Just another night with Valerie.

So Valerie came and spent last weekend with me and usually when Valerie comes, we have a very activity-filled and eventful weekend. So upon her arrival on Friday night, we went to an improv comedy show. I’m going to take a side bar to just note my thoughts about improv; I’ve been to two improv shows in the past month and I’m not really sure how I feel about them.  I did think ‘Whose Line Is It Anyway’ was funny, but again, their performances on the show had to be pretty amazing to make it on a television series in the first place.  Actual live improv shows are sometimes okay, and I do crack a smile often, but I never really laugh out loud like I do during stand-up.  And I understand it’s a lot harder to be funny when you are put on the spot than when you can practice jokes, a routine and the delivery. Overall, I guess I’m just not that impressed yet with improv.

Anyway, back to the night: after the show, we went to Walnut Room with Alisa and her boyfriend. So we have a few drinks and all is well on the dance floor until all of a sudden, a sneaker comes flying through the air and hits Valerie in the head, and less than a millisecond later, the other sneaker hits Alisa’s shoulder. So if you know Valerie, you know that when something like that happens, it’s like the world becomes silent just waiting for her reaction.  And this is why…

The first time I ‘experienced’ Valerie in this type of situation was at a frat party in Cornell circa 2003.  So as you know, it was the early 2000s and a frat party, so I was probably grinding up on some guy [of a certain ethnicity] in a bubble jacket with fur on the hood to ‘err’body in the club getting tipsy…’ after having one too many Milwaukee’s Best or Keystone Lights.  And at this point, I'm too into myself and singing along to the song that I don't notice where Valerie is or who she is with. Until suddenly, a crowd rushes towards the dance floor to watch something going on [most likely a fight] and I look up, only to see Valerie walking out of the crowd in the opposite direction a little too calm and collected for my liking.  So I asked her what had just happened and she said “Oh some drunk girl was dancing and spilling her beer all over my hair, so I didn’t say anything the first time it happened. But the second time, I turned around, and grabbed her hand with the beer can and crushed the can using her hand and threw it on the floor. I didn’t say anything though. She just started crying or something. Whatever.”  

So needless to say, a year or so later, we were all eating brunch one morning in New York City when a waitress tripped and spilled strawberry jam all over Valerie. Our entire table gasped and started saying a silent prayer for the waitress for her bad luck that of all of the six people at our table that she could have spilled something on, she had to spill it on Valerie.  Luckily, Valerie was in an exceptionally good mood and did not say anything to make the waitress wish she hadn’t been at work that day.  But needless to say, you can see why we were worried.  So, back to this sneaker incident…

The sneaker hits Valerie, the world goes silent. And everyone on the dance floor stops and turns around to see Valerie’s reaction. She grabs the sneaker from the floor and the other one from Alisa and is looking around to who she should throw these back at. Until some guy comes rushing up to Valerie apologizing profusely, while claiming that his friend was really drunk and just took his sneakers off and threw them into the dance floor without thinking.  [I think I’m getting a little too old for this type of situation to be commonplace at a bar.]  He asks for the sneakers back, but Valerie tells him “No, your friend can walk barefoot home.”  The guy begs her that it’s winter and really cold outside and to please give back the sneakers. To which Valerie shows little to no sympathy.  “Well, he shouldn’t have thrown them in the first place.”

And so, the night proceeds as if nothing happened with Valerie telling guys she can’t give them her phone number because she lives in Zimbabwe. 

We managed to thankfully, avoid public view for the rest of the weekend to prevent more incidents like this from occurring.  Although sometimes I miss the drama that Valerie brings with her to Philly every few months because it adds some flavor to the mundane nature of my normal life.

New Year. Old Me.

Let’s be real. New Year’s Resolutions don’t work. I’m not going to drastically be some new person between December 31^st at 11:59 PM and January 1^st at 12:01 AM. In fact, I was the same person, just a tad bit more woozy with that extra large sip of Moet [I had to throw that in there to validate my ballin’ status slash depleting bank account].  

The problem with New Year’s Resolutions is that it forces people to think they are going to make a significant change in their lives when they are really not mentally prepared for the change. From my experiences, when you want to make a large enough life change, you will.  You will get out of the awful relationship you’re in when you realize enough is enough...or maybe you never will.  You’ll stop dating the same scumbags when you’ve been hurt enough and/or you’ve gone through some form of therapy. You’ll start dieting when you see that awful photo of yourself in a dress you thought you looked cute in. Or when you go to the doctor and find out there is a health risk associated with your weight. Maybe that coincidentally falls on January 1^st. But more likely than not, your life-changing epiphany will end up being February 18^th or March 13^th of September 27^th of not 2013, but 2018 or maybe 2030.

What I hate the most are fitness resolutions, and that’s mostly for my own selfish reasons.  I absolutely DESPISE going to the gym between January 2^nd and mid-February because of all the clowns that think they are going to make a huge shift in their lives because of some arbitrary change in the lunar calendar. And for that reason, I have to wait an absurd amount of time awkwardly twiddling my thumbs in the corner for a treadmill or for a set of free weights.  Until I finally decide that I’d much rather run outside in twenty degree weather even if my legs get so cold that I can’t feel them move during my run. I wish American New Year fell on the same day as Sri Lankan New Year…  I would experience much more enjoyable outdoor fitness excursions in mid-April vs. January.

As you can see, my cynicism continues into the New Year.  So for those of you who thought you’d get a whole new me and a whole new blog, sorry. And I still probably won’t write in it more than once a month because I’m not inherently ready for that much of a commitment. Maybe that will happen on September 27^th, 2018 when I realize no one is reading it anymore because I’m so inconsistent with my writing frequency.  :)

Brief Thoughts on Chicago: Deep Dish and Deep Conversations

To give you an update on my life, Thanksgiving was fantabulous. I don’t even want to go into details about how amazing it was because it was more of a “you had to be there” kinda thing and if I try to poorly describe just how great it was, I would be doing an injustice to myself and my family.

Later that weekend, we had our ten-year high school reunion, which was mediocre, to say the least [or most]. I pretty much spent $50 to hang out with my own friends that I can hang out with for free for run-of-the-mill food, an awful DJ with an even more awful music selection, and subpar company (minus my friends, of course). And I’m not a hater, I swear. It was just that everyone stuck to talking to their own friends, there was really no mixing with different groups of people (which may be partly my own fault as well as that of my peers) and close to zero dancing (strongly correlated to the DJ). This is in no way a reflection of the hard work people put into planning it and I feel bad for giving it such a negative review, but sometimes it’s just a function of the group of people that end up showing up [myself included].

So last weekend, I went to Chicago to visit Jaime. Upon arrival (and after an inevitable flight delay, which cancelled our plans for the night; FYI - I really am not a fan of United, this is the second consecutive inconvenient delay I’ve experienced with them for non-weather related issues), we went straight to Pequods for some deep dish pizza. I know all Northeast Coasters are super annoying about pizza like “Ughh, gross, I hate Chicago deep dish pizza!  I only eat New York pizza. That’s the real thing.” However, as a fellow Northeast Coaster, I admit that I actually really like Chicago deep dish pizza; it doesn’t really fulfill my pizza craving like New York pizza does, but the thick, buttery, breadiness coated with mozzarella, smothered in tomato sauce and dusted off with my favorite toppings just resonates comfort with me. So needless to say, after a miserable flying experience, my dinner made the night a lot better.

We woke up the next morning to run a 5K Santa Run, which was pretty awesome. The weather was beautiful, sunny and in the 50-60s, and the run was at Soldier Field along the lake with 9,000 other people; Oh, and the best part was that we wore Santa outfits while running. The beard was very suffocating to run in, but the rest of the costume was relatively comfortable, albeit a little too warm. We decided to keep the Santa costumes on while doing some Chicago sightseeing. We found a back window to the aquarium to try and see the dolphins and beluga whales from outside without having to pay admission, but little did we know that the window was facing everyone who was watching the dolphin show. So before we knew it, everyone in the audience was pointing at us and waving (not only because we had our faces smashed up to the window like little kids, but also because all four of us had full-on Santa costumes on). And so, we ran away. Our adventures continued onwards to the Bean and a Christmas market before we stopped at a bar with a special of “Buy one drink, get a Jameson shot for free.” And then it was noon. And I was wasted. 

We went to dinner, to the infamous Second City comedy club (where I almost punched some lady behind me for her excessive and uncontrollable hyena-like laugh) and then to a bar. And then I was wasted again.

So I absolutely LOVED Chicago, and can totally see myself living there one day. But the one thing I can’t handle is how often strangers talk to you when you’re walking down the street. The friendliness of Midwesterners is baffling, while unnerving.  I think about thirty-eight people talked to us in a span of three hours to ask about the race, or where we were from, and what we were doing.   If I lived there, I’d probably have to leave half an hour before I planned to go anywhere in order to make up the time from unanticipated, in-transit conversations. So while I might not have an East Coast perspective about New York pizza, I definitely have one about public interactions. Don’t talk to me unless you know me or unless we need something specific from each other – i.e. a lighter, a dollar or directions. The buck stops there. Keep it moving. Thanks.

#HATEBOOK2013

I know I’m going to be redundant here and resurrect my inner Facebook Grinch because I have posted on this topic previously, but if I have to see one more person’s engagement ring on Facebook… or thirty-seven images of their expressionless newborn each day of the week…. or a wedding party/bridal shower/bachelorette party/engagement party/invitation card/anything pertaining to their upcoming wedding… or their child doing his/her “first” of everything (“This is Ava doing her first waving of her right hand wearing her first blue sweater and jeans combination ever”), I might throw myself out of the 10^th floor of my office building.  

I think being a twenty-something or early-thirty-something makes you a part of the worst possible subset of Facebook’s audience because it is the stage of major life changes/career changes/family changes/perpetual bragging of all these changes. And because we are the first generation to have encountered this blasphemy, we were unfortunately, given no forewarning of the misery that was to come. As you all know, I [successfully] deactivated Facebook for several months, until I missed my best friend from college’s bachelorette party because the invite was via Facebook and her sister did not know how else to reach me. For that reason, I’m back on, but I ABSOLUTELY hate it. Like I said, I know I already made a whole post about why I hate Facebook, but the past few weeks have been especially awful. 

First off, the election coverage via Facebook was miserable. If I wanted to watch coverage of the election, I would watch it on television or check out updates on Twitter feeds; I have zero desire to read your uninformed and uneducated speculations.  Politics should not be a Facebook topic. If you want to talk about politics, start a blog and write your heart out about your political beliefs so that way I can choose to read it (but more than likely, choose not to read it). Instead, I now am forced to scan your status update on my newsfeed, realize I subsequently, like you much less, and therefore, have to delete you as a friend when you might, in fact, have been a perfectly good drinking buddy.

Secondly, Twinkies are getting way more publicity than even necessary. How many much more relevant companies have gone out of business since the recession began? Why do hundreds of people on my newsfeed even REMOTELY care about some concoction of an unequivocally unpopular processed food with a questionably too-long shelf life? Honestly, I don’t remember the last time I have even seen anyone purchase or eat a Twinkie. Maybe 1996? There’s a reason they are going out of business. Innovate or throw in the towel.

Thirdly, Sunday football commentating is also unnecessary. I understand you all are avid football fans and have fantasy sports teams and a significant $20 on the line for your team to win, but come on!! WHY must I read seventy-seven people describing the same exact situation all day on Sunday… and then again on Monday… and then again on Thursday, each of which I care NOTHING about?! Guys, if you think I’m being insensitive to your likes, how would you feel if every single female on your newsfeed commented on every single character’s actions on every single episode of Real Housewives… every single season. If I’m not mistaken, I’m pretty sure after a while, all of you would rather give yourself glaucoma than have to read one more idiotic opinion about who is fighting with who on the Real Housewives.  

Social media, but primarily, Facebook is being heavily abused by you, your family and your friends. It’s up to all of you to stop it. Let’s join together and resurrect a #KONY2012-esque movement for the new year. 

#HATEBOOK2013

Pick-up Lines.

Growing up sucks. On top of moving past the prime stage of my life, and knowing that my looks (and BMI) are pretty much going downhill from here, while my biological clock is relentlessly and expeditiously ticking, I’ve been awakened by the fact that I can no longer bounce back fresh-faced and bright-eyed for work the next morning after drinking four martinis on a Wednesday night and still making it home and in bed by 11:30 PM.

Yes, you heard me. 11:30 PM. I still managed 7 hours of sleep. That doesn’t exactly constitute a rager. Regardless, I’m moving at a sloth-like pace and have put very minimal effort into my appearance this morning, while simultaneously double-fisting a Gatorade and an espresso. Speaking of which, I’m about to utilize my chemical engineering skills to create some electrolyte-induced/caffeinated, dual-purpose hydration drink for the HUGE target consumer market of twenty-eight-year-olds-going-on-fifty. And also because intermittent sips of Gatorade-infused coffee leave a vomitrocious aftertaste.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Mainly, because I have received a plethora of angry gchat messages and I’m trying to assuage my avid readers:

Richa: I miss reading your blog.

Ryan:  it's 8 nov, can you please post again on your blog so i can stalk you? thanks.

Valerie: AMARA!!!! Update your blog!!!!!

Palak: When are you going to update your blog?!

Abigail: I miss your blog!!

I suck. I’m sorry.

So anyway, I was at the bar last week with Kendall celebrating/commiserating the end of our ‘every-other-Friday-off-for-no-real-reason’ schedule. For those of you that don’t know, when our company was bought, that was the first thing the acquirer eliminated from our benefits package. So now I’m back to real world-living like the rest of you guys who work five days a week every week. And it sucks.

Back to the story: we were approached by two guys at Drinkers with the worst pick-up line I have ever heard. Listen to this:

Guy: Is your dad in jail?

Me: Wtf?! Um no?

Guy: Because if I was your dad, I would be.

So my reaction was like, “ummmmmmmmm WHAT!?”  Well, no, first, my reaction was merely a baffled facial expression, followed by shock, followed by thoughts of whether this guy was actually insane… followed by the more coherent “ummmmm WHAT?!”

Shortly after, another guy approached Kendall and told her that her “bone structure was flawless. And [her] jaw-line? Impeccable.”

So while those are very nice compliments, for a seemingly-heterosexual male to drunkenly approach her and comment on her bone structure and jaw-line at as classless of a place as Drinkers, and not any of her other assets, is more than merely questionable.

But one of my all-time favorite male interactions in life happened when this guy asked me what my ethnicity was. I always have a blast with this question, I usually pick a combination of really obscure ethnic mixes that most likely don’t actually exist “my father is from Swaziland and my mother is from Paraguay.” To which I received this HIGHLY entertaining response, “Daaaaaaaaaaamn girl, you are maaaad flavorful. Like a pack of skittles.”

Where do people come UP with this stuff? Honestly, I have to admit, there has to be some intellect behind these innovative interactions. Now if only men could channel this innovative thought-process into something more useful. Like learning to have meaningful conversations.

But then I guess I wouldn’t have anything to blog about?