You know those people you sort of know through other people who make you feel bad about yourself just by comparison? The ones that seem so beautiful, talented, smart, funny, effortlessly graceful and loved - and make you feel like a big pile? You know the ones…they can pull off cowboy boots over skinny jeans.

Do you ever try and rise above it by thinking, well, maybe they feel the same way about me?

Ugh, me neither!! I’m wearing socks with slip-on sneakers. That is not a look one is wont to admire. Plus, underneath said socks I’m rocking a highly questionable foot rash.

Speaking of feeling good about yourself…watching this on a Saturday night is definitely not the way to go for such a desired result. That’s right ladies and gentleman, Sadie Bickerman aka. Cloris Leachman don’t take shit from no croc-o-dial.

As I was walking the 20 or so odd blocks at 9 a.m. this morning in the pouring rain to pick up my car, which wasn’t done by the way, even though the guy yelled at me yesterday for not being able to pick it up until today, but which I’m not going to discuss because I’m rising above it, I saw an odd sight.

Along the rain-soaked gutter was strewn, or more precisely, neatly lined up, one of almost every fruit imaginable. Only one of each, equidistant from one another. As if a fruit cart was rolled by and this motley crew of produce decided to stage a getaway, but only made it to the ground and kind of lost sight of the revolt after that. It was raining really hard so they were all almost floating in a river of gutter water. There was a lemon, a strawberry, a plum (the oddest of the bunch), an apple, an orange and several others. No banana though, sorry. I know, somebody could have slipped on it for some classic comedy. No go though.

It just looked so much like a fruit version of Noah’s ark it kind of made me giggle. Oh but wait, didn’t that include two of each animal so they could shag and repopulate the earth? But wait again, this is fruit we’re talking about, all they need to do is spread their seed and the deed is done. Perfect, it still totally works for my ark scenario. I was tempted to build them a little boat and sail them to safety to ensure the safety of the future of fruit production, but my pantlegs were totally soaked from standing in a puddle staring at the gutter. So on I walked, but I do wonder how and why those fruit got there. Also, I really want a plum now.

I’m sorry that you are probably now stupider for having read this. But if you don’t know that’s what I do here by now, it’s pretty much your bad at this point. Enjoy the weekend, and just to be safe, keep an eye on your crisper drawer for missing berries, and plant some seeds.

So last night, after a rough week including working two doubles, ongoing car repair drama, starting to run again and all the broken muscles that involves, cramps of death and missing the damn UPS guy four days in a row, I was walking home with my head hung, feelin kind of low.

But I walked into my apartment to find the best sight I’ve ever seen - Justin making me fried pickles. A whole plate of them. It was definitely one of the nicest surprises anyone has ever given me, and just when I needed a little fried pick me up too. Bonus was that they tasted amazing. Kid’s got tricks up his sleeve.

I am a lucky gal. Feast your eyes on this beautiful treat.

I have to tell you something. It in no way makes me look good. But I feel like it’s time to share. Like, by putting it out there it makes me less of a shameful loser, because at least I’m not hiding it anymore. Kind of like that guy at the party who breaks something expensive, but then becomes kind of cool because he admits it to everyone. I hate that guy. You just broke something! Fessing up to it should not make the ladies think you are hot. Give the host money for it and shut the hell up. Wait, I just totally indirectly said I hate myself. Well good, because I do. Fine, I’ll just say it.

When I get ready for work in the mornings, I watch The View. There, are you happy now? I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to get dressed without the noise of those horrible, screeching broads in the background. I really don’t like any of them, or any of the things that come out of their mouths. But oh my god I love it. What’s that Joy, you have another hot flash and are retaining more water than the Bush Administration’s retaining respect? Oh, you are a hoot! No, no, never make up a new joke. That one is totally still workin for ya. I am amused at the absolute garbage that comes out of Elisabeth Hasselbluhbluh’s mouth. I love it when she tries to say something and is just shot down by everyone and has absolutely no defense.

But today, oh today. Even you Rosie, with your conspiracy theories and love of a great Broadway show, couldn’t keep my loyal heart from almost flipping over to Rachael Ray. Ray, the talk show host shown to prisoners of war when the goal is to violate the Geneva Convention. At one point Rosie asked the audience to clap if they supported the Bush administration (a few people clapped) and then asked them to clap if they did not (the crowd goes wild).

Here’s what that little pistol Elisabeth had to say to that, “Oh yeah? Well there was a time when people would have cheered for segregation. That doesn’t make it right.” Um, quoi?? What the hell is she talking about. What got me wasn’t so much that she was spewing drivel again, it was that no one called her out on it. Come on ladies. For shame. She just likened supporting segregation to ‘not’ supporting the current government. WHAT??!!!

But at least when I get to work, at a respectable news organization, I can feel better about myself. Because I sit at my desk all day and watch them cover nothing but ROSIE O’DONNELL. Apparently there is so little going on in the world that the most important thing to do is discredit this woman and get her fired. A talk show host. Of a talk show. An entertainment one. On daytime TV. Rachael Ray, hold me.

If I ever meet Sheryl Crow, I’m going to make sure I wipe with only one square of toilet paper right before I shake her hand. Wait…but if she follows her own ground-breaking advice, that means she will have only wiped with but a square as well. Scratch the whole thing. Unless she offers me a chocolate covered pretzel. Wait…

Also, because I am really lazy and have nothing of interest to say, I’ll just direct you towards something that brought me endless enjoyment today. Do yourself this favor.

I passed a nail salon today on my way to work. One of many, actually. Inside were the usual pampered ladies,  but something caught my eye. In one of the corners there was this gigantic, beer-bellied, bearded, motor oil-covered trucker lookin’ fellow getting a manicure. Now there’s something you don’t see every day, I thought. His hand was about the size of the woman cutting his cuticles. Put a little smile on my face. And I went on my merry way wondering what color polish he would go with, and whether or not the guys at the rest stop give him shit. He looked kind of like this, but older.

I went to New Orleans this weekend to visit a friend from high school, Al, and his wife (and now my friend), Amy. I’ll start off by saying it was well worth the drama it took to get there and get home, and we had a great time for the one day I was actually there. But it was still the worst travel experience of my life. It was shamblesville at its finest. Anything that could have possibly gone wrong did.

It all started out in New York on Friday. I had only slept 2 hours the night before because I had to work late and then get up early for the morning shift. I worked until Noon-thirty-ish, got stuck in traffic on the way to the airport and then arrived to a delayed flight to D.C. After an initial delay the plane then sat on the runway for an additional hour due to “wind.” Come on United, don’t insult me. That’s like saying we can’t take off because of a broken head rest. At least lie to me and tell me there’s a real storm. So as I land in D.C. I run to the monitors and check my connecting flight. It’s boarding. But of course it’s boarding 3 terminals away. So my little legs sprinted me and my baggage aaaaaall the way there, only to be told they had just shut the door. I really thought I was going to make it too, which is why I think it hit me so hard when I didn’t. So I’m there, sweating like crazy, gasping for air, and choking back tears. Not a pretty sight to say the least.

The woman tells me I need to go to customer service. And where is that? All the way back where I just ran from. Awesome. I get there and wait in line for half an hour. I’m told they can’t get me to New Orleans from D.C. until Sunday. Not an option. So the woman types some stuff on her computer and hands me a boarding pass without filling me in whatsoever on where I’m going or how I’m getting there. She just goes, “Chicago, Gate D15. Run, they’re boarding.” So I run, AGAIN! But I don’t even know what’s going on. Apparently she put me through Chicago because there was a late flight leaving from there to New Orleans. Could have at least mentioned it. So I cry through that flight and decide when I get to Chicago it’s time to drink. Heavily. I slam two beers, get drunk enough to start taking pictures, which I will link you to as I know you are anxiously awaiting my artistry. I finally get on the plane to New Orleans and it’s supposed to get in at 11 p.m. About 5 hours later than originally scheduled.

Once I’m on the plane I decide to keep drinking. It’s really the only option because my alternative is to cry some more and be miserable. Drinks it is. I’ve never boozed on a plane before. But trust me, $5 cans of beer do not taste better than $2 cans of beer. The best part is, as I’m squished into a middle seat between two huge snoring dudes, that the beer the flight attendant gave me was frozen. I didn’t know this of course, so when I open it it explodes all over my lap. I have nothing to wipe it up with but my scarf. So I arrive in New Orleans late, drunk and reeking of beer. I’m sure my hosts thought this was a very bad sign for the weekend. Four cities in less than 12 hours. Not too shabby. Still, not even half as awesome as the trip home.

First let me just say that the one day I was actually there was great. We got drunk around 11 a.m. at the French Quarter Festival, saw good live music, had a crawdad boil, ate fried pickles (my new favorite food), went to rock n’ bowl at the oldest bowling alley in the nation where lane grease is still a thing of the future, and played shuffle board at a bar (another new favorite, I won!) During one of the live shows we saw the musician, Kermit Ruffins, married his fiancee, Juicy, at the end of his set. That was a high light.

On Sunday it was time to go home. I figured all travel bad luck had been used up and then some on the way there. I was feeling good. The morning started out with a flat tire on the way to the airport, which took all three of us to change. We had to stay off the freeway for the rest of the drive for fear of blowing out the donut, so we pull up to the airport as my plane is boarding. I had to haul ass, yet again, to make my flight. Upon arrival in D.C. (back to the scene of the crime) I learn (from a monitor, not that anyone is telling people anything) that my flight, and all flights to New York, are cancelled due to the Nor’easter that’s slamming the eastern seaboard. Awesome. I don’t even have to ask. I go straight to customer service. I already know just where it is!!

This time the line is a full hour-long wait. I’m told there’s no way I’m flying into New York tonight, but can get on one Monday and need to find a hotel. I’m having nothing of it and jump on the Avis bus to rent me a car. Problem is, it’s about a six hour drive back to New York, I’m alone and I haven’t yet realized that driving through a Nor’easter is probably about as fun as flying through one. At times I was at zero visibility while flying through standing water on the NJ Turnpike at 70 MPH. Nothing like a near death experience to make one appreciate the joys of travel. I made it back to the city late on Sunday, but only to learn the back windshield of my car was completely smashed out. It’s $420 big ones to fix it and I can’t put it on the old insurance.

New Orleans is awesome though. I’d do it again in a second. Check out photos if you’re interested. My camera shit the bed as it always does halfway through a trip, so I only have pictures through mid-day Saturday. What are you gonna do? The Big Easy.

Ok, words cannot describe my anger right now. I just wrote an entire post and my Internet window just closed. Poof. Just like that. And took my post away. I really don’t have the energy or the patience right now to try and re-create it. This is a perfect example of shamblesville though. Jump right in, the water’s ice cold. Ok, here’s what it said.
 
Blah blah blah, last April my hair was short. Blah blah blah, so was Natalie Portman’s. Blah blah blah, now hers is long. Blah blah blah, mine’s not. This is seriously such bullshit.
 
Ugh, FINE!!!!!!!!! You win shitty Internet. But do me a favor, turn brown and die.
 
Ok, where was I? Oh yeah, last year. It was February. I got my hair cut ridiculously short. So short that the girl who worked at Dunkin Donuts called me “sir” for about a month. Portman cut her hair too. In fact, she had recently shaved it for a movie roll. Something like, This Movie is Brought to you by the Letter ‘V.’ So around April our hair was pretty much the exact same length. That length being real-ass short. I was not comparing myself to Natalie Portman in any way. I do not fancy myself a dreamer. I just followed her ‘do because I thought as it grew out I might get some tips for my own.
 
Well, a year later and my hair is barely touching my chin. I still can’t sniff it. Trust me, sometimes a girl has to smell her hair. Oh please, don’t pretend like you don’t do it. My little nubbin pony tail could poke somebody’s eye out it’s so stabby. But the universe decided not to spread the love around I guess, because not only is Natalie Portman the hottest piece around, she apparently has super fast-growing hair skills as well. I feel like Meg in the episode of The Family Guy where they all get super powers, and all she can do is grow her nails really fast. But wait, I’m not even worthy of that pathetic title, because I can’t even grow anything fast. Natalie is off flipping her shoulder sweeping tresses while I wile away the days turning in circles like a damn dog trying to chase its own tail, because I just can’t turn my head far enough to smell my GODDAM HAIR. What? There’s more important things going on in the world and no one cares? Bite me. At least I can stab a man to death with my pony tail.
 
If you don’t believe me, look for yourselves.

Nats in April 2006

Nats in April 2007

Now I asks ya, where’s the justice?

Update: Oh my god I am a spaz. Apparently these pictures were posted today, but they are old. Go here and here instead. These are recent pictures of Portman. It makes me really happy to know that she has a nubbin tail too. If anyone is even still reading at this point (I know I wouldn’t be), sorry for getting all Mommy Dearest on your ass. I have issues. I’m working on it. 
 

Remember when I went to Ikea and bought all those frames and then had nothing to put in them? Well, been working on it for a while now, and finally decided to hang them all up, even though two of them are still empty. Baby steps, dammit! I’m happy with how it came out. The wall looks a lot better now than it did before with only three things on it.

However, I realized that when I die and go to hell, it’s going to be me locked in a room for eternity, doing nothing but hanging pictures. Damn that’s a chore. “To the right, no no no, back to the left. This nail doesn’t fit in this hanger. Wait, this one doesn’t even have a cord on the back. Placement, nail, hammer. Repeat. Forever.”

It was worth it though. Good project, satisfactory results. What better way to spend a Sunday. Plus, it’s still too cold for outside stuff. Now, I just have to never move. Ever. Because I’m never doing that again. So go check it out. Project Wall Cover.

After crapping all over the suburbs a couple posts ago, let’s move away from the negative i.e. evil shopping bubbles, and onto the positive. I do this for my sister, who is moving back to Rochester in a few months. Away from New York City, where she has lived for the past 10 years, and away from me - the last sobbing, leg-clutching part of the city she will have to shake off before driving that Uhaul back to where we grew up. So what can I say to make her feel better about living there, and make me feel better just in general because I’m easily distracted by talking about food?

“Rochester Pizza,” is what I say. Its warm, greasy clutches will fill your belly with pride and cheese-coated happiness. Fear not, Pontillo’s will keep you warm on those lonely, Wal-Mart filled days. In case you’re not getting this, the pizza is awesome up there. None of this barely-existent crust, rubbery cheese, fold it in half grease trap pizza they have here in New York. Granted, you can get a slice here any time, day or night. And up there when you are leaving the bar drunk and ready to soak up the booze with some night lunch the only thing open will be the beef jerky section at the 7-11. Oops! Staying positive. Heh.

But the pizza up there really is amazing. Secret’s in the sauce. And it’s not only the pizza, it’s the subs, wings, and chicken fingers too. The subs are made with fresher bread, and they toast the roll. Toasting the roll is the best invention since the wheel. It increases the quality of the sub about 4 million percent. I highly recommend picking one up. The subs in New York aren’t subs at all. They call them heros. Heros? I think not. More like villians. Ba-dum-ching. I will concede bagels to Lady Liberty until the cows come home, but their subs leave much to be desired.

And they actually have chicken wings. Pizza parlors in New York don’t even sell chicken wings. I myself can’t eat them because I spent my entire high school career hunched over a deep fryer cooking up highly questionable wings. Smells like rotting meat? Just leave them in there a few minutes longer and add more bbq. And, and! The chicken fingers aren’t all stringy and skinny like the ones here. Granted, after eating all this one would definitely not be described as stringy or skinny in any sense of the words, but pack on the pounds baby. That’s what they do up there. Keeps you warm in the long winter months.

I worked at Pontillo’s during high school, as did Justin, my best friend Karen and two other good friends. See, I have friends! Actually, pretty much everyone worked there at one point or another. I think it’s a prerequisite for owning land or something. I can’t say enough good things about the food or the sense of family a place like that instills in its employees. Granted most of the skin on my hands fell off from all the pots and pans I had to wash, but getting in a warm car at the end of a long shift that smells of freshly cooked pizzas because one of the delivery guys warmed it up for me is one of my fondest memories. Skin can be replaced, memories are much harder.

There’s nothing like a toasted cheese sub on a cold Rochester evening to warm up the heart to living there again. Sure, you will miss the city, but that’s when you pick up the phone for some take out. If you’re lucky Moose will answer the phone with, “‘Sss’Pontillo’s.”