Saturday, July 29, 2006

Can I See Some ID?

Update: Ha! I totally got quoted from this post in the Express' Blog Log this morning. David pointed it out to me after he got an email from someone else, telling him his party was now famous. That mother is totally going to hunt me down.


Went to one of those parties last night with a variety of WTF moments. What started off with weird douchey guys breaking the keg and running away ended with a seven-year-old telling us GWB jokes at 2am and people falling asleep under a car in the alley.

A bunch of us headed over to my friend David's house yesterday night to enjoy a packed backyard party. My roommates lasted all of ten minutes before scuttling back home where strangers fear to tread. Paul and I made an Army Audiologist doctor friend by the keg, whose medically-trained hands became of the utmost importance a few minutes down the road. We heard a loud rushing-air sound behind us, and I turned around to the two boys trying to fill their beer cups but now looking warily at each other and said, "Did you two just ruin the party?" They laughed nervously and said, "No way, we started this party," and ran off. We soon realized they'd somehow untapped the keg. Lame. It turns out it's kind of tricky to re-tap and already tapped keg without ruining the beer inside, but new doctor friend performed some emergency surgery and all was quickly returned to normal.

Paul and I seized some chairs and ceased to mingle with the natives, opting to relax in the evening air with Adrian, my friend Arish who has reappeared now that he's done with the bar exam, and Monali, one of my staffwise sister-in-arms. Monali arrived after us, coming into the backyard saying, "My friend is trapped inside the house entertaining some girl." "What, like a girl girl?" "Yeah, she's about ten years old...I have to go save her." And so begin the Babysitting Adventures. Apparently, one of the partygoers was a forty year old woman who brings her fucking children - a seven-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old boy - to party with her. WTF. I am still appalled.

The girl followed Monali's friend out to our circle, where the girl plopped in the seat next to me, was quiet for a few minutes while we talked, then suddenly yelled, "I have a Bush joke! Wanna hear?!" "Um...sure." And then we were accosted for the next ever with terrible jokes she memorized from some book. While I'm thrilled she's helping to spread the all-important Our President Is An Idiot meme, I'm seriously concerned that she's doing it at 2am while moseying around drunk twenty-somethings.

The entire encounter, which lasted most of the rest of the evening since she attached herself to our group, left me tense and riddled with mother-like tendencies. At some point some drunk asshole handed her a half-empty beer bottle to hold for him, which I promptly grabbed out of her hand and threw on the ground. We soon heard the admission that she goes to parties with her mom all the time and this proclamation: "I don't drink any alcohol. Except wine." [Picture me mentally ripping my hair out as she says this.]

Listen, I don't even like children. Paul and Adrian are still laughing at me about last weekend, because we became the babysitters of choice for the self-proclaimed Best Shark Tooth Finder On The Beach, Evan, ten-years-old, who WOULDN'T STOP TALKING EVER. Adrian entertained him for awhile (and by entertained, I mean stood there while Evan talkedandtalkedandtalked about shark-tooth hunting), while I'd try to lay on my towel motionless so he wouldn't notice me. You know, like prey hiding from a T-Rex. But every once in awhile he'd trap me somewhere and I'd mentally tear out my uterus while he motor-mouthed about jellyfish nets or something.

So anyway, here I am at this party, in the clutches of a similarly motor-mouthed young girl with a keg beer in my hand. I think one of the reasons children - especially strange children - fill me with dread and fear is that I'm way, way too safety conscious. It makes me a little bit of a dork, I know, but the "dread and fear" kept me watching for any high-as-a-kite asshole who might give her some terrible drug "because how funny would that be!" Or just hand her a plastic cup, whatever. Suddenly I'm her god damned Mother, and I'm going to stab myself in the eardrums if I have to listen to one more joke.

Also, aside from however fucking irresponsible it is for her real mother to bring her to a party, how dare she force me to be babysitter because she wants to get drunk and hang out with her friends, right? What was worse though, really, was the thirteen year old boy, who was old enough to know how "cool" he was to be hanging out with all these adults getting drunk. I didn't see much of him, but he did come by our circle towards the end of the night, after the keg had been kicked and someone had requisitioned a bottle of wine for us. I happened to be holding the bottle when he came up behind me and asked, "Hey can I see the label?" Me, appalled: "No you cannot see the label! Where is your mother?!" "I don't know, inside. C'mon, I just want to see it." "Why?? So you can buy some in ten years when you turn 21? Seriously, you need to go away now." I know, I'm terrible, but WTF. Don't make me be a nice person in that situation. I just want Out. Now. He thought I was very quaint.

I am never having children. Lesson learned, again. Oh, also learned, based on events of the past two weekends: Never wear anything around Adrian that you'd cry about if lost and/or destroyed. I'm just saying.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

The Day Irony Died

July 28th. Somebody explain to me why Miami Vice is going to be a serious action adventure. PLEASE EXPLAIN IT TO ME. Pastel trousers, fucking rolled up blazers? Crockett and MOTHERFUCKING TUBBS. There is no reason this shouldn't have been a comedy of epic proportions.

Well, chances are, I'll laugh my ass all the way though it anyway. In two years. When Netflix ships it.

Thursday Notes

  • I really hate people who smoke on relatively busy sidewalks. I don't care if we're outside, I always get stuck behind one of these assholes for a good 100 yards (unless I want to sprint ahead, cross the street (and then cross back), etc) on my way to and from work, while he blows smoke behind him into my face.

  • I was laying on the couch reading last night and noticed my gut start to stick out over the edge of the book, when I remembered - I totally forgot to talk about what great food we had this weekend! Saturday night, I made fresh pico de gallo and guacamole, Sylvie made brown rice and provided delicious cupcakes and brownies, Paul sliced up some veggie kabobs and asparagus stalks for grilling, and Adrian grilled up steaks and potato slices. Mmmm! I wish I'd taken a picture of the spread, goodness knows I like to take pictures of what I'm eating. You'll just have to take my word for it: delicious. The downside? The house had dishes, silverware, serving bowls, grilling utensils...but no knives!! Do you know how hard it is to cut a pineapple and a watermelon with a butter knife? Neither do we, because we gave up after mushing our way through squash and tomatoes with it. Also: no wine key. So Adrian MacGyvered the wine open with a large wooden spoon. (Alcohol tastes better with cork.) On Sunday morning, Sylvie made fresh blueberry pancakes with turkey bacon. Seriously, this is the girl to invite on any cooking endeavor.

  • I saw a play that featured cicadas the other day, you know, those enormous bugs. When I left the theater I felt something itching my ankle. Thinking my pant cuff had just gotten caught on my shoe tongue, I reached down to pull it out - and out flew A GIANT BEETLE. UGH!!

  • While we're on the subject: Life Goal #539 - Use the phrase "c/um-spraying scene of despair" in a published article. Check.

  • Wednesday, July 26, 2006

    The Jellyfish Theory

    So it turns out that I must be allergic to jellyfish. I've never been stung before, so I thought my smallpox-like reaction to it was normal. Now Quinn, who has a house by the bay and has been stung a thousand times over, tells me that I have - hands down - the worst reaction he's ever seen. What's awesome is that it actually looks worse than that photo now, because (as they get better, I think) they're turning redder. So...I kind of look like I caught the plague. On my feet. Hott.

    Anyway, they don't hurt, they just itch like a mofo, but some aloe cream helps with that. This is all sort of making sense now, because I was actually really sick on Saturday night, which is kind of a rare occurrence for me, even when I do drink a lot (and boy, did we ever), but the wicked jellyfish assault (by the way, I also got mildly stung on my back), plus the mouthfuls of seawater I swallowed when I got involuntarily dunked over and over, probably explains that now. And seeing that I wasn't hungover the next morning, I'm going with the jellyfish/seawater theory.

    Fortunately, that was the only downside of the weekend. Paul, Adrian, Sylvie and I arrived at our adorable little beach house, about 600 feet from the water, around 11am. We'd actually planned on going just for the day, but last Wednesday this guy called me with a last minute opening, so we jumped on it. After a quick run into town for beer and a beach towel (oops), we made it onto the sand just after noon. Only to discover:
    These little fuckers were everywhere. That was disappointing, cause it was hot, but to safely get in the water, we had to wait until a swarm floated by, then one person kept a watch on the water while the rest of us quickly dunked ourselves and ran out.

    We had an awesome little beach to ourselves. Occasionally people would wander though, but no one else set up camp while we were there.
    Long Beach

    Then we had margaritas and wine on the porch while watching a lightning storm, wrote lewd stories in the guest book, explored the creepy attic, and took a midnight jaunt down to the beach in the rain (see: jellyfish stings), and Sylvie and I both lost the only pair of shoes we brought on the trip. Good times.

    Paul also provided some evening entertainment by reading passages from the book he bought for a dollar at the local thrift store, "Gods From Outer Space," written by a crazy man incarcerated in a German prison. I wish I could remember some choice passages, but maybe Paul will leave a comment with some good quotes.

    The next day we decided not to brave the jellyfish, maniacal bloodthirsty horseflies, and mosquitoes, and opted to drive to Soloman's Island instead and explore the docks.

    It was a gorgeous day, so we checked out the neighborhoods, the multi-million dollar waterfront homes, trespassed into a marine police station, and ate crabs up the effing wazoo. The rest of the beach photos can be found here.

    And lastly, welcome to all my new readers. It's nice to see that TTtC's popularity has consistently stayed around triple what it was before I was Wonk'd, DCArt'd, and DCBlog'd all in the same week awhile back. However, anti-welcome to the trolls who come along with them, and for whom I've turned on comment moderation, which will stay on until I can come home and not find some absurd anti-Semitic comment I have to delete. I know moderation has been spotty in the past, so just email me if you left a comment that never showed up. Of course, I spend 20 hours a day in front of my computer, so typically they'll show up on the site pretty fast. Thanks for your patience.

    Monday, July 24, 2006

    Back from the Beach

    Stories and more pictures later:

    Including, why you're not supposed to step on the jellyfish.

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