Bienvenidos a Baltimore

Welp, it’s been another month since my last blog post. I was never good at writing down my thoughts. I prefer to drink instead. I gave up on my childhood diary after one week. Apparently it’s funny for moms to read your diary aloud to the rest of the family… to everyone but me.  I was what some might call hideous an “ugly duckling” and having a crush on the cutest boy in class incited a “Girl, we need to talk about the reality of your expectations” response.

But enough about childhood scars… I have officially moved! I arrived to Baltimore early last week and have been living the dream.  People down here know how to drink [shitty beer]. Natty Boh? What the hell??? What is wrong with you people?! National Bohemian is the official beer of Baltimore, MD.

This is their mascot.

 

He looks like one eyed spawn of the Wise Potato Chip Owl and Mr. Peanut.

In addition, one of my new friends is a sweetheart. She’s a real people pleaser. For example: The first time we went out together she ordered our first round and handed me my cool, crisp Natty Light (fuck me.) THEN she dug around in her purse for a minute and pulled out two beer koozies. I walked around the bar sipping on Natty Light in a Raven’s koozie. Klass-ee.

Give me another week and I’ll be sluggin’ down Natty Boh like the best of ‘em. There is no room for Northern snobbery here.

YOU really grind my gears, Boston.

You know what really grinds my gears? Women talking shop in the company bathroom. I was once offered a job in there…

It was my final co-op in college and I was due to graduate in the spring. The Vice President of the company caught me as we were both exiting the stalls.

 “What’s it gonna take for us to get you on board full-time here?”

Uhhhh, perhaps if I did not just witness the final stop on your digestion train I would be better prepared to have this conversation. Or, you know, a formal meeting and drafting of an offer letter would probably get my attention more effectively than your audible intestines.

“Ha. Yeah. Uh, I’ll get back to you about that…”

Psh, powerful women. I don’t get you.

***************************************************************************** 

Well, that’s neither here nor there… the point of this post was to shout from the rooftop that:

 BOSTON, IT’S OVER.

You gave me 5 of the best years of my life in college and part of me knew that I should have left us on a high note. But, I thought I could make it work… even with your economy tanking and my unemployment. I LOVED you. I wasn’t ready to admit that what we had was in the past. But you know what, Boston? You really blew it this year. So, I’m moving on, don’t try to stop me! … I can’t sit around and pretend that I didn’t see you screwing around behind my back with those townies from the South Shore anyways. Sluts.  

Don’t cry Boston, I still love your sports, and your Lobster. Come on take it like a man… ugh. You always were a little bit of a bitch.

Whatever, I am in search of greener pastures, better career opportunities and wealthier men (I kid) in Baltimore, MD. My wonderful, supportive LAWYER brother is living down there and I think the nearly non-existent winter will be good for my soul this year. So, this blog will be broadcasting from another geographic location in the next month.

 

If you see a grown 24 year old woman mooning the crowd in a liquor induced stupor… it’s just me. Don’t worry, I don’t bite (hard). It’s just my way of making new friends.

Duuuuuuude, are you ok?

During freshman year of college my roommate invited her best friend from home to live in our dorm room. Let me just say that again…

My roommate invited her best friend (who does not attend  college) to live (rent free) in my room.

Essentially, she experienced the best that college had to offer without paying tuition or ever stepping foot in a classroom. Most people would care about this injustice but I didn’t really mind because we had a lot in common like: Getting Fucked Up. She used to rollerblade everywhere and mentioned that I could feel free to borrow them any time because, well, I never kicked her out. Fair trade my friend… I will accept your offer! Hell, I went to EVERY roller skating party in the gymnasium of my elementary school. Plus the Freeloader’s IQ was hovering somewhere right above Forrest Gump’s, so how hard could it be?

One beautiful spring day I strapped those puppies on and started zippin’ around the streets of Boston. I felt a little unsteady, but I was wearing cute shorts so I’m sure no one really noticed my apprehension.  I decided to take a lap around Fenway Park to soak in a bit of the legendary atmosphere. Distracted by the scenery and my Discman screaming “From the windowwwwwwwwwws to the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaalls, till the sweat drip down my ballllllllllllls”—it was 2003, don’t hate—I noticed that I was taking on speed and rolling downhill.

Oh Shit. How do you stop these things again? Toe Forward… roller skating is easy… TOE FORWARD. Shiiiiiiiit, where are the brakes??? Ok, approaching a very busy 6-way intersection. QUICK what are my options?

1)     Run into that group of people at the cross walk, they will cushion my fall… one or two may get sacrificed to the speeding truck headed this way, but it won’t be me!

2)     Gun it through the traffic and pray that I come out alive on the other side… it happens in movies.

3)     Hit the side of that brick building sacrificing my physical safety and pride.

SMACK. I hit the wall. Unfortunately for me, I had death blades attached to my feet causing me to roll backwards and then forward (fucking physics) hitting the wall a second time.  

Ok, quick self-examination before I get bombarded with “DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDE. Are you ok?”… 

Broken Bones?  Nope.

Blood?  Eh, not as much as there could be.

Bruises?  Most definitely, give it 5 minutes.

Need a doctor?  Oh, hell no. I need a beer!

So, I skated my ass back home–No, I did not carry sneakers with me and you wouldn’t have either!–cracked a beer and kicked that bitch out of my room.

Moral of the story: Don’t be a fucking idiot. But if you are, be sure to share your story with friends and family because they will take joy in laughing at your expense. Also, don’t forget to mention the fact that the Discman shattered because it’s 2009 and Discman’s are ancient.    

Professional Development with Doogie Howser

When I graduated college and became an “adult” I did the only logical thing: cash the $1000 check my Grandma sent me, open up a new credit card, max it out, exhaust my ‘cute daughter’ line of credit, hit rock bottom, return some cans so I can buy one more 40 oz, and then get a job. No stranger to failure in this economic recession, I was laid off from my first full-time gig. Note: I am still not entirely sure if I was fired or laid off. I am convinced that it was all a conspiracy—the boss hired me to hit some extra numbers right before the end of the year and then had to ‘let me go’ on my 89th day of my 90 day probationary employment for no particular reason. The world is turning on me for being such a bitch to my mom growing up.

It’s all her fault, though. See, if she had given me smarter genes like Doogie Howser I’d be buying her a Bentley right now. Instead, here I am (four months later) working like a mule at two full-time jobs to make ends meet. Mom, when am I going to find the time to proposition rich guys to pay my bills when I am always at work??? I mean, I know the girls in Destiny’s Child are hot and all, but I can barely get a guy to pay for my meal… none the less my auto-mo-bills. Talk about unrealistic expectations ladies.

Yeah, whatever… I may not have Doogie Howser’s brains, but I’ll survive. I still have boobs.

Give me some Face Time!

Welp, this is awkward… I have this strange feeling of stage fright. Last time I felt this way I was waiting to try out for a solo in senior chorus. I knew I wasn’t good enough to get the part in ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, so I was looking to clinch the next best thing—The Lion King’s ‘I Just Can’t Wait to be King’. I think singing on key is over rated, and maybe I over did it with my ROAR, or maybe I never even got up the nerve to try out (True). Whatever… I may not be your cup of tea, but I sang a mean remix to All4One’s ‘I swear’ into my Teddy Ruxpin last week back in the day.

Suck it Senior Chorale.

Performance anxiety hits me at weird times. I think this is why God invented alcohol. You can thank me later.

Yes, it’s true; I am coming out of the closet. I am God. Before you run away screaming or give up on me all together… just let me explain.

1. I am awesome.
2. I have many friends.
3. The last three digits of my social security number are 666.

Ok I just consulted exactly 4 people on this subject (enough to make it a scientific experiment) and they unanimously agree that I am NOT God. Shit.

Excuse me, I need a glass of wine.