Clearly you've figured out how to get in and get out, due to the fact that you're not always there. That makes me even more disturbed at how frantic you seem to be every time you're inside. Bouncing from wall to wall, chirping and flapping.
Why return? Are there eggs in there? God I hope not. I will commit to you not to run my air conditioning for the next two months, but what then? I cannot have their yolk on my hands.
And bird, I know morning is your thing. But bro. It's fucking early. And how do you know when I'm sleeping on the couch, not four feet from where you're squatting? Woke me up two separate times this morning. I had a nightmare thanks to you.
All that being said, I have just one favor to ask. Please please please don't come into my apartment. I cannot handle it. I'm serious dude, please don't. That AC unit is pretty weathered, and I don't doubt your ability to break in. You're one manic flapping session away.
Mitt Romney wants this poor, blue beast to starve on the cold streets, cookieless and destitute.
Remember that on election day, folks.
Then on top of that bull, you have to work out your weak, puny muscles.
I get it. You're proud of yourself for getting out there and exercising. I'm proud of you too, bud. But no one wants to hear about it.
There aren't too many things more annoying that being forced to listen to someone talk about their workouts. First of all, it's fucking boring. Secondly, they're always trying at least a little bit to make you feel guilty for being a fat piece of shit. It's like they know exactly how many Double Chocolate Milanos* you ate last night during America's Next Top Model. (What is it about those skinny bitches that makes you want to eat?)
One of the worst parts about listening to other people talk about working out is they expect you to somehow comment on it. I nodded along when you went on about how many reps you did on Monday when you were feeling it versus Wednesday when you had the sniffles versus Saturday when you tried that new pre-workout drink that gave you the runs. Then you look at me like a puppy, waiting for my response.
Huh? Don't you have anything to say about my quads? Don't cha?
"I can tell, good for you!"
"What the hell else am I supposed to say?"
"You should keep an exercise journal. No, an exercise diary. Then you can write down everything, and it will be totally personal. For your eyes only! FYEO, you know? Remember the music store F.Y.E.? It's sad that stores like that have pretty much died out. Technology, man. Gotta take the good with the bad. I still have a Blockbuster card in my wallet, for some reason." Given everything I've just said, I am one week into P90X and I had to share my number one complaint. Not that I'm so sore it hurts to sit quietly or the illegal Chinese videos I stream buffer really, really slowly. It's my hair.
Do you really expect me to wash my hair every day for 90 days? That is insane. Seriously, my hair looks better on days two and three than it does the day I wash it. I'm going to have to start buying shampoo from Costco. I colored my hair last week,** and I've already had to redo it once because it faded so much. Who has the time for that? And don't even get me started on blowdrying every goddamned day. I guess this is going to also be an exercise in embracing my natural texture.
Screw you, Tony. I hate you, but I love you.
Bring it.
*If you buy plain ol' single chocolate Milanos, you're an idiot.
**I have sneakily attempted to photograph my hair at least 7 times at this Panera. It's not happening. Photos to come, it looks hella cool.
Disclaimer: I just started taking classes with a rad guy named Dan who swears like a sailor. Like a small, impressionable child, I found myself really letting my potty mouth loose in this post. In honor of my old roommate, Alyssia, who was terrible at cursing yet incredibly enthusiastic: deal with it, you bitch fuckstick ass.
Tonight is the premiere of the final season of "30 Rock," my absolute favorite show. I love everything about it. If you don't like "30 Rock," I don't want to say I hate you, but I can't see this friendship working out at all and I kind of hate you.
I identify with Tina Fey's Liz Lemon on so many levels. We're both cripplingly messy writers who make inappropriate jokes and date the wrong guys. I met a pilot while I had my glasses on, and it took all I had not to tell him we should date so I could go "full Liz Lemon." I texted like nine people when he went to the bathroom.
And I'm proud of that! My neighbors* couldn't believe I would compare myself to Liz Lemon so willingly. Or you kidding? She is the absolute shit.
Through the years of staring at the television, I have identified with other TV characters.
DJ Tanner, Full House: Every girl liked one of the sisters the best. Michelle, the baby, was the most popular. She had an adorable catchphrase, "You got it, dude." She was clearly the favorite child, and got away with being pretty mean to everyone on account of she's so cute you want to squeeze her guts out. The middle sister Stephanie was precocious, and I'll give her catchphrase "How rude!" points for staying power.
But my favorite was DJ. She was older and cooler. And then she had a hot boyfriend who was also Aladdin AKA LIVED THE DREAM.
Fran Fine, The Nanny: This show taught me everything I knew about Jewish people until I made my first Jewish friend as a teenager. I still hang on to the possibility that I marry a wealthy British man, and I facilitate this with short skirts, red lipstick and big, big hair. Fran was the epitome of discount glamour.
Angelica Pickles, Rugrats: Tommy was obviously too brave and sweet to be me. I had no illusions of grandeur. Chuckie was a ginger allergic to and scared of everything. No way. And only twins could be Phil and Lil.
Then there's Angelica. She was smart and bad to the bone.
I apologize for nothing.
Clarissa Darling, Clarissa Explains It All: She was the ultimate 90s teenage fashionista. I tried to position my little brother as the nerdy Ferguson, but unfortunately he proved himself too cool pretty early on. One bone to pick with Clarissa - thanks to her, I assumed it was customary for cute boys to come in the window via ladder to hang out.**
The entire Bundy family, Married... With Children: I'm a pretty good amalgamation of the whole Bundy clan. Al, the thankless leader. Peg, lazy and glamourous. Bud, witty and conniving. Kelly, everyone's favorite slut.
Christine Campbell, The New Adventures of Old Christine: This is one of those shows that they play in syndication on every channel, so I'm pretty impressed if you managed to come this far without seeing it. Julia Louis-Dreyfus plays Christine, a needy, inept, hilarious divorcee who hates cleaning and loves wine. She lives with her younger brother who has his own slew of emotional problems. I tell my brother that this is going to be us in the future. He does not like when I say that.
So thank you, "30 Rock." I will always love you. This post took my hours because I got distracted watching "30 Rock" clips.
Lemon out.
*I live next door to two awesome dudes that bring me home leftover food from their office and take care of me. They're my two dads, and I'm their Cosmo Kramer.
**This is not an invitation. I will call the police.
The bar I work at is adorable. It's a tiny little dive bar called the Cavern that transforms into a late night, Jäger-fueled dance party. We have a teeny DJ booth right next to our jam packed dance floor. It can get pretty weird, and I dig it. Before moving to Atlanta, I worked at a giant club with a clientele predominantly made up of Disney tourists and weirdos. Like, really weird. Drinks were expensive, the music was terrible (sorry DJ Freddie, but it's your fault I hate LMFAO with such gusto) and the people were shady. There were fist fights every night and scantily clad fat women and black & milds in the urinals. I almost didn't get the job because the boss said I was "too classy." My mother still laughs about that.
Pictured: Too Classy (right), property of Steak 'n Shake
Other than that, most of my experience at bars are would fall under the "college bar." The Cavern has a lot of 20-something patrons, but it's not super close to any colleges. I've been noticing some definite differences between the college bar scene and the neighborhood bar. Disclaimer: My college bar research has all been gathered from the other side of the bar, the party side. I was not a bartender in college. I was a preschool teacher. Blog post to come highlighting the similarities of the jobs.
Last call. In my bar and other "real" bars, I've noticed that people don't much care about last call. They maybe get another drink, act like there's no rush. The other bartenders use the time to clean up and such, but I think it's pretty annoying. Spend more $$$ and then close your damn tabs. In college bars, last call means run to the bar, get another round of drinks, buy one last shot for the hottie you're trying to close on and get them out of there before the lights turn on. Game time.
Men and vodka. In college, I don't know if I knew a single man who drank anything besides whiskey or beer. My roommate would have the occasional rum and coke. I saw maybe one gin and tonic a week. Now, I would say vodka soda is the most popular drink I pour.
Why would this GIF even exist?
TANGENT: The "manliness" of drinks has been a hotly debated point with my friends over the last year or so. We can safely say ordering a well whiskey sour on a first date is not winning you any points with me. I say a martini, vodka- or gin-based, is manly because it's basically a glass of straight booze. Also, James Bond. Some of my girlfriends disagree, citing the shape of the glass. The Cosmopolitan has forever femme-ified the martini glass.
My old boss said the only acceptable drink for a man to order on a date is a double shot of a well-aged whiskey with three ice cubes. I'm not going to lie to you, that would impress me.
"Embarrassing" friends. Grown-ass people in real bars feel actual shame for their stupid friends who yell at the bartender or throw up. They apologize and tip you and feel bad. Obviously, there are plenty of people whose terrible personalities keep them from being sorry in any situation. But in college bars, you get the sense that it is your God-given right to be shitfaced and act a fool. And it kind of is.
Even though I've been out of college for a while, I still sometimes feel compelled to order tequila shots when we all should have switched to water 45 minutes ago. My eye still twitches at last call. But hey, I'm in grad school. Totally fair game.
I'm proud to announce Mari McMurray is back on the blog scene. In case my tweets, Facebook posts and Instagram pictures weren't enough, add on self-edited short-form essays!
I became an official Atlanta resident on Sunday by attending my first Atlanta Falcons game at the Georgia Dome. Yes, the very same Georgia Dome that houses Ludacris's favorite fifty yard line on which to have intercourse. Pretty historic.
Appropriately, Foursquare awarded me the "Historian Badge" for checking into one of the History Channel's recommended places when I checked into the Dome. So yeah.
What a Georgian could only describe as "a whole mess a' tickets."
As could be expected, there was absolutely no data service in the Georgia Dome. As the game went on, I kept finding things that I wanted to tweet about. Not being able to tweet was as frustrating as not being able to stop thinking about Twitter in a fun social situation. I started planning things I would tweet after the game with the super original hashtag #tweetsfromthedome. Unfortunately, after the game, I somehow turned off my data or something, couldn't send a tweet to save my life. It was all very confusing. Did I mention we started drinking at 10 am?
Here's what made it out of the safe that is my mind:
"I'm a close friend of Cam Newton. Look at our text conversation." If you were so close, you wouldn't let strangers read his texts. Have some decency. #tweetsfromthedome
I literally cannot drink these $7.50 beers fast enough. #tweetsfromthedome
I think I said "Cam Newton is a scumbag" at least 25 times. #tweetsfromthedome
I shockingly never had to wait in line at the bathroom. I did pick up some tips on where to get my hair did. #tweetsfromthedome
The game was so exciting, someone felt the need to tell me that not every Falcons game was this thrilling. It may be hard to believe because I'm such a delicate flower, but I've watched sports before. #tweetsfromthedome
I apologize to the smooth bald head in front of me that I was rubbing for luck in the 4th quarter. Especially because he was cheering for the Panthers. #tweetsfromthedome
But seriously, who puts money on the visiting team when you're a fan of the home team AND going to the game? Nonsense. #tweetsfromthedome
The only picture I took.
I had a great time, and I think I added a little more ATL street cred to my name.* My only complaint is I was promised a trip to the world-famous Cheetah if the Falcons pulled out a win. That did not happen. Someone owes me some high-class titties.
Finally, in what will I'm sure will become a staple of this clumsy woman's blog...
In true Georgia style, I bruise like a peach.** It doesn't really matter what the event is, I almost always gain some new injuries. Falcons Game Bruise Count: 3
I'll be sure to keep my many blog followers up on my bruises. Compelling stuff!
Well, starting this blog is one check off my list of stuff to do during the break from school. Next up, finish painting the walls, lose 5 pounds and buy a drain board.
LIFE IS SO EXCITING.
