Do you ever get that feeling you’re being watched? I got that feeling last night as I was getting ready for bed. I was brushing my teeth and thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked toward the ceiling corner and saw this:
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The Ravens have their bye week this week. I dread this weekend every year because I never know what to do with myself. It started yesterday when I went to the most hateful place on earth, Arundel Mills Mall, and bought a ream of pistol targets and case of 9mm ammo. From there I went to PetSmart and then to the liquor store. You can just imagine what my neighbors were thinking as I unloaded my car. Bullets to kitty litter to Cabernet. Yep. Makes sense, doesn’t it?
I didn’t even want to get out of bed this morning. As bad as the Ravens are playing this season, I still struggle with the bye week. I eventually forced myself up out of bed and staggered downstairs, hoping I had something interesting on the DVR to distract me from my misery. I can’t even admit to anyone what reality shows I’m recording these days. I really am ashamed. Sadly, I had nothing new recorded - not even I Love New York.
Having raging PMS during a bye week and nothing on the DVR is not a good thing. As I stared at the TV, I decided I needed to finish the exterior tuck-pointing project on the back of the house as well as completely change the interior paint color on the first floor of the house. I headed out and wandered into Homo Depot and saw many other people with the same weary “what do we do when the Ravens aren’t playing” look on their faces. I picked up some tubs of premixed mortar, along with some drywall primer, spackling, and painting supplies.
I just finished the tuck-pointing stuff and now I am sitting here drinking a beer out of a purple Ravens camo can. There’s still nothing on the DVR - not even Shot at Love With Tila Tequila.
While sitting in a Pigtown bar recently, the guy next to us started telling us how he’s lived in Pigtown his whole life and that he’s proud of that fact because it’s the most diverse neighborhood in Baltimore. He used the bar just two corners down from the one we were sitting in as an example:
“Youz should see (the bar) up tha street. Dey got all kinds in’nair. Nobahdy don’t bother nobahdy in’nair. Dey got mix-race couples. Dey got some homuhseksyules in’nair too. Dey even a coupla Russian guys. Nobahdy cares in’nair as long as youz don’t get too loud or too drunk.”
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Having conversations like this with my barstool neighbor is why I can’t quit this city.
I got back yesterday from a weekend with my grandmother in Long Island. Fuhgetaboutit. I went up Friday afternoon via Southworst airlines because it only takes 40 minutes from BWI to Islip/MacArthur airport. I’ve done this flight more times that I can count, but Friday’s experience was unique for me because it was the first time I’ve had an all guy flight attendant crew. These guys weren’t the wispy, lispy, queeny kind of flight attendants though. Oh no. These guys were all middle-aged and paunchy and, as best as my gaydar could tell, they were straight. They were all from Long Island and very Joey Buttafuoco-esque and I thought maybe it was some kind of halfway house work-release thing because it just seemed so odd. When Dominic, the lead flight attendant, was going over the instructions about seat belts and emergency exits, his accent was so Commack/Sunken Meadow State Pkwy that I was fairly certain that we were flying in a Boeing IROC Z28 and landing on the L.I.E. right next to the freakin’ Commack Multiplex Cinema complex. He told us there would be no drink service because the flight was going to be very turbulent the entire way to Islip and that they (the crew) would remain seated for the flight. I don’t get nervous flying, but this wasn’t something I really wanted to hear. In a strange way, I felt safer knowing that Joey Buttawipo and his associates were our cabin crew.
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Oh God. I had to stop myself, step back, and really take a look at how Lady Friend communicate through the course of a work day. Here’s a copy and paste glimpse of our typical email correspondence on an average day at our given offices. Warning: This exchange may be 2 Hot 4 U 2 handle:
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When I got home from work today, I had another unassuming department store catalog declare jihad on my olfactory system. Once I was able to put the perfume samplers in the dumpster and stop retching, I typed up a quick review of the latest offenses:
Estee Lauder: Pure White Linen
Pure White Trash. This perfume smells like very angry, very aggressive Febreeze…like the kind of Febreeze you’d never want to meet in a dark alley or trailer park.
Ralph Lauren: Polo Explorer
I’d like to explore the possibility of a world without cologne samplers. This scent makes me miss 1988 and Drakkar Noir.
Calvin Klein: Man
This one is the least offensive in the bunch. If this is what men smell like, then I can only conclude that all men are chicks.
Mariah Carey: M
Jesus. There are no words to describe this one. Wait. I lied. Migraine comes to mind, along with as Malodorous, Misery, Maleficent, Malevolent, Malls, Mange, Misgivings, Moribund, Mistake, Misfortune, Malignant, and the list goes on.
Sean John: Unforgivable
I’ve committed a mortal sin by willingly sniffing this Scent of Satan. I have done something unforgivable and no priest will ever grant me absolution. This is what the Ninth Circle of Hell smells like.
Sean John: Unforgivable Woman
I’ve been accused of being an unforgivable woman. I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to everyone I’ve wronged in the past. Please don’t ever make me smell this hateful scent ever again. I’m sorry. Really. Forgive me.
There are three things my neighbor Mr. Brown hates: Christmas, the baby Jesus, and the Baltimore Ravens. He’s one of those old school Baltimore guys whose heart still belongs to the Colts. On Ravens game day, he always cheers for the opposing team. I usually wake on Sunday mornings to the sound of Mr. Brown blasting out of his front door with his cane and broadcasting to anyone on the street just how he feels. Every Sunday morning, he feels the same.
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Last night I was in bed reading and sometime shortly after midnight I heard the familiar idling of certain car out front. I looked out of my window and there was a very familiar john waiting for his favorite rent-a-date to clock in for the night. This particular john has gotten so bold lately that he’s been getting out of his car and walking around like he lives here or something. He only does this when the people who actually live here are inside for the night.
So last night, as he was sitting outside of his car waiting, I heard a bunch of loud voices coming down the street. I got up and looked out of the window and saw a group of eight teenage boys walking over to the john while saying something to him. The group kept walking down the street for about another fifty feet and then stopped. They turned around and all eight of them bum rushed the john and started viciously beating and kicking him in the middle of the street. They pulled down his pants, turned his pockets inside out, and took his wallet. I called 911 as the beating was in progress but, of course, everyone had dispersed before I even hung up with the operator. The john got up and staggered a bit while mumbling something to himself and then got in his car and took off. I’m pretty sure he didn’t call 911. How was he going to explain the chain of events to the police or explain the missing wallet to his wife? Who cares. By the time the police arrived fifteen minutes later (record timing), no one was around at all.
This morning, as LF and I were leaving for work, we notice blood spatter all over the hood of her car and spatter on the trunk and rear bumper of mine. On top of the disgusting blood spatter, I have a crushed in rear quarter panel where someone in the group ran into my car and LF has a nice dent (with a matching hand print) in the the hood of hers. Fantastic. All because some suburban guy, who was waiting for his Washington Blvd rental ass to arrive, decided to make himself at home on our block after hours.
I’m pretty sure this particular john won’t be coming around again. He got a beating just because.
One of my deep, dark, dirty secrets if that I am obsessed with the reality show The Ultimate Fighter. Something about Ultimate Fighting relaxes me in the same way that the demolition derby does and also in the same way that shooting three-hundred rounds at the range with a tried and true handgun does. It’s so much better than yoga.
But JAYsus, this season of The Ultimate Fighter is weak. All of these “tough” guys are such babies and they’re crying over things like missing their girlfriends or being tired or someone in the house secret-eating their food. I think this season should be called The Ultimate Vagina: My Pussy Hurts. Seriously.
During the most recent episode, I fully expected to see someone spotting through her light-colored shorts or maybe even see a tampon string dangling from between her legs during the pre-fight weigh-in. Perhaps these guys are using sporty and discreet O.B. tampons or something. Who knows? But with they way the bitch and moan though you’d think they were trying to stick old-school Super Plus cardboard tampon applicators in their Junior-sized No-No places. Oh and I know some of you ladies (and men) out there know what I’m talking about.
Christ, I needed to check my DISH DOUCHE Network guide to see if I was mistakenly watching The Lifetime Channel because I thought for sure that The Ultimate Fighter Vagina was a Spike Channel show. Turns out I was watching the Spike Channel, but now I’m wondering if the “spike” in Spike Channel refers to the spike in estrogen that women get during ovulation. Anyway, I fired up my heating pad and grabbed a handful of Midol and continued with The Lifetime Channel for UFC Bitches. It gave me cramps and low back pain.
The Ultimate Fighter: For the Period Before Your Period.
…did you see this article? Here’s an idea: Rather than endure the inevitable PETA protest, why don’t we import those unused Katrina FEMA trailers, set them up in The People’s Republic of Maryland, and house the rat population here? We can even give them in-state tuition rates while we’re at it. Just a thought…
