Join the Club

Well it sure has been quiet around here recently. My sincerest apologies to those of you who long for new posts...but I heard somewhere that absense makes the heart grow fonder. So let's all just pretend that this hiatus was intentional and not just the aftermath of laziness and writer's block. The Dirty South is back...new and improved like those Ginsu knives on the late-night infomercials (they can both cut through a shoe.)
I'd like to re-dip my toe in the blogging pool with a light-hearted little antecdote from this past weekend. I'm proud to say that I have recently joined the Upper Echelon of Weekend Warriors. How you ask? By face-planting on some cement. That's right. This beautiful Polish nose that was once exquisite enough to muse an aforementioned wall-hanging came to know the East Falls metro sidewalk quite intimately. Let's just say that cocktails and piggy-backs do not mix. That's a lesson for the kids out there. Anyway, I've been left with a healthy scar on the bridge of the ol' nose...which is pretty peculiar because I don't understand how that's the only place that got "jacked up", as they say. Short of catching a rock in the face, it seems that I would need at least a bruise on my cheek. It's a mystery...
Let me just be clear that this is by no means an attempt for sympathy. I'm wearing this bad boy like a badge of honor. I can finally associate myself with other club members. To protect their identity, we'll call them P. Darmofalski and A. Leonard. No, no....that's too obvious. Pam D. and Andrew L. We can share clever tactics on how to respond to the standard "What happened to your face??" I've pretty much exhausted the "You should see the other guy" comeback.
In the meantime, I can file away this little gem under "funny story" and have an obvious conversation piece until it's fully healed. But so much for the Nice Face Discount...

Crunch time

For 22 years I've heard people go on and on about how busy the holiday season can be. Until now, I've chalked it up to poor time management and an inclination to whine because I never really found December to be all that hectic. I mean, sure, there are extra events to attend and maybe some shopping that wouldn't happen normally, but other than that it's always been relatively smooth sailing. Well I've figured out the crucial factor that has kicked this holiday season up a notch and left me cursing the fact that there are only 24 hours in the day: this is my first Christmas as an "adult." (I use quotations because only by conventional definition am I an adult. I live on my own, I have a full time job, I pay bills yada yada yada. Other than that, still a frat boy.) The point is, that I do have a lot more on my metaphorical plate and these past two weeks have been a bit more frantic than I would like.
I miss the good old days when Christmas meant at least 10 days off from any form of obligation i.e. sleeping in, eating cookies, and watching A Christmas Story. Don't get me wrong, I still fully intend on checking all of those activities off my list, but unfortunately, my window of opportunity is much smaller this year. I guess I'm just a little bummed that I can't do whatever I want and wear nothing but pajamas for a week straight. Responsibility is a bitch, kids. You remember that. Anyway, enough seasonal sulking. On the upside, me and Popsacola will be singing along to "Blue Christmas" in less than 24 hours. And I hear there's another throw back punk show this weekend at our favorite Philadelphia Pike watering hole. Until then, I've got presents to wrap. Happy Festivus!

Christmas Shoes and Christmas Juice

Another successful holiday bash on Park Lane! Every year, Mom and Dad kick their event planning and hospitality into high gear and host one heck of a Christmas party. Finger foods as far as the eye can see and wall to wall Christmas knick knacks that often leave the guests wondering "Wait...what is that?" For example, the small Christmas tree hanging upside down from the ceiling. Or the 3D glasses that turn every lightbulb into a mini neon light reading "Happy Holidays." Or the chocolate Santas that are, in fact, not made out of chocolate but are purely decorative. ( I learned that the hard way...) So friends and family members gathered from near and far to partake in the festivities and enjoy the fun, food and (let's be honest) the booze.
The "kids" retreated upstairs after a few helpings of mini quiches and shrimp cocktail to play some good old fashioned beer pong. I'm embarassingly rusty and ended up as the weak link of whatever team I was on. It seems that being a grown ass woman has had an adverse affect on my A-game. Sad but true. Anyway, the little brother was slightly paranoid that the parentals would break up our party inside a party, so he insisted we listen to Christmas music while playing. He had some theory about how it would blend in with the holiday beats from downstairs so no one would be the wiser. (sidenote: I heard the song "Christmas Shoes" for the first time. Let's just say it's not the merriest holiday song I've ever heard. And those weren't tears, I had something in my eye.)
It ended up that all of adults wandered upstairs anyway to inform us that the rounds of lemon drops had begun, and were more jealous than anything else when they saw the table. We finished up and decided to join them downstairs only to stumble upon one rowdy group of middle-agers. Apparently the rounds of shots had started a while ago and we were catching the aftermath. Loud-talking and boisterous laughter served as the background noise as I helped myself to cup after cup of Christmas Juice. And then the real party began.
Somewhere in the universe the stars alligned and my parents started shotgunning beers. Merry Christmas to me. It was quite frankly one of the most heartwarming things I've ever seen. We even did one round as a family! One thing led to another, and we all ended up wearing weird hats and/or showing off our best victory dances. Fret not, because I've got it all on film. The house didn't clear out until around 3am which classifies this particular shin dig as "rockin". So I had a great time, and I think it's safe to say that everyone else feels the same way. Save the date for next year.

p.s. Kathi brought out the mosaic...and the tiny eyepiece used to see the picture more clearly. ( I forgot to mention the eyepiece earlier, probably as some subconscious form of self-preservation.) Needless to say it was a hit, but for all the wrong reasons.

Quality time

Like most recent grads, I was chomping at the bit to get home for some Thanksgiving friends and family fun time. That's not to say that the warm and fuzzy is held exclusively for those fresh in to the working world, but going back to the Delaware bubble this time around felt especially cozy. The eating and drinking went as expected (lots of both), but there were a few surprising and noteworthy moments throughout the weekend that I'd like to share with you loyal readers.

• I said the "F" word for the first time in front of my parents. This may not seem like a big deal, but growing up in the Snyder household meant being scolded for saying "shut up." Me and Popsacola were watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in our pajamas (as is our unspoken tradition), and as some of you may know, the weather was not the sunniest that morning. I couldn't see the token all-American high school marching band from Anytown, USA because of all the raindrops on the camera lens, so I mindlessly blurted out "Why don't they get a fucking windshield wiper." Talk about a matzah ball. My father looked at me with a puzzled expression as if to say "Isn't it a little early for profanities?" He was probably right...and I must admit I'm a little ashamed that I can so carelessly drop the bomb. All I can say is thank God Kathi wasn't in the room. Of course it took my dad about 4 seconds to yell into the kitchen and rat me out...which was promptly followed by her scurrying in, pinching my ear, and calling me a "sailor." An acceptable reaction because believe me, if she had heard it for herself, Thanksgiving very well could have been ruined.
• After some Black Friday shopping (bonehead move of the century by the way. The Concord mall is already crappy enough, but when you pack in every moronic townie looking for buy-one-get-one-free tablemats and shoelaces to give out as stocking stuffers, it's downright painful) I pulled the familymobile into the ol' garage unprepared for what I was about to see. There it was...hanging out of a cardboard box in a dimly lit corner...a fake rubber limb. That's right. The very same gag gift I dismissed as idiotic and corny. In the home where I grew up. To think that the people responsible for my upbringing spent their hard-earned money on such a useless item is disheartening. But it's not really about the money. It's about the irony. I think we can all appreciate that.
• My cat hates me. It seems that in her old age, she's forgotten the good times we used to have together. Like when I tried to put her in the bath tub. Or when I dressed her up in a pink dress and bonnet. She sits on everyone's lap except for mine, but somehow manages to squeeze in enough time to maim my forearm when I innocently tried to brush her fat stomach. Oh little baby Chub Chub...where did we go wrong?
• And last but certainly not least, I revisited the mosaic. You know..the mosaic. For your viewing pleasure, I snapped a few pictures of the monstrosity. Here she is:

See? I told you. You can't make this type of stuff up, people. I hope this doesn't haunt your dreams like it does mine. Although, misery does love company. Anyway...until next time...

Rock the Casbah

Tis the season of reunions! While gearing up for the traditional trip home for Thanksgiving, the VA clan was lucky enough to have some visitors this past weekend. Hambone, Pasquale and Tiff made leaps and bounds in the adult-like behavior arena by booking a flight for a weekend getaway in our nation's capitol. Shears and Savage also managed to drive down from Delaware, which was a little less impressive, but we were still happy to have them. Due to a slight delay courtesy of Jet Blue, our Friday night ended up being more of a sprint than a marathon. And while the New Yorkers were arriving in Dulles, Pam and the fellas were checking their bags onto a one-way flight to Drunkville. So needless to say, they didn't make it into town and Friday was Ladies Only. We ventured into Adams Morgan and enjoyed quick drinking, dancing and the infamous jumbo slice. A quarter of a pie for under $3. God Bless America. And I am happy to report that I completely and clearly recollect the entire evening in AM. Third time's the charm.
After introducing the girls to Silv Dine on Saturday, (the Silver Diner for those of you who insist upon utilizing all syllables...) we put on our tourist hats and drove into DC to wander around and look at the monuments. (10 doll hairs to whoever knows what Abe's head is full of according to Ren and Stimpy). We met up with the boys and Miss Darmo and enjoyed a relaxing afternoon filled with sailors, geese, and $2 bud lights. After some college football and quality cousin time, we made our way back to our respective apartments and got ready. Ready for what, you ask? The Legwarmers, that's what.
If you know me at all, you know how much dressing up in 80s gear and dancing around to a live cover band would be right up my alley. And if you know me a little bit better, you know how quickly I would get a massive crush on one of the lead singers and conjure up ideas of our future relationship...My point is that the only thing better than all of that is having a ton of your friends there with you to partake in the cyclone of hairspray and mesh. Everyone's outfits looked phenomenal, but the MVP goes to Savage for a facial hair makeover that left him with the most outstanding mustache these two green eyes have ever seen. Pamela came in a close second with her crushed velvet/shoulder pad combo. As for the concert itself, I parked myself in the front row and it was everything I could have hoped for. A great playlist, friends doing throwback 80s dance moves, and Gordon looked at me. As a matter of fact, I had the perfect amount of drunk bravery and waltzed up to the object of my affection and introduced myself after the show and we're one step closer to being in love. There's a whole backstory about how Gordon and I opened the lines of communication via the magical MySpace...but we can save that for a rainy day.
We revisited the Silv Dine for Sunday brunch and recapped the previous night as is customary. We laughed at the babies from the table next to us ( sidenote: I refer to any child under the age of 10 as a "baby") and then we laughed at Savage for having a mustache in the real world. Weekend review: two thumbs way up. But I expected nothing less. I'll leave you with these final thoughts:

1. Hats or props of any kind can serve as a conversational goldmine at your favorite watering hole.
2. "Minority" isn't a four-letter word. Unless you're a faux pas queen like Pasquale or Hambone.
3. Calling the small couch is just as important as calling shotgun.
4. Myspace can be your best friend or a cruel mistress.

Rock on.

Friends don't let friends drink Coke

First of all, suits are entirely too expensive. If I didn't already have a job, there is no way I could have afforded the charcoal pinstripe I picked up last weekend. Which raises some questions about the backwards logic of the relationship between suits and interviews (need suit for interview, but need job to afford suit...). I think I may have just stumbled on to the root of homelessness...but that's a whole other can of worms.
Second, working for a Fortune 500 company has its advantages. Most notably their deep pockets. I bring all of this up because I recently returned from my first "business trip." As part of the Campus Development program, I had to give a presentation to my boss's boss's boss's boss's boss and his yes men. The phrase "nerve wracking" does not do this situation justice. But on the bright side, I ate 5 meals and cozied up in a Marriot hotel without dropping a dime (i.e. the aforementioned deep pockets)
As a quick synopsis of the trip, I spent two days in Maryland with roughly 20 other Campus Hires. We each had our moment in the spotlight to talk about our training and work experience thus far yadda yadda yadda nothing terribly interesting to anyone outside the soda industry...or to anyone inside the industry for that matter. And of course, there was your token kiss ass who asked entirely too many questions and shook everyone's hand enough times to put the inventor of hand sanitizer into early retirement.
I assume that my presentation went well. I say "assume" because I'm relatively sure I blacked out for the majority of the time I was talking (think the debate scene from Old School). But what really shook me up about this little corporate adventure was the notion that I had begun my career. Can this be true? Have I reached a point in my life where such a heavy word can be applied to little ol' me? The jury is still out, but Mr. Bossman sure seems to think so. He threw around terms such as "mobility" and "tenure"...which basically sounds to me like in 20 years I'll be selling soda in eastern Kentucky. I suppose it's a good thing to know that I am viewed by Pepsi as an investment. But on that same note, they also view me as a mature young pro-fessional. Not the case. For instance, one of my Pepsi peers who I've been training with was mentioning that his new route really "pushes a lot of volume." To this I instinctively replied "your mom pushes a lot of volume." Enough said.
So I guess the general outcome of this whole ordeal is that I'm willing to see where the soda train takes me. That is, of course, unless they recognize me as the village idiot that I truly am and pull the plug. Until then, I'll be their Pepsi Posterchild 5 days a week. Just don't hold it against me if I throw a couple back on the weekends and fall asleep on the metro. Because, after all, we are young. And that beer's not going to drink itself.

Not funny

I think it's safe to say that I enjoy a good laugh. With the exception of meticulously planning theme party outfits and costumes, I'd say that laughing and all it's comical relatives are my livelihood. You've got a dirty joke? I want to hear it. Enjoy quoting one-liners from Seinfeld favorites? Let's rock. As a matter of fact, we could go head to head like those dueling banjos from Deliverance. My point is, there are few things in life better than a nice, healthy sense of humor. With that said, comedic slipups break my heart...and probably also make me cringe. Two examples come to mind, and at the risk of sounding cynical, I'd like to discuss why they're so not funny.

Exhibit A: The Geico commercial.
I'm sure that some of you are surprised to see that as my opening argument. Historically (i.e. within the past 3 years), Geico has provided the masses with nothing less than advertising excellence. Translating the subject of insurance into memorable and truly funny dialogue is an accomplishment held only by the company represented by a gecko. The caveman commercials are pure genius. And they will surely become a part of pop culture trivia, if they haven't already. But lately, Geico has dropped the ball. In one foul swoop, they have drastically damaged their credibility as the company with a sense of humor. And you know who's to blame? Verne Troyer.
That's right. Mini Me.
Casting Mr. Troyer as the "celebrity" to tell the insurance claim story was a shaky decision in the first place. And then, whether through scripts or ad-libbing, the final cut resulted in him stuttering out the "birthday" rap while taking awkward attempts at dance moves from the mid 90s. I feel like I'm at a midget bat-mitzvah reception every time I see it. And it makes me sad. Shouldn't he be sitting on his big pile of Austin Powers money somewhere in Beverly Hills? Or better yet, having sex with average-sized 20 somethings who moved to LA to make it big? But certainly not this. It's pathetic. And it makes me wonder what his life is like now that his days as Dr. Evil's clone are long gone. I'm sure it's not pretty. And it's definitely not funny.

Exhibit B: Fake rubber limbs
You're cruising down to 7-11 to pick up a pack of Bubblicious and the latest National Enquirer ( or Us Weekly for all you intellectuals...) when WHOA what's this? It seems someone has inadvertently shut their door on the arm of the poor coworker who just wanted to carpool! Oh wait, no...It's just a soccer mom's feeble attempt to be clever. In general, these fake limbs are not even worth talking about. They're about as corny as the wire leash that provides the illusion of walking an invisible dog. But I recently had a run-in with this Spencer's best seller on my way home from work. I was crossing the bridge when I looked up at the tow truck that was cutting me off. And lo and behold, I saw an arm under some rags and a tarp on the flatbed. The unorthodox positioning of the gag gift took me off guard, so I didn't immediately recognize the Caucasian hand and white dress shirt as a fake. Long story short, I let out a gasp and nearly crashed my car over the Woodrow's guardrail and into the Potomac. So, anything that almost makes me kill myself is also not funny.

But hey, let's not dwell on the negative. Nobody's perfect. We forgive you, Verne. And I'm almost ready to forgive you, aggressive tow truck driver. Just never do it again.