennedy's request, Sirhan got a death sentence, which was commuted to life in prison in 1972, when the California State Supreme Court declared the death penalty unconstitutional.
So, why'd that guy kill RFK anyway?
Monday, March 13, 2006
I think I'm over it.
This season suuuuuuuucks.
These contestants feel like they are doing a play "The Apprentice," instead of actually being contestants. Only the Russian guy feels remotely genuine. Oy. I don't know, maybe it's fine and I've just been screwed in the head by the 24 writers, so I'm just not in the right place to watch Apprentice.
What d'yall think?
Not cool you freaking bastards, not cool.
Ok, so the West Coasters should be all caught up.
What's the good in killing off Michelle if Tony dies the same day? Annoying. And the whole nerve gas ending? COME ON. So, they have a magical device that can decontaminate the room that Jack is in, but they can't use it on all the other rooms? And where exactly did the air conditioners send all that nasty gas with corrosive agents mixed in?
I cannot believe Tony dies in such a retarded way. Why would he stab a guy with a syringe? Let's go with the bullet he was planning to use from jump street.
"You were playing dog, they were playing dogmatic." -Peter
Here's a Clareified free tip: never challenge the Scrabble skills of people who brought a Travel sized Scrabble game with them to the delivery room.
"OK, honey, one last push."
"Just a sec. Here, I've got agonyclites--with a triple letter score for the y and double word score, plus, I've added an S also makes xylophones for 234 points."
So there I was, all proud that I'm playing with actual words rather than my usual "bonrelaxer" or "elesson" (respectively, a very good relaxer and an electronic lesson.)
I made "arena," for a not too shabby five points. Then "feel" for six and I even got a 12 pointer with "nailed", I was on fire!
And then Lola and Polo taught me all about "setting up triple word scores," which is apparently something I was doing all over the place, cause as soon as I'd put down my tiles, they would start salivating as they scooped up their trays and concocted the most esoteric words involving only x, y, j and q that you ever did see.
My favorite play of the night was when Polo sighed and said "well, I'm not winning anyway and this needs to be done."
He then put down a q and an a to make "aqua" using two words above and below the line for like 36 points -- triple what I had gotten for "kitten," a much longer and realer word, I might add.
AND THEN Lola adds an 's' to that, for "aquas," puts an x on the other side to make sax, ox, wax and lord knows what else for the dramatic grand tally of 912 points.
Oh, so, then my second favorite play of the game was getting all excited at a snagging double word score, only to find out it was just a trick to get me to set up a triple word score for "peony."
I was had, I tell you.
Bamboozled, hoodwinked, I didn't land on Plymouth rock, Plymouth rock landed on me.
Well, actually it was girardia --where polo used all his letters, got a triple letter score on g, and a double word score for 2,398 points -- what really landed on me.
By day two, I realized that my only chance was to return to my previous "word invention" strategy.
However, unlike my previous Scrabble hosts, Lola and Polo were having none of my "vicitiate" or "jem" ("What is that? You mean like the cartoon rock star from TV?" Shut it. She was truly, truly, truly outrageous.)
So fine. I may have lost a Scrabble game or two.
But I am getting a tutor.
And the next time we play, they will be sorry.
Hmm...now that I think about it, maybe we should just play Sorry.
OH NO THEY DI'NT.
In other news, Desperate Whowives? THIS is what we watch on Sundays, biatch.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
CONVERSATION OF THE DAY
Me: I am undefeated in Scrabble.
Lola: That's funny. I seem to remember defeating you.
You can scrub all you want, the smell of barbecue ribs ain't coming off your hands for at least three days.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Sharon Bishop complained on Feb. 24 about a swollen thumb. She had jammed it at work and worried that she had dislocated it. David Bishop took her to Betsy Johnson Regional Hospital, where doctors gave her pain medication and sent her home.
The swelling got worse. By the morning of Feb. 27, her arm was twice as large as normal and looked like it would burst, David Bishop said. Fluid leaked from her elbow and wrist. She complained of terrific pain.
Dunn physician Abraham Oudeh diagnosed necrotizing fasciitis, an infection that destroys tissue.
Doctors at UNC Hospitals that evening tried to stop the spreading infection by amputating her arm at the clavicle and removing all the muscle and tissue around her left breast, torso and thigh in a futile effort to save her life.
Umm...I'm going to get this papercut checked out. Have a good weekend.
AS LARRY DAVID WOULD SAY: IS THAT GOOD HOPKINS OR BAD HOPKINS?
A guy I work with has been diagnosed with cancer. I feel bad for the guy and I hope he is ok, I really do. But… all day for the past few days I’ve heard him telling people how he has ‘hopkins’ and every time, it takes all my self control not to scream ‘ITS HODGKINS YOU IDIOT!!’.
What do our constitutional habeas protections have to do with homeland security?
But it's denying the UAE control of the ports that sends the wrong message.
Go hear Ugarte crackwise about something other Dawn's love of Clay Aiken this Sunday night.
Cause really, the Sopranos made you wait two years, you can make them wait a few hours.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
The penalty for premeditated murder in [your state here] includes death. Do you favor capital punishment for women who have illegal abortions? For doctors who perform them?
Prosecutors have the discretion to try juveniles as adults under certain circumstances. Would you support trying a 16 year old girl as an adult for getting an abortion? Would you support seeking the death penalty in such a case?
Murder-for-hire statutes and conspiracy laws would make anyone who helps procure an illegal abortion guilty of the same crime - murder. That includes anyone who provides funds for the procedure, a medical supplier who knowingly sells supplies to a doctor performing abortions, a friend who gives the woman a ride, or someone who provides a space for a doctor to perform the abortion. Do you favor the death penalty for everyone who aids someone in getting or performing an abortion?
And other questions someone needs to ask the Governor of Mississippi.
SIGNS YOU MIGHT HAVE MENTAL PROBLEMS
1. The toy you've bought for your friend's six-month-old daughter makes you laugh and laugh everytime you touch the nose and make it shake. You think about buying one for yourself. You don't. But you want to.
2. When the greeter at the storefront walks over to you with Geoffrey the Toys 'R Us giraffe, you scream.
"Now that I have confirmed that the Vikings have been seeking to trade me, I have asked for permission to speak to the interested teams," wrote Culpepper, who fired longtime agent Mason Ashe in January and has been representing himself. "The Vikings have denied my request. If a trade does not happen, then I am asking the Vikings to terminate my contract as soon as possible."
via Steve Silver
Courtesy the evil Yaron:
My nickname: Well, there are a few from elementary school we don't talk about. There's "Hatchet Woman" from college...but again, we don't talk about that. So, I guess I don't have one.
My hometown: Brooklyn. Oooh, that was easy.
My team: During most of the year, it's The Mets. During baseball season, it's the Liberty.
My theme song: Meet Virgina, Train. Mostly because it irritates both Karol and F-train.
My drink: Strawberry Daquiris with lots of whipped cream. If you're in Vegas at the end of the month, I'm the black girl with one of these in each hand as she uses her teeth to check her hole cards at the poker table.
My occupation: TV watcher, Blogger, poker player, writer, attorney
My spare time: Ooops. Um, watching tv, blogging, playing poker, writing and practicing law.
My hiding spot: My office.
My book: Middlesex. Or "One of a Kind: The Stu Ungar story"...well, that would be my book if I were Stu Ungar...but then, I'd be dead, and a racist. So, we'll stick with Middlesex.
My hero: Oprah Winfrey. And I will meet her someday. In such a way that will not violate the limitations of the restraining order.
Hmmm...who should I tap...who oh who....oh, who?
Aww, but now Gib will feel left out and really, all the voices in my head do is tell me to tap him with memes.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Dawn: You should check out this post.
Reader: No way, man. That's a link to one of your poker blog posts.
Dawn: True, but there's some non-poker stuff too.
Reader: Like what?
Dawn: Well, did Dawn 2 and Kaz really call me a dick? How badly do I need a man? Turns out, it's Karol's fault that I hit her. Will I give up the law to become a cat burglar?
Reader: Wow! That does sound like non-poker stuff. What's it all doing on your poker blog?
Dawn: Well, there's poker too.
Dawn: Fine, don't read it.
Reader: No, no, no...I'll read it.
Dawn: Look, don't do me any favors. You don't want to read it, you don't have to.
Reader: Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I'll go read it. I'm going right now.
Dawn: Good. And leave at least two comments.
Reader: Ok...and sorry again. You really are my hero and well, I'd do anything you say.
Dawn: Good. What are you still doing here? Go now!
Dana Reeves dead at 44.
OMG. Chills. I want to kick that terrorist guy's ass. Lovin' that Tony is sealed up in the same room as that rogue CTU guy.
Say it with me people: Hostile down.
Lynn didn't live, right? Cause if Lynn's still fucking alive, I'm going to break my TV and then I'll have to buy another one in time to finish the episode and I'll be pissed.
Monday, March 06, 2006
On Friday night, as I cued up Thursday’s “My Name Is Earl” on the DVR, I also decided to place a call to New York City’s “non-emergency” 311 line.
The avenue that runs from my new apartment to my mom’s apartment in the ECB is also a truck route.
The consequences of which, become patently apparent everytime you drive even a mile over ten miles per hour.
That sound you hear, is the undercarriage of your car scraping the asphalt as your front tire sinks into any one of seven potholes along the way.
One pothole in particular, spreads from one lane to the middle of the next lane – the double yellow lines forming twin parabolas through its center.
Everytime I drive this road, at nine miles per hour, with my mom. She merely responds to my various angry mutterings with “Well, call 311. Bloomberg says all pothole complaints will be repaired in four days.”
That merely leads to further angry mutterings. You see, this road has been a truck route for as long as I remember, and that pothole has been creeping across two lanes, for as long as I’ve been driving. In fact, the year the 311 line was unveiled, I thought “cool! I’m going to report that pothole.”
And I did.
The conversation went something like this:
“311 nonemergency services, how may I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to report a pothole.”
"Is this a disruption in the surface, with a definable bottom surface such as dirt or gravel, of the road where a portion of the road material has broken away, due to moisture seepage, overuse or accident?"
“What is its location, ma’am.”
I tell her.
“I’m sorry ma’am there is no such location in the five boroughs of New York City.”
“Umm...yes, there is.”
“Please give me the location again.”
I repeat it.
“I’m sorry ma’am. That location is not coming up on my computer. You will have to report it to the proper agency in your city and/or town”
That’s right she said “and/or.”
“But...I live in Brooklyn. I drove past that hole on my way home. In Brooklyn. It’s like five minutes away.”
“I’m sorry ma’am. I can’t help you unless the location is within my map.”
“Well, does your map include Brooklyn?”
Ok. She needs to stop calling me ma’am before I kill her.
“Ok, fine,” I said, “But when someone hits that pothole and their car explodes, sending body parts flying all over the streets, you’ll know what city and/or town they were in when it happened,” I added after I hung up the phone with her.
The next day I went by the street and noticed that while I had the street number and avenue right, I didn’t say “East” before the number. And I guess without the “East” it suddenly becomes a whole different city/and or town.
But whatever, someone else will surely report it, with East and all...right?
Five years passed and the hole, is bigger, deeper and more menacing. Funny, because with the ECB having been chosen for the Mayor’s “Cop watch” program, you’d think one of the million cops walking around the neighborhood, might have given a heads up to D.O.T. about the canyon in the middle of one of the neighborhood’s busiest thoroughfares.
So, when my mom mentioned 311 again. I wanted no part of it.
But, for some reason, Friday night, watching Earl try to pay his back taxes, I decided to give civic duty another try.
“Good evening, 311 non-emergency line, how may I help you?”
“Uh...I’d like to report a pothole.”
“Yes, department of transportation, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to report a pothole...well, actually a couple of them.”
“Ok, is this a disruption in the surface, with a definable bottom surface such as dirt or gravel, of the road where a portion of the road material has broken away, due to moisture seepage, overuse or accident?”
“Ok, what’s the location?”
I tell her, emphasizing the “East” and everything.
I then start to tell her where the other hole is.
“I’m sorry ma’am? Are you changing the location?”
“No, it’s just a different pothole. There are many on that road.”
“I’m sorry, I can only take one at a time.”
I get quiet as I listen to her type.
She asks me a few more questions – rating the severity (umm...ok...remember baby Jessica and the well? Yeah, what level severity would that rank?)
“Ok, ma’am. Do you want to leave your name?”
Sure, Dawn Summers.
“Would you like to leave a phone number?”
After she finishes filing the report for pothole #1, she starts from beginning with pothole #2.
“Ok ma’am. Is this also a disruption in the surface, with a definable bottom surface such as dirt or gravel, of the road where a portion of the road material has broken away, due to moisture seepage, overuse or accident?”
Blah blah blah. I give her the address.
I pick another ranking number.
“Would you like to leave your name?”
“Ok, I am going to have to assign you a number for this report—”
“No. Wait...ok, my name is Dawn Summers.”
I repeat my phone number.
She gives me a confirmation number and I end the call.
Good gravy, I am such a good person. No one else would have put themselves through all that to save the poor souls that haven’t already mapped out the pothole route.
I went to bed with that sense of self-satisfaction that is reserved for only the very best of people.
Lo, and behold, as I drove to my mom’s house this morning, the Canyon seemed to be partially filled, while the other pothole was completely gone!
As I slowed to marvel at my handiwork, a jerk in a Miata swerved around me –his cutoff path was right over the newly repaired pothole.
If I hadn’t gotten that thing fixed, you’d have a broken axle right now.
Proving the old “no good deed goes unpunished” adage, all too true.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Hollywood admits it was a year full of shitty movies.
Ken, see you on the rampage.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Oasis: Where were you while we were getting high?
Me: At home doing my homework.
As recalled by Karol.
via I Had Outs
Kaz is obsessed with Project Runway.
So much so, that she has revived the group television watching that dominated the social activity in our last year of law school. (There's an awesome picture of like eight of us gathered around the glowing light of the television watching the Season Four Buffy Finale at 2 a.m. Wednesday, because our administration was inconsiderate enough to have graduation on a Tuesday.)
I wanted to make it out to the viewing a few weeks ago. Kaz was holding the viewing at Chez F-train and since I'd never been to his house, I thought it would be particularly amusing to go for the first time while he was away in L.A.
I planned to make a whole pad full of yellow sticky notes that said "Dawn was here," and affix them everywhere.
Hmm...come to think of it, I can't imagine why he's never invited me over.
Life interfered and I couldn't make it.
But since I have a parking garage in my new building, and I drive everywhere now, I made the trek to Off-whiteyville to see the second to last episode of Project Runway.
Now, I don't watch Project Runway -- actually, I don't really watch any reality tv, now that I think of it, the Apprentice is much more of a dramedy.
However, it was TV, with the possibility of Kaz baked goods, how bad could it be?
Turns out...pretty bad.
Firstly, I didn't recall that F-train had a cat until I was climbing the stairs to his second floor apartment.
And then, I saw the cat everywhere.
Someone answered the door, I jumped.
Kaz's friend introduced herself.
F-train said: "what are you doing here?"
"I was invited!"
"Not by me."
"Yeah, I know," then I jumped.
Finally, the beast appeared from one of the bedrooms.
"aww, come here Buddy," F-train said picking the thing up and bringing it to the kitchen.
Kaz had a batch full of chili boiling on the stove.
I looked around and saw the pot cover lying in the sink.
If that thing makes any sudden moves, I determined I would have enough time to trap it in the chili pot with the cover.
That'll teach it to try to eat my face.
I was a little early for the show, so when Kaz declared a "cooking disaster," time of death due to chipotle overdose called at 9:45, there was plenty of time to order a pizza.
In the meantime, a couple of other people had arrived bearing snacks.
"Jim" brought a vastly inferior bastard Oreo substance called "Fudge Mint Oreos," which supposedly tasted like the girl Scout Thin Mints, but with the Oreo inside.
I visually sized them up and found them wanting.
"I'm an oreo purist. I am opposed to any attempt to make the cookies golden or the inside chocolate. They are chocolate cookies with a vanilla center."
Sheesh, if I learned anything from being taunted by the neighborhood kids all through high school because I went to a predominately white prep school, it's that.
I think there was some begging and pleading for me to put the debate on my blog and elicit comments, so feel free to write "Dawn is absolutely right about that Oreo thing" in the comment section.*
Finally, it was time to watch the show.
I don't know, but the phrase "blah blah blah blah" comes to mind when trying to recall the episode. Some guy made a dress, some other guy liked it, some other guy made a skirt and then that other guy was like "you need details" and then the other guy was like "let's go shopping!" And then there was this girl who made clothes that looked like the Ghostbusters Stay Puft marshmallow monster, but it was gold. And then the first guy said it looked like she made it out of a couch. Oh, and then, that guy called blogs "shitty."
I was ready to fight, but F-train pointed out that since I had never written about Project Runway, he probably wasn't referring to my blog...but wait, now that I have blogged about it...I'm going to kick Santino's ass.
A few minutes in, the pizza guy came and Kaz got up to answer the door. I grabbed the remote and said "hey, should I pause it?"
"You can't pause it. I don't have one of those things," F-train interjected.
What is he talking about? Who doesn't have "one of those things"? I looked at the remote and searched for the pause button.
Look at that.
No pause button.
I turned the remote over.
Nope. Nothing but the battery cover here.
I flipped it over again.
"Dude. What the hell? You do know you live in AMERICA."
"Hey, I just got cable a few weeks ago when Kaz moved in."
Good gravy. I wondered if he had air conditioning for the summer or indoor plumbing.
But back to the show.
About forty minutes in, they brought back the previously fired designers and the final three had to pick one of each of them to help design one final outfit and then they started firing lasers at Heidi Klum, until the rebel forces took control of the ship and C3PO managed to...ooops...sorry, that just happens when I'm bored out of my mind.
At some point during the episode I tried to get F-train to play chess with me, but claiming that it "would be anti-social" (read:who's a scared little girl? Not Dawn), he declined.
I sat there amusing myself with ideas for how to make Project Runway watchable (a sudden death match in a cage, obstacle courses on the runway, a ring of fire) when I looked down and noticed my glass was empty.
Kaz had put the water pitcher on the far end of the table, so I didn't want to reach over the girl on the couch or interrupt her show watching, so I did what any other reasonable adult would do.
I tried telepathy.
"Pass me the water pitcher," I thought over and over while staring at the back of Kaz's head and rubbing my temples.
"Passssss meeeeee theeeee waaaaatttteeeerrrrrrr..."
"Kaaaazzzzz, Looookk aaaaatttttt meeeeeeeee."
"Waaaaaatttteeeeerrrr tooooo Daaaaaaawwwwnnnnn."
"What are you doing?"
My concentration broken, I turned to see F-train watching me.
"Ummm....trying to get Kaz to pass me the water."
Duh, what does it look like I'm doing?
"Why don't you just ask her?"
"The show's on."
"I'm sure she will take the two seconds to pass you the pitcher."
"My way is better....it's just not working."
F-train shook his head and possibly rolled his eyes. When he looked away, I whispered in my quietest little whisper voice:
"Hey, Kaz, can you pass the water?"
When she handed me the pitcher, I triumphantly turned to F-train.
"You asked her for it!"
"No, I didn't."
"I heard you."
"No, you didn't," I said laughing.
"You know, Dawn, one thing I'll say for you, you are easily amused. It's one of your selling points.
Huh..."one of"? Am I being sold? Who is selling me? What am I going for?**
When the show was finally over and Bravo tried to trick us into watching a repeat of a prior episode -- I stood up to go.
No one else moved.
"Oh...sorry, is there some post-show discussion or something?"
My faux pas resulted in my being thrown out into the cold night, which, I guess was ok, because in the absense of the chili, that cat was starting to look a little hungry.
*All other comments about the Oreo will be deleted and you will be banned.
** Please email me immediately if you notice any ads on ebay for an easily amused african-american new york lawyer.