When I lived with Katelyn the Beauty Queen, Baggy or Merzipan I never had any problems sharing anything. Jewelry, shoes, purses, clothes, food--we all had a what's mine is yours mentality going.
My two younger sisters (Cate and Marnie) have adopted this view but in a much more extreme, fanatical Guy Fawkes kind of way.
They borrow my underwear.
(pause for screams of horror and disgust)
I know, it's totally gross.
How do I know? Here's how:
My straightener died and I was already running 20 minutes late for work which is a trademark move. I walk into Cate's room, quickly straighten my hair and walk past her hamper.
Sitting on top of the hamper are TWO pairs of my underwear.
"CATE." I cry as I knash my teeth together. "WHAT ARE THESE DOING IN HERE!?"
"...I needed underwear?" said Cate, half asleep.
Later that day, Cate and Marnie confront me for my unwarrented attack on Cate for taking my underwear. "Afterall," they said "She was going to give them back."
I go on to tell them how unnatual it is to wear someone else's underwear EVER. I don't want my cash n' prizes near my teenage sister's cash n' prizes if you know what I'm saying.
The discussion gets heated when they both scream "WE'RE SISTERS! IT DOESN'T MATTER."
And so because I am the mature adult that I am, I turned to the only deity I know: my mother, Saint Ruth of Pittsburgh.
After explaining the disgusting scene that has taken place as well as the "we're sisters, it doesn't matter" appeal, she only had this to say:
"Well, they are your sisters."
WHAT!??!
Now I know that there is no god, because if there was one my underwear would remain sacred in my underwear drawer completly removed from my sister's cash n' prizes.
Amen.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
BREAKING NEWS!
So, here's the deal: I haven't written in quite awhile. There are several updates.
1) I graduated from college, and hold a degree in Journalism and Mass Communications. This degree has landed me a stringer job at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette for a whopping $30-40/story. Wooo-hoo for newspapers going out of business and not being able to hire writers fulltime.
2) Although it has absolutely nothing to do with and 100 percent does not apply to my degree, I am currently a behavioral therapist for autistic children (it's called a TSS but no one ever understands what that is). And I LOVE it. Thus, I've decided to get my master's in special education or early intervention.
3) Steve the boyfriend is no longer Steve the boyfriend. He's the Wonderful World of Steve. Get it? The Disney World reference because of his undying love to the mecca of over-priced souveniors and miles of giggly, cotton candy-covered amusement?
4) I am now dating Al the Rugbie, a gym teacher. At first glance, Al the Rugbie could have been my archnemesis: he is athletic with all-american good looks, drives a truck, speaks fluent Yinzer upon command and Republican. However despite first appearences, he's totally and completly exceptional and Frank Sinatra-song-esque in every way. Even if he is Republican.:)
And it the most exciting yet in the most sarcastic tone...
5) The impossible has happened. I moved back in with my family which, I'm sure, will not only cause me to either fall in love with them all over again or develop a complex but also to give me material for thousands of postings in an hour.
Saint Ruth of Pittsburgh has returned.
1) I graduated from college, and hold a degree in Journalism and Mass Communications. This degree has landed me a stringer job at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette for a whopping $30-40/story. Wooo-hoo for newspapers going out of business and not being able to hire writers fulltime.
2) Although it has absolutely nothing to do with and 100 percent does not apply to my degree, I am currently a behavioral therapist for autistic children (it's called a TSS but no one ever understands what that is). And I LOVE it. Thus, I've decided to get my master's in special education or early intervention.
3) Steve the boyfriend is no longer Steve the boyfriend. He's the Wonderful World of Steve. Get it? The Disney World reference because of his undying love to the mecca of over-priced souveniors and miles of giggly, cotton candy-covered amusement?
4) I am now dating Al the Rugbie, a gym teacher. At first glance, Al the Rugbie could have been my archnemesis: he is athletic with all-american good looks, drives a truck, speaks fluent Yinzer upon command and Republican. However despite first appearences, he's totally and completly exceptional and Frank Sinatra-song-esque in every way. Even if he is Republican.:)
And it the most exciting yet in the most sarcastic tone...
5) The impossible has happened. I moved back in with my family which, I'm sure, will not only cause me to either fall in love with them all over again or develop a complex but also to give me material for thousands of postings in an hour.
Saint Ruth of Pittsburgh has returned.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Point Park development
So one of the buildings Point Park has just moved into is undergoing exterior renovations.
These include to men who perch on top of scaffolding cleaning the siding of the building with what appears to be...a toothbrush.
Gee I love that school of mine. :)
These include to men who perch on top of scaffolding cleaning the siding of the building with what appears to be...a toothbrush.
Gee I love that school of mine. :)
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I <3 Pittsburgh
When Carl the President and I were walking through the arrivals gate at the Pittsburgh International Airport, I witness something that continues to make me gag.
A T-Rex skeleton holding a fit-to-scale Terrible Towel.
...why?
Really, why?
I'm willing to bet that when that dinosaur was alive and breathing and causing a ruckus, he was NOT a Steeler's fan. Nor did he own a Terrible Towel.
I can't even say the dinosaur is rolling over in his grave.
A T-Rex skeleton holding a fit-to-scale Terrible Towel.
...why?
Really, why?
I'm willing to bet that when that dinosaur was alive and breathing and causing a ruckus, he was NOT a Steeler's fan. Nor did he own a Terrible Towel.
I can't even say the dinosaur is rolling over in his grave.
I am NOT a traveler: part deux
I'd like to offer my shattered suitcase handle to the evidence that I am not a traveler.
Furthermore, I wish I would have realized that jumbo rolling suitcases are meant to carry about 50 lbs. which--coincidentally--is the airline weight restriction.
I'm pretty sure my bag weighed over 100 lbs.
Which is probaly why the steel handle on the jumbo rolling suitcase snapped in half in the Rosslyn Metro station.
Boo.
Furthermore, I wish I would have realized that jumbo rolling suitcases are meant to carry about 50 lbs. which--coincidentally--is the airline weight restriction.
I'm pretty sure my bag weighed over 100 lbs.
Which is probaly why the steel handle on the jumbo rolling suitcase snapped in half in the Rosslyn Metro station.
Boo.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Obamamania n' friends
Greetings from the 7th circle of hell.
Actually, I've just returned from the 7th circle of hell; today is Inauguration Day and everyone in the United States who doesn't live under a rock or is a Republican knows it.
At least a million people gathered at the National Mall to witness a black man sworn in as President on the same steps that slaves helped build.
Although some inuagurationites started their days at 12 a.m., my group planned to leave our hotel in Virginia at 6 a.m. That plan fell through, and here's why.
Carl the President refused to wake up when Maria the Freshman pounded on his door. She came to get with an exasperated look smeared on her face. She was clutching a USA Today.
"Carlisnotwakingup," she stammered. Maria the Freshman sometimes forgets to put spaces in between words.
With me in the lead, we pound on his door. Carl the President's roommate answers the door and allows us to proceed into the room to harass Carl.
"I'm gonna hit him with my newspaper!" Maria whispered.
"Do it!" I excitedly said.
"...I can't do it...he'll be mad at me...!"
I have no problems with beating Carl the President mercilessly with a newspaper. So I hit him. From the shrouded lump in the center of the bed, we heard a grunt.
"...(growl)...GO..."
Laughing, we left him to wake up.
He emerged 5 minutes later with a look on his face akin to those who attend AA or PTA meetings.
Barking out insults to anyone we passed on the walk from Virginia to the Mall, Carl the President enlighted us with his poise in the early morning hours.
"GET A REAL JOB," he shouted to street vendors. "BENEFIT SOCIETY."
In an act of "anarachy," Carl the President picked up a Secret Service safety sign from the ground and announced it was his and "this is the only good thing about today...ARGH!"
And so on and so forth.
When we finally arrive at the Mall, there's people beboping all over the place. People were hanging from trees and dancing around with blankets drapped around them as if they were superheroes.
We found a spot (or rather, couldn't move forward anymore) about a 100 ft. in front of the Washington Monument. It was 7:30 a.m.
Around 7:45 a.m., I realized that 1) It was cold, 2) We would be standing in the same spot for the next FOUR hours and 3) It was really cold.
I announced I was leaving to find some place of warmth only to recieve incredulous stares. Three of us wrestled our way through a relentless crowd, one of whom feared I would stomp her child to death. She was confused: I would rather have attacked her loud gapping mouth than her child's.
3 hours later, we're sitting in the Museum of American History where Carl's sign had been snatched by a plastic badge security officer. This enraged Carl the President.
"It's my sign because it's the taxpayers' sign and I PAY TAXES. ARRRGGH."
I spent the majority of the afternoon imagining Carl running at a fire engine, jumping onto the windshield and screaming about anarchy while knashing his teeth.
Nevertheless, we watched on a jumbotron in the cold as Barack Obama was sworn in as President. It ws totally silent and the justice messed up the oath, and the mood was electrifying.
However 45 minutes later, we were "cattled" into the Mall with no where to go. And then we walked from the Capitol back to our hotel.
I'm only getting the feeling in my toes back now.
Actually, I've just returned from the 7th circle of hell; today is Inauguration Day and everyone in the United States who doesn't live under a rock or is a Republican knows it.
At least a million people gathered at the National Mall to witness a black man sworn in as President on the same steps that slaves helped build.
Although some inuagurationites started their days at 12 a.m., my group planned to leave our hotel in Virginia at 6 a.m. That plan fell through, and here's why.
Carl the President refused to wake up when Maria the Freshman pounded on his door. She came to get with an exasperated look smeared on her face. She was clutching a USA Today.
"Carlisnotwakingup," she stammered. Maria the Freshman sometimes forgets to put spaces in between words.
With me in the lead, we pound on his door. Carl the President's roommate answers the door and allows us to proceed into the room to harass Carl.
"I'm gonna hit him with my newspaper!" Maria whispered.
"Do it!" I excitedly said.
"...I can't do it...he'll be mad at me...!"
I have no problems with beating Carl the President mercilessly with a newspaper. So I hit him. From the shrouded lump in the center of the bed, we heard a grunt.
"...(growl)...GO..."
Laughing, we left him to wake up.
He emerged 5 minutes later with a look on his face akin to those who attend AA or PTA meetings.
Barking out insults to anyone we passed on the walk from Virginia to the Mall, Carl the President enlighted us with his poise in the early morning hours.
"GET A REAL JOB," he shouted to street vendors. "BENEFIT SOCIETY."
In an act of "anarachy," Carl the President picked up a Secret Service safety sign from the ground and announced it was his and "this is the only good thing about today...ARGH!"
And so on and so forth.
When we finally arrive at the Mall, there's people beboping all over the place. People were hanging from trees and dancing around with blankets drapped around them as if they were superheroes.
We found a spot (or rather, couldn't move forward anymore) about a 100 ft. in front of the Washington Monument. It was 7:30 a.m.
Around 7:45 a.m., I realized that 1) It was cold, 2) We would be standing in the same spot for the next FOUR hours and 3) It was really cold.
I announced I was leaving to find some place of warmth only to recieve incredulous stares. Three of us wrestled our way through a relentless crowd, one of whom feared I would stomp her child to death. She was confused: I would rather have attacked her loud gapping mouth than her child's.
3 hours later, we're sitting in the Museum of American History where Carl's sign had been snatched by a plastic badge security officer. This enraged Carl the President.
"It's my sign because it's the taxpayers' sign and I PAY TAXES. ARRRGGH."
I spent the majority of the afternoon imagining Carl running at a fire engine, jumping onto the windshield and screaming about anarchy while knashing his teeth.
Nevertheless, we watched on a jumbotron in the cold as Barack Obama was sworn in as President. It ws totally silent and the justice messed up the oath, and the mood was electrifying.
However 45 minutes later, we were "cattled" into the Mall with no where to go. And then we walked from the Capitol back to our hotel.
I'm only getting the feeling in my toes back now.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Potter/Dahmer
Anytime I go to a city, I buy RuthPotter an ornament.
Have you ever seen the Rubbermaid bins the FBI confiscated from Jeffery Dahmer's apartment? The ones that were filled with body parts? That's what my mum's Christmas decoration collection is like.
So I'm telling my friends at the seminar I need to go and buy an ornament for my mum, and then I tell them about the parallel between Dahmer and Potter.
Adriana runs into the room, saying "YOU'RE MOM IS LIKE JEFFERY DAHMER?!"
Never thought I'd live the day...
...but really, RuthPotter is a saint.
Have you ever seen the Rubbermaid bins the FBI confiscated from Jeffery Dahmer's apartment? The ones that were filled with body parts? That's what my mum's Christmas decoration collection is like.
So I'm telling my friends at the seminar I need to go and buy an ornament for my mum, and then I tell them about the parallel between Dahmer and Potter.
Adriana runs into the room, saying "YOU'RE MOM IS LIKE JEFFERY DAHMER?!"
Never thought I'd live the day...
...but really, RuthPotter is a saint.
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