Because Blogger Sucks...

...and wouldn't let me on all morning, you get another list. Sorry.

1) I went to The City (and for those of you who don't live in the tri-state area and think I could be referring to any city when I say The City, that's New York City I'm talking about. Yeah. I'm a badass.) on Saturday night with a friend and her boyfriend to see Jim Florentine at Caroline's. Sitting out in the lobby/bar/waiting area, killing time before the 12:30am show started, my friend's boyfriend was asking me about Sirius Radio, a luxury I love so much that I may marry it (I hope it proposes! Cross your fingers for me!).

"So," he said, resting back on the couch we were seated on, the back of which was maybe 10 or 12 feet high. We all felt like kids, or at very least that we had all unwittingly stumbled onto an Alice in Wonderland set. "How does the Howard Stern station work? I mean, is it just Howard's show all day long, on constant repeat?"

"Actually," I said, sitting up a little straighter, preparing to speak with authority, "he has two stations. And on one of them, yes, it's his show on an all-day loop. But there are like, Howard News Team reports and a show about the show that morning. Stuff like that. On the other channel there's some different programming, and a few other guys with their own shows."

"Who?"

"There's this guy, Bubba the Love Sponge. He's really raunchy. But I like him. There's also a guy, Farrell, on there. But I can't stand the guy, so I don't listen to that one. He just grates on me."

Cut to a half hour later, where we go in to get seated. "We have seats right up front, would you like them?" said the Caroline's employee. Feeling brave and crazy, we said yes. We didn't know when he said "right up front" he meant "not even a centimeter from the stage. Like, if the comedians get sweaty, and it rolls off of their person at any point, it will probably hit you in the face." So, we go, and sit practically on the stage. There were five of us, but the tables are made to seat 12, set perpendicularly to the stage. And the six seats away from the stage were occupied by what appeared to be a group of friends. The guy sitting almost across from me spoke, and I thought Gee, his voice sounds familiar, and the more he spoke, the more I thought I knew him from somewhere. Until I realized, Holy shit! That's the guy whose show I don't listen to on Sirius because it drives me crazy! So this guy was sitting right across from me, and even though I don't like him, or have anything to say to him because I'm not a fan, I fought the urge to say "Hey, man, I listen to you on Sirius." I didn't say it, though, because that would be a lie. If I hear him on Sirius, I change the channel. Because he's obnoxious and loud and he never lets anyone finish speaking. BUT, there in the comedy club, he was quite polite and quiet. Who knew.

Anyway, aside from that, the show was alright. The comedians were okay, but it's wasn't the rowdy, laugh-till-I-cry laughter I expected. (To be fair, the opener/announcer guy was funny. And I like Jim Florentine for the way he messes with telemarketers, not his standup.) But I had a great time, anyway. And, shit, what are the chances that I'd be sitting right across from a guy I was just talking about. As one of my companions for the evening said, "Only in New York."

2) Sunday was absolutely beautiful here. Billy and I, his cousin and my brother, decided to go to a lake about two minutes from our house to fish. Although my idea of "fishing" is more "sit on the shore, read one of my new books and drink and/or smoke." So that's what we did. The boys headed down the rocky beach to cast their lines, and I sat in a collapsible chair in the grass and read Augusten Burroughs. Last time we did this (Chase and Billy and I), I had the foresight to wear my bathing suit, to get a little bit of color on my pasty skin. This time, however, I decided not to, as it was sort of cool and I didn't think we'd be out there that long.

Three hours, a picnic lunch, half of my book, about twenty fish and one snake later, I looked down and saw that, oh yeah, I got color alright. Nice and pinkish-brown, all down the front - and only the front - of my arms, on my chest (in the exact shape of the two layered tank tops I wore that day) and on the bottom three quarters of - once again, only - the front of my legs. Oh yes, and in the shape of the shoes I wore, too. I hadn't noticed myself getting burned because it was cool and windy and I didn't really feel the sun at all. Until I was standing by the shore, looking for a snake that had just disappeared under a rock (but that's another post for another time), and I felt the sun reflecting off of the water and hitting me with what felt like a million shiny little razor blades. So now, when I'm shirtless, and pantsless, I look like I'm still wearing that tank-top and pedal-pusher and wedged-heel outfit of yesterday. It's very, very sexy. And comfortable too.

On the bright side of this story, Billy has now taken to calling me his Faberge Egg. "So priceless and beautifully decorated, yet so fragile." Of course, when he followed it with a comment about not being able to take me anywhere without some sort of injury/rash/malady, it wasn't as cute. I just liked that he called me priceless. Because I'm a nerd.

I'm just hoping that this lobster-thing I have going is going to fade into a nice brown instead of the blotchy, itchy, bumpy sun poisoning I'm accustomed to. I've been applying a blue jelly Banana Boat product with aloe and lidocaine pretty regularly, hoping to stave off the inevitable grody rash that comes when I foolishly spend time in the sun.

BUT, I know that, if I don't do some tanning now, I'm going to either blister and pop, or just spontaneously combust when we get to Mexico in August. So I have to do some tanning/burning now to get it overwith. I don't want another fight with sun poisoning to sabotage another trip of mine.

3) I bitch a lot about old drivers. But the group of drivers I haven't mentioned yet are the young assholes. Granted, I'm more irritated when I get stuck behind someone doing roughly twenty below the limit (which I did everytime I went somewhere this weekend. Seriously. Every. Fucking. Time.), but I just can't go any longer without mentioning the passion with which I hate teenage drivers. Not your nice, normal teenaged drivers, who are bound to blossom into responsibly-driving adults. Those kids are fine. It's the 19 year old in a customized Honda, with the muffler that makes his car sound simultaneously like an insect and a Harley. With the sound system, and the rims and the lowered body kit. He probably has a real fancy paint job, and maybe even some weird bumper that changes the look of the car. The make, year, model and customization options are unimportant, as they will change from kid to kid. What will NOT change, however, is how horribly they drive. Fifty miles over the speed limit, through a residential section. Passing on the double yellow. Passing in the turning lane, even though signs clearly instruct them to refrain from passing. Cutting people off, not because they need to, but because they think it's fun to fuck with people. They ride your ass, they rev their engines unnecessarily. They're horrible. What ever happened to normal, law-abiding drivers?

I mean, sure, I speed. We all do. But it's maybe ten over the limit and I generally try to respect my surroundings. In a neighborhood, I don't crank up my gangsta rap so that the elderly people enjoying their dinner have to listen to every curse word imaginable. I try not to let the thumping of my bass shake the siding off of houses I pass. I don't cut people off. And most people just apply common laws of courtesy when driving. Why can't teenagers? And, on a related note, when did I get old?

4) I was elected today to go and pick up lunch for my coworkers and myself. I also had to stop at the bank and go to the convenience store and pick up bottled water and candy. I always plan my drives so that I have to make as few left turns as possible. (I just don't like making left-hand turns, okay?) So my first stop was at the convenience store. And, as is my habit, I rolled up my windows, turned off my car, opened my door and grabbed my purse to walk inside. Much to my surprise, my purse was quite light. Only then did I movie-flashback to the office, where I set my overstuffed wallet on top of the business checkbook, then cut to me leaving the business, and the camera pans to the wallet still sitting on the checkbook. I groaned. I had some cash with me, and since I was stopping at the bank anyway, it wasn't the money issue. It was the driver's license issue that bothered me. I always take my license with me. EVERYWHERE. I'll make sure I have it when I drive the four minutes of deserted country roads between my house and my parents'. I take it with me even when I'm not driving, just in case something terrible happens, for identification purposes. But I never drive without it. Ever. Knowing, then, in the gas station parking lot, that the drivers license was not sitting there in my wallet, made me uneasy. What if I got pulled over? "It's just a few miles," I said uneasily to myself, shrugging. And I turned my car back on and went to leave. Waiting to turn out of the parking lot, a state trooper drove by.

I pulled out onto the main drag and went exactly the speed limit. I'm not sure what the penalty is for driving without a license, but I imagine it involves handcuffs and the words "We're going to have to take you down to the station." So I was careful. Very careful. But I felt like there was a sign on the exterior of my car that shouted "I'm driving without proof that I'm legally allowed to do so!" Never has my ten minute lunch pick up seemed so long.

5) Everyone in the office has just decided that they all want to hang out somewhere to do their various tasks. And they all decided that my desk is just the place to do it. Which is awesome because we all know how much I love sharing my space. But it also means I have to stop typing before someone notices that there's really no need, ever, to type this much at my job.