Pharoh's Doesn't Exist

I tried Connecticut Ave, Across the street from the Four Provinces, but clearly, it was not there like I originally imagined.

So I called information (411). They said it was Wisconsin and M St. #3222.

For the record, there is no 3222 M St. Just as, when I was connected to "Pharoh's" on M, I got a busy signal.

The meetup, I must then conclude, is a myth. Pharoh's doesn't exist.


Word Association (Co-op)

I thought Sharkbait's Word Association was cute and fun. So I've co-opted it, amended it, and made it my own... You know what they say about immitation. Isn't it interesting, though this was a WORD Association, I associated nearly a sentence for each? Overactive brain, I guess.

Wanker- Funny *ish.

Blogger Friends- Make me smile.

Real, Old Friends Who Happen To Blog- Priceless.

Stop Blogging- Don't tell me what to do!

New Blog- Stay Annonymous.

Drama- Queen.

LSATs- MamaRoar's Dream for Roar.

Da Playaz- Crush a lot.

Blogger HH's- Drama Central.

New & Improved- Wisk!

Utility Bills- Ruining my credit.

Nestle by Jenny Craig- A gross abomination of the best food group ever.


Pay to Park

I don't know how I always forget, but I do. Every morning, I tell myself that it's no big deal: I'll just save a 1/2 hr and drive in to work. What's an extra $5 for a little longer under the covers?

It isn't until I pull into the garage that I remember. It's a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Oh, Jeez. I have to talk to the Parking Attendant.

OK, yes, I have unlimited use of a very VIP "Reserved" spot that I never paid for. And it's nice. And he has let me use it for months.

At first, he just wanted to talk to me about the Bible on my way in to work. I'm from Oklahoma, I know how to handle those conversations. Now, these days, he refuses to take my money and asks me when we're going to dinner.

Now I'm annoyed. (Is that even fair?) How do I make it stop?


Where Was I Last Night?

B Girl covers it best.

And no, I didn't pay the $20 cover. Can anyone guess why?

But ooooh, yeah. AFI and Julie Dexter are amazing live. What a priviledge.

I'm surprised I didn't get whiplash. My head hasn't rocked like that in a while, hehe.


Snot Rag City

If you could have seen me for the past couple of days, you would know that I have been buried under a mound of dirty snot rags. I have camped out on my purple sofa and have already exhausted the cinematic reserves from Blockbuster and my neighbors.

As a result, I had some very witty things to share about "Old Gringo," a Mexican Western with Jane Fonda, Gregory Peck and Jimmy Smits. I'm sure you can guess the drift. (However, the movie might be worth the rental just to see Jimmy's butt as much as you do in the film. Ay, Caliente!)

In lieu of the above-mentioned wit, though, I thought I'd be real with you. More than my post-nasal-drip, and the headache that comes and goes-- more than the dirty dishes and drawn blinds-- something has bothered me ever since I caught this bug. The fact is, of all the guys that have asked me to dinner, or to "hang" or to "have a drink" etc, this past week, only one of those offered to come bring me something.

Daddy was the only one that even SUGGESTED that he might bring me tea. Give me a man that wants to clean my apartment, rent me movies from Blockbuster and bring me chicken soup, and I'll give you a truly loyal woman.


"Family. Redefined."

The hardest lesson I've had to learn (& relearn) since being away from my family is that though you'll painstakingly put a pseudo-family together for yourself, most of those elevated friendships will never be as loyal or as solid as the relationships with your family. Many won't even pretend to be.

And it's fine. I'm fine. It's been over a week, and I doubt she's even noticed. She's busy.

Here's my question though:

If this is what it's like with your girlfriends, how can one ever create a more solid and real family with a man? What would make a man want to do the unconditional stuff that so few girlfriends will? Can you ever have unconditional anything with someone not related to you by blood?



DistrictSiren always tells the same 2 stories when introducing me in mixed company. They both involve music class. The second occurred on the first day of Sophmore year, when I shuffled into (class shall remain nameless), in my flip-flops, jean skirt and Sorority Billboards.

According to DS, of all the students that tried to get special permission to “oversubscribe” to the class (technically, I didn’t have the credits to take it), I was the last to ask and the only one allowed to do so. Supposedly there were others before me that actually showed up on time. Puh-leeze.

I spent the next 4 months killing myself for the ‘C’ our professor gave me; and DistrictSiren spent the 2 after that fighting to be bumped up the extra .5% points for an ‘A.’

I was then, of course, thrilled when the same professor waltzed into my bar Friday night. He waited for me to be cut and then we chatted between shots at the bar.

“I don’t like that story,” he said in response to DS’s version. “It makes me sound like a pervy teacher.”
“No. You’re the nameless, faceless teacher in that story. It makes ME look like a bimbo.”

The part of the story that DS doesn’t tell is what happened during and after finals that same semester.

I had filled my blue exam book first with the answers I knew (not many) to the questions he asked, then second with all of the other, random crap he didn’t. I labeled that section of the book:
Things I Know That You Didn’t Ask
Creative, I know.

“What is it about you, Roar?” he asked after one of our shots last week. “There’s always been something about you.”

During Christmas break after that semeseter, I bumped into the professor at Chipotle. I couldn’t help but ask.
"So, have you graded them?”
“Well…? What did I get?”
--“What did you need?”
“To pass.”
--“Well, then…”
“But-- Oh. I mean…”
--“You’re a major, right?”
--“So what’d you need?”
“Well, a ‘C’ but-”
--“Well, then…”
“Oh, thank you Professor! That’s great!”
--“No problem. Now what are you going to do for me?”
“Huh?” I didn’t get it. “Anything! What do you want?”
He could tell I didn’t get it. He just smiled. “See you later.”

Maybe my Professor was a cad. Or maybe he just has verbal diarrhea like me. Are they really mutually exclusive propositions?

It was so fun seeing him Friday that I brought the professor to Dragonfly with my group. He walked into the sterile first floor and all he said was:
“Oh, wow. I should have brought drugs.”

I’m guessing: A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B. Whatever. I still think he’s awesome.

No Hiatus

I'm pretty sure that to actually have a hiatus it has to be planned. But you know me better than that. You know I'm too messy to plan anything beforehand. Were I Travis, or Larissa, or Velvet, I would have said something before or during.

But, alas... I didn't know this was merely a vacation until it was over. Forgive me for abandoning you.

There, there... Mama's back now.