So tomorrow I withdraw from BU. The last possible day is July 1st, so its now or never I suppose. I removed my last post because it was mopey, and that's just not how I roll.
I think this is it for the blog, though. I'm not sure if anybody has been reading it anymore, and to be honest, I haven't had the desire to write. A chapter of my life has ended, so I figure I can package this up with it. I had fun, and I hope you enjoyed it. Someday I'll read these posts like I occasionally read my high school xanga, and lament about how long I worked at Subway. If you take one thing from this blog, I hope it is that you should put underwear on your head at night.
Thanks guys!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Vindictive Food Shopping, Workin' at The Office, and Tryin to Get That Oprah
So I haven't been updating too much lately. While the obvious reason for my absence would be my mundane life, the truth is, I can't find the cord to put my pictures on the computer, and without pictures my blog is nothing. I have a YouTube video for you, though, hence the update.
Let's do this in list form, just like the good ol' days (of two months ago? those days weren't so good, actually...uhhh.)
-The other day my mother asked me to do the grocery shopping while she was at work. I happily obliged; as most of you know, I have an inexplicable affinity for grocery stores. As my mom handed me the two grocery lists (because she started one, forgot, started another, and put completely different things on each,) she remarked, "Remember, if a sign says 'Two for One' get two. Do whatever the signs say." I was shocked! Was she insinuating that I am not a good sale shopper?
Well, yeah, she was. I went to the grocery store and bought a couple of odds and ends...the usual microwave dinners we eat weren't on sale, so I bought different ones. I wanted fruit snacks, and they were on a great sale, so I bought three boxes. The whole grain bread I wanted wasn't on sale, but the whole wheat was, so I bought two loaves. As the checkout lady handed me the receipt, I looked proudly upon the $13.95 savings on the $66.00 bill.
As I unloaded the groceries from the trunk, though, I realized that I bought some weird shit. I had shopped vindictively, and now we have 30 baggies of Snoopy fruit snacks to prove it.
Scratch workin' at the office-- I'll update about that in another post.
And as promised (BLAST THIS LOUD!):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbDEds3jxRw&feature=PlayList&p=EB9D5FB2EA082489&index=0
Let's do this in list form, just like the good ol' days (of two months ago? those days weren't so good, actually...uhhh.)
-The other day my mother asked me to do the grocery shopping while she was at work. I happily obliged; as most of you know, I have an inexplicable affinity for grocery stores. As my mom handed me the two grocery lists (because she started one, forgot, started another, and put completely different things on each,) she remarked, "Remember, if a sign says 'Two for One' get two. Do whatever the signs say." I was shocked! Was she insinuating that I am not a good sale shopper?
Well, yeah, she was. I went to the grocery store and bought a couple of odds and ends...the usual microwave dinners we eat weren't on sale, so I bought different ones. I wanted fruit snacks, and they were on a great sale, so I bought three boxes. The whole grain bread I wanted wasn't on sale, but the whole wheat was, so I bought two loaves. As the checkout lady handed me the receipt, I looked proudly upon the $13.95 savings on the $66.00 bill.
As I unloaded the groceries from the trunk, though, I realized that I bought some weird shit. I had shopped vindictively, and now we have 30 baggies of Snoopy fruit snacks to prove it.
Scratch workin' at the office-- I'll update about that in another post.
And as promised (BLAST THIS LOUD!):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbDEds3jxRw&feature=PlayList&p=EB9D5FB2EA082489&index=0
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
horndog.
Today I sat on the train and watched the raindrops hit the window.
The way the rain slid across the glass, the droplets looked like those pictures you'd see in textbooks of spermies.
Now, we are adults here, right? Considering I know all five of my readers, I'm pretty sure I can safely say we are all in the 18+ group. If not? Eh.
So now that we have that cleared up, I want to talk about lusting after strangers. As I sat on the train, watching the rain-sperm-drops glide across the window, I thought of all the times I fallen in love with people on mass transit, in waiting rooms, from across classrooms, in chemistry lab, at the library, at sporting events, etc. I am not going to ask if you all do the same, because I don't want to know if I am the only one who does this. I thought back to the first time I after lusted after a total stranger. I was 15 and on the N24 heading home from Kellenberg. For whatever reason, I was alone on the bus that day and didn't get my normal seat. As we hit the Mineola hub, a bunch of day laborers got on. I still remember so vividly the guy's face. He had to be anywhere from 25 to 30, and something about him looked quite Native American. I was in awe of him. To get biblical, I coveted him. Wanted him. Whatever you want to call it. My 15 year old self was confused. My current self has had about 932 experiences since then that were exactly like that.
Another notable time: coming home for winter break, freshman year. A man with dark skin, blond hair, and an Australian accent got on the Accela and sat directly across from me. I was enamored.
Unfortunately, his face has completely faded from my memory. I just remember his hair and guitar case.
Sigh. I do wonder when I will stop being a 14-year-old boy (albeit, a 14 year old boy who is attracted to boys.)
The way the rain slid across the glass, the droplets looked like those pictures you'd see in textbooks of spermies.
Now, we are adults here, right? Considering I know all five of my readers, I'm pretty sure I can safely say we are all in the 18+ group. If not? Eh.
So now that we have that cleared up, I want to talk about lusting after strangers. As I sat on the train, watching the rain-sperm-drops glide across the window, I thought of all the times I fallen in love with people on mass transit, in waiting rooms, from across classrooms, in chemistry lab, at the library, at sporting events, etc. I am not going to ask if you all do the same, because I don't want to know if I am the only one who does this. I thought back to the first time I after lusted after a total stranger. I was 15 and on the N24 heading home from Kellenberg. For whatever reason, I was alone on the bus that day and didn't get my normal seat. As we hit the Mineola hub, a bunch of day laborers got on. I still remember so vividly the guy's face. He had to be anywhere from 25 to 30, and something about him looked quite Native American. I was in awe of him. To get biblical, I coveted him. Wanted him. Whatever you want to call it. My 15 year old self was confused. My current self has had about 932 experiences since then that were exactly like that.
Another notable time: coming home for winter break, freshman year. A man with dark skin, blond hair, and an Australian accent got on the Accela and sat directly across from me. I was enamored.
Unfortunately, his face has completely faded from my memory. I just remember his hair and guitar case.
Sigh. I do wonder when I will stop being a 14-year-old boy (albeit, a 14 year old boy who is attracted to boys.)
Monday, June 8, 2009
The quick update
I haven't updated because I have been caught up in the whirlwind of corporate life. Ninety hour work weeks, coke binges, and cheating on my wife with the secretary.
Or more like 32 hour work weeks, commuting to the beautiful town of Jericho, lunches at Whole Foods, and working in a rather unintentionally humorous office.
I am not going to bullshit to you and tell you that my life is fabulous-because it isn't-but I can also say that it isn't nearly the mess it had been the last few months. Things have been getting back to the status quo, and it's been really nice.
It's late and as a very important business woman, I'll recap some of the highlights of working very quickly.
-Today, I prepared receipts for one of the older employees' pending audit. She asked me whether I needed the receipts from September 2008 or 2009. I had to restrain myself from saying "2009! It's an audit from the futureeee." After she asked ten more times, though, I kindly let her know that September 2009 hasn't happened, so we don't have those receipts yet.
-After lunch, I went through the bills for the company credit cards to see if they matched the employees' receipts. Rental car, airfare, business lunch, airfare, airfare, 12 donuts. In the middle of all the travel expenses, somebody included a receipt for 12 donuts from Dunkin Donuts and wrote it off as breakfast. And it just kept going from there. An Edible Arrangement for "client discussion," $18 worth of potato chips for a "business meeting," a bill from Hank's Famous BBQ, an unexplained $41 spent at 7-11
-Last Sunday, the night before I returned to the office, I tried on a couple of outfits for work. As I stood there in my plain gray skirt and pink button down shirt, I actually started to laugh. My work clothes didn't include a visor. I didn't have to wear all black. No magnetic name tag. My outfit looked like I was about to run some sort of scam; it said, Trust me, I wear dorky glasses and a button down shirt.
Or more like 32 hour work weeks, commuting to the beautiful town of Jericho, lunches at Whole Foods, and working in a rather unintentionally humorous office.
I am not going to bullshit to you and tell you that my life is fabulous-because it isn't-but I can also say that it isn't nearly the mess it had been the last few months. Things have been getting back to the status quo, and it's been really nice.
It's late and as a very important business woman, I'll recap some of the highlights of working very quickly.
-Today, I prepared receipts for one of the older employees' pending audit. She asked me whether I needed the receipts from September 2008 or 2009. I had to restrain myself from saying "2009! It's an audit from the futureeee." After she asked ten more times, though, I kindly let her know that September 2009 hasn't happened, so we don't have those receipts yet.
-After lunch, I went through the bills for the company credit cards to see if they matched the employees' receipts. Rental car, airfare, business lunch, airfare, airfare, 12 donuts. In the middle of all the travel expenses, somebody included a receipt for 12 donuts from Dunkin Donuts and wrote it off as breakfast. And it just kept going from there. An Edible Arrangement for "client discussion," $18 worth of potato chips for a "business meeting," a bill from Hank's Famous BBQ, an unexplained $41 spent at 7-11
-Last Sunday, the night before I returned to the office, I tried on a couple of outfits for work. As I stood there in my plain gray skirt and pink button down shirt, I actually started to laugh. My work clothes didn't include a visor. I didn't have to wear all black. No magnetic name tag. My outfit looked like I was about to run some sort of scam; it said, Trust me, I wear dorky glasses and a button down shirt.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Two BMWs
Today I drove alone for the first time to Nassau Community College to meet a friend for lunch. It's not the easiest drive, but my mom figured that the roads would be empty at noon on a Thursday.
Wrong.
It was okay, though. I felt I did fine and I only had two close calls--both happened to be with BMWs (therefore, I will now forever be suspicious that when I see a BMW on the road, the driver will do something stupid.) My dad always warned me about two kinds of cars: SUVs, because they "don't get out of the way for anybody. They think they own the fucking road," and fancy cars, "because they are rich and think they don't have to obey the law" (My dad's words, not mine.)
As I mentioned, I only had two little incidents that really got me nervous. One is barely worth mentioning; a BMW SUV was pulling out without looking (my father's favorite type of car: both an SUV AND a luxury car.) Big deal. The second incident, though, truly was, well, ridiculous. I tried to describe it using a picture:
Figure 1: I'm in the Honda, the silver car.
So, this red BMW convertible pulled out of a parking lot right next to a very, very busy intersection (for the Long Island people: Stewart and Quintin Roosevelt.) Everybody was waiting at a red light. Mr. Old Man in a Red BMW Convertible decided not only was he not going to wait, but he was going to cut across three lanes of traffic to get into the turn lane on the far left. The light turned green, though, leaving the BMW horizontal to the oncoming traffic. For the first time in my life, I used the horn.
Now, the kind of funny part? The man was really old and in a brand-new convertible; a little too old for me to assume mid-life crisis, and way too old for me to assume he has a small...you know, (just to clarify, young man in a sports car= trying to prove something, middle aged man in a sports car=mid life crisis, old man in a sports car= end of life crisis? Too much money? Not really sure.) but no matter what his reason for having that little red sports car with the leather interior, he clearly wasn't the brightest. He was driving a convertible with the top down in the rain. I may have a five year old Honda, but at least my car keeps me dry.
NOTE: I don't really care what kind of car you, dear reader, drive. I'm not judging you. Or even if I am, it isn't a big deal. My brother drives a BMW and we crack jokes about it all the time. I am sure you are a wonderful, amazing driver in your Grand Cherokee or Lexus or whatever it is you drive. I wasn't talking about you; I'm talking about everybody else :-)
NOTE 2: Maybe he won the car on The Price is Right!
Wrong.
It was okay, though. I felt I did fine and I only had two close calls--both happened to be with BMWs (therefore, I will now forever be suspicious that when I see a BMW on the road, the driver will do something stupid.) My dad always warned me about two kinds of cars: SUVs, because they "don't get out of the way for anybody. They think they own the fucking road," and fancy cars, "because they are rich and think they don't have to obey the law" (My dad's words, not mine.)
As I mentioned, I only had two little incidents that really got me nervous. One is barely worth mentioning; a BMW SUV was pulling out without looking (my father's favorite type of car: both an SUV AND a luxury car.) Big deal. The second incident, though, truly was, well, ridiculous. I tried to describe it using a picture:
Figure 1: I'm in the Honda, the silver car.
So, this red BMW convertible pulled out of a parking lot right next to a very, very busy intersection (for the Long Island people: Stewart and Quintin Roosevelt.) Everybody was waiting at a red light. Mr. Old Man in a Red BMW Convertible decided not only was he not going to wait, but he was going to cut across three lanes of traffic to get into the turn lane on the far left. The light turned green, though, leaving the BMW horizontal to the oncoming traffic. For the first time in my life, I used the horn.
Now, the kind of funny part? The man was really old and in a brand-new convertible; a little too old for me to assume mid-life crisis, and way too old for me to assume he has a small...you know, (just to clarify, young man in a sports car= trying to prove something, middle aged man in a sports car=mid life crisis, old man in a sports car= end of life crisis? Too much money? Not really sure.) but no matter what his reason for having that little red sports car with the leather interior, he clearly wasn't the brightest. He was driving a convertible with the top down in the rain. I may have a five year old Honda, but at least my car keeps me dry.
NOTE: I don't really care what kind of car you, dear reader, drive. I'm not judging you. Or even if I am, it isn't a big deal. My brother drives a BMW and we crack jokes about it all the time. I am sure you are a wonderful, amazing driver in your Grand Cherokee or Lexus or whatever it is you drive. I wasn't talking about you; I'm talking about everybody else :-)
NOTE 2: Maybe he won the car on The Price is Right!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
MADE
Six days until I start working 9-5, so in the meantime I am trying to make the most of my days off (mostly by watching TV.) Today, I've watched Maury, The Price is Right, What Not to Wear, and Made. (I also unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, did a little laundry, and made myself some breakfast. Believe it or not, I have actually gotten off of my butt.)
I'm watching the show Made, and it has to be one of the least successful transformations they have ever featured. I watch this show and lament that I am too old to be made into anything. I want to be a cheerleader! I want to be Prom Queen (despite my high school's lack of prom)! Honestly, while I was in high school, I probably could have been chosen for the show. I always had friends, but beyond that I was pretty awkward. I didn't go on my first date until I was in college. I think I would have like to have been made into... I dunno. I was going to say cheerleader, but I disliked most of the girls on the cheerleading team. I would say dance team, but I didn't really go for those girls either. Maybe it wouldn't have worked out. Oh well.
Well, I guess I was wrong. What I referred to as "the least successful transformation" two minutes ago yielded a prom queen.
I'm watching the show Made, and it has to be one of the least successful transformations they have ever featured. I watch this show and lament that I am too old to be made into anything. I want to be a cheerleader! I want to be Prom Queen (despite my high school's lack of prom)! Honestly, while I was in high school, I probably could have been chosen for the show. I always had friends, but beyond that I was pretty awkward. I didn't go on my first date until I was in college. I think I would have like to have been made into... I dunno. I was going to say cheerleader, but I disliked most of the girls on the cheerleading team. I would say dance team, but I didn't really go for those girls either. Maybe it wouldn't have worked out. Oh well.
Well, I guess I was wrong. What I referred to as "the least successful transformation" two minutes ago yielded a prom queen.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
"Oh yeah, I got this car on The Price is Right"
At 11:00 AM I turned on CBS for my morning dose of "The Price is Right."
The opening bid is for a trampoline. I remembered how badly I wanted a trampoline when I was little, but as I watch the model jumping on it during the segment, I realize how the trampoline could possibly be the dumbest, most dangerous toy you could possibly buy for a child.
A young woman gets the closest bid for the trampoline, and before Drew Carey can announce it, she screams, "I WON!"
I realize how much I waste my life watching this damn show, and I go into my text messages to find the number to call about getting my old job back.
The woman is now bidding on something else. I can't see what. A dining room set, perhaps?
My text Inbox: 15 texts
Shit. I deleted the number.
I panic for a moment when I realize that I purged my text inbox without first copying the number of "Donna in Accounting" onto a piece of paper.
A man is bidding on a car. I find the company's phone number on-line, but instead of calling immediately, I decide to see whether or not the man will win that giant red Ford pick-up truck.
It is an intense one. He keeps coming within one number, so they keep letting him play. I remind myself not to yell at the TV if he won. I had experienced a great deal of shame during yesterday's Showcase Showdown; I told the woman on the TV what to bid, and when she did, I felt for a moment as though we really connected.
The man wins the truck. I yell at the TV. Shame overcomes me.
I call, and the woman asks me when I am coming in. I say June 1. She says that's perfect.
My shame subsides and I feel good, until the contestants on "The Price is Right" start spinning the wheel and I find myself yelling at one of the guys to spin again.
Now a particularly confused group seems to be bidding, including a woman wearing a T-shirt that says "I'm 90, Fiesty, and Ready to Spin!" Me too, old woman, me too.
EDIT: Despite what my spell check says, that is what the shirt of the old woman actually said.
The opening bid is for a trampoline. I remembered how badly I wanted a trampoline when I was little, but as I watch the model jumping on it during the segment, I realize how the trampoline could possibly be the dumbest, most dangerous toy you could possibly buy for a child.
A young woman gets the closest bid for the trampoline, and before Drew Carey can announce it, she screams, "I WON!"
I realize how much I waste my life watching this damn show, and I go into my text messages to find the number to call about getting my old job back.
The woman is now bidding on something else. I can't see what. A dining room set, perhaps?
My text Inbox: 15 texts
Shit. I deleted the number.
I panic for a moment when I realize that I purged my text inbox without first copying the number of "Donna in Accounting" onto a piece of paper.
A man is bidding on a car. I find the company's phone number on-line, but instead of calling immediately, I decide to see whether or not the man will win that giant red Ford pick-up truck.
It is an intense one. He keeps coming within one number, so they keep letting him play. I remind myself not to yell at the TV if he won. I had experienced a great deal of shame during yesterday's Showcase Showdown; I told the woman on the TV what to bid, and when she did, I felt for a moment as though we really connected.
The man wins the truck. I yell at the TV. Shame overcomes me.
I call, and the woman asks me when I am coming in. I say June 1. She says that's perfect.
My shame subsides and I feel good, until the contestants on "The Price is Right" start spinning the wheel and I find myself yelling at one of the guys to spin again.
Now a particularly confused group seems to be bidding, including a woman wearing a T-shirt that says "I'm 90, Fiesty, and Ready to Spin!" Me too, old woman, me too.
EDIT: Despite what my spell check says, that is what the shirt of the old woman actually said.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
If my measurements are correct,
My sister-in-law gave me a coupon to a popular woman's store. I began to look through their website for any good sales, when I came across a particularly cute skirt. It was called the "modern mini," and on the model it looked just below slutty length, and just above credit card length. I was taken by the price- $10! And it was red! and so very, very cute! I wanted to make sure, though, that the length wouldn't be slutacious on me.
Figure 1: Didn't meant to circle "machine washable"
Figure 1: Didn't meant to circle "machine washable"I have some spacial relations issues, so it was necessary to whip out the measuring tape and hold it to my leg. Upon doing so, I notice something of a problem. The length from my waist to my knee is actually 16''.
That's right, a full half an inch shorter than the mini skirt.
Here's the thing. I know I'm short (although, on an aside, after living for a year with Alana, I think I started to believe that not only was I on the tall side, I was actually something of a giant.) I am 5'3'' (but I know when other girls are lying about their height because I'm lying. I'm 5'2''.) According to my calculations, though, a 16.5'' skirt would only be a mini on a mutant (or Heidi Klum)--
Figure 2: Scientific calculations
So no $10 skirt for me, unless I want to look like I was wearing a red version of the Kellenberg uniform.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Megan vs The Children of New York
You knew I couldn't stay away for too long.
So I moved home from Boston this past weekend. Other than a meltdown over a cupcake, it has been relatively uneventful.
So I moved home from Boston this past weekend. Other than a meltdown over a cupcake, it has been relatively uneventful.
Figure 1: The cupcake in question. My good friend, Jessica Wanda, bought it for me as a going away present. Although my instinct was to eat it the second I opened the box, I waited so I could show it to everybody I knew. Despite talking about the cupcake for two days straight, right before we left, I popped it back into the fridge while I got coffee with my parents. About 45 minutes into the drive home, I realized that the cupcake was still in Boston. Remember that episode of Friends where Ross has a breakdown when somebody eats his turkey sandwich at work? Well, yeah. I remember that, too.
Back in early April, I signed up to volunteer in Chelsea with little kids doing arts and crafts. I got to the after school center with no problem, and as I sat waiting for the kids, I started to get a little excited. The other volunteers had all volunteered there before, and they seemed happy to be back. I saw a line of little kids parade through the sitting where we were waiting, and they all looked so adorable. Oh how naive of me.
One little kid was yelling at the top of his lungs for no reason. I should have known then. That was Enrique, my new buddy.
I would like to say that beneath these kids wild exteriors were little hearts of gold, but I cannot lie. They were bastards. Every last one of them.
I sat on a tiny chair for an hour while the kids slapped each other, tried to stand on the table, ratted out the 30-year-old volunteers to their teachers for being "mean," threw whatever they could get their hands on, ripped the paper we were supposed to play pictionary with, and tried to steal art supplies.
The hour was up and the moderators returned. The kids turned on their angelic expressions once again, and the moderator thanked the volunteers for giving our time. The other volunteers smiled and said how much fun they had and said goodbye to their kiddies.
I waved once, and ran like a bat out of hell. I don't think I felt safe until I was on the subway, speeding away from those kids as fast as possible.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
She bought her a cat.
I am going to type very quickly, as I should be studying epidemiology instead of writing this, therefore you should read this very quickly, as I am sure you are rather busy with finals, too.
So earlier today I had a large mug of Maxwell House. The caffeine, along with my surging adrenaline, caused one of those caffeine buzzes that is just a bit more than you bargained for. My thoughts were rushing too quickly, and a bunch of random incidents kept popping into my head. Among other things, as I studied substance abuse/dependence for my psych exam, I couldn't get this conversation I had with my mom out of my head:
"Did I see a cat in the [family]'s window?"
Mom: "Yeah, they promised [daughter] they would buy her a cat if she quit cocaine."
......?
So earlier today I had a large mug of Maxwell House. The caffeine, along with my surging adrenaline, caused one of those caffeine buzzes that is just a bit more than you bargained for. My thoughts were rushing too quickly, and a bunch of random incidents kept popping into my head. Among other things, as I studied substance abuse/dependence for my psych exam, I couldn't get this conversation I had with my mom out of my head:
"Did I see a cat in the [family]'s window?"
Mom: "Yeah, they promised [daughter] they would buy her a cat if she quit cocaine."
......?
Sunday, May 3, 2009
American, not British, Architects.
I spoke of this article during the week:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/business/4296975.stm
That is actually the British version. The American version is similar but has a few major differences; mainly, for whatever reason, in Britain the architects are miserable but the American ones are apparently pigs in shit:
http://hotjobs.yahoo.com/career-articles-where_do_america_s_happiest_people_work-569
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/business/4296975.stm
That is actually the British version. The American version is similar but has a few major differences; mainly, for whatever reason, in Britain the architects are miserable but the American ones are apparently pigs in shit:
http://hotjobs.yahoo.com/career-articles-where_do_america_s_happiest_people_work-569
Saturday, May 2, 2009
We could listen to Phil Collins together.
I don't want to look through my blog archive to see just how many Saturday night entries I have made, because I know that there have been plenty. I guess I'm just not really a party animal. Or, more accurately, I managed to be a bit under the weather for most of second semester.
I just jumped about a foot in half because my roommate's purse, which is about ten feet away from me, fell over. I'll miss Scotty (177's resident ghost) next year. When I'm home alone next year and I hear a noise I'll just assume somebody is breaking in.
It was quite a strange week; I'd say bad, but I'm trying to be optimistic. I'm going to Hunter College next year, but I don't know how I feel about it just yet. I need some time to try it out. Some other shit went on, but none of it is worth recounting here. I don't need any of it in print, to be honest. I'm partially ashamed of myself for expressing anger, because I rarely see it as productive; I'm partially proud for standing up for a friend--which is negated by more shame for over-stepping my bounds. I discussed it with my mother, who replied with an instant "uh-oh" when I told her expressed anger this week. I told her I never yelled at anybody, and she said of course not, "you never yell. You're scary, like the Godfather." Thanks, mom. Always know just what to say (that is sarcastic, in case you couldn't tell. Type is tricky like that.)
Sighs all around. I don't feel as down as I did last week, or even a few days ago, but now I just wish time would move a little faster. I want to forget these past few weeks entirely. I want to see where things are going. I want the future to be less muddled and just a little clearer.
Note: SCORE! No spelling mistakes!
I just jumped about a foot in half because my roommate's purse, which is about ten feet away from me, fell over. I'll miss Scotty (177's resident ghost) next year. When I'm home alone next year and I hear a noise I'll just assume somebody is breaking in.
It was quite a strange week; I'd say bad, but I'm trying to be optimistic. I'm going to Hunter College next year, but I don't know how I feel about it just yet. I need some time to try it out. Some other shit went on, but none of it is worth recounting here. I don't need any of it in print, to be honest. I'm partially ashamed of myself for expressing anger, because I rarely see it as productive; I'm partially proud for standing up for a friend--which is negated by more shame for over-stepping my bounds. I discussed it with my mother, who replied with an instant "uh-oh" when I told her expressed anger this week. I told her I never yelled at anybody, and she said of course not, "you never yell. You're scary, like the Godfather." Thanks, mom. Always know just what to say (that is sarcastic, in case you couldn't tell. Type is tricky like that.)
Sighs all around. I don't feel as down as I did last week, or even a few days ago, but now I just wish time would move a little faster. I want to forget these past few weeks entirely. I want to see where things are going. I want the future to be less muddled and just a little clearer.
Note: SCORE! No spelling mistakes!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Shame pt. 2
Last night I had an apocalyptic dream, and in that dream I was drunk.
NOTE: This post wasn't meant to be cryptic; I dreamt it was the end of the world, and on an unrelated note, I was drunk in the dream.
NOTE: This post wasn't meant to be cryptic; I dreamt it was the end of the world, and on an unrelated note, I was drunk in the dream.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Good Things to Come
Figure 1: I wrote this note to a friend in Epidemiology. I believe it is representative to how the rest of my semester will go. Cheers!Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Coffee Stains
aka things that seemed like a good idea at the time
aka maybe I do have some cognitive deficits
Despite the fact that I have zero words so far of my psych paper, I already have a title:
Please Don't Burn after Reading: Pyromania in the Adolescent Population.
Ha ha. aren't I clever.
Right now I am drinking an ice cold cup of jet fuel. Last night, I filled a bowl with water, microwaved it, dumped in some instant coffee, allowed to cool, and then poured it all into an empty milk container, and popped it into the fridge.
See, I remember this working much better last year. Here is what happened last night:
Figure 1: Yeah, that's a bowl of coffee spilled all over the floor. I see no problem with this situation.
aka maybe I do have some cognitive deficits
Despite the fact that I have zero words so far of my psych paper, I already have a title:
Please Don't Burn after Reading: Pyromania in the Adolescent Population.
Ha ha. aren't I clever.
Right now I am drinking an ice cold cup of jet fuel. Last night, I filled a bowl with water, microwaved it, dumped in some instant coffee, allowed to cool, and then poured it all into an empty milk container, and popped it into the fridge.
See, I remember this working much better last year. Here is what happened last night:
Figure 1: Yeah, that's a bowl of coffee spilled all over the floor. I see no problem with this situation.
As I got down on my hands and knees and tried to sop up roughly 8 oz of coffee, I reminded myself that hey, it's okay, it's not like I have one of those Pyrex measuring cups with the spouts...
shit.
You guessed it. We do have one. It's Alana's, and something tells me she wouldn't have minded if I had borrowed it.
Similar to solving the issue of "How do you get from the airport without any money?" my reasoning, once again, made very little sense and caused the biggest mess.
Oh well, I'd do anything for you, dear coffee.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Two weeks, and then what?
How do you properly say goodbye to an entire city?
If you know the answer to that, give me a heads up, because I am curious. I have exactly two weeks to say goodbye to Boston. Although I knew for months that moving back to New York this May would probably be indefinite, this week I got my acceptance to Hunter, and my dad lost his job. So it’s official; sorry Boston, despite your lovely brownstones and excellent restaurants, I can’t stay any longer.
Saying goodbye to individuals will be its own challenge. I assume it will be something like graduating high school, except I will be the only one scared and anxious about what the next few months hold for me, while everyone else will still be settled here. I think I wrote an article about saying goodbye to friends in my high school newspaper, but I honestly don’t really remember anymore. I’ll leave this topic alone now.
Back to saying goodbye to a physical place, though. At this point, I think saying goodbye to Boston will be harder than saying goodbye to individuals. The friends who I want to stay in contact with will be just a phone call away; the lifestyle I had here, on the other hand, will be a thing of the past.
Part of me wants to try and cram in whatever I missed in the last two years (albeit, it’s not much.) In two years I feel as though I’ve seen all that Boston has to offer. I could make a trip over to the aquarium, but I suppose that defeats the purpose of saying goodbye; I don’t have a sentimental attachment to places I have never seen before.
Earlier this evening, I sat alone on the top of the grassy divide between Storrow Drive and the BU beach. I faced the river during sunset and worked on a paper. I watched the runners along the Charles, and I realized that this was what goodbyes were about.
If you know the answer to that, give me a heads up, because I am curious. I have exactly two weeks to say goodbye to Boston. Although I knew for months that moving back to New York this May would probably be indefinite, this week I got my acceptance to Hunter, and my dad lost his job. So it’s official; sorry Boston, despite your lovely brownstones and excellent restaurants, I can’t stay any longer.
Saying goodbye to individuals will be its own challenge. I assume it will be something like graduating high school, except I will be the only one scared and anxious about what the next few months hold for me, while everyone else will still be settled here. I think I wrote an article about saying goodbye to friends in my high school newspaper, but I honestly don’t really remember anymore. I’ll leave this topic alone now.
Back to saying goodbye to a physical place, though. At this point, I think saying goodbye to Boston will be harder than saying goodbye to individuals. The friends who I want to stay in contact with will be just a phone call away; the lifestyle I had here, on the other hand, will be a thing of the past.
Part of me wants to try and cram in whatever I missed in the last two years (albeit, it’s not much.) In two years I feel as though I’ve seen all that Boston has to offer. I could make a trip over to the aquarium, but I suppose that defeats the purpose of saying goodbye; I don’t have a sentimental attachment to places I have never seen before.
Earlier this evening, I sat alone on the top of the grassy divide between Storrow Drive and the BU beach. I faced the river during sunset and worked on a paper. I watched the runners along the Charles, and I realized that this was what goodbyes were about.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Shame
So this morning I awoke at 6:20 to get in some last minute studying for an exam at 8. I studied for about a half hour in the vestibule before the caffeine craving became too much. I got dressed, and by 7:10 I headed to Starbucks for my morning fix. I was ready to get my Sargent muffin and a sugar-free soy vanilla latte (I know, it's a bitch drink. Even I need a break from the classy Maxwell House every once in a while.) I march into SMG, my head happy that it will be getting its caffeine, and the Starbucks is dark.
I see the employees roaming around, but then I took note of the sign on the door. Mon-Fri: 7:30AM.
WHAT?!?
After my initial panic, I was ashamed. I felt like I had been told I had enough by the bartender, or no more crack by my crack dealer (not really.)
I finally got my drink, and ala GSU style, it was the wrong order. I took it, though, grateful for anything caffeinated, when I quickly realized that whatever this drink was, it was a double-shot.
Hmm...no complaints there.
Figure 1: I took this picture last year while I was trying to figure out how to adjust my flash. I love you Maxwell House!
I see the employees roaming around, but then I took note of the sign on the door. Mon-Fri: 7:30AM.
WHAT?!?
After my initial panic, I was ashamed. I felt like I had been told I had enough by the bartender, or no more crack by my crack dealer (not really.)
I finally got my drink, and ala GSU style, it was the wrong order. I took it, though, grateful for anything caffeinated, when I quickly realized that whatever this drink was, it was a double-shot.
Hmm...no complaints there.
Figure 1: I took this picture last year while I was trying to figure out how to adjust my flash. I love you Maxwell House!
Monday, April 20, 2009
It's Marathon Monday!
...and I'm doing orgo hw.
I went to the marathon last year, and it was quite fun. We walked around, watched people cross the finish line, and laid around in the park. I'm so behind on work from the last few weeks that I'm just staying in and doing practice problems and working on papers.
I feel a bit melancholy as the year draws to a close. I've lived in Boston for almost two years, and I have loved it for the most part, but once I go home this May, that is probably it. And it's okay, too. As much as I have loved the independence, the food, and the late nights, all in all, Boston hasn't been great for me in the areas that matter a little bit more, which is my academic career. Sometimes I wonder if I had gone to another college what would have happened these past years; would I have had great grades and still been on the path to becoming a doctor? Would I have had great grades at the sacrifice of a social life? Would I have been miserable? Happier? In a relationship? I don't torture myself with this, but I can't help but think about these things from time to time.
The spring semester hasn't been great here. I've had some fun, and there have been some great moments, but I feel as though it is easier to leave now than it would have been this time last year when I felt like things were just getting going. I can appreciate my home life more for what it is; I could end up sacrificing some of my social life to go home, but at least I can rest assured that the people I surround myself with at home are genuine, loyal, and actually care about me. I've started to see my life up here for what it really is, and even though things are still okay, I feel like maybe I'm jumping ship just before things really turn sour.
So a bit of a pensive post for today, but everything is okay. I wanted to make a post about my experiences on Thursday night, but most of the stories are so inappropriate that I didn't want to post them, because they will lose some of their charm when I take out the offensive phrases. We can talk about them in person--I promise, the stories are kind of funny. To start, I was put in a man's gown. It was all down hill from there.
I went to the marathon last year, and it was quite fun. We walked around, watched people cross the finish line, and laid around in the park. I'm so behind on work from the last few weeks that I'm just staying in and doing practice problems and working on papers.
I feel a bit melancholy as the year draws to a close. I've lived in Boston for almost two years, and I have loved it for the most part, but once I go home this May, that is probably it. And it's okay, too. As much as I have loved the independence, the food, and the late nights, all in all, Boston hasn't been great for me in the areas that matter a little bit more, which is my academic career. Sometimes I wonder if I had gone to another college what would have happened these past years; would I have had great grades and still been on the path to becoming a doctor? Would I have had great grades at the sacrifice of a social life? Would I have been miserable? Happier? In a relationship? I don't torture myself with this, but I can't help but think about these things from time to time.
The spring semester hasn't been great here. I've had some fun, and there have been some great moments, but I feel as though it is easier to leave now than it would have been this time last year when I felt like things were just getting going. I can appreciate my home life more for what it is; I could end up sacrificing some of my social life to go home, but at least I can rest assured that the people I surround myself with at home are genuine, loyal, and actually care about me. I've started to see my life up here for what it really is, and even though things are still okay, I feel like maybe I'm jumping ship just before things really turn sour.
So a bit of a pensive post for today, but everything is okay. I wanted to make a post about my experiences on Thursday night, but most of the stories are so inappropriate that I didn't want to post them, because they will lose some of their charm when I take out the offensive phrases. We can talk about them in person--I promise, the stories are kind of funny. To start, I was put in a man's gown. It was all down hill from there.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
I owe this to you
Because I am in love with each and every one of my readers, I owe this to you. These are photos of a project I did in kindergarten. This construction paper booklet has not been touched since 1994, when yours truly added the illustrations. Enjoy.
Figure 1: The cover
Figure 2: My mother had to speak to the teacher over this. The teacher her asked my mom if she saw why this was a problem; My mother's response: "No."
Figure 1: The cover
Figure 2: My mother had to speak to the teacher over this. The teacher her asked my mom if she saw why this was a problem; My mother's response: "No."Sunday, April 12, 2009
Thanks JFK for being awesome. NOW FEATURING THE LATE EDITION EDIT
The weather is quite gorgeous; no wind, 50 degrees, not a cloud in the sky.
My flight is delayed an hour and a half.
So thanks JFK, for wasting this hour and a half of my life that I could be using to do anything else, but will instead spend roaming the internet. I could do some reading for class, but I'm pissed and don't want to, so I'm not going to.
Fuckies.
Oh, and there is a man walking around with a rather sick looking baby. (Disclaimer so you do not think that I am an entirely cold hearted bitch) I feel bad that the baby has a cold, really, I do, but if there is a snot covered baby next to me on the flight, it would just be icing on my already hour-and-a-half-delayed cake.
EDIT: Yes, really. I am going to now recount the remainder of my evening, in all of its nauseous glory.
So my flight, initially delayed from 7:30 to 8, and then until 8:30, didn't actually leave the ground until 9:30 because we taxied for about 45 minutes. Thank you Port Authority for closing one of the runways for the holiday. I like to celebrate Easter by causing inconvenience, too, so I totally get where they are coming from.
The plane took off, and despite my full knowledge of the fact that I will get sick from doing so, I pushed my face against the glass to get that one last look at my city. (I can't help it, I'm a voyerist. I watch when blood is drawn, too. I know I'll feel sick, but I do it anyway.) The city looked stunning. The bridges, the flickering orange lights, the darkness of the water against the light polluted sky. It took my breath away.
And then the wing tipped, and we dropped a bit. In that moment I regretted that canoli I shoved down my throat on the car ride over to the airport. The rest of the flight was turbulent, and seeing as how this was the first flight that I haven't drugged myself for, I felt ill. I wished I had taken some sort of allergy medicine to clear my ears. The cologne on the 13 year old boy sitting next to me compounded with the stuffy cabin was not helping matters. Actually, I wished I was sedated with some sort of sleeping aid as I have been the last 4 or 5 flights I have taken.
"Chips or cookies?"
For the first, and probably only time in my life, I refused blue chips, arguably God's greatest joke of a snack food ever created. I wanted to ask if there was a third option of Valium, but I refrained from saying anything at all, for fear of unleashing projectile vomit on Makai (the 13 year old boy's name. I heard his mother use it. Really guys, who the hell's name is Makai?)
Then came the final decent, and in that moment I regretted ever eating anything in my life. I could feel it coming. I started counting. I stared at the letters on the back of my chair. I willed the vomit to stay where it belonged. I didn't pray, though, because Jesus has much bigger fish to fry, and plus, its Easter. He is probably celebrating or something.
I landed without incident. The vomit stayed in. I staggered to the T, and made my way back. It was uneventful; two men got on the T who were rather attractive. One looked exactly like Jin from Lost, and the other like a more realistic version of Chase from House. Then one opened his mouth and his er, uh, sexual preference swirled around him like a pink, glittery cloud, and my interested immediately dissipated and I road the rest of the way back to school wallowing in my nausea.
So that's that. I realized that I racked up a lifetime of bad travel karma when I was 3 and my mother flew back with me from Florida while I had a fever high enough to keep me passed out from a double ear infection and strep, yet still somehow allowed me to projectile vomit for the entire flight. That must have been really fun for every one else on board.
My flight is delayed an hour and a half.
So thanks JFK, for wasting this hour and a half of my life that I could be using to do anything else, but will instead spend roaming the internet. I could do some reading for class, but I'm pissed and don't want to, so I'm not going to.
Fuckies.
Oh, and there is a man walking around with a rather sick looking baby. (Disclaimer so you do not think that I am an entirely cold hearted bitch) I feel bad that the baby has a cold, really, I do, but if there is a snot covered baby next to me on the flight, it would just be icing on my already hour-and-a-half-delayed cake.
EDIT: Yes, really. I am going to now recount the remainder of my evening, in all of its nauseous glory.
So my flight, initially delayed from 7:30 to 8, and then until 8:30, didn't actually leave the ground until 9:30 because we taxied for about 45 minutes. Thank you Port Authority for closing one of the runways for the holiday. I like to celebrate Easter by causing inconvenience, too, so I totally get where they are coming from.
The plane took off, and despite my full knowledge of the fact that I will get sick from doing so, I pushed my face against the glass to get that one last look at my city. (I can't help it, I'm a voyerist. I watch when blood is drawn, too. I know I'll feel sick, but I do it anyway.) The city looked stunning. The bridges, the flickering orange lights, the darkness of the water against the light polluted sky. It took my breath away.
And then the wing tipped, and we dropped a bit. In that moment I regretted that canoli I shoved down my throat on the car ride over to the airport. The rest of the flight was turbulent, and seeing as how this was the first flight that I haven't drugged myself for, I felt ill. I wished I had taken some sort of allergy medicine to clear my ears. The cologne on the 13 year old boy sitting next to me compounded with the stuffy cabin was not helping matters. Actually, I wished I was sedated with some sort of sleeping aid as I have been the last 4 or 5 flights I have taken.
"Chips or cookies?"
For the first, and probably only time in my life, I refused blue chips, arguably God's greatest joke of a snack food ever created. I wanted to ask if there was a third option of Valium, but I refrained from saying anything at all, for fear of unleashing projectile vomit on Makai (the 13 year old boy's name. I heard his mother use it. Really guys, who the hell's name is Makai?)
Then came the final decent, and in that moment I regretted ever eating anything in my life. I could feel it coming. I started counting. I stared at the letters on the back of my chair. I willed the vomit to stay where it belonged. I didn't pray, though, because Jesus has much bigger fish to fry, and plus, its Easter. He is probably celebrating or something.
I landed without incident. The vomit stayed in. I staggered to the T, and made my way back. It was uneventful; two men got on the T who were rather attractive. One looked exactly like Jin from Lost, and the other like a more realistic version of Chase from House. Then one opened his mouth and his er, uh, sexual preference swirled around him like a pink, glittery cloud, and my interested immediately dissipated and I road the rest of the way back to school wallowing in my nausea.
So that's that. I realized that I racked up a lifetime of bad travel karma when I was 3 and my mother flew back with me from Florida while I had a fever high enough to keep me passed out from a double ear infection and strep, yet still somehow allowed me to projectile vomit for the entire flight. That must have been really fun for every one else on board.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Let's celebrate the Resurrection by listening to Tupac: Resurrection
Since I've been home, my mother has told me that she was eating M&M's because "Jesus wanted her to," and she has also asked me when I'm finally getting those implants ("little ones, like your second cousin's.")
Being home has been rather fun; I've dyed Easter eggs with my friends, started cooking for tomorrow with mom, and watched Moonstruck while playing cards.
I promise some pictures when I get back, but I don't have the wire to upload anything right now. In the mean time, here's a picture from Easter 2006:
Figure 1: Dad and my nephew, Jonathan, when he was 2 months old.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
I have no explaination for this.
Figure 1: SHE WOLVES. Taken August 2007. I believe that is Kelly's hand in the photo. Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Roid Rage
I trudged through most of yesterday feeling utterly exhausted. All day I thought of crawling into bed and passing out cold.
Figure 1: I googled the picture for you. This was all over the news a few months back when all of Australia was on fire.
Figure 2: I referred to this picture in yesterday's post; I saw two pigeons having sex and my camera was already out. This was Karma's reward for something good! I saw two sparrows going at it in front of the School of Management the following week, but unfortunately I didn't have my camera that time. Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice, I suppose.
Figure 3: The afterglow. Take a lesson from the pigeons.
Yet, as soon as I hit the sheets, my mind was racing. Not with thoughts about what I had to do today or what I forgot to do yesterday, but koala bears.
Koala bears??
Yeah. I have no idea why, but the little furry creatures became the target of my thoughts. I was suddenly thinking about this picture I had seen a few months back from the Australian wildfires where an Australian firefighter was taking a koala out of a tree.
Ha! What a picture!
Then I was thinking about getting canolis to take home for Easter. Would they get soggy? Could I bring them to Passover on Thursday? No, no, they aren't Kosher.
My thoughts were flashing like that adult ADD commercial (you know the one--where the woman keeps seeing flashes of different pictures, including a life size bunny?) and I realized that I suddenly felt so happy that I was almost giddy.
And then I remembered that I was on steroids. And not a low dose, either.
Despite my still unusually happy mood this morning, I decided that I would buck what the "doctor" at Student Health prescribed (I put doctor in quotes because the training of all the medical personal at Student Health services is rather dubious,) and I would follow the advice of my doctor from home and gradually wean myself off the steroids instead of just stopping cold turkey in a few days.
Despite my still unusually happy mood this morning, I decided that I would buck what the "doctor" at Student Health prescribed (I put doctor in quotes because the training of all the medical personal at Student Health services is rather dubious,) and I would follow the advice of my doctor from home and gradually wean myself off the steroids instead of just stopping cold turkey in a few days.
So that's that. Here are some pictures!
Figure 1: I googled the picture for you. This was all over the news a few months back when all of Australia was on fire. Figure 2: I referred to this picture in yesterday's post; I saw two pigeons having sex and my camera was already out. This was Karma's reward for something good! I saw two sparrows going at it in front of the School of Management the following week, but unfortunately I didn't have my camera that time. Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice, I suppose.Figure 3: The afterglow. Take a lesson from the pigeons.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Jesus Piece and other Funzies
Recently a professor said with mild sarcasm that we would solve an extra problem "just for funzies." I have no idea why, but I thought that was intensely funny.
Figure 1: I don't know what I did to deserve to witness this but it must have been something good.
EDIT: I just realized how inappropriate it was to include a picture of two pigeons having sex in a post that also discussed Easter and religious jewelry, so I took it out. I didn't want to leave a blank space, so here's the basket again. Enjoy.
Figure 2: My Jesus Piece looks exactly like B.I.G.'s
I'm heading home on Thursday for the holidays. It is Easter week, and regardless of where I stand in my fair-weathered relationship with Catholicism, I always get religious during this time of year.
Which brings me to the "Jesus Piece." During grade school and high school, every year we were given tiny religious pins that I would wear on my tie (grades 1-6,) bolero (7,8), or lapel (9-12.) I never thought anything of these; everybody, both the boys and girls, would usually pin them somewhere on their uniforms. The thing is, when I came to college, my mother explained to me that sometimes people find religious jewelry "offensive." I was a bit surprised by this, but nevertheless, I rarely put my cross on for fear of "offending."
Now, I've come to realize that I have never once been personally offended by somebody of another religion wearing a piece of jewelry that shows pride for his or her religion, therefore nobody should be offended if I want to wear a cross. I rarely, do, though--generally just during the religious times of the year.
To be honest, I'm not sure if I want to wear my cross because it's getting close to Easter or if it is because I keep hearing Kanye, The Game, and Biggie referencing Jesus Pieces. Come to think of it, they also reference crack quite a bit, and I've started using that, too, so I think maybe it is the rap.
And I promised other funzies, so here is a picture of two pigeons makin' babies.
And I promised other funzies, so here is a picture of two pigeons makin' babies.
Figure 1: I don't know what I did to deserve to witness this but it must have been something good.EDIT: I just realized how inappropriate it was to include a picture of two pigeons having sex in a post that also discussed Easter and religious jewelry, so I took it out. I didn't want to leave a blank space, so here's the basket again. Enjoy.
Figure 2: My Jesus Piece looks exactly like B.I.G.'sFriday, April 3, 2009
Goodbyes and an itchy behind
Its Friday night and pouring out. This is the last weekend of the semester I could be out there drinking or doing other "fun" things, but instead I'm sitting in my room with an itchy ass.
That's right. My lower back, ass, and thighs are coated in hives. I won't bore you with the details, I'll just say that I took two medicines yesterday and got hives from one, and then I took a gamble tonight and only took one.
I picked the wrong one.
So before I drug myself into a good night's sleep, I want to say a word about the finale of ER last night. It's a poor introduction, but I don't want to waste too much time; it's me versus the benedryl.
When I was 10 years old, I settled on a repeat of ER one evening. My mother said absolutely not, so I snuck up to my room and played with the bunny ears on my crappy little TV until I got something of a picture. That was my first taste of it. For whatever reason, my mother decided that 12 was old enough to watch all the sex, violence, and gore that ER had to offer. I was utterly hooked. Also addicted was Kelly, and we bonded over it. Benched at the St. Gregs softball games, we would discuss last week's episode for all 6 innings.
While I had flipped between doctor and meteorologist as my possible future career since the age of 8 or 9, at 12 the decision was made. I would be a doctor, just like the ones on TV. On an aside, obviously I have not pursued a career in health care because I still want to be a doctor like the ones I saw on TV. I realized when I was 14 and started volunteering in a hospital that the doctors on TV were very, very fictionalized portrayals of the real deal. Nevertheless, I would have never volunteered in the first place if it wasn't for my ER obsession.
Back track a bit from when I was volunteering at 14 in a hospital. At 13, I meant Sinead. She was doing her Spanish homework. She told me she had to become fluent in Spanish because she was going to volunteer with Doctors Without Boarders one day in Central America. I asked her if she watched ER. We've been friends ever since.
I remember watching with my entire family the episode when smallpox came to the ER. I remember watching the season 8 opener with my brother Michael. I remember spending my summer afternoons ridding my bike over to Kelly's to give her the episodes I had taped that morning. I remember watching the ER/Third Watch crossover with Kelly and discussing adding another drama to our habit, and then bonding with my dad over developing a cop show addiction.
The spring of 2002 was the beginning of a great time in my life, and although the timing is coincidental, that also happened to be when I started watching ER. The memories are good ones, and it was bittersweet to say goodbye to a piece of culture that defined a really great part of my life.
That's right. My lower back, ass, and thighs are coated in hives. I won't bore you with the details, I'll just say that I took two medicines yesterday and got hives from one, and then I took a gamble tonight and only took one.
I picked the wrong one.
So before I drug myself into a good night's sleep, I want to say a word about the finale of ER last night. It's a poor introduction, but I don't want to waste too much time; it's me versus the benedryl.
When I was 10 years old, I settled on a repeat of ER one evening. My mother said absolutely not, so I snuck up to my room and played with the bunny ears on my crappy little TV until I got something of a picture. That was my first taste of it. For whatever reason, my mother decided that 12 was old enough to watch all the sex, violence, and gore that ER had to offer. I was utterly hooked. Also addicted was Kelly, and we bonded over it. Benched at the St. Gregs softball games, we would discuss last week's episode for all 6 innings.
While I had flipped between doctor and meteorologist as my possible future career since the age of 8 or 9, at 12 the decision was made. I would be a doctor, just like the ones on TV. On an aside, obviously I have not pursued a career in health care because I still want to be a doctor like the ones I saw on TV. I realized when I was 14 and started volunteering in a hospital that the doctors on TV were very, very fictionalized portrayals of the real deal. Nevertheless, I would have never volunteered in the first place if it wasn't for my ER obsession.
Back track a bit from when I was volunteering at 14 in a hospital. At 13, I meant Sinead. She was doing her Spanish homework. She told me she had to become fluent in Spanish because she was going to volunteer with Doctors Without Boarders one day in Central America. I asked her if she watched ER. We've been friends ever since.
I remember watching with my entire family the episode when smallpox came to the ER. I remember watching the season 8 opener with my brother Michael. I remember spending my summer afternoons ridding my bike over to Kelly's to give her the episodes I had taped that morning. I remember watching the ER/Third Watch crossover with Kelly and discussing adding another drama to our habit, and then bonding with my dad over developing a cop show addiction.
The spring of 2002 was the beginning of a great time in my life, and although the timing is coincidental, that also happened to be when I started watching ER. The memories are good ones, and it was bittersweet to say goodbye to a piece of culture that defined a really great part of my life.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
EAST COAST
I am currently listening to the song "Ten Crack Commandments" by Notorious B.I.G.
I grew up listening to hardcore rap and Phil Collins. While my (embarrassing but unwavering)love of Phil Collins manifested itself while I was young, more recently I have discovered just how awesome rap is.
Yesterday I went on my quest to find out which rapper got shot in front of Hot 97, New York's rap station in Hollis, Queens. I ended up schooling myself in the whole East Coast/ West Coast war. Did you know that Biggie, Tupac, and Jay-Z all sold crack? Biggie actually continued to sell crack during his early rapping years to support his daughter. The whole thing is kind of fascinating; that was back when rappers were actually talking about their struggle. Listening to Biggie's lyrics about being ready to die and Tupac's desire for change really make Kanye seem like such a pussy. He shops so much he can speak Italian; they sold crack and got shot. Hmmm...
As far as the East Coast rappers vs the West Coast rappers, considering I am from Queens I feel as thought I should prefer the East Coast rappers. You can't deny Biggie, and Jay-Z is awesome, but really nobody raps quite like Tupac did. The Game was pretty sweet, too.
So uh, the purpose of this post? To tell you that rap is awesome. And also, in case any of the members of the Backstreet Boys read this, listen to "Dear Mama" by Tupac and then try writing a song dedicated to your mothers.
EDIT: Lots of people got shot in front of Hot 97 but the one I was thinking of was actually 50 Cent.
I grew up listening to hardcore rap and Phil Collins. While my (embarrassing but unwavering)love of Phil Collins manifested itself while I was young, more recently I have discovered just how awesome rap is.
Yesterday I went on my quest to find out which rapper got shot in front of Hot 97, New York's rap station in Hollis, Queens. I ended up schooling myself in the whole East Coast/ West Coast war. Did you know that Biggie, Tupac, and Jay-Z all sold crack? Biggie actually continued to sell crack during his early rapping years to support his daughter. The whole thing is kind of fascinating; that was back when rappers were actually talking about their struggle. Listening to Biggie's lyrics about being ready to die and Tupac's desire for change really make Kanye seem like such a pussy. He shops so much he can speak Italian; they sold crack and got shot. Hmmm...
As far as the East Coast rappers vs the West Coast rappers, considering I am from Queens I feel as thought I should prefer the East Coast rappers. You can't deny Biggie, and Jay-Z is awesome, but really nobody raps quite like Tupac did. The Game was pretty sweet, too.
So uh, the purpose of this post? To tell you that rap is awesome. And also, in case any of the members of the Backstreet Boys read this, listen to "Dear Mama" by Tupac and then try writing a song dedicated to your mothers.
EDIT: Lots of people got shot in front of Hot 97 but the one I was thinking of was actually 50 Cent.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
TWO FOR TUESDAY
I have recently discovered the beauty of listening to the radio over the internet, and because it is TWO FOR TUESDAY, I am currently listening to a SECOND Black Sabbath song on Q104.3! Generally I am fine with change, but as far as my radio stations go, I only really ever want Q104.3 from home. There are other New York channels that will do as well, like PLJ, HOT97, but I never quite adjusted to the Boston ones.
I used to refer to Two for Tuesday as my favorite day of the week, and I stand by that.
Tonight I got thai for dinner. I have an angry heart right now, and usually thai settles that. I reached into my fridge, and grabbed an opened bottle of OJ to wash down the pad thai. It tasted funny, I assumed it was the weird mix of the thai and the juice, then I realized that more specifically, it tasted kind of like a funky creamsicle...
yeah. I washed down my thai with someones half drank, two-week-old screwdriver.
Aiight. That is enough sharing for now.
I used to refer to Two for Tuesday as my favorite day of the week, and I stand by that.
Tonight I got thai for dinner. I have an angry heart right now, and usually thai settles that. I reached into my fridge, and grabbed an opened bottle of OJ to wash down the pad thai. It tasted funny, I assumed it was the weird mix of the thai and the juice, then I realized that more specifically, it tasted kind of like a funky creamsicle...
yeah. I washed down my thai with someones half drank, two-week-old screwdriver.
Aiight. That is enough sharing for now.
Monday, March 30, 2009
MEMO TO: Sperm Bank RE: Drinking SIGNED: Rehab
Figure 1: The first text I received from REHAB after Catie's number became REHAB
Figure 2: Catie had texted me this the day before as herself; the name on all her texts changed the following day
Friday, March 27, 2009
Oh my, your face is looking rather scaly
I recently dug this one out of the vault during a conversation with my parents, and I've been just itching to write about it.
In 1998, the first commercials for Viagra started to appear on TV. There was the famous Bob Dole one, but then there was another one that just featured men going about their daily activities, and then the camera would zoom a little closer and a voice would go "He has ED."
Now, I was generally a little fucker of a kid. There is no other way to put it. I was the one telling the other kids there was no Santa, asking my friends if they knew what exactly sex was (and if the answer was no, I'd gladly explain it) but for some reason this was the commercial that left me dumbfounded. The conversation went something like this:
9 year old me: I don't get it, Mom, their faces don't look scaly to me
Mom: What are you talking about?
That's right. I thought that the voice over said that these men had Ereptile Dysfunction, and in my little smartass head, I assumed that meant these men had something in common with reptiles. They kept zooming in on the men's faces, so the obvious conclusion was that these men had skin like reptiles.
Yeah. Don't worry, my mom cleared that one up for me. And then I presumably told every one of my friends.
Figure 1: You've been looking a little lizardish lately. Just take one Viagra and those scales should clear right up.
In 1998, the first commercials for Viagra started to appear on TV. There was the famous Bob Dole one, but then there was another one that just featured men going about their daily activities, and then the camera would zoom a little closer and a voice would go "He has ED."
Now, I was generally a little fucker of a kid. There is no other way to put it. I was the one telling the other kids there was no Santa, asking my friends if they knew what exactly sex was (and if the answer was no, I'd gladly explain it) but for some reason this was the commercial that left me dumbfounded. The conversation went something like this:
9 year old me: I don't get it, Mom, their faces don't look scaly to me
Mom: What are you talking about?
That's right. I thought that the voice over said that these men had Ereptile Dysfunction, and in my little smartass head, I assumed that meant these men had something in common with reptiles. They kept zooming in on the men's faces, so the obvious conclusion was that these men had skin like reptiles.
Yeah. Don't worry, my mom cleared that one up for me. And then I presumably told every one of my friends.
Figure 1: You've been looking a little lizardish lately. Just take one Viagra and those scales should clear right up.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Summer Camp
Recently, I have been pestering my roommate about what's Kosher and what isn't. The other night we had a conversation that went something like this:
"What about eels?"
"No, because they don't have scales."
"No, because they don't have scales."
"But they don't have scales because they aren't evolved enough, so that shouldn't count....so no lamprey, either?"
"I don't even know what a lamprey is."
"I went through a fish phase."
Figure 1: Lamprey! mmmmmmmm.
The topic of Kosherness brings me to another topic that is fairly foreign to me: sleep-away camp. During my youth I did not know a single person who went to sleep away camp. It was only a concept on TV shows ("Salute Your Shorts" anybody?)
I can only speak from my own experience, and there were two predominant reasons for not sending the kiddies away:
1. Sleep away camp costs money
(Solution: An above ground pool and dumping your kids for "sleepovers" at their friend's houses)
AND/OR
2. The attachment factor
I've told you about the Long Island Mix before, and again, I can only really speak from experience, but if one generalization can be made about Italians on a whole, it's not that they are all great cooks, or hairy, or loud, or affectionate (although, I could make a case for those in another post) it is that they do not know how to separate from their offspring. You know "Everybody Loves Raymond"? Not an exaggeration. The idea of not seeing your child for two whole weeks? (two months? I have no idea how long summer camps are) is simply horrifying to an Italian parent.
I did go to Bible Camp, though, for either two or three summers (two weeks, 3 hours a day haha.) And I was a Bible camp counselor for two years. I should put that on my resume.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Such stuff dreams are made on
I would give you bonus points for getting the reference in the title, but I'm about to talk about where it comes from, so it would sort of be cheating.
During my four years of high school, I was forced to memorize three different Shakespearean soliloquies: Freshman year- Cassius and the whole "Friends, Romans, Countrymen," bit, Junior year-- Lady Macbeth goes all "Tomorrow, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow," and then Senior year, Prospero laments with the "Such stuff dreams are made on" speech.
As I sat in English today, we started on Virginia Woolf's "Orlando," and I smiled inwardly at the memory of immediately switching out of a "Madness in Literature" course freshman year. On the first day, the professor, who was the wife of the professor I thought I was going to have, talked about her self for about 45 minutes and spent the last 30 going over the syllabus. First up, the Baccache. Then? King Lear! Followed by a little Nietzsche, and coming up the rear with "Mrs. Dalloway."
I literally ran from that classroom like it was on fire and switched out immediately.
Now, over the years I have been forced to read enough Hemingway that I have overcome my initial dislike of his works, and dare I say it, I actually have grown to like his writing quite a bit.
See, that doesn't work with everything, though.
2003 -"Cesar" - hated it.
2006- "Macbeth"- loved playing dress-up in Huggard's class, but ultimately hated it.
2006- "Othello"- hated it
2007- "The Tempest"- hated it
I do not care if that makes me intrinsically a piece of trash, but I can't help it. I have never, and will never, like anything ol' Willy turned out.
Which brings me to another little conversation that, if you don't grimace from it, you'll at least have to smile a little.
I met this guy a few months back, and as we talked about our schooling over the years, he said that his senior year of college was the most difficult of his life, and that when it was finally over, he was left reeling. He said he felt so intellectually stimulated still that he went to a bookstore and purchased the complete works of William Shakespeare and decided to read them on his own.
While I reacted as though I was mildly impressed, I felt as though I should physically cover my mouth to make sure my horror didn't spew all over him. I guess reading the collective works of William Shakespeare through one's own volition is objectively impressive, but, uh, subjectively?
Yeah. I should have known then it was not going to work. Honestly, I would have been more impressed if he told me he ran out and purchased the collective works of Steven King. Now that guy knows how to spin a tale.
Figure 1: I guess not all Shakespeare is bad:
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
During my four years of high school, I was forced to memorize three different Shakespearean soliloquies: Freshman year- Cassius and the whole "Friends, Romans, Countrymen," bit, Junior year-- Lady Macbeth goes all "Tomorrow, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow," and then Senior year, Prospero laments with the "Such stuff dreams are made on" speech.
As I sat in English today, we started on Virginia Woolf's "Orlando," and I smiled inwardly at the memory of immediately switching out of a "Madness in Literature" course freshman year. On the first day, the professor, who was the wife of the professor I thought I was going to have, talked about her self for about 45 minutes and spent the last 30 going over the syllabus. First up, the Baccache. Then? King Lear! Followed by a little Nietzsche, and coming up the rear with "Mrs. Dalloway."
I literally ran from that classroom like it was on fire and switched out immediately.
Now, over the years I have been forced to read enough Hemingway that I have overcome my initial dislike of his works, and dare I say it, I actually have grown to like his writing quite a bit.
See, that doesn't work with everything, though.
2003 -"Cesar" - hated it.
2006- "Macbeth"- loved playing dress-up in Huggard's class, but ultimately hated it.
2006- "Othello"- hated it
2007- "The Tempest"- hated it
I do not care if that makes me intrinsically a piece of trash, but I can't help it. I have never, and will never, like anything ol' Willy turned out.
Which brings me to another little conversation that, if you don't grimace from it, you'll at least have to smile a little.
I met this guy a few months back, and as we talked about our schooling over the years, he said that his senior year of college was the most difficult of his life, and that when it was finally over, he was left reeling. He said he felt so intellectually stimulated still that he went to a bookstore and purchased the complete works of William Shakespeare and decided to read them on his own.
While I reacted as though I was mildly impressed, I felt as though I should physically cover my mouth to make sure my horror didn't spew all over him. I guess reading the collective works of William Shakespeare through one's own volition is objectively impressive, but, uh, subjectively?
Yeah. I should have known then it was not going to work. Honestly, I would have been more impressed if he told me he ran out and purchased the collective works of Steven King. Now that guy knows how to spin a tale.
Figure 1: I guess not all Shakespeare is bad:
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I hope I haven't lost you
So it has been a bit longer than usual between blog posts. The truth is, nothing has happened that I could write about here. Stuff has gone on, but some things you wouldn't be interested in (although that has rarely stopped me in the past,) some things are entirely inappropriate (that has never stopped me in the past, but I'm trying to come across as wholesome these days,) and other things just really aren't mine to tell.
I do not want to lose you, dear reader, so I'll give you another beauty tip!
Friday night, as I prepared for bed, I realized that my room smelled terrible. I whipped out the febreeze and went nuts.
But then, I realized that not just my room stunk, but my hair did, too. Febreeze gets rid of odors, my hair had an odor, so I did the logical thing.
I would say that my hair felt like straw the following day, but that would imply that it felt like something remotely natural. It took about handful of conditioner just to get my fingers through it, but I must say, maybe it was the conditioner alone, or maybe it was some sort of magical combination of the febreeze with the conditioner, but my roommate complimented me on how shiny my hair was, and actually it looked like I had straightened it. So next time you are feeling, uh, daring (cough) and want to try something new with your hair, go for some febreeze.
I do not want to lose you, dear reader, so I'll give you another beauty tip!
Friday night, as I prepared for bed, I realized that my room smelled terrible. I whipped out the febreeze and went nuts.
But then, I realized that not just my room stunk, but my hair did, too. Febreeze gets rid of odors, my hair had an odor, so I did the logical thing.
I would say that my hair felt like straw the following day, but that would imply that it felt like something remotely natural. It took about handful of conditioner just to get my fingers through it, but I must say, maybe it was the conditioner alone, or maybe it was some sort of magical combination of the febreeze with the conditioner, but my roommate complimented me on how shiny my hair was, and actually it looked like I had straightened it. So next time you are feeling, uh, daring (cough) and want to try something new with your hair, go for some febreeze.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Irish Whiskey Makes Me Frisky
Heyyy happy St. Patrick's Day!
I'm listening to U2 (like I needed an excuse) to celebrate. In an effort to make this a more family friendly blog (see note), I'm not going to say how I would really like to celebrate today (it rhymes with...uhh...whiskey. Okay, its whiskey.)
So, lets see. It's St. Patrick's day... this seems like an appropriate time to do a slightly obligatory middle-schoolesque essay, "What Being Irish Means to Me."
My great-great uncle founded the IRA, so I am required to have at least some Irish-American pride.
Hmmm...I think my first favorite thing about being Irish would be my iron-clad liver. My Italian mother can only have one or two drinks before she is sick, and my brother is the same. My father, on the other hand, is and always has been a tank, and I inherited some of that tankliness from him.
Or maybe my first favorite thing would be our sense of humor. While some groups freak out from the tiniest joke, Irish-Catholics handle jokes like champs, and more often than not are the ones cracking them. (Although, if there is malice with these jokes, you'll get the shit beat out of you, so watch yourself.)
So, being Irish is cool. I am glad that I am half Irish (the other half, of course, being Italian. The Long Island Mix)
OH! My number one favorite thing about being Irish? That I come from a group of people that were convinced to change from paganism to Christianity by a three-leaf clover. Really think about that one.
Note: Both of my brothers are on facebook; it is only matter of time before they somehow find this, too. I have to comb through and get rid of some stuff as it is.
I'm listening to U2 (like I needed an excuse) to celebrate. In an effort to make this a more family friendly blog (see note), I'm not going to say how I would really like to celebrate today (it rhymes with...uhh...whiskey. Okay, its whiskey.)
So, lets see. It's St. Patrick's day... this seems like an appropriate time to do a slightly obligatory middle-schoolesque essay, "What Being Irish Means to Me."
My great-great uncle founded the IRA, so I am required to have at least some Irish-American pride.
Hmmm...I think my first favorite thing about being Irish would be my iron-clad liver. My Italian mother can only have one or two drinks before she is sick, and my brother is the same. My father, on the other hand, is and always has been a tank, and I inherited some of that tankliness from him.
Or maybe my first favorite thing would be our sense of humor. While some groups freak out from the tiniest joke, Irish-Catholics handle jokes like champs, and more often than not are the ones cracking them. (Although, if there is malice with these jokes, you'll get the shit beat out of you, so watch yourself.)
So, being Irish is cool. I am glad that I am half Irish (the other half, of course, being Italian. The Long Island Mix)
OH! My number one favorite thing about being Irish? That I come from a group of people that were convinced to change from paganism to Christianity by a three-leaf clover. Really think about that one.
Note: Both of my brothers are on facebook; it is only matter of time before they somehow find this, too. I have to comb through and get rid of some stuff as it is.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
There will be absinthe
I can tell already, this is going to be a convoluted one. I was trying to think of how to cut the fat and make a concise post, but it will be significantly easier to just type and see if I can get to my point.
This morning, I finished my applications for Queens College and Hunter College. Despite the fact that I put Hunter as my first choice, I realized that I had never actually seen it. It was a beautiful day, and I needed an excuse not to do any homework, so I decided to take the subway in and check it out.
I was set to take the bus to the F train, but it turned out Catie was driving toward the Briarwood F stop. Before we left, we talked to her mom for a bit, who gave me some magazines and papers to read while I was on the train.
The train ride in was a bit long, and coming out of the F stop at 63st and Lexington felt like climbing out of the depths of hell. Seriously. It was two escalators and three flights of stairs underground. Climbing that twice a day would be some workout. That area of the city is gorgeous, but Hunter itself was unimpressive; two or three large buildings. I decided to wander around like I knew where I was. I took the escalators up a few flights. In retrospect, they kind of reminded me of the Warren Towers escalators, but at that point I was just curious what was on the next floor.
It was so crowded. I get it, its a college, whatever--but I'm talking packed. Every seat I passed was occupied, every table surrounded, and every stretch of undisturbed ground had students sitting around. I didn't want anybody to see me walk directly off the up escalator and onto the down one, so I wandered around until I hit a Career Expo.
The Career Expo was enough--it was time to go. I headed out, and decided to walk over to the NY Presbyterian hospital to ask for a volunteer application. Long story short, I walked in the wrong direction, hit Central Park, turned around, made it there, got intimidated by the tremendous size, and settled for some McDonalds instead.
I walked back to the subway, and decided to see what Catie's mom had passed along to me. Now, I don't know if this was intentional or not, but the first paper read "The 3rd Annual Bar Awards: Winners and Losers." Sounded good to me! I browsed through--and there it was (wait, I have to find the exact title for you)---Best Bar At Which To Realize That Absinthe Kind of Tastes Like Cough Medicine. Apparently, I don't have to go to Europe to get my hands on the stuff, just a subway over to Chinatown.
I want to scope it out and see if it looks ligit or not (i.e., if it looks like a craphole that won't card.)
So I read the magazine the rest of the way to Jamaica. For whatever reason, I was a tad nervous to switch from the subway to the bus, but then I got out at 179th street and remembered that I'm from Queens and that I didn't actually give two shits about taking the bus. The only thing that was bit sketchy was that the Q46 stop was directly in front of a rather crowded OTB.
Hollis never seemed so huge, but I got to see where the nearest Popeyes is located, so the bus ride wasn't a total wash (it's in Queens Village by Van Buren. My girls from home--WE ARE GOING SOON.)
I got back to Bellerose, and I must say, it looked rather nice with the sun shining.
So that was my day. And the point was that eventually, I will get my hands on absinthe...and Popeyes (?)
If this was a paper, I don't know what the thesis would be.
This morning, I finished my applications for Queens College and Hunter College. Despite the fact that I put Hunter as my first choice, I realized that I had never actually seen it. It was a beautiful day, and I needed an excuse not to do any homework, so I decided to take the subway in and check it out.
I was set to take the bus to the F train, but it turned out Catie was driving toward the Briarwood F stop. Before we left, we talked to her mom for a bit, who gave me some magazines and papers to read while I was on the train.
The train ride in was a bit long, and coming out of the F stop at 63st and Lexington felt like climbing out of the depths of hell. Seriously. It was two escalators and three flights of stairs underground. Climbing that twice a day would be some workout. That area of the city is gorgeous, but Hunter itself was unimpressive; two or three large buildings. I decided to wander around like I knew where I was. I took the escalators up a few flights. In retrospect, they kind of reminded me of the Warren Towers escalators, but at that point I was just curious what was on the next floor.
It was so crowded. I get it, its a college, whatever--but I'm talking packed. Every seat I passed was occupied, every table surrounded, and every stretch of undisturbed ground had students sitting around. I didn't want anybody to see me walk directly off the up escalator and onto the down one, so I wandered around until I hit a Career Expo.
The Career Expo was enough--it was time to go. I headed out, and decided to walk over to the NY Presbyterian hospital to ask for a volunteer application. Long story short, I walked in the wrong direction, hit Central Park, turned around, made it there, got intimidated by the tremendous size, and settled for some McDonalds instead.
I walked back to the subway, and decided to see what Catie's mom had passed along to me. Now, I don't know if this was intentional or not, but the first paper read "The 3rd Annual Bar Awards: Winners and Losers." Sounded good to me! I browsed through--and there it was (wait, I have to find the exact title for you)---Best Bar At Which To Realize That Absinthe Kind of Tastes Like Cough Medicine. Apparently, I don't have to go to Europe to get my hands on the stuff, just a subway over to Chinatown.
I want to scope it out and see if it looks ligit or not (i.e., if it looks like a craphole that won't card.)
So I read the magazine the rest of the way to Jamaica. For whatever reason, I was a tad nervous to switch from the subway to the bus, but then I got out at 179th street and remembered that I'm from Queens and that I didn't actually give two shits about taking the bus. The only thing that was bit sketchy was that the Q46 stop was directly in front of a rather crowded OTB.
Hollis never seemed so huge, but I got to see where the nearest Popeyes is located, so the bus ride wasn't a total wash (it's in Queens Village by Van Buren. My girls from home--WE ARE GOING SOON.)
I got back to Bellerose, and I must say, it looked rather nice with the sun shining.
So that was my day. And the point was that eventually, I will get my hands on absinthe...and Popeyes (?)
If this was a paper, I don't know what the thesis would be.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
watching LIFE
Literally.
Along with pasty white skin and a hatred of pudding, I inherited from my dad a love of crime dramas. Although I got more than my usual dose last night, with both the usual SVU and my parent's favorite, NCIS, ("everybody loves Mark Harmon! Especially your father. He has a man crush on him") I am currently watching Life. It's even crappier than it sounds, but what can I say, I need my gun fix for the evening.
My last post was rather gloomy, and even though the sun has yet to show itself while I've been home, things have been fine. I've been working on my college applications, shopping, and repeatidly dying my hair.
I have been thinking a great deal about next year. I really don't want to leave Boston. Whatever, though. Things will be fine-- I want to stay in Boston, but I don't need to stay in Boston to be happy. I'm actually getting kind of curious to see where things are going. I would say hopeful, but I've had a nasty habit of screwing things up, so I'm going to roll with curious.
Along with pasty white skin and a hatred of pudding, I inherited from my dad a love of crime dramas. Although I got more than my usual dose last night, with both the usual SVU and my parent's favorite, NCIS, ("everybody loves Mark Harmon! Especially your father. He has a man crush on him") I am currently watching Life. It's even crappier than it sounds, but what can I say, I need my gun fix for the evening.
My last post was rather gloomy, and even though the sun has yet to show itself while I've been home, things have been fine. I've been working on my college applications, shopping, and repeatidly dying my hair.
I have been thinking a great deal about next year. I really don't want to leave Boston. Whatever, though. Things will be fine-- I want to stay in Boston, but I don't need to stay in Boston to be happy. I'm actually getting kind of curious to see where things are going. I would say hopeful, but I've had a nasty habit of screwing things up, so I'm going to roll with curious.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sorry, We're CLOSED.
It Tuesday of spring break. I've seen all of my immediate family, had a couple drinks with friends, watched movies, gone to the diner, watched TV, etc. It has been nice to relax and see everybody, but all and all this will be remembered as a rather troubling spring break.
For the past few months, I've been hearing bad economy this and bad economy that. Up in Boston, we seem to be living in a bubble--where the stores generally stay open and the restaurants still have weekend crowds. In a way, coming home has been coming back to a reality that I wasn't aware of. My mom told me the day I got home that "the entire Island is depressed." Bellerose itself, my little town in Queens, has its own troubles with a disturbing amount break-ins and muggings. My mom said that the whole island is depressed, though, and so far that seems as though it is a pretty accurate description. Everywhere we go, there are vacant store fronts and restaurants.
Fortuneoff is closing. I always forget whether this is a national chain, so a quick clarification--Fortuneoff is the store where every decent couple from Long Island and Queens registers for their wedding. It is a huge department store with everything you can imagine for the home. The store had an air about it that said You just stepped into Fortuneoff. We're better than Macys and Bloomingdales combined.
My original title for this post was going to be "Where am I supposed to register for my wedding?"
My other title for the post was going to steal a title from a David Gray song: "Everybody's Leaving Town." The thing is, nobody is actually leaving town. Instead, everybody is returning to their homes jobless.
Fortunoff has closed, along with the Circuit City next to it, and presumably "The Fortuneoff Mall" will follow.
My mom and I had this conversation yesterday:
"Mom, you're really old. Do you ever remember things getting like this?"
"Actually, no. You're father and I are kind of scared that this is just the beginning."
So that was uplifting.
My mother and I also discussed, though, that the sun has not shown itself for more than 5 minutes since I have been home, making everything not only look desolate, but haunted. Ah well.
For the past few months, I've been hearing bad economy this and bad economy that. Up in Boston, we seem to be living in a bubble--where the stores generally stay open and the restaurants still have weekend crowds. In a way, coming home has been coming back to a reality that I wasn't aware of. My mom told me the day I got home that "the entire Island is depressed." Bellerose itself, my little town in Queens, has its own troubles with a disturbing amount break-ins and muggings. My mom said that the whole island is depressed, though, and so far that seems as though it is a pretty accurate description. Everywhere we go, there are vacant store fronts and restaurants.
Fortuneoff is closing. I always forget whether this is a national chain, so a quick clarification--Fortuneoff is the store where every decent couple from Long Island and Queens registers for their wedding. It is a huge department store with everything you can imagine for the home. The store had an air about it that said You just stepped into Fortuneoff. We're better than Macys and Bloomingdales combined.
My original title for this post was going to be "Where am I supposed to register for my wedding?"
My other title for the post was going to steal a title from a David Gray song: "Everybody's Leaving Town." The thing is, nobody is actually leaving town. Instead, everybody is returning to their homes jobless.
Fortunoff has closed, along with the Circuit City next to it, and presumably "The Fortuneoff Mall" will follow.
My mom and I had this conversation yesterday:
"Mom, you're really old. Do you ever remember things getting like this?"
"Actually, no. You're father and I are kind of scared that this is just the beginning."
So that was uplifting.
My mother and I also discussed, though, that the sun has not shown itself for more than 5 minutes since I have been home, making everything not only look desolate, but haunted. Ah well.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
So I packed it up and brought it back to the crib
Even though I hate song lyric titles, I couldn't help that one.
Some odds and ends:
-My parents do not want to pay for one of those digital converters for the TVs, so they are now switching the cable box from room to room.
-My mom and I watched one of her new favorite movies yesterday morning, "Beauty Shop," featuring none other than Queen Latifa. I really want to go to that beauty show the next time I need my weave fixed.
-I tried to dye my hair this morning; I thought almond meant it would be light brown like the inside of an almond; it was actually dark brown like the outside...so it was about as effective as the food color dye.
Not much else to say :)
Some odds and ends:
-My parents do not want to pay for one of those digital converters for the TVs, so they are now switching the cable box from room to room.
-My mom and I watched one of her new favorite movies yesterday morning, "Beauty Shop," featuring none other than Queen Latifa. I really want to go to that beauty show the next time I need my weave fixed.
-I tried to dye my hair this morning; I thought almond meant it would be light brown like the inside of an almond; it was actually dark brown like the outside...so it was about as effective as the food color dye.
Not much else to say :)
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The distance made my heart grow fonder.
I know it sounds dumb, cliched, etc., but after orgo lab today, I actually felt lighter. I turned in the last of my assignments this morning, and from here on out, it's smooth sailing to Bellerose.
Figure 1: During a "walk" this summer; Jess and Kelly in front of the 99cents plus or less.
We had a three day weekend mid-Feb, and I opted not to go home for a variety of reasons. My main reason was that I had no desire to go to my nephew's birthday party. Shoot me, I am a terrible person.
I regretted not going home that weekend initially, but now I'm glad I stayed in Boston. I wasn't ready to go home then. I had an overdose of my family and my town and whatnot over break, and it still wasn't completely out of my system in February. I love my family, I love my friends, and Bellerose is okay, but sometimes I just need to distance myself from it for a while.
It has definitely been longer than necessary, though. Almost two full months, actually. I'm ready. I am ready to argue with my parents over car insurance and with my mom over stupid shit like how I over pluck my eyebrows. I'm ready to try and sneak in some daytime drinking with my friends. I'm ready for movies at Movieworld and mid-day trips to Met Food. I'm ready to endure a night long family party that nobody really wants to go to. Bring it on, because honestly, I cannot wait.
Figure 1: During a "walk" this summer; Jess and Kelly in front of the 99cents plus or less.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Maybe someday I will win some sort of award
Recently, for no reason, I was wondering what my number one favorite recipe for entertaining purposes is.
And then I remembered a recipe my mother once brought to a family block party that had everybody raving! It was for a very special fried chicken dish…everybody kept asking her for the recipe, and she just kept telling them that it was a secret. When Cousin Barbara asked my mother how she prepared it, she quite simply replied, “Old Fashioned.” Today, I will divulge only to you, dear readers, this very recipe:
1. Buy a large tin with a cover.
2. Go to your local KFC
3. Order two buckets of 12 pc. Family Style chicken (order extra crispy—that’s the secret ingredient!!)
4. Dump into large tin
5. Dispose of evidence
And then I remembered a recipe my mother once brought to a family block party that had everybody raving! It was for a very special fried chicken dish…everybody kept asking her for the recipe, and she just kept telling them that it was a secret. When Cousin Barbara asked my mother how she prepared it, she quite simply replied, “Old Fashioned.” Today, I will divulge only to you, dear readers, this very recipe:
1. Buy a large tin with a cover.
2. Go to your local KFC
3. Order two buckets of 12 pc. Family Style chicken (order extra crispy—that’s the secret ingredient!!)
4. Dump into large tin
5. Dispose of evidence
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Goals for the mediocre
[Edited 3/4/09 for general boringness]
This morning, I made a new list [of goals.] This new list also includes fun and exciting things that are just a bit more realistic than the last one [previously this post included my old, unrealistic goals.] Such new, less demanding goals include traveling to any state west of Wisconsin and getting drunk at the movie theaters. Notice that I don't put time stamps on these ones; no need for pressure. There is plenty of time for me to get myself and my friends kicked out of a movie theater.
Figure 1: Although my friends usually go along with my plans, for whatever reason, most of them seem to have drawn the line at getting drunk at the movies. I had a startling revelation earlier today--I distinctly remember this summer, after seeing "WALL-E" alerting Kelly, Catie, and Jess that I had a stroke of genius and that we had to go see a movie on Wacky Wednesday while completely wasted (Wacky Wednesday= $5 movies at Douglaston Movie World, the crappiest theater on the planet. We love it dearly.) I know that I also wanted to see the movie "THE WATERHORSE" while under the influence and everybody said no...I assumed these were the same instance, but upon seeing the "Christmas" realease date on the photo above, I realized that I have actually requested drunk movie going not once, but twice, and been shut down both times.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Some people are constantly plagued by bad ideas.
Let’s start a few weeks back. I blame all of this on wikihow. They featured a post on how to dye hair using koolaid and conditioner. I read the article and turned to my roommate and told her she was going to have to help me try this on my hair. She told me that it wasn’t a good idea. Because she was probably right, I did the natural thing and asked somebody else.
Sarah immediately agreed that it was a great idea. We got Edyna on board, too, and the next thing I knew we were in the grocery store at 11pm, trying to find koolaid. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any. I decided that jello would work just as well as koolaid, which spawned this conversation:
Sarah: I think I want to dye my hair with blackberry
Me (impatiently): Are you picking the color based on which flavor you like best? Go with grape or cherry.
Sarah: I’m not going for the Fulbright scholarship- I’m dying my hair with Jello
After purchasing a few boxes of purple and blue jello, as well as a box of food coloring, we headed back to try the dyes. We left the homemade dyes in for 30 minutes, and none worked.
Which brings me to last night.
My roommate got snowed in at home, leaving me to my own devices for another night. As I brushed my teeth, I marveled at how silly it was that I had bought a box of gel food color tubes by accident (I thought they were tubes of icing.) I wondered when I would possibly need those again.
And then, it struck me.
Even though the food coloring didn’t work the first time, maybe it would work on the second try! (Functioning definition of insanity [can’t remember who told me this anymore]: trying the exact same thing multiple times, expecting different results.) I rushed back to my room and dumped the contents of the blue tube into the palm of my hand. I rubbed it through a large chunk of hair. Using a zip lock bag and a rubber band I found on the floor, I secured the dye into a neat little package. Unsure what to do next, I pulled the rest of my hair into a braid, and then tucked the braid and the zip lock wrapped piece into a pair of underwear.
It didn’t work. Again. Surprised?
Figure 1: Sarah and Edyna, during attempt #1 using grape jello
Sarah immediately agreed that it was a great idea. We got Edyna on board, too, and the next thing I knew we were in the grocery store at 11pm, trying to find koolaid. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any. I decided that jello would work just as well as koolaid, which spawned this conversation:
Sarah: I think I want to dye my hair with blackberry
Me (impatiently): Are you picking the color based on which flavor you like best? Go with grape or cherry.
Sarah: I’m not going for the Fulbright scholarship- I’m dying my hair with Jello
After purchasing a few boxes of purple and blue jello, as well as a box of food coloring, we headed back to try the dyes. We left the homemade dyes in for 30 minutes, and none worked.
Which brings me to last night.
My roommate got snowed in at home, leaving me to my own devices for another night. As I brushed my teeth, I marveled at how silly it was that I had bought a box of gel food color tubes by accident (I thought they were tubes of icing.) I wondered when I would possibly need those again.
And then, it struck me.
Even though the food coloring didn’t work the first time, maybe it would work on the second try! (Functioning definition of insanity [can’t remember who told me this anymore]: trying the exact same thing multiple times, expecting different results.) I rushed back to my room and dumped the contents of the blue tube into the palm of my hand. I rubbed it through a large chunk of hair. Using a zip lock bag and a rubber band I found on the floor, I secured the dye into a neat little package. Unsure what to do next, I pulled the rest of my hair into a braid, and then tucked the braid and the zip lock wrapped piece into a pair of underwear.
It didn’t work. Again. Surprised?
Figure 1: Sarah and Edyna, during attempt #1 using grape jello
Sunday, March 1, 2009
First in the Series: Class Acts
I've always enjoyed that phrase-- "First in the Series"-- usually seen on an ad in "Women's World" magazine for some sort of collector's plate.
Earlier this week, I was facebook creeping and came across an album of photos taken at a party. I only knew one person in the album, but I looked through all 30 pictures anyway. The party did not look like anything spectacular, but oddly enough, the photos were. Whoever took them must have at least a little experience with a camera. The lighting in each picture was gorgeous; the "candid" shots were somehow perfect.
I was inspired. I went through my photos, and after considering how my friends and I are altered in about 50% of the pictures I have taken over the last year, I decided to put together an album.
My creative muse was: Maybe these would look classier in black and white.
So, I made a series. Some I changed into black and white, some I just messed with the colors. Someday I hope to have my work matted and presented in a museum, but until that day arrives, I figured I would post one or two photos when I had nothing else to say.
BANDITA PICTURE 1:
Earlier this week, I was facebook creeping and came across an album of photos taken at a party. I only knew one person in the album, but I looked through all 30 pictures anyway. The party did not look like anything spectacular, but oddly enough, the photos were. Whoever took them must have at least a little experience with a camera. The lighting in each picture was gorgeous; the "candid" shots were somehow perfect.
I was inspired. I went through my photos, and after considering how my friends and I are altered in about 50% of the pictures I have taken over the last year, I decided to put together an album.
My creative muse was: Maybe these would look classier in black and white.
So, I made a series. Some I changed into black and white, some I just messed with the colors. Someday I hope to have my work matted and presented in a museum, but until that day arrives, I figured I would post one or two photos when I had nothing else to say.
BANDITA PICTURE 1:
Figure 1: Me, feeling warm after 4 or 5 martini glasses of "Banditas" (cheap wine, simple syrup, and grenadine.) I know this picture isn't that funny, but I started with it because I realized that I need to ask everybody's permission before posting anything else--unless you want to make this easy and comment whether or not I have your permission; it is totally cool if you don't want me to put up a picture of you in your finest hour, but it is even cooler if you are okay with it. Nobody reads this except you (i.e., none of my family reads this or anybody else who would care that you are shitfaced.)
Friday, February 27, 2009
At Rainbow's End
I have been thinking about writing this post for a couple of days, but now that I have actually started writing it--I am just giving you a heads up---I have to change direction from what I originally was going to say. You'll see why.
When I was in the sixth grade, I had a pen pal from New Zealand. I actually don't remember her name any more, but she stopped writing to me after September 11, 2001, and the service let us know that kids from abroad were afraid to receive letters from the New York kids. Nice.
So, anyways, we would exchange letters and little trinkets like stickers and bracelets and blah, blah, blah
I was going to write a nice post about pen pals, but I really want to get to the last point here.
So I remember this one letter where LAUREN! (her name just came back to me) wrote the most enchanted thing I ever:
For holiday, my family and I are going to Rainbow's End.
Initially, I planned to write a post about how wonderful New Zealand must be, how I have always wanted to visit, and how any country that contains "The Rainbow's End" must be heavenly. For these last 9 years, I have periodically thought about that line she wrote and wondered...what is this "Rainbow's End?" Until about ten minutes ago, I always pictured some sort of beautiful waterfall or a great green hill overlooking a pond. Before writing the post, I decided I would google it so I could find a picture to post at the bottom.
Well, here you go. Rainbow's End (enchanted, really):
http://www.rainbowsend.co.nz/
When I was in the sixth grade, I had a pen pal from New Zealand. I actually don't remember her name any more, but she stopped writing to me after September 11, 2001, and the service let us know that kids from abroad were afraid to receive letters from the New York kids. Nice.
So, anyways, we would exchange letters and little trinkets like stickers and bracelets and blah, blah, blah
I was going to write a nice post about pen pals, but I really want to get to the last point here.
So I remember this one letter where LAUREN! (her name just came back to me) wrote the most enchanted thing I ever:
For holiday, my family and I are going to Rainbow's End.
Initially, I planned to write a post about how wonderful New Zealand must be, how I have always wanted to visit, and how any country that contains "The Rainbow's End" must be heavenly. For these last 9 years, I have periodically thought about that line she wrote and wondered...what is this "Rainbow's End?" Until about ten minutes ago, I always pictured some sort of beautiful waterfall or a great green hill overlooking a pond. Before writing the post, I decided I would google it so I could find a picture to post at the bottom.
Well, here you go. Rainbow's End (enchanted, really):
http://www.rainbowsend.co.nz/
Thursday, February 26, 2009
If you buy it, they will come
It is a cloudy Thursday, but I must say, everything feels rather fine. I'm drinking black coffee, prepping for a test that I might actually do okay on, and more importantly, tomorrow is Friday! My last post came across rather whiny. My mother has often liked to play with my head and remind me that my emotions are nothing more than the product of my hormone disturbances ("you are only this upset because of your hormones"..."you are only sensitive because of your hormones"...) so I had to run by some third parties the situations that have been bugging me to see whether or not I am valid in my frustration. While describing these situations, I realized that they actually sound even more ridiculous when I verbalize them. The winner?
I got in trouble at work for putting vegetables on the wrong side of the sandwich for over 45 minutes.
I feel validated, and everything seems okay now.
Enough about that crap.
So, as all five of you know, I have been on a fruitless quest to meet the man of my dreams (i.e. somebody who calls after the second date. So by "man of my dreams" I really just mean someone with a little tact and who is polite enough to wait until after the third date to push me away.) After Alana and I went bra shopping, through some fuzzy logic, we decided that if we have the sexy underwear already, the men will naturally follow. I am currently wearing a leopard print bra, so bring it on!
In an effort to bring about maturity, I have started wearing bras with under wires.
In an effort to get a better job, I'm thinking maybe I just need to buy some dress shirts. I wore a dress shirt to a disastrous job fair earlier this week, and although I made a fool out of myself, I looked rather professional while doing so.
So, I guess now I just wait for Shoeless Joe Jackson to show up....wait.
I got in trouble at work for putting vegetables on the wrong side of the sandwich for over 45 minutes.
I feel validated, and everything seems okay now.
Enough about that crap.
So, as all five of you know, I have been on a fruitless quest to meet the man of my dreams (i.e. somebody who calls after the second date. So by "man of my dreams" I really just mean someone with a little tact and who is polite enough to wait until after the third date to push me away.) After Alana and I went bra shopping, through some fuzzy logic, we decided that if we have the sexy underwear already, the men will naturally follow. I am currently wearing a leopard print bra, so bring it on!
In an effort to bring about maturity, I have started wearing bras with under wires.
In an effort to get a better job, I'm thinking maybe I just need to buy some dress shirts. I wore a dress shirt to a disastrous job fair earlier this week, and although I made a fool out of myself, I looked rather professional while doing so.
So, I guess now I just wait for Shoeless Joe Jackson to show up....wait.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Dear God, its me, Marge
I didn't make it to Mass this Ash Wednesday. I didn't eat meat, and I've "fasted" (that is, the Catholic version. Some cereal for breakfast and lunch, and a tomato sandwich for dinner), and I've reflected. I feel bad about the no ashes, but I know that we need them to remind us that to ash we shall return and whatnot, so I at least I'm on the same page with that.
I was going to write a semi-joking letter to God here, but instead I'll just summarize (and cut out the funny stuff.) I asked God to grant me patience. I feel like I have been tested quite a bit recently, and I need more patience (otherwise I am going to blow a gasket.)
I was going to write a semi-joking letter to God here, but instead I'll just summarize (and cut out the funny stuff.) I asked God to grant me patience. I feel like I have been tested quite a bit recently, and I need more patience (otherwise I am going to blow a gasket.)
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Monday Night
Sometimes all I really want to do is drink myself into a stupor and then wake up a few days later, come to my senses, and realize that things aren't really that bad.
But then I remember that I'm not an alcoholic, nor am I an old man, nor am I a Vietnam vet, nor am I old enough to do that legally.
But then I remember that I'm not an alcoholic, nor am I an old man, nor am I a Vietnam vet, nor am I old enough to do that legally.
Monday morning
Last night was the Oscars. I love award shows. I had it on while I did my chem homework. Probably not the best idea, but oh well. I love the gowns, I love when I've seen the movies nominated, and I love that I've seen most of the movies featured in retrospectives. My three favorite things really are movies, TV, and music, as cliched as it sounds.
Right now I am trying to edit a train wreck of a paper. I'm writing about a book that I only read half of. And, for whatever reason, my mother decided she wanted to "help me" with it. She hasn't read one of my papers since junior year of high school, and she hasn't edited one of my papers since freshman year of high school (ironically, I got terrible grades on those papers.) I have no idea what inspired this sudden desire to read my academic papers. Even I find them boring, and I'm the one who wrote them.
Nothing interesting today, I'm afraid. There is a job fair tomorrow, so expect a post about resumes.
Right now I am trying to edit a train wreck of a paper. I'm writing about a book that I only read half of. And, for whatever reason, my mother decided she wanted to "help me" with it. She hasn't read one of my papers since junior year of high school, and she hasn't edited one of my papers since freshman year of high school (ironically, I got terrible grades on those papers.) I have no idea what inspired this sudden desire to read my academic papers. Even I find them boring, and I'm the one who wrote them.
Nothing interesting today, I'm afraid. There is a job fair tomorrow, so expect a post about resumes.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Who am I?
Ha, just kidding. I'm hoping at least one of you rolled your eyes and went "oh jeez" when you saw the title of this post.
So last night, as I attempted to do some homework, I found myself on the US census site. A professor was showing us all the fun things you can look up using it earlier this week, and out of some interest, but mostly boredom, I started to do searches on different towns.
I am from Bellerose, New York. The thing is, though, Bellerose doesn't really exist. I've known this for a while; maybe we live in a black hole? maybe there is some sort of twilight zone-esque explanation?
No. It once existed, but since has been eaten up by Jamaica, Queens along with Hollis and Queens Village. Bellerose Village still exists, as does Bellerose Terrace (neither of which are Queens, as evident through their astronomical taxes) but actual Bellerose, the part with the number streets and all the Indian restaurants, can't be found. I was determined to find statistics on Bellerose, though. I refused to accept Jamaica's statistics as my own. You do not "change in Bellerose," nor do you go to the "Bellerose Court House" when you get jury duty, nor do you have your "car radio stolen in Bellerose when I went for jury duty." Those are all Jamaica things.
So after doing an advanced search only using our zip code, the statistics for a nameless town appeared (literally, only the zip code graced the top of the page.) Some of the more interesting facts: 27.7% of our town has college degrees, which is higher than the national average, 38.6% of the town speaks a language other than English in their homes (a wee bit higher than the national average of 17.9%). The poverty level is half the national average, and the median family income is around $55,000. Bellerose doesn't sound half bad to me!
So last night, as I attempted to do some homework, I found myself on the US census site. A professor was showing us all the fun things you can look up using it earlier this week, and out of some interest, but mostly boredom, I started to do searches on different towns.
I am from Bellerose, New York. The thing is, though, Bellerose doesn't really exist. I've known this for a while; maybe we live in a black hole? maybe there is some sort of twilight zone-esque explanation?
No. It once existed, but since has been eaten up by Jamaica, Queens along with Hollis and Queens Village. Bellerose Village still exists, as does Bellerose Terrace (neither of which are Queens, as evident through their astronomical taxes) but actual Bellerose, the part with the number streets and all the Indian restaurants, can't be found. I was determined to find statistics on Bellerose, though. I refused to accept Jamaica's statistics as my own. You do not "change in Bellerose," nor do you go to the "Bellerose Court House" when you get jury duty, nor do you have your "car radio stolen in Bellerose when I went for jury duty." Those are all Jamaica things.
So after doing an advanced search only using our zip code, the statistics for a nameless town appeared (literally, only the zip code graced the top of the page.) Some of the more interesting facts: 27.7% of our town has college degrees, which is higher than the national average, 38.6% of the town speaks a language other than English in their homes (a wee bit higher than the national average of 17.9%). The poverty level is half the national average, and the median family income is around $55,000. Bellerose doesn't sound half bad to me!
Figure 1: This is the suburb of Bellerose. Taken this summer during monsoon season. See? The houses aren't attached. That's my neighbor's mini-van in our spot. Bastard.
EDIT: Sorry, this was riddled with so many spelling/grammatical errors my head nearly exploded. I hope none of you read it before I edited it. It still isn't great
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