another man's trash is another man's treasure

This is from a year or a year and a half ago. You may or may not like it.

While watching the most recent and final Cavs game with a fellow resident of the Tri-City area, I was thinking of ways to fill the painful silence that was our conversation.  My thoughts drifted to the last game I watched and the great conversation I had. Perfect fodder for this lacking conversation. I began to regale my company with a previous playoff game experience. My underlying intention for this segues to the previous nights memory was so that I could showcase my funny thought and equally as entertaining one liner. I’m what one would call narcissistic but not so much about my looks. More so with my personality... basically I thrive on feedback. Neither here nor there. To the story.

 

So there I was hanging out enjoying a few brewskis and cheesy gorditas with fellow co-workers. Through my somewhat tipsy haze I saw on the television that Eva was in town and watching her man Tony “I am French with an American last name” Parker play in the finals. I was struck by a thought.

 

“Do you think Eva Longoria doesn’t drink during basketball games, or does she have a special celebrity bathroom she uses…. Because I’d bet she doesn’t pee with the proletariat”

 

(It was much more funny when it actually happened. Mainly because I was drunk and so was my company, it actually looks somewhat sad in text.)

 

So the conversation turned to celebrities in general that attend sporting events. Did all of them have access to a super secret bathroom? And for that matter did anyone who sat courtside have access to the SSB… And does Jack Nicholson wear sunglasses all the time because he’s high?! Oh my god…Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles weren’t even BLIND! Again I digress, those are other queries for a rainy day. Let’s get back on track.

 

So as I said I brought this story up in my friend’s household while watching the game to encourage small talk. Big mistake. Big Al his father walked in, turned his heel and crushed my hopes of a super secret bathroom. Apparently, so he claims, there is a bar and bathroom under the stands for those who sit courtside and who are nominally famous. He’s been there twice himself.  So in closing there is no super secret bathroom, only a somewhat exclusive bathroom, Eva doesn’t have to hold her urine or pee with the proletariat and Big Al is nominally famous.

Awkward Smiling

So I walked up to my local Rec center to work out and on my way passed a variety of people that I didn't know but smiled at because that's just the kind of person I am. What makes me look like the real freak though is when I go for the full teeth smile when my teeth and lips are dry. What happens is that my upper lip catches on the top of my teeth making my upper lip stick to said upper teeth.

I end up looking like I have no upper lip much like the Joker, Jerry Seinfeld, Katie Couric or Audrina from the Hills (before they got pleasantly plump.)

I suggest you catch me with dry teeth and lips to witness the magic.

So apparently people read this blog?

I'm bringing it back! Not that it went anywhere I just got lazy because I figured no one really read this. However, it has come to my attention that more than five people are interested in reading what myself and my two co-horts have to write. That said, I want to share three words that made me laugh. Hard. By myself.

Wet dog fart.

It was funnier in context as I read it on Perezhilton.com and it was used to describe someone's attitude. I cannot wait until I can use it at family dinner to describe something gross or impolite.

"Julian, stop chewing with your mouth open! That's as gross as a wet dog fart"

"Um, someone smells like wet dog fart."


Also I read in an interview that Selena Gomez (from Wizards of Waverly Place) was described as beautifully disturbed. I wonder if she would want to look through my funeral card/holy card collection some time.

I need to stop reading Teen Vogue. And collecting funeral/holy cards.

having one of THOSE weeks

Chah, you know the kind I'm talking about.

#1. Every time I touch the door knob to leave my office i get an electrical shock.

#2. I've been so bored at work that I've bitten my nails down so short that they are now painful and bleed and have necessitated the use of many bandaids.

#3. Yesterday I spent an hour writing a note to Chelsea Handler asking if I could be her side kick/assistant/intern/what-have-you. I told her since we kind of look alike (?) I could even put on what she plans to wear that day so she knows if it looks good or not, like Cher's computer in Clueless, except having a human would be better b/c then I could yell "MISMATCH." I knew if I read the note later I'd realize it was probably one of the dumbest/creepiest things I've ever done, so I immediately mailed it instead.

#4. Today, I was guilt tripped into attending a baby shower for a pregnant co-worker. She's Indian and there's a bit of a language barrier, to sum it up, I never speak to her and she usually just sticks to scowling at me in the bathroom.

#5. I've managed to be late to work every day this week.

I feel like I should have some sort of cat hanging upside down poster on my wall that says, is it Friday yet?!

Just a few things

I'm almost positive I have the funniest friends ever. That said, you'd have to share our sense of humor to agree so, this arguement isn't set in stone, it's more like wet concrete.

I consumed too much dairy today. I fear that my farts will yield some sort of solid excrement by accident.

I'm not wearing underwear. Which means I'd have to wash my sweatpants should the above happen. 

We all know that means my mom would have to wash my sweatpants.

Which means I'll just say the sweatpants in question were my eight year old brother Julians.

Quarter Century

First and foremost. I like the letter Q. I like the way it looks and I like writing it.

It's not that I feel old.
People still will mistake me for a high schooler, not in the "Oh she's cute because she's young, wearing knee-socks, maybe there's a plaid skirt involved down the road therefore possibly in highschool" but in the "Oh she's not wearing make-up, she's short and wearing a khaki colored backpack kind of way".

It's just that when you're sitting in the Olive Garden bar area drinking a six dollar bottle of Sutter Home that cost 20$ because it was at Olive Garden, on a Saturday afternoon discussing how you plan on watching cable T.V. later in the night as the birthday celebration, and honestly getting excited?

Makes me feel like I'm really turning into an adult.

Nothing says "I'm 25" like Real Housewives of Orange County and a bourbon and coke.

these posts are going to make us sound like a group of whiney bitches on the rag...

Walking to and from work is hard.

God gave me two working legs, so it’s not physically hard, but mentally and emotionally, it is draining.

First, I’ve found that in a city, you have to be rude, which I don’t like. You have to pretend to not see homeless people, or Greenpeace people who try to talk to you, or anyone that catches the sidewalk wrong and trips a little. Which is hard b/c that is really funny.

The worst part is the speed problem. Having a slow walker in front of you is basically torture. Especially if it’s one of those boat legged people who walk with their feet turned outwards and manage to take up ¾ of the sidewalk. For the love of Jesus, walk in a straight line. I don’t like to be one of those people who get all bent out of shape when they can’t power walk to the metro at light speed like they just perioded all over their pants and need to make an emergency tampon stop. However, I’m finding myself getting more and more irrationally mad at anyone that slows down my normal walking pace…

For non-DC residents, here is a helpful tip: when exiting or entering a metro station if you want to stand on the escalator, STAND TO THE RIGHT. WALK TO THE LEFT. This is a well known commuter fact, and anyone who messes it up is subject to public humiliation, yelling, cursing, and general anger. I’m not kidding. I’ve seen it happen many a time. Today, for instance, I’m on the walking side of the escalator going up when I came to an abrupt stop. I noticed the agitation around me growing from fellow commuters. People straining to see who the party was that had ruined their morning walk up the escalator. A dumb mom with a stroller perhaps? A foreign tourist? Hooligans?

No, it was a little person.

I instantly felt sympathy. Poor little person, how can they be expected to climb stairs at the same rate as someone with normal size legs?

Then anger. Knowing this fact, why did they choose to go up the walking side?

Then confusion. Why shouldn’t they be allowed to go up any side they please just b/c they have bitty legs? Are they too not a person like you and I?

Yes, many ethical questions started to stream through my mind and I was suddenly conflicted. But then the 7 second escalator ride was over and I had to readjust my priorities to focus on not making eye contact with anyone I passed on the street.

Chinese menus? Get the fuck away from me.