My very first food fight happened at age 35 and it was while I was working. It wasn't the typical cafeteria style "Let's have a food fight guys! Yeah!". It was a fight of anger that happened to involve food.
I'm setting up the bar taking stools down and I notice a man and woman sitting on the sidewalk next to the driveway. The woman is slumped over in a just-shot-up kinda way, and the man is smoking a butt. I start to realize they very well just might be waiting for me to open and be my first customers, oh joy! I act in a proactive manner and walk by looking at them enough so they see my face and remember me when they attempt to enter bar. Lucky me, they still enter bar. They order a couple burgers, mozzarella stix and try to order 2 beers. I tell him I will serve, but her I will not. Him understands, but her does not like. The food order is put in, (money collected in advance of course, me a smaht cookie) his beer is poured, and words are exchanged between her and I. Not quite sure what the words were, but let's just assume coming from me it was nothing but high quality sass. She starts yelling without really saying anything and I respond with something like "look honey..." and she did not like that.
"You called me honey?! You're a lady, you should start acting like one." - Her
"Act like a lady? A LADY? I'm wearing a fucking skirt and fucking knee socks. You got makeup running down your face, and your fingernails look like you've been digging for potatoes!" - Cute Sweet Me
That's all she needed. Suddenly, as if in slow motion, I see a mozzarella stick come flying at me, marina sauce and all. And like Bruce Lee I karate deflect it back in her direction. More stix come at me, but this woman is too cracked out to hit the target - my pretty little face. Eventually her buddy realizes he is going to have to escort her out before a leap over the bar and put the smack down on this smacked out nutjob. All I hear him mumble to her while he's dragging her is "Come on! I can't get in trouble again!" In a way, I kind of felt bad for this dude. It's hard to be selective about the company you keep when you wake up next to them with a needle hanging out yer arm on city hall lawn. Shit, their burgers are still grilling up in the back. Poor guy, he's probably pretty hungry. So he comes back, apologizes and really just wants his burgers. I bag them up and hand them over and wish him luck. Don't worry kids, I did NOT give him my phone number like I usually do.
Skippety do da day...2:oo pm comes. Adamame walks in the bar, bearing gifts of iced coffee treats as usual, with a very amused look on his face.
"I just saw the most amazing thing. I wanted to take a picture of it. I wanted to take the picture and then have it put on a t-shirt." - Adamame
"What?! What?!" - Adorable Dani
"There is some woman passed out on city hall lawn with her face burried in a cheeseburger!" - Adamame
And there you have it. My food-fight-cherry-popping shift and karma in the form of a face dented meat product.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Nurse Kitty Loves Dr. Dog
That's not really what this story is about, but it got your attention I'm sure. And if you are of the Dr. Dog and google searching for stories on yourself, like the vain self-centered bastard you are...well...then I love you even more now. I have a love/hate relationship with self-centered people. I love them because they remind me of myself. I hate them because they should get over themselves and in a hurry, because there are OTHER people in this world that need attention.
Now back to me. I feel old. No, that is a lie. I feel the same age I did when I was 19 and had a fake I.D. saying I was 24. I feel...slow shall we say? I recently found out that an ex-boyfriend, let's call him NDL bought a house. When I met him I was 24 and he was also 24. Until he magically found that rewind-the-time-clock without offering me fare leaving him at age 19. I should have known this when I slept over his parents house and woke up to a Bob Marley poster. He fessed up in the same weekend, knowing that I wouldn't be mad because I was already hooked on him like a junkie on lies. We dated for about 4 months I think? Until I found someone more my age. Sorry, I meant someone that had their own place. Fast forward to this past July when I am down the Poi with Nils (who ironically went to the same school as NDL) and bump into mutual friends. NDL is not only a high school teacher, but he owns a house. For fucks sake, when I met him he was barely OUT of high school and was living at his PARENTS house! I'm a very happy person. Until I see my past flash before me driving an imported S.U.V. loaded with 2.5 children on their way to get immunized and laughing, throwing mortgage payments at me. When the hell am I going to catch up?? Am I supposed to catch up? Will I be happier if I do catch up to all these ex-boyfriends with property and vacations and vehicles and sexless nights with loved ones? Don't say it. I'm not bitter. One must be married and divorced to become bitter. I'm not worried. I'm humored if anything. Maybe I'm even setting a record for all the little boys I've slapped on the ass and pushed out into the real world thinking maybe they would come back to me once I suddenly became unfickle (yes, that is now a word). If only they could all see me now...I've got an amazing cat, a cute nose, dope undiscovered skills, and wear a size 7 shoe which most of their wives would envy. Stick that in your coach bag and smoke it.
Note to all my friends who are married with above said items, such as children and huts and maybe sex-filled nights: If you are reading this, you already know that I love you. I am 100 percent confident the one you end or ended up with is a beautiful person. They picked you, so they must be. Jesus Christ, I sound like I'm writing a wedding toast. Gross. Also, I am willing to engage in a threesome if necessary to save your relationship. Just not you. And you know who you are.
Now back to me. I feel old. No, that is a lie. I feel the same age I did when I was 19 and had a fake I.D. saying I was 24. I feel...slow shall we say? I recently found out that an ex-boyfriend, let's call him NDL bought a house. When I met him I was 24 and he was also 24. Until he magically found that rewind-the-time-clock without offering me fare leaving him at age 19. I should have known this when I slept over his parents house and woke up to a Bob Marley poster. He fessed up in the same weekend, knowing that I wouldn't be mad because I was already hooked on him like a junkie on lies. We dated for about 4 months I think? Until I found someone more my age. Sorry, I meant someone that had their own place. Fast forward to this past July when I am down the Poi with Nils (who ironically went to the same school as NDL) and bump into mutual friends. NDL is not only a high school teacher, but he owns a house. For fucks sake, when I met him he was barely OUT of high school and was living at his PARENTS house! I'm a very happy person. Until I see my past flash before me driving an imported S.U.V. loaded with 2.5 children on their way to get immunized and laughing, throwing mortgage payments at me. When the hell am I going to catch up?? Am I supposed to catch up? Will I be happier if I do catch up to all these ex-boyfriends with property and vacations and vehicles and sexless nights with loved ones? Don't say it. I'm not bitter. One must be married and divorced to become bitter. I'm not worried. I'm humored if anything. Maybe I'm even setting a record for all the little boys I've slapped on the ass and pushed out into the real world thinking maybe they would come back to me once I suddenly became unfickle (yes, that is now a word). If only they could all see me now...I've got an amazing cat, a cute nose, dope undiscovered skills, and wear a size 7 shoe which most of their wives would envy. Stick that in your coach bag and smoke it.
Note to all my friends who are married with above said items, such as children and huts and maybe sex-filled nights: If you are reading this, you already know that I love you. I am 100 percent confident the one you end or ended up with is a beautiful person. They picked you, so they must be. Jesus Christ, I sound like I'm writing a wedding toast. Gross. Also, I am willing to engage in a threesome if necessary to save your relationship. Just not you. And you know who you are.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Is There Such a Thing as an Italian Human Puppy?
Nobody ever gets excited when they hear "Let me tell you this dream I had" because it's hard enough to follow for even the dreamer. For the listener it becomes "what kind of a face can I make so this asshole actually thinks I'm listening to him". Make this one exception. For me. I'll make it as clear as possible to follow. And by that I mean the letters on this page are black and the background is white.
I heard some puppy Cocker Spaniels were going up for adoption. I was very interested in getting my hands on one of these pups, but I needed the advice of a good friend and dog owner, one named Nils. I told him about it and he wanted in on a puppy too. He thought it would make him look good in his lady-Jen eyes. I contacted the broker, who happened to be a real estate agent down the street from our work. He told me he would waive half the finders fee for me and Nils. I was given permission from Nils to pick out his puppy. Each puppy had a video profile interview, but in the video they were represented by humans. I watched the videos and kind of had an idea that I wanted this one female puppy, who was spoken for on behalf of a really pretty Italian woman.
It's time to pick out your puppy for real, so I go down to this field where they are supposed to land via little tiny parachutes. I see all of them falling in the sky one at a time and I find her. She is the last one to be dropped, she's the cutest and tiniest one.
My puppy shows up at my work, with her adoption papers in hand. Notice I said 'hand' and not 'paw'. Instead it's the really pretty Italian woman. I was a bit curious but assumed she would eventually poof turn into a puppy. I talked to her with that annoying baby talk voice. I told her her name was going to be Kate. She said she was named that once before and didn't appear to be too happy about it.
Until I told her: "Well, the puppy that was dropped before you was named Leonardo. And you are the Kate Winslet that I have rescued. Just like in the movie 'Titanic' ".
Then I asked her how old she was: "I am 6 weeks old." Oh goody, I thought. She really is a puppy.
"But are you going to walk on all 4's soon, or are you going stay on your hind legs the whole time?"
"We don't call them hind legs. We call them our small legs. And yes, I will eventually walk on all 4's for you."
And then I woke up. Go ahead, say it/make reference it. I'm sure you are DYING to.
One more thing. When I was worried that I hadn't really gotten a puppy in the deal, I called Nils and asked him if he got his puppy yet. He responded "Oh boy did I. And it worked, I'm getting laid as we speak!" click
I heard some puppy Cocker Spaniels were going up for adoption. I was very interested in getting my hands on one of these pups, but I needed the advice of a good friend and dog owner, one named Nils. I told him about it and he wanted in on a puppy too. He thought it would make him look good in his lady-Jen eyes. I contacted the broker, who happened to be a real estate agent down the street from our work. He told me he would waive half the finders fee for me and Nils. I was given permission from Nils to pick out his puppy. Each puppy had a video profile interview, but in the video they were represented by humans. I watched the videos and kind of had an idea that I wanted this one female puppy, who was spoken for on behalf of a really pretty Italian woman.
It's time to pick out your puppy for real, so I go down to this field where they are supposed to land via little tiny parachutes. I see all of them falling in the sky one at a time and I find her. She is the last one to be dropped, she's the cutest and tiniest one.
My puppy shows up at my work, with her adoption papers in hand. Notice I said 'hand' and not 'paw'. Instead it's the really pretty Italian woman. I was a bit curious but assumed she would eventually poof turn into a puppy. I talked to her with that annoying baby talk voice. I told her her name was going to be Kate. She said she was named that once before and didn't appear to be too happy about it.
Until I told her: "Well, the puppy that was dropped before you was named Leonardo. And you are the Kate Winslet that I have rescued. Just like in the movie 'Titanic' ".
Then I asked her how old she was: "I am 6 weeks old." Oh goody, I thought. She really is a puppy.
"But are you going to walk on all 4's soon, or are you going stay on your hind legs the whole time?"
"We don't call them hind legs. We call them our small legs. And yes, I will eventually walk on all 4's for you."
And then I woke up. Go ahead, say it/make reference it. I'm sure you are DYING to.
One more thing. When I was worried that I hadn't really gotten a puppy in the deal, I called Nils and asked him if he got his puppy yet. He responded "Oh boy did I. And it worked, I'm getting laid as we speak!" click
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Document2.doc
This is titled Document2.doc because that is what the menu bar in Microsoft Word is saying to me. It will stay that way until I write something worthy of a title. So until the creative juices start flowing I’m going to stall by telling a story from my past. Let’s see, which one should I tell: one of embarrassment, embarrassment, or embarrassment? Well since I have no embarrassing stories, I’ll try and make 1-4 up.
Once upon a time a few years ago from Memorial Day 2004 until Halloween 2004 to be exact, I was dating a fellow named Rob. Rob was pretty alpha-male, funny, tough, a true wise ass. He was pretty easy going and didn’t make a fuss over anything. He also didn’t put up with any shit no matter who from. I REALLY liked him and he JUST liked me. He would take me out to dinner, tell me I was pretty, I would let him have sex with me, he had a car and a job, and all of that to me equals a relationship. Until I did the last craziest thing he could stand.
Crazy #1
He invites me to go camping. I say yes.
“What should I bring Rob?”
“NOTHING. Just please be ready when I pick you up.”
“Are you sure? I have a 30 pack of hotdogs I stole from Fenway, and 6 dishrags I stole from the Charles Hotel. I’ll bring those. And a pillow.”
“Fine. Whatever. JUST BE READY WHEN I PICK YOU UP. 8:00 AM. THAT’S ALL I ASK.”
“Calm down, I can manage it!”
The night before my camping expedition is my good friend Alexis’s birthday. I go out. I drink much. I see an old friend who has some drugs. I decide (like every other time) it’s a good idea and it will keep me awake for my 8:00am pickup. That plan goes awry. Badly. I set my phone alarm, but like an idiot think that the alarm is going to work with the ringer off. My safety here would be a doorbell let’s say. But I was living in a crackhead building and the doorbell didn’t work. How convenient for a drunk/high/single/drooling/passed out girl. I end up waking up on my own. Not at 7:59am. But at 11:30am. I panic. I frantically pack and run outside thinking he might still be out there? Ha ha that is so funny to me now. I call rob about a gazillion times. Of course he’s pissed off so refuses to answer my phone call. Poor guy even showed up with Dunkies for me…weep. I do some quick thinking and call his work because he told me some coworkers were going camping up where he is also. Somehow I get through to a real live person (it’s a Saturday) and co-workers/co-campers Matt and Daniel haven’t left for Vermont yet!! These guys must think I’m crazy but I tell them I will put away my switchblade if they will just PLEASE take me with them. Poor Matt and Daniel don’t even know who I am, but I must have some charm because they agree to pick my sorry ass up. We drive the 3+ hours to get there. For 3+ hours all I am doing is dealing with my hangover, slapping myself for forgetting the 30 hot dogs, and feeling quite horrified when i anticipate the look on Robs face when he sees me. We get there and he is not there, but there is a note for his friends. He darn fishin’ y’all! While he is fishing we (and by we I mean NOT me) unpack and set up camp. The me decides that Makers Mark is the only thing that is going to protect me from Rob. He comes up round the hill “What the fuck are you doing here?” With a smile on his face. And a big huge hug! Phew. We do all sorts of camping stuff that you do when you are camping. Beer, fishing, sunning, spinach burning (I just learned this week that means smoking weed) fire making, wiffle balling, etc. Just when you think I’ve been such a good girlfriend trying to make it up to him, I decide to add insult to injury. He crawls into our tent for some air mattressing, and I do NOT let him have sex with me. THE NERVE OF ME! Fear not, he’s so drunk and stoned that I think he is relieved of this. I get home with my heart in one piece and so excited that I was allowed to act with such behavior. We have a good laugh about it the next time we are out with his friends and coworkers. I done good!
Fear not readers, for this is only the beginning of our relationship. There is still crazy #2, 3, and 4. Stay tuned!!
Epilogue – (but really a Preface)
It’s not like Rob wasn’t pre-warned about me. On our first date we go to a comedy show with his best friend Dennis. Dennis the best friend that just met me for the first time that I should be trying to impress. I don’t remember how the conversation actually went, but Rob sure does. Dennis, apparently got a kick (picture more of a mouth dropping shocked face) out of it as well…when I said something like….”yada yada I’m tired today I haven’t been home all week blah blah (yawn)”.
Once upon a time a few years ago from Memorial Day 2004 until Halloween 2004 to be exact, I was dating a fellow named Rob. Rob was pretty alpha-male, funny, tough, a true wise ass. He was pretty easy going and didn’t make a fuss over anything. He also didn’t put up with any shit no matter who from. I REALLY liked him and he JUST liked me. He would take me out to dinner, tell me I was pretty, I would let him have sex with me, he had a car and a job, and all of that to me equals a relationship. Until I did the last craziest thing he could stand.
Crazy #1
He invites me to go camping. I say yes.
“What should I bring Rob?”
“NOTHING. Just please be ready when I pick you up.”
“Are you sure? I have a 30 pack of hotdogs I stole from Fenway, and 6 dishrags I stole from the Charles Hotel. I’ll bring those. And a pillow.”
“Fine. Whatever. JUST BE READY WHEN I PICK YOU UP. 8:00 AM. THAT’S ALL I ASK.”
“Calm down, I can manage it!”
The night before my camping expedition is my good friend Alexis’s birthday. I go out. I drink much. I see an old friend who has some drugs. I decide (like every other time) it’s a good idea and it will keep me awake for my 8:00am pickup. That plan goes awry. Badly. I set my phone alarm, but like an idiot think that the alarm is going to work with the ringer off. My safety here would be a doorbell let’s say. But I was living in a crackhead building and the doorbell didn’t work. How convenient for a drunk/high/single/drooling/passed out girl. I end up waking up on my own. Not at 7:59am. But at 11:30am. I panic. I frantically pack and run outside thinking he might still be out there? Ha ha that is so funny to me now. I call rob about a gazillion times. Of course he’s pissed off so refuses to answer my phone call. Poor guy even showed up with Dunkies for me…weep. I do some quick thinking and call his work because he told me some coworkers were going camping up where he is also. Somehow I get through to a real live person (it’s a Saturday) and co-workers/co-campers Matt and Daniel haven’t left for Vermont yet!! These guys must think I’m crazy but I tell them I will put away my switchblade if they will just PLEASE take me with them. Poor Matt and Daniel don’t even know who I am, but I must have some charm because they agree to pick my sorry ass up. We drive the 3+ hours to get there. For 3+ hours all I am doing is dealing with my hangover, slapping myself for forgetting the 30 hot dogs, and feeling quite horrified when i anticipate the look on Robs face when he sees me. We get there and he is not there, but there is a note for his friends. He darn fishin’ y’all! While he is fishing we (and by we I mean NOT me) unpack and set up camp. The me decides that Makers Mark is the only thing that is going to protect me from Rob. He comes up round the hill “What the fuck are you doing here?” With a smile on his face. And a big huge hug! Phew. We do all sorts of camping stuff that you do when you are camping. Beer, fishing, sunning, spinach burning (I just learned this week that means smoking weed) fire making, wiffle balling, etc. Just when you think I’ve been such a good girlfriend trying to make it up to him, I decide to add insult to injury. He crawls into our tent for some air mattressing, and I do NOT let him have sex with me. THE NERVE OF ME! Fear not, he’s so drunk and stoned that I think he is relieved of this. I get home with my heart in one piece and so excited that I was allowed to act with such behavior. We have a good laugh about it the next time we are out with his friends and coworkers. I done good!
Fear not readers, for this is only the beginning of our relationship. There is still crazy #2, 3, and 4. Stay tuned!!
Epilogue – (but really a Preface)
It’s not like Rob wasn’t pre-warned about me. On our first date we go to a comedy show with his best friend Dennis. Dennis the best friend that just met me for the first time that I should be trying to impress. I don’t remember how the conversation actually went, but Rob sure does. Dennis, apparently got a kick (picture more of a mouth dropping shocked face) out of it as well…when I said something like….”yada yada I’m tired today I haven’t been home all week blah blah (yawn)”.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
My First Self Titled EP
I named my blog "God Dammit Dani!" for no real reason. A few days later it aaaalll came together. And here's how it goes:
So, this street/junkie boy was coming into my place of employment always during my day shifts. He would use the facilities to urinate/shit/bathe and then on his way out fill up his bottle with our crispy-cold-labor-of-love water, without a please or thank-you. This made me mad, and for some reason I would never have the gonads to say anything because; a.) I'm a sympathetic sap; b.) I was scared he would stab me with a dirty needle; c.) He reminded me of adamame; and d.) I wasn't drunk enough. Yet.
Fast forward to July 4. I have the evening off and my best friend is in town, so we go over the other best friends house to watch those bright loud thingys in the sky. I’ve had, oh, let’s say, FIVE whiskeys? And several beers. In front of best friends apartment I see street/junkie boy. I decide that it is only appropriate NOW to tell him “you're welcome for the water and pisser, asshole.” He knows exactly who I am and what I’m talking about. He apologizes and explains his life to me. He is somewhat charming. With the one hand over my eye to see straight, he appears to be somewhat cute. Of course! We share a forty and I attempt my exit back up to the roof. I may or may not have invited him up to said roof. Oh wait, I did invite him because best friend screams down from window “No Dani! Don’t bring him up!!” To make up for being dissed so hard, I think that giving him my phone number will make him feel better? I really didn’t think this dude knew how to dial (Insert name of my blog here). I tell him I don’t like how dirty he is and that he needs to take a shower and I run up to join friends end of story. So I think.
The following 48+ hours consists of non-stop drinking and non-stop wearing of the same clothes in the Poi (which ironically I am wearing the same outfit as I type, cleaner of course). 3 days magically mush into 1, and my phone is dead (thank god). On way out of the Poi and back into cellphone land I receive one street/junkie boy voicemail message. He tells me of his cleaning up adventure, his name, his desire to come by the red star bar for lunch, and then he apologizes for pissing off my friend? By this last statement I was confused until Greene Bastard Parts Unknown informs me street/junkie boy came by for lunch and tried to eat off some dudes plate. So he tossed him, thankfully. No need to worry your pretty little faces, I’ve decided to NOT go on a 3rd date with him.
And the name of my blog has retroactively been named.
So, this street/junkie boy was coming into my place of employment always during my day shifts. He would use the facilities to urinate/shit/bathe and then on his way out fill up his bottle with our crispy-cold-labor-of-love water, without a please or thank-you. This made me mad, and for some reason I would never have the gonads to say anything because; a.) I'm a sympathetic sap; b.) I was scared he would stab me with a dirty needle; c.) He reminded me of adamame; and d.) I wasn't drunk enough. Yet.
Fast forward to July 4. I have the evening off and my best friend is in town, so we go over the other best friends house to watch those bright loud thingys in the sky. I’ve had, oh, let’s say, FIVE whiskeys? And several beers. In front of best friends apartment I see street/junkie boy. I decide that it is only appropriate NOW to tell him “you're welcome for the water and pisser, asshole.” He knows exactly who I am and what I’m talking about. He apologizes and explains his life to me. He is somewhat charming. With the one hand over my eye to see straight, he appears to be somewhat cute. Of course! We share a forty and I attempt my exit back up to the roof. I may or may not have invited him up to said roof. Oh wait, I did invite him because best friend screams down from window “No Dani! Don’t bring him up!!” To make up for being dissed so hard, I think that giving him my phone number will make him feel better? I really didn’t think this dude knew how to dial (Insert name of my blog here). I tell him I don’t like how dirty he is and that he needs to take a shower and I run up to join friends end of story. So I think.
The following 48+ hours consists of non-stop drinking and non-stop wearing of the same clothes in the Poi (which ironically I am wearing the same outfit as I type, cleaner of course). 3 days magically mush into 1, and my phone is dead (thank god). On way out of the Poi and back into cellphone land I receive one street/junkie boy voicemail message. He tells me of his cleaning up adventure, his name, his desire to come by the red star bar for lunch, and then he apologizes for pissing off my friend? By this last statement I was confused until Greene Bastard Parts Unknown informs me street/junkie boy came by for lunch and tried to eat off some dudes plate. So he tossed him, thankfully. No need to worry your pretty little faces, I’ve decided to NOT go on a 3rd date with him.
And the name of my blog has retroactively been named.
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