Housekeeping

Things I could not flush out into real posts.

My U-Lock broke yesterday. I looked like someone stealing a bike, and having a LOT of difficulty with it. Luckily, I ran into a good friend who saved my life by somehow outsmarting my obstinate bike lock and then letting me borrow his U-Lock, so that I wasn't stuck at the ghetto fab bar, walking home by myself with my tip out money.

Which leads me into my next thought. I get to serve at work!! Bussing is great. I do not have talk to any customers, I can joke around with everyone, get dirty, lift a lot of heavy things, clean up puke....okay, those tasks got increasingly disgusting, but really, bussing is not that bad. On the contrary, I think overall I'll enjoy bussing much more than serving. However, serving gives me a break, some more money [Penn kids, never thought I'd say this, but come back soon so you can tip me cash jawns], and a generally more well-rounded schedule (and potentially more material for my blog).

Also, my idea of being a professional blogger may be dead. New York, and soon other places, are starting to cut down on laptop user hours in coffee shops. Where else am I supposed to be a 52 year-old bitter, sardonic, sarcastic old lady, sipping tea and blogging about the young man who did not open the door for me earlier (how rude).

I wish I'd just get mono already. I know - totally random - have you met me? Why I want mono:

1. so I can sleep all day in bed with a doc's note

2. so I don't freak out anytime I'm tired and think I'm getting mono

3. let's get it over with.

For example, today I slept from 4:30-9:30 (5 hours) and 12:30-5:30 (5 hours) for a grand total of 10 hours of sleep. I'm sitting in class wondering how the eff I got here cuz my body is tired and hurts, and wondering if I can make it to Dunkin Donuts and back during our break. My main worry is that Dunkin Donuts won't be open that late. So, now I'm worried that I'm getting mono. I wish I knew what it felt like so I could be sure I didn't have it.

For this, I think my grandparents would turn over in their grave. Seriously. A baby doll that breastfeeds? Please. This doll comes with a halter top [read training bra] that has daisies that the baby hooks onto to feed. One of the reasons I find this disturbing is because I never want my kids (or God-kids since I think I will forever not enjoy children clinging to me all day long, every day, for years) to ask me if they can have a breastfeeding baby. Hell, the baby better poop, pee, cry, and bite if they are going to get it. Give 'em a real experience, instead of further making babies something teenage girls do for fun.

Okay, I'm out.

OMG - Stickers!!!

Revertigo: (n.) psychological term referring to when one reverts back to childhood when in certain situations or around certain people

I get revertigo SO bad when it comes to stickers. Looovvvvvveeeeeeee stickers. A lot. So when 2b1b writer, Meghan McBlogger, offered stickers and a handwritten note for voting for her as best blog/most funniest ever blog, I totally voted, and was really excited for the stickers. [Her blog actually deserves these awards also in my humble opinion, which laughs out loud in class quite frequently.]

So the other night after yet another 10 1/2 hour shift at the ghetto-fab bar, dealing with obnoxious people groping, yelling, spilling, and puking, I come home to find a small envelope addressed to me! [Revertigo also hits me a little when I get a piece of mail from someone. I still have every single birthday/Christmas card ever sent to me. Don't believe me? Look in a drawer in Hickville and on my bookshelf in Philly.]

In the envelope were stickers and a note!!! FIVE stickers and a note. This is like getting something from a celebrity, only one with a brain and no paparazzi (yet). So, into revertigo I go, and start giggling as I read the note three times.

And here is what my celebrity wrote:

Dear Andrea:

Thank you so much for reading & voting for my blog! You're from Philly! Lucky! I'm newly entranced by Philadelphia. I went to visit ex co-blogger Eddie for the first time this year & it turns out it isn't as scary as Will Smith had me believe. I want to go on a ghost tour of Philly next 4th of July...so there's that. Welp! Thanks again for your support!

Love,
Meg

OMG! Squealing with delight, I quickly whipped out a blank sheet of paper and a pen to write to Srav and wrote her a letter that was dripping with little girlishness. I even wrote the letter in pink.

If I could respond to Meg, this is what I would write back.

Dear Meg,

Philly is filthy, but I love it here. Will Smith actually portrays West Philly pretty accurately as people get shot about 1 time every six months outside my house. But most of the time, people are just crazy. [I love that you used the word 'welp' cuz I use that word all the time too! OMG, we're like twins LOL.] I've heard the ghost tours are okay, but way better if you are drunk, and speaking German. And then you get kicked out. Yes, this really happened. Visit the State Penitentary thing, that's scarier. And I know someone who got married there. Now that you are convinced I'm crazy, I'd like to thank you for the stickers and revertigo that seems to affect my writing skill.

Love,
Andrea

P.S. You have great handwriting. I judge people on handwriting.

So, anyway Meg, I'm not really crazy, just really into stickers. Right now, there is a letter for Srav sitting on my desk from 2b1b, waiting to be mailed. I had no idea that she was also getting stickers, so now she'll have seven instead of five. I really wanna open the letter. But I'm resisting. But I really really want to.

Don't use the word revertigo ever in real life. Someone who writes "How I Met Your Mother" made it up and you'll look like a fool.

Awkward Turtle

I was introduced to the awkward turtle freshman year of college, and since then, it has haunted me unwaveringly.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CalKKKmg-Xw

In the past three weeks, I can count on my fingers AND toes times where I felt so awkward I've wanted to sink into the floor.

Since I don't feel comfortable making myself uncomfortable by recounting MY awkward moments, I'm gonna just make some up.

1. You dreamt something that you think really happened, but low and behold, it didn't.

Example: In your dream, you dreamt that the sexy neighbor admitted his undying love to you and then asked for your hand in marriage. If you are desperate/crazy enough, you wake up with a recollection of this, and you run outside in your Barney underwear and wife beater on and run up to sexy neighbor and kiss them. They are startled by 1.) your lack of dress, 2.) your stinky breath and 3.) the awkwardness that will ensue...........NOW!.

2. You show up to a party, and it is just couples, except for you.

If you're like me, you prefer to be a single and mingling person. Much more freedom and opportunity. However, it does get a little sticky when all but one or two of your friends is dating someone. Then you are stuck in a room with half people you like and half people you don't really care about. On top of that, there is sometimes awkward-couple-tension that is just, well, not to be repetitive, but really awkward. I think this may be a foreshadowing of my future life.

3. A homeless person starts yelling things about you, like:

"I can't believe you gave me herpes then won't give me change!"

"I'm a muthaf*ckin vetern. A vetern! You are such a commie bastard!"

"Stay safe kids, I have AIDS. Can you spare a dollar?"

"Yo I have FIVE kids. How many you got?"

Today I got a spiel that was like this, "excuse me miss, but I just spent last night helping out some girl that was attacked. I was in the Army, do you have $2 so I can get to Lancaster?" Okay, had he really helped a girl, I would've given him two dollars. Also, if I could prove he was a good soldier, I would've given him two dollars. But it takes $17 to get to Lancaster, not two.

So I'm done with retelling awkward stories. There are tons more, but I'm bored. So comment with awkwardness. Just for this post.

Hickville Area Code

I've spent a lot of time researching this. This being what kind of people live in my town. Some are rednecks for sure. Others may be hicks. Some are just people who like living slow. However, I cannot figure out what category "Mom" belongs in. I can however paint a pretty accurate picture of "Mom's" situation.

Who is "Mom"? Good question, one that I have no answer for.

To me, "Mom" is this woman with a crackling "I've been smoking since I was in the womb, and drinking for even longer" voice who has left me two voicemails. The first one I checked at approximately 2:30 p.m. on Sunday. I was laying in my bed, hazy from just being woken up by my rambunctious roommates, after a horrible night working at a ridiculously ghetto-fab bar.

SceneIt!

Me: "Oh Gosh, I have 7 texts and 1 voicemail, I should listen."

Roommates: "And blah that blah this blah..."

Voicemail: "This is your mother. You're brother's in jail and I'm just calling you to let you know. Can you call me back. But my cell phone is almost outta minutes so call the house. CALL THE HOUSE."

Me: "Guys, this is NOT my mom."

Roommates: "Whaddya mean?"

**Commence re-listening of voicemail on speaker**

Roommates: "You're mom sounds like a crack-whore from Brooklyn!"

Me: "But it's NOT my MOM!"

What is the protocol for mis-left voicemails? It's not like snail-mail that you either "return to sender" or drop in another person's door-slat. So I did what fit my schedule and phone-shy demeanor best. I ignored it.

Tuesday, I get a missed call in class. And a voicemail. From my hometown area code. After class, I happened to be walking with a roommate to the library and checking my voicemail.

Voicemail: "This is your mom again. Your brother's still in jail will you PLEASE call me back."

Me: "Wtf. What now?"

Roommate: "Call her back."

So I called, explained to the woman I wasn't her daughter. "Well this is the number she gave my mother!" WHOA, STOP! To the normal person (i.e. not from Hickville) this means nothing. To me, this gives the me exact situation going on in some little-teeney-weeney-town somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania.

There's a Grandma (probably Gram or Mimi or Mama), a mother, a daughter, and a son. The son is in jail and the daughter is estranged (probably because of pregnancy). The daughter still talks to the Grandma, who gave the Mom a number to call, but gave her a FAKE number on request of the daughter. The son has been chillin' in jail for 3 days and the only one with enough money to bail him out is the estranged daughter who needs the money to feed her new baby and couldn't really give a flying rat's ass about her dumbass brother who got caught selling drugs again.

Well, I told the Mom good luck and to stop calling. All in a tone that clearly relayed that I knew exactly what was going on without even knowing the family name. Honestly, had she told me her last name, I probably could've given her a phone number.

Gotta love Central PA!

Stoops, and why they rock.

I think I've been through the whole "I live in Filthydelphia and there we have stoops that are great to sit on, yadda yadda yadda, random people walk by and talk to you and generally its like chillin' on a porch, only without furniture and on the edge of the ghetto (the ghettos have porches, I don't know why)."

So we have stoops, and with stoops, come neighbors. And with neighbors comes pets. And with pets, come house sitters!

Generally speaking, our neighbors are arty, hippie, civil people who have a very loud dog and hate cigarette smoke blowing in their windows. However, I will forever be cool with them because a.) they always say hello (which is really the only nice thing to do when you share a wall) and b.) they NEVER call the cops when we are hosting a rave inside.

Being the adults they are, they have the money to leave the filthy every once in awhile and they choose not to take their dog. Their dog needs taken care of, so hence the housesitters.

I would like now to propose a question for the universe:

Why do some of the most normal and uninteresting people have the BEST people to housesit for them?!

Seriously. Every house sitter 438 has met for 440 has been awesome. In fact, we ran into two last night. Two girls, from around Yardley/suburbs, a little crazy, college-aged. They knocked on our door to ask for sneakers because they locked themselves out of the house. So the blond put on my Mad Mex sneakers (she said they tasted like guacamole, which is probably fair) and jumped over the fence to get to the back door. In the process she ripped her skirt while flashing the whole neighborhood while the brunette looked on and could not stop laughing. Sadly, we were absent from this debacle.

We did however get a tour of their house while we plotted getting forties and playing beer pong.

And this is why I love the city. Randomness everywhere. Especially amongst stoops.

Just try it, sit on a stoop for 20 minutes. Bet you meet at least 1 new person who doesn't ask you for "something called a token".

What I Learned in College

1. Wikipedia is your best friend. I'm sitting in a Finance 301 class, looking up G-20 on Wikipedia, copying down information so I can make a presentation in 35 minutes in my next class, Political Science. Maybe it's lame that Wikipedia is my best friend, but it never talks back to me, gives me bad advice, or laughs at me for looking up stupid stuff like "orifice", so somehow I feel like we may be friends for a long time.
   
   
2. College's lie to you. A tour group just came into our lecture hall during our class break. Matheson 301 sits about 300 people. I've had about 5 classes in this lecture hall and this is the first one that has less than 250 people in it. As I'm reading the hilarious 2b1b post, I hear the tour guide say "you will NEVER have a class this big." This, my friends, is a lie. A downright lie. How can one say that you will NEVER do something. In my short life, I've figured out if I say "oh, I'll NEVER do this" I usually end up doing it, compromising my morals and usually my dignity. Example: "I'll never give out my phone number to random cab drivers that want to have unprotected sex with anything that has at least 1 leg and some kind of orifice." Yea, his name is Kevin and he is now blocked in my phone.
   
   
3. You don't have to be pretty to get free drinks. If you smile and have a little cleavage showing, you can get pretty much anything as long as you are not fugly. How do you know what you are on the fugliness scale? If you've ever gotten a free drink from someone you don't know, you are not fugly.

There is much more I have learned at my three years at university, but I shall save that for another time. For now, I must make my presentation on G-20 and the liberal political science standpoint of the global economy and fiscal responsibility. Fun fun!