Alex has 12 inches of Santa for you

I spent part of this evening decorating for the winter holidays with my roommates, in some ways more appropriate than others. For those of you who don’t know my living situation, this is my first time living with non-Jewish people. Its been lovingly called an ‘Interfaith House’. I haven’t had any problems with this, besides being told to ‘get over myself’ when I explained that I wait three hours between meat and milk. Regardless, like any Jewish person living in America knows, Christmas time is always a dicey time.  Let’s face it, Hanukkah pretty much has nothing on aesthetics like Christmas does. A fully lit Chanukkiah/menorah is beautiful but Christmas lights are just awesome. I can appreciate the traditions of Hanukkah but Christmas just wows my brain with its over the top glitz and glam.

I may be impressed by Christmas but I suck at decorating for it. Really. I tried hanging garlands of tinsel and even though I wasn’t (totally) intoxicated, it looks as though I was blitzed. Everything is crooked, unbalanced and uneven. I could blame the height issue but I think the real issue is that I’m not supposed to be decorating for Christmas. I can decorate for birthdays and other holidays really well but something within me won’t let me fully tap that potential on Christmas. Is this some divine message from above telling me not to touch anything that is red and green? Am I only permitted to stick to the blue and gold? The real question is, should I, as a Jew, be decorating for Christmas, a holiday I don’t celebrate but wish I superficially did?

It’s a tough issue. I know a lot of people who celebrate both Christmas and Hanukkah and somehow manage to decorate without stress. People glibly drop the phrase “Chrismakkah” without a second thought. Why am I the Grinch when it comes to Hanukkah? I constantly say how much I think Hanukkah is lame in comparison to the other holidays but what am I hiding from?  I guess I am wowed by Christmas because of all its dazzle. I personally don’t believe in the religiosity behind it but there is something about the way it literally defines our society that clearly beckons me. Everything from November to the end of December revolves around Christmas. I’ve already gotten shafted at the Wheaton mall with parking the past three times I was there. I hear Christmas music on all my radio stations and find myself singing along, somehow knowing the words even though I can’t recall learning them.

I think Christmas is that cool table I never sat at in middle school. I’ve never had a problem being an outsider but for once, it’d be wonderful to just fit in. I don’t want to complain (well, I obviously do) but everything I do is different. I'm short. I have crazy hair. My biceps are really big. I'm from Connecticut.  I’ve never been just average. The funny part is, I don’t think I’m allowed to. Everything about me is a little off and maybe that’s why I suck at tinsel. Maybe I’m destined to be an anomaly. I’m stuck in that religious limbo where I celebrate Hanukkah but treat Christmas as the forbidden fruit. It’s fun tying tinsel on the puppy but ultimately I guess I’m just supposed to suck it up and eat my latkes. 

Watch out--this girl will give you a virus, and I'm not talking HIV

I’m going to be completely honest. I don’t know how the Internet works. I get that it’s a series of tubes (thanks Ted Stevens) but I still can’t figure out exactly where/what the Internet is. It’s kind of like trying to figure out how man was created. I could go all Creationist and say that a divine being, let’s call him Al Gore, created the Internet in his image. Basically, everything online, from YTMND lore to Redtube, is created in his divine image. Now, if he could only man up and fix his marriage…

I know that there is no central place for the Internet. I vaguely understand the concept of servers but it still baffles my mind. Therefore, I’m very clearly in awe of all the people around me who can use the Internet and by extension, a computer better than I can. It took me 30 minutes to set up an Outlook account. By comparison, one of my sisters can design whole city plans and render them with architecture software and the other can create a mega lucrative website because she is fluent in a dozen programming languages. I’m jealous but not in a malevolent way. But, if I’m updating this blog, I have to be angry about something, right? Therefore, I’m going to piss off the people who can cause me the most damage.

I hate people who hack and create computer viruses. Note, this doesn’t apply to my bff in the hacking biz because he uses his powers for good. I hate the people who are so pathetic that they feel the need to demonstrate their computer abilities by ruining someone else’s life. My old Yahoo account got hacked last week and started sending out spam to all my contacts. It created an awkward situation with a person I hadn’t spoken to in a while and for good reason. Thanks a lot hacker. I really didn’t want them back in my life and you just threw them in there.  FML.

I hate people who create viruses more. Seriously, why? It’s so mean and doesn’t accomplish anything but mayhem, Tyler Durden style. And we all know how that ended for him. Peoples’ whole lives are on their computers. It’s just downright nasty to commit cyber arson on someone’s hard drive. Plus, viruses all have awful names—spyware, malware, adware, worms and Trojan horses. I’ve had to replace my hard drive twice because of a virus. Now, critics may say, maybe you should stop downloading music and TV shows from sketchy European sites. But I don’t like to think I’m asking for it. Seriously nerds, maybe you should send your viruses to bad guys, not civilians. Like maybe you should send a virus to North Korea. Or, don’t send a virus. Get a girlfriend. Jeez. 

I have a lady boner for America and I don't care who knows it.

I learned that if I want people to actually care about what I say, then I have to attach a hot chick to my post and put it on Facebook. Strangely, I'm okay with this because it means I get to Google the phrase "sexy" along with my topic of the day, and get to look at ladies. Hopefully I don't ever make a post dedicated to obesity. Blegh. Anyways, with yesterday being Thanksgiving, I hope that everyone had an excellent holiday, filled with the three Fs: family, friends and food comas. If you managed to do anything else that began with an F, then more power to you. Frankly, I'm jealous. This Thanksgiving season, I'm thankful for the one woman who never lets me down: America.

Yesterday, I ran the Manchester Road Race with a good friend of mine. I got to the race a little early (half an hour, because I'm yekkish) and I was bored. Since reading a book is now out of style, I decided to text the one friend who would be up this early--my friend Asher. Asher is one of the few people who love America more than me and actually does something about it--he joined the Army instead of attaching American flag bikini babes to online posts. I text him a Happy Thanksgiving message and received a response back almost immediately wishing me the same. I asked him what he was up to. Surely the US Army does something amazing for our troops in training. I don't have my phone on me (story of my life) so I can't retype me text exactly but I think I said something to the effect of "Are you stuffing your turkey with the corpses of Al Queada?"  It's a little off color, but whatever. Asher replied back, "Nope, just a standard work day".

Woah, woah woah. First of all, this is not my Batman cup Lois. Second, our Army doesn't give the troops a real Thanksgiving? I was angry. I still am, which is why I'm writing this. First off, I have nothing abut the highest respect for our armed services (besides the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy) and admire the men and women who sacrifice the prime of their lives to defend our country. I mean, what's more American than Thanksgiving? It is a day full of football, fatness, family, friends (more F's) and sticking it to the British who oppressed us. (PS--we showed you up again a couple of decades later, suck it!) The fact that Asher didn't get this is heartbreaking. He deserves it more than anyone I know.

When the National Anthem played before my race yesterday, people talked through it. It's about a minute long and you can't keep quiet out of respect for the country who does nothing but give to you? If you talked during the anthem of a Communist country, I bet they'd shoot you. The fact we don't get shot in America means that we're a better country for it, and you should show some gratitude. I'm sick and tired of you Orioles fans shouting 'O' towards the end. There is no way you can love a sucky baseball team that much to interrupt the anthem of our country!

The only time I heard true silence during the Star Spangled Banner was at the Navy football game I was at last week. Everyone, even the children, stopped what they were doing, looked toward the nearest flag and put their hands over their hearts. I was awed and I don't get awed very easily. Even the Navy fighter jet flyover didn't awe me as much as the absolute silence.

I guess what this post is imploring you to do is not save the visible patriotism for members of the armed services and their immediate friends and family. You don't have to be a member of the Tea Party to love this country in public. You don't need to decorate your car with bumper stickers declaring your pride or even fly a flag on your house. More importantly, you don't have to agree with everything this country does, I certainly don't. But I'm glad America gives us the opportunity to dislike parts of it but love the whole. I mean, if I wrote this blog in a Communist country, I'd probably get shot. That, and for the poor grammar.

A post Samantha Jones would be proud of

Note—thanks to everyone who responded to my previous post. I’m happy that everyone maintained at least a modicum of good Internet decorum and we’re all still friends. It’s nice to see where everyone stands on the issue and at least we all agree that Olivia Wilde is smoking hot. Now, onto my usual nonsense.

Samantha: I'm so sick of these people with their children. I'm telling you, they're everywhere! Sitting next to me in first class, eating at the next table at John Schu— [A child runs by.] Look at that. This place is for double cappuccinos, NOT double strollers

I really don’t care for children. No, let me clarify—I don’t care for poorly behaved children. There are really only three small children that I like, and I’m related to two of them. And the other is the son of my boss. So that’s a bias that I can’t avoid. When I say children, I mean people under the age of 10. You know, those kids that shouldn’t be taller than me but ultimately end up towering over me when they hit their 8^th birthday.

I don’t like kids because they impede on my liberty of personal space. I like to have a tranquil, quiet experience when I wait in line at the post office. I do not like to see kids climbing on the boxes as if the Wheaton post office is a jungle gym of corrugated proportions. And where are the parents? On their cell phones, which means that someone else is watching their kids. I have a problem with this obligation for me to look out for the kids. What if I didn’t catch the small boy who fell from the stamp display? Maybe he should have had the concussion. It would have taught the parents not to text and FedEx at the same time.

Also, today at the gym, some woman just brought her son in. While she was barreling away on the treadmill, her 6 year old just hopped on the elliptical. No supervision or anything. This is real exercise equipment and obviously this woman couldn’t be bothered to make sure her son knew what he was doing, let alone even stretched before he got on there. Then again, she really did need to be at the gym, if you catch my drift. But it’s negligent to just let them roam around a large gym not because of the risk of injury but more for the fact that he ruins everyone else’s experience. The gym is one of the few places you can get away and just be an adult. Or so I thought.

Kids at fancy restaurants, kids in stores with breakable items, kids on elevators…I just can’t stand it. For goodness sake, I saw a woman with a stroller and a toddler at 9 pm at the Quarry House (a bar in Silver Spring). If kids ruin my zen-like drinking experience one more time, I might give up alcohol. I’m kidding, let’s not jump to extremes. I’ll just pick up day drinking in my basement and watch Schindler’s List or some other horribly non-kid friendly movie. Sounds like a blast.

My one post about Feminism, in which I expect to offend everyone

Okay, now that I have your attention. I’ve been thinking a lot about women this week. More than I usually do. Which is quite a lot :-p On Monday, I heard the phrase ‘Booth bunny’—an attractive girl who stands with company’s table at a convention or exhibition. Like corporate eye candy, this girl entices the male traffic to a business’s booth in order to potentially gain new clients or to network. Sex sells, even if you’re selling air coils, as the person who told me this does. Am I supposed to be offended? Or is it just smart marketing? I wholeheartedly believe in capitalism and I have a basic understanding of economics. In a world of supply and demand, you want the chick to be in demand.

I also followed the progress of the Paycheck Fairness Act in Senate this week. The Republicans filibustered it and consequently, it will never be brought up to a vote. Numerous news sites have confirmed to me that women still only make 70% of what men make on average. Am I outraged? Of course, but with a caveat. I believe in equal pay for everyone, but I don’t believe in paid maternity leave. There, I said it. If you want to have children, maybe you should make sure you and your company can afford to take the time off. You’re missing work and your company is lacking a service that you were contracted to do. I understand sick days but pregnancy is planned absence. If a man were to miss two months of work, he’d get fired. Some progressive companies give men an equivalent of maternity leave, which is nice, but I don’t think either maternity leave is necessary. I’m not saying that women should be fired or that if they want to get pregnant, they should quit their jobs. All I’m saying is that women shouldn’t be paid for time off that men don’t, for the most part, receive an equivalent of. Isn’t that what equal pay is all about?

If you still stuck with me and aren’t planning to flame me both online or in person, I have a couple more things to say. I received an invitation on Facebook to the nationwide event, “Kick a Misogynist in the Balls”. One of my friends decided to be a little rambunctious and posted a comment to the effect of ‘Make me a sandwich”. Needless to say, he got blasted pretty hard by the female creator of the event, even to the point where he was threatened. As my friend pointed out to me, the whole event is hypocritical. How are misogynists expected to change their ways if they’re going to get kicked in the balls? Wouldn’t that make them hate women more? What about me? I don’t have balls…where would people kick me? I actually don’t believe I’m a misogynist, despite my huge supply of women jokes. (Why couldn’t Helen Keller drive? Because she’s a woman!)

As a woman, I understand my limitations from my gender. I have no problem with there being societal constructed labels if they work. Today, I had one of my roommate fix the brake light in my car. It would have taken me over a half an hour but it took him under ten minutes. Even if I watched a Youtube clip on this, I couldn’t have done it as fast or as well as he did. Who needs a manual when you have a man?

You know what I did today? I baked a cake. And it was delicious. I’m okay with the fact I can’t fix my car and unless it’s a secret desire, I’m sure my roommate is okay that he doesn’t spontaneously bake. Women and men should understand their limitations and abilities. I’m proud that I can paint my toenails in the lines and arrange a vase of flowers. I don’t need to mow my lawn to feel empowered.

Again, my take on feminism is that people need to see that everyone has abilities. Maybe it’s not always fair. Maybe a woman should make less if she’s working less hours. Of course, I believe if a woman puts in as much work as a man, she deserves to get paid the same amount. If she works more, give her a raise. I still believe in women voting. I guess what I’m saying is that it’s okay to be a girly girl. The world needs men to fix cars and women to cook delicious dinners. If the roles switch, that’s cool too. But women are genetically different for a reason. Let’s embrace the genetic predispositions that have been at play for centuries. For once, I’m all right with the status quo.

You got the kinda lovin' that can be so smooth

Happy Friday everyone! Hopefully you all made it through the week. Hopping on the bandwagon only a couple of years too late, I’ve recently discovered the best way to start my day: the smoothie. Now, you’re probably all wondering why I would discuss my breakfast details with you. I mean, it’s just breakfast, right? Not when it’s done this well.

You might all remember my roommate from the earlier posts of the bathroom drama. I’ve been successfully trained, and toothbrushes everywhere can welcome my arrival. Since he’s full of good ideas (my roommate, not the toothbrush), I occasionally listen to what he says. Almost every other morning, he starts the day of with a smoothie that includes more ingredients than a batch of cookies. When he thinks I’m doing the Washington Post crossword, I secretly watch his prowess with the blender. I mean, how does he know the right quantities of banana to yogurt? Or flax to cinnamon? Awestruck, I watch the confidence in his finger as he presses the ‘liquefy’ button. And no surprises here, it comes out perfect every time. Like Pauly D’s hair.

Since I’m a woman of action, I decided that I needed to get in on this magic. Armed with confidence and a back of frozen berries, I proceeded to the counter. I dumped in a banana, broken into quarters. Threw in some yogurt (I got help with the spatula—thanks Alex!) and dechucked the frozen mass of fruit. I thought I had everything. Indeed, it looked like a sexy produce disaster encapsulated in a shuttle destined for space. Well, that’s what my brain thought this morning. Armed with confidence, I hit blend…and nothing. Turns out, I needed more liquid. Milk was poured in and one minute of eardrum blasting noise later, I had a smoothie. And five minutes to drink it before I had to go for work.

It was suggested I ‘pound’ it, but in retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t. It’s been 2 hours since I made the smoothie and I’m still enjoying it. It’s in a plastic Bud Light cup next to me and every ten minutes or so, I treat my mouth to a delicious fruity experience. I’ll probably get a food borne illness for leaving yogurt at room temperature for so long, but it’s not like I believe in germs or anything.

What’s the point then? I mean, its all fun and good to hear about my morning routine (I have other shocking stories) but the point I’m trying to make is that breakfast doesn’t have a set start and end time. I’m proposing that we lengthen breakfast. It’s a good meal and there’s no reason you don’t have time for it if you literally make the morning your whole time. Just chill out and take like thirty minutes to eat toast. You can multi-task. Poptarts and applying makeup go hand in hand. Eggs and reading the paper are just made for each other. Maybe I’ll try eating waffles in the shower.

I am sick of people slacking on the B-fast. Plus, you’re more likely to overeat at lunch, and nobody likes a fatty. You don’t have to be as extreme as me and wake up half an hour early so you’re not rushed. Just make breakfast a literal part of you. You won’t regret it. Unless your smoothie does make you vomit. Then I’m sorry.

Signing and Dining: My desire to become a Notary

Yesterday at work, I had to get a form notarized for my boss. I’m not sure if you realize what this entails. We had to Google where a notary was, see if they were open, find out directions, draw me a map since I am clueless with previously stated directions and drive to a notary. This meant filling out paperwork, having my license photo mocked (are you really 22? This looks like this is your learner’s permit) and waiting for some man to emerge from a creepy basement room to sign my forms for three dollars each. Really, it’s not a big deal. I mean, I love going new places and meeting new people. Then, I realized I could fix all of these petty, insignificant grievances with one solution: become a notary.

It dawned on me at the UPS store that this was the only feasible solution. I mean, everybody hates hunting down a notary. I don’t know anyone who has a go-to notary on their speed dial.  It’s a lengthy process for someone to just sign a piece of paper and stamp it for you. But if *I* were a notary, I could just do this for the company and save everyone time and money. Plus, I’d get to meet new people who don’t want to see me because I’m a nuisance.

Because I’m a friendly person, I chewed the ear off my notary at the UPS store in Wheaton. While he signed and stamped, I asked him how he became a notary. Apparently, it’s simultaneously less and more complicated than I thought. I envisioned scenes of studying for a difficult notary exam and this man being from a long chain of notaries. One of those awesome dynasties, like people who are undertakers or Rabbis.

In reality, you submit an application to the Secretary of State with a non-refundable $20.00 processing fee. Sounds a lot like the SATs. It then goes to the State Senator of the applicant's senatorial district. If the Senator approves the application, it is returned to the Secretary of State, and appointment will be made upon approval of the Governor. How cool is that? I’d get to meet some BFDs even before I became a notary! My new bff, the notary at the UPS store told me that there are different levels of notary status you can obtain. The fees are mandated. You make roughly $2-3 for every document you sign. Just by putting your signature and stamping it a piece of paper. Children do this in preschool.

I couldn’t get a straight answer out of him why he wanted to do this. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe his English was really that bad. Maybe I don’t need words. Like him, we share the calling of the notary.

Post script: Upon drafting this, I went to the notary page and saw the following stipulations for applying to be a notary. An applicant must be:

-At least 18 years of age,
-Of known good character, integrity and abilities, and
-Living or working in the State of Maryland.

Well, if this isn’t impetus for me to get my Maryland driver’s license (with a picture that makes me look at least 18) and to give myself a good character overhaul, I don’t know what is. Becoming the notary might make me a better and legal Maryland citizen. Thanks for the wake up call!

Ew de Toilette

I had a rather interesting discussion yesterday with my roommate. Apparently, I do not practice proper bathroom etiquette. Despite the fact I leave hair in the shower (re: I shed),  I do the taboo practice of sharing a bathroom: I leave the toilet lid up.

Small disclaimer: My roommate is almost perfection when it comes to sharing a bathroom. He’s neater than anyone I’ve ever lived with, changes the toilet paper and washes the hand towels. Despite one small incident where he took a small, ‘nap’ on the bathmat after a night of music and questionably legal ‘fun’, I’ve had no problems with him. But apparently, the same thing can’t be said for me.

It seems that it is not enough for me to leave the toilet seat down after I pee. I do that really well since I, knock on wood against spontaneous genital growth, have not ever lifted the toilet seat. I did not realize, however, that after a contribution in the toilet, I’m also supposed to put the lid down. I assumed that a lid up meant a toilet of welcoming. But apparently the only thing I’m welcoming is certain death by E Coli.

Research on the subject brought me the following article: http://www.abc.net.au/science/articles/2004/07/01/1143577.htm

I’m assuming that no one wants to read the whole article, but let me give you a few sound bites. I’d recommend reading this before eating. It’s foul:

“If you flush with the lid up, a polluted plume of bacteria and water vapour erupts out of the flushing toilet bowl. The polluted water particles float for a few hours around your bathroom before they all land. Some of them will land on your tooth brush.”

“So if you flush with the lid up, you are probably brushing your teeth with toilet water."

Gross, even for someone who doesn’t believe in germs, as I don’t. I was under the belief that if I can’t see them [germs], then they don’t exist and can’t hurt me. Yet, even I draw the line against brushing with toilet water. I mean, I know what I put there so it won’t be any surprises but still. HOURS! THEY LINGER FOR HOURS. That’s worse than a belligerent guest at a party who won’t leave. Except belligerent guests won’t shit on your toothbrush. Usually.

Needless to say, my toilet habits are changing, starting now. I will use this blog as my formal proclamation: I, Sharon, will leave the lid down except when in, er, use.

In retrospect, this is probably why my roommate keeps his Sonicare in his room. It makes sense. I’m pretty much synonymous with the plague.  

The Fall on Providence

I saw a Japanese maple,

Bleeding on my lawn.

Red leaves fell like scabs--

Unable to stanch the bleeding caused by angry autumn.

Red, red leaves, brighter than Mars.

A casualty of the nature’s civil war.

Nobody stops for bleeding trees.

Because I could not stop for death, I kindly used a leaf blower.

What’s in a name? I want to prune the rosebushes

Call me a minimalist, but my annoyance of the day is names with extra letters. You heard me correctly. Today, I am going to talk about how much I hate something that we have absolutely no control over: the spelling of our names. Like most people alive today, my parents named me and picked the spelling of my name. As you already figured, I have no qualms with how my name is spelled and therefore I give myself justification to mock the spelling of everyone else’s name.

Here’s what’s up. I don’t like extra consonants or redundant vowels in names. I realize I can’t change it but I can say I’m angry. This started when I was reading the back cover of a book and saw the author’s name: Dianne. Ugh. What’s wrong with just Diane? Do extra letters really assert our individuality? Does that extra ‘n’ make Dianne a more trusted expert in business than Diane? Maybe they give you an extra, albeit silent, consonant when you get your PhD from the University of Phoenix.

I’ve seen my name spelled with extra consonants. Prime example: Sharron Angle. I don’t even know where to start with her but I’ll be safe and criticize one of the many things about her that don’t make sense, that second ‘R’ in her name. Why? It’s not like you pronounce it. She’d have a name worthy of a Spanish love song with all those trills if you did.

I imagine that all you individualists out there are screaming at me. Shouldn’t we our parents be allowed to spell our names how we like? I’m arguing with kindergarten logic at best—that infernally repeated ‘so what?’ I’m not trying to insult anyone with special names, heck even my sister has an extra ‘n’ in her name. Just think about how much time she’s wasted filling in that extra bubble on every single standardized test she’s taking. I feel sympathy for all the trees she’s killed with all the number 2 lead she’s used filling in that bubble.

All slippery slide logic aside, I’m aware that this rant isn’t grounded in anything. I appreciate being unique as much as the next person. I’m one of the quirkiest people I know (need proof? Read this blog). All I’m saying is that you don’t need an alternative spelling of your name to assert yourself. You’re plenty unique without spelling your name with flair. You know the Nazis had pieces of flair that they made the Jews wear. Just kidding, that’s just a quote from Office Space.

Time to de-vest in your future

Vests. I don't like them. I'm going to steer clear of  the fashion, Mr. Shu vests in Glee, although they do look kind of silly. However, I'm talking about you, Old Navy Tech Vests. Anyone remember those? Or those puffy, quilted down vests like the douche bag in my picture. Perhaps I'm ill informed, but I don't understand how a vest keeps you warm. I get that, like Kevlar, it keeps your vital organs warm and not riddled with shrapnel, but when you're braving a chilly evening, don't you want your arms warm as well? If only they had a garment invention that kept both your torso and your arms warm? Oh wait, they do. It's called a coat.


Vests to me are like buying a package of light bulbs with no intention of buying the lamp. I mean, you've got the fundamental for warmth but nothing to plug it into. Forgive me if this rant infringes on your interpretation of the second amendment. However, I like my body to be streamlined and if my arms are at a lower perspective than my bellybutton, well, I'm just uncomfortable. 


I'll end this with some poetry, Andrew Marvell style:


Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 
Or at some fruit tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside, 
My soul into the boughs does glide



And who knows better than a metaphysical poet when it comes to fashion?

idk, my bff Manhattan?

On Friday night, I was privileged to be in attendance at the Stevie Awards for Women in Business on behalf of my company. Since I love to network (as in, I don’t shut up when I meet strangers), I found myself talking to people literally from around the world.  I could talk favorably for a while about how cultural the whole experience was but that’s not what everyone here wants to read. Instead, I managed to find the same thing wrong with everyone I met. Every person I met had an opinion on ever place they had ever been, but voiced it in such a way that they were talking about another person. Today’s gripe: personifying places.

Now, forgive me if I’m wrong, but the blue wedge on the original Genus edition of Trivial Pursuit was People and Places. The conjunction in this phrase is where I’m going to ground my argument, which should already tell you that my grievance is flimsy at best. Like our founding fathers, I believe in separation of church and state but I believe more firmly in the separation of people and place. This meaning that I don’t judge a person by the place they’re from. Unless its Jersey.

Regardless, one of the women at my table was talking about every place she’s been. Washington DC, aka my ‘hood’, was dismissed as a place full of cold, overly ambitious but non sympathetic people. As she explained, the people in DC were so focused on saving what they deemed to be important that their own agenda made no room for the remainder of humanity. I overheard a description of Chicago being ‘full of crooks with hearts colder than the wind chill factor’ but also heard that people there knew how to eat and weren’t snobby in the slightest. New York City generated the most buzz. Either ‘everyone here is a failure at trying to make it’ or ‘there are just so many minorities…in a good way I mean!’ Smooth recovery fellow nominee for best executive.

Either way, I was appalled at the over generalizations of geography. My tipping point was hearing New York City being called a ‘nice town’. Despite the obvious paradox in her sentence (correct me if I’m wrong again but city does not equal town), I arrive at the meat of my argument: People, more often than not visitors, thinking that they know a location better than the inhabitants. I’m theorteicaly allowed to say people in DC are overly ambitious because I’ve seen firsthand the amount of briefcases and Blackberries that take precedence over Metro seats than other humans. And still I don’t say that because I’m not from DC. I’ve been to New York probably over a hundred times but I would never belittle it to summarize it as a nice town. I find this offensive, to think that you are capable of understanding the complex workings of a centuries old city.

These places cannot be narrowed down into a few adjectives unless you’re talking about the weather for the area. I’m sure Seattle is rainy but that doesn’t mean it’s a depressing city. With what little eloquence I have, I’m beseeching you all to stop pretending you know what you’re talking about. Unless you’ve written a travel guide that interviewed every inhabitant of Chicago, kindly stop talking like an almanac. Your grand gestures of speech make you look foolish and downright ignorant. Stop exaggerating and get to know a place firsthand instead of spouting soundbites from tired Yelp.com reviews.  You’re not best friends with New York City. Sorry. 

Traveling with the Proletariat--musings on Bolt Bus

I’m not a huge stickler for etiquette since I rarely, if ever, adhere to the guidelines that Emily Post postulates. Needless to say, since I’ve given myself full license to be ironic with the disclaimer in my initial post, I’m going to dedicate today’s blog post to etiquette. More specifically bus etiquette since I am confined in a mobile metal coffin hurtling northbound on 95. Here’s a description of the other souls in my transportation tomb:

My current seat mate is Kara. I lived with Kara last year and she is a sparkling example of good etiquette. Let’s break it down. I told Kara I’d pick her up at 7:40 this morning. She was outside, waiting for me, at 7:40. Even though I broke our pact by showing up at 7:43 (being late is a huge failure for me, that I will get into in a second), Kara was still waiting with snacks and a happy smile. Kara is wonderful. Kara could never piss me off, which is probably why this is the last you’ll hear of her in my blog.

Sidenote—reason for my late arrival: I was all set to leave my house at 7:20 (leaving ample time for traffic on 193) when I witnessed what every commuter hates to see in the morning: a thick coating of Mother Nature’s lady juice frozen on my windshield. That’s right—frost! With a barrage of obscenities, I scraped my windshields with more force than Luke could ever have with him. Five terrible minutes later, I was on my way to College Park.

Which brings me back to where I am now: Northern Jersey. That’s a separate blog post for another day. Then again, that’s just what the world needs—another Jersey hater. I may be a lot of things but ‘topical’, ‘hip’ and ‘current’ are none of them. Here is the dramatis personae of Bolt Bus:

-Hipster with headphones playing Indie music too loud: Seriously? I don’t care that you listen to new edgy music. I don’t want to listen to it though. I’m happy listening to my artificial Ke$ha. Keep your damn volume down because it makes you presumptuous.

-Person with tuberculosis: stop coughing and sniffling. I don’t believe in germs but my ears work just fine. Like Indie guy, I just don’t want to hear it. It’s gross and sounds like you have the black lung. I know I’m being picky, but I’m irritated and afraid of being in the line of your mucous fire.

-Person snoring AND wearing an eye mask. Wow, an eye mask? Sorry you can’t exist in a world with sunlight. Maybe if you knew you were going to be so tired on a morning bus that you couldn’t sleep otherwise, you should have booked a later bus. Just saying. Also, stop snoring. I want to put my leftover hashbrowns in your gaping expanse of a mouth to see if you’d notice. Or hopefully choke and die to end that buzzsaw racket.

I’m aware I’m being ridiculous. It’s a bus and I’m (just kidding, my company) is paying only $20 for a trip to New York. Of course I’m glad I’m not driving. The truth is, I have problems with people who don’t behave as well as I behave. Then, I have to be confined with these cretins for four hours. I kept my music down and I have a doctor’s note clearing me for bus travel. If only BoltBus would cater to the tiny, curly haired contingent who kept to themselves and ate quietly. Oh, and kept their phones on vibrate. I’m talking to you, girl with the William Tell overture ringtone. I heard you. At least it’s not a smut tone. 

Perpetually in Spondaic Love with T.S. Eliot

This poem/rant occurred when I was reading a book of Yeats' that was my roommate's text in college. I grew weary of his notations (although they were very insightful) and decided to combat responses on poetry in the best way I know how--responding with more poetry.

They fuck you up, your Mom and Dad--

for sending you to a college to get a liberal arts education to learn about Philip Larkin and other angry British men.

That’s what they, and the entire college of arts and humanities, have done to me by attempting to broaden my right brain and its horizons.

It’s a section of my cranium, not the Manifest Destiny.

I’ve been taught to write how I feel, because ‘that’s what I know’.

But all of a sudden, it’s like diffusing a trochaic bomb.

I don’t do iambic pentameter or hexameter unless they’re the questions for Double Jeopardy answers.

What is ‘poetry is annihilated’ Alex Trebek?

Sometimes I imagine the sheer amount of minutes and hours I’ve wasted deciphering the rhyme scheme in repeating letter patterns, ABAB, CDCD, like some savant with alphabet OCD

Petrarchian and Shakesperian sonnets should just get over themselves and bang already.

Stressed/unstressed syllables—fuck it, I’m always stressed

I’ve ruined beautiful texts (and lost book deposits) by illustrating poems with chicken scratch hieroglyphic symbols above words.

Even blank verse and free verse classifications box me into arenas guarded by snarling bulldogs named Emily Dickinson and Tennyson.

I even hate myself for committing this rant to text because there’s always the chance it will get highlighted and have notes in the margin in some $75 anthology they made you buy because it would enlighten your soul. (I’d like that, now wouldn’t I?)

T.S. Eliot got me. “No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job” he says.

I’m a woman who wants to do a mediocre job because writing a good poem will destroy me.

Perhaps T.S. and I will make sweet love in the Wasteland with all the other hallow men and women.

T.S. and I will be two completely unstressed syllables stressed out by everything around us.

We’ll walk together like two metrical feet in shoes that won’t lace. 

ringtones? or smut-tones

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the inaugural post

hello people who deem me as worthy of reading as i apparently deem myself,

i'm not going to make any excuses. what you see is what you get here. this blog is going to be a depository for all the thoughts i think during a day. rather than let them bottle and have terrible things happen (i washed all the dishes twice in a fury of soap and sponges in retaliation of having a bad evening, despite having a dishwasher), i've decided that the internet is a much safer receptacle for all the minutia that is my life. congratulations follower, you're now privy to my crap and you're sitting in my toilet.

kisses and hugs,
sharon