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.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
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.
Monday, April 30, 2012
My Love-Hate Relationship with Giada de Laurentii
I cook. A lot. In fact, every Sunday I make it a point to make two large meals to keep in the refrigerator that will serve as lunches and dinners for my husband and me all week long. This practice has been a good one to get into. First, if my husband had his way, we'd be eating Papa Johns every night for dinner. Nothing against Papa Johns, but pizza THAT often would send me into a wardrobe consisting solely of moomoos. And I don't think anyone wants that. Second, it also saves us quite a bit of money - and we all know I wouldn't want to take anything away from my precious shoe fund. Third, I get no small amount of joy from making people eat my food and tell me it's delicious.
So because I cook fairly often, the Food Network is nearly constantly on in my house. I learn new techniques and get new ideas for meals so the hubby and I aren't eating whole wheat lasagna for weeks for on end. This brings me to Giada. Giada, for those of you who might not be as familiar with the Food Network, is a Food Network star. She has a slew of shows, products and cookbooks. And I love to hate her:
- Her Bobblehead Body: Giada's body confounds modern physics. She is a living bobblehead doll. She has a skinny skinny body (ugh - so jealous) but a disproportionate head. Unless this is some feat of camera tricks, scientists should study how her body supports her head.
- Her Constant Cleavage: Though Giada has a tiny body, never fear, she has a massive chest. And she loooooooves to show it off. Giada is constantly wearing some form of V-neck or other low cut neckline, showing a solid 3 inches of cleavage. I think I know now why my husband always has her show on...
- Her Over Pronunciation of Certain Words: Giada hails from Italy - in fact she was born in Rome. Since then, she's been a California girl. In fact, there is NO INDICATION AT ALL of an Italian accent in her speech until she pronounces certain words - bruschetta (pronounced: bruscheeeet), riccotta (pronounced: riccoooot) and mozzarella (pronounced: muuuzerrreeell) are massive offenders. Who is she kidding?
- How She Instructs her Girlfriends: Occasionally on the show, Giada will "invite her girlfriends over" to teach them how to make a dish. All this segment proves to me is that I could never be friends with Giada. She spends the full 25 minutes finding as many ways to work in digs about how her friends don't cook as she can. Rude.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Sh*t We Didn't Care About This Week
Hey sugars! Hope your weeks went as well as ours (ours included a study date where we watched Lifetime Movie Network for several hours so beat that)! Let's get to the week in review, shall we?
Rosie O'Donnell and Lindsay Lohan
JanJan: "Waaaaaah my name is Lindsey Looooohan and only God can judge me. Focus on your own career." DUI's were a career choice?! I need to call every person I ever waited tables with! They're moguls!!
Kiki: Did I inadvertently go back in time in the DeLorean to 1998 where Rosie O'Donnell is relevant and Lindsay Lohan is an "actor"? Who cares about what either person has to say!
Supreme Court Arguments Over Arizona Immigration Law
Kiki:Who are the people who stand outside the Supreme Court with signs rooting for one position or another? Oh yeah, that's totally going to sway the court. News flash: cases aren't decided by Applause-O-Meter, so your crowd is pretty basically worthless. By the way, don't you people have jobs?! Go to work!
JanJan: Oral arguments don't make law. Written decisions make law. Until it's on paper, and in the US Reporter, the Supreme Court hasn't ruled.
Mad Cow Disease
JanJan: So a cow on the West Coast showed signs of mad cow disease. I'm on the East Coast. Unless that cow is on the red-eye to National Airport, I'm still eating my ribeye. With pleasure.
Kiki: I'm a vegetarian. Not only do I not care, I also get to gloat. Muahaha!
NFL Draft
Kiki: After the first round, it's all about politics, not talent. Why does this have to take over my weekend? Just remember for every Cam Newton, there's also a Tim Couch. Let's all calm down shall we?
JanJan: Are they married to a Kardashian and moving said Kardashian to my city? No? Well then, nap time.
John Edwards Trial
JanJan: A politician who kept a prostitute???!! NO! SAY IT AIN'T SO!!
Kiki: A politician who committed a campaign finance crime?! QUICK GET MY SMELLING SALTS! Come on people, stop giving the narcissist attention! It's what he wants!
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