We're in the Money..

Try as I might, it seems that I am entirely incapable of coaxing intelligent thought from my brain today.

And so, I give you...

Things I Would Do If I Won The Lottery
(One of the really big ones)

Of course, there is the obvious stuff:

• Pay off my student loans.


• Buy a house. Or, more specifically, buy a Brownstone in Brooklyn Heights.


• INVEST! You'd have to be an idiot to think lotto winnings--even huge ones--could last forever.


• TRAVEL! Antarctica here I come!

Then the less obvious, but still standard fare:

• Pay off my parents' mortgage. They've earned it.


• Send my parents to Europe, with or without me. Again, they've earned it.


• Buy random but heartfelt gifts for friends and family, even my Evil Ex Roommate (who is marginally less evil these days), because years ago I promised I would. Also it might piss her off a little, and what's the point of being filthy rich if you can't be just the tiniest bit petty?


• Buy a vintage Mustang. 1964 1/2 Convertible, Rangoon Red... hell-o cargasm!! (And of course, my Brownstone would have a garage in which to keep it.)

Then the much-more-personal:

• Spend a month in an Ashram, to keep my rich ass grounded. Ironic, really, that becoming filthy stinkin' rich is the only way I could afford to spend a month living a life of utter simplicity... because some other chick already had the bright idea to write a book about it).


• Become a Slow Foodie. Or a Slow-ish Foodie. I wouldn't stop eating out or occasionally ordering a pizza, but I would have a vegetable garden (and probably have to hire a gardener to keep me from killing it), grow my own herbs, bake my own bread, make my own condiments (I heart homemade ketchup), learn how to make tortilla chips, buy large quantities of meat direct from the farmers and keep it in my sub-zero freezer, etc...


• Build a pottery studio in my basement. I really miss spinning pottery, even if I was never particularly good at it.


• Keep working. I would still want to get my PhD and teach college. I would find an arts organization I love (or start my own!) and work for them for a pittance. Sure, I'd work part-time and take time off to travel and whatnot, but I would definitely still work.


• Take trapeze lessons. I worked at a Summer Camp many years ago, and it had a circus unit. One day when all the campers were on a field trip the head of Circus let all the counselors have a go on Fly and oh-my-lord... I have never been so terrified-yet-exhilarated in my life! Freaking awesome.


• Adopt one of those kids that Sally Struthers is always talking about. Not in the Angelina Jolie way, no no no! In the pay-for-the-kid-to-eat-and-have-clothes-and-get-an-education way. Then I can stop feeling that little pang of guilt in my gut whenever I see one of those commercials. Also, it would be a good thing to do.


• Buy small studio flats in cities I love, like Rome. And probably London. Sublet them to students at low prices when I'm not around--which will be most of the time.


• Buy a horse. I'd probably have to board it in Jersey because even though I've won the lottery I can only imagine how obscenely expensive it must be to board a horse within NYC. But that's totally alright... I can just drive my '64 1/2 Mustang on over the Hudson whenever I want to ride. Sun shining, top down, wind in my hair... what? Oh, sorry, got distracted.

Hmmm... that's all I can think of at the moment. (Feel free to take that "all" with a grain of salt.) It's funny, because if I were to win the "small" lottery, it's those items in the last section of the list that would most likely come to fruition.

I guess that means I'm the type of girl who would rather have trapeze lessons and a pottery studio than a house and a debt-free credit report.

I'm totally cool with that.

Also you don't have to pay real-estate taxes on trapeze lessons.

So what about you? What's your off-the-beaten-path lotto dream?

My Subconscious Strikes Again

Last night I dreamt that I, er, got frisky with one of my good male friends.

Well, no, that's not quite accurate.

I dreamt that I almost got frisky with one of my good male friends, but before the deal could be sealed, so to speak, a myriad of events occurred to prevent it...in ways that only my warped psyche could concoct. These included, but were not limited to: a premature ejaculation, random couples walking through the room (including such characters as his real-life roommate and "the smelly kid" from elementary school), and a whole horde of people coming into the room to label things in Spanish.

Yes. Spanish.

Right.

Needless to say, I woke up with the same thought I always have after such nocturnal escapades...

"Well now... that was interesting!"

I don't get all freaked out when I have a sex dream about someone I actually know. I've done my research, and while the jury is still out on Freud's theories in general, I do like what he has to say about this one, which is: if you have a sex dream about someone you know, it does not necessarily mean that you secretly want to jump his/her bones, but rather that there is some aspect of that person's personality that you find attractive.

This, of course, is totally applicable here. The guy is a good friend, of course there are aspects of his personality I find attractive.

Though I do have to wonder... does the same theory apply if you only attempt to shag this person in your dream? Does that mean I am only attempting to find those qualities attractive? And how exactly would one go about doing that anyway?

Personally, I think it just means that I need to get laid. If my sexual frustration has reached such epic proportions that it's manifesting itself in my dreams, methinks it is time to take matters out of my own hands... and into someone else's!

Easier said than done, of course... but a girl can dream, right?

Oh wait. Apparently I can't.

Damnit.

I'm an idiot...

In my postcard post, I gave the incorrect email address. Thanks to Princess Pointful for pointing out my error!

Here I was, wondering why everyone was saying it was a great idea and nobody was emailing me addresses... now I have my answer.

So, my actual email address is das-frog at optonline.net.

Send along those names/addresses and the postcard list will commence!


There may or may not be a "real" post later today... I am enjoying some serious relaxation here at the parents' house in PA. Life is good.

Happy Memorial Day!

Postcards from...

If spending money were an Olympic sport, I would be a fucking gold medalist.

Today I ran errands, most of which were travel-related. I went to Barnes and Noble to examine the Lonely Planet guide to Peru--and came to the conclusion that like the Rough Guide soooo much better--and to choose a travel book that would be a good read, but also last me for 2 months (Midnight's Children, in case you were wondering). I once again demonstrated my inability to enter Sephora--where I went with the simple intention of finding a new shampoo--without exiting with a myriad of unexpected purchases (like Fiberwig mascara and some new styling products).

The exciting part of the afternoon came when I went to Paragon Sports to purchase that backpack that will contain my worldly possessions for the months of July and August. This time I chatted with a salesguy, who called down to storage for the model I'd been eyeing on my last visit, and lo and behold I tried it on and it was perfect! And not overpriced!! So that major purchase has been completed.

Later in the afternoon, after depositing my bounty at home, I returned to Manhattan to visit the Travel Sale at the Container Store (and finally spend a $20 gift card given to me for my birthday, like, 3 years ago). So now I have all sorts of modular goodies to keep my clothes and toiletries compact and organized.

I can't believe how quickly my departure is approaching--just 6 weeks!!--and there is still so very much to worry about.

I need a cat-friendly subletter.

I need malaria meds, and a birth control refill, and perhaps some Lunesta to combat jet-lag (anyone ever use that stuff? OTC sleep aids literally keep me awake, I was hoping that prescription might do a better job...).

And, of course, I've been wondering what to do with the blog.

I've got to be honest, I have neither the time nor the patience to organize guest bloggers for two whole months. Nor, I think, do y'all care to be saddled with such a responsibility. You have your own blogs to write, after all.

I will, of course, drop in and update when I can, but I will be traveling without a computer and so all internet time will be taking place in Net Cafes or the computer lab at Irish University. And thanks to Google's new "scheduled publishing" feature, I have a few surprises cooked up to keep you entertained in my absence.

But, ever the over-achiever, I've decided that this is not enough. And so I came up with a brilliant idea.

Postcards.

That's right, dear Freaders. If you email me a name and address (it can be your blog name, so long as that won't deter the postman), I will send you an actual, physical postcard from somewhere along my travels.

Will it be London?

Will it be the 12 hour stopover in Paris?

Will it be Peru?

Will it arrive before I get back to the States?

Only time will tell. But if you would like a Postcard from a Frog, send your name and address to das_frog @ optonline.net and I will add you to my list!

How's that for bloggy dedication?

Also, if anyone wants to pay less than my actual rent to come live in my apartment and hang out with my cat while I'm gone... let me know!

Handwritten

I got this idea from the lovely Hope. The handwritten blog post.

(And yes, I totally got paranoid and blurred the faces on the photo in the background... sue me.)



What about you? What would your handwritten post say?

I Froggy, Take thee Freaders...

So this is my 200th post.

For the past few weeks as I've trepidatiously watched this milestone approach, I've found myself wondering... what on earth will I talk about? I mean, damn, 200... that's a pretty big number. It's like my own, personal bicentennial. I should really put some thought into this...

And now the moment has arrived... and you know what?

I want to blog about my hair.

Yes, my hair.

You see, I went to a wedding tonight. A lovely wedding, with a lovely bride and groom, and hands-down the best entrance-music EVER during any wedding ceremony I have ever attended. (And yes, Jess, I did come away with one suggestion for you!)

But enough about the happy couple. This is all about me. Hey, it's my blog, I can be self-centered if I wanna...

You see, I have always loved the styles of the 1920s, and have always always always wanted to learn how to do finger waves. My hair is currently at an awkward length that I can't cut because of short film project and the whole continuity issue, but there's really not much I can do with it in terms of dressing it up. Yet I realized that, given the couple, and the couple's friends, if ever there was an event to rock out Flapper-Style, this was it.

So I did a test run on Thursday and discovered that really... with some patience and enough of the proper styling product, it really wasn't all that difficult.

And so, in true 1920s fashion, I started my hair around noon today, for an evening event. I let it set for about 4 hours, then combed it, bobby-pinned it, hairsprayed the living daylights out of it, and off I went.

First of all, I find it interesting that styling oneself like a socialite from 1924 causes one to be hit on by men older than one's father... only instead of the usual "oooh sexy, you lookin' fine..." I was receiving compliments such as "you look lovely" and "you look very nice." Sure, the complimenters were grey, or bald, and older than my father, but still... a girl could get used to this.

But the crowning glory of the evening came after I danced my ass off to everything from Brian Adams to Gloria Estefan to Rancid... and my hair did. not. fucking. budge.

Seriously, by the time I and the centerpiece the mother of the bride gave to me had trekked home to Brooklyn in a taxi, my hair still looked as flawless as it had when I left the house--nary a single frizz in sight.

That, my friends, is fucking magic.

And magic, of course, was meant to be shared...

The Front:




The Left:




The Right:




The only question that now remains is... do I wash out this obscene amount of product (ostensibly enough to kill a small village) tonight? Or do I wait until morning to see how well the hair has held up?

Decisions, decisions...

The Pitfalls of Technology...

Alternatively Titled: Yet Another Chapter In The Never-Ending Saga Of Why I Hate UPS

This afternoon I had a revelation: I miss the days before online-package-tracking became available.

Oh sure, the first time I was able to gleefully refresh that page every few hours and watch my parcel slowly make its way across the nation, it was exciting...

"Look! It's in Kansas City!"

"Ooooh! Newark! That means it's getting close!"

"Maspeth! YES!! It will be here tomorrow!!"

"'Out For Delivery.' Hmmm... I wonder how much longer I'll have to sit around the house waiting..."

"Still not here..."

"Damnit, we're out of toilet paper. The deli is only a few blocks away, I can totally make it... I would even be able to see the truck and run for it if necessary..."

"What? Attempted Delivery Notice? FUCK!!!"

And thus it began... and over the years, UPS and I? Have become mortal enemies.

Fucking Mortal.

I'm not sure how it works in the rest of the country, but here in New York City? It is blatantly obvious that the Boys in Brown could give a rat's ass about customer service.

And honestly? Why should they?

We are city held hostage by the fact that their distribution centers are so incredibly inconveniently located that unless we have access to a car, we have no choice but to wait for them to come to us. And with a large number of companies that ONLY offer UPS as a shipping option, I have been forced to continue this dance of damnation, while they continue to collect my shipping dollars and provide very little in return.

Much like my last foray into UPS-land, where I was informed that "Out For Delivery" does not, in fact, mean that the package is on its way to my abode, and that all those other results were the work of some sort of package-tracking poltergeist, last night I attempted to track a package only to be told that no information was available. After speaking with both UPS and the shipper, I was told to wait and check back this morning.

So I did, and rejoice! It is scheduled to be delivered today!! I thanked my lucky stars that I went and bought myself a doorbell yesterday, and settled in to do some reading, listening intently for any sound of a truck outside, and dutifully running to the window at every rumble, like a Rottweiler waiting for the mailman.

Shortly after 11:00am, I wandered to the window at the sound of a gate opening. Not wanting to put even the most asinine behavior past UPS, I wanted to make sure he wasn't trying to deliver to the basement, as opposed to my front door--which is up a flight of steps, just like every other brownstone on my block.

Lo and behold! There was a UPS truck three doors down! And right before my eyes I watched the driver exit someone else's basement/garden entrance, climb into his truck, and depart.

"Well that's stupid. Why would they send some guy three doors down from me, and not send my package on the same truck? With soaring fuel prices, you'd think they would manage things a bit better... Unless, wait. Did he already stop at my door? Did he not ring my doorbell?? FUCK!"

I ran downstairs and there was no Attempted Delivery notice, so I optimistically decided to chalk it up to poor planning and head upstairs to wait for my truck.

That was 6 hours ago, and despite countless sprints to the window--one of which occurred during the writing of this post, only to reveal a fucking FedEx truck across the street--and my package is still not here. Nor do I believe it will be coming.

Still no change to the tracking page, but the minute that "Delivery Attempted" message pops up, as I have no doubt it will--most likely for sometime around 11am--I am going to call Customer Service and have a fucking field day with whatever poor, unfortunate soul gets stuck with my call. This would not be the first time that a UPS driver claimed attempted delivery without ringing a doorbell or leaving a notice, but I will do my damnedest to make sure it is the last...

Even if that "Out for Delivery" doesn't mean what it says, the tracking gave today as the delivery date, damnit! STOP FUCKING WITH MY EMOTIONS YOU BROWN-UNIFORMED BASTARDS!!!

91 Days Until Brazil...

And that means 91 days in which to get my body bikini-worthy! Less, technically, as I'll hardly be working out during the month in the UK beforehand, but still... Yes. I have a lot of work to do.

Right after I finish this serving of Trader Joe's Potstickers. [Ed. Note: The pork is not nearly as good as the chicken.]

Yes.

At any rate, I am an excited and rather scatter-brained frog today because PHEW! So much has been accomplished.

By much I mean money... and by accomplished I mean spent.

And the accomplishing doesn't appear to be tapering off anytime soon.

I met Slater at the travel agent's office this morning and... HOORAY!! We have officially booked our plane tickets! They came in at about $1K more than I was hoping, but still under my "holy shit!" maximum, so it's a win-win.

At one point we have a 12 hour layover in Paris. Any idea what could be done in Paris for 12 hours? Specifically the 12 hours between 10pm and 10am? So far we have come up with:

• Find Eiffel Tower
• Eat Cheese
• Eat Bagette
• Drink Wine

All told with travel to/from the airport I'm guessing that kills about 2 1/2 hours. Any suggestions as to what to do with the other 7 1/2 would be most welcome!

After spending an exorbitant amount of money on air travel, we consoled ourselves with beer and burgers at what is rapidly becoming our favourite lunch spot, and then proceeded to trek downtown to that mecca of shopping that is Century 21 to find me a dress to wear to the two, count 'em two, weddings I am attending in the next two weeks.

Miraculously, amongst such comments as "Do you want to look like drapes?" and "A little too Psycho-Donna-Reed," and my being leered at by a group of Frenchman whom I am pretty sure were the French acrobats that were the subject of the lesson plan I drafted for a job application last week, we managed to find a fabulous dress, AND shoes! SHOES PEOPLE!! Because somehow, in the ridiculously large collection of footwear I have at my disposal, I did not have a single pair that would match this particular dress. It was like a sign from the heavens telling me that Yes, in fact, I needed those beige strappy Nine West sandals.

Who am I to argue with the gods?

After such a gluttony of consumerism, the only thing left to do, naturally, was to trek back up to the Village and have margaritas. Which is precisely what we did.

And the waitress eternally endeared herself to me when she dropped the check and said "Here you go ladies!" [Ed. Note: even better was the fact that Slater didn't notice until I pointed it out to him.]

Thus ends the epic proportions of my day--with a gigantic-peach-margarita-clouded trip home, a DVR'ed episode of Days, a call to the parents, and some mediocre potstickers.

And you, my dear freaders, of course.

However, while my body is juuuust about ready for a nice long sleep, my poor brain is tossing in a frenzy of... I'm not sure. There is just SO MUCH TO DO in the next 2 months before I take off.

Weddings.

A staged reading to rehearse and perform.

Er, 7 or 8 books to read for classes.

A proposal to draft and submit for approval of my Fall project.

A root canal.

Another trip back to PA 3 weeks after root canal for permanent filling.

Travel doctor appointment for Malaria pills and Cipro.

A backpack, and myriad other travel necessities, to purchase.

Oh, right, a VISA to purchase from the Brazilian Consulate.

And lest I forget... FIGURING OUT HOW TO PACK FOR 2 MONTHS, IN 2 OR 3 TOTALLY DIFFERENT CLIMATES, IN ONE FREAKING HIKER'S BACKPACK!!!

And so, my dearest freaders, here is the first (of what will probably be many) travel questions I pose to you:

If you were packing for 2 months in the lightest manner possible what would you bring? What would you leave behind? What is the one luxury item that you feel would be worth the room in your luggage?

All answers will be given the utmost consideration in final packing decisions... and may even be rewarded... with my eternal love and devotion, if nothing more :)

Eat Your Heart Out, Martha Stewart

This recipe was supposed to make 14 cookies, and only made 7.

However, my waistline and I? We're okay with that.

My productivity level--where school is concerned because, yes, it is already time for me to start doing work again--has been minimal today.

On the positive side, I drafted a preliminary timeline for the MAJOR project I am undertaking in the Fall.

On the negative, I did not get started on my application for approval by the University Committee on Activities Involving Human Subjects... which is going to take for freaking EVER and I need to submit it by the end of the month so that it can (hopefully) be approved before I leave the country for 2 months.

Phew!

But I did bake cookies. And got stuff to make dinner. And concocted this half-assed blog post as an excuse to show off my mad culinary skillz.

And just mentally smacked myself for actually using the words "mad" and "skillz" in the same sentence.

So... clearly the day is not entirely a wash.

At least, that's the line I'm taking...

All Aboard

My train of thought should have a sentinel.

A conductor-cum-bouncer who checks the tickets of every arrival, making sure they've boarded the proper train. And at night, when the train prepares to shut down for the evening to make way for the Subconscious Express, this sentinel would silently walk the aisles, looking to eject any hangers-on, dislodging the nagging barnacles of memory.

You see... I am a dweller.

The tiniest injustice, insensitivity, or insignificant embarrassment that occurred within the 28 years of my existence can, at any moment, leap, unbidden, onto my train of thought and then staunchly refuse to depart.

It will sit, smugly, reading a newspaper--like the last customer in a restaurant who blithely ignores the stares of evil from the waitstaff, who want nothing more than to go home (or to the bar, whatever)--and it will not budge.

And each and every time that this occurs, I feel myself slowly begin to get just as worked up over the incident as I did 2 or 8 or 15 years ago when it occurred. My chest will constrict, my hands will involuntarily clench, and my mind will begin to race...

"I still can't believe they said that in front everybody..."

"Of course that's what it means! I am such an idiot!!"

"Why can't they ever understand that, to me, it just wasn't funny!?"

And on and on as my train of thought derails entirely and I am stuck in a fog of infinitesimal and insignificant regret.

For you see, these memories on which I dwell--these moments of anger or embarrassment or misunderstanding--are trifling at best. I am certain that any of the other parties involved in any one of these scenarios has no memory whatsoever of the event.

Unless, of course, that person is High School Boyfriend, who, if there were an Olympics of Dwelling, could certainly give me a run for my money.

But the others, those countless others who wend their way into my thoughts when my mind falls idle--I doubt they remember or ever even knew how embarrassed and angry I was when they alluded to my illicit encounter with a fellow counselor at an all-camp event; how my fists clenched and my throat tightened when the 13 year old girls in my bunk later asked "what was that all about?"; or the tears that stung the back of my eyelids when the oldest of my girls strode into the bunk, blazing fury, to say "that was so wrong, I can't believe they did that to you!"

These are the passengers that refused to disembark at their designated station half a decade ago. As more and more board the train and refuse to leave, my consciousness becomes cluttered with these meaner fellows--worthy matters crowded out by the refuse that dominates my midnight mind.

And each time these recollections surface and wreak their special breed of havoc on my peace of mind I ask myself... Why?? Why is it that I am unable to let go, let go and move on from what, in the grand scheme of my life, is trivial at best?

My inner psychoanalyst comes forward, pushing her wire-framed glasses higher on her nose, to say "Well Froggy, you have spent the better part of your life not dwelling on the most significant and, if you'll pardon the unprofessional phrasology, fucked up injustice you have ever suffered... perhaps your anger over this one larger event has been transferred onto these smaller events as a coping mechanism."

She smiles and retreats into the shadows, yet there are flaws in her theory. For the past year or so, said Grand Event has been struggling to the surface with ever increasing frequency and is slowly becoming a subject of just as much dwelling as his more insignificant cohorts. Why then, if dwelling on the trifling were a coping mechanism for past trauma, would the arrival of past trauma not bring about a reduction in these trifling resurgences?

Clearly, psychoanalyzing myself--while tempting--is nothing more than an exercise in circular logic.

But I wish I understood, what it is that traps my mind in these cages of past injustice, why I am incapable of letting go of these smallest of moments, why my chest can tighten and my breath shorten at the mere thought of something that occurred 8 years go.

I like to think I am at peace with my past. Why then, can't the past be at peace with me?

Flashback

The first boy whose penis I ever touched--without the marginal barrier of a pair of green nylon athletic shorts--is married, with two children, to the girl he started dating a week after I broke up with him.

He was also the first boy to give me a hickey. Four of them. And I almost killed him for it.

We were in his bedroom. His little brother kept walking in on us as we made out on his beat-up old couch, but we finally managed to lock him out and, giggling, rolled off of the couch and onto the floor.

"Ouch!" I muttered as he rolled on top of me. "Your keys!"

"What?"

"Your keys. They're digging into my hip."

He fumbled around for a second before responding "I'm not wearing my keys, they're over there on the dresser."

"Oh, nevermind then..." I tried to hide my wincing as we continued sloppily making out on his floor.

Of course it wasn't his keys.

It was his penis.

Why is it that boys, as soon as they get an erection, feel an irresistible urge to grind it into the tenderest area of your hip joint? It may feel nice to them--indeed, rubbing up against a lamppost would probably feel just as pleasant--but I am getting nothing from this other than a nagging concern as to what I will tell my mother when I come home with a limp.

From there things progressed as I imagine they always do at this age. I pry him off my neck a few times, explaining that hickeys are NOT sexy, they are broken blood vessels (thank you, "Who's the Boss" for teaching me that little lesson), and then his hand slowly begins to push my hand lower... and lower... and... oh! So that's what you want me to do! Well now, that's not very difficult, I think I can manage... oh, but my arm is starting to get tired. Is this really that exciting for you? And what are you...? Oh! Well that's interesting, but really, I can do better by myself...

And then his little brother began banging on the door, and I retreated to the bathroom to ponder having rounded another proverbial base, and examine the four motherfucking hickeys that were going to look simply fabulous against the bright red and black of my cheerleading uniform the following day at school.

A few weeks later I broke up with him. I'd like to say something profound like "oh, somehow I just knew it wasn't meant to be..." but really, it was much simpler than that. After the initial thrill of holy-shit-he-likes-me-too!! and now-I-have-a-boyfriend!-WOW!! had worn off, my anti-PDA nature began to surface and the way he hung all over me in public started to irk me.

So I told him I needed a break... which, in 14-year-old-girl-speak, means "I need a few weeks to get my shit together, but I totally expect you to be here when I come to my senses... or get lonely and realize I miss you."

He, however, seemed to have missed that memo. And roughly a week later was dating another girl in my class--a girl who walked to class with us every afternoon, on which same walk I discovered they were now an item.

I must admit, I was a bit offended that the mourning period had been so brief.

But now, knowing they are married, and have children, and their family photos on Facebook are so cute it kinda makes my teeth ache?

Well, that takes the sting off. Just a little.

Funny how these things work out.

Every Man in Town Should Be Lining Up At My Door...

Because this...



Was made entirely from scratch.

And instead of spinach, onion, garlic, tomato, olives & goat cheese, it could just as easily have been sausage, proscuitto, and roasted red peppers. Or barbecue chicken, pineapple, and onions.

Or, okay, pepperoni, bacon, and peppers.

Also, I have beer.

And there's these:



Freshly baked ciabatta rolls.

So... who's coming over for dinner?

Aaaalmost.... there....

Two more days! Including today, just two more days until I have officially survived my second semester of graduate school.

The papers are all written.

The job application made it to submission a whopping 4 days before it was actually due.

This afternoon I've rented studio space near Times Square to choreograph my final performance piece. Tomorrow is the in-class performance, and then... finito!

So, universe willing, I will be back into the swing of blogginess soon enough--writing and reading. To those whose comment pages from which I have been woefully absent, I'll be making a date with Google Reader very, very soon.

And so, until the the madness officially subsides, I leave you with this snippet of conversation from after-class drinks with friends on Monday.


Her: Oh, I was a lesbian for three years.

Me: What? It didn't take?

Strange Medicine

Oddly enough, I am not drunk this evening. It probably has something to do with the $8 price tag on the pitifully small beers at the venue of the evening's Bachelorette excursion. Just a guess.

But last night? Last night was a different story.

And so out of the goodness of my heart, I would like to share with you...

Froggy's Never-Fail Hangover Cure

Disclaimer: This cure will not completely alleviate one of those toilet hugging, head pounding, oh-my-god-I-want-to-die hangovers. This is more for hangovers of "Standing up quickly is a bad idea and I sortof feel like I have the flu" variety.

All that being said...

1. Water. Yes, this is obvious, but let's face it. When you stumble home drunk at 2:30am singing Salt-N-Peppa to yourself, you most likely won't have the presence of mind to replenish your body's fluid supply. Yet you will still be able to write a lengthy blog post about your cab ride. Funny how that works. Anyhoo... where was I? Oh, right. WATER. Keep a large glass or bottle of it by your bed. If, like me, you tend to wake up every few hours while sleeping off a case of Stella, drink a little every time you wake up. If you wake up to go to the bathroom, refill the glass. By morning you'll have consumed at least a pint, which is better than nothing.

2. When you wake up with a headache an hour before your alarm is set to go off... Get out of bed and get some asprin! Yes, it sucks. Yes, the last thing you want to do is crawl out of the nice cozy nest you've made in your covers. Yes, the cat will follow you around the house because she automatically assumes that if you are getting out of bed, it is to feed her. This is all true. Now suck it up and do it anyway.

3. When the alarm starts going off--and your headache is miraculously gone! Imagine that!!--hit Snooze at least twice, but for no more than half an hour.

4. Get up. Brush your teeth. Feed the cat. Make coffee. Write a lesson plan. Okay, maybe not that, but do something, watch tv, whatever. The point is to stay awake for at least an hour.

5. Eat something. Your stomach might be feeling a little off, but if there have not yet been any digestive pyrotechnics, they're not coming. So eat. I recommend scrambled eggs with mozzerella, salsa, and sour cream. Throw in a few tortilla chips for good measure. Either way, be sure to get some protein involved. Protein is your friend. Truly defeating a hangover requires long-burning energy, eating a ton of carbs will just make you crash again in an hour.

6. Drink some Gatorade or Vitamin Water or other vitamin/electrolyte-charged beverage.

7. This is the key... GO BACK TO BED. Sleep for another hour. That's it, just one.

8. Wake up, take a shower, and...

TA DA! A whole new you!

Or, at the very least, a non-hungover you... which, given the circumstances, is really all you can ask for.

Best. Cab. Ride. Ever.

This evening I made my way to the city to see a show by a youth theatre group that several of my friends had been working on for the past two semesters.

Dude, seriously. Kids are fucking AMAZING. The young people blew me away in a manner that was totally unexpected. They were fantastic.

And afterward I checked my phone and answered an equally unexpected call to my old neighborhood to meet up with a friend... who brought in tow another friend of his who was certainly cute, and certainly attracted to yours truly, but for whatever reason did not step up to the plate.

Oh, well, his loss.

But the cab ride home?

Oh... the cab ride home...

I gave my destination, and settled back in my seat for the usual mundanity that accompanies such journeys...

Until...

Until I heard it.

It was on the radio.

And I caught a moment of my lovely driver singing along...

So I said to her... "You can turn it up, I actually love this song."

"Really?!" She asked, as the stereo began to blast.

And so I give you... with all the adolescent nostalgia it entails... the song that brought me home with such great joy, still echoing in my ears as I ascended the stairs...



(Though I must admit I wonder how they got Coney Island to be so empty...)


-------------

ps- Sorry to folks with readers who got this post twice... I am a wee bit tipsy and had issues with getting the video placed where I wanted it.

Oh come on... you know you love me...

The Randomness Continues...

Hey y'all, I just want to reassure you that I am, in fact, still alive. Just riding out the tsunami that is the end of the semester.

Actually, things are going slightly better than expected.

Research paper is done.

Last night I had a burst of inspiration and managed to create my lesson plan for the job application. Well, I at least figured out the structure of the lesson and what activities will be included--I still have to type it up in even-a-five-year-old-could-understand-it format and justify it with standards from the New York City Blueprint for Arts Education. Woohoo.

Procrastination has once again managed to... save my ass!. Yes, you heard that right.

I have not yet started my final performance piece for one of my classes, due to a.) lack of time, and b.) inability to find a piece of music i liked. I was moderately panicked about this until last night when, in said class, we were finally given instruction in a technique I had planned on using in my piece aaaand.... discovered A) I don't like it, and B) I'm not all that good at it.

Phew!

So now I'm taking my performance piece in an entirely different direction. Something I can actually do without making a fool of myself.


And now, finally, the actual impetus for the title of this post: pure freaking randomness.

Which, as much of the randomness in my life seems to do these days, comes in the form of... Facebook.

So I got a friend request from this guy the other day, who I did not recognize, and who has, like, NO information on his profile, so I figure he's just a random and let it go.

Then I get another one, this time with a message saying "Hey Froggy, remember me?"

Er, no.

I go back to his profile and see that we now have "1 Friend in Common"--which was another uber-random request I got from a girl who was a year behind me in high school. Okay, so this guy and I must have gone to school together.

I emailed a few friends. Yes, he went to our school. He played basketball. I am willing to guess I shared less than a few sentences with him over the course of my existence, but whatever.

So I accept. And send a message saying that No, I don't remember him, but I assume we went to school together...

And I get the following in response:

"haha , naw its cool but we used to have little crushes on each other,.
I just wanted to say hi , and tell you that you look good.! ;) be safe"

Whaaaa...?

Sorry to burst your bubble lovey, but if I'd had a crush on you, I think I'd remember who the fuck you are!

But apparently you had a crush on me. Which is kinda cool. Other than the one guy who decided to fall for me 2 years after I'd entirely given up on him (he dumped my answering machine... my family answering machine...), I never really thought any of the guys at my school were interested in me. High School Boyfriend went to a different school, and I found out towards the end of Senior Year that quite a few people thought I was a lesbian--which I found to be hilarious.

None of the above stopped me, however, from flirting shamelessly with anything with a penis. Just for fun, of course.

Apparently... it worked.

Or he has me confused with someone else.

motherf*cker

I have a paper due in 8 hours and 23 minutes.

I really need to get started on that.

Can anyone out there offer a jump start on my brain?