Monday, October 24, 2011

Do It Yourself

This is so turd-tastic that I don't even want to admit it (and that is coming from someone who just scored seasons 2 and 3 of Boy Meets World on DVD), but this evening I googled "DIY Halloween costumes."  

I found a site with the headline "7 Easy DIY Halloween Costumes Ideas Mother Nature Would Appreciate."  Below the headline, it reads "There is still time to make your own Halloween costume. Take a look at the list of eco-Halloween ideas I have gathered below. The costumes are made with recycled material and of themes Mother Nature would appreciate."

Check out #7 on this list:  Mother Nature

Well it was either this or my ghost costume from last year so...

A) wtf. Mother Nature is scarier than Global Warming.

B) Easy?  DIY?  I'm quoting the article here: there is still time to make your own Halloween costume.  No.  No, there will never be enough time to make this costume nor will there be enough time to explain to everyone at the Halloween party why you look like someone tried to make a May pole out of a dementor.

C) Can you buy a bee keeper mask, giant paper mache slugs, and stilts at CVS?

D) Is that part of a triceratops skeleton around its neck?  And if so, can I buy that at CVS?

E) If someone else shows up in the same costume, this really isn't going to be worth it.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Gainful Employment

Stats update: I now have 6 views in New Zealand and 3 in Spain.  Bienvenidos to the mix, ya'll.

For the past month, I've been burning the midnight oil at the office, so I haven't had much time for blogging, doing laundry, buying a hamper (yep, that still hasn't happened), etc.  The other day, my friend Andrea told me she had been watching a lot of Mad Men lately and a certain scene between Freddy Rumsen and Peggy Olsen reminded her of me..  Peggy is dating a guy and she's having trouble balancing work and her relationship.  She tells Freddy that she doesn't want to end up alone and he tells her she should work less.  Andrea then told me that I should work less and make "finding a guy" my new part-time job.  

Well.. right now I only have enough time for my full-time job - which I happen to really enjoy and can only hope will outlast all previous relationships in my dismal dating history - but let's take a minute to ponder what life would be like if I had a part-time job for which my only responsibility was finding a boyfriend.  

Here are a few things I would expense out (which reminds me... who reimburses me exactly?  Maybe the federal government?  So I don't end up a penniless spinster relying on welfare?):
  1. Haircuts every other week (rather than every 3 months/whenever something good comes up on Groupon)
  2. Manicures/Pedicures (I already mentioned the time I went out with the guy who told me I had calloused feet, right?)
  3. A PedEgg (just in case)
  4. Cooking/sewing classes (If my "job" is now finding a beau, I'm just assuming the earth un-orbited around the sun about 50 times)
  5. Makeup (although while I was applying makeup on the bus this morning, a woman told me I was pretty enough without it.  Then again, she was blowing her nose and then putting her used Kleenexes in the hood of her sweatshirt so she may not be the groomer I'm looking for.  Sidenote: I love riding the bus.)
  6. Personal trainer (doubles as a side-boyfriend)
  7. All purchases from Victoria's Secret (meow)
  8. Charm school (This would be beneficial to my real job too.  I still get to keep that one/maintain a sense of self-worth, right?)
  9. A hamper (I'm sneaking this one in on the company tab)
  10. Floss, toothpaste, shampoo, razors, soap, deodorant
  11. Botox injections in my armpits to prevent underarm sweat altogether
  12. The iPhone 5/monthly data plan (worth a try.. if not, I'll settle for the hamper)
  13. Vodka/Gin (pre-date liquid courage)
  14. Advil/coffee/egg sandwiches (post-date hangover corrective)
*****

Cover letter

To Whom it May Concern:

I am applying for the position of girlfriend and would greatly appreciate the opportunity to spend time with you one-on-one in a social setting.  I am smart, personable, and I always give 110%.  For these reasons, I think I would be the perfect addition to your life.

While I do not have a great deal of girlfriend experience, I am a hard worker and fast learner, and my friends will attest that I am highly proficient in relationships as a whole.  I am well-mannered, kind, and your parents will adore me. 

I am highly motivated and goal-oriented, and I see the position of girlfriend as an opportunity to grow in my career.  I am always thinking toward the future, which I believe would be a real asset to our relationship as you mature over the next few years [aka becoming less interested in getting drunk with your bros and more interested in settling down and procreating].  I think that I could benefit from this partnership, as well, as I develop the commitment skills necessary to advance toward my ultimate goal of wife/life partner.

Thank you in advance for your consideration.  I look forward to hearing from you [not that I'm waiting by my phone for you to call.  I'm not one of those].

Sincerely,
Mariel

*****

See my hypothetical OK Cupid profile for a resumé of sorts.  

References available upon request.  These would include my boss, my roommate Carolyn, and the Kleenex lady from the bus this morning.

Salary requirements: Remembering my birthday, an apartment with a washer/dryer, the iPhone 5, fidelity.  Negotiable.




Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Holler at me, Deutschland.

Well, once again I have failed to meet my posting-once-a-week pledge but in the meantime, I apparently passed the 1,000 page views mark - I just checked and it's at 1,111.

I used to be am secretly obsessed with checking my blog's stats.  Especially the traffic sources section.  Google searches of both "phil collins hour of power" and "phil collins and the hour of power" have routed people to my little cyber soapbox.  I have a feeling Phil Collins is a televangelist and his hour of power involves twelve apostles rather than sixty shots of beer, but either way, it all boils down to a groovy kind of love, right?  "Paul Schneider" also redirected someone to my site.  I like to think that it was Paul Schneider Googling himself to check out his star meter on IMDB.  Come to think of it, I look at this "stats" tab on my Blogspot homepage as kind of like my pre-IMDB star meter.  Especially because when I write this blog, I pretend as if more than just my brother, a few friends, and my roommate's mom read it.  Oh yeah, I had big plans for this blog.  I was so concerned about protecting my identity that I literally created a separate email address (mostlikelytohavebadhair@gmail.com) to set it up so that there was no way of tracing it to my name.  #7FollowersTotal.  

Oh, here's my favorite Google search stat.  TWO different people have been led to my blog by searching "guy looks like satan."  Did you mean balthazar getty? I know I talked about a guy looking like the baby Satan from Passion of the Christ once, but I have a feeling it just took them right to this picture.

My next favorite tab?  Pageviews by country.  Let's check out where I have been spreading good will across the globe.  You're welcome, America.

I took this picture of my cousin when we were in Berlin.
Most likely to be an ausfahrt.  Am I right, Germany? Eh?
United States: 1,060.
Ireland: 28.  Thanks, Nathan.
Germany: 14.  Danke!  I went to Berlin last year and it was pretty fantastic.  Also, thanks for inventing Advent calendars.  And hot dogs.  You made my childhood.
Denmark: 3.  Thanks, Julie.
Netherlands: 2.  I assume you took your queue from Denmark.
Romania: 2.  To be honest, until junior high I thought you were a made-up country where Bunnicula came from.
United Kingdom: 1.  You speak English, and Germany has 13 on you.  And you call yourself an ally?
Portugal: 1.  Paul Schneider is shooting on location.

Seriously, though, whoever is reading this in Germany, please tell me how you found this blog.  I promise I will cheer for you in the next World Cup.

****

Sidenote to all my loyal followers out there, I have a Lucy-fer update.  My uncle went out of town and asked me to take care of her.  I immediately had visions of her strapping me to the roof of the apartment building, duct taping a lightning rod to my mouth, and then dialing her friend Satan to request he redirect the next tropical storm to the Upper East Side.  I politely declined, explaining that things were busy at work, and apparently the rest of my family did the same, so asked one of his parishioners to take care of her.  I guess Lucy could sense that the woman who volunteered was trying to perform some sort of service for the Church and consequently decided to go into full anti-Christ mode, because evidently the woman called my uncle within the first 24 hours to say that she couldn't handle it, and now my other uncle is taking care of her.

****

Friday, August 19, 2011

Ok, Cupid.. Do Your Worst.

This is who runs my love life.
In my romantic history, I've really picked some winners.  A guy once told me I had calloused feet and short arms.  Once I went on a date with a guy who started sucking my face in the middle of a bar on a Sunday night and when I asked to be taken home, he took me to "hang out" in a desolate park in Sea Cliff, Long Island instead.  I made it out alive and learned my lesson not to go out with guys who are in your phone as "Chris from the Train."  That's what they'll call him on CNN too.

Everyone I know has an OK Cupid profile, but I have been hesitant to join.  Maybe I am as old school as my dad when it comes to the internet but I guess I still associate online dating with the stigma of being desperate, maybe because it reminds me of a former co-worker (she had Lloyd Christmas bangs and sounded like a member of the Addams family) who met her husband (all I remember is a Super Mario brothers moustache) via an online dating site, and she always shared way too much about her middle-aged love life.

Given the fact that my dating life right now is about as eventful as if I walked around wearing a sandwich board reading "I HAVE A BALD SPOT AND GONORRHEA" (only one of those is true), I have entertained the thought of possibly possibly hopping on the OK Cupid bandwagon shame train.

Here is my how I imagine I would construct this hypothetical profile:

First of all, apparently on Ok Cupid you are allowed to feature three pictures.  Choose wisely.  No one really cares about anything else in your profile besides these three pictures.  Let's be real.. Before actually sending you a message, they are going to look long and hard at these to determine whether or not you are at least 80% as attractive as you were four years ago when the best three pictures of your life were taken.  Here are the three I would choose:


Hey guys.  Look who's online.  Right now.


Laying all the cards out on the table.  Also, my face doesn't look awful.  Unlike here...


In case I don't lose the baby weight.. I've given fair warning.

Favorite books: [Honestly?  Harry Potter, anything by Jonathan Safran Foer or Dave Eggers, and.. does TV count as books?  Ughhhh fine, for the purpose of impressing my soul mate? ...]  A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Catcher in the Rye, and Atlas Shrugged.  I haven't even read the last two.

Favorite movies: [Lies]

Favorite music: [More lies]

Interests: Ghost hunting, impressing your mom, powerhours

Looking for: Someone normal.  I'll settle for a free dinner.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Not Your Best Work.

Hey, I'm back.

You know that feeling when you get out of the shower and realize you were supposed to shave your legs and you've already dried off and you debate whether it's worth getting back in the shower or just wearing pants again for the next couple of days and ultimately you decide on the pants...?  Well, I've had a draft of a blog sitting around for the past 10 days.  I wear pants often.

I'm scrapping the draft because I re-read it and it was shit.  And my brother told me my last post "wasn't my best work" so the pressure is on.  Apparently I did not quite meet the caliber of writing expected by a kid who literally didn't speak normal English language until he was almost 3 years old.  He sounded like Donnie from the Wild Thornberrys, I kid you not.

So, in order not to disappoint my brother, I will not blog tonight because I'm super tired, but you have my word that tomorrow night, I will return to my former glory.

Here's a video that I re-watched yesterday and it never ceases to make me laugh:


See you on the flip flop.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

You Don't Keep a Boyfriend?

So much for my resolution to post at least once a week.  Carolyn and I moved last weekend, though, and I’m currently on vacation with my family, so it’s been a busy 10 days.  In case you were wondering, Boner Killers ended up with the most votes in the poll to name our wireless network.  Here were the final numbers:

500DaysOfWinter: 1
Mirror Sex: 2
League of Extraordinary Powerhours: 5
Bartlet4America: 5
Boner Killers: 7
Desbecvay: 0
Aioli is Just Fancy Mayo: 5

Anticipating our parents visiting and asking which network they could connect to, though, we decided to go with one of the second place winners for obvious reasons.  So, like a pageant queen caught in a Shia LaBeouf sex tape (which he leaked to the press in exchange for Paul Mitchell hair gel), Boner Killers was forced to relinquish her crown to Bartlet4America.  Password: POTUSINABICYCLEACCIDENT. 

Here are some of my favorite moments of moving weekend:

1) This weird letter left in the dresser drawer of the furnished room I had been subleasing:

You were supposed to give them the note, as well.
Don't you respect them at all?

2) The cab driver asking me, “You don’t keep a boyfriend?”  Umm.. it isn’t a spare tire, shithead.  You don’t keep… a job that doesn’t involve cleaning drunk girls’ vomit out of seat belts?  You don’t keep… a firm grasp of the English language?  You don’t keep… the change?  I guess he heard we're boner killers.

3) The laundromat lady asking me if I had a dog.  Nope, I just lose a lot of hair when I'm stressed.  Bitch.  What the hell kind of dog are you talking about?  This one?

4) Walking to my new apartment to meet the Sleepy's guy who was delivering my mattress, turning onto my block, and overhearing a middle-aged woman who looked like a brunette Charo saying, "Oh my gawdddd, you're never going to believe what I just did.  I threw up in the doggie day spa."  I hangover-vommed in the Studebagels back at Notre Dame once.  You win.

5) Ikea instruction manuals






Monday, July 25, 2011

Yep, You're the Worst: Part II.. The Christmas Shoes

Update: I now have 6 followers and 14 votes in my poll!  Is this what being Justin Bieber feels like?  I’m going to resist the urge to compare myself to Kurt Cobain and shave my head.  Shaving my head sounds pretty good right now, though, because according to weather.com we're experiencing "suffocating heat" and, as I’ve mentioned, I don’t have air conditioning.   Summer is the devil's playtime, and I'm the kid to whom he's giving an atomic wedgie in the sandbox.  As it is, I sweat like Ruben Studdard chasing a Mr. Softee truck after a steam bath, so you can imagine how disgusting I am during the months of July and August. 

Additional update: I am experimenting with the Turbie Twist I received in a white elephant gift exchange and wearing it while I type this.  So, um, I look like this:


but minus the makeup, perfectly placed curl, and smile that suggests someone is holding a gun to my back.  Also, my Turbie is white with pink polka dots.

Anyway, my fury with the summer and the fact that I've made a resolution to blog at least once a week has led me to write Part II of Things That Are the Worst, as promised (to view Things That Are the Worst: Part I, click here).  2011 is the summer of the sequel anyway, right? 

Things That are the Worst: Part II

1) When people say that this is "the summer of the sequel." I want to roundhouse you people in the throat, because every summer is the "summer of the sequel."  In fact, every year is the year of the goddamn sequel.  Just because it's alliterative, doesn't make it a good headline.  Nor does it make it true.  Just because I ate eggplant for dinner, doesn't make 2011 the summer of the eggplant.  I eat eggplant all the time.  Congrats, summer, for giving me another reason to hate you.

Did I mention Kirsten Dunst's stupid red hat?

2) The movie Elizabethtown.  Oh man.. this movie was awful.  My friend Kelly let me hang out in her air conditioned apartment while she was at the beach with her family on Saturday, and I wanted to watch a movie I hadn't seen yet.  I happened to have my most recently received Netflix DVD, Catfish, with me so I watched that first and it was AMAZING.  Also, the filmmakers are a smokeshow triumvirate.  Go rent it right now.  Anyway, I still wasn't ready to leave the AC so I sorted through Kelly's DVDs for a movie I hadn't seen yet.  I knew that both Alec Baldwin and Paul Schneider were in Elizabethtown and I have a mad crush on both Jack Donaghy and Mark Brandanaquits so I decided to give it a whirl.  Following Catfish with Elizabethtown was like following a week in Bermuda with a weekend in the Wisconsin Dells.  Disappointment is inevitable.  Also, Alec Baldwin was in it for about 2 seconds and Paul Schneider had mutton chops.  Why was the movie terrible?  Orlando Bloom's American accent.  Kirsten Dunst's southern accent.  Kirsten Dunst's presence.  Susan Sarandon's awkward tap dancing/comedy routine at her husband's memorial service.  The plot.  

It tries to be Garden State and fails harder than a Paula Abdul sobriety test.  I'm not sure that an unpopular shoe design is really a billion dollar mistake.  I think that probably happens all the time, right?  I don't think it earns a cover of Forbes magazine with the headline "Fiasco of the Century" or whatever the hell it said.  I also don't think it merits wanting to kill yourself.  Speaking of which, duct taping a kitchen knife to an excercise bike is the stupidest way to kill yourself.  Even if Judy Greer hadn't called you and interrupted your suicide attempt, Orlando Bloom, it probably wouldn't have worked anyway because your sternum/ribs would have provided enough resistance to shift the knife's position in the duct tape.  Then, you'd probably end up with just one stab in the chest and a mess on your hands.  However, I would have been happy to eat my words had that worked out in the beginning and you saved me an hour and a half of a shit movie.

3) Shoes that look like feet.  And the people who wear them.  Go back to the tree canopy you came from.

4) Recent law school grads.  I was at a bar a couple of weeks ago and met two people who had recently graduated from law school.  When they told me they were lawyers, I said "Oh, that's cool," and should have frozen time to walk over to the bar and put money down on what they were going to say next because I would have made $20 on their response (and promptly spent it on drinks, being the irresponsible bachelors-degree-holder that I am): "Ugh, don't ever go to law school."  For some reason, everyone who went to law school feels the need to tell everyone else to never make the same mistake they did.  Well, no, it wasn't a mistake for them, but it will be for you.  This doesn't apply to adults who are happy making bank, carrying cool briefcases, and saying things like "no further questions" while fantasizing that they're Sam Waterston.  It's just the recent grads who are reveling in a state of self-importance because they put in a few more years at school and now they get to be an "esquire" which kind of sounds like someone in the feudal period who would have had a serf or two doing their bitch work.  Umm.. yeah, you're right.  If going to law school makes you a pretentious dickweed, thanks for the warning.

5) People who change their Facebook status 20 times/day.  I really don't want to have to sift through your constant life updates to find unflattering recently tagged pictures of people I don't like before they untag them.  Time is of the essence.  I hate you even more if your status involves emo song lyrics.  No one feels that many different emotions in one day.  If you do, paint a watercolor about it.  Get off my newsfeed.

6) Smudging/chipping your nail polish right after you thought it was dry.  This obviously just happened.

7) Girls who dress as slutty [fill-in-the-blank] for Halloween.  Ok, I'll admit freshman year of college I wore a slutty Hermione costume purchased from a website that probably also sold nipple clamps and Plan B, but freshman year was a practice round at life.  Puhlease, I didn't even have bangs yet.  Everyone knows you're supposed to get ugly for Halloween.  This year I went to a bar where I'm sure at some point a slutty Sarah Palin was making out with a slutty Chilean miner on top of the bar in exchange for tequila shots out of test tubes, and I was dressed as the Monopoly Man.  You know, ladies, it's hard to compete when you have a monocle, moustache and bushy white eyebrows.  On October 31 every year, can we just agree to level the playing field and alllll be fugly pieces for one night?

8) The "Christmas Shoes" song.  Speaking of holidays... this song is just the worst.  You know, there are just too many Christmas songs about being happy and not enough about people dying of terminal illnesses, right?  WTF.

The video is kind of the worst too.  It looks like it was filmed with a FlipCam in a Bass Pro Shop in Akron, Ohio.  I even hate the way that guy is chewing his gum.  He looks like a high school wrestling coach.  Wait, he's supposed to be the one singing?  I thought a black guy sang this.  Oh shit.. I'm looking up the band to see the lead singer's ethnicity and apparently a movie was made based on this "hit song" and Rob Lowe starred in it.  Wtf, Rob?  Were you on a bad acid trip and hired one of Santa's elves as your manager?  He was probably just a homeless dwarf in the right place at the right time.  For God's sake, you were Sam Seaborne, man.  Anyway, back to the music.

You couldn't find a cuter kid for this video?  His teeth look like they were meant for opening cans of Old Style for his daddy on the front porch while shooting at opossums.  I also find it unsettling to hear this singer's voice behind the kid mouthing the words.  Creepy.  Umm.. that kid totally scammed the high school wrestling coach, by the way.  He threw a handful of pennies on the table ... he was definitely banking on $30 worth of sympathy from the fool behind him in line.  'Tis the season to be a buck-tooth little snot rag apparently. Oh, wow, those are the shoes?  This whole time I imagined a pair of conservative black Pilgrim-ish pumps.  Those shoes look like a carpet bag.  Notice how the kid goes into the hospital and we never actually see his mom meet Jesus.  He's probably selling those to a blind lady for a $10 profit.  Congrats, kid.  You may actually be a worse human being than Balthazar Getty.


I conclude with a letter to summer and all that is terrible in the world:


Reminder: Just one more week to vote in the WiFi-naming poll! 

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Speaking of WiFi...



Check out the new poll I've added to my blog!  Inspired by my last blog post - that's right, folks, I drink tiger blood and am inspired by MYSELF - Carolyn and I have a 21-email chain with the subject "Sex Room" going right now with ideas for naming our wireless network.  Not quite as impressive as our 80(!!)-email chain we have between us and our realtor with the subject "Eddie Walsh's cousin" but #thingsthatareawesome nonetheless.  So anyway, here are some of my favorite brainstorming ideas thus far.  Feel free to vote more than once.  Seriously.  I only have 5 followers.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Join other network...

Several days ago, I was in the deli next to my apartment buying an embarrassingly huge bottle of water which, coupled with my pajamas and lack of a bra, was very obviously hangover medicine.  I don't particularly give a blessed crap about these things but I noticed that there was an attractive man behind me purchasing a regular-sized bottle of water and was probably a little grossed out by my very presence.  I quickly exited the deli with my head down and as I fumbled through my purse for my keys, realized that the attractive normally-hydrated guy from the deli was standing behind me waiting to enter the building and ended up following me up the stairs and walking into the apartment literally across the hall from mine.  We shared an awkward laugh over this (and an unspoken agreement that I needed to shower) and it dawned on me that I don't know any of our neighbors.  I do, however, know the names of their wireless networks so here are the identities I've assigned them based on their Netgear aliases.  

Excellent Meat
3 jag-off Duke grads who work for Morgan Stanley, frequent the Village Pourhouse, decorated their apartment with Animal House and half-naked girl posters from college, and wear Lacoste polos.

Vag Pad
3 slutty ASU grads whom Excellent Meat collectively bones on Saturday nights in exchange for pancakes on Sunday mornings.  









Yoshi
 When asking for advice on how to get laid,
please consider his upper lip.
Looks like the nerd guru with the crustache from Freaks & Geeks.


Banksywuzhere
I can't decide if this person is a hipster d-bag or if I kind of love him.  Since he spelled it "wuz," I think I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Either way, he definitely looks like The Edge and sleeps on a futon.

RuPaul
Forget Banksywuzhere.  This person needs to be my best friend.  Immediately.  The Vag Pad has spent the last 3 months trying to deduce whether or not this is the real RuPaul.

APHRODITE
Is actually best friends with RuPaul

This fuckin' guy? He rules.

jmprules
This stands for “Joe Motherfuckin Pesci rules,” and my neighbor is Robert DeNiro.





MeeschaBear
Still refers to her father as "Daddy" and has a Blackberry covered in pink rhinestones (you should read her BBM convos.. sooooo much drama).  Only drinks vodka red bulls.  May or may not wear Juicy Couture tracksuits to brunch.

Hug me! I have puppies
in my panel van!
Lord Huggington
Stuffed animal.  Or child molester.  

Creamy
Perv.  Probably friends with Lord Huggington.



Thursday, July 14, 2011

*Free Rent

My friend Carolyn and I are signing a lease tomorrow to move at the end of the month, so it seems appropriate that I blog about finding an apartment in New York City, the difficulty/stress level of which lies somewhere between passing a kidney stone enveloped by porcupine and destroying a horcrux (happy Harry Potter 7 premiere, ya'll!).

Let’s begin with my search for a temporary sublet this past spring.  The only other places I’ve lived are Iowa City, Iowa and South Bend, Indiana so I was a little too optimistic in budgeting rent.  Trying to rent a bedroom in Manhattan for $900/month or less is like trying to buy organic avocadoes at Whole Foods with food stamps.   But I learned this the hard way.  With my Craigslist search parameters set to a $950/month max, I sent out a flurry of e-mails and set up my first sublet viewing.  How exciting!  The hellhole I entered became my Rosetta Stone for translating Craigslist real estate advertisements:

“Ideal location on the Lower East Side.” 
If this is advertised as $850/month, it isn't a real apartment.
Unless rent includes giving mandatory lap dances.
Translation: Welcome to scenic Chinatown.  I got off the subway and within a couple of blocks was surrounded by the stench of dirty refrigerator and feral cats. 

“Safe neighborhood”
Translation: Don’t mind that the building has no locks.  That’s right, these folks are so confident in the security of their home in Far East Pleasantville, that when I was outside the building and reluctantly called the Swedish exchange student from Craigslist so he could buzz me in, he said “Oh you can just walk in and come upstairs.” (unspoken understanding: don’t touch the banisters or breathe through your nose on your way up.)

“Perfect for students!”
Translation: You’re poor so you don’t mind sharing a room and living in what was or will be a crime scene, right?  I walked into the apartment and the “tour” consisted of the kitchen/living room/orgy pit, and three bedrooms.  I was then informed that I would have “at least” six roommates and was asked if I like to “drink lots of beers” on the weekend.   I said I preferred hard drugs but would be in touch, walked out the door, and called FEMA on my way to the subway.

Discouraged, I texted my mom that the first apartment was a disaster but that I was considering starting a blog because I was sure I’d collect lots of good material in my search.  She responded: “Do it!  Dad and I have some great stories from househunting in Westchester when I was pregnant with you including ducks in an attic.  Alive!”  I think those ducks migrated to Chinatown and died under the floorboards of that shitpit. 

Some Craigslist advertisements need no translation.  One guy advertised a sublet for “free rent.”  He was looking for a female roommate who would live there for free in exchange for getting naked any time he wanted.  Sex was optional but not required.  Just nakedness on demand.  Free rent in Manhattan?  It probably would’ve been worth taking to the negotiation table.  What about toplessness and homemade mac-n-cheese on demand?  Or bra-and-panties and pumicing your feet on demand? 

Anyway, I ended up moving out of my bachelorette pad at Grandma Rita’s into a fantastic 3-bedroom in the East Village with two awesome gay roommates who don’t really care to see me naked so the search paid off.  But alas, the sublet was temporary and it was time to hit the pavement once again.  This time, though, there were new players added to the mix.  First of all, I was moving with Carolyn so I had someone else to appreciate these amazing stories with.  And second of all, there were brokers.  

What do you mean, south of 68th Street?
So you live in... Brooklyn?
The broker we were going to use was a friend of my cousin.  I met him at a bar, and when I explained I was looking for apartments with my friend, he gave me his card and said he’d help us out and give us a discount on the broker’s fee.  Done.  He was very nice, but reminded us every 10 minutes that he was a male model and name-dropped like a beeyotch.  Congrats, you’ve met Blake Lively on two separate occasions.  And you ran into Janeane Garofalo in Union Square which is so weird because you did a movie together.  A)  Janeane Garofalo?  Was that worth mentioning?  B) Just because you were Asian Guy #4 doesn’t mean you two “did a movie together.”

Again, though, he was nice and told us he was going to give us the discount he gives family and ex-lovers.  Carolyn then asked me to hook up with him so we could get the discount he gives current lovers.  Speaking of which, his greatest contribution to our real estate tour of New York was the bedroom on Rivington and some street I’d never heard of which had one wall covered in 10”x10” mirrors.  This might have been the moment where totally tacky meets totally awesome – like a denim thong or Branson, Missouri.

The mirror sex room that could have been
Ultimately we went through our lovely broker Phil who asked us what a facial was because his girlfriend was getting one while we were seeing apartments with him.  Umm… yeah…  Anyway, when he took us to our lovely future home just a few blocks from where I live now, we felt that sense of “gestalt” (which 3 celebratory sangrias later, became the word of the day) and pounced on it as these two other turds with braces who were viewing it left to call their parents to ask if they could sign a lease.  Suck it.  You're the Chesapeake Indians and we're John Smith.  We claim this apartment in the name of America!  And powerhours!  Don't forget your smallpox-infested blanket on your way out the door. 

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Behold the Hour of Power

I realize I haven’t blogged in forever but, well, I’m not going to talk about the frozen linksys situation earlier this week.  And before that I was in Minneapolis for a reunion with my college roommates.  Sorry I’m not sorry.  Anyway, I knew I needed to get back on the horse but have been devoid of inspiration lately.  I was about to resort to “Things That are the Worst: Part II” when I remembered a conversation I had with my friend Ian recently.  A couple of weeks ago, Ian told me I should start a powerhour blog.  I don’t know if this means that he read my blog, thought it was crap, and was being polite by suggesting I rebrand rather than close up shop.  After all, they say you should write what you know and, well, I know powerhours.  So that’s the theme this week!  Don’t worry, though.. there will be a sequel to Things That Are The Worst but I’m going to save that for when I’m suffering from a  combination of writer’s block, apartment-hunt exhaustion, and PMS.  I suspect that shitstorm will result in my Sistine Chapel of blog posts.

Jon Hamm powerhours with double shots of scotch
Powerhours are the greatest drinking activity ever created.  Don’t question it.  I’m almost as defensive about my powerhours as I am with opening up Triple Word spaces in my Words with Friends games.

First of all, what’s more fun than drinking beer out of a shot glass?  Maybe drinking sweet tea vodka out of Jon Hamm’s belly button, but I’m working with the cards I was dealt.  If you don’t have a shot glass, experience has proven that measuring cups, soy sauce dishes, and urine sample containers also suffice.

Pre-made powerhours are sacrilegious.  If you're going to partake in this noble tradition, have some respect for the art.  Choose your own songs, choose your own minutes, choose your own transition (preferably Tracy Jordan shouting "Our basketball hoop was a rib cage! A RIB CAGE!")  The song choice has to be universally appealing.  This is not the time to be a pretentious asshole.. Your favorite band that no one has ever heard of will blow up in your face harder than the Challenger but with less sympathy because everyone’s drunk and now you’re killing their buzz with a hollow attempt at musical education. There is nothing more awkward than that moment when a song comes on and no one knows it.  Mary Moon was my Bay of Pigs.  Never again.  

There are certain songs that cannot fail in a powerhour.  The “Dirt Off Your Shoulder/Bittersweet Symphony” mash-up (minute 0:25-1:25), “No Diggity” (minute 1:49-2:49), “Like a Prayer” (0:22-1:22), etc.  Creativity is key.  Unexpected throwbacks > Top 40 everytime.  Remember "Hey Leonardo" or City High?  Slam drunk:


If every song I chose, could please the crowd, I'd choose "Forever"

The song order is important, as well.  Before a sporting event or on holidays such as President’s Day, Memorial Day, or 4th of July, start off with the National Anthem.  Your best choices – most importantly, the sing-a-longs - should start around minute 25.  At the beginning people are still talking/sober, so the first songs should be impressive as a hook but nothing that you’re going to wish people had gotten overly-properly-enthusiastic-drunk-person excited about.  But right around minute 25… This is when it gets loud and awesome.  Every 60 seconds someone should be saying “oh my God I love this song” or else you haven’t done your job right.  And God kills a puppy.  Choosing the right minute is also crucial.  Don’t worry about the beginning of the minute because people may still be taking their shot of beer/singing the previous song (it is impossible to pick one perfect minute in “Say My Name” because you have to include the “doc shah nah nah” at the beginning but then it ends right before “somethin’s goin’ down that’s the way it seems” just as you’ve unleashed your singing-Beyonce-in-the-shower diva voice).  But it should end on a high note so everyone is singing along and even the babysitters’ club lightweights who insist they aren’t going to do the full powerhour, can’t not toast that glorious minute.

Minutes 55-59, bring it home with sentimental, sloppy drunk songs like “Piano Man” and “Tiny Dancer” (think people get sappy about those in a bar?  How about when they’ve realized they only have 2 more shots of beer left in what has become the most awesome hour of their lives?).  And always, always finish with the theme from Rudy.

After four years of pouring my heart, soul, and what's left of my liver into custom-making powerhours, I have ended up with the most fantastically diverse iTunes library ever.  Once we even made a powerhour of songs that I only had for the purpose of powerhours.  This musical collection might make me look like an alcoholic schizophrenic pedophile but in my heart, I know that only the first part is true.  So I'll leave you with a little peek at my iTunes powerhour library.

1) "Rugrat Rap" (Preschool Powerhour)
Cookie sheets..
For the seasoned veterans' spill-proof powerhours
2) "Groovy Kind of Love" - Phil Collins (Rise and Shine Powerhour... you know when you wake up with a song in your head?  My roommate Andrea and I recorded them until we had 60 and then powerhoured to them)
3) That song from A League of Their Own (Grand Slam Powerhour)
4) "Bananas in Pajamas" (Andrea's Powerhour..  It wasn't long enough so we listened to it twice.)
5) "Money Can't Buy You Class" - Countess Luann (Gay Pride Powerhour)
6) "Poop in a Jar" - Hayseed Dixie (Georgetown Powerhour)
7) The Dreidel Song - Nick Jr. Kids (Christmas Powerhour)
8) "Hold Onto the Nights" - Richard Marx (Power Ballad Powerhour)
9) "Cha Cha Slide" - Mr. C the Slide Man (Dance Powerhour)
10) "It's Raining Men" - The Weather Girls (Drag Queen Powerhour)
11) Christian Bale yelling at the lighting guy on set (Georgetown Powerhour Part II)
12) "The Galaxy is Ours" from Disney Channel original movie Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century (Kyle's Powerhour.. it was a boy band thing)
13) Dawson's Creek Theme - Paula Cole (T. Ro's Powerhour.. because he looks like James Van Der Beek)
14)   "Eye to Eye" from A Goofy Movie (Castle Point Powerhour)
15) "Too Close" - Next (Valentine's Day Powerhour)

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Sometimes, everything is just the worst.

It's 2:15 am, I've been writing an epic post for over 2 hours, and just lost all my work.  Everything.

Now, I'm writing a rough outline of what I had written so I can try to re-create it when I set aside time this week.

For now, though, I'm going to try to go to sleep despite being this angry:

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Lucy-fer

They say all dogs go to heaven.  Well, I beg to differ.  I'd say that when they're the less charming canine reincarnation of Attila the Hun, they spend a little time in doggie purgatory before descending into a deep circle of hell where they are sentenced to an eternity on a tight leash, chewing on a rawhide bone that never wears down while a squirrel just out of reach points and laughs (my favorite thing about squirrels is their human-like hands). 
I hate you.

Without further ado, let me introduce Lucy (short for Lucifer), my uncle's yellow lab that I have dogsat for on occasion:

The last time I took care of Lucy, I swore it would be the last.  She is, to put it simply, the devil.  I love dogs.  My dog Liam was both adorable and hilarious.  Lucy is neither of those.  If I had to choose between spending time with Lucy and having a colonoscopy, I'd take the latter without anesthesia.  Even as we speak, I can hear a crashing in the living room and I'm just hoping it's the demon exiting her body...

No worries, guys.  She's just eating a coaster (sigh of relief).  Hmm.. where to begin...  Well, the first time I dogsat Lucy, it began with her just being incessantly annoying (scratching my legs up until they bled, jumping all over me, dragging me down the street while I walked her, etc.) But it turns out that no, it wasn't just puppy energy... it was homicidal behavior.  My uncle had asked me to keep the door to the bathroom closed so she wouldn't eat anything in there, but I forgot to heed his warning.  Before I knew it, she was chasing me around the apartment with my razor in her mouth.  That wasn't all, though..   I have to point out at this point that at my uncle's surprise birthday party Lucy came up in conversation.. as I bit my tongue, he acknowledged that yes, she "has a lot of energy, but she'd never hurt a fly."  Umm.... Once when I was dogsitting, I made dinner and while I was eating in the living room, she went into the kitchen, got up on the counter, got the kitchen knife out of the sink, and started chasing me with that.  The violence has escalated.

Heeeeeeere's Lucy!

She is just absolutely the worst.  THE WORST.  I remember when my dad and aunt and uncle came to the apartment, I had warned them that Lucy was the Pol Pot of household pets and they thought I was exaggerating.  "She's just a puppy," they said.  "She just doesn't like being cooped up."  Well, they came to the apartment and as she ran in circles they laughed and said, "See?  She just likes to be around people."  Then, on cue, the dog stopped mid-psychotic-run, looked us in the eye, and peed on the hardwood floor.  "Fuck you. Don't try to explain me.  I'm crazy."  Hey, don't look at me.  We've been on the same page from the get-go.  You's a crazy bitch.

My cousin left me a note thanking me for taking care of her and he mentioned that I should destroy the letter once I was done reading it.  No worries, the dog just tore it up.

Christ, I remember my uncle warning me not to walk her in Central Park because she was "in heat."  I guess because my dog Liam was a male and we had him fixed after he rode my giant Meeko stuffed animal down the stairs (Meeko got put in the storage room after that traumatizing incident), I forget that animals have reproductive systems.  Can you imagine how cuckoo bananas she is at her time of the month?  If Lucy had opposable thumbs, she would probably light a church on fire and shoot a cop while she was PMS'ing.

The last time I sat for Lucy was the absolute worst.  First of all, my uncle doesn't pay us for dogsitting which only makes this all the more painful.  He just leaves money for "food" (which translates to alcohol in order to get through the ordeal).  The last time I was here, my cousin had bought some groceries for the week and there was still about $60 left.  The little shitstain tore up the money and left it in a neat little pile for me to find when I came home.  "Hey, remember the chana masala you were going to order for dinner?  Mmm... that sounds good. FOR ME TO POOP ON."

"Sit?  Am I doing 'sit?!'"
Once when I was taking care of her, I had a couple of friends stay over.  I insisted they take the bed and I'd sleep on the couch.  In order to win the argument, I said that I wanted to sleep on the couch so I would be in the other room in case Lucy acted up.  The moment I said this she barfed all over the kitchen.  After cleaning all of this up, I went to sleep on the couch.  I woke up during the night to go to the bathroom and as soon as I walked past the kitchen where she was gated up, she looked me in the eyes and insta-puked again.  Now that is talent.  I can understand how she feels, though.  I kind of want to throw up when I look at her, too.

Taking her on a walk is like wrapping a Twizzler around your wrist and attaching it to Mufasa with a wildebeest 20 yards away.  She is... awful.

She isn't just uncontrollable in a cute dog way.. like when they see a squirrel and want to chase it.  She's just a moron.  Once while walking her, we had been trying to get her to poop for 20 minutes.  Please just poop so we can go home.  When does she decide to pinch a loaf?  (Yes, Andrea, that one is for you since you had never heard that before you came to NY)  While crossing the street and the red hand is blinking, Lucy decides to get comfy and take a shit..  Ok, now the hand is no longer blinking and there are cabs coming at us.. quickly.. Lucy, they're.. oh SHIT. LUCY. MOVE!!! WE'RE GOING TO DIE.  Apparently yesterday she pooped an entire roll of coins when she was with my cousin.  Not shocking.  She was probably stacking them up so she could beat me with them when I came to watch her.

There is one thing I'll give Lucy.. she knows how to give a guest a proper welcome.  The last time I came here, I already knew how much I hated this damn dog but at the time, I was still living on Long Island with my grandma so when choosing between the two, I'd pick the chemically imbalanced pooch over the LIRR commute any day.  Anyway, I walked in the door and she immediately sank her claws into my arm flesh.. As I tried to swat her pterodactyl talons off of me, I threw my purse down so I could defend myself.  Without missing a beat, she dropped down to all fours, reached up with one paw (I swear over everything unholy - particularly Lucy's soul - that this is true), and turned on the stove burner underneath my purse (which I had dropped in the effort to stop Lucy's attack). So to sum it all up, the dog tried to set my shit on fire.

Alright, ya'll, I should probably go.  I'm looking out the window and I see a doll that looks suspiciously like me hanging over the window ledge and now I'm feeling a sharp pain in my right side.

Update: she chewed the handle off her leash while I was blogging this.  Lucy for the win.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

This is where half of my DNA came from...

The man, the myth, the legend.
My brother is at home for the summer, and, knowing I'd appreciate the story, he told me about how he'd worked on a powerpoint for my dad the other day and how my dad was fascinated by everything he did.  "Now can you put a picture in next to the text and.. Wait! How did you do that?!"  After I graduated from college, I spent the summer at home before moving to New York.  After watching 3 seasons of 30 Rock in a span of 4 days, my dad offered to pay me to make powerpoints for his oral surgery lectures because 1) I clearly needed something productive to do and 2) he still types with 2 fingers and buys a new laptop every time the internet freezes.  My dad is one of the smartest people I know, but everyone has their weak spot, and for my dad, it's the computer.  All the project required was some typing and google image searching but when I clicked from slide to slide and he saw the dissolves and fades, he reacted like what I imagine Benjamin Franklin looked like with the whole lightning/kite debacle.  This is one of the reasons I love my dad.  No matter how simple the task, he takes such pride in his kids when we succeed.  So, in honor of Father's Day, I am going to share a few of the reasons why my dad has succeeded ... at being awesome.

1)  His old school approach to technology.  We've already covered this but just one more anecdote.. When we got him a laptop for his birthday a few years ago in order to encourage him to start testing the waters with technology, we figured we'd make it a win-win for everyone and get wireless for the house. So we wrapped up a wireless router with the laptop.  When he opened the router, he asked what the hell it was and I explained that now we would be able to pick up internet anywhere in the house from multiple computers.  He looked around at everyone, then turned back to me (his tech guru) and said, "You know, we should invest in this.  People are going to want to buy this."  Just a few years behind the curve, Dad, but I like where your head's at.  Let me tell you about a little stock called Google...

Also, he doesn't know how to text.  Once his friend texted him lamenting about a Hawkeye loss and he asked me to text back "Ugh."  I said, "Dad are you sure you don't want to say anything else.. take advantage of having a texting surrogate here?"  "No, just 'ugh,'" he said.  His friend's response: "YOU CAN TEXT??"  Shocking, I know.

About a month ago, he was coming to New York to visit me.  I was at work and didn't want to call so I thought I would see if he'd learned to text in the year since I'd moved.  I don't know, maybe I hoped the empty nester syndrome would encourage him to take up a hobby.  I simply texted "Do you know how to text yet?"  The response?  Missed call: Dad.  Missed call: Dad.  Missed call: Dad.

2) He can't just answer the phone with a simple "Hello?"  Yes, thanks to a little thing called Caller ID (I'm sure you can imagine his shock when that one rolled out) whenever my dad sees his brother, his bestie Charlie, or me calling, he answers the phone with something like "Yeah, Sal's Pizza.  What can I do for ya?" with a ridiculous accent.  If he's caught off guard and hasn't come up with anything he just answers with "We don't want any."  Never just "hello."  If I call the house phone and I'm talking to my mom, sometimes he thinks of something he wants to tell me and just picks up another phone in the house and starts talking.  Like this memorable conversation:
Dad: Hello?  Hello?
Me: Yes?
Dad: Hey, did you know Tracy Morgan had a kidney transplant?
Me: ...
Dad: I think it was like a year ago.
Me: I don't think I knew that.
Dad: Ok, well I'll put your mother back on the phone.

3) When my brother wears his hood up, my dad tells him he looks like Eminem.

4) Sometimes he is totally Mr. Weir from Freaks & Geeks.  Last summer, all my friends came to Iowa City for a Hall & Oates concert and a few of the guys were stretched out on the couches in the ninth inning stretch of a group hangover.  My dad came home from work and without missing a beat, said "What've these guys been doing?  Smokin' pot all day?"  Sooooooo Mr. Weir.



5) He has no filter.  I flew home for Memorial Day weekend as a surprise for my dad's birthday.  My mom picked me up at the airport and the plan was for my sister to take my dad to breakfast as a birthday treat, and my mom and I would surprise him there.  My sister called while we were on the way back from the airport and said he knew something was up.  Apparently he thought it was strange that she just wanted the 2 of them to go to breakfast so he asked if she needed to talk to him about something she couldn't talk to my mom about.  She said yes and then when he went to shower and change, she called us for a suggestion as to what she should "talk to him about."  I told my sister she should tell him she was a lesbian but she responded, "I can't.  He already asked me.  In front of all my friends.  Over dinner."  In his defense, he only asked so that he could tell her that he and my mom were totally fine with it if she was.

On this same topic, his concept of where to draw the line can probably be found alongside his discarded filter.  Apparently in the car one time, my dad was teasing my mom, and my mom said something along the lines of "You know, I'm going to smack you in the head if you say that again."  My dad's response?  "Well, I'm going to rip out your small intestine, wrap it around your neck, and choke you with it."  Umm... yeah.. "too far" was when her digestive tract got involved.

Sometimes this lack of filter gets him into trouble.  My parents were having friends over for dinner and my dad asked my mom to pick up some wine and nice beer.  After some of the people had arrived, my dad went to the fridge to get one of them a beer.  Upon opening the fridge, he turns to my mom and says, "You know, no matter what I ask, why do you always have to buy such shit beer?"  Umm.. the beer my mom bought was outside in a cooler.  The beer in the fridge was what one of the couples - who was standing there witnessing this - had brought over.  Oops.

He also taught his children to abandon our filters at a young age.  My dad was always interested in the performance arts and thought I had natural theatrical talent.  When As Good As It Gets was released in 1997, he got me to memorize the scene where Jack Nicholson tells Greg Kinnear "Don't knock.. not on this door" and perform it at family dinners over the Christmas holidays.  I was 9 years old and definitely had no idea what a fudge packer was but I totally nailed it.

6) This text from my sister: "You know dad has been drinking when he says that he could hang with John Tesh and that they could bounce shit off each other."

7) He loves this commercial and says it makes him want to cry:





Well, these are just a few of the reasons my dad has succeeded at being awesome, but the most important is that despite the fact that I rip on him and his receding hairline all the time, he loves and supports me unconditionally, and if I allowed him to know I was writing a blog, I'm sure he would be my third - and most loyal - follower.  Love you, Dad!

Saturday, June 11, 2011

I See Dead People (maybe)

It's raining which was supposed to be my motivation to go downstairs and do laundry but I decided this morning to lay in bed and watch movies because, well, I CAN.  So I took the list of Netflix instant play recommendations from my friend Chris and started with Mary & Max (which I give two thumbs up).  Mary is a quirkly, lonely little girl living in Australia who becomes pen pals with Max, a lonely older man with Asperger's Syndrome living in New York City.  In one of his letters to Mary, Max writes "People often confuse me but I try not to let them worry me." I thought that was a very fitting description of how most people react to the crazies they run into on a daily basis here which leads me to the story that happened to me yesterday morning which was definitely bloggin' material.

This would never happen.  I would have broken rank, taken a picture with my
camera phone, and sold the rights to Doc Oc for $10 million. 
I was walking to the subway on my way to work when I stopped at the corner of St. Mark's Place and 2nd Ave. waiting for the light to change.  I was listening to a voicemail when all of a sudden this guy was standing in front of my face staring at me.  Honestly, I usually take a page out of Max's book and let the crazies confuse me but not worry me.  You have to laugh them off.  Once when I was interning in New York a couple of years ago, I was passing this homeless man who I would always see in the same spot around 23rd St. and Sixth Ave.  He had a sign asking for money or food, and I decided to give him the peanut butter sandwich I had packed with me for lunch that day.  When I set my little brown paper lunch bag down next to him, he asked, "What is that?"  I told him it was a sandwich, at which point he started yelling at me to take it back.  Completely confuzzled, I didn't know what to do.. I couldn't take the sandwich back because anyone passing by was going to think I was taking food from a homeless person and if New Yorkers are as morally upright as they appear in that scene in Spiderman 2 ("We won't tell nobody, Spidey."  Barf), I would have been tarred and feathered like a post-Revolution Tory on the spot.  So instead I just ran away while the homeless guy yelled "YOU'RE GETTING ANTS ON MY BLANKET! YOU'RE GETTING ANTS ON MY BLANKET!"

Anyway, back to the corner of St. Mark's and 2nd.  So as I said, I normally ignore the crazies but this one was by far the most disturbing encounter I've had (and bear in mind this is at 8:30 on a Friday morning).  This guy was probably in his 40s and kind of reminded me of a skinnier version of the guy in Elf who works in the mailroom and gives Buddy the "syrup" for his coffee.  Now, I'm not trying to be dramatic but I have reason to believe he had escaped from a mental hospital and my reasons are threefold:
1)  He was wearing an all-white get-up
2)  He was wearing a hospital wristband
and.. wait for it...
3) His head was covered in blood.  Yes... blood.  And there was dried blood down his arm as well. Bet you didn't see that one coming.

What? Is there something on my face?
I stood there completely still and avoided eye contact until he threw his hands up in the air and walked away.  He then stood in front of me, also waiting for the light to change, which is when I saw the open wounds on the back of his head, and then when that goddamn red hand turned to my favorite little walking pedestrian (yes, I sacrificed symmetry there to avoid sounding racist) he just continued walking and then turned the corner (thank God) as I kept walking straight.

The first thing that crossed my mind was that maybe I could see dead people.. Like I was Haley Joel Osment in The Sixth Sense, and he needed me to help him bring justice to the doctors who performed experiments on his brain in the mental institution..  In which case this was definitely a missed opportunity.  Once I had decided that this was unlikely (but not impossible), I started thinking about how much cooler this story would have been if I had actually interacted with him.  Like if he had gotten into a fight with the guard at the mental hospital and killed him and then after I turned him into the police I could have been a witness in the trial.  But if I'd actually talked to him maybe he would have gone crazy and spit on me or punched me in the face or something.  In which case I'd still wind up with a cooler story but the experience as a whole would be decidedly less favorable to my physical well-being.

So the moral of the story is that while people confuse me, I try not to let them worry me... unless they have experienced blunt force trauma to the head and have that "I-once-stabbed-a-drifter-for-his-shopping-cart" look in their eye.  In which case it is best to worry.  And fake a phone call.