The train rocked gently back and forth as it lulled past a farm somewhere between Wilmington and Philadelphia. With the latest edition of 'People' magazine on my lap and a bottle of water at my side, I looked out the compact window - just thinking. That's what I tend to do when I travel this way; most passengers become engrossed in laptops or their phones but I usually take the opportunity to simply decompress. Now and then, someone will wobble down the aisle juggling a tray complete with chips, yogurt, and a Bud Light from the snack car - which I always find mildly amusing, as they try not to lose their balance.
'Daddy, why are husbands always older than their wives?' A young, curious voice probed from the pair of seats behind me. 'That's a good question, honey- I'm not exactly sure, but it seems true, huh?' This conversation, which covered various topics - wore on for a couple more hours, and it became clear that my ears were bearing witness to nothing more than an unbreakable bond between a father and daughter. For the duration, I was thinking of my dad and of all the adventures we'd embarked on and naturally, all of the questions that came along like 'what's a runaway truck ramp?' Like the soft-spoken man who sat behind me on Amtrak #163, my dad was patient and humble and frankly, let me do whatever sparked my creative interest.
Sixteen days after that trip to New York, my dad suddenly passed away. In the moment that I found out, I was paralyzed. I walked out the front door and expected everything to pause, because a world without my dad in it was unimaginable. It was a blustery afternoon; the wind took my hair and obscured most of my face. Leaves rustled and danced across the street; I witnessed a neighbor tow her Bulldog behind her. I knew then that though this awful thing had happened, everything around me continued without fail - a relatively uneventful, typical lazy Sunday for most.
In the hours following his death, my mind raced; I laid in bed that first night and stared at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity, part of me yearning for some divine message. My thoughts immediately rewound to 2 weeks prior when I was arriving back home from the Big Apple. My dad - gracious as usual, offered to pick me up from the rail station. As I hopped out of the train and onto the platform, I joined the herd of other travelers hustling toward idled taxis and shuttle buses. I expected him to be in the parking lot, but glanced up - surprised to see him standing off to the side of the 'traffic'. He had one hand extended for my luggage and the other prepped for a hug. 'Hi honey, did you have fun?' I'll never forget that moment, to see his smiling face in that chaotic sea of strangers was overwhelmingly comforting.
Words cannot express the enduring love and adoration I have for my dad - who is now my guardian angel. At his memorial service, someone brilliantly stated that he was someone who made your goals his goals; a statement so brief yet completely summed up every aspect of his caring and giving spirit. He was larger than life and perhaps that is why God called him home. Coping with his loss is like an ocean; some days are rough, while others are more peaceful and calm - but I am confident he will give me the strength to swim through it.
A rite of passage is defined as an event that marks a person's transition from one status to another. So, with that being said, if someone gets a hold of your bank card - you transition from Daddy Warbucks to Little Orphan Annie in an instant...at least that's what it feels like.
Like puberty, this is one of those things that has to happen at some point in your life whether you're ready or not. I got 'the call' from a bank representative the other day, who informed me that my 'credit card has been compromised.' By the way, that's just a nice way of saying 'I'm sorry, but you're fucked for 7-10 days while we change your account information and issue you a new card.' Apparently, some bloke with crooked teeth is running around England treating himself to Fish 'N Chips on my precious dime.
That's just not my bag, baby...
In the grand scheme of all things unfortunate, this is really a minor convenience, if anything...however, it happened a few days before I was leaving for Florida. I always feel more secure when I have some plastic with me, in the event of emergencies - and by emergencies I mean buying a round of bombs at the bar for my friends.
The option of Travelers Cheques was brought to my attention, but I'm not Clark Griswold and this isn't 1983.
'This isn't a vacation anymore, it's a quest...a quest for fun!'
My brother has told me several times over the last few months that due to my lack of posting, my blog has basically become a dried up turd. I won't lie and say I disagree with him...summer drought, perhaps? In all honesty, I'm currently going through all those familiar emotions associated with moving: stress, stress, and stress.
I've been busy packing up my life and movin' boxes to the left, to the left like Beyonce 'cept I aint kickin' no cheatin' man to the curb.
It's universally said that moving is one of the most difficult tasks that we face throughout a lifetime.
This experience cultivates many feelings, ranging from anxiety to physical pain.
The process is also an exciting one - it's an opportunity to start a new chapter.
I've been lucky enough to call two of Maryland's most iconic cities my home; while it's bittersweet to say goodbye to what's familiar, I'll carry the good times and laughs with me as I move forward.
So, it's been a hot minute since I last posted; I had to blow on my computer like a classic Nintendo cartridge because I wasn't sure if it still worked.
Today I'm feeling good - coming off of a 3 day migraine marathon. It's probably my own stubbornness, but I continued to pop Advil 'VH1 Behind The Music' style without any relief until I broke down and bought Excedrin Migraine. I'm sure anyone who's had this type of headache can agree that they're disabling; I drove home from work the other night with one hand on the wheel and the other with a firm grip on my head, hoping the pressure would stabilize the pain. I'm sure it looked odd, but definitely more dignified than having my finger up my nose.
Recently, I was inspired by a friend who received unrelenting texts from a guy she met at the bar. I do think the term 'creepy' is tossed around too casually; no man wants to be labeled as a stalker but sometimes, a CCT (Creeper Champion Trophy) is deserved. I think some of these guys misunderstood the phrase 'don't take no for an answer!' In the dating world, 'no' actually means 'no chance in Hell'. Guys - when a woman says she just wants to be friends, don't misinterpret that as 'I want to have sex with you!'
What's even worse is when someone tries to impress you with their 'assets' - this is a common Annapolis strategy. I don't mind friendly conversation at the bar, but frankly, I don't care that you live on a 'boat 'and want to take me for a ride on it - you act like you live on a floating Taj Mahal. All I really got from that statement was that you're homeless, so I think I'll take a rain check on the Roofie Coolata cruise.
Eight years ago, Justin Timberlake released a song about karma and I've got a story that really proves that 'ole JT was right on the $$$ about what goes around really comes back all the way around.
Just the other night, as I was digging into some savory Chinese takeout, I began to reminisce. When I was in college, there was this guy that made me feel nauseous at the near sight of him. He wasn't unattractive by any means; in fact, many women considered him the 'campus hottie'. In my eyes, he was just a regulation D-Bag with a piss-poor attitude. I don't care how great you look; it's like that saying goes 'you can polish a turd, but it's still a piece of shit'. My friend had a class with him and he constantly demanded to copy her notes, only after sleeping through class after class. Upon her rejection, he said 'you obviously don't know the way things are done around here'.
It was a typical Friday evening at the bar and I see him roll up with a bag of Chinese takeout, but before he comes in, he places the bag on the roof - I guess he figured this was an inconspicuous place to store his drunk food. I guess he didn't consider the possibility that anyone would be curious about a random brown paper bag chillin' on a low roof. When I say low, I mean that Wee Man from 'Jackass' could reach it if he jumped.
When I decided it was time to call it a night, I ventured outside into the parking lot and eyed the bag. I walked over and grabbed it without even thinking twice. I couldn't wait to get home and explore the contents, which included spicy General Tso's chicken, rice, Wonton soup, and an added treasure: 1 eggroll. I'm about halfway through my meal when I realize my phone has gone MIA. I should've known that I wouldn't escape this risky operation unscathed. I had no idea where it was, but began to retrace my steps.
I trekked down the hill, across the football field and back onto campus. Along the way, I come across a few duck sauce packets and laughed to myself, thinking this is what I get for trying to teach that asshole a lesson. I stood in the dorm parking lot across from the bar, deciding I should accept my loss when I looked down and noticed my phone sitting on the curb.
Word on the street is that he incessantly searched for the culprit over the next few weeks; I don't think he found out it was me, but maybe one day, he'll come across this blog. I guess he didn't know the way things were done around here.
When I started this common hobby of blogging, I knew the possibility of a 'dry spell' was possible. It can be a let down when you go to check your favorite blog, only to find the latest post was two weeks ago - say whaaa? However, it isn't writer's block. I'll admit that once I kick off my work shoes, the last thing I want to look at is a blinding computer screen. Additionally, life unexpectedly gets in the way but I promise I'll do my best to keep you all laughing and hopefully coming back for more nonsense.
So, last weekend after the restaurant gig, we moseyed on over to a frequented bar that I don't frequent often 'cause it's loud and the crowd is something less than desirable. I have a good idea of what I'm getting into when I walk across the parking lot and Zack Galifianakis' clone busts out of the door, pulling his fat girlfriend behind him while slurring at me "you're gonna get lucky tonight - there's a lot of dick in there!'' Thanks, Zack.
A couple of shots later, I've forgotten the sense of loss I felt when I paid $7.00 to gain access to this sausage fiesta. What kind of cover charge is that anyway - is Nickelback in there? The drinks have been flowin' and I'm feeling a case of 'Barcolepsy' coming on - it's been a long day and all I want to do is get some decent shuteye.
Soon enough, the group begins to coordinate the location of a late night meal. Survey says: Double T Diner. Food? What? OK, I'm awake (sort of). I haven't been to this place in 10 years, so I wasn't opposed to an intoxicated trip down memory lane. Late night diners are always a show; sub-par food and top notch entertainment. Of course, it's 2 am and you're drunk so anything you eat IS a five star meal - nothing less.
The waitress sashays over and flops down an Atlas in front of everyone, at least that's what I thought it was until I realized it was a MENU. If I wanted to read an encyclopedia, I would've gone to the library. My brain is not wired for sound decisions at this hour; I really just wanted to tell Olga or whatever her name was to pick something and surprise me, but instead, I pulled a copycat move and said 'I'll have what she's having' while motioning to the friend sitting next to me.
And what's with the disclaimer sized print? I'll be sure to bring one of these next time.
With all of the snow behind us, (hopefully) I got to thinking about another major threat to all of mankind (especially women): TOOLS. I'm not talking about the kind you buy at Sears, either.
Ladies, we've all had the 'pleasure' of knowing
at least one; actually, consider yourself lucky if you don't have to
count any higher. Chances are, you've
probably dated Mr. Craftsman - it's typically a brief, forgettable relationship
because let's face it, your bathroom sink had more personality. We tend to hang out with these types of men
boys when we are bored and need a distraction; they don't need one because they
are already too fixated on themselves – usually in front of the mirror with a
phone.
Soon enough, the unfortunate experience with this individual ends once the Red Flag Express runs you over with no warning (toot, toot!) Despite the time you feel was wasted, you're 200% relieved that you don't have to float upstream in a douche canoe anymore. Great success!
So, without further ado, I'm going to get down to the NITTY gritty here. Just when you think you've made the great escape from this loser, he pops up in your phone out of nowhere like a zit during puberty. You hear the 'bling' of your text tone, look down and see a message from Tim the Toolman chillin' on deck. You hesitantly slide your finger across the screen to not reveal a generic message, but an unsolicited PICTURE of his body part(s).
Just this past weekend, I was hanging out with a friend of mine when she showed me a text she had just received (as seen below) with the following caption: 'what do you think of that?'
What do I think? Personally, I'd rather lick the bottom of a trash can. Is this supposed be enticing? In this case, the only thing that was turned on was the light bulb in our heads reminding us even more of what an arrogant asshole you are. Stop thinking that women want to see your NON-REQUESTED muscles; if I feel like looking at some, I'll turn on 'The Notebook'.
Sup, Ryan?
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