Alligators on a Party Barge

What he said

2007-06-29T19:25:00.000Z

"What's 'normal' for Beverly Hills is not 'normal' for the rest of the world. What's 'normal' in Beverly Hills is more like 'batshit fucking insane' to the rest of the world."

-- Mr. Bailey, yo's response when I sent him a link to this article and a note moaning about what counts as a normal female beauty regime these days.

Also, "bitch set me up"

2007-05-30T13:44:00.000Z

How is it possible that the New York Times actually believes it’s stumbled on something new and earth-shattering with “The Devil Wears Prada” reason that horrible people working with other horrible people in a horrible place (the so-called fashion industry) want to kill each other?

“He needed killin’” has been considered a plausible defense in Texas for centuries.

Department Store of Horrors

2007-05-29T15:21:00.000Z

Memorial Day weekend, and I decided to fullfill my duties as an American by indulging in a long trip to Consumertown, a.k.a. Tyson's Galleria.

Nearing the end of the five-hour spending fest, I entered a dressing room at one of the shopping center's anchor stores—the one with the ampersand in the center of the name—and proceeded to try on an item of clothing. Horrific horrors ensued whilst looking in the two-way mirror. "Holy crap, do I look like that? How are small children not nightmared by me?" were actual thoughts had.

The combination of an ultra-skinny mirror and a pallid greenish glow from the overhead fluorescent lighting created a faces of meth-like appearance, which was not at all how I generally picture myself, considering I've never regarded mixing Sudafed and Drano as a good way to stay up for 72 hours. Said mirror instantly dropped 20 pounds off my person, which I thought would be a welcome development, but viewing this result really made me want a sandwich. Or six sandwiches and a cheeseburger. It. Was. Awful. The lighting highlighted all the redness in my skin, every mole. And somehow the mirrors also screwed with my posture, making me both a hunchback, adorned with some ba donka donk.

Don't know how it happened, don't care. All I know is when I think of what I saw there, I feel an instant urge to hurl. All I can say is stay out of the dressing rooms there.

Nature is trying to kill me, yo.

2007-05-01T16:59:00.000Z

We’re entering Week 5 of the Bailey, yo Allergy Death Watch here at AOAPB, where Nature tries to kill me with her wicked trees, flowers, flowering trees, grass, mold, mites, dander, dust, ozone, radio waves, clouds, and life in general.

Nature is pissed because I screamed at her a little a couple of months ago, when she startled me by landing on the terrace by my office window in the form of three raptors with red eyes. Nature-in-the-form-of-predatory-birds then proceeded to bludgeon their brunch-in-the-form-of-a-smaller-bird against the terrace railing, causing me to shriek in a most loud and girl-y fashion, that “Nature is outside! Nature is outside killing! Killing its lunch! Nature! Nature!” and frantically try to close the blinds to shield me from the horror.

See, I had no desire to interrupt Nature while she was dining. It’s just her table manners are disgusting.

At last tally, Nature has sent me to the doctor four times, for a total of six prescriptions. The currently approved morning cocktail now includes:

1 shot Nasacort to protect the nasal passages
1 Zyrtek in desperate attempt to shield my body from invaders
2 Sudafed to relieve the pressure in my ears, which haven’t popped in four weeks. Also to help drain the ick from the sinuses.
2 Robitussin Cough Tabs to disguise the hacking up of drained ick
1 multi-vitamin because nothing else is working
2 prophylactic Excedrin Migraine tablets

Also, three courses of antibiotics to clear up the nasty lil infections of ears, tonsils, and sinuses where Nature has managed to penetrate my defenses.

This shit’s gotten out of hand, y’all. So I hereby offer my profound apologies to Nature for interrupting her lunchtime repast a few months back. It was my lack of sophistication that led to such a gauche response, and I humbly beg your pardon.

Now can we dial back the freaking particulate matter content? You’re killing me here.

Old Peeps Actually Taste Better

2007-04-06T15:29:00.000Z

Happy Easter, y'all.

P.S. The conjoined Peeps surgery is kind of an homage to last night's Grey's Anatomy repeat, if you think about about it.

Dear Ruth Marcus: Get Bent

2007-03-29T14:26:00.000Z

Ruth Marcus opines in that oh-so-insipid way of hers that Elizabeth Edwards should back off campaigning for her husband because she’s got cancer. Incurable, but treatable, won’t-someone-think-of-her-poor-soon-to-be-motherless-children cancer.

Scholars and social critics more thoughtful than me can pick apart and mercilessly refute her arguments. Me, all I got is blind fury and a blog.

Many AOAPB readers know that my husband has incurable, but treatable cancer. Now you all do.

Ruth points out that there’s a double standard for women and men when it comes to handling illness. Well sure, as long as we got women like Ruth to reinforce said double standard.

Cancer sucks, no doubt about it. Incurable cancer sucks big-time. But the idea that Elizabeth Edwards is going to 1) die with horrible regrets for not spending more time with her children and 2) blithely announced to her children that “Mommy’s cancer is back! Now I’m off to campaign for Daddy!” just feeds horrific old-school stereotypes about cancer and motherhood.

Reality check: we’re all going to die with horrible regrets. For those of us who are parents, many of those regrets will center around things we did or didn’t do with our kids. But you accept this the minute you become a parent. You can’t let is paralyze you. Because if it isn’t cancer, it’s going to be something else that knocks you off your game.

It is possible to be a parent, wage-earner, and a cancer patient simultaneously. Only people like Ruth Marcus that think we should pick two out of three.

I love it when the nurses all call me "Mom"

2007-03-12T19:43:00.000Z

BoyChile and GirlChile had their first appointments with the dentist today. Nothing brings out the crazy quite so much as a first “ANYTHING MEDICAL” appointment with your toddlers. You can guarantee a couple of things:

1. You’re going to be late.

2. You’re going to need to fill out a metric shitload of forms.

3. You’re going to forget some vital piece of information. (SSN, blood type, insurance card, vaccination certification, credit score . . .)

4. You’re going to leave the medical establishment worried about something you’d never thought of before.

5. You’re going to leave thinking you’re a bad parent because you’d never thought of said thing before.

It won’t surprise many readers (hi Mom!) that I’ve been called “somewhat aggressive” when it comes to making my will known. Must be because I . . . you know . . . tell people what I want.

But not with doctors. Oh no. That urologist could have told me he was going to take my kidney out with a local anesthetic and a grapefruit spoon, and I would have said, “Hand me that consent form and let’s get cracking!”

So my babies are in these big chairs and there’s not enough time (in my mind) to explore the office, or the tools, and the damn Dora the Explorer DVD runs out just about the time the whiny brush starts up, and I’m bouncing back and forth between their chairs, trying to keep a big ole smile on my face because, hey! This is fun! Going to the dentist is fun!

When the dentist with BoyChile demands of me, “how did he break his front tooth?”

How does any kid break his tooth, I wanted to ask her. They’re generally not trying to bite the cap off a bottle of beer or playing ice hockey.

He fell down, I say.

The nerve’s exposed, she said We have to take an X-ray right now.

Now, in an incredible feat of timing, BoyChile took out his tooth exactly a week ago today. Managed to keep all those teeth in his head until one week before his first freaking dental appointment. But no matter – dentists are here to help us, right?

BoyChile was not about to stay still long enough to let anyone stick an oversized coffee filter in his mouth and point a lens at him. X-ray taking thus abandoned, BoyChile thoroughly over the entire dentist-thing, we head back to the chair of doom.

Lady Dentist has been replaced by semi-retired Dentist/Owner of practice, and he’s been called over for a consult. He takes off his mask, gets BoyChile calmed down, probes and wiggles things a bit, backs up, send BoyChile off, and talks to me like an adult – i.e, if the nerve actually was exposed, BoyChile probably would have stopped, you know, eating. And would be crying, like, all the time. My faith in the profession of pediatric dentistry is thus restored.

So here’s where I surprised even myself. When I went to the counter to pay and make BoyChile’s follow-up appointment, I specifically asked for Dr. Owner to do the follow-up. When told he doesn’t see patients regularly any longer, I said that I would take whomever was most similar to him in personality and patient treatment. No offense to LadyDentist, but I wasn’t comfortable with her and I don’t want her hands in my kid’s mouth again.

The moral of the story is this: if we are so goddamned determined to turn healthcare into a business, then patients have a right to act just like customers. It took me 34 years, two kids, and a unilateral nephrectomy to figure that out.

Celebratory Gunshots, Too

2007-02-28T15:34:00.000Z

As I set about planning the celebration of my children’s third natal day, I had a couple of ideas, none of which involved any place named “Zone,” renting animals that require a support staff or permits, or spending money.

Lucky for me that my kids love running around outdoors and their birthday falls just after Spring’s coming out party. So all I need is a park featuring a wide open field, some balls to kick and toss around, a sheet cake from Rolling Pin, and we’re set.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going a little too low-end though. Even a slacker mom like me likes a little flash, a spark of cool for the kiddie party. “Kites!” I thought. “It’ll be excellent kite-flying weather! We’ll get some kites for the kids to supplement the ball-kicking fun! What could possibly go wrong with kites?”

What indeed.

Lazy People

2007-02-19T23:50:00.000Z

Suck.

That's all.

Just Because It's a Holiday—A Photo Journey, Part 3

2007-02-14T21:36:00.000Z

We're feeling oh so loving here on the barge today, therefore, here's a very special photograph from the beach house to commemorate this occasion.

Yes, that is a lamp, with a base in the shape of a clown. A ceramic clown. Yes, it is incredibly shudder-inducing. In fact, I have chills as I write this.

What? You want to see a close up?

If you insist .... You sure? But it's Valentine's Day and I have to save something for a St. Paddy's surprise. ... Okay. Fine. But don't email me if something goes awry. Like for instance say this clown lamp comes to life, throws its power cord over the bumper of a passing car, hitches a ride over the Bay Bridge, finds your house, and electrocutes you. We're not responsible for that happening.

So Enjoy! Happy Valentine's Day.

Return to Summer—Photo Journey, Part 2

2007-02-13T13:41:00.000Z

If you've read the previous post, you'll know that a summery week was spent at the beach, in a vacation rental adorned with quite an assortment of decorating styles. Here, we'll discuss the one-dimensional/three-dimensional ratio to prints and paintings.

After spending some time in the house, one friend finally had an epiphany about the on-the-wall decor. It seems that whoever had hung the photos seemed to have a desire to link each one-dimensional image with a 3D representation. First example:

Notice that each print has a corresponding 3D ornament hanging directly above it. Big ol' mandolin has teeny mandolin, tilted printed fiddle has mini fiddle; my particular favority is the tilting of the 3D instrument, replicating the angle of the one dimension version (center).

Example No. 2:

Wall birds seem to peer out upon wooden carving of bird.

And, Example No. 3 is especially of note, because it shows two instances of this design strategy.

On the top, you have the windmill print/wooden windmill statue; on the bottom left you have the ducks-swimming-in-pond tray, while on the counter is the ducks-swimming-in-pond spoonrest. We'll admit it doesn't really fit the criteria, but its close enough, so we're counting it.

Surprisingly, these aren't the only occurrences of this style in the house, but you get the idea. I'm so glad that I didn't run into the 3D version of the boy, though.

More later...

Remembering the Warmer Days—A Photo Journey, Part 1

2007-02-08T22:12:00.000Z

Yep, it's wicked cold. As a result of the numbing temperatures in the D.C. area, it's time to finally reminisce about the times spent at the beach this summer, and the wacked out decorations that adorned the vacation rental.

To start, we have this creepy-ass painting from the bathroom. It's hard to explain how unsettling this portrait is, but let's just say that the boy has one of those gazes that follows you. In addition, this lovely is reflected in the mirror, so even when you have your back turned to him, he's there, awatchin'.

Now, let's discuss what he's doing with the ball of string there. The kittens are present, so you could assume that it's just something with which they play. However, it's the way the string is being held, almost as if the boy is about to strangle someone or something. Is he going for the defenseless kittens? They certainly look frightened enough. See:

The kitten on the left appears positively terrified. He knows what's going to happen to him; he just witnessed his sister kitten meet her maker.

This is just one of many disturbing beach house decorations. Check back soon for more. Until then, I'll be haunted by the boy and dreaming of the sunshine at the shore.

Drinking Your Oats, Seriously?

2007-02-08T18:34:00.000Z

Now, we on the barge have posted about foul-sounding drinks before, and we thought that the Year of Rum was seriously taking off as a social movement (what with its notoriety gained through Wonkette). It's our intention to bring some sense of decorum and literal taste to all imbibers out there, because we do have some expertise in this area. We all went to college after all. And we do happy hour.

All we're asking for is for someone to listen to us. And we thought y'all were.

But, we guess not.

According to the linked WaPost article, it seems that someone out there decided that oatmeal should now be a cocktail. Oatmeal. As in the food that is almost too boring for breakfast; as in the food that really didn't wake me up or prepare me for the day ahead at all; the taste that isn't revved up even with all the maple and brown sugar and bananas and peaches and cream. The I-feel-like-I'm-85-years-old mealy stuff in a bowl. And I can say this with some experience, since I've eaten it every day this week (it does it hit a spot when it's frigid outside).

Anyways, we're not objecting to the meal of oats as a food option, but it's just not festive. It's even a great thing for shower gel. It's fine for a facial scrub.

But when you look at the picture, does that seem like something that is going to excite you, help shake off the day? It's just rather a snooze, is all we're saying.

Spite, Now That You've Won the Super Bowl...

2007-02-05T14:17:00.000Z

What are you going to do next? Cause the firing of a bratty former coworker, who left the company for a much higher paying position elsewhere?

Seriously y'all. Spite is the true winner of the football game yesterday. Let me explain. Y'see, a certain ex-flame just looooves da bears, so a win by the team would beget true happiness. As much as I hate to say it, the loss brings me such joy. Especially since the certain someone also trashed the poor Seahawks unfair loss in last year's game.

Cheers, Spite, I hope to drink again with you soon.

Barge Runs To Ground in Marco Island

2007-02-04T06:53:00.000Z

The party barge missed a turn somewhere on the bayou, and wound up on a sandbar in Marco Island. Bailey-yo's travel curse seems to have followed us to Southwest Florida. One day in town, and we found a way to spur a major electrical fire that debilitated the hotel and disrupted ASAE's Great Ideas Conference.

Not a total loss, however:

1. Seamus, yo discovered that golf was never intended to be played sober and hereby pledges not to let it happen again.

2. Russdog discovered that ordinary foods come alive with a little imagination (see Lamb Stew Pub Review).

3. Bailey-yo and Britney-yo uncovered an alter ego for the Russdog (see his new blog, Pappy Opines, at pappyopines.blogspot.com).

Whether Heaven or Hell, You're Going Through ATL

2007-01-28T22:23:00.000Z

Dear SuperShuttle:

If you had not insisted on picking me up at 3:30 a.m. for my 7 a.m. flight today, I would have not learned the following things:

1. It only takes 23 minutes to get from my house to DCA when only 38 other cars are on the road.

2. No one else actually agrees to let SuperShuttle pick them up at 3:30 a.m. for a 7 a.m. flight on Sunday morning at an airport that's only 23 minutes away. This kind of non-shared ride when you're thinking there's going to be someone to commiserate and eye-roll with is a bit of a let-down.

3. The Delta counter at National doesn't actually open until 5 a.m.

4. Airport staff frowns on using wheelchairs as ottomans.

5. Confirming earlier suspicions, it is impossible to actually sleep anywhere at any time in an airport. (Too-bright lights are the only thing that kept me from trying the bathroom counter.)

6. The airport wireless connection will finally pick up just about the time your boarding number is called.

7. Airport CNN is what's playing all the time in hell.

I Renounce You, Baby Einstein

2007-01-25T20:44:00.000Z

Slate has got it right.

Damn, but I dislike Julie What’s-Her-Tits. Not just because of those 12 pounds of Texas cornfed hair she was sporting, but because the whole Baby Einstein thing is just one giant racket wherein parents are once again parted with their dollars questing after E-Z ways to raise smart babies.

I am loathe to wade into the parenting morass because, as y’all know, I don’t know a damn thing about raising children. The fact that I am doing it doesn’t mean I know anything about it. I did not have to present my I.Q. score or bachelor’s degree before taking my babies home from the hospital. Basically, they scanned our collective bar-tag bracelets, patted me on the back, and said, “Good luck with all that!”

But here I go, and I hope you will be kind in the comments, Gentle (and maybe Angry) Readers:

Baby Einstein doesn’t actually make your kids smarter.

The jury is still debating on whether or not it actually harms them.

But it certainly does not make them smarter.

Neither does listening to Mozart in or out of utero. Neither does eating organic chard and sundried dates while pregnant. Neither do “stimulating” mobiles strung up over cribs.

Neither does taking meth, bringe drinking, or base jumping (parents or child).

Only brides-to-be are subjected to more shameless marketing than new parents. We are damn-near flogged with “must-have” gadgets and gizmos. Woe to you hapless mother who doubts the wisdom of the wet wipes warmer!

And now Julie Aint-This-A-Kick-In-The-Crotch is being held up as the very model of a modern Mother General and American entrepreneur. Well, kiss my grits, Julie – you haven’t done jackshit except prey on the fears and ignorance of parents trying to do the right thing.

And it takes courage to stand up and say, I Will Be a Sucker No Longer! I Renounce You, Baby Einstein! I renounce you and all that you stand for – the ass-backwards idea that I can manipulate genetics simply by pressing play! The folly of the crawling helmet! You may have got me with Stoneyfield Farms YoBaby Organic Yogurt, but you have played me for the last time, bitch!

Lucky Stars, Consider Yourself Thanked.

2007-01-24T18:33:00.000Z

John Kerry reportedly has decided NOT to run for president again, joining the 2.2 percent of senators who are currently not in the White House hunt.

Our opines are that you get one chance to be the nominee/win, and if you lose, you should kindly go away.

For evidence of why we feel this way, see: Nixon, Richard; Wallace, George; All-Stars, Survivor/Big Brother/The Amazing Race

Is this a joke?

2007-01-24T14:01:00.000Z

So my friend walks into a local D.C. sports bar. She asked the bartender whether the venue would be showing the State of the Union on one of the screens. The bartender, in reply, asked, "Which game?"

For reals, yo. I wish it was a joke.

Brie and Pretense

2007-01-18T14:23:00.000Z

News that France tried to join the United Kingdom in the 1950s has Anglo- and Francophiles clutching their respective chests. I, however, think this is freaking hilarious.

I mean, it never would have worked, but in my mind, it’s an excellent illustration of just how screwed up the so-called Era of Good Feelings was. Some of the greatest hypocrisy in our modern history went on during that decade. Come on . . . a French Socialist went creeping over to England to see what it would take to hitch his country up to an ancient, conservative monarchy hell-bent on colonizing anyone who used spices when cooking. That's not irony. That's, "You're not allowed to tell me about the Good Old Days ever again."

Then again, what do I know? Except that this is my favorite new line from a New Yorker story so far:

“To the French mind, Disney represents the arrowhead of American cultural assault, and if America were to return the favor it would need to mount a major retrospective of soft, unpasteurized French cheese at the Metropolitan Museum. (Anthony Lane. Wonderful World: What Walt Disney Made. New Yorker. Dec. 11, 2006)

A cultural assault by soft, unpasteurized cheese. Now that’s a new world order I could get excited about.

Facts Debunked

2007-01-15T14:09:00.000Z

1. We on the barge have always been convinced that no man can sport the pleated pants with any measure of attractiveness. The What Not to Wearer's out there have proved it time and again, and we completely bought this theory hook and line. So what do I see this morning? A man, with pleats, looking amazing. And, even more shocking, these pleat-bearing pants were Docker-style, not your ordinary old business pants. It's surprising because the former NEVER looks good, and the latter can sometimes be passable, though it doesn't usually venture into the Fashion Do category. What does it all mean y'all? Has the reintroduction of the skinny jean poisoned our thinking?

2. Depending on the quantity consumed, sometimes rum does, in fact, result in severe hangoverness. Imbibe with caution in this Year o' Rum.

Year of Rum Begins Tonight

2007-01-12T19:33:00.000Z

Cafe Citron, y'all.

5 p.m.

We'll be the really loud people drinking rum.

The first official YOR outing would not be possible without the sipping suggestions left by our kind commentors. We'll do our best to make you proud and hopefully, report on the hangover-free results.

However, many suggestions were for "sipping" rum, not cocktails. My goal -- nay, mission -- is to find a rum-based mixed drink that:
1) isn't some color not found in nature
2) doesn't smell like Febreze
3) isn't carbonated
4) isn't overly garnished.

I'd also prefer that it have a name I'm not embarassed to say in front of my 2.5 year old daughter. "Gimme a toe-sucking zombie," is just not something I want to hear coming out of her mouth.

I went to the Little Red Book for help, but it seemed like every rum concoction in there required egg whites. Is that even sanitary?

Season's Greetings

2007-01-09T20:58:00.000Z

All the leftover holiday chocolate in the office lunchroom has disappeared.

Meanwhile a stack of coupons for week-long memberships at the local Sport & Health are still sitting on the table, untouched.

Someone's up for the Best Boss Award!

2007-01-05T19:45:00.000Z

Boss today gave us a surprise: Our own office-based Whac-A-Mole game. We're so very excited! We forsee this being extremely beneficial to our stress levels and overall wellbeing.

Unfortunately for us, no one has angered us today, so we haven't gotten to personalize the moles--have them be stand in's for the object of our disdain. Here's to being P.O.'ed next week!

Life Lessons, Parts 2 and 3 (The Vacation Edition)

2007-01-05T00:37:00.000Z

2. Always check yours and your travel companion's luggage tags after hefting them from the belt at the airport, otherwise you'll open your luggage upon arrival at your hotel--after taking a 45 minute cab ride--and find an old lady style bathing cap complete with rubbery flowers, perfectly packed among caftans, all of which are definitely NOT YOURS. And then you have to spend $85, and hitch a ride from another driver who doesn't mind working on a holiday to cart you all the way back to near the airport, just so you can get Mrs. Mortimer Hudson her muu muus back. And realize, Mrs. Hudson really likes taking cruises, so you're really lucky that she wasn't already doing the bunny hop on the Lido Deck, somewhere en route to Bermuda.

3. If you are traveling to a foreign country on a holiday, say Christmas Eve, make sure that you'll have available dining options. Even if you've been to a certain resort before, it could be possible that something completely crazy happened. For example, say there was a huge dispute with union workers, causing a major hotel brand to up and abandon ship, followed by said union workers storming the property, smashing slot machines and tearing out electrical wiring.

Then you unknowingly arrive, some 6 months later to spend a much needed relaxing and rejuvenating week at an adjoining time share hotel, which has--due to the time share setup-- kitchenettes in each room, not restaurants on the property. And remember that in this fictional "what if" scenario, it's Christmas Eve, meaning in this 85% Catholic nation everything (including stores and restaurants) will be closed today, and tomorrow, and possibly thereafter. You may soon start to feel like you've been shipwrecked.

But then, luckily, you may find out that not everything was abandoned in the hotel next door. There is one restaurant! And one bar serving tropical rum-based cocktails*! The vacay would be saved!

So later that night, you would set out, to try the only option available to you. Perhaps it would be a Chinese/Japanese spot called the Zen Garden, which not only serves sushi and General Tso's chicken, but also has a hibachi. But to get to the Z.G., you'll have to wander through the dark, humid hallways of the hotel, with flickering lights and all, feeling like you've been implanted into The Shining. And you won't be grateful when you happen upon the lonely bartender in the aforementioned lounge. You'll just be freaked the freak out.

*another reason to support the AOAPB Year of Rum

2007: The Year We Bring Rum Back

2007-01-03T17:15:00.000Z

Hangover recovery always leads to wistful reminiscing of nights where mass quantities were consumed, but no ill effects were felt the following day. And we discovered something interesting – none of the gators can recall ever having a rum-induced hangover.

Rum is likely what constituted My First Cocktail, at least if you are a girl. Then you probably discovered cheap vodka. And it got you where you wanted to be even faster. But despite all the bullroar about clear liquor and odorless/colorless, nothing treated you quite so bad the next morning (or at end of the night) as vodka. Vodka is tasteless going down, but it is memorable coming back up, as Garrison Keillor says.

Along the way, you dabbled in whiskey, gin, and tequila. You learned how to drink beer without gagging and you acquired at least four matching wine glasses. There were exotic green liqueurs in shot glasses and amber cordials in balloon glasses.

[Brief aside: Seamus, yo, says the two things alcoholics drink are vodka and Canadian whiskey. So far, we haven’t found any evidence that his assertion is wrong.]

But you forgot all about poor old rum. Rum was hijacked by springbreaking 18-year-olds in Panama City and Cap’n Morgan. Rum cocktails all seemed to require a blender. And everybody at the bar always turned their heads when they heard the blender crank up because it meant someone underage was about to start getting her drink on.

Rum cocktails do seem to require a little more attention that liquor + mixer. There's a need to garnish rum drinks with flowers and paper umbrellas and fruit speared on plastic swords. But we think rum deserves more respect. Rum deserves a second chance. That’s why we’ve decided that 2007 is the year we bring rum back. Somebody’s got to it, and it might as well be us.

Are you over 23? Is there a rum cocktail you aren’t embarrassed to order in public?

I'm probably going to regret posting this, but still

2006-12-28T13:55:00.000Z

There’s not much you can say when your brother-in-law sends your husband a calendar featuring sepia-tinted photographs of naked women rock climbing as a holiday gift.

p.s. I scoured Google trying to find a picture of said calendar, to no avail. Such scarcity MUST mean it is art and not soft-core porn.

p.p.s. I mean – seriously. Naked rock-climbing chicks? Where exactly should he display this item? Our current calendar where family dental appointments and social outings are recorded is prominently posted next to the phone in our kitchen. Wonderkiller does not possess a garage or woodshed or other man-lair where the Valvoline girlie calendars used to hang. At his office? His state-funded office where the guidelines for what behavior constitutes sexual harassment are prominently displayed in the break room, in case you should forget? Our bedroom? In the magazine rack next to the toilet?

UPDATE: It's called Stone Nudes.

p.p.p.s. Feel free to blather on in the comments about said calendar celebrating the beauty and strength of the female form. Then please tell me where I can find a naked rock-climbing men calendar being marketed to women (not gay men – there's a difference).

FURTHER UPDATE: Apparently the photographer behind naked rock-climbing chicks did a naked rock-climbing dudes calendar in 2002. I'm shocked that it apparently didn't sell well enough to warrant a repeat.

Okay, I've finally figured out what I want to say about this: I'm not debating the merit of a calendar of naked rock-climbing chicks. Stick a plunger on top of your refrigerator and call it art for all I care. I am debating the merit of giving a calendar featuring naked people as a gift.

And the reason I question this is because art is an intensely personal experience. (See – I'm willing to accept that the calendar in question is actually art.) Many years ago, a friend traveled to Egypt and bought a papyrus, which he had framed and gave to me. Upon bestowing the gift, he made the comment that he had taken a grave liberty in doing so: he made a big assumption that I would like the papyrus and the frame that he had chosen. Artistic preferences are extremely personal and often unique to the individual, he went on, and it's never polite to assume that you understand someone's individual tastes or worse, that you have better taste than they do.

So, if the calendar was intended as art, it made a rude assumption about our artistic preferences.

If it was intended as porn . . . well, I gotta go back to the question of where are my naked rock-climbing dudes?

Oregano, yo knows

2006-12-22T14:44:00.000Z

Only someone like Oregano -- a woman brave enough to admit she has Hanson on her iPod -- could truly appreciate the beauty of this post.

Remember when videos were literal? Boy, those were the days.

"Timbers Ascents to More Corporate-Sponsored Humiliation"

2006-12-20T14:37:00.000Z

Express copyeditors assent to more readership-sponsored humiliation.

Note: I realize that this might be some small attempt at humor on the part of the Express staff...you know, "timbers" and "ascents"...but for it to be funny, it has to make sense. I'm just saying.

Divided Loyalties Go Bad

2006-12-18T16:30:00.000Z

Or in other words, what are the Seattle Mariners doing?!

I have two baseball teams I follow: The Mariners, since I'm a former Seattlite, and the Washington Nationals, because I live here now. The Mariners used to be amazing, and used to make all these small moves in the offseason that would absolutely pay off (Hi there, releasing giant albatross Alex Rodriguez (yucky!) and getting Ichiro, which resulted in 116 games won in 2001, tied for the most eva!) But now, it seems that the managment there wants to sandbag the team, by acquring several over-the-hill Nationals players, and trading amazing prospects for these guys. What they're doing ... just plain does not make sense.

However, these things are good for the Nats, which means it's good for the team whose games I can actually attend. But at the same time, I want my M's to succeed. It's like when one of your children bests the other in the spelling bee.

I pull my hair in frustration.

im in ur club drinkin ur booz

2006-12-18T16:27:00.000Z

We unmoored the party barge Friday night and floated it down to Dupont to see what all the pretty people were up to. Turns out the pretty people were all consumed with holiday cheer and spent the whole night giving us alcohol.

Dear Peter at Citron: Oregano, yo was really enamored with the festive arrangement you had at the bar. That, and the mojitos. "Lime, mint, syrup, and rum . . . it's like everything I love in one glass."

Dear Empanada Guy: Sorry about taking over your place like that. I swear, we just can't take Britney, yo anywhere and expect her to behave.

Dear Billy Ocean: No, we are not going to get into your car.

Dear Friend of the Guy Wearing the Circa-1997 Sweater and Haircut: Yes, we know you bought us the round of shots. No, we are not going to designate someone from our table to "thank you in the right way."

Dear Drunk Biz-natch on M Street Who Told Us to Keep it Down: Like you've got room to talk.

Dear Fly: Let's forget about that whole tequila shot thing next time, 'kay?

Kisses,

The Alligators

Fodder: The K-Fed Book

2006-12-14T14:27:00.000Z

Read this morning that Kevin Federline's threatening to write a tell-all book about Brit. So much to say, and will likely add more in comments.

But let's start with the obvious: K-Fed can write? I know he has no problem populating the earth with children, but can he populate a page with words? (Not to be redundant here, but actual, relevant, literate words?)

Then, I had a wretched thought: What if it's a pop-up children's book? Scary, shudder-inducing stuff.

Also, as a person who works in publishing, I find this especially disturbing--because I finally found a job that would be worse than a nurse who works on colonoscopies. And that, my friends, is someone who is slated to edit K-Fed's straight up gangsta poseur speech into sentences with a subject that isn't "bitches" or "shizzle," and a verb. Hopefully, the chosen one (the poor editor, we'll send you a fruit basket...) will be able to find a babelfish for translating his rubbish.

P.S. Spell check wanted to change "Federline" to "Fatherliness" and/or "Patrilineal." Hee!

Life Lessons, Part 1

2006-12-12T21:32:00.000Z

Don't order sushi on a Monday night, unless you want to taste what Friday's selection was like. And only if you have a good imagination and a strong stomach.

awe.some.

2006-12-12T15:14:00.000Z

"I wish my grass was emo so it would cut itself."

- Guy, yo

Perceived Goodwill Actually Disguised Hex

2006-12-11T18:17:00.000Z

The earlier post regarding the Angry Refrigerator Pixie was misguided, apparently, as I think I have been cursed by her. As the tally for spilling foodstuffs on myself today advances (current number: 3), it appears that the food storage salvation was not as purely intentioned as thought.

The victual stains are racking up, meaning the financial savings I gained--by not having to purchase another Ziploc container--will now be doled out to the drycleaner.

Plus, I encourage you to read the very good, insightful and truthful comment by Bailey, yo, in the post below. What I thought was a saving grace was actually a Hester-Prynne-on-the-Scaffold, you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself smackdown.

I AM shamed, y'all. I almost can't enjoy the vendor-gift season.

Angry Refrigerator Pixie Spares Ziploc Container

2006-12-11T15:22:00.000Z

... in Monday morning toss-everything-out session (soup inside, also not dumped out). And by spared, I mean left on lunchroom table, rather than hurled with vigor into trashcan.

Perhaps 'tis a sign of the season: The Angry Refrigerator Pixie is consumed by the spirit of the holidays. In other words, perhaps A.R.P.'s heart grew three sizes today.

Too bad I didn't bring in leftover roast beast for her to carve.

Say Anything...I mean, Shut up!...Ass...

2006-12-08T12:42:00.000Z

At the hairdresser yesterday I start reading an issue of Cosmo, and I go straight for the section "Guy Confessions." I think I enjoy reading these pages so much because they remind me of the days of yore when I used to subscribe to YM. Any of you who used to read YM remember a section called "Say Anything." In Say Anything you were supposed to be amused by stories of girls being utterly mortified either in public, or, most commonly, in front of their--gasp!--Crush! But what used to amuse me wasn't so much the embarrassing moments, but what assholes these "crushes" the girls writing in were talking about. I mean, in many cases, the "mortifying moments" were just things that could happen to any of us, and yet, it seemed like the "crush" would inevitably be so disgusted and turned off by it he "never spoke to [the girl] again." These "Guy Confessions" in Cosmo are no different. It's like, who are these biznatches they are so upset to turn off? To illustrate my point, please find my interpretation of a "Say Anything" or "Guy Confession":

"There was this [really hot girl/ guy I was totally crushing on] in the class across the hall from me. I would see [him/her] everyday and finally worked up the nerve to ask [him/her]out. We go to this really nice seafood restaurant, and the date is going really well--I can tell [he/she] is REALLY into me-- when all of a sudden, my throat starts to itch. I drink some water and try to ignore it but it keeps getting worse. It turns out I was allergic to shellfish and I totally didn't know!!! So anyway, my throat closes up and I turn bright blue, and my date is like "what the hell?!" Well, I fall to the ground, like totally dying, when a doctor who was eating at the next table was able to open up part of my airway with his Monte Blanc pen. Luckily I survived--barely--but some blood from my life-preserving neck hole got on my date's shoe! [He/she] was so grossed out, and OHMIGOD, NEVER spoke to me again! Lesson learned, see your allergist before going on a hot date!!!!"

What the hell?! What is this?? To add to oregano yo's list of "Places you NEVER want to find date" I'm putting "Say Anything" or "Guy Confessions" on the list!

Now on AOAPB: More Complaining About Congress!

2006-12-07T16:44:00.000Z

Oh crap. Y'all found us.

Um, I don't actually have anything bad to say about Congress right now.

Wait, I heard something about Ted Kennedy and some chick and driving his car off a bridge . . .

Oh, that happened 40 years ago? Shit, I wasn't even alive then.

Seriously, hi y'all! Thanks, Wonkette, you dirty whore. We were just minding our own damn bidness out here on the barge. But we hope all y'all keep coming back. Or Blogline us. Or something.

Yeah, it's usually pretty dull around here.

From the Mouths of Congressmen

2006-12-06T19:12:00.000Z

In a very intriguing article from the WaPost--—regarding the "new" mandate that members of the House should be required to, you know, work a few days more for lawmaking, which is kind of the job they're being paid and were elected for--—the following was quoted:

"Keeping us up here eats away at families," said Rep. Jack Kingston (R-Ga.), who typically flies home on Thursdays and returns to Washington on Tuesdays. "Marriages suffer. The Democrats could care less about families -- that's what this says."

There's so much to be said about this quote, but my favorite part is to analyze the usage of "could care less" thusly.

Also, we thinks Jack may be looking for a way out from family and marriage. This-a-way, he has a very clear scapegoat when he does, in fact, end his marriage. Might be time for Mrs. Kingston to hire herself a new pool boy.

I'm starting my list

2006-12-05T21:35:00.000Z

If my husband and I don't manage to reconcile, I'll have to begin dating again. (Oh, God, please no.) If that comes to pass, I will need acceptable places to meet acceptable men. I am hereby starting a list of places where I will NOT be shopping for a date:

1. The paintball field. Because the alternate name for the paintball field is "Mullets 'R' Us."

Stay tuned for more...

blech

2006-12-05T15:06:00.000Z

I keep trying to write something meaningful and pithy on the demise of Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock's mariage, but I've been distracted by a recipe for the Most Disgusting Cocktail Ever.

Horseradish Pomegranate Margarita.

The first problem I see is that making a single drink requires 24 hours "infusing" time. Second problem is that making a single drink requires five minutes "mixing" time. The third problem is making this drink involves mixing horseradish, tequila, pomegranate, and super-sweet organgy liquor.

Now, I make the worst martinis in the world. Seriously, I do. That's why I always order them when I'm out. I lack the necessary skills to meld gin, vermouth and olives into something drinkable. I can brine a goddamn 24-lb. turkey and grow my own hydroponic chard, but I lack the touch for making cocktails. Therefore, I appreciate the professional technique required, and I willingly fork over horrifying sums of money to have someone qualified make my martinis.

This recipe should never have been shared with the general population, y'all. This recipe is dangerous in the wrong hands. This recipe could cause blindness, fer crying out loud.

Here's to all the bartenders who will see us and our dumbass "you know what would taste good? Scotch, Diet Coke, and mustard!" selves through this holiday season.

Reason for Having a Doctor Friend, Parts 3–7

2006-12-04T14:47:00.000Z

3. For when you hit a slippery patch of tile in the Metro tunnel, plunk forward onto your forehead, and have a giant goose egg that as the day goes on gets bigger and more painful.

4. For when you watch too much Grey's Anatomy and self-diagnose that bump on head as something actually somethin' more serious—it's always the people with the simple injuries on that show that are toast, y'all.

5. For when your face starts progressively going numb, starting at the point of injury and spreading outward, a full 6 hours after contact with floor.

6. For when the late Friday night decision is made that maybe one should go to the emergency room to check out said numbness, for it could be indicative of reason number 4.

7. For when the ER doctor says, "You need a CAT scan" at 1:30 a.m., even though she already told you it was likely just swelling pushing onto the nerves, causing temporary neurological paralysis.

If one could just find a doctor friend, one could have been reassured, told about the temporary numbness, wait until morning and call one's real doctor. Could have been all different.

Won't someone please be our doctor friend?

Que?

2006-11-29T20:56:00.000Z

I was just checking out a tourist site for planning my holiday trip to Puerto Rico (despite what you may think, I'm not mentioning that to make anyone jealous. It's just set up.) The site's headers were the typical ones: Geography, History, Economy, People. Clicking through to the one labeled "People" was this.Question that came to mind: Why no pictures of actual Puerto Ricans?

Are they hiding behind the flowers and hummingbirds?

Couldn't they get someone to sign a photo release?

Como esta mi Gente? (Whazzup, mah bitchez?)

Random Headline Amuses, Girl Laughs

2006-11-29T19:27:00.000Z

Every once in awhile I see a headline I just love. This is one of them:

Sea Lion Chases Swimmers, Bites 14 of Them

I don't know exactly what it is about this headline, but it is freakin' hilarious. I am sure that was a terrifying experience for all 14 of the injured swimmers. I have never experienced being chased by a sea lion, but I assume it is pretty scary. I've irritated sea monkeys, but I bet you can't even compare that to this situation. I think I just like the frankness of this headline, and it makes me wonder what other crazy happenings we Party Bargers talk about that could be summed up just so:

Boys Clear 'Giant' Store of Doritos Supply, Grandma Pissed

Man Suspected of Lunacy Struck by Croissant, Assailant Runs

Young Professional Woman Pushed Over the Edge by "DayQuil" Suggestion, Cuts People

The list could go on and on, and I hope it does because, Hee!, It's enjoyable to write about messed up things in a way that makes them sound funny. That and throwing croissants in order to gage someone's mental stability...

And I'm not even a believer

2006-11-29T14:47:00.000Z

As we're all aware, my middle-aged husband has had a mid-life crisis and left me. Whatever. (In the 5 Stages of Grief I've moved through denial to anger--bargaining is next. I can hardly wait. I bet it involves a lawyer.)

Anyhow, I've been reading the Express on the Metro on the way to work, as is my usual routine. I read the whole paper--every word--so that I can drag it out to last my entire morning commute. That includes the horoscopes. Now, I'm a pretty practical person, and I don't believe in horoscopes. Usually I am amused to see how vague they are, and how I could actually fit into almost any of the signs on a daily basis. The last three days, though, the write-up for my sign has been eerily aimed at me:

Monday: Don't spend any money. (I'm paraphrasing because I don't still have my copy of the Express, but that's the gist of it.)
Tuesday: As you retrace your steps, you'll find that everything will work out for the best. (Again, I don't have the real paper.)
Today: ..."you must first settle an ever-mounting conflict with a friend or loved one." Direct quote.

So while I'm an unbeliever, I think I might just start skipping the horoscope for now. I'll start reading again when someone tells me that it says I'm going to meet a tall, handsome stranger and live happily ever after.

Oh, wait! Here's his for today: "Something you've been planning for some time may seem rather unpromising..." That makes me feel better. Maybe for the near future I'll skip my sign and read his, just in case the universe wants to slap him down again.

Nacho Cheesier! Like Way Cheesier.

2006-11-28T21:21:00.000Z

When carrying out one of my several-times weekly urban shopping trips (this time for milk, rotisserie chicken and bananas), I encountered three college-age guys, raiding an end-of-aisle Doritos display. At first, I thought the Giant was running a special on the chips, causing a frenzy among frat boys everywhere. Upon closer exam, it was even more bizzaro.

The boys were midway through loading their third shopping cart, and one of the bunch of guys promptly ran to the front to get another. The two other carts were overflowing with bags of Doritos, in what appeared to be three flavors (versions? tastes? whatdoyoucallit?) All of them were laughing hysterically and causing quite a spectacle among other shoppers (it was a Monday and just after 5:00 p.m. too, so the store was packed).

Also present in one cart was a single package of a no-bake cheescake. Dying with curiousity about that.

In line, they were still getting strange looks from many of the patrons, though some—being seemingly long-time urbanites—pretended not to notice, for that would indicate that they were flappable by a somewhat extraordinary occurance. I guess that's what you get, after many years ignoring people doing strange things on the Metro. Anyway, these urbanites seemed to be incredibly focused on the latest headlines on the tabs, probably thinking "THANK GOD Tom and Katie got married so I have something to focus on!" An older lady behind me in line took one look at the four Dorito-ed carts, grunted and appeared incredibly irritated ... actually OFFENDED ... by them. HOW DARE THEY BUY ALL THE CHIPS AND STAND IN LINE?!!! I don't get it either.

Regarding my reaction: I, however, tried to appear amused, but not overly surprised, in case this happened to be a Candid Camera experience. That's one of my greatest fears, being mortified on TV by that show.

Resumed my shopping and happened to end up in the line next to these fellas, which let me listen in on some of the conversations:

One said to the other that because they technically only have one item, perhaps they should hit the express 12-items-or-less line. Thankfully he was joking. I think the older lady would have ran them through with her own cart.

When discussing how much this could possibly cost, they bantered around about $100, $200, with an estimate as high as $400. Payment was also approached, with a decision to split it between several cards. One kiddo said that he's a bit concerned because the bill goes to his mother, but his friend—what a guy!—reassured his friend that it would say "Giant" on the bill, not 300 bags of Doritos purchased at Giant. Luckily for all of them, the chips ended up being two-for-one.

When discussing how to carry these away, one of the crew kept asking "How are we going to get these home?!" Apparently they had one mondo-sized duffel and a few backpacks, but they were taking the Metro. So a challenge was ahead.

Finally, someone asked them what they were planning on doing with all the Doritos. The answer: "It's a long story, but we're making a commercial."

So after all that, I was finally able to figure out why.

I hope, for all their effort, they win!

So what you're really saying is that you don't want us there at all

2006-11-28T15:53:00.000Z

Owing to something of a personal crisis, I was not at my best yesterday. Slapped on some Chapstick, made sure my sweater didn't smell too bad, and twisted my hair up in a ponytail.

However, I thought I'd successfully pulled myself together for an all-day meeting and eliminated most signs of my distress.

Until this morning when a co-worker offered me his Dayquil, saying it always cleared his colds right up.

Ah, sweet humiliation. You come in SO MANY different flavors.

meme

2006-11-21T03:00:00.000Z

Veronica, yo, shouldn't feel bad about not catching "L33t" AIM-speak.

Hell, I just found out about "im in ur" cats today.

P.S. I have known about Stuff On My Cat for a couple of years, however.

How You Know You're Officially Old

2006-11-15T20:19:00.000Z

When someone sends you a email containing the term "l33t skils," which causes a complete meltdown (my head done spun around, like, seriously), followed by errant Googling (yes, Google has even reached those of us born before 1980), and a perusal through Urban Dictionary.

T.G.f.U.D.

The other thing that clued me into my apparent aged-ness is when I shouted from my office "What the Hell is l33t?!" and 22 year old in the cube instantly replies "elite." Y'all, that one's going to take over the world! So smart with da Internets. I'm going to go assign him some more work so he won't have time to put together his World Domination Action Plan. Gots to slow him down some.

Retrospect Brings Hilarity

2006-11-13T16:12:00.000Z

... at least for me. But, then again, I'm mean.

If only irony could always be this easy.

MEMO to People Who Stink*

2006-11-10T19:28:00.000Z

To: Whomever Patchoulied up the Elevator AND B.O. Guy on the Metro

If you insist on wearing a ~~perfume~~ fragrance that smells like dirt, please do not immediately enter an enclosed space, such as an elevator, immediately after application. Take the stairs instead or wait awhile, until the cloud of hippie spray disperses.

Amazingly, you were even no longer present in said elevator; you may even had disembarked long ago. But the evidence of you being there still remained. Is it a cry for recognition you seek? A desire for a lasting legacy? For there are other ways to gain such.

There's even ways to achieve a legacy will be held in high regard. For instance, why don't you try a tea rose? What a pleasant smell. The elevator riders after you will be transported in spirit to an English garden, where they dine on crumpets and cucumber finger sandwiches, whilst twirling their parasols. 'Tis lovely.

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Instead, with the patchouli wearing, your fellow riders are relegated to checking the bottom of their shoes, wondering who was the culprit who stepped in something. Think about it. Do you really want to be THAT girl?

Finally, guy on the Metro with the B.O.: I know you can't do anything about it. I get it. You're athletic. But please don't sit next to anyone until you've showered.

* Not directed at you, Mr. Vice President Cheney. Stop being so sensitive. Also, don't shoot me.

Bro-KEN up?!!!

2006-11-09T18:31:00.000Z

Guess who's back on the market?!

Barbie was recently spotted partying with friends on the Barbie Hot Tub Party BusÂ without Ken, just hours after filing for divorce from the former male fashion doll, pictured here without his wedding ring--or his left arm for that matter. On the divorce papers filed

in LA (see below) the doll claimed "irreconcilable differences."

Appropriate for Ages 3-9?

2006-11-09T15:40:00.000Z

We don’t get into a lot of political or social issues here on the party barge because, well, what would be the fun in that?

However, occasionally we must break our self-imposed code of silence to point out examples of asshattedness that have invaded our bubble. To wit: the Barbie Hot Tub Party Bus™.

Now, we’re not taking exception with the obvious thievery of our “Party INSERT VEHICLE HERE” moniker. Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery and all. What’s got us all het up is the awkward melding of hot-tub-as-soft-core-porn-confessional and what is ostensibly a toy RV. Throw in Barbie, the controversy lightning rod that she is, and you’ve got the perfect bit of pop culture flotsam that gits our dander all up.

Veronica, yo first spotted the Barbie Hot Tub Party Bus™ on a shopping binge with her young nieces. She double-took in the toy aisle, called her sister over to confirm what she was seeing, and made the only logical conclusion possible: this toy was obviously designed by a man.

It’s well known on the party barge that I am the most militant when it comes to devising elaborate conspiracy theories about women’s subtle, yet crippling oppression under a white, male patriarchy. But none of us like to find ourselves on the same side as “won’t someone think of the children” conservative wingnuts and feminazis. And dammit, that’s exactly where the Barbie Hot Tub Party Bus has™ unwittingly steered our party barge.

So, in conclusion, the Barbie Hot Tub Party Bus™ has severely harshed our buzz. We’re as pissed about that as we are about the very existence of the Barbie Hot Tub Party Bus™.

Of course, there are probably some of you out there that think that Barbie, Midge, and DeeDee should have a place to host their bachelorette parties or star in their own episodes of Elimidate or whatever.

But please, do think of Skipper and the influence her older sister surely has on her. For all we need is a Skipper rebellion, where she takes her 14-year-old self on a meth binge, steals the party bus, and gets it on in a threesome with her sister’s much older boyfriend Ken and former surfer boyfriend Blaine in the aforementioned hot tub. We just can’t let this kind of thing happen.

D-RumsFLED!

2006-11-08T18:16:00.000Z

Guess who's back on the market?!

At ease, Condi -- you already got the State Dept. to do your dirty work.

------------
To commemorate the offloading of one of the Bush Administration's homeslices, pour a little liquor on the ground and recall your favorite Rumsfeld quote in the comments. To wit:

"I would not say that the future is necessarily less predictable than the past. I think the past was not predictable when it started."

Amen, brutha.

K-FedERATED!

2006-11-07T21:41:00.000Z

Guess who's back on the market?!

Step off, Paris Hilton -- I done seen him first!

Things That Don't REALLY Happen

2006-10-27T19:09:00.000Z

Okay, so it is a couple of days after the attack, so I feel like I am in a place where I can talk about it. This is my version of the events. I am sure Bailey, Yo and Veronica, Yo will also be posting their take on the WTF???! Situation we all on the party barge now seem to be calling "the incident."

Okay so here's what went down. Bailey, Yo, Veronica, Yo and I went to a very popular and higher-end happy hour location--we'll call it "The Weekly Broil." It's a place right outside of our office and it is frequented by our coworkers. We have had many a lunch meeting there. It may not be our FAVORITE happy hour place (the drinks are overpriced) but it is ideal if you only have time for a really quick, mini-happy hour. We are all stressed, we are all tired. Our feet hurt. It's still the middle of the week, and we all need some time to just chill out, relax, gossip, eat, drink and make merry. But you know, it is US, we are going to a PUBLIC PLACE, so we should have sensed the impending doom.

Well there we are, minding our own business. Not EVEN being loud, I swear! And talking about, well, nothing bad. We're all young, we're in a bar. We're just making jokes and gossiping a little bit. Nothing harmful, nothing weird. And really it was turning out to be a rather pleasant and uneventful situation. Until, the man in the sweat pant short cometh....

Now you are probably already a little frightened to hear that we encountered someone in a nicer establishment wearing sweatpants cut-offs, but it gets worse. Because it wasn't so much the strange, out-of-place clothes that turned us off, but the threatening, bellowing rant of lunacy he hurled at us in a very public place.

He was a large man. Probably in his mid-to-late fifties. He walked up to our little bar table. He was probably only about 3 feet away. He had icy, leering eyes that shot us a look so saturated with venom, it could make silent even the mirthless laughter of the damned. You know, unhappy people who like bad stuff and crap.

And he screams, SCREAMS! So loudly so EVERYONE in the restaurant, and all their relatives a couple of counties over turn and look at us:

"WE DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS S#&%!!! EITHER SHUT YOUR D%#$ MOUTHS, OR KEEP YOUR CONVERSATION CIVIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

We stared. Veronica, Yo said she thought he was joking at first. I was just horrified. It was one of those things you can't say much more than "I'm sorry, what now?" or ideally, "F&%$ You!" But instead I think all I could manage was "um...Okay Buddy..." Which was quite possibly the lamest response EVER, but the only one I could muster nonetheless.

Long story short, we fled. I mean, we had already paid our bill, but we definitely left faster than we had intended. There are probably scuff marks in the floors from our pointy-heeled shoes. Come by, I'll show them to you.

Bailey, Yo was very upset understandably. I guess being verbally accosted by the crazy in a public place doesn't happen THAT often to her. Huh. And she had to go home, but Veronica, Yo and I were not quite through with the situation. We went back to the Weekly Broil, and talked to two different managers. We wound up getting a $100 gift card and a "Sorry you were screamed at by an insane person in our establishment." So is the story over?????

Well, no, otherwise I would have written "THE END" but I don't want to take all description and further details away from my two friends who were also involved, so I will turn it over to Bailey, Yo and Veronica, Yo.

Kisses!

Brit, Yo.

Snark!

2006-10-26T20:35:00.000Z

Occasionally, being webmaster means I witness some marvelous gems of sarcasm with a soupcon of frustration following an interaction with the staff at our hosting company:

"Yes, I do review and approve that, but I don't memorize it." This is the all-purpose justification phrase I have been searching for my entire professional career.

Guest Post from Wonderkiller

2006-10-08T14:57:00.000Z

I'm in Boston, serving as dutiful arm-candy for Bailey, yo. I'm walking down the street near Copley Square, carrying my breakfast -- a bagel and some sushi, because when I'm on vacation, my breakfast habits become a bit catch-as-catch-can. Anyway, here I am walking down the street when a duck comes driving by. This particular duck is being driven by a large hirsute fellow wearing a horned viking helmet. And of all the people on the street, he gives me a nod and wave as he drives by.

My question is, why does every character on the East Coast seem to feel the need to give me a shout-out wherever I go? Do they somehow sense a kindred spirit or something in me? That's a little alarming, because two weeks ago an authentic DC homeboy shot me a genuine much-love tap while I was taking the kids on a bike ride.

But, damn, it DOES feel good to be a gangsta. Albeit a very white, bald, suburban dad gangsta.

Town, Consider Yourself Painted Red

2006-10-06T21:17:00.000Z

The Alligators are on parade, floating their party barges north to New England.

Seamus, yo; Bailey, yo; Britney, yo; and Veronica, yo, will soon be hitting the streets, bars, pubs, and clubs of Beantown. Consider yo'self on notice, Boston (but not the Corbert form of on notice...) Should you be a resident of these areas, please take any precautions deemed neccessary.

We'll try to keep it clean. We promise not to litter.
And we apologize, in advance, to the Commonwealth of Massacusetts for any ruckus caused, cocktails spilled, or tables overturned.

Back at the Office–Day 1

2006-10-06T17:44:00.000Z

Where I'm not.

What I'm doing instead.

WebMD and Google are NOT a hypochondriac's BFF

2006-10-04T18:40:00.000Z

Okay, so you may recall that I put "hypochondria" ON NOTICE when all of us here on the party barge were going through that phase. Well I'm noticing it alright.

Okay, so the body part worry/issue of the week (and it has TOTALLY been a month) is: Bloodshot eye/eyes.

So my eyes--especially the right one--have been bloodshot for the last month and as we determined not long ago, pink eye is the new herpes (it's going around y'all) BUT usually pink eye is paired with itching and gooey crap. My eyes do not itch or hurt they are just kinda red. Why I ask? WHY? Well I did what any hypochondriac worth their weight in doctor office co pays would do...I consulted Google, WebMD, and all my other favs. So here is what I have concluded. My Problem is one of the following:

1) Lack of sleep
2) Allergies
3) Eye Strain
3) Thyroid Eye Disease
4) Dry Eye
5) Dry eye caused by Sjogren's Syndrome
6) Dry Eye Caused by Dry Eye Syndrome
7) Alcoholism
8) Rock Star Lifestyle
9) Eye Injury

That helps. I hate that. I want to meet the people who write the content for those WebMD/Google Health pages. "The symptom will most likely clear up on its own in a few days. Or kill you."

I guess when we return from our party barge convention I will have to see a doctor. And by "see," I really mean "Dimly sense through a pink haze of anxiety and woe."

What's YOUR health anxiety issue of the week????

Jeff is psychic.

2006-10-03T15:50:00.000Z

I think we should invite Jeff, recapper for Television Without Pity, to join us in our little club.

We all have thoughts that are nasty, right? We all think someone we work with is an idiot. Someone is untalented. Someone has bad breath and stands far too close to us when we're merely trying to make a fucking color copy and could you please get off of me HELP! But we don't tell them. Because it's rude. And not only will it hurt someone's feelings, which we should probably care about; it will also only serve to ostracize us from society. People won't like us. And it's just a matter of time until we're in a room or a playground with all of the people that don't like us. And they all have rocks. And, well, it's too late at that point. (A more realistic outcome is that people won't want to work with us, but I like the violence of the stoning scenario.)

He must have been lurking around Bailey, yo's office this morning...

Strange Prehistoric Creature in My Bathtub

2006-09-28T18:06:00.000Z

(Also could be filed in bizzare things you see when traveling... San Diego edition)

Please alert the proper scientific community members.

Just went into the bathroom to take a shower and, in the bathtub, there was what may be called an insect in some circles, as it had a segmented body; however it had a tadpole-like tail (flagella?). It also had what looked to be cilia or a centipede-like legs up the sides of its body. At first, I thought it was just a speck of dirt on the side of the tub, but when I turned on the water, it started to swim around. Then I flung tissues at it and scooped it up for a closer look. It was unlike anything I've seen before (save for the prehistoric exhibits at the Smithsonian--could it have been it a live trilobite?). What I saw drew an exclamation of horror, because this thing was moving and squirming around.

That's when I shrieked and dropped the tissues into the toilet. The preservation process halted, thusly, as the offending creature was flushed. The scientific community may want to scour the San Diegoan sewer system for signs of this strange lifeform.

There's no party on the barge

2006-09-27T17:29:00.000Z

at this time of year. *sigh*

Gall Bladder Out is In!!!!

2006-09-14T18:47:00.001Z

Excerpt from an actual e-mail I recently wrote to a friend who informed me her husband is going to have his gall bladder removed. Yes, I AM this weird in real life:

Dear [Friend of B],
Sorry to hear about your husband's gall stones. But if it makes him feel better, the gall bladder is THE stylish organ to get taken out today. Now, instead of oversized sunglasses and dogs that fit in purses, everyone is taking out the gall bladder. We have like, 2 people here at my office who just had that surgery too, including my boss. We had a going away party for his gall bladder. It was really fun until, of course, the gall bladder got really drunk and told us that we never really appreciated it and that THAT was why it was removing itself from our group. It then flipped a table, threw vodka in my face and stormed out. We couldn't believe it. I mean seriously. Since then the gall bladder has changed its name--I think it poses as a spleen now--has moved to Hollywood, and last I read, it was spotted walking out of Koi in LA at 3am with Justin Timberlake and Jessica Simpson's hairdresser in tow. I hope your husband's gall bladder makes the transition a little easier--I mean, when you already aren't feeling well, you just don't NEED that kind of organ drama. Stupid, moody gall bladder....

Hugs and kisses!

B

Strange the things people care about

2006-09-12T15:44:00.000Z

Don't piss off California, y'all -- the international scientific community is about to take one up the ass.

As a scientist's wife and, at times, an apologist for technical data meself, dumb bits of hokey sentimentality like this bug the crap out of me. Dude, the scientists -- the people trained in this stuff and study it every day -- said Pluto isn't a planet. That it was a mistake to originally define it as such, and in light of what we have learned about planetary characteristics, we need to clear up the misconception. Deal.

Last week Oregano, yo coined the phrase "my favorite designer in a vacuum," referring to a so-called graphic artist whose creations look awesome on a blank sheet of paper, but could seldom be successfully incorporated into the reality of our employer's publications and websites. It continues to boggle me how many folks believe decisions are made in a vacuum, absent any information or feedback from those who would be affected by said decision. Now true, many folks fail to actually provide such feedback and are then horrified, HORRIFIED, to find their cheese has been moved under the cover of darkness.

But if indeed half of winning is showing up, then why are so many people determined to lose? Are they testing their Vulcan mind meld abilities to see if they can make the mountain come to them? 'Cause California legislators, y'all are just way out of your league on this one.

Don't Forget The Britney, Yo, Mum.

2006-09-05T11:54:00.000Z

Above is my advertising slogan--how do you find this stuff, Veronica, Yo? Sweet!

Speaking of advertising--on my way in today I read a "deep thought" about how individualism and uniqueness are dead on the back of a Starbucks cup. ????

The Veronica Bars Are On Me!

2006-08-31T17:44:00.000Z

What's that in the title here? It's the slogan about me, extracted from the online slogan generator. Try it out for yourselves ya'll.

It's not the shizzolator, but it'll do for some workplace distractions.

What I did on my Labor Day Weekend...

2006-08-30T21:20:00.000Z

... hopefully something more than nada.

So I am a bit late in planning for the holiday of no labor this weekend, meaning in all likelihood there's already no vacancy at many of the vacay spots within driving distance of D.C. Metro.

Need something to impress everyone with at the watercooler on Tuesday, when Braggy McBraggerton is telling all about his weekend's naked drunk sky dive adventures (not that we want to picture that at all, thank you very much.)

Therefore, I am asking all of you out there in Internet Land, for suggestions for wherefore I should go and whatfor I should do. Someone's gotta have something better than, "caught up on my magazine reading on the apartment building's roofdeck."

Two days for planning, no time to waste. Post in comments.

Open Letter to Lance--From One Who Understands...

2006-08-29T18:51:00.000Z

Dear L,

It's been awhile since we've talked. And when I say awhile, I mean ever, but I really don't see how that takes away from the very important issue we have to talk about. And that issue, I hate to say, is your attitude lately. But before you feel attacked, and like I’m all up in your grille, please understand that I am speaking to you as someone who too has had to take it down a peg, and now I am here to share with you insights I have come up with, on my own, that I trust will completely change your life for the better--because it is really good advice.

I saw you on the ESPY Awards, and you were really good and all, but as I sat watching you, I realized to myself, here is someone who has done some really good stuff, and he knows it, but he seems to be a little too aware of it. And I think people who used to love you, and look up to you, are starting to think you're a little full of yourself. But don't worry, L, because I have SO been there. Believe it or not, all the hundreds, or like, thousands, of people who love and look up to me have thought the same thing. And what they don't realize, but what I totally get, is that it isn't "conceit" or "excessive self-love" or "a personality disorder" --it's just a strong self-awareness.

You have shown super-human strength and achieved the impossible six times in a row. Yeah, me too. And I, like you, also look at myself and my NUMEROUS accomplishments and I say "Wow, I'm really amazing and skilled and pretty." But what I have learned is that, while everyone else completely agrees with you and wants to be like you--or at least, like, touch you--they don't always want to hear it from you. I KNOW! And so I no longer state the obvious, but I let others just see it, and enjoy it, on their own. That way, when they come to me and say "Just…Wow..." I can just be like "Mmm-hmm, yeah, I know, right?" And I find satisfaction in not having to SAY it, and I can tell it makes them feel good too.

Will this change how you are inside? No. Should it? Hells no--hello? Why are we having this conversation? And I still look in the mirror and think "Yes, I am me..." but instead of my usual, perhaps somewhat selfish, reaction of "hello lover..." I now wake up in the morning and think about what a miracle it is for me to be alive, and me, and how I can share that miracle with the world. And that’s special I think.

Also, L, don’t be afraid to critique yourself. It is this inner reflection that makes us better people. For example, I too have tried on a bright yellow jersey, and I now have the strength to realize that it is NOT my color. There are so many colors in this world that better accentuate my skin tone, and INNER beauty, that I just think I should try them ALL on—and then, you know, share it with the world. (I also tried on the helmet, and, no.)

So, L, don’t change on my account—you are busy appearing on television specials and in movies, hosting awards shows and winning really long bike races, and I have… all the important and AMAZING stuff I do. But I don’t think that gives us an excuse to lose sight of what’s really important--Because I’ve tried to keep all of this up in here to myself, and I just don’t feel right doing it.

Anyway, good luck with all of your stuff. Call me! Same number.

Kisses,

B, Yo

Another age old question...

2006-08-25T13:05:00.000Z

Is it wrong to want to vote for someone because he's youthful and pretty?

If so, then let me be the first to say that he has good ideas about education.

Yeah. That's it.

Failure to embrace my legacy

2006-08-23T13:49:00.000Z

I swung by Manolo this morning, catching up on about four weeks on snarky shoe commentary. I stopped reading Manolo regularly a while ago when he drifted into fashion television review because 1) I don't have cable and 2) I'm fat and ugly, and therefore fashion does not apply to me.

Apparently while I was out, the topic of white shoes was resurrected. I'm fascinated by the fact that this issue comes up for review EVERY GODDAMN YEAR as if it were a teacher's contract with the school system.

Manolo posted some salient, trendy thoughts on the issue, which if you really care about you can go read your own damn self. But what has brought the fear of God to me is the ancient pop culture flotsam he unearthed to illustrate a post.

Here. I'm new to this YouTube phenom, but hopefully you can watch it through this link.

Still with me? Okay, see that? Those are the formative media images of my childhood. Videos like this are basically what shaped my worldview at age 8. I haven't watched MTV for damn near 10 years and I didn't watch it much before then. But so far as I knew back then, adulthood meant wearing tight leather, emoting into a camera lens very close to your face, and playing lots of air guitar.

This -- THIS -- is why I am so screwed up. I have been fighting this cultural iconography for damn near 20 years. Here, watch it again.

This is so wrong on so many levels. A warehouse by the dock? Keyboards glued to walls? Some angry woman stomping through the set, while men with mustaches penned her in and lipsynched in her face? Who the hell wrote the script for this?

Y'all, the 1980's were hell. Pure and simple hell. That's why everyone was doing so much cocaine. They were trying desperately to numb the pain.

You just can't hide your lying hair

2006-08-21T18:21:00.000Z

I believe it was Bailey, Yo with whom I was having a conversation about cheating on hair dressers. Honestly, anyone who goes to a regular hairdresser knows that they are like jealous boyfriends or girlfriends. And we've all done it--we've all had that "one night cut and style" with a hairdresser when we are out of town. So what? It was just a quick trim, it's not like she MEANS anything to me. But somehow, they always know. You go in, 4-six weeks after your sins, you sit in the chair as though you haven't been in a salon since you saw your hairdresser last, but she can always tell. "So, who's been cutting your hair?"

You immediately get defensive, "That's ridiculous, what do you mean? Like recently? Other than you? You know I would never trust anyone else with my hair. Stop QUESTIONING ME! Um...look at this magazine--can you believe that Ashlee Simpson, all looking like her sister and...stuff... Do you like the show 'Big Brother'"?

But she can sense what you have been up to, and she has a way of making you feel SO bad. Well, this weekend I found hairdressers are also like overly sensitive boyfriends and girlfriends--you know the ones--they get all offended if you don't absolutely LOVE everything they do for you? My husband is not like this, I assure you, but I have been involved with guys who are very much like this. I hate that. Well, this weekend I got my hair dyed a "serious girl" dark brown. Well, either serious girl or "dirty school girl ho" whatevs, but at first I wasn't sure about it. I said something to my hairdresser about possibly wanting to commit suicide rather than go outside with it, and she took it all personally. I got the whole "Well if you would just give it a chance...I worked really hard to pick out the perfect color for you." It was along the lines of "We never talk anymore...all you ever do is watch football" talk. Yikes! SO long story long, now I have come to find I do indeed like the hair, and I have to somehow make up for my heartless behavior to my hairdresser. After all, there are other heads of hair to color in the mall, and next thing I know, she may just not have time to schedule me in anymore....

But the ARP loves me...

2006-08-21T13:58:00.000Z

While the ARP is busy throwing out everything that makes your lunchtime salad palatable, she's sending me emails with the subject line: 12 people (who have touched my life). Seriously? I really tried not to touch anything.

Attack of the Angry refrigerator pixie

2006-08-21T11:57:00.000Z

Hiding behind my new dark brown, serious girl hair the angry refrigerator pixie walked right by me, not noticing my true identity. But I certainly recognized her "dour visage" (can I get a hells yeah, Seamus, yo?)

I heard her in there, throwing away salad dressings and condiments left and right...and maybe even front to back! With a mere flick of her wirst they were gone. It was CRAZY!

Bailey yo, being the smart ass we all love and admire, pushed the envelop a few weeks ago when she, after having HER salad dressing thrown away--well actually it was Newman's Own, but that doesn't really tie into this story-- decided she would stretch the "date your items in the fridge" rule, and she wrote upon her new bottle of dressing something along the lines of "This salad dressing is from the future. Throwing it away will disrupt the space/time continuum." It was probably WAY more on than that, but I am paraphrasing. SO the question is, did this little jest save the salad dressing? Is the Sharpie truly mightier than the sword? Did it warm the heart of the Angry refrigerator pixie, thereby causing her to spare its precious shelf life? Only time will tell. Bailey, Yo, please report back in the notes section, or with a new post, and let us know how it turned out.

To Be Continued....

Ford killed the tamale

2006-08-12T03:20:00.000Z

Aside from the resident Angry Christmas Elf (he knows what he did), Britney, yo has the best On Notice board, in my opinion. In particular, her harsh indictment of Ford for killing the tamale.

See, this all came about from a lunchtime discussion (where we were being too loud in the lunchroom) that no one sold fresh tamales any more. Even me and Oregano, yo, who are living large in the PG (PG=Pretty Great!) don't know where we can find a tamale vendor, cart or otherwise.

Veronica posited that Ford automobile manufacturers, in their rush to brand themselves as enviro-friendly bio-diesel, had hijacked the supply of corn husks, rendering the cooking and purveying of tamales impossible. Lacking any contradictory evidence, I'm forced to agree with her argument.

Hence, Ford killed the tamale.

If you know of a locale where proper husk-wrapped, cornmeal-ensconsed tamales are to be had, for the love of Mary, let us know. Otherwise, we'll be forced to start another blog, this one titled "Ford KNOWS that it killed the tamale."

UPDATE: See, it's true!

Angry Christmas Elf's On Notice

2006-08-12T01:37:00.000Z

Oregano, yo's On Notice Board

2006-08-11T14:57:00.000Z

Things I've Learned This Year (In no particular order)

2006-08-11T14:10:00.000Z

1) Using the same drycleaner as someone and emotions are both signs of creepy instability that can only be labeled as "Weird..." (Not that I'm bitters, yo)

2) Conjunctivitis (or Pink eye) is the new clap

3) Pink eye is actually the new herpes

4) Slacking off and ruining everyone's lives is "sure fire" way to eventually find new opportunities and great wealth.

5) Even those without souls can be nice sometimes

6) No--they're still pure evil and suck

7) It's okay for male coworkers to point out that your toenail polish is chipping in elevators crowded with strangers

8) It's okay for other men you hardly know to tell you stories that make your ears bleed and cause you to wish for the sweet release of death.

9) Wikipedia is a GREAT way to learn about the history of our world, and then go change it. (Change the world or the Wiki entries? I think both apply here...Enough said)

10) Even the most obnoxious, strange, unpleasant and alarming people can be crazy popular--and they think you will find you have A LOT in common...

11) Mentos and Diet Coke can mean hours of zany, fizzy fun. That it or it could KILL you! Now I fear the fresh maker!

12) Spell check will suggest you replace "drycleaner" with "truculently". WTF?! It's like even Spell Check is taking his side. It heard the drycleaner story and now even IT is accusing me of being, not only weird, but truculent! SO mean.

Britney, Yo's ON NOTICE Board

2006-08-11T13:32:00.000Z

Bailey's On Notice Board

2006-08-11T13:25:00.000Z

Veronica will have to answer for at least 30 minutes of lost productivity today.

Veronica's On Notice Board

2006-08-11T13:08:00.000Z

Reason for Having a Doctor Friend No. 2

2006-08-04T13:43:00.000Z

Is it air pollution? Or is it pink eye?

The recent excessive heat weather emergency in the D.C. Metro area has created a stagnant layer of air over the city, which is now a soupy mess of smog and humidity. Lovely. So is that what's causing the recent outbreak of bloodshot eyes? Or could it be conjunctivitis that's spreading outward from Britney, yo's husband?

If we had a doctor friend, he or she could clear this issue up with us, either figuratively, or literally if we do, in fact, have a case of the pinks. Anyone out there have a home eye testing kit?

Rules for cancer

2006-08-02T17:16:00.000Z

1. No WebMD or Googling allowed. And you better not even think of Asking Jeeves.*
2. Definitely no Google Images, either.
3. Only happy recovery stories from colleagues allowed. It's best to ask up front when someone launches into their tale if it's going to end badly. If so, tell the person, "fuck you muchly" and stomp away.
4. Drink. Drink heavily. You can always go to rehab once you're finished with chemo.

[* The absence of links is deliberate. Britney, yo wouldn't even allow me a quick glance.]

Reasons for Having a Doctor Friend

2006-07-31T18:11:00.000Z

Need someone to reassure me that the hiccups I had for the past hour are not permanent, like that one guy whose diaphram got stuck spasm-ing for years.

What's this? A Salad Dressing? You Don't Believe in Dressings

2006-07-26T13:12:00.000Z

Recipe for a Salad Dressing
Can be applied to Most Boring Salad Ever recipe (Friday, May 19, 2006 posting), to make Most Boring Asian-Inspired Salad Ever

7 dashes rice wine vinegar
1-2 hearty squirt(s)/spoonful(s) of honey (depends on honey-carrying receptacle)
9 dashes of soy sauce
5-6 shakes of toasted sesame seeds

Mix ingredients well. Add to salad. Enjoy, at least until your coworkers complain about the "vinegary smell." Practice looks of disdain in office mirror to shoot at coworkers who complained about salad dressing. Rehearse snappy retort to them next time THEY are eating in the lunchroom. Spread rumor about coworkers involved in torrid love affair in the copy room, as evidenced by toner stain on clothing. When coworkers leave company to find another job, due to lost respect, make a large batch of salad dressing to enjoy in complaint-free zone.

Serves 1-2.

For substance abuse, not eating disorders

2006-07-26T02:54:00.000Z

A brief list of the people Oregano, Veronica and Bailey would be willing to go into rehab with:

Charlie Sheen (Oregano: he'd know where everything was)
Nicole Ritchie (drugs, not anorexia)
Ben Affleck
Rob Lowe
any of the Brat Pack, except for the two Coreys
Johnny Depp (Bailey: ooo, he'd be all vulnerable and stuff . . .)

Who am I forgetting?

If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me

2006-07-25T16:06:00.000Z

Allow me to pilot the party barge into deep water for a moment – a somewhat uncomfortable position for us surface-dwelling gators and our sun-lounging tendencies. But a couple of things have got me thinking about the nature of inside jokes.

Wikipedia basically defines an inside joke as something that’s only funny to people with an appropriate point of reference. As any of our three subscribers can tell you (hi Mom!), AOAPB is one giant inside joke. The five of us came up with dumb pseudonyms, picked the least-offensive Blogger template, and started posting the random stuff that happens to us. Stuff we don’t expect anyone else to care about. We try to tell tales using proper grammar and a touch of the funny so anyone who finds us won’t consider their time aboard the Party Barge a complete loss.

The bar’s set pretty low around here, folks. Just thought you should know.

But we try to pull it together in public or with polite company. However, (together and alone) we’ve been accused of insider joking in several recent encounters with people who know us (making out with Urkel! Sharks Love Departing Coworkers!) But y’all – Urkel is funny. Sharks loving anything is funny.

These are anecdotes that, in my mind, stand on their own humorous merit. But we’re increasingly met with glazed or pinched expressions, and that annoyingly irony-intended, “um? I don’t get it.” *

Um, y’all? I don’t get it. What are the bounds between insider jokes and humor for public consumption? Discuss in the comments, if you dare.

[* I hate the written “um”, along with “er” and the “eh.” As Twisty Faster says, “Resist the compulsion, in your haste to convey sarcasm, to begin with the word 'um' or 'er'. You are not an edgy young character in a sitcom.” The one exception is “meh.” “Meh” is lovely.]

Baking is a science

2006-07-21T01:11:00.000Z

Britney, yo and I went to pick up Mr. Bailey's birthday cake this afternoon from the ice cream shop around the corner. Mr. B had already been festivated at his office with a traditional sheet cake, so I was enjoying my amazing sense of forethought in selecting an ice cream cake for his at-home celebration.

Britney quickly deflated my sense of superiority. She said, "don't you have a bakery near your house where you usually order all celebratory cakes?"

"Yes, the Rolling Pin. But they don't take cake orders over the phone. You have to physically go to the store at least 24 hours in advance of your cake needs and pay at least 50% up front. It's a damned inconvenience for those of us without any sense of organization."

"Sheesh, you'd think they'd be interested in getting as much business as possible, and that someone would learn how to take credit card numbers over the phone."

"Not the Rolling Pin. It's PG county's version of the Soup Nazi."

"No pastries for you!?"

"Exactly. You best KNOW what you want when you're number comes up or it's your turn at the counter. The counter staff has no patience with your feeble indecisiveness. You are standing in the way of progress, bitch. Oh, and they hate children, too."

"What!"

"Mmm-hmm. Rolling Pin hates you and your babies. They've got signs all over the place: Keep your children off the counter. Don't let your kids press their noses and fingers on the display case. Get your kid out of the pie freezer. Keep your children on a leash at all time. You know what, just take the damn kid out of here and never come back, ever."

"Damn, that's harsh. Why go there?"

"Because they make some damn fine cruellers. Which brings up another thing -- Rolling Pins isn't open on Sundays any more."

"Isn't that when the vast majority of all doughnuts are consumed?"

"Exactly -- church folk, and their coffee social hour. But Rolling Pin don't need no stinking, piddly church orders. Damn Christians can just pick up their doughnuts a day early and pray they stay fresh til the following morning."

"So Rolling Pin hates Christians and babies and customers in general."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"You're going there Saturday morning, aren't you?"

"Sure. We've got a potluck at the neighbor's that night, and I said I'd bring pie."

...while visions of sugarplums dance in my head

2006-07-11T17:39:00.000Z

And by sugarplums I mean, well, you know...

Ella's Wood Fired Pizza, Starland Cafe, and Roy Rogers(?)

2006-07-11T12:56:00.000Z

Weekend selections from the Summer or Restauranting included those mentioned in the title.

After hitting up La Tasca in Chinatown for Friday night drinks with friends, a group set out to find a restaurant that I had never tried. Yes, I did feel high maintenance, thanks for asking. And the idea was met with some grumbling, some confusion, but the alligators are quite used to not being understood. After restaurant hopping, we traipsed through the door of Ella's Wood Fired Pizza. Most everyone in attendance has eaten at Matchbox, and this was more of an experience to compare. My chosen pizza had buffalo mozzarella, prosciutto and arugula and was actually pretty tasty. It was a mixed bag for the group, and many considered Matchbox to be superior. Also, our server? Bad.
Rating: Food: 2.5 teeth; Decor: 4 teeth; Service: 1 tooth

Starland Cafe on MacArthur Blvd. also boasted a bad server, but the food was really good: salmon appetizer on soba noodles(excellent!), side salad (the typical) and side of summer squash (interesting?). Great wine from Austria and it was such an amazing night to sit outside. I haven't spent any time in Palisades, but I saw many other eating spots that are must tries. Stay tuned!
Rating: Food: 3 teeth; Decor: 2.75 teeth; Service: 1 tooth

Finally: As I have never dined at a Roy Rogers, I think it merits a review, especially since as a girl raised eating Arby's and Rax regularly, Roy's roast beef sandwich, adorned with steak sauce, was quite a surprise by comparison. The meat was perfectly cooked, but the bun needed a little more toasting, as it got quite soggy near the end. As my side—there are quite a few diverse sides to choose from—I picked the fruit cup containing cantalope, honeydew and grapes. It tasted okay, but was likely not freshly harvested, and maybe not even picked this year. So that's a bit disturbing. Why couldn't I have choosen the fries?!

The Roy Rogers decor needs a little polish, however, while the condiments bar could contribute to some ill-planned seasonings. Consider if I had tried putting tartar sauce on my roast beef. That may have ruined the experience entirely.
Rating: Food: 3 teeth; Decor: 1 tooth; Service: 1 tooth

Restaurant Review No. 1: The Green Papaya, Bethesda

2006-07-06T16:02:00.000Z

In attendance: Bailey, yo; Britney, yo; and Veronica, yo

To commence the Summer of Restauranting, three alligators set out upon a quest to dine at Tommy Joe's in Bethesda, Md. Unfortunately, however, the line—which was peppered with former frat boys—extended out the door. The alligators, then, were forced to choose another.

We settled instead on The Green Papaya, which is a Vietnamese cuisine restaurant located on Elm Street in Bethesda. For the purposes of reviewing, I will be commenting on the food, Brit on the decor, and Bailey on the service.

We all ordered from the resonably priced lunch menu, for it was lunch, and all chose vegetarian dishes. I had a curry with coconut milk, which was similar in taste to many other curry coconut dishes that I have had before. It was absolutely fine, but not spectacular. Britney had veggie fried rice, which, again, looked to be pretty standard. Bailey had the best of the three—a tomatoey tofu extravaganza, which we all sampled and declared to be "fabulous!" Finally, we all had some chilled spring rolls with peanut sauce.

In all, from the food standpoint only, it was a very pleasant meal. Filling, but not heavy; refreshing for a hot summer day, etc.

Food quality: 2.5 teeth

For the rest of the review, see comments.

Summer of Restauranting Begins Today

2006-06-30T13:24:00.000Z

Last night, when I finished a substandard teriaki salmon at a restaurant that I have eaten at before, and realized I didn't enjoy my meal there the time before, I decided that I need to try something new. Actually everything new.

I declared summer 2006 to be the Summer of Restauranting. Until September, I must only try new places. No reruns. No more saying, "I have to go to Georgia Browns sometime." Som(mer)time is now.

I'm spreading my money around, so if people have suggestions for whence to go, please post in comments.

Moved away from Seattle to escape the rain

2006-06-27T13:00:00.000Z

So it was officially sunny for about 10 minutes 38 seconds today. Feels like summer, don't it? But I am glad...no.... THRILLED!.... that the gray skies have returned. Saves me money on sunscreen. And the drenching, flooding rains that have seeped into everyone's basement? Well, it's just an excuse to clear out some of those useless mementos. Who needs their high school yearbooks and family heirlooms? Great grandma's wedding dress? No need to hang onto that anymore since it's now been soaking in leaves-containing water. Whew!

Btw, in Seattle, for what it's worth, today is to be 77 with sunny skies, and it looks like the weekend will be even better.

This is crap.

I went on a road trip with Seamus and Britney and all I got was this dirty mind

2006-06-16T20:20:00.000Z

They're replacing the carpet in The Man's office, so they've moved all of His furniture into the hallway. It's weird seeing His Trappings Of Power out of context, so I'm not sure if I can be blamed for what I thought when I saw His large, leather executive recliner propped up against the wall:

"That chair, that's where the Ass of Power sits."

And from the "it just sounds dirty" department....

2006-06-12T14:07:00.000Z

Last night the male flight attendant on my plane broadcasted on the intercom to report that due to turbulence, he will be discontinuing the cart service and will instead be starting "hand service."

Some folks need to get a life

2006-06-07T15:14:00.000Z

It has come to my attention (thanks Britney, yo) that some of our esteemed colleagues need some real work to do. Combing through a marketing piece to find things to complain about doesn't qualify as work. Complaining that the people in the shot look gay because the photo was flipped and so the suit jacket has the buttons on the wrong side makes me want to ask you if there's a hyphen in anal retentive.

And by the way, does anyone know where the closest Gay Men's Wearhouse is? I want to buy a man's suit jacket that buttons on the wrong side...

Keanu Reeves says he's lonely and wants to get married and have children, in an upcoming issue of Parade magazine.

2006-06-07T00:40:00.000Z

Where do I volunteer?

How Bailey, yo Stopped Worrying

2006-06-06T02:12:00.000Z

Bailey, yo: North Korea's got the bomb, right?

Mr. Bailey: Well, that's what most people think.

B, yo: So who else has got the bomb?

Mr. B: Um, France, Germany, England . . .

B, yo: Germany does not have the bomb. After two world wars, there ain't no way Germany's gonna get the bomb.

Mr. B: Good point. Um, us, Russia, Pakistan, Israel . . .

B, yo: Israel's got the bomb?

Mr. B: Sure.

B, yo: What the hell is Israel going to do with the bomb?

Mr. B: I think they're a little touchy about their sovereignty some days.

Got dressed in the dark.

2006-06-02T18:17:00.000Z

“Paging, the Fashion Police. Paging, the Fashion Police.”

The announcement at McCarran Airport elicited grins and giggles from passengers waiting to board United 1402 to Dulles on Thursday afternoon. Pondering what, in a city rife with excess, might have prompted the curious message, I called Britney, yo to share the moment, “You won’t believe the page that I just heard, and I promise I’m not wearing my socks and sandals.”

“United Flight 1402 to Washington Dulles is ready for boarding. Passengers in Group 1 may now board the aircraft.”
In the time it took to board the flight, the mystery was solved, at least to my satisfaction. Taking my seat, I had to call Britney, yo back with an update. “I’m not sure if this is the one that inspired the page, but he should have. From the ground up: blue plastic flip-flops with grey and white ankle-highs, khaki shorts, a navy blazer, ear-mounted phone, and a yellow ball cap.” Seamus, yo is no slave to fashion, but even I thought the phone was over the top.