Thursday, June 30, 2011
unfortunately, i couldn't really nap like i like to in my massages. i was too busy quoting napoleon dynamite to myself. and thinking about technology.
According to dictionary dot com, a puh-rahy-uh is an outcast, any person or animal that is generally despised or avoided, or a member of a low caste in southern India and Burma. I think it's fairly obvious that I am none of these.
on Wednesday, a co-worker of mine told me she was a pariah because her cube is off in the wilderness of office space. Another co-worker asked what a pariah is. My first co-worker said "you know. an outcast. an untouchable." As I have already said, I am nowhere near an outcast.
and I am definitely not an untouchable. As a matter of fact, I am extremely touchable. i think it's fair to say my mother was wrong. but only this time.
he really said that to me. there are so many things wrong with that statement.
1. i don't need to stop telling anyone what to do. everyone can benefit from some merdeezy medicine.
2. he is not a grown ass man.
side note. when Eli asked my mom why Lee was the way he was, she replied with the title of this post.
If I (or my big brother, who we all know is THE picture of a "grown ass man." his words, not mine) had been sent to the big house every time we felt the need to show our longest digits to strangers and kin alike, we'd probably still be sitting in there. Like the time my brother mashed up my quiche at the dinner table. If I had just flipped him the bird, instead of wailing my head off, we could have spent tax payer dollars and gone to jail. Instead, he had to eat both my quiche and his, and I just had red eyes and a runny nose. jail would have been so much cooler.
so, just in case you want to know what would ever possess someone to flip the bird in a court of law (or, just in mine or my brother's every day life), I have supplied you a with a few reading materials, other than mine and my brother's blogs, of course:
1. the legal history of flipping the bird.
Years 1980, 1990, 1995, 2000, 2003 (go canada!), and 2010 are particularly funny. 2010 is great. apparently some people make it a habit of giving the same bird to the same people, over and over.
2. gesture of the finger.
i want to add two things. one, who even says up yours anymore? that's like the card game "bullshit." only, we were scared to say cuss words, so we said "yeah right" instead. yeah, we were cool. yeah right. and secondly, they left off that it is also called a "californy greetin." hasn't anyone ever seen the beverly hillbillies when they give grandma the finger for riding on top of the car in her rocking chair?
3. i don't know anything about this website. but i like it. and i intend to know a lot about it. like she says: who doesn't want really good shiz delivered to their inbox?
4. and of course, leave it to urban dictionary to give us a full explanation of the middle finger. i should have known the french started this tradition.
5. and lastly, the one finger victory salute, from my main squeeze:
Monday, June 27, 2011
and this my friends might just be the funniest and most ludicrous claim of them all.
really, forever 21? crying because someone made fun of you?
i guess we can't all be 21 forever.
Merdeezy placed a call to the Office of the President (5/3 is very sneaky. They keep this number well hidden but just in case you also need it, it is: 866-360-5353) and spoke to some representative who assured Merdeezy she was opening an investigation and would call her back. Good thing the Deeze knows how to not let things drop since she was never called. But have no fear: the Deeze called her to follow up twice. Today she told the Deeze that her overdraft fees were not 5/3's problem and that she should have stopped payment with her credit union before closing her accounts. Again, this was helpful. This is also very interesting to Merdeezy since NOT A SINGLE EMPLOYEE AT THE BRANCH KNEW THIS (not to mention it's entirely different than what the Deeze had already been told. So, we go from canceling pending transactions before closing accounts to stopping payments at the other bank before closing accounts. smells like 5/3 doesn't know what they are doing and doesn't mind being a thief). Besides, why would she pay money to stop a transaction when she got a red screen saying "you have no pending transactions."
HOW DOES SOMEONE STOP A PENDING TRANSACTION THAT THEY DO NOT EVEN KNOW THEY HAVE???!?
doesn't the bank have a duty of care to not only make sure their employees are fully trained but also to make sure they relay that info to the customer? Shouldn't the bank just assume their customers are dumb and tell them everything they need to know?
Yes. Yes they should.
Since the Deeze is officially dumber than a box of rocks, it's no wonder she is also confused beyond confused about this. In the meantime, while she's trying to make herself smarter, she has filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau, the Federal Reserve and the NC Commissioner of Banks. Oh, and her attorney will be sending them a demand letter.
Fifth Third the thief never should have barked up the Deezy tree.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
I realize how bizarre this all sounds. Me. On a bus. What makes it even more bizarre is that I had such high hopes for all the strangeness that awaited me. And other than the Asian man who insisted on wearing his seat belt the entire 4 hour ride, nothing was out of the ordinary. I mean, who even knew they made seat belts for charter buses? Better yet, who even knew people actually wore them while riding on a charter bus?
just a bunch of business people and regular ole families taking the bus to new york city.
it's fair to say that because of the complete normalness of this bus ride, my hide was chapped.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
last night she bought some new shoes at the TJ. The new shoes had a sticker price tag on the sole. Mom said to her "take that sticker off before you go to work." Did she do it? No. No, she did not. On the way to work this morning, somewhere in the middle of the interstate, Eli remembered she had a stick on the sole of one of her new kicks. So, she did what any normal genius person would do (and if you guessed pulling over, or just waiting until she had parked her car to remove the sticker, then you're very wrong). She pulled out her pocket knife and began trying to scrape the sticker off her shoe. While driving her car. Down the interstate. In morning traffic.
I can tell you mom was having a great morning, sitting on her screen porch, drinking her coffee and reading her paper when she got the call.
Eli: mom. there is blood EVERYWHERE.
Mom: huh? Why?
(Eli proceeds to tell her aforementioned story).
Mom: well. is there blood on your dress?
Mom: is there blood all over you?
Mom: well then I don't know how there could be blood everywhere. but wrap your finger up in a pillowcase and call me when you get to work. I'll meet you at the urgent care if one of the ladies you work with thinks you need stitches.
Mom says she has tried to warn her children of everything (and believe me. if you can be warned about it, then she has warned you about it) but she didn't know she should warn her children not to use pocket knives while driving down the road. I am trying to figure out what kind of brain even THINKS this sounds like a good idea. I'm also trying to figure out why a PILLOWCASE was what my mom first thought of for Eli to wrap her finger in (and why this sounded perfectly normal to Eli to grab a pillowcase from her backseat and make a tourniquet).
At any rate. Eli survived. Somehow, someway, she has managed to graduate college and land a job. And people wonder why the world is the way it is these days. I sure hope pillowcases go on sale soon somewhere.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Thanks to my friend Debbie (the same friend who owns the NBA, has Kobe's cell phone number, and sends me taunting pics of Justin BIeber and Kobe court side at Knicks games and whatever else Natalie and I can possibly fabricate about Debbie to impress the mens at the bar), my fave cocktail is champagne and St. Germain. St. Germain, in case you didn't know, is an elderflower from Europe (I did say I was fancy in 2011). The story is actually quite romantical:
"In the foothills of the Alps, for but a few fleeting spring weeks, a man will gather wild blossoms for your cocktail. After gently ushering the wild blossoms into sacks and descending the hillside, the man who gathers blossoms for your cocktail will then mount a bicycle and carefully ride the umbels of starry white flowers to market. Vraiment. St-Germain is exceedingly special and rare. Consequently, we are able to hand make only very limited quantities. And what of the taste of St-Germain? It has been said that Paris is a mélange curieux, a curious mixture of flavors, styles and influences. So it is with St-Germain. Neither passionfruit nor pear, grapefruit nor lemon, the sublime taste of St-Germain hints at each of these and yet none of them exactly. It is a flavor as subtle and delicate as it is captivating. A little like asking a hummingbird to describe the flavor of its favorite nectar. Très curieux indeed, n'est-ce pas?"
Now, while I'm not crazy about Frenchmen in general (though I do know how to say a few special things in French. and, not gonna lie, you can't beat a french kiss. or french fries. and I do love hummingbirds!), the thought of a man mounting anything after gathering blossoms for me is magnificent. So you can understand my excitement when Debbie presented to me last weekend in New York a mini bottle of St. Germain. After screaming "oh Debbie! oui oui! voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?" and asking her where she possibly found a mini of this, I put the bottle in my black purse of death and let it be. There it remained for five days. Until last night. When I got my bag searched as the Katy Perry concert and they told me I couldn't bring it in. I told them I had completely forgotten it was in there. They didn't buy it (though they should have. Since it as the TRUTH!) and told me I had three options: either throw it away, drink it, or take it back to my car. Now, since I recognize the greatness of a man gathering and mounting anything that involves me, I was not about to drink it in one drink. Nor was I going to toss it. So, off I went, back to my car to salvage my St. Germain.
I feel it is important to note that they also questioned my mini bottle of Texas Pete but I told them I was not drinking that, tossing it or taking it back to my car. The hot sauce would stay.
il est si difficile d'être moi.
Monday, June 13, 2011
for all of you comedians out there who thought it would be funny to post this on my facebook, or email it to me, I want to get a few things straight. yes, I love cats. yes, i may or may not have given the ole harm a whirl or two. no, i do not want to put cats in a rainbow. i don't mind rolling around with Pete but i don't want to roll around with stranger cats. and, for the record, i have never cried like a banshee.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
But, I'm not. My workout may have been an epic fail, and I may have crashed my bicycle in my own yard, but at least my wrist proves just how popular I am.
Friday, June 3, 2011
I'm so glad you've been indicted, you deceitful bastard. Although, spending the rest of your life looking at the gem your mistress clearly is might be punishment enough for you. I've got both middle fingers in the air for you today and a box of soaps on the ropes headed your way. Breck Girls with delightful Southern accents go far in prison, or so I've heard. As much as I hate your guts, I might actually come visit you in the pokey. I've got a lot of questions and since I've always wanted a prison pen pal, perhaps ole baby blues is the way to go. You said you wanted to be a champion for the people you have fought for all your life - the regular people. Well here's three cheers to you for being the champion of something. Granted, it's the champion of lying assholes all around the world but hey, all that matters is you're a champ.
You should be ashamed of yourself. Hang in there, champ. I mean, does what goes around really ever come back around??
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Generally speaking, especially during the week, I won't go anywhere after the gym if I can't wear my gym clothes. I don't like hauling my crap and I don't like taking showers. I guess I'm really just a European because I never find that I smell as bad as people think I do. And don't even get me started on showering during the summer. If I'm going to shower, it's going to be a long, drawn out event. I'm going to use as much hot water as possible so my skin is the perfect shade of pink when I get out. And I prefer air drying, which we all know takes more than a little bit of time (and it's not like I wake up in enough time to get an air dry in before work). The only problem with this is that during the summer, I can't stop sweating. I usually need a shower from my shower.
Back in Charlotte, my girlfriends used to call me Trudy. Apparently there was some girl in their sorority in college named Trudy. Trudy would go to the gym then put cute clothes on and go out all without showering. I mean, I don't really see the issue here. I became the new and improved model of their Trudy after I passed one of them on the road one morning on the way to work. My friend of course looked like a beautiful Barbie while I was driving like a bat out of hell with my windows down, hoping to have dry hair by the time I got to work. To this day, I argue that I am not a Trudy. Trudy would put on cute clothes over her gym body. I just wear my gym body everywhere I go. I guess the point of this story is that to all my girlfriends out there, next time you find yourself asking yourself "did I really shave my legs for this?" the real question you should be asking yourself is "did I really shower for this?" You'll find that there isn't much worth showering for. Just buy a lot of body spray and change out your hankies, and you'll be set.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Meredith is one of my long-time best friends. She now proudly wears the badge “Auntie Meredith.”
Tinsley’s first literature lesson (with a splash of hope)
In 1861, Emily Dickinson wrote about hope:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune—without the words,
And never stops at all
Now, please do not mistake my quoting Emily Dickinson for a love of her. I actually don’t love her at all. She was reclusive, preferring to live a solitary life writing her depressing poems only to really be discovered posthumously. But this poem continues to be so optimistic, so real and so…fresh. Hope really IS the thing with feathers, the thing that perches in the soul, the thing that sings the tune, even without words, the thing that never stops. Another great writer, Paul, wrote around A.D. 56 that love always hopes. Two different time periods, one writer a woman and one writer a man. Yet they both recognized the importance of hope.
You have been born into a great situation. You will not want for anything. Whatever you need, you will have. From the minute you took your first breath out of the womb, you were surrounded by love. You have a warm place to sleep, more clothes than even an infant can go through in a day, two parents, two sets of grandparents, an aunt and an uncle on each side, cousins and more friends than you’ll be able to count for quite awhile. You are barely even here and you already have more than most kids ever will. You already have the things a lot of kids hope for. You have so much going for you, and you’re brand new at this!
You will grow up knowing that you have a canopy of hope over you. As you grow and learn, you’ll discover things about life that we all desperately would prefer to shield you from completely. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to do that. We can’t protect you from every disappointment and heartache life is sure to bring. But we can make sure you know that hope is always available. No matter what comes your way, you can rely on your canopy of hope to get you to the next phase of life. I like to think of hope like a very full bank account that you forget about until you need it. And then, when you do need it, it’s there for you to tap into and draw from. It’s there to keep you afloat until your ship comes in again, until the rain stops, until the sun is once again warm upon your face. And hopefully, because you are so surrounded by love, you will not ever feel like your hope bank is empty.
Oh sure, I have other hopes for you. I hope you develop a love for literature and will let me teach you some of my favorites like Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolfe, Chaucer and F. Scott Fitzgerald (wow. talk about some people who were hopeless. Sheesh. Clearly, I will share with you about Goodnight Moon, Miss Rumphius, Blueberrys for Sal and George and Matilda Mouse first). I hope you love to eat because it will be more fun for me to hang out with you if we can share snacks. I love those little lucky charm dissolvy baby snacks. I hope your parents will let me take you swimming before your first summer is over. I hope you genuinely love dresses, hair bows and saddle oxfords. I hope you and your mom can have the relationship my mom and I have. I hope you adore your dad like I adore mine. I hope you love being held and being treasured. And I hope you really understand just how special you are (ahh! another book I will share with you). I hope you get to experience everything we’ve all experienced, and then some. I hope you love to travel, love to learn and love to explore. I hope you get to figure out just who you are. I hope you aren’t afraid to cry and aren’t afraid to pack a punch. I hope you know that you really can do and be whatever you set your heart on, whatever you love.
So why is hope the thing with feathers? Why does it perch on our soul and continue to sing even when it doesn’t have words (ah! another good book but much too mature for you. maybe when you’re 53 when you get home from your first date and I am there with your mom and dad waiting up on you). Whenever I read this, I think of a baby bird. Year in and year out, every spring is marked with the chirping of birds. I love watching the man and woman bird gather materials for their nest, and check out various digs before settling on a home. I remember the excitement I felt growing up whenever we discovered robins’ eggs and how careful we were not to touch them, not to disturb these new little lives. I remember the joy I felt when I spotted a cardinal man and woman feeding off my bird feeder in my new house recently. Something about a bird flying around and doing its thing conjures up hope. Something about finding a feather makes you feel lucky, makes you feel hopeful. Even if life deals you a bad hand from time to time, even when you feel like you don’t have anything else to hope for, hope is the thing that keeps our hearts singing even when we’re at a loss for words.
Hope is the thing that never stops at all. Hope is love and love is hope. And love never fails. Love never stops at all.
Welcome to the world, baby girl! (oh Fannie Flagg. I cannot wait until you are old enough to read her works!). You were hoped for, and now, finally, here you are.
your aunt meredith
*reblogged from Project Baby.