Doctors and Lawyers have a lot in common. For example, to become a doctor or lawyer, you must endure tedious and sadistically grueling schooling as well as pass equally sadistic exams. Doctors and lawyers are both professionals who can be commit malpractice if they let their skills falter. And, let's face it, you don't consult doctors or lawyers when you're having your best day ever.
There's one thing doctors and lawyers really don't share. Time Management.
Allow me to elaborate. Yesterday morning I popped down to my doctor's office before work to get some paperwork done. I wisely chose the 8am appointment, thinking I would be out by 8:30, and into the city happily working away at my desk by 9.
I was wrong. I was so so wrong. I arrived on time for my appointment and was taken back right away. But my doctor? She didn't bother to put down her doughnut and latte and come sign my form until 8:45. 8:45!!!! Then she wanted to chitchat to makeup for her tardiness, not getting me out of her office and back in my car until 9:05.
I spent that time waiting in her exam room just pacing, stomach burning thinking about all I could be doing with this wasted time. You see, lawyers ( or at least, those who bill clients) have to account for their time to properly bill clients (and accordingly, to make money). And we usually do this in increments of 6 minutes. 12 minutes? That's .2 of my precious day.
Doctors aren't under a similar obligation to account for their time to make money. Heck, my doctor gets her money before she's even seen me! So maybe this is why we all end up spending hours in waiting rooms reading last year's Good Housekeeping. Sure, we don't want them rushing through someone's exam but I'm pretty sure the exams later in the day got time crunched because mine ran so late, for no apparent reason.
Should doctors bill like lawyers? God no, who only knows what would happen then. But should they effectively manage their day and schedule appointments so as not to waste my time? Ooooh I think we're onto something.
When it's all said and done, I love my doctor. She's totes adorbs and maybe it's the daily 5 hour energy coursing through my veins that makes me so impatient.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Things I Don't Understand: Prescription Drug Commercials
Something I've always wondered is where does a person have to be in his or her acting career to agree to do a prescription drug commercial? I get that it's nationwide exposure and that's great for the actor, but for some, it's nationwide exposure for pretending to have erectile dysfunction.
This question really started plaguing me when I saw a commercial for some prescription acne commercial. It's a bunch of teenagers who have zits doodled all over their face. How do you ever live that down? "Yeah I'm an actor." "Have I seen you in anything?" "Yeah, a commercial for a raging case of acne." Not exactly future oscar winners.
Depression commercials? I feel like all their friends hid the sharp objects in the house as soon as they saw them in the depression commercials where everything is gray and it's always raining outside.
Even worse are the ones for lady part or man part issues. For women, they all have to look smug and content to be struggling with a case of herpes or PMS. For guys, apparently once their ED is taken care of, they regain the ability to go fishing and then take their wives out dancing. Because ED prevents all that.
What takes the cake for me recently though are then ones for what's known as "stool softeners." Dear actor: you're in a commercial about poo. Congratulations, you've arrived!
Seriously, I just don't get it.
This question really started plaguing me when I saw a commercial for some prescription acne commercial. It's a bunch of teenagers who have zits doodled all over their face. How do you ever live that down? "Yeah I'm an actor." "Have I seen you in anything?" "Yeah, a commercial for a raging case of acne." Not exactly future oscar winners.
Depression commercials? I feel like all their friends hid the sharp objects in the house as soon as they saw them in the depression commercials where everything is gray and it's always raining outside.
Even worse are the ones for lady part or man part issues. For women, they all have to look smug and content to be struggling with a case of herpes or PMS. For guys, apparently once their ED is taken care of, they regain the ability to go fishing and then take their wives out dancing. Because ED prevents all that.
What takes the cake for me recently though are then ones for what's known as "stool softeners." Dear actor: you're in a commercial about poo. Congratulations, you've arrived!
Seriously, I just don't get it.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Motherhood's Get Out of Jail Free Card
For all of us non-mothers out there, I'm about to let you in on a huge secret that our friends who have entered motherhood have been keeping from us. Apparently, when you have a child, you get a special pass. And this pass exempts you from observing any basic social decency whatsoever.
Ok so maybe you don't ACTUALLY get a pass, but this is the only explanation I can surmise for what I saw the other day.
On Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, I attended the 9:00 am mass with my parents and husband. Given that this Mass is on a military post, it tends to cater to the older crowd. There's just not many children in this group.
Over to my right was a small family. Mom, Dad, two little girls an presumably one aunt. The youngest little girl, who looked to be about 3 months old or so, was impressively quiet in church. I thought, wow, this mother is teaching her children at a young age to behave in the Mass.
So imagine my shock and horror when I looked over midway through the homily to see the mother BREASTFEEDING her baby right there. In the pew. Surrounded by retired military personnel. She was using a shawl to cover herself, but really now. I'm pretty sure someone had to see more than they bargained for.
Look, I understand that she needs to feed her child. But would it really have been all that difficult to get up and quietly excuse herself to one of the more private areas in the chapel? There's plenty of rooms- she could take her pick!
There was a time when Catholic women were so concerned with modesty that they wore veils to Mass. Look, I'm not saying cover every inch of skin but maybe we can agree that pulling out your lady bosom to feed crosses a line. And really, this is a matter of simple decency. Get up, excuse yourself and walk twenty feet to the private room where you and your child can bond without being surrounded by dozens of people.
Ok so maybe you don't ACTUALLY get a pass, but this is the only explanation I can surmise for what I saw the other day.
On Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, I attended the 9:00 am mass with my parents and husband. Given that this Mass is on a military post, it tends to cater to the older crowd. There's just not many children in this group.
Over to my right was a small family. Mom, Dad, two little girls an presumably one aunt. The youngest little girl, who looked to be about 3 months old or so, was impressively quiet in church. I thought, wow, this mother is teaching her children at a young age to behave in the Mass.
So imagine my shock and horror when I looked over midway through the homily to see the mother BREASTFEEDING her baby right there. In the pew. Surrounded by retired military personnel. She was using a shawl to cover herself, but really now. I'm pretty sure someone had to see more than they bargained for.
Look, I understand that she needs to feed her child. But would it really have been all that difficult to get up and quietly excuse herself to one of the more private areas in the chapel? There's plenty of rooms- she could take her pick!
There was a time when Catholic women were so concerned with modesty that they wore veils to Mass. Look, I'm not saying cover every inch of skin but maybe we can agree that pulling out your lady bosom to feed crosses a line. And really, this is a matter of simple decency. Get up, excuse yourself and walk twenty feet to the private room where you and your child can bond without being surrounded by dozens of people.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Sh*t We Didn't Care About This Week
Hey Sugars! Are you looking forward to the long weekend as much as we are? Let's hit the gossip so we can hit the pool!
The Queen's Underwear For Sale on Ebay
JanJan: I'm going to throw a pair of my panties up on Ebay and market them as Duchess Kate panties. Moneymaking scheme.
Kiki: Isn't rule #1 of buying secondhand clothes that you never buy used underwear? Unless it's Elvis. I'd take all the money out of my IRA for a pair of those.
Facebook IPO Fail
Kiki: OMG people lie to make more money in the stock market!? UNPOSSIBLE!!!
JanJan: Because purchasing stock in a company whose success rests entirely in the hands of a man with no moral scruples is always a good idea. I saw the Social Network. I know things.
Reagan's Dried Blood Residue For Sale
JanJan: WHERE IS MY CREDIT CARD?
Kiki: OK, this vampire thing has officially gone too far.
Baby Put in Washing Machine During A Game of Peek-a-Boo
Kiki: Maybe the kid sassed the babysitter and this is New Jersey's version of washing a mouth out with soap?
JanJan: I can see the lawyers salivating now over who gets o draft Maytag's 'peekaboo' warning label that must now be adhered to every washer.
American Idol Finale
JanJan: People still watch that show?
Kiki: While I'm forever grateful to American Idol for Kelly Clarkson, I couldn't name the last five winners and any hits they've had. Let's just all move on, shall we?
Jilted Fiancé Suing Ex Who Cancelled Wedding
Kiki: You stay classy.
JanJan: Nothing says 'I'm over you,' like a lawsuit.
HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND SUGARS!!!!
The Queen's Underwear For Sale on Ebay
JanJan: I'm going to throw a pair of my panties up on Ebay and market them as Duchess Kate panties. Moneymaking scheme.
Kiki: Isn't rule #1 of buying secondhand clothes that you never buy used underwear? Unless it's Elvis. I'd take all the money out of my IRA for a pair of those.
Facebook IPO Fail
Kiki: OMG people lie to make more money in the stock market!? UNPOSSIBLE!!!
JanJan: Because purchasing stock in a company whose success rests entirely in the hands of a man with no moral scruples is always a good idea. I saw the Social Network. I know things.
Reagan's Dried Blood Residue For Sale
JanJan: WHERE IS MY CREDIT CARD?
Kiki: OK, this vampire thing has officially gone too far.
Baby Put in Washing Machine During A Game of Peek-a-Boo
Kiki: Maybe the kid sassed the babysitter and this is New Jersey's version of washing a mouth out with soap?
JanJan: I can see the lawyers salivating now over who gets o draft Maytag's 'peekaboo' warning label that must now be adhered to every washer.
American Idol Finale
JanJan: People still watch that show?
Kiki: While I'm forever grateful to American Idol for Kelly Clarkson, I couldn't name the last five winners and any hits they've had. Let's just all move on, shall we?
Jilted Fiancé Suing Ex Who Cancelled Wedding
Kiki: You stay classy.
JanJan: Nothing says 'I'm over you,' like a lawsuit.
HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND SUGARS!!!!
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Reply All Intervention
Ok sugars, I'm going to lay down a very simple rule for everyone. Unless you know 90% of the names on a group email, message or text message, do NOT hit reply all!! When I hear the tone of a new message on my phone, I'm like Pavlov's dog: I get really excited, my tail starts wagging, maybe I pant a little but when it's from a stranger, ngl, I get really upset and then annoyed.
Recently a friend sent a message over Facebook about a party that is coming up and included a link to the evite with details about the party. All of a sudden, I had messages from about 15 different people I don't know popping up on my phone from Facebook telling me all about what their plans are for the day of the party. News flash: I don't care about you person I've never met! Send a direct message, or better yet, reply to the gdamned Evite!
I get even more annoyed about the group text message. iPhones now have this group text message ability where if you send one text to a group, the replies go to the entire group. I get a little freaked out when I get texts from numbers I don't know. I'm immediately suspicious: WHO IS THIS AND HOW DID YOU GET THIS NUMBER. Then I see, it's the group text message. Enough. If you don't know the other numbers, respond privately.
Senders, you're just as guilty. Use bcc, send emails in groups where people know the other people, send individual texts, god forbid pick up the phone, but do whatever you can to stop strangers from bothering me!
Don't get me wrong, I love me some reply alls when I know everyone on the email chain and they're being funny. But I hold fast to the lesson I learned from Kindergarten Cop: Don't Ever Talk to Strangers (...and stop whining...and don't eat other kid's lunches). Let's do better with the reply alls, shall we?
Recently a friend sent a message over Facebook about a party that is coming up and included a link to the evite with details about the party. All of a sudden, I had messages from about 15 different people I don't know popping up on my phone from Facebook telling me all about what their plans are for the day of the party. News flash: I don't care about you person I've never met! Send a direct message, or better yet, reply to the gdamned Evite!
I get even more annoyed about the group text message. iPhones now have this group text message ability where if you send one text to a group, the replies go to the entire group. I get a little freaked out when I get texts from numbers I don't know. I'm immediately suspicious: WHO IS THIS AND HOW DID YOU GET THIS NUMBER. Then I see, it's the group text message. Enough. If you don't know the other numbers, respond privately.
Senders, you're just as guilty. Use bcc, send emails in groups where people know the other people, send individual texts, god forbid pick up the phone, but do whatever you can to stop strangers from bothering me!
Don't get me wrong, I love me some reply alls when I know everyone on the email chain and they're being funny. But I hold fast to the lesson I learned from Kindergarten Cop: Don't Ever Talk to Strangers (...and stop whining...and don't eat other kid's lunches). Let's do better with the reply alls, shall we?
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
We Have GOT to Stop Calling Each Other Sluts and Whores!
If you're like me, the movie Mean Girls represents a lot to you. Not only is it about the last thing Lindsey Lohan did before going off the deep end, but it also just about accurately depicted growing up and going to high school ( except not really so much my high school, as I went to an all-girls Catholic school, so minus the boys and weird clothes). Anyway, the personalities depicted were pretty spot on. And quite frankly, there's a little bit of Regina George in every one of us. I don't care who you are.
Towards the end of the movie, Tina Fey's character has the attention of all the girls in the junior class. They've been called into the auditorium to discuss the burn book. And Fey implores the girls that they have to stop calling each other sluts and whores.
Sure, there's some merit to teaching girls not to call each other sluts and whores. It's rude, insensitive and, at least according to Lifetime Movie Network, will result in countless deaths.
But there's another, dare I say more compelling, reason not to call each other sluts and whores. My friends, this reason is Slander Per Se.
Under the legal doctrine of Slander Per Se, injury to the person's reputation is presumed, without proof of damages, if whatever was said falls into one of four categories. One of those categories, sugars, is the unchasteness of a woman. Another category is loathsome disease.
Yes, it is automatically slander to call a woman a slut (notably, this is not the same for men). It's also automatically slander to say your bestie has chlamydia. You could double it up and say your bestie has chlamydia because she's a whore.
So why shouldn't you call your girlfriends sluts and whores? Well, because they'll sue you. And they'll win.
But certainly no one would sue for that you say. Oh but they would. This is America. And in America, when we're offended, we sue.
Towards the end of the movie, Tina Fey's character has the attention of all the girls in the junior class. They've been called into the auditorium to discuss the burn book. And Fey implores the girls that they have to stop calling each other sluts and whores.
Sure, there's some merit to teaching girls not to call each other sluts and whores. It's rude, insensitive and, at least according to Lifetime Movie Network, will result in countless deaths.
But there's another, dare I say more compelling, reason not to call each other sluts and whores. My friends, this reason is Slander Per Se.
Under the legal doctrine of Slander Per Se, injury to the person's reputation is presumed, without proof of damages, if whatever was said falls into one of four categories. One of those categories, sugars, is the unchasteness of a woman. Another category is loathsome disease.
Yes, it is automatically slander to call a woman a slut (notably, this is not the same for men). It's also automatically slander to say your bestie has chlamydia. You could double it up and say your bestie has chlamydia because she's a whore.
So why shouldn't you call your girlfriends sluts and whores? Well, because they'll sue you. And they'll win.
But certainly no one would sue for that you say. Oh but they would. This is America. And in America, when we're offended, we sue.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Are You As Mature as a Three Year Old?
I'm in my late twenties, I'm 3/4 of the way through law school, I've lived abroad several times, and I've survived some pretty crazy health stuff. You would think that would make me a mature person. It didn't.
I have the same level of maturity as my three year old niece. She's a very smart, but very typical toddler--she makes a lot of observations with no filter. Unfortunately, so does her Auntie KK. So here is what our conversations go like: Niece: You have crazy hair. Me: Well your hair is crazier. Niece: You're a bad singer. Me: YOU'RE A BAD SINGER. Niece: I don't get to wear dresses, I was in bed and out of bed and in bed and out of bed. Me: Well I GET to wear a dress because I'm a good girl. Niece: I put my puzzle together! Me: I bet I can do it faster than you.
Like seriously?! Why am I in competition with a toddler? What is the matter with me?!
This immature instinct isn't only applicable to my niece. It's to all kids. When I see kids running around the Smithsonians, my first instinct isn't go to approach their chaperone and ask them to control their kids. No my first instinct is to trip them. I get overly excited when it's the Jeopardy Teen Tournament because I get to be the world's biggest bully to my TV and shout like Adam Sandler in Billy Madison "WRONG!!!" when the kids answer the easy questions wrong. A little girl was sitting on a plane alone next to me when I was flying home from a trip to Memphis. She was having trouble opening her peanuts and so I offered to help. I handed the opened bag back to her and she says, "Thank you. I got the first one open." I was mature enough to say, "Those bags are hard to open," but my inner monologue went, "WELL YOU COULDN'T OPEN THIS BAG."
Seriously, it's pretty bad. I hope as I get older that more and more of my smart-ass-ness becomes inner monologue otherwise my kids are going to be little a-holes.
I have the same level of maturity as my three year old niece. She's a very smart, but very typical toddler--she makes a lot of observations with no filter. Unfortunately, so does her Auntie KK. So here is what our conversations go like: Niece: You have crazy hair. Me: Well your hair is crazier. Niece: You're a bad singer. Me: YOU'RE A BAD SINGER. Niece: I don't get to wear dresses, I was in bed and out of bed and in bed and out of bed. Me: Well I GET to wear a dress because I'm a good girl. Niece: I put my puzzle together! Me: I bet I can do it faster than you.
Like seriously?! Why am I in competition with a toddler? What is the matter with me?!
This immature instinct isn't only applicable to my niece. It's to all kids. When I see kids running around the Smithsonians, my first instinct isn't go to approach their chaperone and ask them to control their kids. No my first instinct is to trip them. I get overly excited when it's the Jeopardy Teen Tournament because I get to be the world's biggest bully to my TV and shout like Adam Sandler in Billy Madison "WRONG!!!" when the kids answer the easy questions wrong. A little girl was sitting on a plane alone next to me when I was flying home from a trip to Memphis. She was having trouble opening her peanuts and so I offered to help. I handed the opened bag back to her and she says, "Thank you. I got the first one open." I was mature enough to say, "Those bags are hard to open," but my inner monologue went, "WELL YOU COULDN'T OPEN THIS BAG."
Seriously, it's pretty bad. I hope as I get older that more and more of my smart-ass-ness becomes inner monologue otherwise my kids are going to be little a-holes.
Monday, May 21, 2012
The 13 Types of Facebook Posts
Facebook posts can be categorized into different groups. We're all guilty of some combination of these. Admitting a problem is the first step to recovery. here's how I see them breaking down:
The New New Mom: Radio silence. She's elbow deep in dirty diaper and too tired to even reach for her iPhone.
The Not So New Mom: "OMG look at my amazing/cute/smart child," always accompanied by a picture of said child. I always wonder, what ARE your kids doing while you're on Facebook?
The Bride to Be: "67 days until I marry my best friend!!" this girl has a perpetual countdown calendar going, just to make sure everyone knows JUST how blissed out she is.
The Pet Parent: "fido sleeping!" "fido running" " fido at the park!!". This is a version of the not so new mom, except for people who treat their dogs like children. Dog children are more easily bribed with food than people children.
The WannaBe Politico: "I can't believe [ insert obscure politician here] believes he can actually achieve [insert obscure political issue here].". This person is gunning for a spot on Bloomberg. Clearly, Facebook will rocket them to fame.
The Eeyore: "Ugh [insert not that awful occurrence here]. The universe hates me!". If you just read an Eeyore's posts, you would think NOTHING good ever happens to them.
The Stressed Out Student: "OMG two finals, three papers and a presentation until freedom!" accompanied by a photo of Red Bull and a messy desk. Pretty sure screwing around on Facebook isn't getting any of that work done.
The Jetsetter: "here I am! In front of [insert landmark here]". Every week this person is off to a new place, often "relaxing". To that I say, when do you do laundry? And are you just relaxing from your frequent flights?
The Bandwagon Fan: it's playoffs for something and all of the sudden, this person has become THE BIGGEST FAN EVER. Expect nightly pictures at arenas and devastated posts at a loss.
The Liker: This person doesn't post a lot on their own, but just likes everything you - and everyone else - posts. Quite frankly, I love this person because they make me feel extra special.
The Melodramatic Song Lyric-er: This person has a song lyric to make their every rainy day mood, usually from a band you've never heard of. They'll post about 4 lines, in an effort to convey their deep emotions to the universe.
The Name Dropper: "me with [insert pseudo celebrity here]". This conversation name dropper is not unlike the Facebook name dropper. They want to make sure you know that at one time, they touched pseudo fame.
The Failed Networker: "anyone know a company looking for a [insert job description here]. I have a friend who....". Even though Facebook is a "social network" this does not constitute networking. Put in a little face time, friends.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Sh*t We Didn't Care About This Week
My week in review consists of looking after my eight year old puppy as he recovered from bladder stone surgery, but apparently other things went on in the world this week, so let's take a look!
Kourtney Kardashian's Baby Shower
JanJan: Wait, Kris had sushi at Kourt's baby shower? Pretty sure raw fish is a no-no for mamas to be. Clearly, this is a sham pregnancy to make money.
Kiki: How effing greedy are these people?! This is her second child--you're not supposed to have a shower for your second child. I get that this one is a girl and she only has boy things but this family just signed a $40 million dollar deal with E!. Surely that can pay for a few pink onesies!
Cellphones Allowed on Virgin Atlantic
Kiki: Calm down people. The truth is if the Founding Fathers had cellphones, surely they would have included the right to text and Facebook from one's iPhone in the Bill of Rights. We should be thanking Virgin Atlantic for being patriots!
JanJan: This means nothing to me unless calling Roche Salon to see if Chelsea is available for a cut and blow out constitutes an 'exceptional circumstance.'
JP Morgan Loses Billions of Dollars
JanJan: OMG THE MARKET IS RISKY?! WHY DIDN'T SOMEONE TELL ME?!
Kiki: And this is why I keep my money under my mattress. Oh shoot secret's out...umm...don't rob me, ok?
Facebook IPO
Kiki: I still don't get how a bunch of status updates are worth so much. Except for mine--that's solid gold comedy there. I should get a cut of the profits.
JanJan: I totally picked the wrong field.
Have a good weekend sugars!
Kourtney Kardashian's Baby Shower
JanJan: Wait, Kris had sushi at Kourt's baby shower? Pretty sure raw fish is a no-no for mamas to be. Clearly, this is a sham pregnancy to make money.
Kiki: How effing greedy are these people?! This is her second child--you're not supposed to have a shower for your second child. I get that this one is a girl and she only has boy things but this family just signed a $40 million dollar deal with E!. Surely that can pay for a few pink onesies!
Cellphones Allowed on Virgin Atlantic
Kiki: Calm down people. The truth is if the Founding Fathers had cellphones, surely they would have included the right to text and Facebook from one's iPhone in the Bill of Rights. We should be thanking Virgin Atlantic for being patriots!
JanJan: This means nothing to me unless calling Roche Salon to see if Chelsea is available for a cut and blow out constitutes an 'exceptional circumstance.'
JP Morgan Loses Billions of Dollars
JanJan: OMG THE MARKET IS RISKY?! WHY DIDN'T SOMEONE TELL ME?!
Kiki: And this is why I keep my money under my mattress. Oh shoot secret's out...umm...don't rob me, ok?
Facebook IPO
Kiki: I still don't get how a bunch of status updates are worth so much. Except for mine--that's solid gold comedy there. I should get a cut of the profits.
JanJan: I totally picked the wrong field.
Have a good weekend sugars!
Thursday, May 17, 2012
The REAL 1%
In a city like DC, dealing with a pedestrians is a given. Everyone, everywhere, is walking somewhere- whether it's to lunch, work, brunch, brinner, the gym, coffee-networking dates or happy hour. And 99% percent of the time, everyone moves along just like they should.
But then there's always that 1%. Yes, my friends. The lollygagging pedestrians. They are the true 1%.
They always pop up among the rest of us and clearly, they have no place there. Take, for example, the exiting the metro in the morning pedestrian. Everyone is hustling booty to get to the coffee shop in time before their morning meeting. But then that 1% pops up, ruining things for the rest of us, acting like they don't have to be bothered by the fact that it's 8:28 am. No, no, they casually stroll to the escalator, blocking the way with their rolling laptop bag (god forbid they CARRY a bag).
Consider also the 1% street pedestrian. This pedestrian idly crosses the crosswalk when the numbers are flashing red and counting down in single digits. He's usually on his cell phone, but don't worry, he's using the headphone/mic to tell his bros he'll be late to happy hour and to save him the hottest skank. Guess what, a-hole, I'm trying to make a right hand turn on red and your man-sachtel is in my way.
So I say down with the 1%! The TRUE 1% that is. No longer should we be saddled with the idle, lazy on Sunday walkers. No longer should 99% if the sidewalk space be laden with slow-movers. Move it or move to Montana.
But then there's always that 1%. Yes, my friends. The lollygagging pedestrians. They are the true 1%.
They always pop up among the rest of us and clearly, they have no place there. Take, for example, the exiting the metro in the morning pedestrian. Everyone is hustling booty to get to the coffee shop in time before their morning meeting. But then that 1% pops up, ruining things for the rest of us, acting like they don't have to be bothered by the fact that it's 8:28 am. No, no, they casually stroll to the escalator, blocking the way with their rolling laptop bag (god forbid they CARRY a bag).
Consider also the 1% street pedestrian. This pedestrian idly crosses the crosswalk when the numbers are flashing red and counting down in single digits. He's usually on his cell phone, but don't worry, he's using the headphone/mic to tell his bros he'll be late to happy hour and to save him the hottest skank. Guess what, a-hole, I'm trying to make a right hand turn on red and your man-sachtel is in my way.
So I say down with the 1%! The TRUE 1% that is. No longer should we be saddled with the idle, lazy on Sunday walkers. No longer should 99% if the sidewalk space be laden with slow-movers. Move it or move to Montana.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Ladies, What the Eff Are You Doing In the Restroom?
Sorry girls, I'm about to flip the lid on a secret we've been keeping. That secret is how freaking messy we leave public bathrooms! Men basically pee on the floor in their public bathrooms and yet I'm convinced theirs are cleaner than ours. So girls, what the eff are you doing in the bathroom?
Why is there pee on the seat? I get that maybe you don't want to sit down and that's fine, but 1) cover the seat anyway and 2) clean up after yourself! It's selfish and rude to leave your combination of water, urea, chloride, sodium, potassium creatinine and other ions on the seat for someone else to deal with. Do you do that at home? Is your seat at home covered in piss?? Are you not using toilet paper? You could just get some extra TP and clean the seat. It's fucking disgusting and needs to stop.
Why is there toilet paper all over the floor? Do we still think it's fun to throw it everywhere? Here's the deal. The bathroom stall is not someone's front yard and you're not trying to exact revenge or pull a prank on it. Don't leave paper on the floor.
Why does the sink look like the area around the tub does after my three year old niece has taken a bath? We're adults, it's a public place, there is no need to play splashy splashy with our friends. Keep the water in the sink and if you happen to spill some water um...clean it up! That's what paper towels are for!
So let's clean up our act. Come on ladies, we're better than this.
Why is there pee on the seat? I get that maybe you don't want to sit down and that's fine, but 1) cover the seat anyway and 2) clean up after yourself! It's selfish and rude to leave your combination of water, urea, chloride, sodium, potassium creatinine and other ions on the seat for someone else to deal with. Do you do that at home? Is your seat at home covered in piss?? Are you not using toilet paper? You could just get some extra TP and clean the seat. It's fucking disgusting and needs to stop.
Why is there toilet paper all over the floor? Do we still think it's fun to throw it everywhere? Here's the deal. The bathroom stall is not someone's front yard and you're not trying to exact revenge or pull a prank on it. Don't leave paper on the floor.
Why does the sink look like the area around the tub does after my three year old niece has taken a bath? We're adults, it's a public place, there is no need to play splashy splashy with our friends. Keep the water in the sink and if you happen to spill some water um...clean it up! That's what paper towels are for!
So let's clean up our act. Come on ladies, we're better than this.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Why My Brother Is Better Than Your Brother
Today, Sugars, is a great day. Today is my brother's 31st birthday! On this day 31 years ago, my brother began his journey to become the most ornery person in the world.
A word on my brother. He and I were the only children in an Army family. That means you kind of have to be friends, otherwise you'll be left talking only to your Barbies and be that weird kid at the new post that no one wants to hang out with. Fortunately, my brother was pretty cool, so this was a solid deal.
While my parents taught me all the important things in life like, getting an education, balancing a checkbook and hosting the perfect party, my brother taught me all the fun things. Where my parents instilled a rule in me, my brother taught me how to break it- without actually breaking it. While Mom and Dad taught me how to drive a car, my brother taught me how to beat the 'Expected Arrival Time' on GPS (or at that time, the mapquest expected travel time).
It was with my brother that I had my first sip of alcohol and that I went to my first ever concert. My brother's hockey playing inspired my own figure skating (i'm the better skater, in case you were wondering). And I'm pretty sure I learned every curse word from him.
Before you get the idea that we have some kind of weird Brady Brunch relationship, it was also my brother who accidentally kicked out my two front teeth and who pushed me in the pool (in a little tikes car at age 4 and in my clothes at my grad party at age 22). He teases me mercilessly, but don't worry. I always have the upper hand.
So Happy Birthday, Big Bro. You taught me a lot, but I'll always school you.
A word on my brother. He and I were the only children in an Army family. That means you kind of have to be friends, otherwise you'll be left talking only to your Barbies and be that weird kid at the new post that no one wants to hang out with. Fortunately, my brother was pretty cool, so this was a solid deal.
While my parents taught me all the important things in life like, getting an education, balancing a checkbook and hosting the perfect party, my brother taught me all the fun things. Where my parents instilled a rule in me, my brother taught me how to break it- without actually breaking it. While Mom and Dad taught me how to drive a car, my brother taught me how to beat the 'Expected Arrival Time' on GPS (or at that time, the mapquest expected travel time).
It was with my brother that I had my first sip of alcohol and that I went to my first ever concert. My brother's hockey playing inspired my own figure skating (i'm the better skater, in case you were wondering). And I'm pretty sure I learned every curse word from him.
Before you get the idea that we have some kind of weird Brady Brunch relationship, it was also my brother who accidentally kicked out my two front teeth and who pushed me in the pool (in a little tikes car at age 4 and in my clothes at my grad party at age 22). He teases me mercilessly, but don't worry. I always have the upper hand.
So Happy Birthday, Big Bro. You taught me a lot, but I'll always school you.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Props Won't Get You an A
It's a beautiful time of year for law students: end of semester exams are over and thank goodness because the way some law students take the exams is so ridiculous and annoying it's enough to make me want to go crazy in the exam room.
Let me quickly explain how law school exams work--at least at my school. In law school, your only exam for the class is at the end of the semester. So you're tested on 15-ish weeks worth of material. If the test is open book, you can bring in anything: your outlines, commercial outlines, the book, hornbooks, etc... Some professors limit the materials you can bring in and some make the tests closed book. The tests are around 2-3 hours long. At my school, we are not allowed to use the internet or anything saved on our hard drives.
I absolutely hate the completely open book exams. People bring in libraries of material, as though they think they'll have time to look every thing up and they'll find the answer somewhere. Guess what people--the professor is testing you on what he or she taught you during the semester, not what is on page 245 of the Examples and Explanations book. It's a test of what you know, not a scavenger hunt. I don't want to hear you frantically flipping through the books for the answer.
Because people bring in about seventy thousand books and outlines for the exams, they also bring in ridiculous props. For example, take a look at this picture my BooBear Joe took during one of his exams.
Let me quickly explain how law school exams work--at least at my school. In law school, your only exam for the class is at the end of the semester. So you're tested on 15-ish weeks worth of material. If the test is open book, you can bring in anything: your outlines, commercial outlines, the book, hornbooks, etc... Some professors limit the materials you can bring in and some make the tests closed book. The tests are around 2-3 hours long. At my school, we are not allowed to use the internet or anything saved on our hard drives.
I absolutely hate the completely open book exams. People bring in libraries of material, as though they think they'll have time to look every thing up and they'll find the answer somewhere. Guess what people--the professor is testing you on what he or she taught you during the semester, not what is on page 245 of the Examples and Explanations book. It's a test of what you know, not a scavenger hunt. I don't want to hear you frantically flipping through the books for the answer.
Because people bring in about seventy thousand books and outlines for the exams, they also bring in ridiculous props. For example, take a look at this picture my BooBear Joe took during one of his exams.
 |
| The student sitting at this desk was away getting coffee, water and an energy drink. Because that will help too... |
I'm about to drop some knowledge on you law students. All the extra books, all the props, all the headphones/earphones/pencils/highlighting in different colors, etc... are not the key to doing well in law school. That's not going to do the trick. Here's a hint: do the reading, take notes, and go to class and amazingly enough, you'll have all the info you need for exams. It's much easier than you think.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Sh*t We Didn't Care About This Week
Hey Sugars! We hope you had as lovely a week as we did. Let's get down to business, shall we?
Tan Mom
JanJan: What a stupid mistake. Everyone knows a six year old ginger child can only take 4 minutes in the ultra light bed.
Kiki: I thought that now the Kentucky Derby was over, ole Rawhide would fade into obscurity, or at least until her tan hide would perhaps be needed again at the Preakness.
Rihanna Tweets a Picture of Her IV
Kiki: Bitch tweeted a picture of herself doing drugs at Coachella and now Good Morning America does a piece on whether Rihanna needs rest to treat her "exhaustion" after tweeting the picture of the IV? News Flash George Stephanopoulos: She needs to stop doing drugs!
JanJan: I've had bigger IV's than that. So what?
Prince Harry Visits D.C.
JanJan: So THAT's how you get I meet ol'Harry. Make up an award and have your organization give it to him. Well, Harry Dahling, I'd like to give you the Sandman Award. For keeping the demons and ghosties out my dreams.
Kiki: The only way this visit would have been real news is if he had met me, proposed to me and eloped with me this weekend (which is totally how his visit went in my mind).
Bristol Palin Expresses Her Views on Obama's Gay Marriage Stance
Kiki: Listen guys, Bristol knows a lot about the... sanctity..ahem...of....ha...marriage...omg I can't even get thru that sentence without cracking up. Yes, let's let the teenager who got herself knocked up by Levi Johnston, got engaged and broke up with him twice, be the moral compass of our nation. That sounds right.
JanJan: Let's not brush this off so quickly. After all, Bristol knows first hand how inspiring Glee can be for teens. I'm pretty sure Quinn's season 1 unwed teen pregnancy inspired Bristol's own.
Mitt Romney Bullied Kids in Prep School
JanJan: OMG! A 17 YEAR OLD PLAYED A PRANK ON ANOTHER 17YEAR OLD? AND NOW, 40-SOME YEARS LATER ALL HIS NOW-DEMOCRAT FRIENDS (part of the prank themselves) FEEL BAD ABOUT IT? THIS. CHANGES. EVERYTHING.
Kiki: Why is this election being contested by 1960s Barack Obama and Mitt Romney? Are we living in Quantum Leap?
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Be. Aware. Of. Your. Surroundings.
When I was a little kid, my parents always always told me to BE AWARE OF MY SURROUNDINGS. After all, I walked to elementary school from my house. And even though you could literally see the school from my kitchen, a lot could happen during that walk. When I went to middle school and high school in the city it was OMG BE SUPER AWARE OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS OMG OMG. College 500 miles away? Even more OMG BE AWARE!!!
I imagine that this is similar to what most parents instilled into their children. After all, no one wants their child being snatched or falling into an abandoned well ( a la Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins, Christian Bale era). Yet it seems that once people hit their mid twenties and are commuting to their daily grind, they've all but forgotten to BE AWARE.
Never was this more apparent to me than this morning. After my morning commute on the train (no headphones, just reading a book), I popped into Marvelous Market for a coffee on my way to work. The gentleman next to me at the coffee counter was milk/sugaring his coffee, but with massive, noise canceling headphones on. When he turned to leave, he had the WHOLE MILK hooked onto his headphone cord such that it swung the milk around, spilling it all over my marvelous market (I don't even touch whole milk at the grocery store. Imagine my terror in thinking it might actually come into contact with my skin or clothes)!! This terrible mess could've all been avoided had he just taken his headphones off and BEEN AWARE.
Friends, Romans, Sugars I too like to lose myself in the uplifting beats of One Direction once in awhile. But recognize when you have to BE AWARE.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Things I Don't Get About Airplane Travel
I've been very lucky in my life that I've been able to travel all over the world. I also frequently fly between DC and the Great State of Ohio to visit my family. The thing is I hate to fly. Hate it. And it's not because I'm scared of airplanes or flying (I do say about 9,000 Hail Mary's during take off but that's the only time I get nervous). I just hate the other travelers. I hate them at every stage of flying:
1) At the curb
Drivers turn into morons as they pull up to the curb to unload passengers and suitcases. They block people in, they almost hit other cars, they almost hit passengers walking by--it is totally unnecessary insanity.
2) At the Ticket Counter
Thank God the airlines now let you print out your own boarding pass because back in the day, you used to have to stand in line to get your boarding pass. I always wondered why the people up at the counter ahead of me were taking so long. I feel like it never took me more than a minute or two to check in but others would like drape themselves across the counter and have in-depth conversations with the ticket agent. Save the chat for your therapist. Now airlines have computer kiosks to do the checking in for you. I've never seen so many people struggle with a computer. My nephew Brynn could navigate the computer faster than some of the people who I see pawing at the computer screen like untrained apes.
3) Security
God help me six pound seven ounce baby Jesus. I get that there are lots of rules at security, but we all know they exist so how about we plan? First, let's only bring two items like the rules say. Let's keep our liquids at the top of our purse or briefcase, so we're not digging through our clothes frantically trying to get the liquids out while annoying the charming, prepared girl standing behind us. Let's dress appropriately--shoes that slip off easily, no belts, not too many layers. And let's not hold up the line by saying on the other side of the metal detector/scanner, "Oh, was I supposed to take my liquids/computer out?" REALLY?! No, the signs that say you have to apply to everyone else, not you. Idiot.
4) At the Gate
We all have seats assigned to us. We're all getting on the plane. Why oh why are you all in a fight to get on the plane first? I do not understand the crowd of people who glob around the gate agent waiting for their zone to be called. Relax, you're getting on the plane. Grab a scone and a seat. There isn't a prize for first on board.
5) On the Plane
It's not very hard to put your luggage in the overhead bin and your one item under the seat in front of you. The whole process should take roughly fifteen seconds. Yet some people decide that thing that they have to get out of their luggage is so important it has to come out RIGHT NOW and the other hundred passengers can WAIT. Asshole, wait until the flight is in air and people aren't trying to get on the plane before you go riffling through your luggage.
Once you're seated, act normally (a running theme of this blog)! This girl across the aisle from me on my latest flight first of all was huge. If you're too big to fit in a seat, buy two. (I didn't pay for my whole seat to share 1/3 of it with you. There, I said it.) She decided the best place to store her iPod was in her bra. Just because your chest looks like a shelf, does not make it one. During the course of the flight she also stored her kindle on her chest. Then she braced herself against the seat in front of her. Newsflash: When you grab the seat in front of you, the person sitting in that chair feels it because it moves. Don't push and pull someone else's seat!
Finally, recognize when people want to talk to you and when they don't. Don't force friendship on the person next to you--it scares them.
Until I am rich enough to fly in my private plane, I still have to fly with all the crazies, so do better people please, for my sake. Smooches.
1) At the curb
Drivers turn into morons as they pull up to the curb to unload passengers and suitcases. They block people in, they almost hit other cars, they almost hit passengers walking by--it is totally unnecessary insanity.
2) At the Ticket Counter
Thank God the airlines now let you print out your own boarding pass because back in the day, you used to have to stand in line to get your boarding pass. I always wondered why the people up at the counter ahead of me were taking so long. I feel like it never took me more than a minute or two to check in but others would like drape themselves across the counter and have in-depth conversations with the ticket agent. Save the chat for your therapist. Now airlines have computer kiosks to do the checking in for you. I've never seen so many people struggle with a computer. My nephew Brynn could navigate the computer faster than some of the people who I see pawing at the computer screen like untrained apes.
3) Security
God help me six pound seven ounce baby Jesus. I get that there are lots of rules at security, but we all know they exist so how about we plan? First, let's only bring two items like the rules say. Let's keep our liquids at the top of our purse or briefcase, so we're not digging through our clothes frantically trying to get the liquids out while annoying the charming, prepared girl standing behind us. Let's dress appropriately--shoes that slip off easily, no belts, not too many layers. And let's not hold up the line by saying on the other side of the metal detector/scanner, "Oh, was I supposed to take my liquids/computer out?" REALLY?! No, the signs that say you have to apply to everyone else, not you. Idiot.
4) At the Gate
We all have seats assigned to us. We're all getting on the plane. Why oh why are you all in a fight to get on the plane first? I do not understand the crowd of people who glob around the gate agent waiting for their zone to be called. Relax, you're getting on the plane. Grab a scone and a seat. There isn't a prize for first on board.
5) On the Plane
It's not very hard to put your luggage in the overhead bin and your one item under the seat in front of you. The whole process should take roughly fifteen seconds. Yet some people decide that thing that they have to get out of their luggage is so important it has to come out RIGHT NOW and the other hundred passengers can WAIT. Asshole, wait until the flight is in air and people aren't trying to get on the plane before you go riffling through your luggage.
Once you're seated, act normally (a running theme of this blog)! This girl across the aisle from me on my latest flight first of all was huge. If you're too big to fit in a seat, buy two. (I didn't pay for my whole seat to share 1/3 of it with you. There, I said it.) She decided the best place to store her iPod was in her bra. Just because your chest looks like a shelf, does not make it one. During the course of the flight she also stored her kindle on her chest. Then she braced herself against the seat in front of her. Newsflash: When you grab the seat in front of you, the person sitting in that chair feels it because it moves. Don't push and pull someone else's seat!
Finally, recognize when people want to talk to you and when they don't. Don't force friendship on the person next to you--it scares them.
Until I am rich enough to fly in my private plane, I still have to fly with all the crazies, so do better people please, for my sake. Smooches.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Take me out to the Ballgame
Take Me Out to the Ball Game
As a preface to this post, there are two things you need to know about me:
First: I have a big family in South Jersey. South Jersey = Philly fans. Phillies, Philadelphia Eagles, Philadelphia Flyers, you name it. And I LOVE LOVE LOVE my Jersey family. What you are about to read is in no way a generalization of Philadelphia fans. It is a specific account of (what I hope) was a specific and limited occurrence.
Second: I have a hair-trigger temper. And I mean that in the most literal way possible. I have patience - to a point. And once you've crossed that point, you might as well bend over and kiss your derriere goodbye because you've just released a fury like no other. Anger issues? No. Just boundaries. That shouldn't be crossed.
This past weekend the Phillies were playing the Nationals in a three game series in DC. In a good spirited effort, the Nationals tried to "Take Back the Park" and sold early/discounted/packaged tickets to Nationals fans to fill the seats with Nationals fans. My husband and I, enjoying a good day at the ballpark, bought a block of tickets. So, on Saturday, we rolled up to Nationals Park in our best Nationals gear with family in tow, fully expecting to enjoy an afternoon of beers, hotdogs and baseball. What could be more American that that?
Our seats were right in front of a HUGE block of age twenty-thirty something Phillies fans who had probably been pregaming the 1pm game since the night before (I'm all for a good pregame, but at least be able to conduct yourself with some dignity in public). After I kicked one of them out of our seats (apparently reading the letter of the row on his ticket wasn't something he was taught in school), we all sat down. My husband was on one side of me and my father, a retired Army Ranger, on the other side. We were subjected to endless, mindless vulgar jeers aimed at the Nationals - each one including a word more vulgar than that prior (and not fit for any audience). The jeers didn't stop when they were down 7-1. The best (nonvulgar) jeer was that "the nationals stole their music from Philly." because of course, Philadelphia owns the rights to all sporting arena music. My goodness, they even heckled the 12 year boy who participated in the mid inning 'stealing second base game'.
Hearing a drunken fool scream "Werth-less" in my ear for a solid half an hour straight pushed me closer and closer to my limit. The sound of an inflatable maraca pounding behind my head almost sent me reeling. A steady stream of drunken kicks to the back of my seat almost sent me over the ledge. And finally, when said drunken fool accidentally hit my husband, I came close to full on losing it. I got up, turned around and screamed at him for being an inconsiderate buffoon. When the same drunken fool accidentally hit my father, I full on lost it. I got up again, turned around and screamed at him and his girlfriends to move him (for his safety, and to prevent me or my father from assaulting his fool self). My father was also screaming at him - in the same tone of voice he screamed at me when I was 12 and let my friend give me a second piercing in my ear.
Lessons learned? You never, never defy an Army Ranger. And you never, never piss off an Army Ranger's daughter.
As a preface to this post, there are two things you need to know about me:
First: I have a big family in South Jersey. South Jersey = Philly fans. Phillies, Philadelphia Eagles, Philadelphia Flyers, you name it. And I LOVE LOVE LOVE my Jersey family. What you are about to read is in no way a generalization of Philadelphia fans. It is a specific account of (what I hope) was a specific and limited occurrence.
Second: I have a hair-trigger temper. And I mean that in the most literal way possible. I have patience - to a point. And once you've crossed that point, you might as well bend over and kiss your derriere goodbye because you've just released a fury like no other. Anger issues? No. Just boundaries. That shouldn't be crossed.
This past weekend the Phillies were playing the Nationals in a three game series in DC. In a good spirited effort, the Nationals tried to "Take Back the Park" and sold early/discounted/packaged tickets to Nationals fans to fill the seats with Nationals fans. My husband and I, enjoying a good day at the ballpark, bought a block of tickets. So, on Saturday, we rolled up to Nationals Park in our best Nationals gear with family in tow, fully expecting to enjoy an afternoon of beers, hotdogs and baseball. What could be more American that that?
Our seats were right in front of a HUGE block of age twenty-thirty something Phillies fans who had probably been pregaming the 1pm game since the night before (I'm all for a good pregame, but at least be able to conduct yourself with some dignity in public). After I kicked one of them out of our seats (apparently reading the letter of the row on his ticket wasn't something he was taught in school), we all sat down. My husband was on one side of me and my father, a retired Army Ranger, on the other side. We were subjected to endless, mindless vulgar jeers aimed at the Nationals - each one including a word more vulgar than that prior (and not fit for any audience). The jeers didn't stop when they were down 7-1. The best (nonvulgar) jeer was that "the nationals stole their music from Philly." because of course, Philadelphia owns the rights to all sporting arena music. My goodness, they even heckled the 12 year boy who participated in the mid inning 'stealing second base game'.
Hearing a drunken fool scream "Werth-less" in my ear for a solid half an hour straight pushed me closer and closer to my limit. The sound of an inflatable maraca pounding behind my head almost sent me reeling. A steady stream of drunken kicks to the back of my seat almost sent me over the ledge. And finally, when said drunken fool accidentally hit my husband, I came close to full on losing it. I got up, turned around and screamed at him for being an inconsiderate buffoon. When the same drunken fool accidentally hit my father, I full on lost it. I got up again, turned around and screamed at him and his girlfriends to move him (for his safety, and to prevent me or my father from assaulting his fool self). My father was also screaming at him - in the same tone of voice he screamed at me when I was 12 and let my friend give me a second piercing in my ear.
Lessons learned? You never, never defy an Army Ranger. And you never, never piss off an Army Ranger's daughter.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
I Hate You Drunk Couple...But Goddamnit I Respect You
Last night after a lovely dinner at Legal Sea Foods with a friend, we decided to hit Clyde's for a nightcap. It was around 9:30pm. If you don't know Clyde's is a kind of up-scale-ish bar/restaurant. It's not a dive and especially at 9:30, it's a pretty low-key place.
Anyway, we get there, go to a relatively empty bar, and order our drinks. To our left was a man who was easily in his 50s. He was very loud and boisterous. He was also incredibly unattractive and was rocking a solid pair of saggy man-boobs in an Under Armour. My friend pointed out that Under Armour, should be reserved for those working out and for those who have some sort of athletic physique, but honey badger at the bar did not care. His date was a pretty attractive brunette who was much younger. Much. Younger. There had to be a fifteen year age difference between these two. But the disparities in their attractive levels wasn't what caught my attention--this is DC and you see couples like that on the regular. No, it was something else that riveted me more than the triple overtime in the Caps game.
This couple I guess decided that their appetizer would be each other's faces because they would NOT. STOP. MAKING. OUT!!!! They were going to TOWN! At 9:30pm. At Clyde's. It was so gross and so incredible. I hated them for it, but I also respected them for putting on that display. My respect for them only grew when the food they ordered came and it consisted of not one, not two, but three steaks. It was the woman who ate the extra steak. The "just-friends" couple who was sitting next to us (and who were harassed by the gross guy saying, "Kiss her! She's a woman, you're a man! Kiss her! Just do it! Here I'll show you how!" and then he made out with his lady some more) asked how could they be hungry when they filled up on swapping saliva just minutes ago. The whole thing was like a car accident--horrific but you can't stop looking.
My friend and I made fun of the make-out couple to no end. Who does that?! Making out at a bar is rarely appropriate and definitely not before midnight! As horrified as I was and as much as that couple made my gag reflex want to give way, we still high-fived them as they stumbled out at 10:30. Because we may not have appreciated their bar etiquette, you must give props where props are due.
Anyway, we get there, go to a relatively empty bar, and order our drinks. To our left was a man who was easily in his 50s. He was very loud and boisterous. He was also incredibly unattractive and was rocking a solid pair of saggy man-boobs in an Under Armour. My friend pointed out that Under Armour, should be reserved for those working out and for those who have some sort of athletic physique, but honey badger at the bar did not care. His date was a pretty attractive brunette who was much younger. Much. Younger. There had to be a fifteen year age difference between these two. But the disparities in their attractive levels wasn't what caught my attention--this is DC and you see couples like that on the regular. No, it was something else that riveted me more than the triple overtime in the Caps game.
This couple I guess decided that their appetizer would be each other's faces because they would NOT. STOP. MAKING. OUT!!!! They were going to TOWN! At 9:30pm. At Clyde's. It was so gross and so incredible. I hated them for it, but I also respected them for putting on that display. My respect for them only grew when the food they ordered came and it consisted of not one, not two, but three steaks. It was the woman who ate the extra steak. The "just-friends" couple who was sitting next to us (and who were harassed by the gross guy saying, "Kiss her! She's a woman, you're a man! Kiss her! Just do it! Here I'll show you how!" and then he made out with his lady some more) asked how could they be hungry when they filled up on swapping saliva just minutes ago. The whole thing was like a car accident--horrific but you can't stop looking.
My friend and I made fun of the make-out couple to no end. Who does that?! Making out at a bar is rarely appropriate and definitely not before midnight! As horrified as I was and as much as that couple made my gag reflex want to give way, we still high-fived them as they stumbled out at 10:30. Because we may not have appreciated their bar etiquette, you must give props where props are due.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Namaste, Donkey Girl
Here at Oh Sugar, Please, we like to dedicate some of time to being up in the gym, workin on our fitness. It's the only way to balance out a steady diet of Riesling and salsa. So when I was home from work on Monday, prepping for a final exam (my FINAL final exam, mind you), I took advantage of the opportunity to pop over to my gym and get in a mid-morning spinning class. I love spinning classes - pumpin' jams in a dark room. It was going to be a great chance to blow off some steam before my final and clear my head.
I got to class a little early, as usual, so I could warm up and adjust the bike. I'm mid-neck roll when some girl flits in the class (two seconds before it starts - rude) and takes the bike next to me. Uh, sweetheart, this is 10:30 class on a MONDAY, it's not like we have to save space. Agitation point no. 1. How am I supposed to live out my winning the Tour de France for the 15th time fantasy with some clown next to me. Whatever, namaste. (I learned that in hot yoga - also a win).
So we start the class. The instructor's pumping the jams, as usual, and I'm really feeling it. My Tour de France fantasy is in full force. In my head, I'm so far ahead of everyone, they're all a day behind (is this possible?). All of the sudden, the sound of a donkey braying interupts my daydream as this clown next to me shouts to the instructor: "CAN YOU BRAAAAAAY CALL OUT THE INTERALS BRAAAAAAAAY SO I KNOW HOW LONG WE'RE GOING BRAAAAAAAY". Agitation point no. 2. She's a hot mess, leaning over her bike and clearly counting down the seconds until this class is over (which is why she needs to know how long she has in any one position/resistance combo). Lame. Whatever, namaste. Back to France.
Clown girl goes a while longer without disturbing my amazing performance in spin class (I was really kicking it that day). Then AGAIN, without warning, the donkey bray: "CAN YOU BRAAAAAAY TURN UP THE MUSIC BRAAAAAAAAY". Agitation point no. 3. Really, B? This music is loud. And you need it louder? Oh, right, I forgot. You're trying to make your body forget that its actually working right now. Namaste, donkey girl.
We finish up the workout and move into the cooldown, stretch sequence. The instructor turns down the music and leads us through some stretches. I'm loving the post workout cooldown when, ONE MORE TIME, the donkey bray: "CAN YOU BRAAAAAY TURN DOWN THE MUSIC BRAAAAAY". Agitation point no. 4. Honey, this ain't your living room and this ain't your private lesson. If you have so many needs that must be accomodated when you work out, hire a trainer or work out on your own. No Namaste for you.
I got to class a little early, as usual, so I could warm up and adjust the bike. I'm mid-neck roll when some girl flits in the class (two seconds before it starts - rude) and takes the bike next to me. Uh, sweetheart, this is 10:30 class on a MONDAY, it's not like we have to save space. Agitation point no. 1. How am I supposed to live out my winning the Tour de France for the 15th time fantasy with some clown next to me. Whatever, namaste. (I learned that in hot yoga - also a win).
So we start the class. The instructor's pumping the jams, as usual, and I'm really feeling it. My Tour de France fantasy is in full force. In my head, I'm so far ahead of everyone, they're all a day behind (is this possible?). All of the sudden, the sound of a donkey braying interupts my daydream as this clown next to me shouts to the instructor: "CAN YOU BRAAAAAAY CALL OUT THE INTERALS BRAAAAAAAAY SO I KNOW HOW LONG WE'RE GOING BRAAAAAAAY". Agitation point no. 2. She's a hot mess, leaning over her bike and clearly counting down the seconds until this class is over (which is why she needs to know how long she has in any one position/resistance combo). Lame. Whatever, namaste. Back to France.
Clown girl goes a while longer without disturbing my amazing performance in spin class (I was really kicking it that day). Then AGAIN, without warning, the donkey bray: "CAN YOU BRAAAAAAY TURN UP THE MUSIC BRAAAAAAAAY". Agitation point no. 3. Really, B? This music is loud. And you need it louder? Oh, right, I forgot. You're trying to make your body forget that its actually working right now. Namaste, donkey girl.
We finish up the workout and move into the cooldown, stretch sequence. The instructor turns down the music and leads us through some stretches. I'm loving the post workout cooldown when, ONE MORE TIME, the donkey bray: "CAN YOU BRAAAAAY TURN DOWN THE MUSIC BRAAAAAY". Agitation point no. 4. Honey, this ain't your living room and this ain't your private lesson. If you have so many needs that must be accomodated when you work out, hire a trainer or work out on your own. No Namaste for you.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Please Do Stop The Music
Of late, I've watched a not insignificant amount of daytime television. On any given day, you can catch me watching Good Morning America, Live with Kelly, Kathie Lee & Hoda, The View and then maybe even some Ellen, Anderson and basically whatever else is on TV. Clearly I enjoy watching these shows, but here's what I can't stand: the middle aged female audience and the way they dance.
This audience looks like the producers have scoured every one horse town to invite the ladies to NEW YORK CITY* to see how the moving pictures on their TVs get made. These women then shout and clap at the dumbest stuff, as though with every mention of every celebrity, no matter how B-list, Harrison Ford is about to walk through the door. And dear God, please don't let there be give-aways. Ladies, calm down, it's a crappy DVD, not the lottery jackpot, no need for a heart attack.
The worst though, is when they make these women dance. Ellen is the worst offender, since dancing is her schtick. Ellen, you may be a decent dancer, your audience is not. Half the audience does not know what the beat is, and contrary to Gloria Estefan's prediction, the rhythm will never get them. The other half who can find the beat will step-clap to any music. Carrie Underwood (ok, appropriate), Goyte (I think the women just don't know what to do with that music), Nicki Minaj (not really step-clap music) or Jay-Z (sugar please), those ladies will step clap to that music. Ladies, you're embarrassing yourselves. The director of the show isn't helping anything! Stop panning over the audience showing them dancing! It's not necessary!
So sugars who are attending daytime tv tapings in the future, please, just be cool so I don't have to be annoyed. K thanks!
*omg please note that in that link--the old Pace salsa commercial, the generic salsa is known as "Mexican Sauce." Amazi-racist.
This audience looks like the producers have scoured every one horse town to invite the ladies to NEW YORK CITY* to see how the moving pictures on their TVs get made. These women then shout and clap at the dumbest stuff, as though with every mention of every celebrity, no matter how B-list, Harrison Ford is about to walk through the door. And dear God, please don't let there be give-aways. Ladies, calm down, it's a crappy DVD, not the lottery jackpot, no need for a heart attack.
The worst though, is when they make these women dance. Ellen is the worst offender, since dancing is her schtick. Ellen, you may be a decent dancer, your audience is not. Half the audience does not know what the beat is, and contrary to Gloria Estefan's prediction, the rhythm will never get them. The other half who can find the beat will step-clap to any music. Carrie Underwood (ok, appropriate), Goyte (I think the women just don't know what to do with that music), Nicki Minaj (not really step-clap music) or Jay-Z (sugar please), those ladies will step clap to that music. Ladies, you're embarrassing yourselves. The director of the show isn't helping anything! Stop panning over the audience showing them dancing! It's not necessary!
So sugars who are attending daytime tv tapings in the future, please, just be cool so I don't have to be annoyed. K thanks!
*omg please note that in that link--the old Pace salsa commercial, the generic salsa is known as "Mexican Sauce." Amazi-racist.
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