Laughing Too Hard

Ok, people.

Go HERE

And scroll through the pictures. I haven't laughed this hard in ages. There are a lot of pictures to go through, but I think #5 is, by far, my favorite. Followed closely by #43, #48, #49, and #53.

Enjoy.

12/22 Edit: They moved my favorite to #25 as of today. Kid's name is Bella. Funny as hell.

How Did This Happen?

Winter is finally here. Well, at least it seems that way. It was 21 degrees this morning. And it snowed a little yesterday. At least, enough to have a terribly annoying commute on I-95 this morning.

When we packed up and moved to Delaware in early March, we tossed all our hats, gloves, scarves, etc., into a box that we labeled "coat closet." I bought one of those wardrobe boxes for the coats and jackets, too. Now, our new house has a rather large coat closet in the foyer. I'd say that it is probably twice the size of the coat closet that was in our South Philly home. Yet, inexplicably, we can't seem to fit the same number of items in the new closet as we did in the old one. Yeah, I really don't get it either.

By the time most of the unpacking was done (and hey, is unpacking EVER really done?), it was April. The last thing on my mind was where Todd's winter hat was. So the box o' winter accessories got relegated to the basement.

This morning in a frozen panic, Todd and I were like, "CRAP! FIND THAT BOX!" I found it; I'm good at finding things. I pulled out what is one of only 3 knitted items that I have ever made for myself: The loopy scarf. God, I love this thing. It is my total go-to scarf. Anyway, I started rummaging for a scarf of Todd's. I found ones that he'd used over the years. What is the deal with men's scarves? They are PATHETIC. Flimsy, too-short, drab-looking pieces of woven fabric, with the consistency and softness of a paper napkin (even though they all said 100% wool). It struck me, "My God! Todd doesn't have a decent scarf! How could I, a knitter, let this happen?"

I hung my head in shame.

So, as soon as the holidays are over, or I come to my senses and recognize that I am NOT going to finish that kimono sweater I am knitting for my mom in time for Christmas, I am going to grab some delightful merino wool and knit up a more-fitting scarf for Todd. Shockingly, he's actually wearing the hat I made him, probably because it actually keeps him warm! But I think I might make him a new hat, so he can have winter accessories that actually match for once in his life. I mean, I love that hat, and I think it looks great on him, but there is no way I can ever match those colors.

Yes, I changed the skin of this blog yet again. I'm not crazy about this one either....

Injustice For All

Rant #1: the library

Anyone who knows me can tell you that reading is near the bottom of my list of hobbies. I do it. But not a lot. Something really has to GRAB me. College killed my desire to read. I think after reading 14 books on Suleyman the Magnificent and every piece of literary work from the pen of Henrik Ibsen pretty much sucked the desire to read out of me. Yeah.

However, I do fully appreciate and respect the value of books. I sincerely do. So much so that it greatly pains me to see the condition of most libraries. Most notably: the library associated with the university in which I work. SHAMEFUL.

First of all, they are reconstructing the front steps and entrance to the library. It looks shitty. Mostly because there are no handrails to be seen (still) and there is NO WHEELCHAIR RAMP. Um...hello? I thought that was why you tore out the steps to begin with: To join the rest of humanity and put a wheelchair ramp on a publicly-accessible building. I guess not. Imbeciles.

Second, OH MY DOG. Today, as I was walking from the parking garage, which is down the street from the library, I was absolutely horrified to see (through the ugly glass wall, so common to 1950s-1960s architecture in this stupid city), several students sitting there and eating. And I'm not talking about a granola bar and a bottle of water. No. I would have a tolerance for that. It's still wrong, but, hey, I was a student once. I had (still have) stomach issues. I really do understand that sometimes you NEED a Coke and a bag of pretzels. Really. But a sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast burrito wrap with hash browns and a coffee is A PUBLIC INJUSTICE AND UNACCEPTABLE FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER IN A LIBRARY. End of discussion.


Rant #2: Iman Idiot, a.k.a. the bane of my existence

Yeah that student. You know the one. The one who doesn't know how to write numbers over 100, or apparently can't read his/her own handwriting? That one.

Ok, well that student was supposed to see me Friday at 4:00. I hung around until 4:45 waiting for their dumbass and they never showed. Of course. So I am greeted this morning with this e-mail:

Gina,

You are my advisor and I have a few questions:

Is it too late to register for winter classes?
What is the minimum GPA to make the Deans List?
Can I meet with you some time with week to talk about possibly double
majoring?

I hope to talk to you soon. Thanks and have a good weekend.

Iman Idiot


SIGH. Look, you don't have to tell me that I am your adviser. Unfortunately, I KNOW; very well, thank you.

Technically, it isn't too late to register for classes, however, at this point, I think it's free-for-all registration. See, all our students get "time tickets" to register, based on what class they are in. Upper-class students register before lower-class. For example, seniors have their time tickets before juniors. Well this student is a junior. Their time ticket was back during the first week of November. All the best courses---and probably ones this student should be taking---are probably FULL. So now I'm going to have to jump through hoops to try to get this student into closed courses. Nice. Maybe on the form, in the "reason for request" section, I can write, "Because student is too stupid to register during prescribed time-ticket."

Are you SERIOUSLY asking me what the minimum GPA is for Dean's List?? Wait, let me mop the tears streaming down my face from laughing so hard. It's a 3.6. So... I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that you don't have a prayer, kid.

DOUBLE MAJORING? OH MY LAND. You can't be serious. I'm seriously going to say, "No, I'm sorry. You can't double major at this juncture." God forbid! This student will be here like an extra 3 years. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Why me?

Get Back To Work, You Bums

That's part of the first sentence of an e-mail that I so badly want to send to the idiots, er I mean writers who are on strike. Now they are "writing" these silly, self-serving, eye-roll-inducing web ditties about how important they are. They even give their e-mail address, just in case you want to write a letter to them. You know, so you can tell them how awesome they are. PUH-LEASE.

Here it is: speechlesswithoutwriters@gmail.com

And here is my letter:

Dear "Writers" Guild:

Either shut the hell up or get back to work, you bums. That is, if you can even justify what you do as being "work." You guys write the most trite, contrived, stupid garbage that has ever had the misfortune to be committed to scripts and/or screenplays. Believe me, I really can survive in a world without the likes of Saw 4, Two and a Half Men, and I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry. Really. If you spent a quarter as much time writing half-way decent stuff for television and film as you did to write your own whiny, self-aggrandizing bullshit that's on YouTube, then maybe I'd actually want to watch TV or go to a movie.

Get over yourselves. You suck.

Sincerely,
Me

You know, when I think about it, almost every fairly decent movie I've seen over the last 10 years or so has been based on someone ELSE'S writing. For example: The Lord of the Rings trilogy. And honestly, the only current TV show I watch is Lost. Everything else I watch on TV is on BBC America! Maybe these writers can tune in there and take some lessons....

You Can Take the Girl Out Of South Philly....

Yes. I am from South Philly. Actually, I am MORE than just "from" South Philly. I actually lived 35 years in South Philly. My parents, all their 65 years, and counting. And my grandparents, all their 88-89 years. There is no hope for me now. I went to Catholic school, from kindergarten through high school, which in my time as a kid was compulsory. I attended a high school which was---and probably still is ---THE penultimate stereotype of what it means to be/talk/act/think "South Philly:" St. Maria Goretti. How I made it out of there speaking recognizable English and not pregnant is a major triumph of my will.

We had phonics in grade school. Sometimes I think my generation must have been the last one to actually have phonics as a subject. But man, oh man, in retrospect? I am so glad that we did. I can only imagine what I'd sound like if I didn't. I think, because of the wonder of phonics, I learned to suppress my South Philly accent. What is a South Philly accent? Oh boy. It's pretty bad. If you know what a Philadelphia accent is like, then times that by like eleventy. There you go.

Mostly everybody knows the colloquial things we say as Philadelphians. Like "Jeet?" "No, Joo?" And all that garbage about cheesesteaks, soft pretzels, and water ice (pronounced "wooder ice"). People, listen, I've only ever eaten like 5 cheesesteaks in my entire life and none of them was from either Pat's or Geno's. Both places suck. Cheesesteaks, in general, SUCK. They are greasy and gristly (at least the ones from Pat's and Geno's are) and just meh.

I digress.

What I am talking about is the distinct linguistic difference regarding how all of us from South Philly were brought up pronouncing certain words when compared to the rest of the universe. To better explain what I'm talking about, please read this very informative article. Here's a quote:

"But there is a distinguishing feature of some South Philly speech: it's r-less, like the rest of the East Coast. There used to be a sign in my neighborhood that said, 'Frankie is a Bastid.' Good phonetic spelling, but not north of Fitzwater Street."

Once you fully comprehend our bizarrely complex vowel structures, how we randomly drop Rs and Ts in words, and how we make up words that don't exist, then you can fully appreciate this story:

How Gina, a "growed" woman, got "all South Philly" on a cashier in Petsmart.

People have always told me that I have the patience of a saint. I don't. I have no idea where anyone got this idea. For this reason, I could never be a teacher, nurse, or parent. I do, however, have a strong ability to control my impatience and swallow my rage and frustrations. Thus why I have been diagnosed with a hiatal hernia, acid-reflux disease, and nervous bowel syndrome. A doctor once told me, "Gina...you're an Italian from South Philly, you are going to have stomach problems." Agita is as prevalent as dandruff in South Philly---if not more so.

So, anyway, last week Todd and I were making one of our many visits to Petsmart to load up on supplies for our beasts. You might say we rolled-up there. :-) It was straight after work. I had to pee and I was starving. Two conditions that tend to wear on my already frail patience. I forget most of what we bought there because we are constantly buying the necessities like food and kitty litter (which my family has now termed "cat rocks." Hey, it saves 2 whole syllables) . I do recall two unique items that we purchased during this particular shopping visit: a hooded pet bed and a cardboard, ramp-style, scratching thing. This is it:

Note the dimensions: 17.1 x 8.2 x 10.4 inches.

Ok. Todd was carrying something really heavy and large, probably a 24-pound bag of dry food or a 40-pound box of cat rocks. I had the pet bed and that scratcher thing. We may have very well had more stuff too. So we get in line. We're in line for about a minute and a new cashier comes and opens up right next to us. She says out loud, apparently to Todd, "I can take you over here." So, Todd jumps over into her lane. The lady in line in front of us kind of got pissed. I guess she figured that she was technically "ahead" of us so she should have gone into the new line first. Normally, I would agree, but I think that because Todd was so heavily burdened, the cashier spoke directly to him. So the lady gets in line behind us, slams her 2 puny items on the counter. What-ever. She is standing like 1.6 centimeters from me. Literally, breathing down my neck. I feel my RAGE level rising. I take out my Petmart discount card and debit card and pay. She gives me the receipt and my cards back. I am fumbling with putting away my cards and zipping my purse as fast as I can because the lady behind me is like OMFG ON TOP OF ME. Todd is practically out the door already. I pick up the pet bed. For some unknown reason, the cashier chose to put the scratcher thing in a bag. A bag, which, might I add, was WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY too small for it. Then, she didn't hand it to me. She put it behind her on a counter. So I had to reach over there and get it. Well, it nearly falls out of the bag and then I drop the bag. I drop the pet bed and try to pick up the bag. Meanwhile, at this point, the lady behind me is IN MY COLON. I squish the pet bed under my arm and pick up the bag with the scratcher. It falls out altogether and slides across the floor. Todd comes back in like, "What is taking you so long?" So I pick up the scratcher and out loud say:

"WHEOWUH PUTS 'ISS INNA FRIGGIN' BAG?!?! JEEZUS H. CHRIST-UH."

Todd's like, "Gimme that pet bed...." So I hand it to him and he puts it under his arm. He goes, "You got everything?" And I said, "Yeah. Let's get out of here before someone ELSE gets UP MY FRIGGIN' ASS." (with the -a sound, like in "hair")

Sigh. Yes. As soon as I got outside I started laughing hysterically. You really can't take the South Philly out of the girl. And guess what? I'm kind of glad.