Wednesday, August 09, 2006
I will admit that reading about Lieberman’s loss last night brought me political happiness that I haven’t experienced since…since…ummm…good gravy when is the last time any of my candidates won anything?
Oh. Hillary 2000.
Ok. Worse yet, it isn’t even that Lamont is my guy. Seriously, the best I hoped for from Lamont was that he would present enough of a challenge that we’d forever be spared Loserman running for President. At least as a Democrat.
That he could actually remove the thorn in the elephant’s paw – as it were – wow.
But why do I despise Loserman so much…he was a Democrat after all and a Yalie for goodness sakes.
And to this question I committed a good twenty minutes of my pre-sleep thought.
And what it came down to in the end? Loserman’s a tool.
A pure unadulterated, unprincipled, unlikeable, boring, monotonous, creepy, flat tool. Like a screwdriver. With joints. That bend for easy storage, but also when you try to use it.
I spent four years very active in Connecticut Democratic politics.
I met Senator Dodd a boatload of times, New Haven’s Congresswoman Rosa and I are on first name bases, the mayor, alderman, other congressmen, President Clinton and Vice President Al Gore even – all present and accountable in the mid nineties Connecticut political scene.
But no Joe.
Joe was a no show.
And when I did the math today, I figured out why --- he had won his reelection my freshman year and consequently didn’t need anything from me or other CT democrats. So he needed not show his face to our events, or support other candidates or talk with democratic voters in anyway – at least not till 2000.
And even then what did Joe do?
Was it enough that he got the nod to be the national VP candidate? Oh no.
He had the hedge his bets. God forbid he choose whether he wanted to be vice president or Senator.
Even Sophie had to make a choice.
But in the end, he did choose. He chose Joe. (And on good days, Hadassah, by his side.)
His ill conceived bid for the presidency just four years later was yet more toolish self-promotion.
He could barely wear the shoes as the number two Democrat in the nation – he thought he was ready to be the top dog?
At every opportunity Joe has managed to jump up and down crying look at me, look at me no matter what the cost.
A united front to protect the sitting President? Not for Joe.
A single ticket going for one goal? Not for Joe.
Support his embattled Senate Majority Leader: Nope. Nu uh. No way. How does he spell teamwork? J-O-E.
So it doesn’t surprise me one bit that Connecticut democrats turned their back on the man that has continually thumbed his nose at them (once upon a time, us.)
I applaud Senator Dodd for standing on the podium beside Lamont today and shake his head at Loserman’s decision to run against the Democratic party.
But as for me, I’m not surprised. The tool did what tools do. Self-service.
Oh, and if he loses the general election, don’t think he find the fault to lie with the Connecticut electorate and seek newer pastures to hawk his stale wares.
And Joe, when that day comes, on behalf of New York, let me just say, we don’t want none and we don’t need none.
Now – all eyes on Rhode Island!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Should Lieberman win the primary, and my guess is that he will, are all the newspapers that are joyously calling the election for Lamont going to feel stupid or are they going to pretend they never did any such thing? And, on a sidenote, are they going to feel like idiots for falling for the whole "Daily Kos is all knowing and all powerful" again (see 2002, 2004)?
It's like when the Dixie Chicks "quit country music."
Sen. Joe Lieberman has conceded the U.S. Senate primary to challenger Ned Lamont but vowed to petition his way onto the November ballot as an independent.
The Lamont people better fricking win the Senate seat. Cause if they doon't...
Very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very (DEAR GOD, MAN! Have you no billable work????!) funny.
Someone should get him a blog.
I just can't believe Clareified wasn't the number one result for this search.
Monday, August 07, 2006
I mean my cake.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Peter: "She's not able to come to the home phone."
Peter: She's not home.
I walked in on the valet reading PlayBoy. I told him to just give me the keys, I'd get my own car.
May have to burn the keys.
I burned the shit out of myself today...pardon my French.
I decided to make some chicken parmesan --- you know, start to put a dent in my nineteen pounds of leftover chicken breast.
I put the first one in the oil, without incident.
In fact, I was worried that I hadn’t let the oil heat up enough, because there wasn’t much sizzle sounds.
Well, turns out...the oil? Plenty hot. Totally hot, screaming and writhing on my kitchen floor hot. I put the second piece in and the edge must have caught the side of the pan, cause when I let go, it plopped into the pan and sent oil flying at me.
I grabbed at my fingers and started wiping off the breadcrumbs.
It burned so badly that it actually chilled me to the bone.
I screamed and stuck my hand under the running water.
Who knew that my building sent boiling water through the faucets?
As I stood there suffering, I realized that oil had also splashed my upper right arm. But the pain on my left hand completely trumped that burn.
The water was doing nothing.
Now, I read once that you aren’t supposed to put ice on a burn because it cools the area too fast.
Hmmm....yeah...you know, suddenly I am seeing absolutely no downside to “cooling too fast.”
I squeezed out some crushed ice and balanced it on my fingers.
Ahhhhhhh. Pain gone.
I actually managed to flip the chicken in the pan before the ice chips melted away.
I get more ice.
I put on water to boil spaghetti and stick the chicken in the oven.
I fill a plastic cup with ice and stick my whole hand in.
I leave it there until I am one with the plastic cup.
Then it dawns on me, that while the pain of an oil burn is excruciating, it’s probably not a good idea to leave my whole exposed hand in a vat of ice.
We so don’t want to have to explain frostbite in August to an emergency room nurse.
I take my hand out and it is utterly numb. Except for the pulsing sting of my burn.
I can’t move my fingers and my hand is cold to the touch.
Ok...I can’t possibly be doomed to a life of choosing between the sting of burn or frostbite.
This is a job for the internet!
The first hit I get for “help oil burn fingers,” well, the first relevant one anyway...said that if the burn discolors or blisters, it’s probably a second degree burn and I should seek medical attention.
Dude. Who are these people?
This is why emergency rooms are overrun. Fricking cry babies and their second degree burns.
I glance at my upper right arm...uh oh...it is visibly blackened and slightly bubbling...hmmm...maybe I do need a doctor.
But...but...my chick parm is in the oven!
I read on and sift through the suggestions of applying breast milk and/or butter...ok...silvadine...but I don’t have any and my left hand can’t bend enough to drive to a drug store.
My burn finger is almost white and the other fingers are swollen and pruned from the ice soaking.
I opt for the “keep the burn area clean and dry” option. No more ice.
As my hand warms up, the pain gets worse.
I put in a movie (Flatliners) and try to take my mind off the pain.
Man, that movie sucks.
Kieffer is sooo much hotter now than when he was young.
And that Kevin Bacon hair....
I get caught up in mocking the movie enough to finish making lunch.
I so struggle with taking the chicken out of the oven.
“I can’t suffer another burn...I just can’t,” I say out loud to no one in particular as I grip the pan through the potholders.
I am spared.
My mother calls.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I burned myself.”
“You have to put it gently into the pan or else the oil will splash you!”
Noooo. Really? Crazy. Better not do that then.
Of course, it’s my mom, so I likely said something like “Ok.”
I haltingly ate my lunch through the pain of not being able to bend my right arm lest I anger the lesser burn and the inability to bend my left fingers.
Only 18 pounds of chicken to go.
Friday, August 04, 2006
It's all fun and games until bombs start falling on the Catholics.
The bombs destroyed four bridges along the main north-south highway in what had been the largely untouched Christian heartland north of Beirut and far from Hezbollah territory. With the road from Beirut to Damascus already cut at several points, this was the only practical way to bring in relief and other supplies from Syria, tightening the sense of siege here.
At the steep gorge here cut by the Fidar River, which runs down the mountains to the Mediterranean, dozens of Maronite Catholic residents gathered to stare in stunned silence at a 200-yard stretch of four-lane highway blasted into rubble. The supports for the bridges rose like cliffs at either end.
Aiken's third album, "A Thousand Different Ways," will be in stores September 19. The new CD combines 10 cover versions of well-known songs from the '70s, '80s and '90s with four new songs, RCA Records announced Thursday.
Tracks on Aiken's new disc include Bryan Adams' "Everything I Do (I Do It for You)," Celine Dion's "Because You Loved Me" and Elton John's "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word."
"This is an album of love songs, but they are about all different kinds of love. Romantic love, friendship, unconditional love," Aiken said in a statement Thursday.
Probably to get that damn "My Sharona" out of his head once and for all.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
A man charged with drunken driving from the passenger's seat has asked a judge to throw out an incriminating statement he made to a state trooper.
When D'Alessandro approached the vehicle, he said he found the driver, Lucas Enbacker, holding a large sandwich with both hands and he detected a strong odor of alcohol.
When the trooper asked why the car swerved, Pittman leaned across the front seat and said it was his fault, the trooper said. Pittman said he had briefly held the steering wheel while Enbacker was taking a bite from his sandwich, according to arrest records.
I've been listening to Murder (or Heart Attack) non-stop this week.
Don't know who it's by.
TAKE THAT SURGEON GENERAL
People who study exceptional longevity — the state of living to 100 or beyond — say factors like diet, exercise, health habits, social support and the ability to find meaning in life appear to play a role in getting people to, say, 85. But, some of them say, they suspect that genes play the dominant role in hitting 100 or above.
“I have no one that was exercising,” said Nir Barzilai, director of the Institute for Aging Research at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, who is studying 400 centenarians. “I don’t have vegetarians. Nobody ate yogurt or anything like that. If you have longevity genes, well, lucky you. If you don’t, you know what to do.”
Although...since I have pretty crap genes (at least on my mother's side) I probably shouldn't be celebrating too much.
So...I got the domain name clareified.com for my birthday...I wanna move this blog there and be all cool and on movable type.
How the hell do I do that? Willing to pay reasonable fees for design/hosting...but needs to be done quickly...you know, haste is the key ingredient in impulse buys.
I meant it. Don't ask me why. It's random. See this post's title?
Embattled Sen. Joe Lieberman is trailing businessman Ned Lamont by double digits in the race for the Connecticut Democratic Senate nomination, a new poll released this morning shows.
The Quinnipiac University poll gives Lamont a 54 percent to 41 percent lead among likely Democratic primary voters and is the latest indication that the three-term incumbent is in serious danger of losing the Democratic primary next Tuesday. A poll released by the university on July 20 indicated that Lamont held a 51 percent to 47 percent advantage over Lieberman.
Could Lieberman really lose this race?
It's no secret that I'm no fan of Joe's. And honestly, I do hope he is replaced by a more liberal Democrat...however, that's a very big if. I hope that the Lamont supporters really can run a general campaign that beats the Republican challenger cause I am going to be mad as hell if we lose a Connecticut Senate seat...and who knows, those sneaky guys may trot out Governor Weld to challenge Lamont!
or George Bush I...he has some Connecticut ties doesn't he?
Oy...this just feels like disaster...Stupid Lieberman. I blame yoouuuuuu.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
"That's what they call a friendship in Bed Stuy...a guy who doesn't steal your bike."
- Chris Rock on 'Everybody Hates Chris'
First off, you should know that I didn’t get the training wheels off my bike till I was twelve years old.
I know that probably sounds late, but I had actually made remarkable progess since I was only allowed to ride my bike up and down the block when my mom could watch me. (Laugh, but the one time I snuck out when she wasn’t home, six guys tried to jack it. Fortunately, I was more afraid of my mom finding out that I lost my bike than of the thieves and managed to fight them off.)
Anyway, there were two things I was looking forward to when I went to college –natch three things – no longer having to wake up at quarter to six in the morning to go to schools that were hours away from my house by school bus, unlimited vanilla ice cream and riding to and from class on a bike! Just like in the movies.
I overindulged on the first two from jump street…not only did I wake up late every morning, I slept through all my classes when I got there – ah, but that’s another story for another post.
The bike was trickier…I couldn’t bring my kid’s bike to campus…even without the training wheels, but I couldn’t afford a new one.
It wasn’t until my second semester that I saw a white notecard tacked to the post office bulletin board (that’s what people did before e-bay, kids.) advertising a bike for twenty dollars.
I called the phone number and met the seller the next day.
I looked past him at first, wearing a faded sweater and dingy jeans…but I couldn’t look past the thin blue bicycle held steady by the three fingers left on his right hand.
I approached and said I was the girl who called about the bike.
He smiled at me (his teeth barely outnumbering the fingers on his hand).
I nervously handed him two crushed ten dollar bills and thanked God the post office was so crowded.
He told me that he had fixed up the bike himself and that it “runs good, no problem.”
It had wide U shaped silver handlebars, and a light blue paint finish – none of the gears matched the chain or the brakes.
I told him that I needed to try it out. Of course, my bike riding skills were a little rusty – so my friend Sam took the test drive for me.
“Uh…it’s ok…”she said hopping to a stop.
Three finger Willy told me to get on.
I did… but couldn’t really balance myself – so I squeezed the brakes, told him it was fine and walked my new bike home.
I went to the bike store and bought a forty dollar helmet and a twelve dollar lock.
I was ready to ride.
Well, there was a reason that Sam came hopping to a stop. While the bike rode fine, the brakes weren’t quite connected to the wheels.
And by “quite,” I mean not at all.
Stopping was a delicate balance of a long stretch of road, dragging the sole of one foot and yelling “get out of the waaaay,” at the top of my lungs.
And so, because it couldn’t quite stop when it was supposed to, I named my bike “Forrest.” After Gump.
I got a pretty phat job junior year and traded up to a brand new Huffy the following year.
Forrest was abandoned in the basement of my dormitory the summer before they demolished the building.
But in his honor, I named the Huffy “Jenny.”
Well, it’s shiny new bike time again.
Between Pretty Numbers and Kaz, seems everyone is on the bike riding kick…
I wanted in.
Kaz recommended a new “comfort seat” model.
So, I went to the store, plunked down the Visa and left holding a fancy new helmet, a forty dollar lock and a maroon Sedona Giant.
A couple of things have changed since I bought Jenny.
One: who knew that “kick stands” were optional (and therefore, ‘extra’)? WTF? How’s it ‘posed to stand? Two: who knew the water bottle holder was optional (and therefore, ‘extra’?) WTF? Where are you ‘posed to put your water?
And finally, and most importantly as I stood leaning my bike against the sidewalk and gasping for air, a mere three blocks from the bike store – who the hell knew riding a bike was so damn hard?
Why do I have such positive memories of gliding through Central Park during law school and popping wheelies through the ECB?
Of course, now that I have to ride in the streets or risk $55 tickets and a court appearance, I expend a lot more energy looking left to right and back to front for reckless car drivers, but it literally took me like 30 minutes to go a little more than a mile.
I rode from the store to my mom’s apartment and collapsed on her floor.
“Waaatttterrrr….waaattteerrrrr….and air conditioner…..and aiirr conddiiittiionner.”
“Well, who is out of shape?” she said serving me water intravenously and cranking the air up to high.
“Think the bike lady will take it back?”
“Uh…no…isn't that the dog lady?”
Indeed, my overriding image of the bike lady were the four pit bulls behind the counter – aptly advertised with a “Beware of Guard Dog” sign.
Ok…so…how about I leave the bike here and take a cab home?
“Hell, no. You’ve already got a bike here!”
Thrown out on the street by my own mother.
I hit the pavement –and then, when I immediately remembered – hit the asphalt.
I crawled home to the NC.
I mean, seriously, an old lady with two bags of groceries and a cane breezed right by me.
Needless to say, my ass hurts like hell and since the Mayor has strongly advised me to “avoid strenuous outdoor activity,” I don’t think I’ll be going out anytime soon.
Oh well…anyway, I guess I need to pick a new name for my bike.
When later informed by his publicist that "anti-semite" means someone who hates the Jews, Gibson quickly retracted his protests with a simple "Oh...ok, then. Cause I totally hate the Jews."
Uhmm...you can never tell when knowing the words to "These Boots were made for walking" in French will come in handy.
With black creators giving more acceptability to the image, it is now starting to appear more often in television commercials as well. Most recently some variation of this character has appeared in commercials for Dairy Queen, Universal Studios and Captain Morgan rum.
But despite the popularity of such characters among blacks, the use of the image of big black women as the target of so many jokes is troublesome to some marketers and media scholars.
“It is perpetuating a stereotype that black females are strong, aggressive, controlling people,’’ said Tommy E. Whittler, a marketing professor at DePaul University. “I don’t think you want to do that.’’
However, I am so not feeling the New York Times' rampant use of the words "blacks."
Whassup wid dat? Mmmm hmmmm.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Macaroni has a very funny “how we met” story.
I don’t remember all of it, but it goes something like this:
“Hi I’m Macaroni!”
Sullen, half-asleep, one eighth as enthusiastic girl looks up and nods.
“What’s your name? What section are you in? Isn’t New York just ever soooo crazy??”
“Uh…Dawn. Ginsburg and no, I’m from here.”
“You’re from New York???!! That’s so cool. I’m from Las Vegas. This is my first time here, could you show me around?”
And here, I like to picture myself pulling the rim of my hat just across my eyes and exhaling my last cigarette drag.
She promises to leave her contact info in my folder at school.
And she does.
I, however, do not contact her, do not show her around, in fact, and never speak to her again for six months.
And that meeting goes something like:
“Hey, I’m Dawn.”
“Yeah, I know. We met during the first week in school…I left you my contact info and never heard from you again.”
“Oh…that was you? Uh…sorry…I was sick/forgot/was kidnapped by aliens?”
Macaroni turns out, much nicer than me, forgave me my transgressions and we became bestest of friends for the next two years.
Then there was the ugliness over New Year’s aboard the Jamaican fishing boat where someone may have threatened to throw the other one overboard and we didn’t speak for some time.
It was that tense Winter that I got to know pearatty and through her, Rick Blaine and then managed to weasel myself into Kaz’s Buffy watching circle and there met F-train.
It’s funny to think that I didn’t hang out with my favorite people from law school until my last semester; that had I been less violent, I might never have gotten to know them at all.
But, we did meet; and as I grabbed a Hefeweizen from the tin tub filled with ice, they all gathered in pearatty’s backyard to sing me happy birthday in the glow of the ice cream cake covered in 27 flaming candles. Oh, my…thirty will be a veritable two alarmer.
It was seriously a mini law school reunion: Pearatty, Mr. Pearatty, Curious and his fiancée, Rick Blaine and Ilsa, F-train (who vacillated between insisting that since this was my third party, I must be 30 by now and begging for the resurrection after “three such horrible days.” Beat.Him.With.My.Shoe.), Macaroni (while we weren't as close as before, we did recover from the 'boat incident') and her fiance!
Then, well after sundown, I got my first real surprise of my surprise party: KAZ and Tito!
At my second birthday party, she told me that she wasn’t going to be able to go out to California for my West Coast shin dig.
I gave her the patented Dawn Summers protruding lip pout.
And then I upped the offensive.
I sent her an hypnotic instant message on Wednesday: “You are getting sleepy…sleepy…you have an overwhelming desire to go to LA this weekend…You must go to LA this weekend…LA…this weekend…when I count to five you will not remember this IM…but you will want to go to LA this weekend. One…two…three…four…five.”
She IM’d back:
“Man I have this crazy desire to go to LA.”
“Huh…really? That’s strange; I guess you should go then!”
But she wasn’t going.
Saturday morning, as I sat still for my sisyphusian nail polishing, pearatty got a phone call.
“She’s getting a manicure,” was all I heard before she got up and left the parlor.
When I thought my stupid nails had finished drying, I followed her outside.
“Who was that? Mr. pearatty?”
“Yes, yup…that was Mr. Pearatty.”
“No it wasn’t!...was that Kaz? Is Kaz in LA?”
“Kaz? No. Is she coming? I thought you said she wasn’t coming…”
“Yeah…she said she couldn’t come. Even though I checked the dates with her before picking it!”
We’re back to pouting and have forgotten the suspicious call about me.
Then when F-train arrives at the party –delicious Krispy Kremes in tow—he promptly asks if Kaz is there yet.
“What? Kaz is in LA?!” I say.
“Shut up,” he answers, flipping me the bird.
“What? Why are you flipping me off?? Is she here?”
“She replied on evite that she was coming didn’t she,” he says surlyly. (Is that a word? No…cause it should be…a word to aptly describe all things F-train.)
“No..she said she couldn’t come…”
He gives me the finger. Again. Surlyly.
I shrug my shoulders and make my way over to Rick, Curious and Shelly.
I tell them about idiotically reporting my car stolen and we swap tales of finding “lost” cars.
I am not alone…although no one else managed to involve police…Sigh.
I show them my smudged manicure and tell them how pearatty tried to get me to lick my thumb to smooth out the polish!
This is my now famous “pearatty eats nail polish” story.
When Kaz and Tito finally arrive, and I give pearatty my finger pointing “LIAR!” accusation, F-train says “oh, this was supposed to be a surprise?”
“I told you I was surprising her!”
“No, you didn’t,” he replies before going into his sad roommate left all along tale of woe. “In fact, I pretty much had to come to LA to see you!”
Then he told her that the cat hates her and wishes her ill.
“The cat would never wish me ill,” Kaz says, taking the opportunity to give F-train her own version of the finger pointing “Liar!”
Those crazy kids and their face eating homicidal feline.
I was about to say that the Kaz/F-train cat was the most vicious evil cat in the world, when visions of the Rick/Ilsa flying bat cat came flying back to memory.
“I take it back! I would take their cat everyday and twice on Sundays over the flying demon cat!”
“Hey, it’s not “our” cat. It’s my cat,” F-train corrects.
And that’s why Kaz is putting the cat out on the street when I kill him.
Ilsa and Rick also flew into LA that Saturday to come to the party (Ok…I gotta say, every time I type the word party I feel like Meryl Streep in The Hours…)
“We looked everywhere for a Scrabble dictionary, but couldn’t find one anywhere.”
Oh My God, they fly here from San Francisco, show up first to my party and now are apologizing for not getting me a gift?
“But don’t worry, we ordered it for you online…so you’ll get it, we just don’t have it with us.”
They flew here from San Francisco, show up first to my party, got me a gift, but are apologizing for not being able to give it to me right now?
Seriously. Love. Them. (But not their cat. Cat’s evil as all get out.)
(And they got me a swiveling Scrabble board! Now…I just have to find someone to play with me since Kaz has vowed that she won’t play with me or F-train anymore.)
Turns out Ilsa has bartending training, so when I told her about my “adult drink” search…she jiggered up a vodka gimlet.
Mmm…tasty. We like. We like.
Mr. pearatty tried to get in on the game too with a strange concoction of strawberry daiquiri mix and something roses and vodka. It was not good.
Why, why would he try to kill me?
Sure I have co-opted his backyard for my own surprise party and got him in trouble for not hanging the Japanese tea lights and would force him to wake up early and take me to the airport…ok…the motive is clearer now…
By the time everyone had arrived, the night air had cooled to a manageable 89 degrees. F-train and Kaz told them about my party in Brooklyn.
“Fisch is actually a good looking guy,” he said.
The next day when Macaroni asked if F-train was gay and if the guy he came with was his boyfriend, I resisted the impulse to say “no, but I might have to set him up with Karol’s poker hero when I get back to NY.”
Ok. I didn’t resist.
Macaroni’s fiancé Dan assured us that he will not have anything to do with Macaroni’s baby shower and we laughed at the fact that he and Macaroni’s monogrammed towels will say “VD.”
Curious and I, who worked together on the law school newspaper decided that we should collaborate on a script and become Hollywood power brokers!
Oh, how I wish.
Ah, the whole night was like a scene from a movie. Backyards are awesome. Although we could do without the crickets and threat of bears.
Those are less awesome.
I became grill master…although Macaroni was in charge of the corn grilling.
When she took them off the grill in under ten minutes, I decided to get a guinea pig to do the taste test.
Rick took the challenge.
“What?” he said between swallows, “It’s fine.”
I didn’t trust his tone.
“Here, have a corn,” I said to the guy F-train came with, “I don’t trust, Blaine.”
“Like he’s going to lie to you, just so you will eat raw corn…yeah, actually he would,” F-train says.
“I totally would,” Rick confirms.
Later when Macaroni poses her question of the “too hairy bridesmaid” (about which Karol cannot believe that she is the only one who would kick the girl out of her wedding.) Rick mentions that since his younger brother is a really good looking guy, he had to break the kid’s nose before letting him be the best man at his wedding.
Cause he’s kidding.
And so there you have it…one girl and her birthday season.
Her too short birthday season.
“Are you sure two pasta dishes are enough?”
“Yes,” Pi replied for the nineteenth time, “we’ll also have salad and garlic bread and cheese.”
I wasn’t convinced. Nevermind that Pi throws dinner parties every week and has done so for like the last fifteen years.
“Can we also make chicken parm?”
“Fine, you have to buy chicken breasts.”
“I can do that.”
And I could too...but my mom wanted to come with.
“Mom wanted to come with,” that will heretofore be my standard answer to why I bought 19 pounds of chicken breasts for twenty people, even though there are already two pasta dishes, garlic bread AND cheese.
Of course, Pi was totally right. There wasn’t even room on the table for the chick parm and if memory serves, we only ended up making eight pieces or so –leaving 18 pounds three ounces of unused chicken in my refrigerator.
But the party was awesome.
Alceste was first to arrive. Ah, death threats – nothing beats ‘em. Pi – who had “volunteered” to cook (ok, those pictures from college are officially destroyed! –ed.) wasn’t quite done, so we put Alceste to work setting up the cheese platter.
Of course, he became entranced with the “Bra” cheese Pi had picked out.
Seriously, how come men are in all the positions of authority?
Except for Alceste the first couple of hours were chock full of the old college gang – and their wives and unborn children (man, am I a slacker in the game of life...but for owning my apartment and a car, I would seriously, be in remedial living right about now.)
There wasn’t that much talking because the food was sooo awesome --- but I did manage to put my plate down long enough to take swigs of the Sangria –also handmade by Pi.
“Did I ever tell you about the Sangria we made for happy hour at the News,” Chris asked his wife.
She said no.
Years ago, when we were in college and working on the student newspaper, TPTB decided that to keep us happily slaving away without wages on a daily paper, they would provide us with free Dominoes pizza and unlimited Poland Spring water from a cooler.
(To this day I will not, cannot, must not eat nor drink either of those things.)
And every Friday one pair of editors or reporters would sponsor a happy hour.
For his happy hour, Chris and my Scrabble guru friend Lola, had a Sangria themed happy hour.
They made like three gallons of the stuff and replaced the Poland Spring water with SANGRIA!!!
Oh what a glorious night...unfortunately for months afterward all the Poland Spring water had the faintest taste of wine to it.
“That must have been great,” Chris’ wife said at the story’s end.
“You’d think so,” I sighed, “but no...it was more like vaguely remembering a time when you were happy as you grind your way through the darkest days of your life.”
I did my standard pitch to Chris and his wife to have the baby –should she be a girl—to be named after me.
(Later that night Lee Stevens would provide me with graphics and charts demonstrating that while Dawn was a easy to pronounce and spell popular name, it was not sooo popular that should you lose little Dawn at the mall...calling out her name would be usueless. Unfortunately, this picth has not yet produced a bona fide namesake.)
The Arc Builder – our overlord and master on the daily paper – also came by with his wife.
Some of my favorite memories of college involved chatting away with Arc Builder and Chris about politics and affirmative action, fictitious cousin Vito and vengeance. Arc Builder is still the only person in all the world that is better than I at vengeance planning.
I would say more, but if I did, I just know that one day I’d use my credit card at the gas pump and be taken into custody by Homeland Security. And as I languish away the rest of my days at Guantanamo, I may not figure out how he did it, I’d just know that he did.
Somehow Arc Builder and I got to talking about the tax deduction on my mortgage.
“Nah, I don’t think I’ll be able to deduct anything because of the AMT.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ve been paying the AMT for years and you still get to deduct the interest...it’s one of the exceptions.”
“Wow...really...good. I hate the AMT and everything it stands for.”
After a bit more discussion about the tax code and how it crushes the barely rich, I laughed.
“hmmm...who knew that one day we’d be talking about paying too much taxes...we’re practically Republicans!”
Unfortunately, with my duties as host, I didn’t get much time to talk to his wife, but I heard that Karol gracefully made apologies for my absence and managed make her feel very welcome with the delicately phrased:
“Oh, you work for so and so? Dawn hates him!”
My law school friends made their way over to the NC by like nine o’ clock.
F-train greeting me with ye old “I cannot believe I have to celebrate your birthday again.”
Kaz, taking a page from the Karol playbook, presented me with a CD of songs that will not make the baby Jesus cry.
By now I had consumed about half a pitches of sangria, ¾ of a mint julep, and two beers and was making my way through the Lemondrop...protestations of “I have never been drunk in my life,” has increased to about four per hour.
“I love when she says that as she’s slurring her words,” Karol adds.
“I’ve nevvvveeerrr beeeenn duuuunnnk....assskkkk meeee annyythiiinnn.”
“I don’t know who that’s supposed to be, but shut it.”
Around ten, we cut open the “Housewarming/birthday cake.”
Turns out I left the candles on my desk at work, so it went unlit and Dawn was a sad panda.
However, in keeping with my birthday of unconventional happy birthday songs, we got in a few choruses of ‘happy birthday to you (and housewarming) happy birthday to you (and housewarming’ which made me giggle like the schoolgirl that I am.
I collected quite the bounty of looterific birthday gifts – rfom fancy coffee makers to cartoon DVDs and scented candles.
When Fisch came it was looking like a poker game might happen. As I made my rounds, I stealthily scoped out any poker players in the group...Chris and Rdan were the only ones who even said “sorta, kinda, maybe.” So twas not to be.
“Hey, Dawn...you have a blog, so you might know the answer to this.”
“I do have a blog...”
“Ok...say you are dating a girl with a blog and you check it out...however, she doesn’t know that you know that she has a blog, can she tell that you read it?”
“Why don’t you want her to know that you read her blog? I always want people reading my blog.”
“Yeah, but your blog is different. You don’t write about your personal life.”
“That’s true,” says Kaz who suddenly materialized from nowhere, “she just writes about her friend’s personal lives.”
On the exact opposite end of the blogs and dating spectrum, moments later I was cornered by a giddy Smurfette saying
“Don’t tell him, Dawn!”
“Come on...tell me.”
Apparently, Smurfette’s boyfriend, the very lovely and able to find forks in a pinch, Jon, found out that she used to have a blog and wanted to know the name of it.
“Ahh...well, Jon...what’s it worth to you?”
“Umm...I’ll do all the dishes...”
“Ok..good start...but I have a dishwasher...”
“Ok..I’ll clean up and do all the dishes!”
“No we’re talking...ok smurfette..I have an offer to clean up and do dishes...what are you offering?”
Of course, as the bidding proceeded, it dawned on me that I could not for the life of me remember what Smurfette’s blog address was...in fact, I didn’t remember until this very moment while typing the incident.
Caveat Emptor, as they say.
At night’s end, I said goodbye to people I see every week, once a month, once a year and haven’t seen in what seems like a lifetime. Karol aka satan tried to drag me down to Atlantic City, but I was too full of cake and sangria to be moved.
We played a Russian card game that her friend pheeelepopok made up and she cheated her way to a quick victory.
I still had pounds of lasagna and baked ziti, not to mention frozen chicken and half a sheet of birthday/housewarming cake.
It had been a good night and I promised to be less of a recluse in my 27th year.
Make new friends, indeed, but definitely keep the old...they’re pretty much gold too.
I can’t believe July is over already.
I wait forever and ever for birthday season and just when I am settling in and becoming accustomed to being showered with gifts and affection, it’s August!
Next year, we’ll have to do two months!
I promised some longer posting about my two main birthday parties.
I promise a lot of things.
I don’t know, I’ve got writer’s block or something like it. Lazyitis. Crushedatworkamania.
Take your pick.
But I can usually write my way out it, so I am trying.
In the meantime, I saw a great movie this weekend: "In America" by the guy who directed the Fifty cent movie.
Very touching, I laughed and laughed at this line:
"You don't ask for help in America. You demand it. Trick-or-treat- you don't ask, you threaten."
Ah, tis true.
Also the girl I went to high school with has a great post over on her site.
Be afraid, be very afraid.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
To the person that crushed a cigarette out on my balcony, and left it there, may you die the death of one million syphilitic red ants.
Friday, July 28, 2006
132 dead from California heat.
Mel Gibson arrested for DUI.
GIWTHSW: You need a manicure.
Me: I just got a manicure four days ago.
GIWTHSW: Mmm. Been doing a lot of digging have we?
Why is "Republican Party" the first choice listed on the voter registration card? We almost had one of those "I was young and stupid" moments to explain during my 2024 presidential campaign.
She was 5 feet 2 inches, weighed 105 pounds, and was wearing a white miniskirt with a black halter top.
Her body was found at 4:30 a.m. yesterday inside the trash bin in a parking lot in the shadow of two 24-story buildings at Park Avenue and West Broadway in West New York. From there, the trail led two blocks away to the Park Avenue Motel, at 60 48th Street in Weehawken, where witnesses said Ms. Moore was seen at 5:20 a.m. Tuesday, and where investigators believe she was beaten and strangled.
About three hours earlier, Ms. Moore and her friend, Tara Keenan, 18, left the nightclub, the Guest House on West 27th Street in Chelsea in Manhattan, and found that Ms. Keenan’s red Dodge sedan had been towed from a “no standing” zone nearby, officials said. The women tracked it more than 10 blocks to the Police Department’s impound lot, at 38th Street and 12th Avenue on the Far West Side.
But tow lot attendants refused to give Ms. Keenan the car because she appeared to be intoxicated, the police said. Ms. Keenan then passed out, collapsing, and the attendants called for an ambulance. The lot workers also called officers to the scene because another apparently inebriated woman, who was not with Ms. Moore and Ms. Keenan, was there trying to retrieve her car and was becoming ill, the authorities said.
Ms. Moore went to use the tow lot’s bathroom. About 3 a.m., just before the ambulance arrived and with officers there attending to the two ill women, Ms. Moore apparently left the bathroom, slipped by all the authorities and simply walked off unnoticed, the police said.
FIND YOURSELF IN A HOLE? KEEP DIGGING
I called a car to pick me up from Whiteyville to take me to my new home in North Kenwindsorton Court (hereafter the NC).
The company calls to say the car is downstairs and I go down.
I see the driver stealing a drag.
“Safeway?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer.
“Hi…hello there! SAFEWAY?” I ask a little louder.
He shakes his head in the negative and exhales a plume of smoke.
Well, where the heck is this car then, I say walking to a maroon sedan parked in the driveway.
I peer in and there is no driver. I look at the passenger side door and see the huge Safeway emblem emblazoned in black lettering on the side.
I storm back over to Smoky McIdiot.
“Hey! You driving that car…the car that says SAFEWAY?”
“Yes…where you going to ma’am?”
“Oh, oh…” he quickly stamps out the cigarette and walks over to the car. He holds the door open for me and shuts it.
I am glaring.
As he buckles himself in, he looks up at me in the rearview.
“Sorry, sorry about that. There’s a girl I usually pick up here that goes to her parents in Manhattan Beach. You weren’t her…”
“Nope. I’m black.”
“No, no…she’s a tiny little thing.”
“Oh…I mean…no offense…it’s just real small…” he trails off.
I put my ipod phones in and crack the 50 cent.
Minutes later I see him looking back at me.
“Is that an ipod?”
“When we get to your house can I listen to it for a second…I just never heard one.”
“It’s the same as a walkman or a Discman.”
“Oh, I never had those either.”
As he makes the right onto my block he tells me that there used to be a horse stable nearby, but they were evicted.
“Yeah, they are building new condos over there,” I reply.
“Man…pretty soon an apartment in New York is going to cost like half a million dollars.”
“What really? So you must be rich to be able to buy around here.”
“No, not really.”
He pulls up to my building, I let him listen to some Sinatra on Poddy. He is impressed.
“So how much does something like that cost…is it expensive?”
“No, it’s like 200-300 dollars.”
“THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS!!! That’s A LOT of money!”
Uh oh…my not rich cred fading.
I lose it altogether when I am forced to pay the fare with a fifty dollar bill.
“Gosh! You are rich…what do you do?
mmm…I could say I blog…but if he’s never had a walkman…
I smile, tip and walk toward my building...where the doorman is holding the door open for me.
I don’t even so much as glance back at the cab driver.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Dialing 911 is not the way to get a date.
By The Associated ptress
CANDOR, N.Y. -- Tyler Engelhard is in jail for what he said was a joke.
Calling 911 because he "wanted to see a hot chick" wasn't funny to the police who charged the 21-year-old Binghamton-area man with falsely reporting an incident.
Police said Engelhard called Tuesday and told a dispatcher his parents "should be in jail" and that police would "find out why" when they arrived at his home.
A sheriff's patrol rushed to the home and found Engelhard, who said he called as a joke and told the deputy _ a woman _ he just wanted to see a "hot chick."
Lt. Richard Travis said Engelhard didn't explain why he thought a 911 call was the way to meet a woman.
He landed instead in the Tioga County jail on $1,000 bail.
No...really...go on, caption it.
or vice versa...Wonkette named as Time editor.
Body count rises in California heat.
In one of the hardest-hit areas, coroners in Fresno County on Wednesday began stacking bodies two to a gurney because there were so many.
Among the 81 deaths believed to be caused by the heat statewide since July 16, 20 are in Fresno County. Coroner Loralee Cervantes said her staff was doing autopsies nonstop and decomposition of some bodies made the causes of death difficult to determine.
My favorite part of this story is that the reporter writing the story is in San Francisco - where it is 52 degrees tops!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Nowadays it seems like young parents don't want to accept the fact that they can't squeeze in any fun time of their own, so they choose to bring their responsibilities out into the the unmarried and single crowd hang outs.
PN on parents bringing baby to bar days.
By the way, I don't see their prettiness, but we've added Pretty Numbers to the blogroll.
Andrea Yates Not Guilty By Reason of Insanity
Although, I think the prosecutors only trid her for the deaths of a couple of the kids, so they may take another shot.
Today, her former husband, Rusty Yates, who has sat through most of the retrial, said he was glad the jury accepted the insanity plea instead of sending Ms. Yates to prison. He talked about how the prosecution showed pictures of the couple’s five children before their deaths to the jury, hoping to convince them prison was the best resolution for Ms. Yate’s actions.
“Did they think our children want Andrea to be in prison?’’ he asked reporters outside the courtroom. “Did they think that we, her family on either side, want Andrea to be in prison? Is it of any public benefit for Andrea to be in prison? Is she a danger to anyone? It’s amazing to me. I’m so proud of the jury for seeing past that.’’
Lance Bass is gay and writing a sitcom.
Although Chris Kirkpatrick was always my favorite one.
Good and ashamed.
Not that I like Republicans, mind you.
[Maryland Lt. Gov. Michael Steele,] spoke of his party affiliation as though it were a congenital defect rather than a choice. "It's an impediment. It's a hurdle I have to overcome," he said. "I've got an 'R' here, a scarlet letter."
That left the candidate in a difficult spot. "For me to pretend I'm not a Republican would be a lie," he reasoned. But to run as a proud Republican? "That's going to be tough, it's going to be tough to do," he said. "If this race is about Republicans and Democrats, I lose."
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Spending Too Much Time With Republicans: Three Conversations
Me: My friend Pi wants interest rates to go up.
Pearatty: Me too! Then when all those people with their O% down adjustable mortages go into foreclosure I can buy their houses.
Me: Yeah...remember when dispossessing people was a bad thing?
Pearatty: Well, these irresponsible people are the reason prices are so high.
Me: That is true. Hmmm...and I guess I could pick up a rental property...
Me: If Israeli troops have occupied Lebanon, I don’t see how this isn’t a war.
Pearatty: Well, it’s the part of Lebanon that used to be part of Israel.
Me: What? Israel gave land back to Lebanon? WTF? This is why these countries keep attacking them, they are just too reasonable.
Pearatty: Yeah, I saw an interview with this guy who was complaining that the bombing campaign was unfair because ‘the last time we kidnapped the Israeli soldiers, they negotiated with us for their return.”
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA...Now, they’re all “what's up with our streets blowing up? What happened to the negotiations?!!!
Pearatty: Well, after Katrina, I seriously thought about getting a gun.
Me: To shoot the flood waters?
Sunday, July 23, 2006
THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED...
I so thought those two crazy kids would make it.
By the way, Justin:
Timberlake's second solo album, "FutureSex/LoveSounds," will be released September12. His first single from the CD, "SexyBack," began playing on U.S. radio outlets earlier this month.
"I didn't want to be that 'guy from the boy band,' " says Timberlake, formerly of 'N Sync.
Go to hell. And see you on the 'Nync reunion tour in three years.
I really shouldn't say anything about the blackout in Queens.
Really, really, cause it'll just mean a blackout in Brooklyn next week.
I once wrote:
Indeed, Queens is not Jersey. No, Sir. Queens is Oklahoma. Or Kansas. Or…Poland.
The streets are lined with white picket-fenced houses, with little old ladies sitting out front. American flags jut out from every second floor. I cannot tell you the depths of creepiness reached when one gets onto a NYC subway car and gets off in Kansas.
Which might explain why the lights went out in Queens and nobody in the rest of the city noticed.
I must have fallen asleep.
I know this because the playlist is 34 songs long.
I quietly hummed my way through the Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat songs, and vaguely remember hearing the echoes of the "Once more with feeling" soundtrack play in my head.
But there is no memory of the Rocky Horror Picture Show songs, before I vividly start to hear my Avenue Q favorites.
A tell-tale four song gap.
I blinked in the darkness through the Beatles portion and now, awash in my country music selections, I am wide awake and ready for the day.
Unfortunately, it is 3:15 a.m. and "day" is a long way off.
Thus, once again we'll commence with some "since I'm up" blogging.
Tonight was my West Coast party.
Every year...usually as I hover 30,000 feet over the middle of the country in a tin can, surrounded by strangers, with my face pressed against a plastic windowpane and my body shaking with sleep deprivation --- I wonder at the sanity of my bi-coastal birthday affairs.
I'm definitely not doing this next year, I vow --- squinting down at the landscape below and plotting how I will survive the certain plunge to the earth.
Well, and then I have a night like tonight.
A wonderfully hilarious sweet backyard BBQ illuminated with a string of Japenese lanterns replete with surprises --even though I planned every detail and handcrafted the guest list.
I'll eventually get around to writing up my crazy wacky birthday season '06, from Pi volunteering and making a freaking five course meal for me and my closest twenty friends, to pearatty agreeing to bake a cake in 112 degree heat in a kitchen with no AC-- "cooling plan" notwithstanding--- and of course, F-train winning the Tour de Summers yellow jersey by making all of my birthday parties this year -- a feat not accomplished since 2000 and made ever more impressive by its three state span.
But that will come later.
For now, I'll leave you with the one thought that keeps playing my head (other than dear Lord in heaven, why, WHY is Dawn awake).
Pearatty went for a haircut this morning. While her hair was coiffed, primped, washed, cut and dried right back to exactly where it started from, I decided to get a manicure and pedicure. (People now check for the infamous "cokenail." Which is, you know, awesome.)
I sat perfectly still under the nail drying thing for two cycles. TWO.
I opened the door with the palm of my hands and even had the nail lady velcro up my shoe for me.
I barely opened the car door with my pinky and had pearatty fasten my seatbelt.
So, imagine my surprise and horror when I splayed out my fingers for a final inspection and discovered a perfect fingerprint imprinted on my left thumbnail. The polish around it smudged and slipped in a permanent mockery of my patience and care.
"Yeah, that's why I don't get manicures," pearatty said shrugging her shoulders at my now-pouting face.
But the nail is not important. I just thought you should know. And I keep staring at it as I type.
The actual story is this:
My friend Macaroni is getting married.
To look at her tonight, wearing an simple elegant black dress, with perfectly french manicured nails (no fingerprint smudges anywhere!) and flawess makeup, you could scarely tell that she was in the midst of such a dizzyingly gigantic undertaking as coordinating the arrival and care of a hundred relatives (old and new) in a strange city and the start of a marriage and ostensibly new life with her fiancee.
Mention the wedding and she will animatedly tell you the following story:
She and her maid of honor went out dress shopping. When the girl, a childhood friend, tried on the strapless gown, her apparently six years of underarm hair growth protruded confidently from beneath.
And here Macaroni's face takes on markedly distressed crinkling of the forehead as she says that before she could get a handle on the...umm...hairy situation...her maid of honor preemptively stated that she wouldn't shave it. The hair was who she was and she wasn't changing for anybody.
Well, after some back and forth, Macaroni resolved that the hair and the dress would not do.
And well, it was her wedding, so the dress was staying.
She approached her friend again with the diplomatic: "you've got to do something with it or we'll have to find a new role for you in the wedding."
Her friend agreed to a trim of sorts.
At the story's end, Macaroni was out of breath and obviously still stressed about the whole matter.
"Can you believe that? Am I just being a crazy bridezilla or was that ridiculous?"
We all nodded sympathetically.
"Well, I know the thing to do is say I agree with you," Ilsa said, "but you need to let it go. Underarm hair is not going to ruin your wedding."
The discussion continued into the night, but the simple truth of Ilsa's statement stuck with me.
A "don't sweat the small stuff (and it's all small stuff)" for the new millenia.
That I somehow managed to fingerprint myself in my newly manicured nails or go on an impromptu midnight gift bag hunt (or have blogger eat my first draft of this post) was annoying, but did not mar my totally fun night of beer tasting and finding ever creative ways to flip the bird.
(However, if Rick Blaine is found beaten about the head and shoulders and stuffed into the passenger seat of a locked light blue Porsche, it wasn't me. I was home all night watching TV. Or in Atlantic City.)
So, as my birthday season comes to a close, and as I face at least another six hours of inexplicable awakeness, my wish for all of you (besides a backyard full of people willing to perform preliminary taste tests on your behalf and fabricate positive results, (including fake sounds of deliciousness and tummy rubbing) so that you will suffer as they suffered) is that you remember that underarm hair is not going to ruin your wedding.
Or something like that.