Hot dog vendors can read minds.
Don't believe me? Go ahead. Walk by one in deep thought. Remain expressionless, but mull over something that's really troubling you. If today was any indication, they'll abandon their stand, walk you across the street, and give you a reassuring shoulder squeeze.
Thank you, Michael the Hot Dog Vendor, you strange, smelly saint.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Help Me Help...Me
Like many of you, I've put Halloween costume brainstorming off to the very last minute. So I'm asking you (nicely!) to drop everything you're doing, put your selfish brainstorming aside and help me think of something. Now!
Last-minute Halloween costume assemblage usually turns out poorly for me. Like the time my date went as Batman, so I decided at 4:30 the day of the party that I was going to be a cave. Basically, I donned a garbage bag and put a rubber bat in my hair. My date thought I looked like a woman wearing a black poncho with a rubber bat in her hair, so we decided to spell out "I AM A CAVE" on my front side in duct tape. Five minutes after arriving at the party (he entered the room from between my legs...still, no one really got that I was a cave), someone stole my bat. So I just looked like a gross lunatic in a black poncho that thought she was a geological formation.
The Lovechild of a Dolphin and a Capri Sun
And finally,
Thanks in advance,
Last-minute Halloween costume assemblage usually turns out poorly for me. Like the time my date went as Batman, so I decided at 4:30 the day of the party that I was going to be a cave. Basically, I donned a garbage bag and put a rubber bat in my hair. My date thought I looked like a woman wearing a black poncho with a rubber bat in her hair, so we decided to spell out "I AM A CAVE" on my front side in duct tape. Five minutes after arriving at the party (he entered the room from between my legs...still, no one really got that I was a cave), someone stole my bat. So I just looked like a gross lunatic in a black poncho that thought she was a geological formation.
Other last minute costumes: skanky 80's chick, skanky sailor, skanky cat, and a crazy skank (I simply threw a bunch of clothes together from my animal print phase and finished it off with caution tape.) In other words: NOT GOOD. Back in the day, I used to have the sweetest costumes. Like the time I went as Nancy Kerrigan, if Nancy Kerrigan had been beaten in the face (who hasn't fantasized about that at one point or another?) Or the time my mom spent two months on a beautiful butterfly costume that was so well-made, I actually thought I could fly. Injuries ensued.
C'mon people. I need help. And just to keep you from wasting your time, here are a few things I will NOT be going as:
Nude Person Emerging From Pizza Box
Free Mammogram Guy
The Lovechild of a Dolphin and a Capri Sun
And finally,
Racist Child
Thanks in advance,
Steph
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
And I Thought The Furniture Was Bad
I don’t like to knock online dating. Personally, you won’t catch my mug shot on any of those sites—but who knows? I could be dateless in ten years and in need of some internet intervention. Probably not, though, as I imagine I’ll just get better and better looking between now and then. On the off chance that this doesn’t happen, however, I suppose it’s good to have a backup plan. So I try to play nice on the subject.
And it seems like sites like eHarmony.com and Match.com are really helping people find their “soulmate”, if such a thing exists. I watch the commercials and find myself going “Awww…those two people are adorably boring together! It’s almost like they met each other the normal, socially-accepted way.” All of the sites have some sort of sophisticated process to find someone perfect for you, even if you are a 70-year-old transvestite who subscribes to Cat Fancy and enjoys the smell of their own farts.
However, I can’t help but be endlessly amused at the people who take a do-it-yourself approach to internet dating. I’m talking about the people who, in lieu of a hiring a match maker, would rather post up a flyer in a dark alley and hope for the best. And when I say dark alley, I mean Craigslist.
My (futile) search for coffee tables opened my eyes to a whole new world of entertainment—the personal ads on Craigslist. I mean, wow. These people are really putting themselves out there. It almost makes me feel bad for ridiculing them in a blog. Well, I said *almost*.
Because I’m not a totally venomous harpy, I won’t post real pictures or names or phone numbers or anything. But the rest of it will not be altered, embellished, or edited in any way. Quite frankly, it doesn’t have to be.
Will she be my lady??? - 25 (Cleveland)
Reply to: ********
Date: *******
Please WOMEN only... I am a handsome, educated, street smart, male who is tired of crying. Now... It's all about me but I'm gonna give this all to you. If you are serious and aren't on any games I'll be your boyfriend and you be my lady. Hit me up... LADIES ONLY PLEASE!!!
Why do you suppose this guy feels the need to repeatedly beg men (in all caps) not to respond? How could someone mistake this clearly heterosexual personal ad for anything else? Could it be the fact that this guy has cried himself into exhaustion that might throw people off? Hmmm? Hmmmmmm? Maybe this is reverse psychology? Hmmm? Hmmmmm?
Massage - 41 (Parma)
Reply to: ********
Date: ********
Male seeks female for massage with happy ending...will pay forty for the hour..must be willing to host..attractive male lookin to relax for an hour..email back thanks
Well, no innuendo here. While I appreciate his honesty, I don’t know where you can find a regular hour-long massage for forty dollars, let alone one with a “happy ending”. Cheap bastard. I wish him a lifetime of dry, cracked, calloused hands.
ROMANTIC LOOKING FOR THE SAME - 31 (CLEV BURBS)
Reply to: ************
Date: *******
I'm a hopeless romantic ! I love to go out on a night on the town or relax around the house with a glass of wine AND a movie. I love to do things outdoors and indoors, You'll find me riding my Motorcycles or boating and fishing! i like to cook ( i think i'm a pretty good cook too :D ) i like to spend time with my dog. Hope u like pets! there my version of kids LOL I like pretty much all sports and play a few, I'm always down for catching a Browns or Indians game. i hope its the year, its hard being a cleveland sports fan LOL I work a lot! I'm a Finance Manager and put a lot of hours in each week. I would like to meet someone thats motivated and has goals in thier life! and likes to live life to the fullest!!! Anything else you want to know just ask. would love to chat !
Translation:
I’m a spineless douche!
I like to go out or stay in, really, whatever you say is fine AND I drink but don’t worry, not in excess and only while I’m doing something else like watching Patch Adams or your favorite movie, whatever that is. I like to do things indoors and outdoors and did I mention we can do whatever you want including selling my motorcycle and euthanizing my pets so your kids can move in. Now I feel like I should mention sports—ha ha, Cleveland is bad at them—I bet you think so too. We have so much in common! I work 70 hours a week because I’m just as big of a doormat at the office. I’d like to find someone who will exploit my kind and giving nature and castrate me with love.
LOOKING FOR MATURE 18 YEAR OLD FOR GIRLFRIEND - 36 (RockyRiver)
Reply to: *******
Date: **********
Good looking nice guy here looking for nice young 18 year chic to have fun with. If your tired of boys your age give me a try you won't regret it. If your interested lets talk it can't hurt to find out right? Don't be shy. Look foward to hear from you.
Call me. I’ll be in my unmarked van full of puppies. Seriously. What’s the worst thing that could happen? It’s not like you’re going to end up in a hole in my basement with a bottle of Jergensoh-there-I-go-again…carrying on like a silly billy. Hope to hear you screa—err, hear from you soon!
Well, picking on these poor, love-seeking souls has amassed me enough bad karma for one day. I'm going to head out and get crapped on by a pigeon or run over by a street sweeper now.
And it seems like sites like eHarmony.com and Match.com are really helping people find their “soulmate”, if such a thing exists. I watch the commercials and find myself going “Awww…those two people are adorably boring together! It’s almost like they met each other the normal, socially-accepted way.” All of the sites have some sort of sophisticated process to find someone perfect for you, even if you are a 70-year-old transvestite who subscribes to Cat Fancy and enjoys the smell of their own farts.
However, I can’t help but be endlessly amused at the people who take a do-it-yourself approach to internet dating. I’m talking about the people who, in lieu of a hiring a match maker, would rather post up a flyer in a dark alley and hope for the best. And when I say dark alley, I mean Craigslist.
My (futile) search for coffee tables opened my eyes to a whole new world of entertainment—the personal ads on Craigslist. I mean, wow. These people are really putting themselves out there. It almost makes me feel bad for ridiculing them in a blog. Well, I said *almost*.
Because I’m not a totally venomous harpy, I won’t post real pictures or names or phone numbers or anything. But the rest of it will not be altered, embellished, or edited in any way. Quite frankly, it doesn’t have to be.
Will she be my lady??? - 25 (Cleveland)
Reply to: ********
Date: *******
Please WOMEN only... I am a handsome, educated, street smart, male who is tired of crying. Now... It's all about me but I'm gonna give this all to you. If you are serious and aren't on any games I'll be your boyfriend and you be my lady. Hit me up... LADIES ONLY PLEASE!!!
Why do you suppose this guy feels the need to repeatedly beg men (in all caps) not to respond? How could someone mistake this clearly heterosexual personal ad for anything else? Could it be the fact that this guy has cried himself into exhaustion that might throw people off? Hmmm? Hmmmmmm? Maybe this is reverse psychology? Hmmm? Hmmmmm?
Massage - 41 (Parma)
Reply to: ********
Date: ********
Male seeks female for massage with happy ending...will pay forty for the hour..must be willing to host..attractive male lookin to relax for an hour..email back thanks
Well, no innuendo here. While I appreciate his honesty, I don’t know where you can find a regular hour-long massage for forty dollars, let alone one with a “happy ending”. Cheap bastard. I wish him a lifetime of dry, cracked, calloused hands.
ROMANTIC LOOKING FOR THE SAME - 31 (CLEV BURBS)
Reply to: ************
Date: *******
I'm a hopeless romantic ! I love to go out on a night on the town or relax around the house with a glass of wine AND a movie. I love to do things outdoors and indoors, You'll find me riding my Motorcycles or boating and fishing! i like to cook ( i think i'm a pretty good cook too :D ) i like to spend time with my dog. Hope u like pets! there my version of kids LOL I like pretty much all sports and play a few, I'm always down for catching a Browns or Indians game. i hope its the year, its hard being a cleveland sports fan LOL I work a lot! I'm a Finance Manager and put a lot of hours in each week. I would like to meet someone thats motivated and has goals in thier life! and likes to live life to the fullest!!! Anything else you want to know just ask. would love to chat !
Translation:
I’m a spineless douche!
I like to go out or stay in, really, whatever you say is fine AND I drink but don’t worry, not in excess and only while I’m doing something else like watching Patch Adams or your favorite movie, whatever that is. I like to do things indoors and outdoors and did I mention we can do whatever you want including selling my motorcycle and euthanizing my pets so your kids can move in. Now I feel like I should mention sports—ha ha, Cleveland is bad at them—I bet you think so too. We have so much in common! I work 70 hours a week because I’m just as big of a doormat at the office. I’d like to find someone who will exploit my kind and giving nature and castrate me with love.
LOOKING FOR MATURE 18 YEAR OLD FOR GIRLFRIEND - 36 (RockyRiver)
Reply to: *******
Date: **********
Good looking nice guy here looking for nice young 18 year chic to have fun with. If your tired of boys your age give me a try you won't regret it. If your interested lets talk it can't hurt to find out right? Don't be shy. Look foward to hear from you.
Call me. I’ll be in my unmarked van full of puppies. Seriously. What’s the worst thing that could happen? It’s not like you’re going to end up in a hole in my basement with a bottle of Jergensoh-there-I-go-again…carrying on like a silly billy. Hope to hear you screa—err, hear from you soon!
Well, picking on these poor, love-seeking souls has amassed me enough bad karma for one day. I'm going to head out and get crapped on by a pigeon or run over by a street sweeper now.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Hell and Back
Well, it’s official. I went to Hell. We all saw this coming, of course, but maybe not so soon. And it’s nothing like the land of fire and brimstone depicted in the Bible (that’s a blatant assumption, of course. I’ve yet to read it). No, Hell is the collections department of the Cleveland Public Utilities building.
Hell tricks you into thinking “hey, this might not be Hell” with its soothing blue and gray color scheme, spacious black leather benches and the clean, white light emanating from the wall sconces. But no one is fooled for long.
First, you’re forced to take a number like you’re at some sort of futuristic deli. Judging from my companions in the waiting area, this deli only serves Spam and canned cheese product. Digital screens along the top of the wall tell you that you only have, oh, 32 Spam-eaters to go before it’s your turn to speak to the people behind the glass.
You take a seat among your fellow sinners. Keep in mind most people are here because their water got shut off. Lost in a sea of unwashed skin tags and swampy asscracks, you look to the clock for solace. Of course, the clock doesn’t work. Also, the 12, 3, 6 and 9 positions of the clock are all marked with a single teardrop. This is because every fifteen minutes or so, you want to burst into tears.
Also, I think this lobby is where people bring their babies to cry. It seems statistically impossible that there wasn’t a crying baby in Cleveland that wasn’t occupying this very room. Many of them were strewn about the floor and forgotten like they were those annoying flyers the Jesus people hand out downtown. Every few minutes, a janitor would come and sweep up the babies into a giant dustpan (well, that’s what I was fantasizing would happen. They actually just laid there and cried and filled their unwashed onesies with caca-doodie).
So you continue to wait and listen to every transaction up at the window. The conversation is always the same, and it always sounds like a mugging.
Bitchy Teller: Give me $325 dollars.
Filthy Sinner: But I don’t have $325 dollars.
Bitchy Teller: Well, then give me whatever you’ve got.
Filthy Sinner: I…I don’t have any money on me.
Bitchy Teller: You holding out on me, bitch? Let’s see that ATM card, then. You got an ATM card? Alright, let’s go to the ATM, you and me.
Filthy Sinner: Oh-oh-okay, just please don’t hurt me. I have kids…they’re somewhere on the floor around here.
Over and over again, until it’s finally your turn to face the window. After six months of trying to fight this injustice—after two inspections, one letter, dozens of phone calls and about 14 hours of that GODDAMN HOLD MUSIC, you are giving up. The teller sizes you up momentarily and then goes to work figuring how much of the $727.00 water bill they’re going to mug from you today, and how much you will get to pay each month for the rest of your time on earth. During her calculations, you make the mistake of pleasantly pointing out that your last name is misspelled in the system. She briefly raises an eyebrow at you and then quickly returns to crunching numbers, BECAUSE YOUR VERY EXISTENCE DOESN’T MATTER.
Without a word, you are given a piece of paper with a dollar amount on it and then corralled into another waiting area. Everyone stands in line like cattle before the slaughter—pathetic, defeated, staring bleary-eyed at the number on the piece of paper. You hear a woman behind you muttering the same mantra over and over again. “Se-ven-ty dollars a month—I don’t believe this shit. Se-ven-ty dollars a month—that is some shit. Se-ven-ty dollars a month.” A crying baby rolls by like a tumbleweed.
The cashier offers you the first smile of the day as she stamps the check and deftly erases $250 from your possession. It’s the kind of smile that knowingly asks “hey there, how’d you like that raping?” Soon after, she dismisses you with a “you’re all done”, like she’s just delivered the last of a painful series of rabies injections.
And then you shuffle out, flat broke, but at least able to shower for another three months. You pass a whole throng of new sinners as you leave, who collectively smell like a thousand broccoli farts trapped in an armpit.
That’s…pretty much it. Not much more to tell you. Hell is just as scary and awful of a place as you’d imagine—but instead of flames and pitchforks, you’re tormented by thieves and unwashed baby factories.
In other news: YAY 4,000 HITS! Thanks to all of my friends and family who still check out this silly little blog. I’d just like you to know that you’re all getting an expensive jar of Cleveland city water for Christmas. Because I love you all that much.
Hugs,
Steph
Hell tricks you into thinking “hey, this might not be Hell” with its soothing blue and gray color scheme, spacious black leather benches and the clean, white light emanating from the wall sconces. But no one is fooled for long.
First, you’re forced to take a number like you’re at some sort of futuristic deli. Judging from my companions in the waiting area, this deli only serves Spam and canned cheese product. Digital screens along the top of the wall tell you that you only have, oh, 32 Spam-eaters to go before it’s your turn to speak to the people behind the glass.
You take a seat among your fellow sinners. Keep in mind most people are here because their water got shut off. Lost in a sea of unwashed skin tags and swampy asscracks, you look to the clock for solace. Of course, the clock doesn’t work. Also, the 12, 3, 6 and 9 positions of the clock are all marked with a single teardrop. This is because every fifteen minutes or so, you want to burst into tears.
Also, I think this lobby is where people bring their babies to cry. It seems statistically impossible that there wasn’t a crying baby in Cleveland that wasn’t occupying this very room. Many of them were strewn about the floor and forgotten like they were those annoying flyers the Jesus people hand out downtown. Every few minutes, a janitor would come and sweep up the babies into a giant dustpan (well, that’s what I was fantasizing would happen. They actually just laid there and cried and filled their unwashed onesies with caca-doodie).
So you continue to wait and listen to every transaction up at the window. The conversation is always the same, and it always sounds like a mugging.
Bitchy Teller: Give me $325 dollars.
Filthy Sinner: But I don’t have $325 dollars.
Bitchy Teller: Well, then give me whatever you’ve got.
Filthy Sinner: I…I don’t have any money on me.
Bitchy Teller: You holding out on me, bitch? Let’s see that ATM card, then. You got an ATM card? Alright, let’s go to the ATM, you and me.
Filthy Sinner: Oh-oh-okay, just please don’t hurt me. I have kids…they’re somewhere on the floor around here.
Over and over again, until it’s finally your turn to face the window. After six months of trying to fight this injustice—after two inspections, one letter, dozens of phone calls and about 14 hours of that GODDAMN HOLD MUSIC, you are giving up. The teller sizes you up momentarily and then goes to work figuring how much of the $727.00 water bill they’re going to mug from you today, and how much you will get to pay each month for the rest of your time on earth. During her calculations, you make the mistake of pleasantly pointing out that your last name is misspelled in the system. She briefly raises an eyebrow at you and then quickly returns to crunching numbers, BECAUSE YOUR VERY EXISTENCE DOESN’T MATTER.
Without a word, you are given a piece of paper with a dollar amount on it and then corralled into another waiting area. Everyone stands in line like cattle before the slaughter—pathetic, defeated, staring bleary-eyed at the number on the piece of paper. You hear a woman behind you muttering the same mantra over and over again. “Se-ven-ty dollars a month—I don’t believe this shit. Se-ven-ty dollars a month—that is some shit. Se-ven-ty dollars a month.” A crying baby rolls by like a tumbleweed.
The cashier offers you the first smile of the day as she stamps the check and deftly erases $250 from your possession. It’s the kind of smile that knowingly asks “hey there, how’d you like that raping?” Soon after, she dismisses you with a “you’re all done”, like she’s just delivered the last of a painful series of rabies injections.
And then you shuffle out, flat broke, but at least able to shower for another three months. You pass a whole throng of new sinners as you leave, who collectively smell like a thousand broccoli farts trapped in an armpit.
That’s…pretty much it. Not much more to tell you. Hell is just as scary and awful of a place as you’d imagine—but instead of flames and pitchforks, you’re tormented by thieves and unwashed baby factories.
In other news: YAY 4,000 HITS! Thanks to all of my friends and family who still check out this silly little blog. I’d just like you to know that you’re all getting an expensive jar of Cleveland city water for Christmas. Because I love you all that much.
Hugs,
Steph
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
One-Word Letters
As a writer and general enthusiast of the written word, you might be surprised to learn that I absolutely HATE having to write letters. HAAAAAAAATE. Still, they are an important (albeit archaic) communicative tool that I often find myself having to use. To that end, I've decided to make this chore as painless as possible by summing up my sentiments in single-word letters.
Regarding the value meal I received in which all three items were incorrectly made...
Dear Wendys,
FAIL!
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding the fact that the old crotches of Sex and the City are making another film...
Dear hags,
Stop.
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding his latest stunt and overall douchiness...
Dear David Blaine,
Honestly?
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding my $800 bill...
Dear Division of Water Idiots,
Pllllllllllllbbbbbbbbbbbtttthhhhht.
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding the guy who let his girlfriend sit on the toilet for two years and then serendipitously won $20,000 in the lottery...
Dear Karma,
Uhh...?
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding the value meal I received in which all three items were incorrectly made...
Dear Wendys,
FAIL!
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding my recent case of Strep throat and the cold I now have...
Dear Shoddy Immune System,
Hello?
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding the fact that the old crotches of Sex and the City are making another film...
Dear hags,
Stop.
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding his latest stunt and overall douchiness...
Dear David Blaine,
Honestly?
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding my $800 bill...
Dear Division of Water Idiots,
Pllllllllllllbbbbbbbbbbbtttthhhhht.
Love,
Stephanie
Regarding the guy who let his girlfriend sit on the toilet for two years and then serendipitously won $20,000 in the lottery...
Dear Karma,
Uhh...?
Love,
Stephanie
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