The suburbs are weird

I hung out with some high school friends on Thursday night. One of them is engaged and going back to Costa Rica before returning to New York to start grad school at Columbia, one just got promoted at her job and is moving to Boston, one just finished grad school at NYU and is soon leaving for Japan to do the JET Programme, one is preparing her artwork for some Soho gallery whose show will be reviewed by the Times, and I managed (with much effort) to not eat the chocolate doughnut at work that afternoon.

So we went to some bar in Nyack (my second time there ever, much to the shock of my friends... which is ironic because you'd think I'd have gone with them before) to sing some karaoke. Man. White karaoke is so weird (no big-screen TV's in private rooms?). Actually, suburban bars in general are just weird. Deejays are bespectacled sexagenarians, gay guys are still totally in the closet, and there is actually space in which to walk around without spilling your drink on somebody.

But yeah. What a completely different world. I didn't really notice because I only existed there in a bubble with my friends, usually in private homes because we minority folk were run out of public space awhile back... although it looks like we might be getting accepted. Two of my friends and I made up about 1/3 the non-white contingent there. Nice.

Highlights of the night:

1. Being told that I have the lowest speaking voice ever

2. Having suggested to me that I should "judo chop" those who get on my nerves (thank you, townie)

Don't Get Me Wrong

You know how you've heard a song your entire life that you just LOVE, but you have no idea what it's called or who sings it? That KILLS me... usually you hear it in random places like when you're station-surfing on the radio or when you walked into some diner or something like that. And you can't even sing it for your friends to ask if they know it because you can't understand any of the lyrics except that one hook.

So I've been trying to figure out this one ridiculously catchy song for like... the past decade. And I heard it on the radio today and was like, "WHO THE HELL SINGS THIS SONG?! I LOVE THIS SONG!" So I looked up "don't get me wrong lyrics" on Google (like I said... the only words that I could make out in the song), and the answer popped right up. The Pretenders.

Duh. I feel like an ass. They're not even a one-hit wonder. I can't believe I didn't recognize the voice. I also feel very "duh" because I could've searched for this song online like... I don't know... a freakin' decade ago.

Shrug.

In other news, I am extremely proud of myself. Two nights ago, I tried on my favorite pair of jeans from college, and they could not even come close to fitting. (This is not what made me proud.) I've decided to... gasp... actually make an effort at dieting.

Notice that I did not say that I was going to "go on a diet." I've technically been dieting since like fifth grade or something. And by dieting, I really mean just feeling guilty and subhuman for putting food into my mouth even though a huge percentage of the global population is literally dying for this luxury (but I live in America, dammit, so fuck yeah, I'll damn well think I'm fat). But my goal is to fit into these stupid jeans by... a month? (Eh, too hard. Maybe July?) So I'm going to make an actual EFFORT because I'm not getting any taller, and my skin's elasticity can only go downhill...

But Jenny invited me to Bom Chon Chicken (please go: 314 Fifth Ave @ 32nd) a few hours ago. Sniff. It's supposed to be amazing, and it was written up in the Times like in February or something for being amazing. AND IT WAS! But this is the really amazing part... as I was on my way home (I had to leave early since I'm going to Boston tomorrow morning for my sister's graduation)... I passed Pinkberry (which was FILLED with people whose frogurt [I don't say "frogurt" but I wanted to use it in a sentence] looked so unbelievably unbelievable). I wasn't with anyone since I'd left early... none of my dinnermates would've known about my post-meal piggy-ness. It would've been my little secret. And I was seriously tempted to get some. BUT I DID NOT!

:-)

Pathetic as it sounds, that [not getting dessert] was like... a huge step for me. Congratulate me.

I bought sunblock today

So I went to CVS today (mostly I just like to go to CVS and browse the aisles) and bought two things of sunblock. I pretty much just bought them to fuel my ever-growing delusion that I'm going to start eating healthy and exercising regularly this summer:

[Stupid .gif file doesn't work. Banana Boat Sport Sunblock Lotion SPF 50, if you're interested... which you should be.]

Fancy! This is the sunblock that I'm going to use when I go on my imaginary runs in the park. You know... when I wake up at six so I have plenty of time to shower and eat fresh fruit before work. And write some of my best-selling novel.



I might actually use this. My skin has been the one part of my anatomy that I haven't been completely brainwashed into hating, so I should probably take care of it. SPF 50. Yep.

Oh! And just for good measure (since I know my two readers have been wondering what else I've bought lately)...



Galoshes from Target. I saw my friend wearing these a few weeks ago at a concert, and I ranted and raved to my other friend how much I wanted them and how unfair it was that Friend A got them first. Then Friend B pointed out, "How often do you see Friend A when it rains, anyway?" A cleverer observation could not have been made. So I callously broke Girl Rule #2 ("Thou shalt not buy same apparel as anyone in thy time zone"... whose controversial placement behind the arguably lesser offense of fornicating former lovers of thine friends has sparked much debate) and got them anyway with this tank top to get free shipping:



(I'm like four years old.)

My tenant's idiocy has no boundaries

Today, I managed to get about half the rent from my loser tenant. (In cash, of course. Everybody from Benjamin to George was present.) And yet again, he is acting as if he's doing ME the favor by even giving me half. He promised me the second half by this Saturday. (I scoff.)

Is this a surprise? Well... no. I should be used to his pitiful excuses by now. I've been dealing with this guy since last autumn, and I seriously did not think it was at all possible to have ANY less respect (neither personally nor professionally) for this pathetic excuse of a biological organism... until today.

While he was rummaging to find enough cash to pay me, at one point, he handed me a check for $250. Apart from the fact that I'd have more faith in a dog's paw print than in this creature's signature, there was something very wrong with this check: it was made out to a guy named Bob. The following conversation ensued:

Me: What am I supposed to do with this check?!
Fungus: You go to bank, and you cash it. $250!
Me: I can't use this check! It's made out to Bob!
Fungus: Yes, but I did not go to bank today. I was so busy. You go to bank, and you deposit.
Me: I CANNOT cash this check! It's worthless to me. I'm not Bob!
Fungus: Yes, you cash. It's good check. See? From Bank of America.

I'm not sure whether to feel utter disbelief that a person could be THAT stupid (especially someone who has been running a business for many years) or whether to feel insanely insulted that he would think that I'd be stupid enough to accept a check made out to somebody else as payment. Because... it's not ACTUALLY possible that he could think that would be okay... right? He must've been trying to deliberately trick me... right? Nobody can be THAT stupid... right?

If there were one thing that would shake my belief in God... it'd be that paramecia like him could (and have) actually reproduce(d) but good (and minimally intelligent) people cannot even conceive.

I'm digusted. (And frankly kind of amazed.)