.comment-link {margin-left:.6em;}

Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

It's a strange thing when you realize that your parents are getting older. Not just older, old. Plain old old, like the kind of old that you might one day give up your seat for on a bus or find shopping for white capri pants. My father is 63, which in and of itself is not that old, but seems ancient in comparison to his former life. About 6 months ago, he quit his life of climbing and cutting down trees to move to Florida where instead of spending his days operating cranes and nights in poolhalls, he now spends his energy being angry at valet parking services and taking off his clothes in public (there were a number of stories involving lines like "do you remember that time that you did karaoke without your pants on?" and "isn't driving the boat naked fun?"...AWKWARD!)

I was convinced that my dad wasn't really becoming an old guy, that he was just a dude who happened to live in a retirement community that happened to be located in the sunshine state all the way up until the day that I saw him talking to a Vietnam vet about getting his social security check all the while doing that thing old guys do in the pool where they just kind of walk against the water instead of actually swimming. Two years ago, I watched my father play 16 straight hours of blackjack while drinking straight whisky and to see him with his new potbelly, slowly trudging back and forth in waist-deep water while ranting about how "those IRS sons of bitches don't know a god damn thing" was almost too much to handle. (On a side note, other entities that "don't know a god damn thing" according to my father include ENT doctors, Puerto Ricans, and Pythagoras.)

Watching my father lay on the couch and talk about how much he loves little league baseball was like meeting someone totally different from the foul-mouthed, pool-husslin, liquor-drinkin, cigarette-smokin, tree-climbin, car-fixin, thick-skinned, wirey, calloused, badass, sometimes bareassed beast of a man I knew growing up. They say that age sweetens some and spoils others. In this case it's both.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

A few weeks ago, the oh-so-appropriately-named Battery Park had some flooding due to Hurricane/Tropical Storm/Tropical Depression/General Bitch Ernesto. As a result, people lost their homes, property was severely damaged, and animals that typically don't show themselves became displaced and, you know, showed themselves. Today I saw a news report about a woman who had both snakes and rats trapped in the walls of her house and that at night she would lay awake listening to the sounds of the snakes hunting the rats. Add in a big-chested actress, a deadly virus of some sort, and at least one scene involving an unlikely weapon (like a blowtorch or tricked out paper shredder) and you've got a summer blockbuster.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

I just got back from a party in which the following conversation occurred:

Boy: He was wearing a shirt that said N*Toxicated.
Girl: In toxicated?
Boy: No, N*Toxicated, N star Toxicated, like N*Sync.
Girl: Oh N*Toxicated.
Boy: Yeah
Girl: Like N*Sync?
Boy: Yeah, like N*Sync, but N*Toxicated.
Girl: Right, like N*Sync!
Boy: But N*Toxicated.
Girl: Riiiiiiiiight.

This is what suffocating must feel like.

A Story About the Journey...Not to Be Confused With A Story About Journey, the Band. That Would Be a Much Better Tale Than What You're About to Read

Friends, family, teenage Canadian boys (all two of you who read this thing) - I've been horribly neglectful of this site recently on account of the fact that I've been pretending to be Carmen Sandiego (only without the awesome hat), jetsetting about to various parts of the country on a moment's notice. Whereas a blogger like Adventure Girl is able to both travel AND write something entertaining (AND include non-blurry pictures and probably juggle fire, build a space station, and save Africa all at the same time), I, on the other hand, barely have the mental capacities to tie my own shoes in the morning, so you'll have to forgive the lag time. In the words of Lil' Kim (and this will be the only time in my life I'll ever quote Lil Kim), "I was gone for a minute, now I'm back for the jumpoff." Being dangerously white, I don't know what the jumpoff is, but I do know that I'm back for it.

The past couple of weeks have been a blur. I was in Florida for a while, then a hurricane pushed us to Georgia, then up to Richmond, then I left for Chicago and got stuck again in Georgia and now I'm back in the former capital of the South. The best part of all the traveling was that the majority of it was free thanks to Airtran, Wendy's, and my boyfriend and I's (I's or me's?) total disregard for hygene and willingness to sift through other people's rotted meat. Last winter Airtran ran a special wherein those who collected 128 coupons (available on special Wendy's 12 and 16 oz drinks) would receive not one, but four free one-way tickets to anywhere Airtran flies. For cheapskates like me, this is the equivalent of winning the lottery, taking home Olympic gold, and being the first man on the moon all at the same time. From the minute we found out about this deal, it was on...it was so on.

The boyfriend and I called 2 friends, mapped out the 10 Wendy's nearest our house (this was a way serious map, there were push pins involved), got dressed up in stealthy/biker-gay outfits like this:

and it was off a dark, seedy parking lot where we sat in a minivan, listening to punk rock (the only music appropriate for sifting through other people's trash) until 2:30AM when the last employee left. Then it was into the dumpster where our proverbial cups ranneth over with literal cups and more! During that first dive, we found the following:

* 1 salt shaker
* 1 man's wallet, empty
* 1 paper hat!
* 1 live human

The kid we met while there was doing the same thing we were and he seemed pretty awesome, so we just took him along for the rest of the night. We hit 6 Wendy's that night in 4 hours and when we had cleaned and counted our sweet, sweet booty:

the XX and I had 400 cups between the two of us (and that was just our portion of the take), way over enough to fly anywhere our rotted meat and mayonnaise-covered hearts desired. As gross as it was, the situation was so completely absurd, there was no room for awkwardness or my usual sweaty, stuttery behavior. It's been a long time since I laughed as hard as I did that night and this past weekend when I flew home from Chicago, I wondered if anyone on my plane enjoyed getting there half as much as I did.

Actual stories from travel to come later. I'm still decompressing.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

ACK! I'm back from vacation and now am officially snowed under with work. But because I care (not about good grammar since I started this sentence with a rogue conjunction!) and because nobody should have to look at the previous post's picture of preggo smoking her baby into deformity, here's a picture of Hilary Clinton eating a kitten.

In the words of my step-father, "Bon appetite bitch."