Tuesday, August 30, 2005


Hurricane Katrina hit Louisiana this weekend. St. Tammany Parish (which is where my hometown, Covington, is located) got it pretty bad. It's a little surreal for me to look at all the destruction and hear about all of the bad weather and think that it happened to where I'm from. The good news is that my parents live somewhere else now, so they were safe. The bad news is that my grandmother did not evacuate. She was there for all of it, unfortunately. And I have no idea how she is doing. All the phone lines are down (cell phones included) in the area and the parish is closed, so my parents can't even get in to check on her.

They were going to bring her to stay with them, but then my great-aunt decided that she wanted to evacuate form her home even FURTHER south. And my grandmother being the stubbornly good person that she is, agreed to stay with her family in her house in Covington. Her house isn't very sturdy...and so I'm a little nervous since there were 100 MPH winds. Was it 100 MPH wind strong? No one has heard from her since Sunday morning when she was getting ready to go to church. I just don't know how she is, but I hope I find out soon. I might throw my phone if I get another "Sorry, all circuits are busy at this time" signal.

You can donate to help the survivors rebuild here.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

But Daddy, I wanted a Mercedes!

This is the car I want, in case any of you were wondering. It's a Pontiac G6. Yes, it's the car that Oprah gave to everyone in her audience last year. Yes, it's a GM car. Yes it just came out last year and it's from Pontiac, the same people who thought the Grand Am was a good idea. But it's just so pretty. I want the 4 door sedan because I'm a practical gal. But I'd like to have a sunroof because I'm young and hip too. And did I mention that it's pretty?

Why am I looking at cars? Well, it's certainly not because the Sentra is on it's last leg. NOOOOOO. It's not still squeaky after getting new brake pads and rotors. It doesn't have so many cracks in its windshield that it's looking like a wine glass in an opera house. It certainly doesn't have 180,000 miles on it. And it would never even think about need new upholstery. NEVER. Why, the Sentra is in fine form! It's as if the year of its birth was only yesterday. 1994 wasn't so long ago. Grunge music is still cool and we still wear flannel, right? And the tape deck! THAT'S not out of date. Nobody really uses CD's yet. And isn't that Forrest Gump movie so awesome? I thought so too. See, it's like a box of chocolates...and it's a totally bad thing that I don't know what I'm gonna get everytime I open the Sentra and crank her up. She's just old folks. She needs to retire.

Here's to hoping for some strong self-discipline in saving money!

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Drugs On Demand

I recently discovered the joy of digital cable. I will no longer be blogging normally because I'll be sucked into the world that is "On Demand." It's truly the most wonderful thing to happen to television history. At least for now because I'm still in the honeymoon stage with it all. I can't help it, who wouldn't be dazzled by DVR and HBO and MTV and whatever other 3 initials tickled one's fancy?

But here's the problem, On Demand has ruined a perfectly good pop song that I've been enjoying quite a bit as of late.

This lovely woman pictured below

has been keeping me quite entertained with her little "I love you, I love you, I love you" song. So when I saw her video available at AOL Music On Demand, I definitely clicked on it! Because I love that song! It's the perfect little happy pop ditty! Yay for the British invasion!

Incidentally, Ann was over from her summer "abroad" (and I use that term loosely) and so she had missed the joy of rapidly singing "I love you" over and over again. So I introduced her to this video by saying, "YOU MUST LOVE THIS SONG OR YOU'LL HURT MY FEELINGS." I'm a good friend.

So the video begins innocently enough with the lovely Ms. Bedingfield in an apartment and getting ready for her day's events all while lip synching. Typical video, I thought. Except that BGF asked the terribly accurate foreshadowing question, "What's up with all the boomboxes?" And indeed, there were like 50 boomboxes in that lady's apartment. But I just blew it off as some stupid video "concept" that I don't get and really no one in America does except for the director who has a "vision" and "insight" into what the artist's song means visually. Whatever.

So at this point, Ms. Bedingfield has moved on to the beach and is singing with her boombox as if she's poor and needs people to drop money in her cap. Fine. Whatever. It's just a video. Still a good song.

And then the boombox became animated and grew feet.

I'm not kidding. All of a sudden, the boombox was outlined with those cheesy cartoon lines from 80's MTV heyday. And it then GREW ANIMATED FEET AND STARTED DANCING. And Ms. Bedingfield was okay with this! In fact, she encouraged this drugged out behavior!

It was only downhill after that. The boombox made friends and soon Ms. Bedingfield was the pied piper of boomboxes and they followed her and defended her and all the boomboxes had distinctive feet and loved her and she loved them, loved them, loved them because those words are her own.

It was AWFUL. What is wrong with these people? How the hell is that a concept? Dancing boomboxes? DANCING BOOMBOXES? In the real world!? And other people saw it and were perfectly ok with it unless their own boombox grew legs and followed Ms. Bedingfield. Then they were mad because they wanted their boombox to dance for them! Boomboxes don't dance people. They never have and they NEVER WILL. One can only hope that the digital revolution will soon take hold and that boomboxes will become obsolete. Then Ms. Bedingfield ill-fated American debut video can be put to rest. FOREVER, FOREVER, FOREVER.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

There's Nothing Women Like about a Pick Up Man

The other night, one of BGF's friends came over. (I was trying to come up with a nice little psuedonym for him and was just about settled on Lon Bitchell, but BGF convinced me that Dave was much better. This serves as an example of why BGF's going to straight to heaven while I rot in hell. So in honor of Lon's love for the Dave Matthews Band and in the interest of picking something that doesn't rhyme with his real name, Dave it is.) So Lon Dave informed me that he had just learned a brand spanking new pick up line and was ready to use it on my hot neighbor. He, of course, had to tell it to me first, not because I'm a girl and can give him my honest opinion, but because he was so proud of it. I'm sure you want to hear this "killer" line too, so internet, prepare for me to pick you up.

How much does a polar bear weigh?

(At this point, you say, "I don't know." or "How much?")

Enough to break the ice!

Yeah, I'm not kidding. I'll pause while a collective groan reverberates throughout the universe.

Dave was really excited about this "awesome" pick up line and could NOT WAIT to woo my neighbor it. He has been strangely obssessed with her ever since he met her a month ago. He tries to run into her in the hall and has been known to peep through the peephole whenever he hears someone entering her apartment. (She lives across the hall.) This, of course, bugs the crap out of me because he knows she's not got a stellar reputation, what with the endless drinking and such. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice girl. She helped me out in a jam and I'm really grateful for it. But does that mean I think she's good date material? No! But does that matter to Dave? No! Because she's got amazing breasts. Who cares if you drink and drive!? You've got a nice rack!


Anyway, I assumed that he was going to wait until he heard her out in the hall and go talk to her. Or maybe just go over and chat like she did the first time they met. I was so wrong.

Dave borrows a piece of paper, a pen and tape. And then proceeds to write a note to Ms. Hottie McHot neighbor and tapes it to her door. Tapes it to her door, people. I didn't get to read the missive myself, but it apparently contained the aforementioned "pick up line" and his phone number.

And he got a call back.

I couldn't believe it. I was pretty sure that Ms. McHot must have already been drinking because who responds to that? Who? (Ok, ok, I MIGHT have. MIGHT. Shut up.)

Anyway, Dave heads over to her apartment for a little meet and greet and BOMBS. Completely and totally. She was uninterested and unimpressed. Poor guy. Apparently, she seemed "really into" doing her nails and pretty much blew him off. It was kind of an anti-climatic way to end the evening. And this post. Oh well. That line was only good enough to break the ice, not to seal the deal. So future suitors be warned. Make sure you got game before you leave notes on hot girl's doors.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Breaking and Entering, part 2

When we last left me, I was embarassed and standing in a motel lobby. And I stand there a LONG time. Until, finally, a nice looking old man comes down the stairs and says he'll be right with me. I am instantly at ease because I love old people. And I'm sure that this guy will be like my Grandfather only not.

Cue the cold laugh of irony. Again.

This man was so completely and totally not nice to me. He reluctantly let me use the phone in the lobby and then pretended I didn't exist for the rest of the night. I really didn't care at the time because I was completely and totally FREAKING OUT, but now that I look back on it...JERK!

So I pick up this little white phone that sort of looks like the phone my parents had back 1989 and dial my number. And a man answers immediately. I'm a little confused, so I say, "BGF?" And the dude's all, "Wrong number honey." So I hang up and dial again. And this time the dude is like, "Wrong number AGAIN honey." And I really was dialing my own cell phone number. I know I was. But apparently those numbers were too similar to the hotel numbers. Goody.

So I walked back outside so I could stalk some more cars. I also thought about crying. A lot. Instead, I walked back to my building and sat in the back of BGF's mom's truck that was parked there because I still hadn't given back the hugest dolly in the known universe. So there I sat, in my "I'm a BA Baracus" t-shirt, with my retarded pony tail and black shorts, cuddling my iPod in the bed of a purple truck. Y'all, I am SO COOL.

I eventually decided that this course of action would only get me to an insane asylum and not my apartment. I got out and went in the laundry room on the second floor and braced myself. I knew what I needed to do and I was so freaking nervous.

I was going to have to ask for help from my neighbor.

I knew she was home because I could hear R&B grinding music blaring from the hallway. And really, what else was I going to do? What if BGF never showed? I had to suck it up and knock on the door.

She opened the door just a little bit, obviously taken aback by the ugly fat girl with a freaking B.A. BARACUS shirt on. I was a little flustered and tried to explain my problem. I used a lot of "ums" and "you knows" and "help me please for the love of gods!" She finally figured out what I was talking about and tried the door herself. And she said the first thing that had made since the entire night, "You need to call the cops. Your friend won't know what to do." See, my original intent was just to use her phone to call BGF and force him to get his partying butt over here and fix my problem. But she pretty much insisted on calling the cops. So insistent that she invited me in, looked up the number, dialed it and HANDED THE PHONE TO ME before I even had a chance to protest.

This was the first time I had ever talked to a dispatch person and PLEASE DEAR LORD LET IT BE THE LAST. I was so freaking flustered and embrassed that I wound up sounding like a complete moron. Oh well, an officer was on his way. To do what? I had no idea, but it had to be better than soiling my neighbor's immaculate apartment. She's one of those people who apologizes for "the mess" when really "the mess" is that they had only just vacuumed the day before and not 5 minutes before you came over.

This happened to be the most pleasant part of the night, however, because I got to check out her beautiful apartment and chat with an actual living female. (Have I mentioned that almost all of my friends are guys? What's up with that?)

I left her to wait downstairs for the cop because I obviously couldn't buzz him in from MY apartment and my neighbor was looking way too hot and made up to be getting ready for bed.

As I sat downstairs, I tried to rehearse what I was going to say to the cop if he was cute. "I normally wear clothes that match, Office Hotstuff, but I gave away all my clothes to a homeless shelter." "Hey Beautiful Cop Man, come back when I can shower and I'll show you a good time." "Mr. Officer Cutie Sir, I'm not really so stupid as to lock myself out of my apartment normally, it's an accident, I promise."


The semi-cute cop got out and I explained my situation. He helpfully replied, "I can't help you." Thanks buddy.

I made him go upstairs anyway and he pushed and pushed and pushed on the door and added with great gutso, "Yeah, I can't do anything besides break the door down."


I tried to talk him out of this option and immediately began offering different ideas for entering this apartment. He gleefully shot each one down as visions of splintered doorframes danced in his head. Before he got too excited, his radio squawked and he was like, "Oh, that's my sergeant downstairs. Let's go see if he has any ideas."

Yep, two cops. For me. In one night. My downstiars neighbor who likes to barbecue at 10 pm was outside gossiping about me on his cell phone even though I was within earshot. I didn't hear him say anything about my shirt, but I know he did. JERK!

The level-headed sergant decided that there had to be better course of action than just breaking my door down. I agreed. Rookie cop man didn't agree. Shut up rookie cop man!

So they call back the dispatch and try to get an emergency contact number for my landlord. The level-headed sergant wished me luck and drove off leaving me overzealous rookie cop man salivating over the chance to break my door down. Yippee.

He and I sat around and talked while we waited to hear back from the dispatch lady. Of course, it was bad news: no emergency contact for my complex. Just at this moment, my hot neighbor was coming downstairs to go out. The cop stopped her and asked if she had an emergency number for the landlord. She seemed a little hesitant and I felt so bad for her because all she wanted to do was go have fun on a Friday night, not baby-sit her stupid neighbor. But she proved to be a good neighbor and dug out her cell phone and called the office in order to listen for the emergency page number. So we wait as she listens to the list of amenities. And office hours. On and on this message goes and BEEP!

Right before the number is listed....BEEP. It got cut off. Hot neighbor girl is so sweet, she called it again, but no such luck. No emergency contact number for us! As the cop walked back to his car to get the consent form, the neighbor leans over and says, "I have a drink. Should I go on and go to my car? Is he distracted?" And then I realize what her hesitence was earlier! She had a freaking alcoholic beverage in that orange glass! Not water! She didn't want the cop to see the open container. Holy crap!

Hot neighbor girl bounds off to her night of partying with her beautful and drinking self and I head back upstairs with rookie cop man. He pushed on the door REALLY hard and the gold security latch started to come off the door frame! The cop was like, "Sign that form now!" Ha!

So I fill out a little form stating that I allowed the local Sheriff's department to forcefully enter my place of occupance. May I never have to do this again, Lord.

So the cop begins the process of breaking my door down and it is SO LOUD and takes SO LONG. I couldn't hardly believe it. One of my neighbors from the 2nd floor actually yells up, "What are y'all doing up there, man!?" To which rookie cop man valiantly replies, "SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT!"

At this point I started wondering if I could afford to break my lease and move again because oh my god, I'm the girl who needed the cops to break into her own apartment on a Friday night.

Dogs are barking. Children are crying. Neighbors are plotting my death. But by god, rookie cop man broke that golden security clasp right off my doorframe! Yee-haw! I was in!

I thanked my new friend in the sheriff's department and beat a hasty retreat before my neighbors started coming upstairs to view the trainwreck that is my life. All I could do was just lay on my floor and think.

"How can I top this next Friday night?"

Monday, August 15, 2005

Breaking and Entering. part 1

So the other night I decided to go work out. My new apartment complex boasts a fairly nice workout room with brand new equipment. And I'm fat. So putting the two of us together seemed like a good idea at the time. It was a Friday and I have no life, so off I went. I grabbed my iPod, headphones, and apartment keys. This is important. It's also important to know that I was wearing my dark green "I'm a B.A. Baracus" t-shirt and black Adidas shorts. These are the very same Adidas shorts that I have been working out in since I was in college. Back when I wasn't fat. They don't look as good on me as they used to because I quit wearing them for a while. It's a tragic fact of life, but the point is that these shorts are a bit tighter and shorter than they used to be. And they're black. I justified my extreme fashion faux pas with two thoughts. 1) They have a white and green stripe on the side, so that pulls in the green t-shirt. and 2) I'm just going to go work out. Who's going to see me?

Enter the cold laugh of irony.

So I go work out. And I got some great cardio in. I pushed myself really hard, so hard to the point that I started counting loudly and screamed a couple of times. So much so that I reminded myself of that guy in "The 40-year-old Virgin" commercials that screams "KELLY CLARKSON!" when he's getting his chest waxed. So I was quite sweaty and red faced and not pleasant when I finished. I stretched and walked back to my building.

I've got a new extra security door to get into my building now and have locked myself out only once because I forgot about that stupid thing. I'm much smarter than the door now and easily made it inside my building. I got up to my apartment, put my key in, unlocked the door, and pushed.

And the door didn't open.

At first I completely freaked out because I thought someone was inside my apartment and keeping me from opening the door. So I pushed and again it only opened a couple of inches and just stopped. At this point, the lack of oxygen reaching my brain caused me to assume that a serial killer was in my apartment but wasn't yet ready to let me in to kill me. So he was stopping me from entering my own home in order to mentally prepare himself for the kill. So I did the obvious thing.

I went back downstairs.

I sat down outside my building and tried to think. Why would someone hide in my apartment and then not let me in? That's ridiculous. BGF was at a party and his car was nowhere around, so it wasn't him being stupid. And then it dawned on me.

The security latch on the inside of my door had fallen over and latched. With no one in the apartment.

At this point, let me remind you that I live on the 3rd floor. So there is no other way to get into my apartment but through the front door. Why I didn't think of that when I was on my serial killer kick, I don't know. But now the idea is hitting me that I am completely and totally SCREWED.

I went back upstairs and tried one more time and there was just no getting in. I kept thinking that if I could just get my finger close enough to the latch I could push it back. But when they call those things "extra security," they mean it.

BGF was supposed to come over after his little house warming soiree, so my first thought was to just wait for him. I couldn't call him because I had lent him MY cell phone in case he got lost on the way. And here's the first important lesson from all of this: DON'T BE NICE! KEEP YOUR OWN CELL PHONE ON YOU!

So I decided to wait. And walk. And wait. And walk. And stalk EVERY SINGLE CAR that came into the parking lot. It was starting to get dark and so it was harder to see the cars that were driving in. But how else was I supposed to identify BGF's car if I didn't get as close as freaking possible to those cars? I didn't look like a crazy stalker! No! Not me! Simply like a girl who had somehow managed to get locked out of her new apartment with no phone or means of transportation.

Eventually I decided to walk to the hotel that is near my apartment complex and call BGF on my number, because obviously, this "boring" party of his was lasting longer than expected. So me and my BA Baracus-self strolled right on up to the Sleep Inn and waltzed into the nice lobby full of well-dressed travelers and proceeded to wait for the clerk. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. I mean, I knew I looked scary with the red face and red knees and sweaty hair, but come on? Did they have to ignore me?

***Since this is so long, I'm ending this story for tonight. But stay tuned for tomorrow's conclusion in which you and I will both learn the importance of knowing your local sheriff's phone number and how to put a motel clerk in a headlock.***

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Almost Famous

As I mentioned a month or so ago, I've been looking into getting some kicking speakers for my iPod.* BGF told me to check out CompUSA because they apparently have a good lot of Apple friendly products. The bad thing about Apple products is that they're so pretty. It's just all so distracting. So what began as a short trip turned into a long session of ooohing and aaahing over widescreen flatscreen Steve Jobs goodness. At one point I managed to tear my eyes away from the biggest display of iTunes I had EVER SEEN and turned around to see this man.

Only I completely didn't believe my eyes. I was like, "There is NO WAY that is Dave Chappelle. NO. WAY." And then BGF came over and whispered, "That guy looks JUST LIKE Dave Chappelle." And that was all the confirmation I needed.

Dude! That's Dave Chappelle!

And there he was buying cables for his Mac. He was with his son and seemed really quiet and reserved. At one point he totally saw me staring at him and I turned away because I was a little embarassed to be gawking at the poor man. Later, an older couple approached him and the woman shook his hand and said she loved his show. He was extremely gracious and I was really impressed with him.

So if you're a fan of his show, then I'm happy to report that he doesn't look like he's been in the loony bin or has lost his mind. He just looked...tired. I actually kind of felt bad for him.

And so goes my very first real life celebrity sighting.

*I received the greatest set of speakers in the world from BGF for my birthday and I will regale you with the greatest birthday in recent history soon and very soon.

Moving is like exercising with a point

So what have y'all missed?


Be glad you missed that. Moving sucks. Especially when you own the heaviest furniture in the known universe and need to get it up 3 long and angular flights of stairs. Poor BGF and company. I've never heard such groaning and suffering. It was like I had opened up the gates of hell and pushed them all in. I'm sure my neighbors hate me.* It took approximately three days to get all of my furniture up those stairs with approximately 4 different guys. And they made A LOT of noise. A LOT. Because carrying 300 pounds isn't easy kids.

Because let's get real. Although my lovely new apartment complex touts its offerings as "luxurious," they really aren't THAT great. Clean? Yes. Respectable? Yes. Cute as a button? Yes. But luxurious? That's pushing it. Maybe if there was a hot tub or a massage therapist or an elevator.

Emphasis on the elevator. A big cargo one for moving purposes. Because then I wouldn't feel obligated to live here for two years because nobody will help me move before then. Seriously, I hope this place rocks because I'll have to shell out the money for professional movers if I want to leave in one year's time.

Good thing the lovely people at HH Gregg pays someone to deliver their appliances to you. Otherwise, I'd be banished to the laundromat for another two year's time. And let me tell you, you have no idea what it feels like to be an adult until you own your own washer and dryer. Then...THEN...you know you've made it. Because you can provide yourself with clean underwear simply by walking a few feet. It's an AMAZING feeling.

Coming up next time: Celebrity sightings at CompUSA!

*If I didn't incur their ire while moving in, I am sure my neighbors hate me now due to "the Incident" which I will recount in all its glory and splendor in a few days time. If you were my neighbor, you'd hate me too. Trust me.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

So Much to Say


So many, many, many, many things have occured since my last post way back on the 14th of July. Can you believe it took almost a month to get my sweet high speed internet loving back? A month! That's an eternity in blogging time! I hope some of you are still out there periodically checking this sandy little place. Because trust me, I've got stories to tell. Like how I had to break into my own home and how I got the tastiest birthday cake in the world for my birthday or how I'm singlehandedly keeping the Apple company in business and, of course, how I saw a celebrity in real life.

But for now, you'll just have to settle with these tease, because my cat will not take NO for answer. I must pet her! Not type! Typing is BAD! Silly human.

And internet, I really, really have missed you!