Monday, November 19, 2007

The Good Samaritan

As I was walking into town today, I heard a loud “Whomp!” and looked down to see a man splayed out on the sidewalk as if he were about to do cement angels.
The weird thing was that there was no puddle, no ice, no banana peel in sight. What the hell had he slipped on? As I walked toward him, I noticed that he wasn’t making any effort to get up. He had a stunned look on his face as if he too were wondering what the hell he had tripped over to get him to that point. Either that or he was just really, really drunk. I looked around pretending that I didn’t see him, hoping that I wouldn’t trip over him in the process. I am a bad, bad person.

I then came upon one of those Salvation Army Santa Clauses, holding the bright red tin can and jingling his bells. He looked at me; I looked at him. I reached into my pocket, jingled some change, and WALKED MERRILY ON MY WAY. At this point I am pretty sure both Kris Kringle and Hanukkah Harry have a special (hit) list just for me.

Next, a harried-looking woman approached me on the street. “Excuse me…"

I shook my head and continued on my very important quest to find oatmeal raisin cookie ingredients. The situation was bleak. On a scale of 1 to 10 on the evil-o-meter, I was definitely pushing an 8. I had to redeem myself quickly lest I am finally forced to admit that I am no longer an angelic Jersey Girl but a bonafide Boston Bitch.

While I was checking out of the supermarket, I saw my chance. The girl in front of me was about to walk out of the store without putting her cart away.

“Um, excuse me miss!” I yelled after her. She turned around. “Is this cart yours?”

She looked at me blankly. “Um, I don’t know!”

“Well that’s interesting.” Apparently this girl had some sort of supermarket amnesia.
Even though I was not responsible for that cart, I took that sucker and wheeled it back where it belonged. Despite what you may be thinking, there was no trumpets or fanfare, no partying in the streets, no nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize. But that didn’t matter to me, because I had acted selflessly, jumping in to save some poor, over-worked and under-paid grocery store worker from having to put the cart away themself. I no longer felt like a bad, bad person. Of course, some may argue that because I did this to make myself feel better, I was not truly acting selflessly, but I can live with that.

On my way back home, I came upon the Salvation Army guy again. We locked eyes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out everything I got…three pennies and a nickel. I threw it all into the bucket, pennies and all. He nodded at me and I continued on my way. Mother Theresa has nothing on me.

This One's a Turkey

So my birthday has come and gone, and so far, all my parts are still in place, and I have not received any literature from AARP. So far, so good!

In honor of Thanksgiving, I thought I'd write about some fun turkey facts I found last year on the University of Illinois Extension School website(www.urbanext.uiuc.edu/turkey/facts.html). I added some fun "facts" of my own in italics. Happy Turkey Day!

Forty-five million turkeys are eaten each Thanksgiving.

Twenty-two million turkeys are eaten each Christmas.

Nineteen million turkeys are eaten each Easter.

Turkeys love the summer.

Wild turkeys can fly for short distances up to 55 miles per hour.

Wild turkeys can run 20 miles per hour.

Turkeys' heads change colors when they become excited.

Turkeys can see movement almost a hundred yards away.

Turkeys are super heroes.

Gobbling turkeys can be heard a mile away on a quiet day.

Days are not so quiet when a turkey is within a mile of you.

Wild turkeys spend the night in trees. They especially like oak trees.

And oak trees especially like wild turkeys.

Turkey breeding has caused turkey breasts to grow so large that the turkeys fall over.

Turkey breeders laugh a lot.

Israelis eat the most turkeys.....28 pounds per person.

Turkeys are anti-Semites.

Turkeys are related to pheasants.

Turkeys wonder why Americans don't try their equally delicious cousins on Thanksgiving.

Since 1947, the National Turkey Federation has presented a live turkey and two dressed turkeys to the President. The President does not eat the live turkey. He "pardons" it and allows it to live out its days on a historical farm.

George W hopes "Flyer" and "Fryer Turkey" will remember this at the polls.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Lessons from The Wu-Tang

For two days straight, I have been subjected to music I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. There I am, on the bus trying to read, innocently minding my own business, when some young girl sits down next to me with her ipod on full blast. Not only that, but she is listening to The Backstreet Boys (don’t ask me how I know this). I turn to look at her, hoping she will notice the disgust on my face, but she is bopping her head around a la Stevie Wonder, eyes closed, fingers snapping to Larger Than Life (don’t ask me how I know this).

At this point, I’m really annoyed. I have read the same damn sentence tweny times, and I’d really like to move on. I oh-so-subtly stick a finger in my right ear, not to drown out the noise, which at volume 11 was a futile effort, but to show this girl how her music was affecting my Freakonomics reading pleasure.

I sneaked another look in her direction, but she was either oblivious to my suffering, or a real jack ass, because I swear the music level went up a notch, if it’s even possible to go up past 11.

The next day, another girl with another ipod sat down next to me, ipod blasting. Apparently this is no longer a rare annoyance but a full-blown epidemic. This girl, a pale, white thing with frizzy hair and unflattering glasses (meow!) was playing—and I swear I’m not making this up—The Wu-Tang Clan.

This time I looked at the girl not in disgust, but in pure amazement. There was no way that this plain Jane girl with the Buddy Holly glasses, who looked to be barely 24, was listening to Wu-Tang. Was she trying to intimidate me? Oh hellz no! She was messing with the wrong biotch. I would show her who’s a punk. I would grab hold of that frizzy, mousy brown hair…

Light tap on the shoulder. “Um, excuse me, would you mind turning it down a bit? It’s a little loud.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry,” she whispered, and turned down the music.

I could now hear crickets chirping outside. Aw yeah, this is what I’m tawkin’ about, biotch--you don't mess wit me! ‘Cause when I come I bring the ruckus, famous Ames ain’t nuttin’ to fuck wit.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

The Final Countdown

The countdown is on: only one more week of life in my twenties. I have to say, the general public is doing a fantastic job of helping me through the transition. Just the other day, I was walking through Boston Common and got called “ma’am” not once, but twice. I actually looked around both times, as if surely they must have been addressing some old grandma behind me on a walker, but no, they were staring straight at me, smiling and holding out some petition they wanted me to sign. I told them that sadly my old arthritic hands could no longer hold a pen, otherwise I would be glad to help out the young whipper snappers.

The week before, I had stopped into my former office to meet up with a friend, and introduced myself to the young woman who had replaced me. She looked at me and said, “Wow, I thought the person before me was young like me.” I was shocked. Just how old did this bitch think I was? Maybe I need to stop sunning on my deck all summer. But damn it, how else am I going to enjoy my pina coladas? Pina coladas are meant to be enjoyed lying half-naked in the hot sun. That’s just the way it is, and if that’s so wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

In a city where the average age is twenty-six, I’ve had some time to get used to the idea that I’m ancient. The funny thing is though, I don’t feel like I’m about to turn thirty. Twenty-nine, maybe, but not thirty.

When I turned the ripe-old age of twenty-one, my best friend gave me a birthday card that read, “Old friends are the best friends.” Having had twenty-one drinks to go along with my twenty-one years that night (Just kidding! It was only twenty), I completely misinterpreted the card and thought that my bitch of a best friend was telling me I was old. I started crying and wailing, “I am old!” at which point, my friends threw me in a cold shower and I promptly passed out. The one good thing about passing out in the bath tub is that you're one step ahead of the game the next morning.

I guess the point is that age is subjective. It’s true that you’re only as old as you feel. I mean, look at Hugh Hefner. The man is like 100 and he’s surrounded by beautiful blondes, partying it up every other day of the week. I only hope that I can make it that long and that I will look and feel as good when I’m that age. If not, I always have my pina coladas. Funny how a little coconut, pineapple, and rum can delude you into thinking life is good like that.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

And Another Lostie Bites the Dust

Daniel Dae Kim, otherwise known as “Jin” to Lost fans, is now the fourth Lost cast member to be arrested for a traffic violation. Six other Lost actors have been cited. Citizens of Hawaii, I implore you to start posting signs alerting drivers to the impending danger on your roads:




Oh yeah, and Jin, you are such a goner. The three others who were arrested before you? Libby and Ana Lucia died from bullet wounds and Mr. Eko from the smoke monster. I have to say, you were really nice to look at, but the sub-titles were getting pretty annoying.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Me and my Buddy Phil Collins

So recently a friend of mine was trying to sell two extra tickets he had to a Genesis concert. Now, I will admit, Genesis and sexy Brit Phil Collins had once invisibly touched me...when I was twelve years old, but the magic has worn off a bit since their Su-su-sudio days (did anyone ever figure out what the hell a sudio is by the way?).

I didn't want the tix, but I wanted to help him out, so I texted my ex boyfriend in the hopes that he might want to buy them. Sadly, he had work to do so couldn't go. Now why going to see an over-the-hill eighties band that performed such hits as "Abacab" and "The Carpet Crawlers" does not serve as a legitimate excuse to skip out of work, I don't know. We are in a Land of Confusion indeed.

So the following week, my ex texted me to ask how the concert was. I hadn't actually gone, but decided to have some fun with it, because, well, he is my ex and any chance one has to fuck with one's ex must be exercised at all times. I texted him back, saying, "concert was gr8. Phil invited me backstage! Partied like rock star all nite." To which I got in reply, "Really? What's his poison?" I couldn't believe he had actually bought it. I thought that Phil looked like a whiskey kind of guy, so I answered, "Blue Label. I was drinking Cristal." I mean if I'm going to be fake drinking, I might as well go all out, right?

I didn't get a response for a couple of days, so I decided to take the joke one step further. I emailed my ex a couple of photos from my after-hours craziness with Phil. The first picture (and my personal favorite), with the caption "Me, Phil, and a bottle of Cristal":



Notice how I was able to subtly transpose an image of myself onto another (larger) woman's body, and how convincingly the bottle of Cristal floats in the air.

The second picture I actually had a friend of mine Photoshop. The caption read, "Things got a little out-of-control after polishing off the alcohol...":




I waited giddily for his response. I couldn't wait to read his reaction to believing I had actually been whooping it up with Mr. Collins. Finally, I saw the email I'd been waiting for in my inbox. So what does my brilliant ex respond with?

"I totally thought that "reallivemoms.com" was an advertisement for MILF porn."

Heh?? After a few more email exchanges, I finally figured out that he had skipped my email entirely and responded to a link advertising creating online family photo albums--one of those hotmail ad inserts that shows up at the bottom of email messages sometimes (Make your little one a shining star! Shine on!.

Big bummer. Not only did he not get the joke, but, more disturbingly, he misinterpreted an ad for creating an online baby photo album for cougar porn. The problem with practical jokes is that they only work on people who have a clue. (Not that I'm bitter or anything.) Luckily, I had some Genesis' tunes on my ipod to lift my spirits. It did the trick. I turned the volume as high as it'd go and let The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway rip (did anyone ever figure out what the hell that lamb was doing on Broadway in the first place by the way?)

Saturday, November 3, 2007

How to Make Time Stand Still

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For the past two days I’ve been temping for a company and I can’t even tell you what I’ve been doing. I think it has something to do with copying and pasting text from one Word document to another Word document, but I could have that backwards. What I do know is that time actually slowed down to a point where I became so alarmed that I was contemplating calling whoever watches over the Greenwich Mean Time to alert them to the situation. It was like I had been cast in a horror movie: a freakish cross between Ground Hog Day and Office Space that had no beginning, middle, or end in sight.

The office was a sea of cubicles as far as the eye could see. If the tediousness of the job didn’t actually drive me to the loony bin, the soft, yellow-green glow of the flourescent lights certainly made me think I was already in one. I felt like a rat in a maze trying to find the person I was supposed to report to. Whenever I wandered into the wrong cubicle, someone would kindly give me directions to “the white cubicle at the end of the hall,” of which there were twenty.

I tried to go into my happy place, but the inane office chatter kept bringing me back to reality. Unfortunately, I had an unwitting hand in my own undoing for my fondness of McDonald’s and the chocolatey goodness that is their milkshakes. Oh sweet, sweet nectar you are my heaven and hell. Being the conscientious temp that I am, I threw the bag out in the trash can located in the break room. Apparently, that was some sort of friggin’ big deal. I heard no less than three separate conversations about the presence of my McDonald’s bag in the trash for the next TWO HOURS:

“Heeeey…so who went to the Micky Dee’s? Someone need a little afternoon pick-me-up?”

“Whoa ho ho! McDonald’s! The Mick to the D! Who needed the fast food fix?”

“Someone went to McDonald’s I see… Funny, no one appears to be going into cardiac arrest…”

I slouched down low in my chair. It was like the owner of the McDonald’s bag had become a modern-day mystery to rival that of the Bermuda Triangle, crop circles, and Donald Trump's hair. I wasn’t sure what would happen if someone were to discover my deep, dark Chicken Selects loving secret, but I was sure it would involve a lot more discussion and my time was devoted exclusively to whatever the hell it was I was supposed to be doing.

Five thirty could not come fast enough. Despite my thoughts to the contrary, I did not shove a pencil up my ear at any time during my shifts. I did feel somewhat satisfied that I discovered the secret to stopping time; the only hitch now is finding out how to stop time in a place that doesn’t involve monkey work, cubicles, and controversial lunches.