First person to find me a friend WINS!

I have printed a couple hundred copies of the card above. It's time to take drastic measures. [Feel free to print and distribute.]

Last Saturday, we had another high school graduation party to attend. With each graduation party, the level of embarrassment increases several notches. Here are some scenes from that night.

SCENE ONE:

(Maria, mom and dad enter the house and fill their plates with food. Mom and dad choose a table outside while Maria retrieves a drink. She plucks a Coke from a big blue cooler and scans the area for her parents. She spots her father taking a seat and approaches the table to discover that the only free chair is at the end of the table across from an elderly couple.)

Maria: (whispers to herself) Sweet.

(Maria occupies the vacant seat facing an elderly man perpendicular to his wife.)

Elderly woman: Oh hello! My name is Judy. Yes, you look like a Maria. I have awesome stories and was one of the first people to ever purchase contact lenses for which I had to take out a loan.

(Maria and Judy share stories and giggle with each other until Judy leaves for another party... But not without swapping e-mail addresses with her new best friend.)

SCENE TWO:

(Maria walks across the yard clutching her cold beer thinking to herself, "Thank GOD for liquor.")

Drunk woman: I'm sorry. I have to ask. (Quiets to a whisper and squeezes one eye shut) How ooold are you?

Maria: (exasperated) TWENTY-TWO! I should just start wearing my license around my neck.

(Maria continues on her path walking past her brother and his hoodlum wrestling friends.)

Tyler: SHAVE YOUR BEARD!

SCENE THREE:

(Maria, mom and dad are standing in a circle with the hostess of the party talking about life.)

Mrs. S: So how's being home?

Maria: Oh it's nice. Lots of down time.

Mom: Yea, it's just hard for her because she has no friends here.

Dad: She went from being in college with all her friends to being here with us. She needs some friends here.

(Maria purses her lips and raises her eyebrows. This story has been repeated too many times. She takes a sip from her beer and doesn't notice the wheels spinning inside Mrs. S' head.)

Mrs. S: (grabs Maria's hand and drags her to a circle of six older people.) THIS is Maria. She is a wonderful girl who just graduated college and has no friends here. Maria, (she points to one woman) this is my cousin. She has a very nice son who just graduated Michigan State. Talk to each other.

(Maria feels awkward conversing with Mrs. S' cousin. Everyone in the circle enjoys the spectacle of a friendless stranger being set up with an absent relative. They laugh often and lean in to hear all about Maria.)

Cousin 1: Well, why don't you give me your number and I'll give it to Tommy for when he comes back!

(Maria hands the woman a small piece of torn paper with her name and number on it and scampers away imagining Tommy's laughter when his mom hands him her number. Later that night, the cousins stand in unison and gather their belongings.)

Strange man: Did my wife get your number?

Better than Miami, New York and even Vegas.

I snuck through the crowded parking lot imagining all the ways my long black scarf could be used to strangle me. Someone could be hiding under that rusty, old van waiting to tackle me to my death.

If they think I won't fight back, they're sadly mistaken.

Today my mom and I visited the Oakland County Circuit Court so she could be sworn in as a notary public. A policewoman stopped us at the metal detectors and instructed us to return our phones to the car; no cameras were allowed. This is when I set out on my mission.

I grabbed my mom's cell phone, looked her in the eyes and said determinedly, "Give me the keys. I'll take care of this."

I walked through the exit, eyes wide open, careful not to let any future clues slip my sight. The authenticity of CSI: Miami was confirmed when I eyed a large bus with tinted windows, clearly used to transport criminals.

I walked with conviction along the sidewalk, examining each car I passed for anything unusual. My mind fell victim to fantasy (and perhaps too much TV.)

...

A camera pans across the parking lot, weaving through a neat line of cars belonging to the dozens of people leaving the circuit court. The camera finishes with the lot and focuses in on me, CSI Maria.

I am wearing sunglasses. Sporadic, but obviously natural, gusts of wind move my hair so that it bounces catching the light in just the right places. The gun strapped to my hip warns people not to fuck with me.

All of a sudden, a gun shot rattles the winter silence. People scream and duck by cars and bare trees, anxiously using purses and limbs to shield small children and geriatrics. I stealthily remove my gun from the holster and point it into the air while screaming, "Get down!" I call for back-up on my walkie talkie as I walk in a half squat.

I spot something. My peripheral vision is better than the straight-on vision of a pilot in the Air Force.

Oh no he didn't.

The shooter is trying to make a getaway. He's on foot.

"Stop where you are!" I warn him. But like most criminals, he doesn't listen. He has no idea who he's messing with.

The shooter takes off into the woods. I break out in a sprint faster than my dad racing my brothers for the last piece of mom's carrot cake. Gun in hand, I leap over branches and abnormally large stones while chasing after the shooter. He's slowing down. I fire some shots for effect.

I'm gaining on him.

I tear a large branch from a tree I'm passing and throw it at the perpetrator's back. It's enough to send him flying. When I reach him, I step on his back smearing his face in a large pile of wolf droppings. If I wasn't so excited about torturing him in the interrogation room, I'd leave him for the wolves.

Instead, I alert my extremely attractive (but inferior in speed) male partner that, once again, I've caught the bad guy. I kneel on his spine and pull the shooter's arms behind his back.

"You run slower than my 85 year old yia yia, who's legs resemble chopped off 300 year old tree stumps," I whisper in his ear as I cuff him.

...

Back in the real world, I locate mom's car and put our phones in the glove compartment. A convict stares me down as I re-enter the court. I go to finger my gun just to realize there's nothing there. I pick up the pace so the elderly police woman can protect me if anything should happen.

Some expert advice: If you're ever attacked, fight back and leave DNA so there will be a trail when the detectives come looking.

Anyway... It didn't take long for mom to be sworn in. We left court and started driving out of the complex. My skin tingled as we passed the medical examiner's office. I let my mind drift to the ME's slab and the murder victim who's death I was about to solve.

Enough with the cities. I should sell the rights to (and star in) a new series called CSI Maria.

Jerry Bruckheimer... Call me!

Maria's Kitchen Success: Chicken Francese

Lucky for me, my mother is a master chef.

Tonight I expanded my cooking repertoire with mom's Chicken Francese recipe. SO good. I made Noelle come up and eat the other piece of chicken.

I'm going to have to find a regular victim to practice my recipes on. Tara's a vegetarian so that won't work. (Except for when we finally have our Fondue party.)

I am currently accepting applications for Maria's Personal Taste Tester...





Vicki's Chicken Francese Recipe:

• Mix two eggs with salt and Parmesan cheese.
  
• Dry two chicken breasts and coat in flour.
  
• Dip chicken breasts in egg mixture.
  
• Fry in oil until both sides are brown.
• Take chicken off oven and either get a new pan or wash out current pan.
• Put in pan: less that 1/4 cup oil and butter, 1/2 cup chicken broth, 1/2 cup dry white wine.
• Simmer chicken in pan for about half hour.
• Juice a lemon and put juice over chicken for the last 15 minutes of cooking time.
• Devour and enjoy with the rest of the wine.

Weekend Update: Dating is not dead.

Just when I was starting to give up hope on single life in Boston, I met a genuinely nice guy who surprised me and proved that people still go on dates.

So last weekend I met this guy at Jake Ivory's. Let's call him J. We talked the whole night, made fun of people, danced a little... It was a good time. The bar closed and he asked for my number, so I gave it to him and by Thursday he had asked me out on a date.

I told my mom about this date and felt the repercussions shortly thereafter. My dad sent me an e-mail with a subject line, "So, he's interested in my daughter now, is he?" and with two attachments, the Rules for Dating my Daughter and the Application to Date my Daughter, which I re-posted below. The same day, I received the following text from my youngest brother:

"Maria. Tell J to watch his back when I'm there cause I built a special shank that has his name written all over it."

Saturday rolled around and J brought me to Joshua Tree for some drinks. Totally different experience going on a night other than Thursday, when the bar is usually full of the same BU kids you see every Thursday. We got a table, ordered some drinks and talked about life. UFC matches were on and Murilo Rua (who's photo below some of you may recognize from my desktop) and Andrei Arlovski were fighting so I was happy. Of course the only person most of the people cared about was Kimbo Slice who lost after about 10 seconds. Didn't even get to put up a fight. It was extremely disappointing. But I digress.




That was a great first date for me. We hung out, drank some beers and watched some fighting. He drove me home and asked if I would want to hang out again. I said no. His face dropped as he said, "...what?" which I followed up with, ".. just kidding.." Mom said it was too early to joke. I can't help it though. The situation was tense and I needed to break it up a little. So I guess if I didn't scare him we may go on another date. Or something. Who knows.

On my way home, Joe and I had the following exchange of texts:

Maria: I'm back from my date. We watched the Kimbo Slice match at a bar.
Joe: How'd he do?
Maria: He lost in ten f-ing seconds it was ridiculous. His eye got split open.
Joe: Not Kimbo bitch. The kid you went with.

This morning I received the following e-mail from my father:

Well, where are the completed forms? The review committee has been waiting since last night to begin the evaluation!

The committee decided I am allowed to go on a second date, so stay tuned...



In other news.

Friday was fantastic. Erin, Katie and I went to go see Beautiful Lies play at Berklee. I hadn't seen Dave play in a while so that was fun. After the show we went to Phil's apartment to party with the band. We kept hitting our heads on underwear hanging from some hangers. The undies were either not dry or decoration supplemental to a Bill Cosby sweater and random squirrel figurines propped up on speakers and sinks.

I always forget how much I hate gin. It tastes like Christmas. But instead of leaving presents, all you get in the morning is a raging hangover. Damn you Katie!

The quote of the night occurred while Katie, four of the boys and I were squashed in the kitchen taking shots.

Katie: What would your personal physical manifestation of weather be? Mine is drizzly.
(Silence)
Maria: ... Thunder and lightening.

Love those boys.

Saturday after the date I met Noelle and Christina at Tequila Rain. It was pretty fun. A group of guys started talking to us. One was wearing a Tap Out shirt so I asked if he watched the match earlier that night. He said yes and that he was an MMA fighter himself so we talked about fighint for the rest of the night. Saturday made me want to go watch my brothers fight. Hopefully that will happen some time soon.

Noelle stole the hat of one of the fighter's friends and danced around throwing up signs like she was part of the Korean Killers.




The bar shut down and hat-boy, who Noelle named Jersey even though he was from Florida, ran to say goodbye to us and slipped and fell flat on his ass. We had to tell Noelle today that the kid actually fell and was not break dancing. Poor girl felt cheated.

As we exited Tequila Rain, Noelle shouted,

"WELL! We sure got our money's worth!"

Wrapping up the summer. Part Two.

Like usual, I'm wide awake less than 30 minutes before scheduled wake-up time. Dad and I are driving to Massachusetts in exactly 1 hour and 23 minutes. I am all packed, which is extremely rare given the unfortunate fact that my attention span never developed to that of a normal, full-functioning adult.

This summer. FLEW. by. I can't even believe it.

Life was not even close to the trauma I feared a couple months ago. Obviously. My stupid mind always expects the worst.

This summer was pretty awesome. I had a couple epiphanies and several reassurances and reminders such as:

• I love people. New people. Different people. All people. (.. ok most people.)
• I love new places.
  
• I love coffee. Medium. A little Half and Half. Two sugars. Small is too small. Large is just too large. Free trade coffee tastes like flowers.
• My humor sometimes takes adjusting to. I don't really have an arm disease or arm problem or tragic childhood story about my arm as some people may still believe...
  
• I'm glad I listened to my mother and didn't pursue photojournalism as a career. PR is the right place for me. Funny how the old folks knew first.
• I'm glad I listened to my dad's career and living-independently advice. It works flawlessly.
• Not all companies make interns do dumb things. I'm thankful everyone was eager to teach and show and my bosses were super.
  
• I'm thankful for all the advice and guidance I received over the past months.
• I'm thankful my roommates were awesome. You guys better come to Boston. I'm serious.
  
• I wish I had another month of summer.
• Nichole and Damian are the best coffee buddies ever and I owe both of them more than I could fit in a bullet point.
• I suck at goodbyes and would rather just duck out without a word because it's easier.

I'm not even going to talk about how I'm facing my senior, AKA final, year at BU. I'll save the angsty, end-of-the-world musings for late at night with the Boston roommates. MUAHAH. Just kidding guys.

Anyways there's no need for that because my family goodbye dinner at P.F. Changs yielded more than just an inflated stomach.

(Let's pretend half the restaurant didn't get this one as well.)

Let the fortune cookie speak for itself.

Bide your time, for success is near.

I saw the sign. Of the ram. Yea.

I'm superstitions. Mom sent me this horoscope thing about how personalities are based on your sign. If I don't share it with someone within the next ten minutes I'll turn into a wolf and spend the rest of my life roaming the countryside hungry for flesh and companionship:

ARIES - The Daredevil (Mar 21 - April 19) Energetic. Adventurous and spontaneous. Confident and enthusiastic. Fun. Loves a challenge. EXTREMELY impatient. Sometimes selfish. Short fuse. (Easily angered.) Lively, passionate, and sharp wit. Outgoing. Lose interest quickly easily bored. Egotistical. Courageous and assertive. Tends to be physical and athletic.



I do like a good adventure. And a good challenge. I would consider myself fun at times. Other people may refute that. I think I'm a pretty patient person. It takes a lot to get me really worked up. Which probably relates to the easily bored bit. Although I could entertain myself for hours. I am passionate. If it's something worth being passionate about. My wit can be sharp at times. I am physically active and athletic. If you consider running to to the bathroom during a Law and Order SVU commercial athletic. Just kidding.

But seriously.







(Did I just describe you too? These things are so general...)

I hope you're as proud of me as my parents are.

Feast your eyes on this, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps the best meal I've ever made. EVER!





I added the lemons to the picture because I was afraid it might look like I fried some chicken, peed in a plate and tried to pass it off as a delicacy. To prove otherwise, I will also provide evidence of the recipe I worked from:



I scribbled down directions my mom gave me the second I got in the door from a 25 minute walk home. Give me a break.

Mom's Lemon Chicken That Maria Made Successfully So You Can Make It Too:

chicken
olive oil
butter
lemon
white wine

Fry the chicken in olive oil until it turns a little brown on both sides. Then put one tablespoon of butter into the pan. Let melt. Add 1/3 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice, 1/3 cup white wine and a lot of love. Let sit until you can no longer resist the delicious smell.* Share the rest of the wine with the roommates. Indulge.







*Keep in mind these portions are small so make more if you plan on serving more than just yourself in front of the TV.

Just another packratting Tuesday...

You got it. Time to share those memorable texts I just couldn't let go of...


May 6 Drew: Call me when you get out of your final. Shots? (During my last final of junior year.)

May 7 Maria: Steve, I missed my train.
Steve: Maria are you kidding me? I told you to go 10 minutes early.
Maria: Haha just kidding. I'm on my way.
Steve: Haha I fucking hate you. I was gonna kill you.

May 9 Christina: R u bringing me back a man?

May 13 Noelle: Feels like August Rush down here at Park Street haha.

May 17 Christina: I'm laying out right now! Where are you I wanna oil you up! Haha.

May 18 Drew: I fell out of a hot air balloon is now my favorite bad pick up line. (Story here)

June 2 Mike: Do you want to go cabrewing on Friday? Or do you have to work?

June 4 Noelle: Sounds delightful. Let's both wear nothing.

June 6 Joe: Plop dop?

June 8 Joe: Global warming is ripping through Bham.

June 12 Mom: Oui. De rien. AKA Ja voll. Kein problem.

June 16 Joe: My snot is black from second hand smoke and inhaling dust haha I'm going to die soon.

June 17 Michelle: It just started go buck wild.

June 20 Joe: Mom's a hardass!



John McCain approves this blog post.














..

Have you heard that song Webbie made for me?

Mom: This might be our last Christmas together.
Maria: Pssh. You guys will still buy me flights home after I graduate.
Dad: HAH! I don't think so. You'll be on your own. Can you spell "independent?"
Maria: Please, old man. I spell that every pre-game.




Independent by Webbie
Lyrics (the important ones)


I N D E P E N D E N T Do You Know What That Mean Man [X2]
She Got Her Own House
She Got Her Own Car
Two Jobs Work Hard U A Bad Broad

She'll Buy Her Own I Dont Think She 'll Never Look
In A Man Face Standin Waitin For Him To Take Care Of Her
She'll Rather Go To Work And Pay The Bills On Schedule

A Independent Chick Do U Kno Wat That Mean
She Cook She Clean Never Smell Like Onion Rings

The night I almost killed my dad with my phone charger.

Let me tell you why I need to stop watching scary movies.

Last night I was at home in the basement watching The Last King of Scotland by myself. It ended at about 2 AM. I wanted something to finish downloading before I went to bed so I figured I'd get a snack while I was waiting. I started going upstairs and heard really weird noises. The main floor of our house was dark but I could see the windows were opened and I could hear unidentifiable sounds coming from an unidentifiable room. I couldn't tell if they were coming from upstairs or from the kitchen. I thought it could be Joe sleepwalking and if you try to wake a sleepwalker they could kill you by accident so I didn't want to wake him up. Flashbacks to The Strangers were flowing. I looked around and decided to go downstairs because I'm not a dumb bitch like Liv Tyler and I won't walk into the killer's arms that easily.

I paced the basement wondering if someone had broken into our house. I thought I'd try going up again but I freaked out when I got to the landing and went back to my room. I turned off all the lights in the basement and sat in my room with the door opened. I turned off my computer so I could hear better. All of a sudden I heard loud footsteps. I grabbed my phone and chose my mother's number, prepared to call her if an intruder tried to come get me.

I stood in my doorway trying to hear what was going on. I heard more footsteps. I anxiously searched my room for a possible weapon. In my state of panic, the most dangerous tool seemed to be my phone charger so I shuffled it between my hands trying to decide whether to strangle the perpetrator or stab them with the prongs in the charger. I settled on the latter, holding the charger in one hand and my phone with my finger on the call button in the other. Hearing footsteps approaching the stairwell to the basement I called out, "Joe????"

A booming voice responded.
"Why are you awake? Go to bed!"
Apparently my dad was shutting the windows.
"Maria? Are you ok?" my mom asked in a slurred, groggy voice.
Apparently I'd called her when I heard footsteps by the stairwell.

I have problems.

Sunday.

In line waiting for a cash register.

Me: I'm going to go back to Boston and want to buy a lot of things.
Mom: Mmmm.
Me: I'll have to find myself a sugar daddy.
Mom: I did! You will!

Stories from the dinner table...

(terrorist fist jabs)
Last night dad picked me up from Ann Arbor and brought me home to celebrate his 50th birthday. I enjoyed not cooking dinner and mom, dad, Joe and I had some laughs at the table. After dinner was over, Joe started clearing the table. He came and sat on my lap putting an arm around my neck. Seconds later my knees started rumbling under the oppressive squeal of his farts. He laughed hysterically as I screamed. Mom and dad got up to leave the table. Joe stood and extended both arms saying, "come on! That was good!" as he tried to fist bump the parentals. They did not oblige.


(my dad's a hobo)
So every time we go to a restaurant (or any public place where one could be humiliated) my dad harasses the wait staff. Tonight our waitress was a young girl, often absent from the table.
Dad: I have these two coupons for dinner.
Waitress: You can only use one per table, sorry.
Dad: What if we split the bill?
Waitress: Nope.
Dad: What if I pretend I'm from another table.
Waitress: Nope.
Dad: What if...
Mom: You can just ignore him. He follows us everywhere.
Waitress: Oh so you don't actually know him?
Dad: No they actually followed me here to dinner.
Waitress: Oh so are you like that hobo where the high school kids followed him around and kept having sex with him until he got them pregnant?
Dad: What??? ...No.

Give blood. Play rugby.

I'm back from my weekend getaway to Elkhart, Indiana. Thankfully, weren't there for sight seeing. We spent most of our time on the rugby battle field screaming at high school boys that look like they moonlight as lumberjacks. Or would that be daylight? Can you chop wood at night? Whatever.

Some of these kids were bigger than any college guys I've seen. I guess this is what they look like before their submission to beer and laziness surpasses their health and determination. Where were these guys when I was in high school?

(Checking the bitterness at the door to continue this post.)

Joe's team played three games. They started off a little shaky. Some of the parents questioned their sobriety the evening before seeing as the team stayed in the same hotel which is basically a breeding ground for bad behavior. They pulled it together the second game, annihilating the team by scoring 40-something points enabling their first shut-out.

Today. Wow. Today was intense. The boys approached the field under a blanket of black clouds. They hoped for rain which would mean mud which would mean really cool dirt smeared all over their faces making them look infinitely more manly. The parents whimpered, Michael leading prayers to the rain gods begging them to hold off until the match ended.

No such luck. An ominous voice in the distance relayed an urgent message forcing everyone off the fields. Frantically, players grabbed jerseys, bags and game faces before locating their loved ones, throwing them over both shoulders and sprinting to the car.

After half an hour of hiding from the storm, Joe and a few of his pals tired of this cowardly behavior, exited their cars and let out a deep howl calling the rest of their team to join them under the black clouds. Time to finish this tournament.

The boys warmed up and joined the referee on the pitch. The Michigan team is a select team made of talented players from different schools and districts that came together like the French, British and Ottomans during the Crimean War. Michigan started the match and quickly made Iowa their bitch as the storm had done to the parents.

Iowa didn't stand a chance. Michigan scored try after try. Sometime in the second half, Iowa started getting cranky and playing dirty. They slipped arms around our boys necks and metal cleats in their faces. The ref, clearly sight-impaired and lacking intelligence, failed to call most of these illegalities.

That's when it started. One of our players went down during a play. Joe called to the ref and the coaches because the kid wasn't standing up. From the sidelines, we stood on our toes wondering if the player was unconscious. Another player sprinted off the pitch toward the sidelines seemingly dazed. We looked over to see blood gushing from his face. Some barbarian with poor sportsmanship punched him square in the eye. Mom started freaking out and screaming for a medic but all attention was still on Passed-out-kid. Like Florence Nightengale, mom sprung into action and hustled around the field to the medic table. I stood on the sidelines wondering what the hell was going on when an ambulance pulled into the left parking lot to pick up an injured kid from another team. Two minutes later, a fire truck pulled into the right parking lot and three medics sprinted onto another field. Mother Nightengale ignored the perplexed teams and parents, ignored the lines on the grass and sprinted across the pitch bobbing and weaving through a mass of lumberjacks. She slid on her knees for two feet landing in front of Busted-face-boy where she cleaned the blood dripping from his face. The rest of the team watched and quietly planned their revenge on the opposing side.

In the end, Passed-out-kid stood up but may have sustained a minor concussion after being rammed in the head while he was standing 90 degrees to the ground. Busted-face-boy needed several stitches. Mother Nightengale proceeded to help the weak and wounded for years to come. And dad waited on the sideline with his Hawaiian straw hat ready to catch any balls gone astray.

Conversation #3

Mom and dad get into bed and under the covers.

Mom: It's freezing in here. (wiggles over to dad.)
Dad: What is are those, ice cubes? It's like a block of ice down there!
Mom: I just wanted you to know I'm cold!
Dad: I don't need to know that! What are those, popsicles? Get those things away from me!

[Thirty seconds elapse.]

Mom: I don’t think I’ll be able to go to the bathroom tonight. I’m going to fall and break my neck.
Dad: I got an idea. Crawl. Then you won’t get hurt.

[Ten seconds elapse.]

Dad: Get those feet away from me! Go sleep with your daughter.

Conversation #2

Dad: (Standing at end of bed. Arms on hips.) Are you sleeping on that side?
Mom: No.
Dad: Then why are you sitting there?
Mom: What's wrong with you?!
Dad: I'm tired and I want to go to bed!
Mom: Talk nice to me!
Dad: ... Please go to your side of the bed, Poopsie.

The Real World! Ann Arbor!

Apparently I'm an abomination to the world of competent grocery shoppers thriving in suburbs and cities nationwide. I should not be allowed to enter any self-serve nourishment establishment unsupervised lest I harm myself or some organized, focused grocery expert.

Mike took me grocery shopping last night and guffawed at everything I placed warily in my cart. I can't help the fact that my mother should host Top Chef, my dad holds a gold medal for Most Effective Shopper in the World and Jose and Maria take good care of me in the dining hall at school. I have no idea what I should buy or make or eat. I usually just eat what's placed in front of me. Which has been very little this past week.

I get it. This is that thing. The one I've been successfully avoiding for quite some time now. I think they call it "The Real World." I've been living MTV's version for quite some time now (this is the story of six college girls... picked to live together...) My version of the Real World has been fun and games. For the most part. A month ago I would have jumped on Noelle and forced her to accompany me to Late Night for some deliciously unhealthy fried food.

Goodbye mozzarella sticks and chicken wings on demand. Hello 40 hour work week and no one to cook for my tired self when I get home.

Apparently Joe's the man...

Last night at the game:

Joe: It's not easy trying to spit game and watch hockey at the same time.


...

Tonight at dinner:

Me: Joe you shouldn't be so mean to these girls.
Joe: You have no idea who you're talking to, do you?
Mom: (Puts down her ribs as her eyes widen) The Pimp Daddy!
Joe: See! I don't even have to say it.


Also at dinner:

Mom: He's just got to spit up the game!

Stanley Cup. Game Two.

Red Wings: 2
Penguins: 0


Last night was fantastic. My dad got us tickets to game two of the Stanley Cup in his business suite. We arrived about an hour early and there were already two people there. As we walked into the suite, one of the men, Al, approached the refrigerator and offered me a beer. Al was a short, tan, Hispanic man donning a Red Wings jersey and floating through the room jovially conversing with different people.

Joe and I filled our plates with barbecue and fried chicken, spring rolls, potato wedges and other delicious morsels of heaven left by catering. We took our food to the two rows of bleacher seating overlooking the ice outside of the suite. Mom joined us, found white pom poms and decided to recreate her high school cheerleading routines, much to Joe's chagrin. Dad, who I'm convinced can get along with any person out there, mingled with customers while waiting for the game to start.

The National Anthem was sung my some petite middle-aged blonde with a significant amount of plastic surgery. I know this because she and her family (and mail-order, 20-something year old South American man-slave) were sitting in the booth to the left of us. Joe thought she was "sexy" and somehow ended up with a puck she signed with a heart.

As Red Wings tradition dictates, someone in the crowd threw a boiled octopus onto the ice before the game started. Apparently it served its purpose of bestowing luck upon the team because they slaughtered the Penguins 3-0.

Highlights of last night include:

1. Hanging out with the family and enjoying some of the perks of my dad's job. (We missed Stever though.)
2. My on-demand drink fetcher, Al. I never even asked, he just brought me a steady flow of cold beers.
3. The dessert cart. Turtle Cheesecake was godly and Al made mom and I do Bailey's shots from miniature shot glasses made of white chocolate.
4. Twirling hockey towels to techno.
5. Witnessing first-hand another Red Wings victory in the Stanley Cup.
6. Seeing a fantastic fight that involved several punches to the face and almost every player on the ice. Are those penguins crazy? Don't mess with Osgood.
7. A homemade sign saying something like "Penguins eat their own poop."

On to game three.

Business Casual

GRRRRR I hate shopping!

Especially when I can't find anything. Like yesterday. Mom, dad and I went to a mall the size of a small village surrounded by carpet sidewalks and faux forestry. I tried on dozens of clothes in a desperate attempt to find something "business casual" for my upcoming internship. Wow. Who knew it would be so difficult. Several things went wrong.

A) I was in a bad mood. When I'm in a bad mood and trying to shop I shut down.
B) Shopping with people frustrates me.
C) I have no idea what qualifies as business casual and I don't want to look stupid when I start my job so I grew even more frustrated when I couldn't find anything.
D) What I did find looked ridiculous on me.

After trying on 20 articles of clothing in a poorly-lit, made-for-midgets dressing room in H&M, I was done. Mentally at least. Vicki and Michael had other plans in mind. Mom brought me into one of her favorite stores: Ann Taylor. Well... Loft. Apparently there's a difference. She picked out pants and I picked some shirts. Headed to the dressing room. Put on the clothes. Started laughing. Basically I was wearing a shapeless tarp. Mom thought the pants looked fine but I'll be damned if I will be caught wearing Ann Taylor clothes to an internship. Don't get me wrong. The clothes are fine... for other people. I can squeeze in another decade or so before stepping foot in that place again.

We had much better luck today. Mom brought me to Somerset and lo and behold the Banana Republic was the perfect balance between my reluctance to dress so rigidly and my mom's eagerness to dress me like a middle-aged woman.

For now, everyone is happy. I just hope the people I work with dress up and I don't look ridiculous.