Sorority Girls

See, the thing about joining a sorority if you're the type who should join a sorority (moi), is that you meet other people who do totally adorable things too.

My friend Ali's engaged. She's decided she wanted Bridesmaids in her wedding. Rather than just call and tell us, she sent these adorable little cards.



Here's the poem she wrote for us on the inside.


Sam,

The day, the dress
The Bride, the groom
The joy, the tears
Will all come so soon

Professing true love
To my husband-to-be
With family & friends
All watching me

I hope the sun will
Be shining down,
Keep your fingers crossed
That I'll fit in my gown...

But there's just one more thing
That there needs to be...
And that's to have you
Standing there with me!

So on my wedding day,
I will need you more than ever.
Please say you'll be my Bridesmaid...
And my friend forever.

Love, Ali

I squeeled and called her immediately. And yes, I was wearing a high ponytail with designer jeans and diamond studs.

I think Ali should get a job with Hallmark!

Regarding the MyHeritage Celebrity Look Alike Craze

Via Google Talk-

Sam: Read this, it is really funny! Definitely cooler than my take on it.

Suave: What happens if you put a picture of a celebrity
will they get themselves?

Sam: ooooh, that'd be interesting

Suave: [A boy] asked that the other day...

Sam: I wonder

Suave: Try that

Sam: k, will do now

Sam: okay, i'm doing Amanda Bynes since I keep getting her.

Suave: k

Sam: Watch my computer blow up.

Suave: ha

Sam: It is taking a long time for someone so easy

Sam: okay, Amanda Bynes got 97% Amanda Bynes

Suave: That's good at least

Sam: oh, and Amanda Bynes might be Kelly Clarkson- I'm posting it on my blog.

Suave: I need credit. Actually [boy] does :)

Sam: Tehe, yeah, of course.

Design House Fall 2006 Opens Tomorrow

The Washington Design Center and Metropolitan Home's Design House for Fall 2006 opens to the public tomorrow until December 16th. This year's theme is "Modern with a Capital M."

Tonight is the opening gala at the seriously fabulous Washington Design Center. Even if you're not a designer, I'd suggest wandering the halls of the 300 D Street SW massive structure. The intricate individual showrooms featuring everything from Houles tassels to Kravet Fabrics is like a visual Mardi Gras. Last night, a couple of us stuffed gift bags for the opening tonight. Vive's remark upon entering the Center, "I totally don't feel like I'm in DC anymore. This is so wonderful."

But, just wait until you see this year's Design House.

Eight design and architecture firms sketched and built their impression of today's modern home. As you enter the Design House, a black cement walkway lines with shiny black pebbles and lighting welcome you. The Foyer features a Frank Gehry-esque motion throughout, with fishing line tied from ceiling to floor to create waves in front of the basic flat walls. A cardboard ottoman, obviously imitating Gehry's 1970s Easy Edges cardboard furniture collection, brings to mind Eastern design influences. Black board paint to the back of the entry way makes the wall utilitarian. Since the Master Bathroom of the house does not feature a toilet, a humorous comment on the black board wall reads "Buy Toilet for Bathroom." The Foyer was designed by Kube Architecture.

The Foyer opens to the Media Room designed by Barry Dixon, Inc. A plasma television set on the ceiling shows sailing videos while a Plasma on the wall and three smaller television sets on the side offer serious media overload. The backless seating creates a perfect openness for optimal television viewing.

The Dining Room is bound to be a favorite of most visitors. It features a mix of traditional, almost antique, items infused with modern elements such as a single-layer bookshelf embedded into the wall. The intricate detailing of two parallel gold chandeliers contrasts greatly with the harsh clunkiness of the slightly missionary wood table. A translucent curtain and a gold-framed antique portrait separate the dining area from the books. Patrick Sutton Associates designed the magnificent room.

The house also includes a Master Bedroom by Raji RM & Associates, a Living Room by Barry Dixon, Inc., a Master Bathroom with a sink that drains into a shower by Division 1 Architects, a Wine Tasting Room by Darryl Carter Design Group, and a Kitchen and Pantry by Cole Prevost.

Tonight's invitation-only opening gala will feature a silent auction, DJ, food, and drink. I should probably think of some significant technical comments to make about the house other than "Oh my gosh! It's just gorgeous!"

Tomorrow, the Design House will become open to the public during regular business hours. I'd strongly suggest checking it out.

The Embassy Elevator Welcomes You

I’d mentioned to the Master and Suave a while back that I wanted to attend more events at Embassy’s. Nothing sounds or feels more DC, right?

My first event was courtesy of Suave at the Australian Embassy. It was an after work luau back in August. Drinking on a work night seemed fitting for the Australian Embassy… not to stereotype, but my summer fling while backpacking Europe was an Australian Fire Fighter, and that boy could drink like Foster's was the last liquid on Earth.

Last night, the Master took us to the Israeli Embassy’s Cultural Affair Departments’ 2006-2007 season opening concert. The note on the back of the program (“A Note from the Cultural Attaché” was the headline. How cool to introduce yourself in DC as a member of the Israeli Embassy’s Cultural Attache!).

If you've ever wondered why people who work at the Israeli Embassy only wear flats and clunky shoes (not that I know this to be a fact), it is because of the horrible uneven brick walkway from the Van Ness Metro stop. The Master about ruined her fashionable new Via Spiga's.

"Why is everyone working on that building next to the Israel Embassy tiny and Asian?" I asked.
"Oh, that's where the new Chinese Embassy is being built," the Master responded.
"The Embassy is going to be huge!"
"It's a big country."

Hmmm.

We waited in line for about 30 minutes. The Cultural Affair Officer checked our photo ids against a list containing our name, birthdates, and Social Security Numbers, as provided in the RSVP. Then we ran our bags through a serious x-ray machine and stepped through a metal detector. Once, we'd finally made it inside, we were seated in a room with carpeting designed with a Star of David pattern. The program announced the Pianist and Cellist for the evening.

When you become a serious musician, you apparently gain the title of "The." We saw THE Ofra Yitzhaki and THE Amir Eldan. Well, funny enough, the "THE" was supposed to carry onto both names, I think, but it appeared to look like

The Embassy of Israel Cultural Affair Department presents the Ofra Yitzhaki and Amir Eldan.

Poor Amir, besides being super petite, he also is stuff playing with the Ofra when he's purely Amir.

The average age of the attendees was probably 60, and that's an understatement, I'm sure. In a crowd of people at a Pianist and Cellist concert at an Embassy, the one Korean man and one African-American woman stick out like Nicole Richie's collarbone.

Personally, I usually find these sorts of concerts to be akin to hanging out in an Elevator for 3 hours. The process is so formal and the musicians so dull. There were about 50 people max and the room we were seated in looked like a reformed synagogue. Yet, after each piece, the musicians paused for applause. After the third selection, they exited the stage and walked towards the bathroom. In the program, an Encore was already listed. So, after we clapped, they returned to the stage for the last piece we know they were planning on playing. Then, after the final piece, they exited the stage and awaited the demise of our applause only to return back to stage and bow. Concert musicians are always so ridiculously formal even in an informal setting.




As you can imagine, my mind wanders throughout the whole time. This time around, I decided to record my thoughts for the blog. Here they are in no particular order for your enjoyment:

The Master and I played a game of hangman around piece number 3. The word she chose was "hymn." I don’t know why that came to her mind.

How come the room has a 2 signs per wall (4 signs total) instructing us not to smoke? Is this a problem in the Embassy?

The Master: "Could they have picked any slower songs? Look Suave's falling asleep!"

Suave: "I never know when to clap." They tricked us by slowing down within an already slow song over and over again.

"Poor Robert Schumann died when he was 46," I whispered to the Master. "It was the 1800s."

Do Cellists have issues with Carpal Tunnel? If they can invent jelly pads for our wrists when we type, I'm sure there's something for Cellists to use when they play.

Ofra explained that she played Josef Bardanashvili's Metamorphoses for cello and piano from 1998 for Josef. The song takes the same melody and changes it throughout the song. We were supposed to hear influences of Israeli Folk Music within the song. I was way too distracted by Ofra standing while playing the song with a really angry look on her face. When the Pianist looks angry, you only listed to how angry the song is.

Is the aspiration of any concert musician to eventually compose their own music? It would get frustrating to constantly have to play stuff that you don't like.

Ofra was really quite pretty, though I wonder if she gets enough Vitamin D. She was in a stunning black dress, but her skin was remarkably pale. I guess her work is really in doors only.

How annoying for Ofra and Amir that their jobs require them to dress formal every day. I though Business Casual with a ban on denim was bad enough.

If a Cellist and Pianist developed sexual chemistry, would they be more into one another's looks or one another's talent?

Finally, they played Ernest Block's Three melodies from Jewish Life. One was named Supplication. I wanted to look that word up. It means humble prayer. The selections were labeled: Supplication, Jewish Song, Prayer. Apparently, Ernest Block thought Jews prayed a whole lot and did little else. I guess Eating Kugel wouldn't make such a wonderful title.

We were told that a nice group of ladies from the largest Sephardic synagogue in DC baked food for the reception. We hadn't eaten dinner so I definitely worked up calories nibbling on the delicious food. I don't understand plastic wine glasses though. I find them difficult to carry and sort of useless. What's wrong with nice, clear, punch glasses instead? I shouldn't complain, free wine in an Embassy could be handed to me in a trough and I'd probably enjoy it all the same.

We exited through the most complicated security system and were told by the Master's hot friend who works there that the next event would be much younger. I'd go back just to see him, hubba hubba Bubb…y?

Fat Feet

I'm 5' 7" and weigh 125ish lbs. When I was 20, I weighed 105 lbs at this same height. I wasn't healthy at all and certainly wasn't on a 3 meals-per-day with snacks eating schedule. I remember actually getting angry (and telling people, no wonder people call me a bitch) that Abercrombie finally came out with size 00, but didn't make their size 00's in extra-long length.

Erica and I went on our bi-annual trip to West Hartford, CT to buy fun clothes from the BP section of the Nordstrom there. It was a tradition to shop shop shop and then splurge on pasta dishes at the nearby Macaroni Grill.

I was in complete lust when I found a beautiful pair of BCBG Girl stiletto sandals with little butterflies on them (I was 20). The shoe saleswoman brought them over to me and tried to slip one on my foot. They wouldn't go on. My feet were too fat to fit through the front of the sandal. "For a tiny little girl, you have amazingly fat feet!" she said, with a snarky giggle.

Since then, I've known I have fat feet. My little sausage toes really could go to market. If available, I wear wide shoes. I only wear heals with pantyhose which keep my feet from swelling throughout the day. Basically, I'm like a 70-year-old woman with a salt-intake issue.

I've learned to live with this problem of mine. Now that I'm not as tiny as I once was, it is no longer as cute a witty response to compliments- "I'd trade in my size zero tooshy for your petite size 6 Narrow feet." I don't try on sandals that look narrow and know that Ferragamo's slide on much better than Jimmy Choos. Boots, though, have never been an issue. My calves are on the smaller side (well, in comparison to my child-birthing hips) and, if anything, buying boots that don't fall down my calves is more an issue.

Until Sunday, at Parisian's in Mobile with my Mom. Leave it to BCBG Girls to once again make me feel like a complete fatty. I've seen this problem with jeans and skirts and top, but goodness, what's a girl to do about fat feet?

It is official. I'm a Drama Queen.

Only in Bama...

In case you didn't know, the Alabama State Fair in Mobile every September is a serious destination. The school year has just started, and one of the biggest nights of the new year academic calendar is spent with your friend eating elephant ears, letting scary men guess your weight, riding the Tilt-a-Whirl, and listening to Southern Rock and Bluegrass bands like Alabama and Leftover Salmon. The fair's about as see-and-be-seen an event as Bama's got. Call it the Local 16 of Mobile.

Well, for those of us who grew up truly understanding Charlotte's Web, we can now apply for a free wedding at the fair. I'm not joking. The fair is such a big deal that people are actually going to write an essay about why they want to get married at the Alabama State Fair. I'm guessing that the bridal party won't have many teeth and that the bride will choose a mini-wedding dress. Here's the link if anyone wants to apply?

Travel Tales

I am currently home in Mobile for the Jewish New Year. I don't know if the Claritin-D I had to purchase from beyond the CVS counter (the crystal meth TV ads scared someone out there... you know little Janey is the one getting the toxic vapors up her nose from the lab downstairs) but everything on my flight down here made me laugh.

At Reagan, I went to Wall Street Deli, one of the randomly named delis (Kentucky Derby sandwiches, The One and Only Bagel Stop, Ciao's Fresh Wraps... some of them don't even make sense). I ordered a BLT on white bread, since the 4 peanuts they now give out on the airplane can't substitute for a meal. The women behind the counter seriously asked me, "Do you want tomato, or lettuce on that?" I started laughing. Then the guy behind me started laughing, and the girl behind him. "Obviously," I finally replied. Then she piled about 17 strips of bacon on a tomato on the bread and went to close it up. I said, "Um, lettuce too. And I don't need that much bacon." She threw the bacon down on the counter. It made this loud squishy noise. I bought the sandwich, grabbed some free butter from the condiments bar, and chucked the contents of the sandwich for bread and butter.

I've decided that since words like "retarded" can no longer be used in political correctness, I'll make up my own. I think we should start calling people who are dumber than dirt or spiteful for no known reason after the species of that ape girl archeologists found. So the woman at Wall Street Deli was a total afarensis! How do you like?

I changed planes in the Cincinnati Airport. I've been living in big cities too long. In Washington, DC they have tons of booths and stores with "I love DC" shirts and "Head Chef of Staff" aprons. In New York, they have Big Apple Gifts and souvenir sized Empire State Building statues. In Ohio, they have "The America Store" which includes souvenirs from all over America. I guess Cincinnati’s biggest claim to fame is really just Procter & Gamble, and a thimble shaped like a Cascade detergent box wouldn't sell to well, I'm guessing.

Cincinnati’s airport also has a 10 minute manicure stop near the food court in terminal B, which by the way, is the cleverest thing I've ever seen. I might detour through Cincinnati just to get my nails done in the mail. Screw you shoe polishers, businesswomen fly now too, and we've got needs!

On my flight down to Pensacola (it saves about $200 to fly into Pensacola, for some unknown airline planning reason, which also explains the direct flight daily from Pensacola to Montreal but not from Montreal to Pensacola?), half the people on it were sailors in full uniform wearing their neckties, white pants suits, and little condom-like hats. I half expected them to start singing tunes with pints of Guinness. I texted my friends. My favorite response was "Ooooh, Sea-men!" They were all about 12, and the dude sitting next to me had terrible body odor. Can't they be discharged for that?

Anyways, I'm home in Alabama safe and sound and Sea-men free (take that however you like). I'll write more Monday.

Stayin' Away from Six Flags

Wanna cut in line? Eat a live cockroach. Six Flags is offering passes to skip the lines at rides if you eat a live cockroach!!!!!!!!

I might puke just posting this info for ya'll to see.

So seriously, if they want to entice visitors with this freakin' weird promotion, wouldn't they consider the fact that no way in hell am I going to a theme park that allows freaks who are comfortable devouring live bugs to reign as VIPs throughout the park. And, if I remember correctly, they were totally having an issue with consumers seeing them as low class establishments lately. Well now, they've been elevated from State Fair to Coney Island. I think they should double the promotion to allow people to bring paint guns and shoot the freaks.

Blah, I'm soooooooo skipping lunch. There are people out there who are so impatient they'd be willing to eat a live, disease carrying insect rather than wait in a line.

I take horrendous pictures...

Really really horrendous pictures. I don't honestly think I look as horrible as I do in pictures, but maybe I'm incorrect and have a poor idea of how ugly I actually am.

Do you find it funny that people don't really give a damn what anyone else looks like in a picture? I know, generally speaking, if I look good in a picture (which is ever so rare), I want to blow it up in billboard form and place it over Jefferson Davis Highway.

I have several friends who always look immaculate in pictures. Alison's the funniest one though, because she has a Paris Hilton ability with posing in pictures. So much so, that I constantly look like a dishelved Brandon Davis next to her. I don't think the two of us have taken a good picture next to one another in about 7 years, not since I developed my intense fear of cameras. I'm like a child stuck on a potty with her mom watching when it comes to pictures. Too much pressure to perform. I never look good.

I asked Suave why all her pictures look divine. "I tilt to my head, pivot my body, and place my hands on my hip." I tried her pose next to her and resembled a drag queen.

I had to beg both Suave and Grants Boy to take down a picture of the three of us they both placed on MySpace. Here's the email chain yesterday:

From: GB
To: Sam
Subject: Good Morning

Hi, I saw your comments [on MySpace regarding the picture] this morning. I’m sorry that I can’t accommodate you but I can’t take those pics down from the myspace page. I like them too much! Everything ok in your world?

From: Sam
To: GB and Suave
Subject: Pictures

So, here's what going to happen regarding me looking horrid in pictures-

Basically, if you people keep putting them up, I'm gonna think you see me lookin' like that in real life. If I look like I do in pictures, I'm never ever leaving the house (let alone taking another picture with either of you beautiful people). So, that being said, I've editted myself out of that picture you both seem to like so much. It's attached. I realize GB looks like a JCrew model and Suave a Hawaiian Tropics doll, but can we please take a moment to realize that I look like a Fraggle!

As my friends, please don't contribute to my upcoming oger seclusion. K?

I've been told they've taken down the pictures.

On another note, Peter went to the Nationals vs. Braves game last night. His company's tickets are close enough to see some tight baseball butts. Not that he cared, but he did take this prize-winning photo for my bedside table of Chipper's adorable rear, though it is not quite the perky bubble it once was... damn baseball! First they toss away the hottest guy ever in baseball, Javy Lopez, then Trot Nixon gets ugly at Red Sox camp, and now, Chipper's toosh has gone to shit. It's enough to push me into watching Soccer.

Advice

As a follow up to my posting yesterday, I've decided to summarize some of my favorite and most used advice. Giving advice makes me feel good. I feel like my life experiences are transferable. I feel like my traumas have made me strong.

Friends: By calling your acquaintances "friends", you destroy the important value of your friendships. A friend is defined on dictionary.com as:

- a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.
- a person who gives assistance; patron; supporter.
- a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile.
- a member of the same nation, party, etc.
- (initial capital letter ) a member of the Religious Society of Friends; a Quaker.

Since most of my friends don't know many Quakers (I totally dated one once, but that's a whole other story), it is clear that a friend should be someone you can trust. You should not be jealous of your friend, well most of the time. They should support you, have similar interests as you, and genuinely care about you. A friend should make you realize why you have enemies, and not the other way around.

Delete the seven million numbers from your cell phone. Save your money and your time for good friends. Learn to like yourself, learn to befriend yourself, and you won't need to surround yourself with so many unnecessary acquaintances.

Finding Love: You deserve love. We all deserve to give and receive love. You shouldn't have to chase after love. It should not be hard or dramatic or feel unreciprocated. Until you believe that you are capable of loving and being loved, you'll never conclude your search and appreciate your prize.

For my girlfriends, wouldn't you rather be single than miserable? Who wants a life filled with heartache? When you really find love, you won't have to "take a leap of faith," as the saying goes. It will make sense. It will fit. Stop trying so hard to find someone to love and learn, instead, to love yourself.

For my guy friends, get a gun license and demonstrate your right to bear arms. Please hunt birds and deer and anything other than girls. Girls you fall in love with shouldn't have to be hunted. If you do hunt, you should want to display them rather than destroy them. After you catch the one, you shouldn't feel like you must keep hunting. Love should exist without a constant struggle. That being said, if you're only trying to get sex, shoot away.

And how silly, to both sexes, that we don’t say "I love you" more. Why are we able to have sex with someone, but we won't say I love you when it is something we feel? How silly to live your life without speaking and receiving those three words?

Jobs and Career: People who teach and operate, I've never wanted to be a Teacher or a Doctor in my entire life. I don't think you always realize that having the urge to do something is a calling. If you have been blessed with the ability to remain calm around blood or children learning long division, you should totally pursue that career path.

As far as jobs go, in general, I don't think you should base your career on how much money you will make. I know, everyone says this, but I believe that you should still plan on making lots of money. Get really good at whatever you are doing. In every field, an expert will find money. As a teacher, you could write a text book or sleep with your student and have Lifetime make a movie out of your story. I once hear Jean Chatzky speak in New York. From a study she had worked on which had different wage earners rate their happiness level, the happiest people in America were the Middle Middle Class. They had what they needed without having a full knowledge of what they wanted. The least happy were the Upper Class.

"You can't always get what you want. But, if you try sometimes, you might just find, you'll get what you need." -the Rolling Stones, circa 1969.

Fashion: logoed Louis Vuitton bag, where will you bring it? Premium designer clothing fits differently. Ferragamo shoes slide on my feet like little baby clouds, and I'm totally not exaggerating. A Pucci scarf pattern stays vibrant forever. Hudson jeans make my roommate look like she's just stepped off America's Next Top Model. A John Varvatos shirt slims APK's frame and makes him look inches taller and years more mature. You don't need to plaster a logo all over your body. What's the point? Truly classy, fashionable people don't need to prove anything to anyone. They buy for quality and fit.

I'll leave you with APK's favorite line, though I don't know the origin, "Why is it that when I wear Gucci, Prada, and Chanel no one says a thing, but whenever I wear H&M, everyone compliments me?"

And that'd be all folks. Hope you enjoyed.

Strength

It is amazing to me where strength is hiding. When our life starts to fall apart, strength comes from the most unexpected sources. And, when we are so weak that we think we have nothing we can give to a friend in need, that's when strength appears from inside us.

I remember walking into work the day after Jerk and I officially broke up. I had called in sick the day before and cried myself into a headache and nausea. I felt like if I stayed in the apartment we shared, as long as I stayed in that apartment, the world around me wouldn't change. I wouldn't need to be scared or strong or brave. I could pretend that there wasn't another girl in his life. I could pretend that I saw myself marrying him. I could stay there, inside myself, inside my apartment, inside my fear, and never have to leave.

My mother told me to get angry. She told me to move fast and get him out of my life for good. Alyssa patiently listened to me cry on the phone all the way in San Francisco for hours. At the end she said to me, "You don't want to hear this now, but you will appreciate it later. You are not sad about loosing Jerk. Sam, you are scared about the loss of your relationship. You will remember who you were before Jerk. You will grow strong again. You will be fine. Okay? Everything is going to be fine again soon. I promise." I didn't think I had it in me to be strong. I couldn't get strong until I got angry. I knew I couldn't get angry when I was so sad.

When I walked into work newly single, I burst into tears. Here I was at the same job I'd been at in my relationship, but from now on, it wouldn't be like it was before. I went to see the Associate Publisher of Marketing, my boss then. I needed to explain what happened and tell her I might need to leave for an hour a week to talk to a Psychologist per my mother.

"Jerk and I broke up. He's seeing someone else." That was all I could manage, before I started crying again. She looked at me through rough eyes without hugging me or offering me a tissue. She looked at me as my mother or father would do, with a strength I know I won't have for many more years. "You live together, right?" "Yes." "You need to kick him out. Kick him out and make him pay that rent." "I can't. I don't know how to." "Yes you do. You need to get angry and kick him out, Sam. He's seeing someone else. It is not your problem to deal with how he feels anymore. Stop feeling sad. Get angry."

I walked to the bathroom to touch up my eye makeup. On the way, I saw one of the Sales Assistants who had recently broken up with her boyfriend. She'd been a mess for a while, even within the week before my relationship ended. I looked at her and said "Jerk and I broke up. He's seeing someone else." She gave me the most amazing hug. "You were bored with him. It's okay. It will get easier. Let's go down for a cigarette now." "I can't," I said. "No, you can. Come." Downstairs she told me the advice her mom had given her about a cheating boyfriend, "Stop thinking with your pride and start thinking with your heart. You can't truly love someone who doesn't love you." It's advice I've given people forever since then. She was so strong that day. So strong as she walked me through the whole thing. The realization I didn't like New York. The drama of my first relationship after Jerk. She was there.

I couldn't get strong though. Not right after I grew angry. We still slept in the same bed peacefully for a week after we broke up. I'd roll over in the morning and throw my arms around his body. If I stay like this, I thought, I won't need to get angry. Everything will stay the same. The person who gets out of the bed for the couch will inevitably end up there for the rest of the awkward situation. We squatted the bed for a while. I stopped cuddling with him once I started to get angry. I started resenting his breathing in bed. I would stay up all night waiting for him to get home from his late nights out. Cursing his disrespect of me. I would come late to work so that I could smell his shirts from the night before to see if "her" smell was on them. If he left his work bag at home while he was out, I would rifle through it looking for movies they'd seen or activities they'd done together. I don't know what I was trying to prove. I don't know what good it did me. My body wasn't communicating properly with my mind. I checked his email account and discovered that he was already saying I love you to the new girl. He was forwarding her my emails about the apartment, because, it turned out, she was a lawyer. She'd write things back like "Well, I'm totally impartial here and I think you're totally right." He'd email her back, "You looked so cute last night before bed. Muuuwah." It was honestly the lowest I've ever stooped. I was paralyzed by fear, but my body was working on auto drive to find evidence to make me angry. Get angry, Sam. Somedays, I'd get so sad inside myself I'd think about breaking a glass and cutting my wrists. I'd look in the mirror at the bags under my eyes, and I'd find myself cursing him for making me look and act this way.

And then one day it finally happened. I finally got so mad I don't even recall the whole way I said it. "Get out. You have to get out of this apartment now. You have someone who would care if you stayed here with me. I don't. You make more than me and have a sister in the city you can stay with. You need to get out."

When I said that, I knew I was finally almost strong. Three weeks after he'd basically moved out, my friend Amanda went through a horrible break-up of her own and ended up needing a place to stay for a while. I gave her the sofa bed in my apartment with a huge divider. I was able to take all my hurt and forget about it for a while. I tucked it away and ate Ben and Jerry's with her tears. Jerk emailed a scathing email that he thought she should pay rent, and how it wasn't fair he was paying for her.

"She has just been kicked out of her apartment, and she's got no where to stay right now. She has no job either. If you don't think she should stay here right now, then you are a really pathetic human being."

"Fine."

And that is how I grew strong.

Once I started looking around though, so many people grew strong with me. Angelina had ended a terrible relationship that had sent her out of my life and into a serious black hole. Every single day for the two weeks after my break-up, she called to check on me. "Your much more interesting without Jerk," she declared one day. Alison had her boyfriend tell me what he really thought of Jerk all along. Erica sent me a beaded necklace with a card that said "You will recover from this and become the wonderful person you've always been."

I grew stronger with each day and each month. I can't even imagine if I'd been married or had kids or had a death in the family instead. I can look at it all now and give that advice to my friend(s).

Be patient. Mourn. Be sad for a while. You'll get to angry. Along the way, I'll get stronger helping you. And then one day, you'll get to strong. You'll definitely find strength.

Encyclopedia Chapter 2006

I went with Peter, Ralph, and two Lost Boys to the Red Sox vs. Orioles game last night at Camden Yards. They're from the Boston area and huge Sox fans. I was excited to get to say the line from Fever Pitch, "They'll break you heart, kid." Of course, Peter corrected me by saying the phrase without the Rs. I bought one of those massive, phallic, 1/4 pound beef hot dogs. When I ordered a diet coke to go along with it, the woman behind the counter laughed. I suppose I'd laugh too...

Here's a sign from a church yard near Camden Yards.

I've been inquisitive lately. I sometimes get in these patterns... like a small child who wonders about everything. One of my favorite childhood books explained where snot came from and why bees pollinate. I was joking that I needed one for adults... which I then realized would be the Encyclopedia... but whatever.

Anyways, so here's what I've looked up recently.

Where does the dirty meaning of pussy originate from? Here's how Wikipedia started the analysis. It made me giggle.

Pussy is both a slang word referring to the vulva and vagina, and an affectionate term for a cat. Thus it can be used as a double entendre. In a less vulgar sense, it can also be a derogatory term implying general weakness or cowardice.

I looked up the history of the folding chair after a boring meeting that had me thinking about anything besides whatever the speaker was rambling. Did you know that folding chairs have been around since Egyptian times?

Last night, I learned that the Orioles walked a Red Sox player, because it was bases loaded and 1 out. They were hoping to get a double play and end the inning, however the move was extremely risky. It was great when the Red Sox won, because it serves the Orioles right for being arrogant.

Peter explained the Ks on the scoreboard denote strikes. He didn't know why that abbreviation was chosen... and with three strikes it looked like white sheets and burning crosses were welcome at the game... apparently, it is not that interesting a story. K is credited to Henry Chadwick, who is responsible for most of baseball abbreviations used today. S was already being used to shorten Sacrifice, so K came from the last letter in Struck. You can read more here.

Wednesday night, APK explained to me the three types of connected relationships people can have according to his father, a Psychiatrist. You can have two lines that form an A... leaning on one another, unable to stand on their own. You can have two lines that form an H... able to stand alone but connected in the middle. Or, you can have an two lines that form an I... unable to separate from their partner. He then quizzed me to see which one I'd like to have. I chose a Pi. Two lines standing alone but connected at the head, not the middles... you take that to mean whatever you imagine...

With all this talk of ketchup being the forgotten condiment, I wanted to know when it was actually invented.

Hope you enjoyed what I've learned...

Personalities

I'm more grossed out by rats than anyone. Hell, I read Rats by Robert Sullivan twice. I was born on the day of the only known rat attacking a human in New York City history. I freak out when I see their lumpy backs cross in front of me on the street at night and shower the instant I get home just fearing their fleas have jumped onto me carrying the Black Plague. But, living in a big city, you learn to deal with rats.

You also learn to deal with pour trash pick-up and rude people. My upstair neighbor is moving out to the burbs in a week to live with his fiance. He's been cleaning up his apartment and left the items needing to be recycled in open bins next to where I park my car. It doesn't really bother me if the rats have a Templeton at the state fair adventure there. I've come to terms with the fact that they exist outside of my apartment. As long as they don't come into my kitchen, I'm content with their adventures outside.

My older neighbor came to the door last night. He had silver hair and round glasses and a frown on his face.

"Do you know who's trash that is?"
"What trash?" I said.
"The trash next to your car. The rats are having a field day. It shouldn't be there."
"I have no idea who's it is. We put our trash in the bins."
"Well, it's next to your car."
"Well, it's not mine."
"It has to be someone's. It's hard enough to control the rats, you know."
"I know. They ate my radiator cord a while ago, however, it is not my trash."
"Who's is it then?"
"I don't know. Maybe the guy's upstairs. Recycling comes tomorrow. I've been assuming it was out there awaiting weekly recycling."
"Well it needs to be moved."
"I agree, but you can complain to me all you like, and it is still not my trash."
"Well. It needs to be moved."
"Great. Good luck with that."

And I slammed the door. Who are these people?

A Different World

It is easy to forget that DC is a city packed full of apartment buildings stuffed of people. Tons of people. People of different tastes and cultures. When Angelina came to visit and suggested we check out music at DC 9, I was in awe that there was an entire culture in the city I lived that I had no idea existed. A culture of vintage tees and choppy hair cuts and tatoos. A hipster culture.

So last night, BG and I drank a whole bottle of organic white wine and headed over to the Jospehine Butler Park Center for the Jam Cellar's weekly Swing Dance. Beginner lessons are free and start at 9pm. We were too enthralled with our alcohol, and we arrived after the beginners had been taught. Sabrina and B2 got there at 9 for the lesson. At first BG and I were drunk enough not too care what anyone thought. During one spin where I let him actually lead (I've been yelled at for not letting men lead many times recently) , I fell on my toosh.

The problem is that I really don't know how to swing dance outside of the basics. I don't know the difference between the Lindy Hop, Charleston, and East Coast steps. I didn't even know that the guy puts one hand on the girl's upper back and makes the other into a fist. The girl holds the fist and gently places her other hand on his tricep. I didn't know that there were 8 steps per move. I didn't know anything, basically, and I was willing to dance and fall until I realized I didn't know a thing. Then I got self-conscious and drank more wine.

The Josephine Butler Park Center is beautiful. It is an old mansion on 15th street with a carriage circle in the front and red carpet running down the center staircase. I made fun of all the girls in Keds, until I realized talking to a totally hip swing dancer, who has been dancing now for 7 years and has Tuesdays off from work to come to the Jam Cellar's event each week, that the shoes on their feet were dance shoes specially made with leather bottoms.

The good dancers all wore green shirts and had hair streaked with blues and reds and pinks. They had tatoos and piercings and leggings on. They were perky, smiling and chatty with everyone they spoke to. The good dancers were so nice that you couldn't even hate them for being so much better at swinging than you.

Once I knew that I didn't know what I was doing, I decided to watch more than dance. Watching people swing dance is more entertaining than much else. As we walked out the door, we could hear the music behind us... calling us back soon...

Hypothetically Speaking

Hypothetical questions are ridiculous.

If you ask me: "If you were the only person left on the planet, would you still wear clothing?" It just doesn't make any sense. Why would I be the only person left on the planet? A bomb? A mass fire? A huge plague? And, if that was the case, the bomb and the fire would blow or burn up all of my clothes, and I'd have to burn or blow up my clothes to get off the plague germs. It just doesn't make sense.

APK asked Peter if he would hypothetically date me. APK explained that this is how guys ask what their buddies think of a girl. Why not just ask, "So, what do you think of Sam?"

He asked me the same thing about Peter a while ago. I responded that, hypothetically, yes. However, in my hypothetical, world he never dated my good friend, the two of us didn't have to make any important decisions (with our mutual indecisiveness, we'd be stuck trying to figure out what we should eat for dinner for so long that we'd both starve to death), and he's not best friends with my boyfriend. Hypothetically doesn't bring us to any sort of conclusion, except that I think he's cute. Basically. It only proves that I'd only date him if we weren't who we are at all.

Like I said, hypothetical questions don't make any sense.

Economists like hypothetical questions though. Lots and lots of hypothetical questions.

Sitting at APK's table eating tacos the other night, he asked me which of my friends, hypothetically, could I see him wanting to watch in porn. "This is ridiculous," I snorted. "No one I'm friends with would ever do porn."

"But it is hypothetical."
"I'm not answering this. I don't want to think about my friends having sex with you."
"They're having sex with someone else. I'm just watching."

Towards the beginning of the relationship, he asked me, hypothetically, who I would sleep with of his friends. I answered. Fully answered. He deserved it for asking. He told me to stop answering as I detailed why. He didn't reaaaaallly want me to answer. But it's hypothetical.

Good Lord. Boys are dumb sometimes.

The Master wanted my opinion on a guy she just started dating, so she asked me, "What did you think of him?" I said, "He was nice." She said, "You said nice. Suave said fine. I guess you didn't like him." "Oh no, we did like him. Sorry. We just didn't get a chance to talk to him all that much. He seems funny, smart, cute, and kind. He seems to like you much too." You see how much better an answer that is?

There aren't really hypothetical questions in girl world, well, outside of "If you had no spending limit at all, where would shop?"

It is September 11th. I woke up remembering.

When you hear Holocaust survivors speak, the mention of remembering is the most prevalent purpose to their stories. If we remember the pain and the suffering, we will not let the devastation occur again.

I flew home last night crying. My mother, father, and brother were all on the same airplane for Buffalo to Atlanta. Josh then drove home to Auburn from Atlanta and my parents continued on to Mobile. I sat in the airport praying that nothing happened to that airplane. I thought about my life without the three of them. I prayed that if the Lord must allow an airplane to crash; let it be mine instead. I flew for the first time at 15 months. I was not scared of flying until today, 5 years ago. I thought about that morning in Amherst, MA five years ago today.

I believe that if history has taught us anything, we must remember the Korean War to prevent Vietnam. We must remember genocide to prevent Darfur. We must remember what it felt like when we watched a man jumping from the World Trade Center in his suit with his tie floating above him holding hands with a woman in a black skirt and heels. We must remember those who suffocated beneath the collapsed towers, those we ran in their heels from the building, those who went to save people and died themselves. We must remember sitting at a vigil on our campus green with tears in our eyes. It is only through fear that we will prevent. It is only through that sadness that we will treasure the moments with our family or hug them as many times as possible before they board their airplane.

I was in the second week of my last year of college. I was about to pick up my friend Graham. I was finishing my coffee, smoking my morning cigarette, and watching the Today show. Breaking news cut into the program to show the first plane having hit the World Trade Center. I called my mother to find out the location of my Uncle who worked in World Trade Center building 7.

I picked up Graham, and we hypothesized what had happened. We arrived at our campus lounge where we sat every morning eating bagels, drinking coffee, and watching the news on a big television. We watched there as the second plane hit, as an airplane hit the Pentagon hit, as the building fell. We watched, and we cried. We tried to call everyone we knew in New York, but the lines were busy. We e-mailed our friends mothers, brothers, friends, and family. We watched the lists start appearing of who had passed away. We sat in front of the television without food, without sleep, without understanding.

We watched as Mayor Giuliani cried and President Bush declared war. I listened to the stories of those who survived, of my Uncle who walked the Brooklyn Bridge to get home. I worried about my friend Marc as he took a bus to downtown Manhattan for months after the metro stopped running. When the blackout took place in 2003, I sat in the dark scared this was another attack. I cringed at the introduction to the early Sex in the City episodes and the World Trade Centers in the background. I slept poorly and ate nothing on the days my parents took planes. I started saying "I Love You" at the end of my conversations to my best friends and family.

But mainly, I forgot. I forgot why I had this fear. I forgot how empty my insides felt, how sweaty my palms felt, how nervous my mind felt. I forgot how great my friend Dave's voice sounded when I heard that he was able to run from the subway just as the planes hit the buildings. I forgot going back to New York six months later and seeing fashionable women in flat shoes. I forgot the way it felt to cry for the people who lived, the people who died, and the people who lost. I forgot that pain. Today, I am trying to remember it.

Memoirs of My Life

I went to Buffalo this weekend for my cousin's Bat Mitzvah. My father has 5 siblings- 4 boys and 1 girl. Each of the boys has 2 children. This was the last Bat Mitzvah. I cried. It's the end of our childhood. We'll have to look forward to weddings in the future. It was an amazing weekend, and I enjoyed seeing my family together.

I never realized how hard cities work to develop tourism. I know people talk of Philadelphia's blue collarness, but I guess I've taken the many museums and great restaurants and King of Prussia Mall for granted when I visit. Buffalo's got nothing. Its biggest claims to fame are the Anchor Bar, where wings supposedly originated, and it's proximity to Niagara Falls. We stayed at a hotel in the heart of downtown. Strangely, there was a night life, though I don't know that it was truly "happening" so much as it was just going on. I saw ads that the Dalai Lama is coming to the University of Buffalo. I also saw ads that said "Buffalo? Yes, Buffalo!" It was for the promotion of tourism... unfortunately, I said the same thing on Thursday night as I drank my 2nd martini at Beacon Bar...

One of my cousin's turned 21 on Friday. This didn't really matter since she lives in Montreal where the drinking age is 18, but I felt that we should take a shot all the same. We went to a great bar called the Chocolate Bar which served alcohol milk shakes, Raspberry Truffle martinis, and shots in edible chocolate shot glasses. The t-shirt worn by the employees read- "Chocolate Bar, Buffalo, NY. Nobody knows the Truffles I've seen."

My brother was up from Auburn, AL. College students live in double wides in Auburn. My brother and his friends hold luaus with pig roasts and pay $250 a month each in rent for a 4 bedroom, 4 bathroom with a hot tub room. He's a true Southerner. So, he wasn't impressed when the waitress at Chocolate Bar told him that they didn't carry Bud Light because Chocolate Bar was a high-class establishment, did he want a Corona instead? My brother didn't realize that the choice beer of Cinco de Mayo was so classy??

It wasn't Josh's fault he found this irritating. He was starving. As he put it, he's a carnivore. One of my cousins is a vegetarian and some of the others keep Kosher. The food was basically all vegetarian all weekend, and not in the fancy cheese variety. The only meat we ate all weekend was our entrée last night which was entirely too fancy for Josh's tastes... it was chicken pâté rolled in a chicken breast rolled in a puff pastry. Josh came to the mall with all the ladies purely so he could get a Johnny Rockets cheeseburger.

It was a wonderful weekend to spend time with my family and bond with my cousins. I am very sad that it is over.

Wasted Time

Do you ever wonder how much time you spend waiting for traffic lights? Do you ever wonder at what point you'll realize that you've wasted so much time in life?

My father just turned 60. He can recall a time before computers, before flashes were attached to cameras, before Watergate induced yellow journalism. He feels old. Though, I don't know that he feels that he ever wasted time.

I turn 27 in 27 1/2 days.... October 5th. I'm freaking out. I always freak out around my birthday. I get depressed. I get pensive. I get drunk. It's been happening since I was 18.

APK asked me why I get depressed. I get depressed that I'm too old to dream anymore.

I asked him if he had any dreams anymore. He said, "I want to make enough money to give my children what I was given." That's a wonderful sentiment, however it is not a dream. That is a goal. I want to eventually become an Associate Publisher of Marketing at a magazine. If I work hard enough and develop a big enough portfolio, it will most likely happen.

A dream is, sorry for the cliche, a wish your heart makes. When I was little and I'd watch Mr. Ed with my father on Nick at Nite, I dreamt of riding horses and becoming an Architect. I didn't know that I wasn't great at math. I'd never ridden a horse before. Then, I went to ride horses. I rode dressage for many years. But, at 14, I fell off the horse and destroyed my arm. I got back on the horse, because my mother made me, and just didn't have the passion I once had for riding horses. It was the end of my dream. I don't ride anymore.

I've had many dreams in my life. I wanted to be an actress, so I got a part in local theater. I acted throughout high school. Then I realized what a hard path trying to be an actress would be, so I gave that up to. I wanted to be a fashion designer, so I went to RISD for a summer program and realized I wanted to shop and look pretty in other people's clothing instead. I wanted to be a ballet dancer until I was told I was too small and didn't have the strength for toe. I wanted to be an art buyer until I interned for an Art Publishing company. I wanted to work at "the" magazine publishers in New York, and then I got that too, and realized I didn't much like New York.

And so somewhere along the way, I've stopped dreaming. I've stopped watching TV and letting my mind wander to what might be. I've stopped playing Sim City building Samville and Samland. I've stopped dreaming.

So when I get depressed on my birthday, it's the loss of dreams. The loss of innocence. The further and further my life takes me from my dreams, the more I feel like I've wasted time. The more I think about the fact that I've wasted 45 seconds waiting to cross the street.

Anyways, so that's why I'll be a little sad the next coming month.

Adventures on I-66

I ventured all the way to the very end of I-66 West today. My drive was to take me to Belle Grove Plantation in Middletown, VA. If you've only taken I-66 to Falls Church and Tyson's Corner, well, you're not missing much. I took it the whole way, past Haymarket and Warren County... all the way to wear I-66 ends and I-81 begins. I took it all the way to a place where no DC radio stations come through and Christian rock (even if you're Jewish) is the best option for listening. I took it to a place where a motel advertised rates at $27.95 for a double room. I took it to a place where Civil War reenactments take place and "CS" (as in Confederate Soldier) children's belt buckles are sold at the Exxon station. I took it back to Bama, basically, but only an 80 miles South of DC. It certainly makes you realize that the South is right in calling DC the North.

When I was in college, my father would fly into Hartford and road trip with me back to Bama on summer break. The first time, we were much more adventurous and actually drove North of Massachusetts up through Vermont, the Ben and Jerry's factory, and to see my cousins and Bubby in Montreal. He remarked to himself, "All this land all over America, and everyone is crowding themselves on Manhattan's 10 miles." It's something that has stuck with me throughout my time in New York and DC. All this land in Virginia wide open, and here we are paying $3 million for a 3 bedroom townhouse in Georgetown.

I stopped in a Mom and Pop gas station (I didn't know they had those anymore?) about 50 miles from DC. I bought Watermellon Twist Trident and a Diet Pepsi. The woman behind the counter was about 60 with so much foundation on her face that I thought if I scratched it with a penny, I might win the lottery. Her hair was dyed yellow, not blonde, Tweety Bird yellow. She looked me over, the said "Honey, you don't need to be on any diet. You're from DC, ain't you?" Apparently in Virginia, there's a sugar-free gum and diet soda diet that exists????

Rather than have tampons for sale in the "Convenient Health Center" in the restroom, condoms and this sexual stimulant named Weed (I thought that was so funny I had to take a picture for pot heads everywhere!) were 75 cents.

Along the way, a mysterious bug appeared in my car and bit the sh-t out of my right foot. I hope I don't develop Mad Cow disease now. I have about 12 bug bites on my foot at the moment. It itches terribly.

At Belle Grove, I met the adorable cat Nelly who resides there. I'm totally not a cat person either, since I basically associate them with insane old ladies. Anyways, I joked to the people working there that Nelly was one lucky cat to be the only thing living full-time in the museum. Apparently, most historic sites have a pet. A dog lives in Oatlands. I used to think that people were the top notch in reincarnation. Now, I believe that cats and dogs at historic sites are the final notch.

On my way back to DC from Belle Grove, I got stuck in more traffic right near Haymarket. There wasn't even construction going on... just block up and alot of distruction to the road. Traffic patterns off.

Does anyone remember reading back in the 80s that Disney World would alter the line to their rides so that people were always waiting outside just in case pictures were taken. They wanted everyone to think Disney World was always crowded. Anyways, I think DC does the same thing with traffic. I think they set up "construction zones" in carefully planned places so that tourists will always think it is really busy in DC... leading to hotels charging more for rooms per night... leading to better bands coming to the Verizon Center... leading to Rosa Mexicano opening a branch in Chinatown. Honestly, I don't buy this construction everywhere one bit. We're not in the midst of the Big Dig. What's the problem?

And while I'm on roads, I'm also convinced that Georgetown's community meetings must be really warped. Do you think that the rich local residents who attend vote to keep the roads in Georgetown as crappy as they are in order to keep people from using them? I bet it is rigged. I bet they pay off city officials to say their is no money to fix the pot holes. That's my opinion, at least.

Anyways, I made it back to DC in one, bitten-up piece. Hope your day went well!

Pizza Pizza! "Diet" Pizza Tasting

I have always said that pizza was my favorite food. Growing up, my mother cooked our family dinner ever night except Sunday. Sunday was pizza night. We ordered from national pizza chains mostly.

It wasn’t until I moved to New York that I tried gourmet pizza with fresh mozzarella and tomato sauce and hand-sliced pepperoni. I formed preferences about pizza, turning my nose up at Totonno’s soggy crust and arguing that Lombardi’s and Grimaldi’s were by far ideal.

I became a pizza snob. I’m still a pizza snob. I can proudly say I’ve not yet been drunk enough to eat a Jumbo Slice.

The problem with my pizza fetish is that I have a figure to maintain, and thus, I’ve become victim to frozen “diet” pizzas. In talking to my other female friends, I realized we all have “diet” pizza preferences. Who knew frozen “diet” pizzas were such great sellers?

I decided to host a mini-focus group of 25-29 year old men and women, 3 of each, without children and from diverse areas across America. Professions and pizza preferences were greatly varied. It was a rainy three day weekend, what else were going to do?

Here were my rules in purchasing the pizzas. They had to be under 410 calories and 15g of fat per serving. The servings had to be enough to reasonably compose an actual meal. Exceptions were made for one pizza that was extraordinarily inexpensive and one that was sold at Whole Foods with the label “All Natural. Wholesome. Delicious.” If the box suggested a microwavable option, I used a microwave to cook the pizza. This was met with displeasure from the group. I argued that not all the pizzas offered directions for this form of cooking. If the manufacturers didn’t want us to microwave their product, they shouldn’t suggest it. No one was told the type of pizza or calorie and fat content until the conclusion of the tasting.

7 of us attempted to eat a sample of 16 pizzas. The store had at least 20 more options from which to choose. I had 4 more in my freezer, but we were too full to make an unbiased review. In my opinion, this was the best sampling of the varieties. I shopped at Whole Foods and SFW.

The low-calorie and low-fat options included Healthy Choice Pepperoni French Bread Pizza (approved by the American Heart Association as stated on the box;, Smart Ones by Weight Watchers Four Cheese and Pepperoni Pizza; Lean Cuisine Deep Dish Margherita, Traditional Four Cheese, and Deep Dish Spinach and Mushroom; South Beach Diet Harvest Wheat Crunch Four Cheese Pizza and Grilled Chicken and Vegetable Pizza (produced by Kraft); and Health is Wealth Mexican Style Pizza, Mini Pizza Bagels, and Pizza Munchees.

Additionally, we tried Tony’s Cheese Pizza for One which was almost half the price of most of the “diet” pizzas costing a frugal $1.67 at SFW. Kosher Macabee Cheese Bagel Pizzas possessed only 150 calories and 5g of fat per bagel. Ellio’s Microwave Cheese Pizza surprisingly contained less calories and fat then many of the diet pizzas with only 380 calories and 10g of fat per pizza. DiGiorno’s Four Crust Pizza was rated the best pizza by iVillage.com in their taste test of frozen pizzas (non-diet) so I decided to put it in the mix as well. Despite popular notions, one serving had only 270 calories and 9g of fat. Lastly, I chose to include Linda McCartney’s Stone-Fired Artichoke and Roasted Garlic Pizza, because it was sold at Whole Foods as wholesome, all-natural, and delicious. It was also more than double the fat of the DiGiorno Pizza at 17g per serving.

Our results? We used a four-star system. Pizzas were rated on sauce, crust, toppings, cheese and overall taste.



Surprisingly or not, the two pizzas that scored best were the microwaved Smart Ones Pepperoni Pizza and the Lean Cuisine Deep Dish Spinach and Mushroom Pizza. The oven-cooked DiGiorno’s Four Cheese Pizza and microwaved Tony’s Cheese Pizza’s fell just behind each of these “diet” pizzas. The Smart Ones scored highest for its pepperoni topping, sauce, and cheese. The Lean Cuisine did not contain tomato sauce. It scored well in crust and toppings, especially since tasters found the ingredients to appear “fresh.”

The lowest rated pizzas were both Health is Wealth. The fat-free soy cheese on the Health is Wealth Mini Pizza Bagels may have only been 150 calories and 0g of fat, but tasters thought the top looked like Play-Doh and found the cheese to taste like rubber. The Health is Wealth Pizza Munchees were also low in calories and fat with only 180 calories and 5g of fat. However, they were described to taste like “egg rolls with tomato paste inside.” No one finished more than a bite of either of these pizzas.

The Health is Wealth Mexican Style Pizza, both South Beach Diet Pizzas, and the Linda McCartney’s Stone-Fired Crust Artichoke and Roasted Garlic Pizza tied as the second-lowest rated pizzas. The Health and Wealth pizza had too many toppings for the tasters. The South Beach Diet pizzas scored very low in cheese and crust. The smell of the Linda McCartney pizza disturbed tasters.

Our tasters eat pizza once a week on average. We have all learned that low-calories, low-fat, and microwave cooking do not necessarily create a bad pizza. At one point, a taster remarked that he couldn’t believe any executive had let the South Beach Diet name be placed on such a monstrous product. Perhaps the focus group had not properly tasted the options for sale. Against the hyped DiGiorno pizza, the Smart Ones and Lean Cuisine pizzas arrived from the microwave victorious.

I’ve been judged...

At Whole Foods.

I had 3 Kashi frozen meals, 3 bottles of wine, and a 6-pack of organic root beer (I don’t know what that means, exactly).

The check-out woman puts it all in one paper bag. I went to lift it, and my arm just about fell off. I asked if she could please separate it into two bags so I could distribute the rate between two arms.

“We try to encourage people to conserve resources,” she says to me.

Goodness gracious. I think she was just too lazy to remove some of the items and replace them in another bag.

“Thank you. I understand,” I said, “but I have to carry these, and it will be impossible without two bags.”

The man behind me gave me an appalled look. Holy shit! I wanted 2 recycled bags, not a freaking fur coat.

She rolled her eyes and put 1 of the wine bottles into another bag. Just one bottle of wine. Irritated I stood at the credit card swipe and put another wine bottle, and 1 Kashi meal into it.

What happened to the customer is always right? I guess if you’re Whole Foods, you get to throw your nose in the air.

Regressed Adolescence Much?

Here's the story as it was told to me:

After leaving his kickball team's designated bar to make the last Metro, a drunken flip cupper (I mean kickballer. Excuse me?) falls asleep on the train. He wakes up on a dark train removed form the platform to its nighttime resting place on the tracks.

Freaking out and drunk, he uses begins walking through the different cars towards the front of the train. At the very last car, he spots the driver in lighting finishing up paperwork. The kickballer bangs on the door for the driver. He is able to convince the driver of the confusion and get a ride back to the platform.

Once at the platform, the kickballer pukes into a trash can and then realizes there are no trains headed back downtown. He goes to street level to find a taxi, but at 1am in the suburbs on a weeknight, there are no taxis on the street. He decides that walking home would be the best idea. He was about 10 miles from his home.

He walked for some time and began getting sick again. He chooses to sit on the curb, rest up, and then attempt to continue the walk home. As he was seated, a Policeman spots him and asks what he is doing. Belligerently, the kickballer exclaims that he is sitting. The Policeman kindly states that this is not such a great idea and asks where the poor, drunk, yuppie is going. The kickballer finally relays the location of his apartment, and the Policeman tells him to get in the car. He drives the boy home.

On the ride home, the kickballer is so drunk still that he pukes out the back seat window of the police car. The DC police must share stories daily about their encounters with these morons.

Doesn't playing kickball sound fun!