Ode to My Friends

I have been off from my other occupation all week (This blog being my first j-o-b, clearly) and it has given me a lot of time to think, lie in my backyard on my MSE beach chair from the Shore House '05, fixate on my cell phone in hopes that I can lull it to ring, run 3+ miles each day in random Bergen County parks, play with my Ipod for hours on end, listen to a ton of P. Benatar, and shop. A lot. Most importantly, this week has given me time to rekindle some friendships that have slipped through the cracks in the past few months due to me being trapped in my own personal Hell for awhile. Ali and I discussed the fact that
"Once the Vernal Equinox hits, I just want to go out every night."
I think this is a common thing among teachers. In my Vernal Equinox transition, I start to make more phone calls (aka- Needy drunk texts) and feel the need to take Happy Hours out of the "Friday Only" box and put it into the "Everyday after 8 I should be Happy" container that it belongs. As Monday's post goes to show, I hit the vino a little too hard this week (Perhaps making up for the disappointment of nixing the August Italy trip?!?!? Nah, I just love the vino!) Anyway, as I drunk texted (Is texted a word??? Somebody look in the OED...) or called friends I haven't spoken to in awhile, I realized that I have a canon of great friends (including family as friends.)
Why this epiphany, you may be thinking? No, I did not have a glass today while sitting in the yard (but that would have been lovely...) I just have friends for different reasons and that's lucky. I have a Pool/Gym Friend who is like my little Brother who should actually be 27 and if he went to high school/college/Grant with me my life would be soooo much funnier. I have a friend who will drop everything to go explore NYC haunts/Washington/VT/Other Random places where my family lives that I don't know about yet but will get a vacay out of, and whom I never get sick of. I have a few friends who call me wasted and leave me J-Lo songs or "You Gotta Hundred Dollar Bill Put Yo Hands Up..." and scream my full name on the phone when they've heard something that they think I might seriously need to know latenight on a schoolnight. I have friends that sing songs about Rice-a-Roni recipes with me and obsess over PF's, Sangria ("Gria"), and Jason Bourne movies (Why Naples? Why now?) I think it's good that I can keep up with friends from college or people who left my school or the pools and yet everyone understands that we are all busy and not in eachother's lives everyday so we have to be flexible. (OMG, I am so deep right now. WTF?)
Sorry for the Deep Thoughts but I am very grateful to have any friends. Now I gtg watch some TV. I think "Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead" is on for the 3,879th time since January and I don't want to miss when Melissa Crandle says
"You shoulda seen the Gza Gza diamond ring he bought for Cynthia!"
"It was a chip!"
L-O-L-O-L-O-L-O-VE IT!


On a side note, I just realized that wearing A&F cutoff sweatshorts, a Juicy hoodie, a beater, and Cole Haan driving mocassins does not constitute a good outfit. What is going on with me?

It's fun to drunk blog

So I figured it might be a good idea to jot some ideas down while I have consumed a bottle of my parents Charles Shaw Chardonnay. The first idea would be
"Dating someone who is 4 years younger does not work for everyone."

That said, I hope you can learn from that. I hope when you meet your lovely man/woman who is 4 years younger than you, you take heed from my words o' wisdom and as the tale of Nor-nor goes as she almost burnt down the dorms of Ithaca College in the Great Popcorn Fire of 02, "Run for your life." It works for some, not for me. :(

Another idea, "Pat Benatar is the shit."

Rather random, but I did warn you that this is a drunk blog. But seriously Pat Benatar is the best and I heart her. Nothing makes me feel like I can take on a pack of tigers or teach long division like "We will be Invincible." I can't say enough. Perhaps, when I actually do find Mr. Right, we can can dance it up at our wedding to "We Belong" (which seriously has always been my dream... so pathetic, I know. Blame it on the rain.) But for now, it's all Pat, all the time. Love is battlefield... a crazy text-ridden mother-lovin battlefield that I'd like to light on fire. It's probably a battlefield in Croatia.

Another thing, "It's very bad to think that you can make romantic things work with old friends."
I will not elaborate on this because I know I will regret it in some way, shape, or form. You know what I mean. It's addictive- like the cocaieena.

Finally, "People who conduct whole conversations in text message form have far too many problems for me to deal with."

Why can't you, Dear Texter, form sentences and have verbal conversations? I will do most of the talking, as you know. I mean really, find me in your Contact List and hit that Send button. You can do it!!! And if you can't then you are retarded. I am sorry, but you are. Stop relying on your effin mobile device witticism and call already!!! As my favorite pirate would say "Aaaarrrrr!!!!!"

T-9, my Krytonite

I am sorry that I didn't keep up with the blog this week. I can't even use the excuse that I've been super busy. I did have a doctors appointment, physical therapy, tutoring, at least six hours at the gym, and my school Talent Show. I drank too much and stayed out too late on Wednesday. And planned and packed for my tripster to DC this weekend. It's not a super busy week, just a regular Busy Joy week. I still hate 21 out of the 25 people I work with here. A favorite quote was said today amongst two of my college- "There is going to be a fight today. There are going to be two hits. Me hitting you, and you hitting the floor." I love when people can use that appropriately. Everyone here is shot. We need a vacation.



In other life-altering news, I currently hate text messages now. I can't stand getting one more text. Mostly, I hate getting stupid meaningless texts that say stupid irrelevant comments that are not funny. I hate T to the 9 because I am too technologically defunct to figure it out and yet people like Directionless use it all the day, which makes me feel stupid.

WTF??? Latin???

Seriously, I have a 3.95 GPA and a Masters from a reputable Jesuit university and yet I can't effin figure out how to send super quick texts at the touch of one button. I have made up for this by developing my texting skills with the Hunt-and-Peck method (Big ups to Miss Cromwell, my keyboarding teacher at HHS for teaching me to "Keep my eyes on the copy..." and giving me my first D. Thank you, byotch.) I have honed in on my lightening thumbs abilities simply because I cannot figure out the T9 secret. Can someone please fill me in on this time-saving innovation? I feel like that socially inept kid in my class each year who doesn't think the really funny kid is actually funny. T-9 will be the death of me. I can't even pretend like I haven't tried to learn it. I recently learned how to make a smiley face on my ghetto phone, again from Directionless. (Perhaps he should drop his gym teacher dreams and work for Verizon???) And yet no T-9. If there were a school for cell phones, I'd be in the Self-Contained Resource Room. :(

Yesterday...

Yesterday was a particularly heinous day. It was going okay until I started yet another session of texting diarrhea with "Directionless" around 1 o'clock to which I was yet again rejected when inquiring about plans. For a boy who works nights, someone is mad busy. I wonder what his other GF Church feels about this. (Disclaimer- I know that I need to get rid of this boy. Please don't remind me. Ali and Lisa are out of town and I need something occupy my time. Maybe next week?!?!)

Redirecting- My lunch was super fantastic yesterday. MGM brought in an Italian Feast consisting of cavatelli, brocoli rabe, and sausage, and a lovely loaf of semolina bread that, in true ghetto-fashion, she warmed on her classroom heater. I love my school friends. I literally ate for an hour straight. After the cavatelli, we had strawberries with Easter candy chocolate chasers (to simulate chocolate-covered strawberries.) I left the Resource Room, my favorite place to binge eat, with that wonderful feeling of nausea that you can only understand if you hang out with Italian women almost twice your age who are trying to fatten you up and live vicariously through you at the same time.

Aaaanyway, afterschool I went to the bank, then I went and got my eyebrows waxed- here in where the problem lies. I had to wait about 10 minutes for the women to finish talking about me and the other clients, and then when I laid down on the skevatz waxing bed, the women said to me "Oooh, only eyebrow???" WHAT THE EFF DOES THAT MEAN? I am not a hairy person. I can go weeks without shaving my legs (alright, not weeks, but I tend to push it a little.) I am blond and fair skinned. I am not hairy. Now this crazy woman (who made me wait, and I hate waiting) wants me to starting waxing my mustache? OMG, DO I HAVE A MUSTACHE??? Please tell me if you think I do. What's next, should I wax my chin or shave my non-existent hair arms like foolish 18 year old NJ girls sometimes think is a good idea until it starts growing back and catching on your sweater? Is that what I should do? Clearly this woman struck a chord with me and made me think about my folicle situation. And added to my bad mood.

I went through with the eyebrow waxing only, and left the nail salon. The eyebrows looked good so I was willing to look past said waxist's blunder. I then went to the gym. I started physical therapy on Tuesday for the shoulder (I knew there was something wrong with them. No woman's shoulders should be so large!) and I was/am really sore. I have continued going to the gym my usual 2 hours even with the therapy because I am crazy and need to get out of my house. This gym time prevents me from getting the impulse to quit my job, run off to West Hollywood, and give up all I have to travel the U.S. with Jonathan in hopes that I can one day be a stylist at Jonathan Salon and be on Blow Out. Wow, my crazy just creeped out a little. Sorry.

My Orthopaedic told me to tell the instructors that I can't do any upper-body when I go to the gym. I generally say "I just started physical therapy but don't worry about me because I will just modify." This did not bode well with the Wednesday evening Kickboxing instructor. She basically told me that I need to punch with my right arm the whole time or go home. I should have said "See how it works is, the arm is connected to the shoulder. And my shoulders hurt. So I will just survive in the back and you can't back the eff up..." but then I might have had to fight the Kickboxing teacher which would have probably been a pretty bad situation considering she teaches how to box and I teach long division. I suffered through the class and got stuck doing sit-ups with a 60 year old woman when the instructor said she was "Pairing us up by ability." Thanks.


Then I went tanning. Yes, I know this is stupid and horrible for my body but I am seriously pastey and it's getting warm outside. All my friends are olive-skinned Italians or went somewhere for February Break. I need to catch up so I am not so translucent or the thing when someone sees us and sings "One of these things is not like the other." I hate going to my local Hollywood Tans because I generally run into someone I know. I am not going to the Prom. I am not going anywhere but DC for Spring Break. I have no reason to tan but my own personal vanity. Yes, I am so vain. I walk into HT at approximately 7:30 pm and there is a wicked line. The ever-so-orange navel-bearing girl behind the counter tells me there is at least a ten minute wait. I walk over to the side to peruse the tanning lotions and see what hemp in tanning lotion actually does to help the tanning process, and I notice 2 people who are extremely out of place. A 60 year old woman and her daughter-My sister-in-law's mother and sister!!! I had to get out. I felt a wretched, shallow conversation on the horizon, a conversation that I just wasn't willing to have after yesterday's debacles. I walked to the counter and told the girl that I would be back in an hour. And I ran for my life...

So today is already better. I have already received multiple comments on my hair, make-up, and outfit from students and colleagues alike. No one has commented on my mustache yet, and I haven't run into any people that I don't feel like talking to (I did,however, see my hot Bergen County Cop Dunkin Donuts Crush this morning... yum.) We are having a going away party at lunch for a Maternity leave which will inevitably involve cake, and I love cake. Then I am going to Cheeseburger in Paradise (whatever that is?!?!?) for Happy Hour with Directionless and his clean feet, and the CP Teaching Staff again. I love how I have been imported from RP to attend other district's Happy Hours. In the words of Ali, "I am a hot commodity." The last Happy Hour with CP left me hung over and asking myself "What the hell happenened last night?" (as opposed to "Where are my shoes?"- the question I used to ask myself in the morning when I was 20-25.) Should be something. I'll keep you posted. Have a great Holy Thursday!

It's Official...

Don't get excited. Usually you hear "It's official, so and so are getting married..." or "It's official, Gweneth and Chris had a baby boy named Moses..." Not so much for me. It's official, I am going to hell in a Michael Kors handbag. The other night I decided that I was going to be a nag. I have come to the direct conclusion that one reason I like my friends are because they are available to hang out and do fun things that I feel like doing. If I were to call up a friend and say "Hey, wanna go to dinner tonite?" 7 times out of 10 they are going to say yes- which I love. Everyone's time is precious. It's hard to make plans, and being spontaneous is a wonderful innate quality. I usually pride myself on my spontaneity, however, lately I have become a terrible person- a plan making nag.
Now, I can't say I am not a planner. I like to have everything planned out for the week on my Bosland's Blotter so that I can get a general scope of how the week looks. I try to squeeze in moments of fun when I feel the urge. I guess I plan my spontaneity. Which is how I may have placed myself in the biggest pickle of my life- no, not really. Which is how I may have gotten myself the one-way ticket to h-e-double hockey sticks.

Sunday night, after a date cut short due to approaching Sopranos timeslot, I asked "Fun and Directionless" (who is still around, btw, but I am close to messing it up- Don't give up on me!) if he wanted to hang out on Good Friday because I have off and he works nights. Now, I am Catholic but not really Catholic. I mean, the parents made me attend CCD forever (skipping 6th grade because my mom didn't like the teacher. Who does that?) I did the Communion/Confirmation thing. The only thing keeping me from eating meat on Friday is the disparaging looks from my ridonkulously Catholic colleagues when I consider ordering a hamburger at the diner. My mom and I always say "If eating meat keeps me out of Heaven, then I don't want to be there..." Well, apparently due to my lack of sensitivity it escaped my attention that Good Friday was like a Super Duper Catholic "Can't Hang Out With You" Day and I was crazy to think that I might be able to have lunch or something with this fun, directionless boy. Did I miss this when Carol pulled me out of Holy Trinity in sixth grade? Was there a lesson on what you can and can't do on Good Friday and a big no-no was to go on a playdate with Joy?

So after my initial rejection, I began nagging. I knew I was doing it. I just couldn't stop. I could sense how naggy and needy I was coming across and I just kept on. Nag. Nag. Nag. It was like nagging was my crack. (As opposed to butter being my three year old niece's crack- haha.) I received a text saying "I can't hang out Friday because I have to go to church at 3." Church? Huh? What is that your other girlfriend's name? Because I am from the 'Sack and I went to school with people with a lot of weird names and let me tell you, Church was never one of them! To which I responded "That's really not fair. You can't use Jesus as an excuse! C'mon!!! Isn't there an am mass?"

Yeah, word to the wise, apparently Jesus hung on the cross for our sins between the hours of 12 and 3 pm and the Stations of the Cross masses are always at 3 pm. "Is there an am mass?" Real good, Joy. Sure, we'll reschedule the persecution of Jesus for you, Joy, so you can have your date with someone you're already hanging out with on Thursday night(which I am surprised is actually happening... I mean, don't people get their feet washed or something on Holy Thursday? Cause I am not washing anyone's feet on a date... Unless I am really really wasted... And then we need to schedule that intervention I talk so much about...) So, there you have it. I went to Sunday School for my entire youth, and yet I chastise a boy who is more devout about religion than taking me to Houlihan's and getting me all liquored up on Tangueray and Tonics. And I made him apologize to me.

Now, I just have to pick out the Michael Kors handbag that I want to arrive at Hell in. Maybe there will be a nice Good Friday sale or something...

The red will look great with the fiery flames of Hell!

OMG, this is sick. No wonder my mom pulled me out of CCD. And this is for kids!!!
Crazy Religious Poetry

"Is it Bad?" Part II

I really enjoyed writing my last "Is It Bad?" List so I figured that I would keep this going and tell you more about the horrible things that make me who I am- your friend. Well, I enjoyed it and we just got a new computer at my house so I actually have home internet access and I am reveling in it. Anywho, here is Part II of "Is It Bad?" You know how to play. Read 'em. Love 'em. Comment on 'em.

"Is it bad..."

- that I absolutely hate Rachel Ray and how she talks with her hands and pretends to be hard-core Italian.

-I've had the extreme urge to drink a wine cooler before work. (Yes, a wine cooler. Good old Carol loves em!)

-I secretly feel better when people in my gym can't do the routines in classes because they are out of shape or new to the class.

-I never ever make my bed.

-I refuse to iron anything and would rather pay the dry cleaner to do it for me.

-I hate returning things to customer service (especially Target!)

-I don't like lending my books to other people (except Ali) because I like to display them in my over-filled bookshelves.

-I hate the precocious children on the Kraft Singles or Welch's commercials.

-I steal $2 sometimes from my mom for coffee money as Pay Day approaches and I am tapped out.

- I think I single-handedly made 2 of my best male childhood friends gay.

-I wonder how that Mr. Clean Magic Eraser gets its magic. And how the Mr. Clean Extra Magic Eraser gets its extra magic.

-I get the retard tingles when someone says "on accident" or "whole entire."

-I constantly make lists.

-I eat the same thing for lunch everyday for the past 5 years.

These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things...

I have a big problem with the radio station Z100. Actually, I have a big problem with the Programming Department of the Z-Morning Zoo Institution. The problem lies in the Shakira Song "Hips Don't Lie." Initially I enjoyed the song. I like the part when that scratchy voiced Ghetto Superstar sings "Senorita, feel the conga, let me see you move like you come from Colombia."



I am as big a fan of feelin' the conga as the next girl and I am sure after a few Tangueray and Tonics I felt like I could move like I came from Colombia, but Z100 is ruining this song for me. Why, you may ask? What could possibly ruin a song that has an accordion in the background? It's the fact that everyday single day for the past 2 weeks I wake up at 6:10 am and without fail this song is playing. Without fail! Do you know what it's like to wake up to the same song every single day? It really fucks with you. You feel like you never slept. It tears at your essential existence. I don't even know what day it is anymore! I'm so screwed up I've been drinking on school nights, passing up going to the gym to go out, and drinking Mojitos at Latin American restaurants! (Shakira's subliminal messages? Perhaps...)OMG, am I now normal?

So thank you Z100. Thank you for creating my own personal "Groundhog Day." Pretty soon I'm going to start asking people random questions to set up scenarios for the next day. That song "This is a thing called polka..." will become the soundtrack of my life. The real problem will be that I am not really in Punxstawney, PA and things aren't going to be exactly the same tomorrow, and yet I will inevitably wake up to "Shakira, Shakira..." Damn you, Z100!

Speaking of things that are driving me crazy, I now officially hate Mandy Moore.
At first I thought she was just a horribly awkward pop princess who would wither away or go "Britney" on us. No, Mandy, not you. You had to stick around and come up with catchy tunes like "Nothing but pennies in my pocket. Nothing but faith to keep me warm..." which I actually liked!!! Gasp!!! You make sappy movies where you are the President's daughter, or worse yet, you are an ill high schooler who sings in the church choir and everyone is soooo mean to you!!! Wah wah wah. And you successfully went from blond to brown to reddish and everyone still things your just so cute. The fact that you would play my Best Friend Ali in the movie of her life is your only redeeming quality. In the words of Emma M., "I hate you. I hate you. And I really don't like you." This hatred towards you, Mandy, stems from my love of your boyfriend, and my favorite TV doctor, Zach Braff.



As most of you know, Scrubs is my favorite show. I loathed the Scrubs episodes "Her Story II" and "My Half Acre" where Mandy and JD paraded their relationship in our faces. I've said it before and I'll say it again that I firmly believe that if I were to stumble upon Zach out and about at some NYC establishment we would instantly click and I'd be all over the glossy pages of UsWeekly. "Who's that new girl with Zach Braff? Where's Mandy?" Yes kids, IT'S ME!!!

Inevitably, Mandy would call him over and over and leave her favorite message- "I know who you are. Your love's as sweet as candy. I'll be forever yours. Love always, Mandy" And we'd laugh because she is just so corny. Then she could call and sing her "I gotta crush on you..." sap song and we can save it on his phone and play it on speaker when we're drunk eating Kobe beef sliders at Stanton Social. (Yes, I know these are crazy thoughts. It's yet again the effects of Shakira.)

My most recent catalyst for continuing my hatred campaign against Mandy was when I read yesterday that there is talk that she will be starring in "License to Wed" with another love of mine- John Krasinski.

Yum...

Is there no justice? You already have Dr. Dorian! Now you need to befriend Jim?!?! In a movie about marriage!!! Nooo!!! I hate you, Mandy. If that's even your name...

Bobby Fisher

Where is he? I don't know. I don't know.