Monday, July 13, 2009

Bloggage à Trois

1) We're a solid month into summer, which means here in the south we have balmy one thousand degree temperatures with stifling humidity levels rarely experienced outside of C.C. Sabathia's jock strap. Regardless, I still have to walk the Boxerbeast into submission every day which means my choice is to either drag him out the door before sunrise when I'm rocking a bleary-eyed expression and the imprint of my watchband across my forehead OR to wait till later and have to carry his fifty-five pound carcass back to the apartment when he inevitably overheats and gives up. This has happened before--most recently last Wednesday--and I was surprised to learn that no one will stop to offer a ride (or even a cup of Chick-Fil-A lemonade) to the scrawny girl staggering up a steep hill with a limp dog in her arms.

That's fine, I guess, considering that I wouldn't accept a ride (or a styrofoam cup of high fructose corn syrup) from a STRANGER, since a thousand Netflixxed Law & Order: SVU episodes have taught me that my afternoon would include a pistol whipping, leg shackles, and a damp basement with a scummy water dish to keep me company.

Anyway, this morning Pigpen and I were doing our pre-dawn trip through the neighborhood when a drifter on a child's bicycle teetered past us, doubling back to make looping circles around us on the sidewalk. I've seen this dude before and have also been responsible for him being escorted away from my building after watching him spend an hour bashing his broken arm against the wall, picking at his cast and screaming something about worms eating his hands.

So he's wobbling around on his pink Huffy, swatting at dogwood branches with his good arm, when we lock eyes. "GREAT ASS, BABY!" he shouts at a decibel level that hopefully roused the neighborhood watch advertised on the street signs. "How 'bout you run away with me?" he said, spitting on a Prudential Realty logo before launching himself off the sidewalk and onto the yellow center line.

He didn't wait for my answer. I didn't wait for him to come back. I mean, how would Pigpen have ridden on his bike?

2) Since the Boxerbeast and I are a no-income family, we don't have room for a lot of extras and non-essentials. I've already nibbled my life down to the cuticles, save for the occasional splurge on a Bojangles four-piece (with a side of Bo-tato rounds, obviously) and a monthly appointment to have my eyebrows waxed into two separate entities, choosing to drop $15 instead of looking like Jim Henson should have his hand up my back.

After axing my ESPN The Magazine subscription, my last unnecessary item was Sirius satellite radio, which I booted last month. I never had any issues with the service itself; there were enough channels for me to absentmindedly flick through as I drifted through traffic, swerving and weaving as I attempted to read the song titles from Jack White's latest side project. For the most part, I didn't listen to it. I always plug my iPod into the dash and--despite a total of 643 different albums to choose from--chances are I'm singing along with the same twelve R.E.M. tracks that have soundtracked my...everything since, like, eighth grade.

The problem? Sirius is harder to shake than Alex Forrest. They call at least four times a week, making promises they don't intend to keep, swearing that they could be better--that they WILL be better--if only I'd take them back into my arms, my dashboard, and the Stiletto portable receiver that I could purchase for $20 off the listed price.

Every other day a different rep calls to do a stiff line reading of the same script, but they never listen. "I won't be ignored, Dan!" is the subtext hidden beneath reminders of all the good times and Grateful Dead songs we shared in my car, in the house, or in the boat. Wait. My boat? "I don't have a boat," I told the hourly employee who identified himself as Anton. "That must be your other girlfriend."

Silence from the other end. "I'd been thinking about it and I was SO CLOSE to coming back, until you confused me with her. Didn't our two years together mean anything? All those Air Supply songs, all the original programming, all the hours of commercial free music? That's all I am to you is another subscriber?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry you're upset, but today we can offer you--"

"What? A Stiletto portable radio? Too late, Anton. Take your Stiletto and park it in your Underground Garage, if you know what I'm saying."

I hung up.

He'll call back. They always do.

3) So I'm on Facebook, like pretty much everyone from my third grade teacher to the mole I just had removed. Friend requests land in my inbox almost every day, which is awesome because I enjoy reveling in the recent miseries and unfortunate hairstyles of everyone who hated me in high school. In the past couple of weeks, mixed in with the hellos from people I'd forgotten and the "Which Strain of Hepatitis Are You?" quizzes, I've been asked to become a fan of pretty much everything. If it's a noun, it has a fan page. Marie Curie? Yes. Beaver, West Virginia? Why not. Babybel cheese? Absolutely.

With the rare exception, I always politely click the ignore button, since I don't see the point of showing my undying loyalty to dairy products on my profile. In the time it's taken me to finish this post, someone has asked me to become a fan of a local jewelry store. How about instead of becoming a fan, we'll just agree that I won't actively sabotage your business, mkay? I won't put your name on my page but I also won't throw a canister of midgrade gasoline through your Tag Heuer display. Just click Confirm if that sounds cool.1

1 And oh yeah, I get the irony of railing against fan pages when this site actually has one (THAT YOU SHOULD JOIN), but c'mon, we're way cooler than a net bag full of wax wrapped cheeses, amirite? Right? Maybe?

14 comments:

*Akilah Sakai* said...

My pink Huffy was stolen many years ago. Just sayin'.

FB is cool, but those feckin' applications make me want to fling my laptop across the room. WTF is wrong with these "adults" who pimp out these little games?!

G.H. said...

mmmm, but how I love me some Babybel. And laughing cow.
I hate FB. But your blog is brilliant.

GH
http://confessions-of-a-waitress.blogspot.com/

Andy said...

I tried quitting XM, and instead they offered to cut my bill down to $6 a month. That's less than it costs to feed an African orphan boy. And I've got one of those, too!

MonsteRawr said...

What cracks me up is that it's not my friends or even the high school kids I know who participate in the asinine quizzes and make stupid groups; it's my parents, in-laws, and their adult friends. Does anyone really want to know what my mom's ghetto nickname is? I thought not.
(It's Peanut.)

Anonymous said...

I just was added by your mole you just had removed...We have so much in common! *pokes that mole you just had removed, discovers it would be Jenna Haze if it were a porn star*

repliderium.com said...

Defiantly cooler than cheese. Even really good cheese.

AlexMac said...

I gotta admit... I live for the days you write your blog (that's not creepy, right?) and have contemplated following your Twitter feed because laughing till I pee is a good thing to do at work...
BUT!
That cheese was a huge, treat-tastic part of my childhood. Those little wax caps could be clown noses, shaped into penises and easily used to slap my sister. Never mind the creamy flavor.

Dan said...

I love Facebook. It lets me ignore all my "friends" with so much more efficiency.

Unless they need money. I should just set up a group for that: "I'm only staying your friend because you're good for a few beers when I'm unemployed, which is always."

Martin said...

I thought balmy meant mild and comfortable?

Eric (Extra P.) said...

I know the vagrant was out of line, but that was really a very nice compliment. I say you give him a chance.

Mike said...

Well???? Are you running away with me or not?!

Abecedarius Rex said...

Never let homelessness (or toothlessness) be an impediment to true connubial bliss. Why, I've known many homeless impecunious couples whose dentifrice was hopelessly sacrificed for the sake of a bottle of booze who have enjoyed nothing but years of togetherness and smiles (albeit sans chompers!) as long as they remained in a state of drunken oblivion - so, all I am saying is give pissed a chance.

Christy said...

Oooh, oooh, do you have family/"friends" that are addicted to all those stupid farm games, too?! Just save yourself some time later on & click BLOCK THIS APPLICATION! Ignoring it doesn't mean it won't come back, kinda like herpes. But have fun w/that! =)

Also, you've gotta give the piggers a little credit for helping you out w/your upper body exercises -- I can only imagine how buff your arms must be just from that last little overheated jaunt! Where do I get one? (the dog, not the overheated jaunt).

Lastly, note to self: You're pregnant, idiot; don't read J-Money's blog BEFORE you've gone to the restroom...you know how that always ends up!

Hannah Miet said...

Ha! You're thoughts on Facebook are dead on. And also pretty fucking hilarious.

I'm not a mean person. But I like seeing that the girl who tripped me in the hallway in 10th grade is now 20 pounds overweight, with the same highlights and Abercrombie sweatshirt.

I love your blog. And I gave you an award: http://hannahmiet.blogspot.com/2009/07/who-me.html