Fun Fact

T.I. and I shop at the same Walgreens.

Only he goes there for machine guns and I go there for birth control.

On Dogs

I don't care who you think you are or where you think you came from, everybody at some point in their life has wanted a dog. And I'm pretty sure I know the real reason. The real reason is: Everybody at some point in their life has wanted to have a stuffed animal come to life and be their pal. Tell me I'm wrong and I will laugh and laugh and laugh.

From DOGBLOG

The Scariest Place in Midtown

I thought the Citi Kroger down by the airport was the scariest Kroger in town after I witnessed an actual drive-by there several years ago. I was in college and had picked up Geoff at the airport at the end of winter break. Heading home, we realized that we wouldn't make it back to Athens by the time they would stop selling alcohol, so we stopped at the Citi Kroger for a 6-pack of PBR.

My first instinct that something was off was when I reached the beer aisle. Instead of cases of beer, the entire wall was nothing but 40s. I have never to this day seen such an assortment. Citi Kroger didn't even have a 6-pack of PBR; they only sold it by the 40 oz. We grabbed a couple of bottles and headed to the checkout. In the place of Good Housekeeping and even National Enquirer at the checkout was instead Jet, Vibe, Black Men, and Ebony.

The drive-by happened as we were pulling out of the parking space. And technically it was aimed at the Texaco across the street, but it was close enough for us. Since then, they gentrified the store and now I hear it's nice. I don't know about the Texaco.

Murder Kroger (or Convict Kroger, or Killer Kroger, or Crack Kroger--the list really goes on) is sandwiched between City Hall East and the Clermont Lounge, home of Blondie, the over-the-hill stripper noted for crushing beer cans with her breasts. As you can see, it's another nice place. And it's also the closest store to my apartment building. An episode of COPS was filmed in Murder Kroger's parking lot. It featured a transvestite shopping with a stolen credit card and an ID that wasn't even close.

I stopped going to Murder Kroger for my groceries after an attempt to buy two things: beef and milk. Every gallon of skim was "missing" and all the meat was marked "Manager's Special" because it was brown and beyond it's expiration date. As I walked out of the store empty-handed, I passed the armed police officer. You know, the one that works there full-time so you don't get murdered on the way to your car.

Boyfriend coaxed me into going back into the store, but I don't go there alone and I don't go at all after dark. Last week we saw a homeless man in the back of the police car and he was beating at the window so badly he bloodied himself and they had to call and ambulance. Yesterday we stopped there again and in line in front of us was a woman like me: a preppy 20-something. She looked around wild-eyed as she was talking on her phone. "I don't know where I am, but I am in the scariest place in Midtown!" she softly shrieked.

Boyfriend and I didn't even try to hide our laugh. Yes, yes she is.

And then I picked my nose

"Gross."

This morning I found myself filling in at reception as the receptionist has pink eye and the back-up girl is currently at the eye doctor getting screened for pink eye. When coworkers asked what I was doing sitting up front, I quipped, "Not touching my face." Everything in front of me--the phone, the keyboard, the pen--was possibly contaminated.

And of course, not being able to touch my face made me want to really touch my face. My eyes itched and felt like crusty sleep had gathered back there since I got up this morning. I became fixated on it; I just had to wipe my eyes.

I searched and found no tissue. I looked at my sleeves and remembered the lack thereof of my cotton t-shirt. Desperate, I looked around and when I didn't see anybody, I lifted up the belly of my shirt and relieved my eyes.

It was this moment that a guest walked in the front door, wearing a familiar looking badge. "You work there?" I asked. "So does my brother."

"Well I'll be sure to tell him I saw you," the man smirked back.

Yes, I'm sure he'll be quick to tell his coworker about the girl who works reception and lifts her shirt above her head when new people come into the office. Because my brother already respects me enough.

Behold, my barstools

One of the reasons I ended up on an unexpected blogging break was because I didn't know how to handle my relationship with Boyfriend on the blog. With the increasing number of posts in which Boyfriend began appearing, I found myself dissatisfied to share this space--which is so personal to me--with someone else.

I've always been fiercely independent to the point of proud, and boys on my blog served as nicknamed guest appearances used to further points of humor in my life. There was The Douchebag and Whats-His-Face, for instance. Other longer-term contenders earned original names such as Guy and The Boy.

This is one of my favorite posts of all time, and it does a perfect job of exemplifying my single situation. I refused to purchase duplicate furniture should someone need it some day. "I'm not living under the presumption that there will be someone else," I wrote.

So what's been happening is that someone else has been sharing my TV tray for the last four months. When we ate together in my old apartment, we would place both our dinners on my tray and sandwich our drinks between our knees. To give him credit, Boyfriend never complained.

A couple of weeks ago, I returned home from Wal-Mart and proudly showed my purchase to Boyfriend. He was pretty dismissive about it and I understood; he has yet to see the wonders that is my blog and subsequently he didn't know the significance of it, but I came home with a second TV tray. The cellophane-wrapped convenience for him was actually a Look! I'm making room in my life for you!

And on Sunday, when my father showed me a matching barstool he had for my one and asked if I would like to have it, I said yes. I now have two barstools.

I am making room in my life for someone else, so it's only natural that he is going to show up in places like my blog. Ugh, the fact that I even have to have these talks with myself... it scares me at times.

Come and listen to a story

I admit it: it had been awhile since I last washed my truck. About a year, actually. It started out innocently enough, then the car got too dirty to run through the tunnel of the Cactus Car Wash, forcing me to have to wash it by hand. Which I never did.

Then one day I squeegeed my rear window while getting gas and I watched in horror as the combination of Windex and black road dirt amalgamated and ran down my white paint job like a melting tar baby. I grabbed a few paper towels, dipped them in the Windex solution, and tried rubbing off the black stains. Which did absolutely nothing.

That was six months ago.

Road dirt caked on the back, bird poop caked on the front—the handles to the truck actually started turning color from dirty hands. Before I knew it, I was driving the Clampett car. My parents started asking me to "park around back" when I came to visit. It took an altercation at Lenox Mall involving a Sprite being aimed at me and landing on my car instead and the sugar crystals stuck to my windows and doors for me to finally relent and wash it. Total water ban be damned.

Each wipe of the sponge on the hood revealed a truck three shades lighter underneath. An hour later, I had my truck back. Even the scratches and dents didn't seem so bad anymore; I was impressed.

So were the thieves. They broke into my truck that night.

They tore open my glove box and center console. They took my CDs and splayed them all over the front seat. Apparently the only thing of value I kept in my truck was the two quarters I kept in the change slots for the toll. All that work and the potential for jail time, and they took exactly 50 cents. Not the 6-disc CD changer, or the CD player, or my book of at least 50 CDs. Not the car registration or my bottle of Ralph Lauren 's Romance. Not even my package of Reese's Pieces. But two quarters that won't even afford a can of Coke.

Moral of the story: Hoodlums don't break into dirty cars.

Intervention: The Drinking Game

Premise: Watch A&E's Intervention. Anytime the subject uses the addiction of choice, take a drink. Bonus drinks for passing out, falling down, or crying. If the subject gets arrested or ends up in the hospital, finish your drink.

Result: Watching the subject passing out, falling down, and/or crying is not really conducive for getting drunk. It's actually pretty depressing. It's kind of like when you watch the 400-pound women on Oprah and you take a look at the donut you were enjoying and you put it down and go in the bathroom and immediately throw up. Kind of exactly like that.

Verdict: FAILED

* Yes, I realize this was a wholly insensitive idea—to turn other peoples' problems into my own enjoyment—but isn't that the inherent nature of the show? Besides, it was a pretty slow Friday night.

Another Aha! Moment

After several unanswered e-mails to the postal service, I licked the envelope and added it the outgoing mail.

Of course the pony express isn't going to answer my inquiry via the free form of communication.

Any Other Monday

The alarm went off this morning and I rolled over and debated if I was still drunk. What I was feeling, however, was not the affects of alcohol, but rather sheer exhaustion. Sunday was spent painting Boyfriend's apartment and moving his things into mine. Packing, cleaning, painting, and unpacking—I didn't get into bed until late and fell asleep even later. I've never officially lived with a boy before and on his first official night, Boyfriend snored.

I muted my alarm and closed my eyes. I could sleep another 10 minutes, I justified. I was so tired and today is a holiday. There's no traffic on holidays and I wouldn't have to leave until later. Only in the car I found myself battling for lanes as I would any other Monday. I've never seen traffic this heavy on a holiday, even if it is one where I have to work, I thought.

I arrived at work a shocking 10 minutes late—the exact time I allowed myself to sleep in. Confused, I told my story to the receptionist who informed me that today is in fact NOT Columbus Day. That's next Monday.

Well shit. I just slept in for no reason like I would have any other Monday.