Posting from the RTW archives

When I was a kid, er, until I was like 17, I went trick-or-treating with pillowcases... in multiple neighborhoods. I acquired so much candy, that I emptied out one of my desk drawers and stashed it all in there like a squirrel collecting and hiding his take for the long winter. Then I would consume it in reverse preference order. All the crappy candy went first, all the favorites (ie, kit-kat, reeses, mounds) were saved for last. It was a joyous time of year. Candy rules.

Volume CCXLVII - Don't take Pretzels from Strangers

One could argue that Halloween is the best holiday. It definitely ranks right up there in the top 5. I can see strong cases made for Chanukah/Christmas/Kwanzaa solely based on the gift platform. I'll give you that much. Presents are pretty sweet. Wait, do you get presents for Kwanzaa? If not, you're fully missing out... you should convert... And soon. I suppose if you really like starch, you could put up a fight for Thanksgiving. Mashed sweet potatoes are pretty delicious too, especially with marshmallows. And yes as usual, I've found a way to talk about food. New Years is always way too hyped up to ever be as fun as you want it to be. St. Patty's has green beer, Easter has an egg laying bunny, Sukkot has outdoor camping... But Halloween has identity avoidance and candy. How can you beat that? What other day can you be anyone you want to be and consume 400 million grams of fat in chocolate? When else is it socially acceptable to wear a French maid's costume to a bar or have a tail? These are all solid arguments. Don't try to tell me that the sweater you got for Christmas from your Great Aunt, fruit cake and 12 hours of the Yule log is better than girls wearing fishnets for fun and a Snickers. People dressed like idiots and free candy from strangers! That is quite the concept. Killer holiday idea...

There are two places you can be sure there will be candy every Halloween, besides Duane Reade. Those would be your office and your parents house. It's almost certain that some pesky co-worker is going to show up on November 1st with bags of leftover candy just to torment and torture you. I will not be that person, because I will not be getting candy this year. If it's in my apartment, I will eat it. I could tell myself that it's not for me, it's for the little kiddies... But I would no doubt convince myself that there are no little kiddies in my building and eat all of it. Therefore if there were little kiddies in my building, they would have to make do with English Muffins or whatever other surplus goods there happened to be in my apartment. I mean hey, if my mom is planning on giving out pretzels for Halloween, I can get away with some hearty nooks and crannies. Yes, I really thought there would be candy in my parents house, but I came home to find a Costco container of pretzels in orange "boo" bags. Clearly unable to hide my disappointment or fearfulness that my house will most likely be egged, I inquired as to why we were shunning actual candy this year. My mom replied that they don't get many trick or treaters so she didn't want candy left over... Hence the pretzels. Pretzels? On Halloween? Ain't no little kid that I know who wants to see pretzels being tossed into their goody sacks. If you're gonna put on a costume and walk miles around a neighborhood in the freezing cold, you're doing it for Reese's or Kit Kat... Not pretzels! What a slap in the face of everything Halloween-ey! Even doctors give out lollipops... Jesus Mom! You might as well hand out pennies...

RTW © 2005

Good Vibrations

I wish I knew why for the life of me I cannot remember to DVR Saturday Night Live. Luckily you can watch the skits online, and I encountered this one... and basically just peed my pants at my desk...




Say hi to your mother for me...

(p.s. it seems mirror blog for Facebook doesn't support the video links, if you can't see the video in the post, to watch the clip visit my blog at http://rtweb.blogspot.com/ or click the link at the top of this page...)

Tennis Camp 2: Hit me baby one more time

I was shy when I was younger. I gather that may be a little bit hard to believe at this point, but it’s true. My sorority pledge name freshman year of college was “Phantom of the Opera” because basically all anyone knew about me was that I sang. I never spoke and I never caused any trouble. Oh how far we’ve fallen. These days, it seems I have inadvertently blasted open the dam between my brain and my mouth and let the floodwaters of things I probably should have thought in my head but not said out loud... Flow. Sometimes I get myself into trouble, sometimes it’s funny... But always, it’s remotely entertaining. More so when Trouble 1 (that’s me), is accompanied by Trouble 2 (my Tennis Camp better half, Meredith “Merbear, Carebear, Naughty Bear”) and the rest of the usual suspects, LeeAnn, Dirk, Rita, and Mayor Vic. As was evident all over again this past weekend when we stormed into Saugerties, NY (well fine maybe crawled would be the correct term for Meredith and I, since I was driving and not allowed to go faster than 55 mph lest receive another speeding ticket and have my license confiscated) to take over Total Tennis with our sparkling personalities and jewels. So without further ado, I present to you, some of my favorite “Tennis Camp 2: The Reunion Special” memories...

Dude, have you seen my room?

After pulling into the parking lot and laughing about how upon our first arrival Labor Day weekend we wandered around lost and aimless, like John McCain at a town hall debate, looking for the office, this time we proudly headed straight there (since we knew where it was already, or because there happened to be two huge signs). Please, I spent 4 days here a couple of months ago, I know this place like the back of my hand... Do we know where our room, 41, is?, the lady asks, YEP of course we do! So we schlep all of our stuff toward the vicinity of where I’ve determined our room should be (keep in mind I couldn’t find our room last time either), I climb up the stairs, see room 45, and hang a right. 44, 43, 42... Uh??? Ok maybe it’s not up here, it must be that little cabin next to 42. Back down the hill we go, with Meredith insisting on accidentally dropping all of the things that are stuffed into her hands, every 10 seconds. We are literally causing a scene with our incessant dropping and subsequent cracking up, when we learn that the cabin definitely has a letter D on it (clearly not 41), and inside resides one of the cooks who is now staring out the window secretly fitting us for straightjackets. We eventually found room 41, which was apparently located somewhere in the universe between AREA 51, and Cook’s Cabin D, after Meredith dropped her stuff a couple more times and I took two more steps to the right of room 42.

Not so silent Jessica and Bob J.

Labor Day weekend, we spent our entire time with our Pro Vic. We were completely spoiled. As much as he tries to lie about it, we are the most awesome group he’s ever had and it doesn’t work any other way but “Mayor Vic and The Viclets”... with sometime special guest appearances by Guillermo. However, on Saturday it poured. Not like a drizzle or shower, more like a monsoon, causing us to play on the indoor courts which happen to come in the not so accommodating quantity of 5. In the morning, our group was paired with another group who’s Pro’s name was Bubleau (totally butchered the spelling of that, I think I just tried to make him French), but I called him Boobie. In the afternoon, we were stuck with yet another group and Bob J., who after Vic introduced our group to, said that he would let his group introduce themselves, prompting Ms. No Filter over here to blurt out “oh why, don’t you know their names?” Which he didn’t. Yep, I make friends wherever I go.

The great indoors

But we did make friends. Our Total Tennis posse grew to include Lauren and Daniel who witnessed our complete debauchery more than once and still like us (I think?). Friday night, at Vic’s weekend indoor tennis “party”... We decided to show up and bring a little life to it. If you define party as stolen cream puffs from the kitchen and experiments in the art of walking on people’s back massages. Vic, who was supposed to be watching people play, was instead on the floor with me walking all over him (in the quite literal sense). When a group of ladies went to leave, Vic said, “you had some great shots guys”... Prompting Meredith to point out the obvious after they were gone, “You weren’t watching them, you were on the floor...”

Dirty “Dancing”

And of course, no weekend at tennis camp would be complete without a dance party in the barn. Whatever composure we had attempted to keep the first time around (that would be none for me and my pole dancing), we willingly lost this time. There was drunken indoor tennis with Lauren, followed by drunken dancing to some song about a tractor, drunken foosball, drunken pool, drunken dropping my drink on the floor, drunken feeding Vic pretzels like we were at a petting zoo, and the inevitable being completely hung over. Saturday night was so much fun in fact, that it couldn’t have been more obvious judging by both of our first words Sunday morning. Mine were... “must have coffee and BACON”, Meredith’s were “I don’t think I brushed my teeth last night... (how do you know?), the taste of wine, cigarettes and half a bag of cheesey curls that is still in my mouth”

Can we go back next weekend????? :-(

Not a complete wash

New rule: Check in pockets before doing laundry. Not sure why that wasn’t an always rule, seems logical enough, but after two mishaps, I am now enacting it. A couple of weeks ago I washed a bus ticket that I had literally purchased mere hours prior. Miraculously the paper didn’t fall apart, but you couldn’t read a word printed on it. $7.10 down the drain, or more accurately, in the spin cycle. Then last week in a moment of complete moronicness (not a word), I washed and dried my iPod shuffle. {cringe}, I know. I couldn’t understand what the heck was clanging and banging around in the dryer, until surprise!, I realized it was my $70 piece of electronic equipment and favorite gym companion. Nothing could match the trauma and sheer disgust with myself evident on my face when I pulled that poor pink rectangle from the dryer and attempted to unsuccessfully turn it on. It is actually really hard being this stupid.

Since it helped me fix my crackberry, I decided that the all knowing Google may have some suggestions or potential sob stories related to my plight. I came across a posting instructing me to put my shuffle in a ziploc bag with some silica gels (the packets that come in shoe boxes and say do not eat) overnight and then charge it up. I held vigil over it for a couple of days and then mustered up the courage to plug it into my computer. After a few seconds holding my breath... The light came on and all my songs appeared! Phew... I almost had to sacrifice 7 more manicures...

Gee Officer Krupke, Krup You

It’s always hard to cope when something happens that forces you to change your perception. You’ve conditioned yourself to think one way, it’s almost impossible to imagine feeling the opposite. When this happens, it really makes you do some hard thinking. Take for example John Edwards. I volunteered for his campaign a couple of times last year, thought he was inspiring and had really great hair. I even had an autographed copy of his book “Home” on my coffee table, that I now use to kill bugs because.... I found out he cheated on his cancer-stricken wife. I want my time back.

Or the more recent example of my elicit love affair with driving. I never realized how much I would miss it when I moved to the city. The freedom, the great acoustics for belting along to the radio, the zoom zoom. I love driving. When I’m at home, sometimes, I’ll take the long way to places in order to just keep driving. And then... On my way to play tennis with Meredith this past weekend in Morristown, cruising on 287, rocking out to Ne-Yo... I got pulled over. I hate driving.

Over comes Officer Asswipe, oh I’m sorry I meant, State Police Officer Asswipe to tell me there he was driving along in the right lane while I passed him going about 70 in the posted 55 mph speed limit. Based on pace (translation: perception), he has pulled me over. Where am I going? ...To play tennis, I’m not from around here, I have my GPS, wasn’t really sure where I was going. Maybe confused and lost will get me off? Not so much. He spies my tennis racket in the back and must know I can’t get “whoosh” when I swing, so therefore I am not much of a threat to him for assault with a deadly racket. Did I know the speed limit was 55? ...No, honestly I didn’t see a sign, I just got off Rt.80 and it was 65. Maybe dumb half-blonde will get me off? Yea no, and if it was a 65, my fine would be doubled. Didn’t I see him when I passed him? ...Actually no, I only saw you when you pulled up behind me. (I was too busy pretending I was Ne-Yo to bother with other cars on the road.) Maybe Ne-Yo will get me off? Really, Ne-Yo? That’s my argument? I should have just cried.

Basically at this point, I just want to pay the fine and forget about it. The faster I pay it, the faster I erase it from my collective memory. Trust me, I would have offered to hand Officer Asswipe cash through the window right then and there if that would have made the whole thing just be over (or if I wouldn’t have spent the night in lock-up for intent to bribe an Officer of the Ass). Unfortunately I have to wait until Monday to find out what my penalty is. And it’s $105. Ugh. In my sick and twisted way, I have equated that to 10 manicures that I will be sacrificing in order to teach myself a lesson. Now when my cuticles are rotting, I will remember not to break the law and maybe try to love driving again. I seriously need to stop being so hard on myself...

Smokin the Crackberry

Emergency. Like of epic proportions. Stop the presses. I am not getting my emails to my blackberry and the hourglass of doom keeps popping up every 10 seconds. Um, panic. What is wrong with my baby berry?? Is this happening to everyone’s phone or just mine? What do I do? Help! Wait a minute here... I have “the network.” I should be able to turn around and see “the network”... You know, that guy with the hard hat and clipboard and 1,000 other people who are supposed to constantly follow me around in order to comfort and assist me? Where is the network?? Sadly this occurrence does not seem to be a simultaneous Verizon wide meltdown and apparently it is only isolated to my poor berry.

So in between the hourglasses, I send out a few panicked messages to my fellow blackberry users. Meredith instructs me to remove the battery. Um... Excuse me? You want me to disassemble my blackberry... By myself? By my very un-techy self? Ok I can do this (maybe). I take off the back, pry out the battery, wait a couple seconds and pray that reassembly goes almost as smoothly. Not gonna lie, but that whole experience was just a bit traumatic. Problem solved? Not quite.

Next up in the queue, the all knowing Google. Carefully selected keywords: Chronic hourglass (yes, it’s quite clear I work in Pharma), no email, blackberry, please someone help before I cry. I land at the blackberry forums where it becomes apparent that what is causing my issue is none other than the Facebook for Blackberry application. Seriously? Couldn’t it have been like, I don’t know, the alarm clock, or the memo pad??? Now I am at a unique crossroads. I have to choose between two opposing things that I love. If I want to resolve my issue, I must delete the Facebook application. But berry is significantly less cool without Facebook. What if I delete it and then re-install it??!! Ugh I know... What is it “they” (you know how much I love quoting they) say about being insane is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome....? I swear one of these times, that damn network will be there when I turn around...

Diggin on Diggs

Picture this... Strolling down 5th avenue in the 20’s on a beautiful Sunday afternoon with my friend Mara. Deep in conversation describing the circumstances under which myself and two of my friends would climb into a tub in the bathroom of a Japanese restaurant, when all of a sudden the most delicious man passes me on the left. He is ripped as hell, wearing a flannel shirt and hat, and looking FINE. We lock eyes, I stop breathing, and instead of speaking, I start incessantly smacking Mara’s arm as he passes. We both turn around and Mara says to me... “was that...” and I nod, “...Taye Diggs?” and we both stop walking, and watch him walk away for two blocks (secretly contemplating running after him... Because I would really like him to privately practice on me...) I need to come up with a better plan for celebrity sightings, clearly what I’m currently doing, the patented (clam up, stare, and hate yourself a minute later) is not working for me. Did you know Taye the hotness that is Diggs went to Syracuse?? Did you know that I went to Syracuse??? We could have had so much to discuss... Sigh...

Four, four, four, four

So since I have about ZERO time (or if it was possible to have negative time, I'd have that) these days to post anymore to my poor blog... I thought since Mara sent me this forward and put that I would most likely respond, I wouldn't want to let her down. Nor "spoil the fun"... cue the FWD...

Here is a fun and quick way to stay in touch. Let's see how many posts I get...

Four, Four, Four, Four...

A) Four places that I go to over and over.

Work, Gym, Home to my family in Jerz (therefore subsequently Port Authority, the worst place on Earth), Does work count again?


B) Four people who e-mail me (regularly)

Leah, Jaime, Michelle, Do work people count?


C) Four of my favorite places to eat.

LEMONGRASS, Mizu, My bed, this game would be more fun in 3's

D) Four places I would rather be right now.

On a beach, Driving a car, In Target, Anywhere but my desk...

E) Four people you think will respond.

Kevin, Ben (the only people who ever post comments on my blog!), maybe Mara because now she owes me one

F) Four TV Shows I watch.

My DVR wishes I only watched 4 shows...
All My Children, Lost, The Daily Show, Family Guy

Here's what you are supposed to do...and please don't spoil the fun...
Hit forward,' delete my answers, type in your answers and send it to a bunch of
people, including me. It's SIX questions. Take the time.

Seriously, don't spoil the fun...