My, how we've grown.

It's funny how fast things change.

Not three months have passed since Erin and I began planning our book on how to survive college with enticing chapters such as, "What to tell your parents when you're still drunk at noon" and "How to survive an Irish crack den." [Don't worry, dad. These chapter titles are hyperbolized.]

One of the best nights of senior year was Erin's birthday. Our friends came to our apartment where we danced to 90s music, played games and managed to break half our dishes and glasses. Erin, exhausted from the festivities and excitement, fell asleep early. We decided to take advantage of the situation by expressing our love for her. In permanent marker. All over her body. The pictures mysteriously disappeared but it looked something like this, except she was wearing a shirt and we stuffed random playing cards in her clothes:

It seemed like a good idea at the time. We didn't really take into consideration her morning commute to Long Island. Fate mocked her by loading the ferry with inquisitive nuns. Just more proof that our senior year was probably scripted.

Cut to this weekend. The girls of Ann Arbor decided to have a goodbye party involving several popular college drinking games fueled by a keg on the porch. The obligatory "food run" at 2 am lead two of us to Panchero's, where we were told to order two burritos for a straggler. When we returned, said person was asleep on a futon in the basement. Naturally, we decided to pelt the burritos at his face. Luckily, the beans and rice sprinkling out of the the collapsing burrito and onto his face did not disturb his sleep.

That was enough for me. I climbed over a web of high school boys giggling at Dumb and Dumber to claim my couch for the night. My partners in crime decided to dole out some more punishment. They grabbed a dry erase marker and returned to the basement with plans to defile Sleeping Beauty.

Tagger One: Dude, don't draw on his face. He has work tomorrow.

Tagger Two: Ok... Let's get his ear.

And so in that moment, Life After Graduation was defined.

Whereas before we would have dismissed the threats of humiliation and punishment as irrelevant, we now hesitate to hide even two small dots in our drunken friend's ear, fearing the repercussions ushered in with the dawn. Whereas before we would celebrate milestones by staying awake until hours past sunrise, we now consider midnight a feat.

The next morning I woke up under a pile of cushions. I couldn't find a blanket so I burrowed in the crevice of the couch. After determining that there was, in fact, a human being under all those cushions, one of the guys proclaimed, "Well, kids. I can honestly say I'm glad I'm not in college anymore."

I don't know if I agree with him but I do know that that was the most comfortable couch I have ever slept in.

Farewell, Packard house.

Farewell, reckless [permanent marker] abandon.

The lowest lows, the highest highs.

In return for his friendship, I am providing Joe with a necessary education on life. Can you believe he's never heard of Missed Connections?!

Last night, he and I went to see Incubus. It was my second time seeing them. The first was about 5 years ago in Zurich.

The concert, my first in Michigan, was at the DTE Energy Music Theatre. We had VIP tickets, which allowed us to park in a special lot. Little did I know, people in Michigan tailgate concerts. I'm talking lawn chairs, frisbees, grills and coolers. There was a football game in the parking lot. I see the appeal of tailgating, but clearly live under a rock. In Boston, we didn't drive anywhere. We didn't tailgate concerts. My single tailgating experience occurred before a hockey game in New Hampshire where we grilled in a parking structure and drank from a keg Sean brought in the back of a van. I'm new to this.

Joe and I people watched (or, more accurately, made fun of everyone in the parking lot) while listening to Incubus before the concert. The venue looked like an amusement park. The seating sloped down to a large stage with a banner announcing the 89X 18th Birthday Bash. (My dad lovingly pointed out that I am older than the radio station. Thanks, dad.)

Here is where our education began.

We learned who The Duke Spirit are. The opening band hailed from London. The singer, a spazztic little blonde girl, danced around frequently taking positions that resembled yoga poses. The band was entertaining. They embellished the typical British grungey-new-rock genre with unique yodels and hoots from the singer. On first listen, the music sounded dark and grimy, which I like. I'll explore them more later.

Joe learned the beauty of Craigslist Missed Connections. A group of girls sat in front of us and Joe claims to have been exchanging unusually meaningful eye contact with one of the girls. I told him he should write a missed connection and see if she responds. He was intrigued by the idea and expressed the desire to draft several humorous MCs to see if people actually respond.

I've always wanted someone to write one about me, but apparently when I stare intensely at strangers it just creeps them out instead of inspiring them to find me again. Just in case, I wore purple pants yesterday to facilitate an accurate description when my future friend/date decides to search for me.

I learned that I love my purple pants. I've had them since Christmas. The only exposure they've had was when worn by Joe for 70s day at school. Feeling bold on my big night out, I decided to bring them to Incubus. I broke them in by dancing and thrashing around during the show. It was fantastic. They will be worn again.

The Purple Pants on 70s day at high school:

The Purple Pants at Maria's Big Night Out:

Incubus was pretty great. They played a lot of old songs, which made me happy. They also played a string of four slow/acoustic songs, which was nice but too slow when played consecutively. Joe and I were disappointed that they played Dig acoustic. We remedied our disappointment by blaring it in the car on the way out of the parking lot. As expected, they did not play the two songs I wanted them to play. It's ok though, because by the end of the show Brandon Boyd was not wearing a shirt.

It's amazing how versatile a band Incubus is. There were all kinds of people there: little kids, old people, goths, preps, stoners (who provided a potent aroma for the entire audience) and even, shock horror, guidos.

And now, the moment you've all (slash maybe just I) have been waiting for:

I MADE A FRIEND!!! WHO IS YOUNGER THAN 65!!!

Before Incubus started, the girl sitting next to me asked if Joe and I were twins. We hit it off. She's my age and wants to be concert buddies! Fantastic! We danced together, enjoyed the music together, laughed together and exchanged numbers.

All-in-all a fantastic night. Operation: Find Maria Friends is in full effect. And just in time, because Joe won't be around for UFC 101 on August 8th and I do not want to go to the bar alone.

Over and out.

Requests

Michael cracks me up. He can really make friends wherever he goes.

Case in point: I received an e-mail from my old man yesterday describing his new, exciting relationship with a radio DJ from Michigan State University. Dad was driving when he heard a new song he liked. The DJ announced his request line phone number so my dad called to ask what the song was (Come On Come On by the Von Bondies) and request a song (something by Cage the Elephant.) The DJ played the song immediately. Dad called again to thank him and request AFI. The DJ played Girls Not Grey and told a story about his first time hearing the song. Dad called again and requested Billy Talent.

I mean, seriously. My dad's the man. He ended the e-mail saying, "Yes, I'm a youngster at heart." That phrase dates him more than it should. He doesn't make a very believable 50 year old. (You can pay me later, fat man.)

I think I need to take this as a lesson and step up my game. I've gone to the gym every day since I registered. The first time I spoke to anyone was yesterday when two women looked at me, perplexed, wondering how to adjust their stationary bike seats. "There's a lever thing," I said pointing beneath their seats.

Here's the thing. I'm a pretty outgoing person in the right environment. I still don't feel comfortable approaching strangers in a gym. I have shared my dilemma with older, wiser acquaintances. Here are their suggestions:

1) Ask the guy how to use a machine.

2) Wait until you haven't seen him for a day or two and then approach him and say, "Hey! You haven't been at the gym, what's going on?"

3) Stare at him until you catch his eye, then smile a lot.

So clearly, I haven't hit the nail on the head yet. All seem pretty creepy to me. I don't want a pick-up line. I don't want to say anything that could provoke a restraining order. I just want a friend.

Can someone draft up some Wanted signs that I can tape up in the gym?

P.S. If you ever decide to try Exercise TV On Demand, BE CAREFUL. Some of those programs are a maximum pain in the gluteus. Burning surges still shoot through my thighs and butt cheeks after the video segment I tried yesterday. Thank God for saunas.

Gyminy Cricket! Maria gets a membership.

It's true. My funemployment has lead me to explore new horizons, most recently the YMCA. Prior to scouting the facilities, I envisioned being greeted by buff men dressed as police, cowboys and indians. Apparently that's just a rumor. (Or another delusion...)

Dad accompanied me for moral support. Deciding to join was easy. I can walk from my house (which hasn't happened yet) and it has all the equipment I need (an elliptical and two five pound weights.) I figured this would be a safe place to work out amongst old people and little kids forced to join by their parents. I figured I would be safe from all the hot, buff men I spotted at Joe's gym. Little did I know, the YMCA draws fit, young men and grannies with iPods alike.

The problem with this situation is that after about six minutes on the elliptical I look like I've been chasing mirages in the Sahara for three weeks. My face turns bright red and glistens under cascades of sweat. My legs show obvious warnings of collapse as they struggle to climb the pedals. It's not pretty. Certainly no condition to be attracting men in.

Today was an exception. One dark, handsome stranger with a tight shirt hugging his sculpted abs decided he either liked the desert-roaming look or needed to make sure I didn't pass out and get a concussion. I noticed him strutting around the room testing the machines behind me. I enjoyed the scenery as I walked to the water fountain trying to look like I'm really in better shape than the 65 year old powering away on the elliptical next to me.

On my way to the locker room, I noticed the weight room was empty and decided to try some of the exercises Joe taught me. I gathered my five-pounders and assumed the position on a bench in front of a mirror. After six reps I noticed Muscle Man walk by the room. He looked in through the window, stopped, turned around and looked out the parallel window facing the road, then turned 90 degrees walking away from the weight room. Not two minutes later was he walking back toward the weight room. I moved on to crunches and was on rep 60 (or dividend thereof) when all of a sudden Muscle Man was standing literally right over my face. I avoided eye contact. He pretended to look for a weight. He left the room empty handed. Hmmm. I decided to cool off on the treadmill and who should appear on a machine behind me but Muscle Man?

He's either seriously creepy or really worried about me. Either way, he's very good looking so I'll allow it. For now.

I repeated the story to my parents when I got home.

Dad: Did you talk to him?

Maria: What?! No. I'm not going to pick up a guy in a gym. Or anywhere. (Pours water.) Plus, what am I going to say? "Hey. You come here often?"

Mom: Ask him what his zodiac sign is!

Enter flashback to a club in Boston with Noelle. Mom would fit in well on the dance floor.

[P.S. If you have any good gym pick-up lines, do share. Maybe I'll test them out at the local YMCA.]

Another day, another pinched nerve

Big Mike has been encouraging me to explore my funemployment through bike riding. As a result, I've also been exploring our extensive collection of pain medication (BenGay, BioFreeze...)

Today we journeyed through Birmingham. I was immediately thankful I popped a Zycam before our ride when we came across a field of huge chunks of pollen resembling the fluffy remains of the Canadian Geese that messed with Sully.

I prefer getting exercise outdoors (stop laughing) whether it be running, whiffle ball or engaging in drive-by water soaking wars with my dad. It's more interesting when the scenery changes.

We had quite a selection of varied terrain on our journey. The trail made of thousands of little pebbles that kept shifting under the weight of the tires was probably the worst. Oh no. Wait. The worst were the GIGANTIC HILLS we had to maneuver amongst oversized moving vehicles that (wanted to but) were trying not to hit us.

I must have pinched a nerve in my left butt cheek trying to get up that hill. At some point, my entire left leg went numb. I thought I was out for the count. But alas, I am here sitting on my tingling butt blogging about the hazards of the road.

Maybe I should work out more.

When they think you're sneaking spiked punch...

Ok tell me the truth. How old do you think I look in this picture?

That was taken Saturday night at a graduation party for a family friend. Joe and I were eating cake and trying to decide if he would end up like the group of old men in a circle in the back yard smoking cigars while checking out the (decades younger) waitress. We decided, most likely.

A woman that looked exactly like Bette Midler (but with redder hair) interrupted our laughter to introduce herself. After asking Joe about his wrestling career, Bette turned to me with a smile reminiscent to that of Sadie Ratliff from Big Business and asked:

"And what grade are you in?!"

...

EXCUSE ME??? I just graduated college, thank you very much. This is the face of a wise and (fairly) weathered Bachelor of Science recipient.

I mean, seriously. I could handle Erin's ten year old cousin innocently guessing that I was 15. He's young. But Bette? Straight out of The Real Housewives of Oakland County? And she's not even close to being the first person to think I was in middle or high school.

While we're talking about mistaken identities...

Last Christmas, Steve and I struggled through a travel nightmare trying to get from Boston to Detroit. We had to stay overnight in Cinncinnati because of flight complications. We approached a counter at the Marriott at four in the morning. The woman bowed her head to look at our IDs. Paused. Looked up with a dumb smile and asked:

"Would you like one bed or two, Mr. and Miss F?"

...

EXCUSE ME??? We are siblings, woman! Don't toy with my emotions, it's four in the morning.

Ugh.

This is a time of transition. And in said time of transition, one must exhibit restrained patience in the face of confusion.

...Or just start wearing descriptive sandwich boards to avoid stupid questions.

Anyone need their lawn mowed?

Aaah family dinners. A time to feast on sarcasm, insult, and Vicki's delicious home cooking.

It was at said daily gathering that we could be found devouring the spoils of a newly purchased grill when all of a sudden the door bell rang. Weary of robbers and environmentalists, mom and I sent dad to deal with the interruption. He opened the door and adjusted his gaze to the pudgy ten year old standing on our porch. Mom and I tried to decipher the child's muffled request over the crunch of our perfectly salted peas. Dad closed the door and returned to the table with a smirk on his face.

Dad: The kid wanted to mow our lawn. He and his sister were pulling a wagon with a weed whacker and some wires and tools.

Dad chuckled as he scooped up some peas with his fork.

Dad: Hey! (he pointed his fork at me) You should go ask if they have any jobs!

This is what I'm dealing with, people. Send sympathy cards.

Bitchin Beard: Championship Edition

I've almost recovered from the Bruins' loss to the Hurricanes. It helps that the Hurricanes just got swept out of the Playoffs. About time too. I don't think I could handle one more bad weather metaphor in a blog post.

There is one thing that the Bruins are still kicking ass in. And that's the BEARD-A-THON!!! WOO!!! The spirit of the fans can not be broken. The Beard-a-thon is a way for each of the eight playoff teams to raise money for a cause of their choice.

The Boston Bruins Foundation is a 501(c)(3) non-profit foundation whose mission is to assist charitable organizations that demonstrate a strong commitment to enhancing the quality of life for children throughout New England. ... The Foundation, which provides grants to organizations that meet the standards of its mission, concentrates on athletics, academics, health, and community outreach programs that assist in helping enrich the lives of children throughout New England.

At $93,564, Bruins fans have raised more money than each of the eight other fan bases. 

Let's go $100,000!!! Go donate to someone. 

The lead profit generator is Bob Sweeny, who has raised $21,000 so far.

The final four teams have raised as follows:

Red Wings: $12,874

Blackhawks: $20,002

Hurricanes: $53,680

Penguins: $82,784

Red Wings fans need to step up. A championship means nothing without some sweet playoff beards.

Maybe they should take a hint from this guy.

David Traver recently won the World Beard and Moustache Championship. I wish I knew this was happening! Traver spent 2 1/2 years growing this 20.5 inch beard. Now THAT's dedication.

I want to be on the judge's panel next year, Alaska.

Weirdos in Logan, and Other Tales From the Road. Chapter Nine.

Forward
Chapter One: The Shadowboxing Magician
Chapter Two: Bug Eyes
Chapter Three: Lasso of Death
Chapter Four: Future Pilot
Chapter Five: Soldiers Making Out
Chapter Six: Steve Almost Pees Himself. Literally.
Chapter Seven: Schwayze's playing tonight but Uncle Bob is trying to hang a squirrel.
Chapter Eight: On the Ice. Big Mike Scores Big and Anna Speeds Around.
Chapter Nine: Buca di Beppo: Crop Dusting and Gorging

Buca di Beppo is a small Italian restaurant in downtown Birmingham. It's dad's favorite. The decor is random and awesome with strange pictures covering the walls and tacky little do-dads hidden everywhere. The tables are in the basement; it looks like what I'd imagine a Speak Easy to have been but with more booths and brighter lighting.

Ten of us shuffle into a booth by a 3 foot picture of a girl with her chest popping out of a leotard being fed spaghetti by some unidentified man. The servings are family style so we order many large dishes to share.

We stuff ourselves to capacity. The food is delicious. Dessert comes and Aunty Ann starts drooling.



Steve calls dad and Uncle Bob secret fat kids because they are arguing over which of them will get how much of which dessert. We all battle the food coma at the end of the meal.


As we stood to put on our coats, one person in the party who's identity will be protected, announced that everyone should stay away because they were crop dusting.

This is one of many new words Anna learned while staying with her cousins.

Crop dusting
	v. farting while walking or running n. crop duster

Joe's expert predictions hold that this will be a good year for crops.

Maria's Travel Log

6:37 AM, pulling out of Grandma's driveway:
Me: Man, it's early.
Dad: Man, it's late. I'd be at work by now.

And we're off.

10:00 AM, discombobulated and on a highway somewhere:
I just woke up from a half-hour nap to the sound of obscenities flowing from my father's mouth. He thought for a moment that we were going the wrong way, but we weren't. Thank God for Boy Scouts. I think he just wanted me to wake up and navigate and switch CDs to number three in his six disc hand-made collection.

10:30 AM, rest-stop somewhere in New York:
We needed a bathroom break. I hopped out of the car and started stretching. Mid-stretch, dad yelled at me to hurry up and stretch while walking, we're losing time. HEIL MICHAEL!

11:05 AM, on the highway perhaps still in New York:
We just passed some gigantic food production factory. After a couple of guesses, dad and I decided the smell permeating the car doors was mashed potatoes. Can you imagine living in a town that smelled like mashed potatoes all the time? Wow.

11:34 AM, some gas station with a Subway:
We ran out of food. Only one meatloaf sandwich made and packed by grandma remains. We stopped at Subway to refill. (It's just not the same without Omar.) Adolf yelled at me for wasting two minutes throwing out a can then ordered me to put his straw into his drink. The heavy rain is indicative of the passenger's destitute mood.

2:24 PM, on the highway in Philadelphia... I think:
About two-and-a-half hours ago, dad slowed down the car in the middle of the highway, stopped on the side, said, "I hope you put on anti-perspirant" while chuckling then making me Chinese Fire Drill to the driver's seat. I held back tears while adjusting the seat forward significantly and lowering the rear view mirror. Luckily, the road was empty. I lightly placed my foot on the pedal and gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles whitened. Dad kept screaming "pick it up, come on" until I hit 65. Two hours later, my hands feel like I have arthritis, my ass is numb and I am ten pounds lighter after sweating uncontrollably trying to control the car amid near tornado winds, torrential downpours and large, dead animals. (And lunatics who shouldn't have licenses.)

3:47 PM, on the road:
Roadkill is disgustingly fascinating. We've seen enough dead animals to stuff and re-create a full road-side habitat.

6:53 PM, Michigan. Close to home:
We haven't stopped for (over?) three hours and I finished a raspberry Snapple (that told me only male turkeys gobble) hours ago. I'm starving and ready to pee my pants. We just passed 8 Mile. I think I saw Eminem and Britney Murphy making out! Six and a half miles to go. Food better be on the table.

7:31 PM, at home in the driveway:
Having relieved myself and smelled dinner, I feel much better. My mom hugged me for 5 minutes while digging her chin into my cheek. Joe almost made me pee myself when he lifted me up and shook me like a half-broken piñata full of undiscovered goodies. We are now unpacking and Joe declared that he's done after this load because, "I will not touch your boobie holders!"

Aaaah. Home.

The trip home*

*Actually written May 18th at 9:00 PM.


I'm laying on a couch in my grandma's house, covered by an Afghan she made years ago. She is watching the Yankees (though she's a die hard Red Sox fan) and my dad is snoring away in his childhood bedroom. After having successfully avoided a thick slab of meatloaf in the shape of a bundt cake, I have not been successful in acquiring internet. I'm trying to steal wireless from the neighbors but it's not working. Ugh.

Goodbye Boston! My final week in Myles went by fast. Packing was very therapeutic. Weeding through all of my belongings helped clear my mind. It's important to deal with clutter and choose what stays and goes (with people as well as belongings.)

I feel like I've accomplished a lot when I throw junk away. I made 11 dollars at the liquor store recycling over 200 beer cans from the semester. I found clothes I thought I'd lose and paperwork I though was trashed. I threw away broken speakers, old projects and worn clothes. Half of my possessions will now reside in my grandmother's attic while the other half journeys back to Michigan with me.

There goes another year! Time to get ready to get a real job and venture into a house of four girlfriends nestled deep in the heart of the University of Michigan campus. It'll be interesting to see how other college kids live. I'm sure it's different than 426. Although the girl I'm subletting from calls me "girl" and "girly" in all her e-mails, so it can't be that different.