May Roaches, Waterbugs, and Mice Infest the Home of Whoever was Disgusting Enough to do This

Apparently, these are the options to deal with leftovers from dinner in South Philly:

a) Pack them up and save them for the next day.
b) Throw them in the garbage can.
c) Throw them down the garbage disposal.
d) Toss them into the street to attract pigeons, roaches, rodents, waterbugs, flies, and ants.

One Time...

I've been slacking on my writing, so my half-assed (is it "half-ass" or "half-assed"?) remedy is to post a quick "One Time" entry until I have more time to write later today.

So... ONE TIME...

... my sister took a blue marker and put "eye shadow" on my Dylan McKay "90210" poster. I did not speak to her for weeks. My sister is 14 years older than me.

... when I was about six, I decided it would be a good idea to climb into one of the drawers of my dresser. The dresser was tall-- it had about six drawers, one on top of the other. I also had a goldfish named Fred (after Fred Mertz from I Love Lucy) in a bowl on top of the dresser, but I neglected to think about how my actions would affect him. I began to climb into the dresser and the whole thing began to tip. Somehow, my six year old strength was able to push the dresser back. Fred ended up on the floor. I called for my mom and she saved Fred by quickly refilling his bowl and returning him to his home. "What happened?!" she asked, horrified. "I have no idea!" I answered.

I Hate it When...

I hate it when I'm in a rush, waiting to pay for my coffee at 7-11, and the person in front of me is purchasing scratch-off lottery tickets.

Okay, and now I'll take 32 "Win $928,482,027,273.02 Per Hour for Life" tickets, and 19 "Match Every Single Number and Win $26,273 Per Week for the Next Ten Years of My Wretched Life" tickets.

You
Are
Never
Going
To
Win

How to Pick Up Chicks

I'm too stressed out by "Error of the Day." I know it's only the second day, but already, I'm falling apart. I'm offering this instead. This is courtesy of the "missed connections" category on Craigslist. This is linked, in case you want to see the original:

"You hit the treadmill right after the fire drill, I spent most of the fire drill hungover and passed out in the chair next to you and your friend. I didn't know we had beautiful women in this building -- let's go for a run sometime."

How to pick up a woman, based upon the above example:

1. Act like a creepy, dead guy. This is particularly attractive to women who are passionate about physical fitness.

2. Just case your love interest didn't notice the creepy dead guy passed out adjacent to her, make sure that you make a public announcement to let her know that it was you who was the sloppy heap of drunkenness.

3. Use your sloppy heap of drunkenness as a selling point.

4. Make it fun! If you are find yourself attracted to a woman in your apartment building, what better way to confidently deliver your feelings than in a Craigslist "missed connections" ad? "Playing hard to get" has been brought to a whole new level-- with this clever declaration of interest, you have a 1 in 320,482,933,284 chance that your sweetheart will see the ad, and if she does, a .002 in 342,927,882,282,082 chance that she will respond favorably.

5. Regarding the initial example, nothing says "just kidding" like asking for a running date. It's a great way to reestablish yourself as a member of the human race in an endearing fashion. "JUST KIDDING!!! I'm not really a train wreck-- I'm a marathon runner! Surprise!" Knock her socks off by engaging in opposite behavior. Even if you're vomiting the whole way, at least you tried.

Error of the Day

I get a great deal of pleasure finding grammatical and spelling errors. Some say this is because I'm arrogant, and that correcting the errors of other people helps to inflate my ego. They are wrong. Correcting errors does not inflate my ego, but posting them on a blog that others will read, does. I am going to try to commit myself to posting "Error of the Day" on a daily basis, which basically means you'll see this type of post turn up like once every two months. Anyhow, courtesy of the menu for Key Pizza in South Philly, here is today's Error of the Day:

What we have here is a Texas Mex burger with "spur cream." That must hurt going down. It seems to be a burger that can help you to channel your inner masochist.

How to Dress Cool

These photographs are of me, and were taken in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, circa 1990.

I have read that it is advisable to coordinate your shoes with your handbag. It doesn't have to be an exact match, but, at the very least, they should definitely compliment one another. Also, accessories should have the same finish-- for example, if you choose a bag with a silver chain, your jewelry should also be silver.

I think this is stupid. The obvious choice would be to match your t-shirt exactly to your slouch socks, and then wear white Keds for a neutral look, as not to distract from the shirt/socks combination

Next, let's talk about shorts. I have been doing some research on denim shorts, and I have found that the fashion guidelines, regarding denim shorts, are pretty flexible. Dark wash, light wash, cut-offs, short, medium-length-- all are acceptable.

However, nowhere in my research, did I find any information about tye-dye denim shorts. Sadly, the fashion world fails us again, in that we are rendered blind to some of the most fashion-forward trends. Thank goodness I am here to educate you. When assembling an outfit with the focal point being tye-dye shorts, you want to make sure that you choose a shirt/sock combo that will help to bring out one of the colors of the dye-- in my case, I chose blue to be the standout color. Don't be shy! The worst mistake you can make is to pair colorful tye-dye shorts with neutral accents-- don't dull down this look!

Now on to hair accessories. Regretfully, you cannot see the details of my hair accessory in the above photos, but let me tell you this-- shoelaces are not just for shoes!!! That's right-- it's a hair clip made of shoelaces! Once again-- don't be afraid to be bold!! When choosing a hair accessory to compliment your outfit, make sure you choose a multicolored piece that contains every single color in your outfit.

Lastly, let's discuss fashion photography. It's an important aspect of style to consider, especially if you are going to consider starting your own fashion blog. A most reliable source, Wikipedia, has this to say about fashion photography:

"Over time, fashion photography has developed its own aesthetic in which the clothes and fashions are enhanced by the presence of exotic locations or accessories."

I can't find a better example of that statement than the photos that I have posted here. The exotic location of the petting zoo, combined with the elegance of the llama, plus other various farm animals, only adds to allure of the clothing. I would also like to mention that it is imperative for fashion photography to tell a story. The story should be relevant, lending support to the product. In this case, we can see that the outfit in the photos has a calming affect on farm animals, both large and small. This is important because when I buy an outfit for two reasons, one being to look good, and the other being to lure farm animals out of a barn, I want to know it works.

Inventory of What was ON MY PERSON (in my bags)

I went to visit my mom in NY on Tuesday afternoon. When I left for NY, I had my pink backpack and small person purse with me. I barely ever drive to NY. I would rather eat a bowl of centipedes. I take Amtrak and Long Island Railroad.

I just proofread this entry before posting it, and I noticed I had written that I had a "small person" with me. I meant that I had a purse. I'm just doing the strike-through and leaving it, because now I'm picturing myself fighting my way through Penn Station with all of my bags, sweating and frustrated, plus one small person to carry, as well.

When it was time to return (on the following day-- Wednesday), I had acquired enough additional belongings to host a garage sale. I have never flown, but I can only imagine what would happen if I had tried to go through airport security with the things I was carrying in my bags.

Here's a list of the bags I was carrying ON MY PERSON: (I love saying that!)

-- One authentic early 1970s suitcase (Found it in my mom's closet). It's the type of suitcase that would cause most people to say, "Ha, ha!! What an eyesore! The 70s was not kind to luggage!" It caused me to say, "Yes!!! I have struck gold. This is the most perfect suitcase in the history of luggage!!!"
-- One ugly, manly, boring, lacking-in-style, black suitcase
-- One medium sized tote bag
-- One small purse
-- One backpack the size of an adult unicorn

Before I talk about some of the things that I had ON MY PERSON (!!!), I will just give you some background about myself, so you can see the sense and relevance in this odd combination of stuff.

-- I'm an artist and I do mixed media work and combines painting. I work with found objects, which basically means I like to sift through crap, collect it, and find ways to incorporate into my artwork.

-- I enjoy certain Jewish delicacies that cannot be found in the local supermarkets in South Philly.

-- I have never met my grandparents, so I tend to collect little pieces of history every time I go to my mom's house in NY.

So, if someone had inspected my bags on Amtrak, that person would say, "Ma'am. We need to detain you for questioning. We have searched your bags, and have found a variety of hardware including screws, nails, and washers, Israeli artifacts, several boxes of potato latkes, door hinges, unidentifiable metal pieces, a stereo receiver, and a Kosher salami."

Betting on Horses

I love casinos, particularly slot machines. Unfortunately, I love them in the way that I'm unable to buy myself an iced tea for the ride home after I'm finished gambling. My brilliant solution for this was to start betting on horses. Here was my logic: I would simply select one park, so that I would only be betting on one race at a time. Since 23 minutes elapses in between races, I would lose less money than if I was playing slots.

The first time I bet on horses, I was at the casino, Wild, Wild, Wild, Wild, Wild, Wild, Wild West in Atlantic City. (I'm not sure exactly how many "Wild's" are in the name, so I always insert few extras, just in case). I placed an exacta box bet, which means that I chose two horses that I thought would come in first and second place. Since I boxed it, order wouldn't matter. The race was Hollywood Park. It was rainy and muddy there, the perfect conditions for a longshot to place high in the race. In accordance with that theory, I placed my exacta box on Horse #2 and Horse #7. I waited anxiously for the 23 minutes between races to pass. Finally, it was Hollywood Park time. Betting on horses in that casino is very exciting-- the races are displayed on enormous projector screens, but there are also small, personal televisions at each sitting station. A lot of people (almost exclusively men) stand and yell things while the races are going on. Everything seems very quick and important. It appears as though there are some very heavy amounts of money at stake. I wanted to be a part of this, so I stood up and began yelling things, too. I felt a part of something exclusive, and was determined to take this seriously. I was in the big-leagues now.

I had placed a $2 bet.

The race started! The gates opened and the following things occurred, in this order:

-- Horse #7 slipped and ran into Horse #2, knocking him over.
-- Both horses fell.
-- Both horses were subsequently disqualified from the race.

What People Are Saying About Daylight Saving on Facebook

The following are posts, from people I don't know, found on various Facebook groups.

"Daylight Savings is in affect, believe or not it is only really 10:46am."

What's not to believe? Daylight Saving happens every year, and 10:46am occurs every single day. The most concerning this about this post is that I suspect this guy may have turned the his clock back, rather than forward. I would think that if the clocks are turned ahead, one would say, "It's already 10:46am!" Lastly, it's "effect," not "affect."

The next few posts were found in a group called: "I HATE Daylight Saving!!!"

"when friends call you late its even later here and that can really give you the shits!"

Who wouldn't experience a bowel flare-up if your friends usually call you at 9:00pm, but during Daylight Saving, they accidentally call at 10:00? Also, it's pretty simple to stick to the same regimen, even in that chaotic, confusing time that we call Daylight Saving: when your clock displays the number nine, a colon, and two zeros, it's time to make that phone call.

"I usually run late for 6 months until it changes back again!"

Six months? Remedy Example: You have an appointment 1pm. The clocks are pushed forward for Daylight Saving. You look at the clock. When it displays the number one, colon, zero, zero, that's the time of your appointment.

"Yess!! Give me back my hour in the mornings!!!"

The letter "S" and the end of "morning" indicates that this lady doesn't realize that after the day we push the clocks ahead, the days are still 24 hours long, not 23.

"It's started. Already it is making me feel sick. I won't be able to sleep tonight, I'll be so scared I won't get up on time tomorrow."

Another bowel flare-up possibly accompanied by vomiting, due to the horror of the Daylight Saving crisis of 2011.

This one belongs to a group entitled: "Daylight Saving Time Stole an Hour of My Life and I Want it Back."

"At 1 am today, it suddenly became 2 am. I personally think this is an outrage."

Actually where you live, at 1am, it was 1am. The clocks don't change until 2:00.

One Time...

... when I was in second grade, I was at my friend's birthday party. When I was a kid, it was very popular to have your birthday party at a ceramics shop. Everyone would choose a ceramic and get to paint it however they liked. I chose Bart Simpson and the boy from school who was sitting across from me chose Homer Simpson. I didn't like this particular boy so I chose to dip my paintbrush into the dark brown paint and decorate the back of his Homer statue with brown dots. He did not like this so he dipped his paintbrush in the same brown paint and engaged in some haphazard, freestyle painting on my Bart statue. Then he poked his fingers into his eyelids and cried.

... when I was in pre-kindergarten, I pretended that I worked at a beauty salon and the paintbrushes were people with hair. I gave them "haircuts." The only problem was that this occurred during art class in school. I stayed after class for a special clean-up session that day.

My Parents Kept Me in a Box

In examining the possible origins of my anxiety problems, I found that my parents kept me in a box.

It's a Beautiful Evening in South Philly

What seemed like a perfectly pleasant South Philly neighborhood interaction quickly went downhill. Here's what took place in the South Philly Walgreen's at Broad and Snyder:

Female shopper: Hey, do you happen to know where they would keep blue cheese dressing here?

M: It would be down there (pointing to bottom shelf).

Female shopper: Yeah... they only have ranch.

Me: Why don't you go across the street to Rite-Aid? They probably carry it there.

Female shopper: I already did. They also only have ranch! It's for my husband. He wants blue cheese.

At this point, it still seemed perfectly normal. I mean, yes, the lady located the ranch dressing and still felt the need to ask if we knew where the blue cheese would be. I understand, though. She was probably just sharing her frustration, and also, M and I definitely look like the type of people who would know if a store had a secret hiding place for additional salad dressing flavors.

Then the situation fell apart.

Female shopper: (voice rising) I don't even eat blue cheese! I don't eat that crap. I'M ITALIAN!!! I DON'T EAT BLUE CHEESE! THAT'S FOR RABBITS AND HAMSTERS! My husband wanted this shit!!!

M and I: ....

Female shopper: (walking away) ...AND HE CAN FUCKING DROP DEAD!!!

PS: I think that rabbits enjoy eating carrots, but I'm not sure what hamsters eat. However, I am pretty sure neither of these animals accent their food with salad dressing. If they did, I would guess that it would be something more mild than bleu cheese, such as a low-fat Italian dressing.

One Time...

... when I was little, my sister threw a cold English muffin at my head. It hit me right in the eye, and for a minute, I couldn't see anything except for a big, grey dot.

... my friends dared me to kick my neighbor's Funkin (sounds worse than it is-- refer to the photo if you don't know). I kicked it, and when I did, I made a huge hole. Since Funkin's are stuffed with leaves, a huge burst of leaves occurred following the impact of my foot. I looked up and my neighbor was standing at his front door, watching me the whole time.

Two Funkins. As you can see, they are like pumpkins, but much more FUN. They were very common Halloween decorations in the good old suburbs of Long Island.

... when I was a kid I got bored in the supermarket with my mom, so I decided to put expensive items into other people's shopping carts when they weren't looking.

This was Supposed to be a Fashion Blog

One time, I wanted this whole blog to be about fashion. So far I have written zero posts about fashion, unless you count the one about my new sneakers which allowed me to jump from my house to Dunkin Donuts without touching the ground in between.

So what does a non-fashion blogger wear? Well you are in for a treat because I'm about to give you a description of my current look. Think of this as the pre-show to the Academy Awards, only better:

Shirt:
Sleek Pittsburgh, PA t-shirt in midnight black. Against the black is shocking contrast of a vanilla-white print of a skull with wings coming out of the temples of it's forehead. The word "slacker" is ever-so-delicately inscribed underneath the collar in a classic print, not unlike the Edwardian Script ITC font on Microsoft Word 2002.

Pants:
Cheerful cotton candy pink pajama pants with missing drawstring. The couture reindeer-polka-dot-snowflake print demonstrates unparalleled attention to detail. The frayed bottoms are both classy and reminiscent of mid 90s grunge trends, making them a nostalgic choice for those who grew up listening to Pearl Jam and Stone Temple Pilots.

Socks:
Purchased at Target, these have been constructed of a soft material, most likely a cashmere-like wool obtained from the coat of a Tibetan Mountain Goat. Unique embroidery of a bright green parrot with turquoise tail on either side of the ankle.

I Will Never Get to Marry Jonathon Knight

I just found out that Jonathon Knight, from the New Kids on the Block, is gay. I found this out because a priest that taught at the college where I went for graduate school (Chestnut Hill) was recently released from his teaching position after the college found out that he is gay. An article came out on nbc10.com today about Father St. George being found guilty of mail fraud in 1992. Next to the little picture of Father St. George, there is a little picture of Jonathon Knight with a caption about him "coming out." I was shaking so badly, I could barely click on the link.

I was eight years old when NKOTB became popular. I still remember the exact amount of KNOTB pictures that I had on my bedroom walls-- 132. Although I was dedicated to the entire band, I was a Jonathon Knight fanatic. Every girl had her favorite New Kid, but I couldn't see it any other way-- how could my friends be in love anyone but John? Here's the breakdown of the group:

Jordan-- Too popular. The last thing I ever wanted to do was jump on a bandwagon.
Donnie-- Too much of a bad-ass. I wasn't ready for that type of a negative influence in my life.
Danny-- Looked too much like a monkey.
Joey-- Too young. I was eight and definitely needed someone more mature.

So today I come to find out that Johnathon Knight is gay. Was it ever obvious? Not to me. I have no sense when it comes to identifying a gay man. I thought my now ex-husband was gay before I met him. What's even worse is that the person I thought was his partner turned out to be his brother. Even worse than that, the only one in his group, who I thought was straight, was actually gay.

Now it's official-- I will never get to marry Jonathon Knight. Time to let go, and move on. Sad face.

My New Sneakers/The Best Thing I Heard All Day

Today I decided to take a walk to Dunkin Donuts while wearing my new sneakers. I was very excited to try out my new sneakers because they are not L.A. Gear or Richard Simmons Signature Sneakers, like I have had in the past. When I put on my new sneaks, I felt bouncy and energetic, as though I could get from my house to Dunkin Donuts in one step. I felt just like The Princess in Super Mario Bros. 2.

It was right after I ordered my coffee that I experienced The Best Thing I Heard All Day:

Guy #1: Can I use the bathroom?
Dunkin Donuts Employee: Yes. I have to buzz you in.
Guy #2 who was not with Guy #1: (loudly and angrily) BUZZ HIM IN?? WHAT IS THIS, THE F***ING PENITENTIARY??

Yes sir. It is just like the penitentiary. When I think of being incarcerated, the first thing that comes to mind is being surrounded by muffins, bagels, and strawberry icing. It's like the same exact thing, only different.

Also, excuse the Dunkin Penitentiary management for not allowing the trusting, responsible people who hang out in front of Dollar Tree and Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits, to go into Dunkin and freely use the bathroom whenever they want.

Eating Eggs for Cash-- What on earth is this all about??

You may be wondering about the title of my blog, or you may not give a damn at all. My father had a wicked sense of humor. I'll share a little about that before I go into detail about the title.

Let's start with this:

Sexy, right? I was 13 and hadn't yet discovered the art of eyebrow grooming. And no, that's not a Halloween witch-wig. I had taken it upon myself to dye my hair "black cherry," although the "cherry" part never did make itself apparent.

One day, my dad and I had been going through a box of old pictures, and I came up with that one. It's actually a school picture-- you can tell by the lovely blue background, emulating a beautiful sky. My dad pulled the picture out of the box and erupted into a fit of hysterical laughter. I play-punched him, and blamed him for allowing me to go out in public on a daily basis with that look.

A few days later, that picture began turning up everywhere. I would open my drawer to get dressed in the morning, only to be greeted by my own, adolescent face. I would make my bed and find myself underneath my pillow. When I went to get my car keys-- there I was, in my pocketbook. The worst one was when I made a new friend at school and I offered to give her a ride home. We were about to leave the school parking lot when I remembered there was a CD in my glove compartment that I wanted to listen to. I opened the compartment.

Thanks, dad.

Other things my dad enjoyed doing:

-- Punching the trunk of my car while I was slowly backing out of his driveway, dropping to the ground, and rolling on the grass to make me think I hit him.

-- Waiting for me to select something from the bottom shelf at the supermarket so he could kick my leg out from under me while I was crouching down.

-- Putting a scary Halloween mask in the middle of the washing machine so when I opened the lid to put laundry in, it would be staring at me.

-- When I first learned to drive, I was terrible at parking. I would constantly hit the curb and knock the hubcap off of the front passenger-side tire. One afternoon I went out to the car and saw that he had removed all four hubcaps and replaced them with paper plates.

And now, the eggs-- "Eating Eggs for Cash." When I was really young, maybe around three years old, my dad would cook omelets for me. I loved them because he would put a ketchup smiley face on them. Then one day I decided that I hated eggs. Then a day later (just an estimate), I decided I hated ketchup, too.

To this day, I would rather eat the contents of my vacuum cleaner than eat an egg. The site, smell, consistency, and taste simply make me ill. My father was a big omelet fan-- Spanish and Western, to be exact. If he ordered an omelet at a diner, he would offer me ten dollars to take a bite of it-- all so he could laugh hysterically while watching my poor face contort in disgust while tolerating the torture for ten measly dollars. I should mention that we did this all throughout my 20s-- it wasn't as though I was 9 years old and desperate for ten dollars, thinking that it could afford me any toy I wanted. I was 26 years old, and wanted the money.

I miss that man so much-- if he is looking down on me, or happens to be using the Internet in heaven, and decided to read this blog, I want him to know that I would eat omelets every day, if it meant I could see him again. He wouldn't even have to pay me. Not the whole ten dollars, anyway.