"Discreetly give the finger to people all day."
I know for a fact that old people are down with the Canadian turn signal, although they seem to manipulate it in different ways than Gen X&Y. Don't get me wrong, they can still fuck the bird very effectivley, but their loss of muscle tone and/or their flagging flexibility makes the universal high sign less convincing. I guess they feel that they need to compensate by flipping the stick and then punching it into the air with a couple of geriatric thrusts for good measure. Either that or they've already given the finger so many times in their lives that they must creatively expound on it: my beloved adopted grandmother, nicknamed Stinkie, lived into her 90s and until her last months she used to hold up 3 fingers to her caregivers, "Read between the lines," she'd cough and holler. This is the same old woman who would regularly remind us that she "liked two things hard. And one of them was ice cream."
Today I went for a run around McKinley park. Normally when I'm in the proverbial "zone," I space out and after emerging from my endorfin haze, I either spit some pathetic excuse for a loogie or correct my posture. (You see, when I worked at Jamba, we had these worthless exercise books that dictated the proper erect running stance. Yes perverts, erect.) Consequently, I'm sure all of you are completely unaware of what you look like jogging. Let me tell you straight up: you look like fairies. Sure, when you're at the gym there might be a mirror around in which you can babysit your mojo, but for the most part, ya'll jog with prancy baby steps and limp wrists. I'm in the process of training myself to not run like a girl for the following reasons: 1) it hurts my knees, C) it tires me out, and IV) no one takes me seriously.
This afternoon in particular I remembered my assignment and decided to discipline my hands into versions of the finger. First I tried it on one hand. Then the other. Finally I worked up to double daggers and kept my pepper spray handy should some one take it personally. For the most part, I think fellow joggers were preoccupied; either that or they were too busy staring at my ass as I lapped them. But it was nearing rush hour and I hope that a few cars (preferably not buses full of pre-schoolers or nuns) noticed my neutral 'up-yours.' I received no indication of acknowledgement. Perhaps they were too busy texting illegally or extinguishing power boners after just firing somebody at work.
There is still time to work in some finger-flickin' fun before the end of the day. I trust you to do the same. Although, since Thirsty Thursday is the new Friday, I expect you to reign it in at the bars.....D-bags are dying for any excuse to miss class tomorrow with a fist broken on your mandibula.
Arriba, Abajo, Al Centro, Al Dentro!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Day 15: Be Gay for a Day
This one was easy because everyone knows how I love making out with girls.
Now that I have your attention, please note that this blog is being written about yesterday because I happened to be partying in the gay capital of our nation, San Francisco.
Slobbered out of bed around 8:30 am from a healthy night's sleep of about 5 1/2 hours. Dragged my hungover ass to Safeway where I purchased an ORANGE Gatorade because the aftertaste resembles goldfish crackers, and fish are gay, right Kanye? I almost hugged a complete stranger because she not only let me and my Gatorade go ahead of her in line, but she followed me out to the parking lot after I'd left my car keys at the cashier. Was I was still drunk?
I got to Berkeley to pre-party for the game a bit when Dev and I went to sushi (more gay fish) and talked shit about people the whole time. Wait I'm unclear..am I supposed to be a gay man or gay woman, here? Headed back for beers and football (ok, the butch in me is coming out) and I took a quiz testing whether my brain was masculine or feminine (http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/sex/add_user.shtml), and sure enough, on a scale from 0-100, zero being gender neutral and 100 being either really masculine or really feminine, I scored 25 toward being a man, which is scary because the average for men was 50. I guess, just call me Barb.....
After pizza, beer, sports, and periodically readjusting my junk every 3 minuntes, I changed clothes for the city. Mind you, I was wearing the equivalent of a football shirt (you know, really short but really baggy) only it was leopard print. I got off BART at 16th and Mission and immediately got leered at by a bunch of dirty old men so I barked back at them like any self-respecting lesbian would. At Danise's birthday dinner, I ordered squash soup. Don't think there's any gay connection there... But I WAS about the only person there sitting without a significant other, so it's kinda like I was the awkward, half-out-of-the-closet token gay person?
Later, we headed to Medjool for drinks and a terrace view of the city. And obviously, since I was gay, I could point toward the Castro. Then I proceeded to make out with every chick in the bar and called it a night.
Now fuck off,
Barb
Now that I have your attention, please note that this blog is being written about yesterday because I happened to be partying in the gay capital of our nation, San Francisco.
Slobbered out of bed around 8:30 am from a healthy night's sleep of about 5 1/2 hours. Dragged my hungover ass to Safeway where I purchased an ORANGE Gatorade because the aftertaste resembles goldfish crackers, and fish are gay, right Kanye? I almost hugged a complete stranger because she not only let me and my Gatorade go ahead of her in line, but she followed me out to the parking lot after I'd left my car keys at the cashier. Was I was still drunk?
I got to Berkeley to pre-party for the game a bit when Dev and I went to sushi (more gay fish) and talked shit about people the whole time. Wait I'm unclear..am I supposed to be a gay man or gay woman, here? Headed back for beers and football (ok, the butch in me is coming out) and I took a quiz testing whether my brain was masculine or feminine (http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/sex/add_user.shtml), and sure enough, on a scale from 0-100, zero being gender neutral and 100 being either really masculine or really feminine, I scored 25 toward being a man, which is scary because the average for men was 50. I guess, just call me Barb.....
After pizza, beer, sports, and periodically readjusting my junk every 3 minuntes, I changed clothes for the city. Mind you, I was wearing the equivalent of a football shirt (you know, really short but really baggy) only it was leopard print. I got off BART at 16th and Mission and immediately got leered at by a bunch of dirty old men so I barked back at them like any self-respecting lesbian would. At Danise's birthday dinner, I ordered squash soup. Don't think there's any gay connection there... But I WAS about the only person there sitting without a significant other, so it's kinda like I was the awkward, half-out-of-the-closet token gay person?
Later, we headed to Medjool for drinks and a terrace view of the city. And obviously, since I was gay, I could point toward the Castro. Then I proceeded to make out with every chick in the bar and called it a night.
Now fuck off,
Barb
Friday, November 6, 2009
Day 14: A Day of Compliments
First off readers, I apologize for being so blog lax. Actually I hate that word because it reminds me of poop, which in turn reminds me of Rachel, who I in turn love because she actually reads my blogs. So maybe I will say LAX loud and proud. And when you come back from the bathroom, here is my latest anecdote:
"Flatter someone today and see if it does indeed get you anywhere."
It must be nearing the holidays because I'm already turning into a younger, better toned version of Ebeneezer Scrooge. (P.S. If someone were to name their child Ebeneezer today, what would his nickname be? Ben? I shudder...) Anyway, it is now 6:35pm and I was thinking back on the day in terms of compliments. It pains me to admit that nothing remotely tiptoeing towards a compliment emerged from my mouth before about 5:45pm! OK sure, I slept in until about 10am, then went to the gym where I generally make it a rule to ignore every bitchy housewife and her school-ditching daughter, whereupon I returned home and had to actually Google my breakfast, "how to cook eggs over-easy," while I was Gchatting with Calin (like the shoutout, honey?). I guess the closest I came to complimenting her was by calling her a Betty (and me a Veronica) as we brainstormed names for our upcoming fashion blog. Does that count? I think that anyone who reads Archie comics would probably not prefer to be compared to the technicolor version of Olivia Newton John, aka Grease's Sandy before she became a pleather-wearing, chain-smoking skank.
Next I made it to the banks, yes plural, because being the product of divorce forces at least bi-monthly bank inconveniences. And we all know that there is little opportunity to wedge in a compliment at one of the dryest, most sterile institutions in the United States...although I almost complimented the teller on her nail polish, but it was about 2 shades of green off from the color I prefer most. So nope.
After depositing my paycheck I drove into an area of Sacramento that I despise almost more than any other: Arden. Imagine strip malls, Outback Steakhouses, sushi warehouses (I mean, restaurants) named Tex Wasabi that manufactures gargantuan "Gringo Sushi" that has names like Jackass and Screaming Gobbler, a turkey, pepper jack, and mayonaisse roll. Yummers... After retching out the window at every other stoplight, I made it to Aaron Brothers Framing where I purchased a relatively inexpensive, shamelessly pretentious, flagrantly gaudy diploma frame. Ironically, it was made in Indonesia. Insert guilt here.
As I road raged my way home, I realized that over easy eggs hadn't satisfied me and that my overtly gloomy behavior and compliment deficiency was simply the result of an underfed tummy. I promptly asked Rachel where I should go to eat and she wasn't very helpful when she suggested Jack's, a SALAD BAR!!! I still love you though, Ape. I decided on Opa Opa, a Greek cafeteria-style restaurant at which I indulge myself from time to time. When I say "indulge," I'm not referring to food entirely; rather, I indulge on the attention. The thickly-accented Greek workers call me "love" and always compliment me on my outfit. What more can a grumpy girl ask for than a meal and an ego-boost? Of course, I couldn't return the compliment at that point because I was blushing too much.
Finally, after eating half my falafel gyro (the take-out menu claims it's pronounced year-o) and all my side of spanakopita, Igor, my stepsister's boyfriend came home. He's living in Sacramento during the week to work on a prestigious science fellowship at the capitol. At this point (about 5:45pm), he had packed and loaded his car. He was thanking me for letting him crash the party pad while the parents were away when I could easily have been using it for, well...parties. But honestly, I didn't care! He left the parents two bottles of wine and presented me with a pot of my second favorite flower, orchids. Then he said I could eat any of the food he'd brought with him and after asking if I used iTunes, gave me a gift card, a perk he'd received at work! I could get used to this! But seriously, he's a terrific, gracious, helpful dude so I had no choice but to compliment him and let him know he could come back any time. Mind you, this is not really my house to be offering, but he's the kind of person who's welcome anywhere. So he deserved my first compliment of the day. I haven't yet made another, but it's Friday and the night is still young...
"Flatter someone today and see if it does indeed get you anywhere."
It must be nearing the holidays because I'm already turning into a younger, better toned version of Ebeneezer Scrooge. (P.S. If someone were to name their child Ebeneezer today, what would his nickname be? Ben? I shudder...) Anyway, it is now 6:35pm and I was thinking back on the day in terms of compliments. It pains me to admit that nothing remotely tiptoeing towards a compliment emerged from my mouth before about 5:45pm! OK sure, I slept in until about 10am, then went to the gym where I generally make it a rule to ignore every bitchy housewife and her school-ditching daughter, whereupon I returned home and had to actually Google my breakfast, "how to cook eggs over-easy," while I was Gchatting with Calin (like the shoutout, honey?). I guess the closest I came to complimenting her was by calling her a Betty (and me a Veronica) as we brainstormed names for our upcoming fashion blog. Does that count? I think that anyone who reads Archie comics would probably not prefer to be compared to the technicolor version of Olivia Newton John, aka Grease's Sandy before she became a pleather-wearing, chain-smoking skank.
Next I made it to the banks, yes plural, because being the product of divorce forces at least bi-monthly bank inconveniences. And we all know that there is little opportunity to wedge in a compliment at one of the dryest, most sterile institutions in the United States...although I almost complimented the teller on her nail polish, but it was about 2 shades of green off from the color I prefer most. So nope.
After depositing my paycheck I drove into an area of Sacramento that I despise almost more than any other: Arden. Imagine strip malls, Outback Steakhouses, sushi warehouses (I mean, restaurants) named Tex Wasabi that manufactures gargantuan "Gringo Sushi" that has names like Jackass and Screaming Gobbler, a turkey, pepper jack, and mayonaisse roll. Yummers... After retching out the window at every other stoplight, I made it to Aaron Brothers Framing where I purchased a relatively inexpensive, shamelessly pretentious, flagrantly gaudy diploma frame. Ironically, it was made in Indonesia. Insert guilt here.
As I road raged my way home, I realized that over easy eggs hadn't satisfied me and that my overtly gloomy behavior and compliment deficiency was simply the result of an underfed tummy. I promptly asked Rachel where I should go to eat and she wasn't very helpful when she suggested Jack's, a SALAD BAR!!! I still love you though, Ape. I decided on Opa Opa, a Greek cafeteria-style restaurant at which I indulge myself from time to time. When I say "indulge," I'm not referring to food entirely; rather, I indulge on the attention. The thickly-accented Greek workers call me "love" and always compliment me on my outfit. What more can a grumpy girl ask for than a meal and an ego-boost? Of course, I couldn't return the compliment at that point because I was blushing too much.
Finally, after eating half my falafel gyro (the take-out menu claims it's pronounced year-o) and all my side of spanakopita, Igor, my stepsister's boyfriend came home. He's living in Sacramento during the week to work on a prestigious science fellowship at the capitol. At this point (about 5:45pm), he had packed and loaded his car. He was thanking me for letting him crash the party pad while the parents were away when I could easily have been using it for, well...parties. But honestly, I didn't care! He left the parents two bottles of wine and presented me with a pot of my second favorite flower, orchids. Then he said I could eat any of the food he'd brought with him and after asking if I used iTunes, gave me a gift card, a perk he'd received at work! I could get used to this! But seriously, he's a terrific, gracious, helpful dude so I had no choice but to compliment him and let him know he could come back any time. Mind you, this is not really my house to be offering, but he's the kind of person who's welcome anywhere. So he deserved my first compliment of the day. I haven't yet made another, but it's Friday and the night is still young...
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