We can still be friends, right?

I guess my two day whirlwind romance with the WaPo Express has come to an abrupt end. Still, two dates! That's pretty good for me.
My last whirlwind romance lasted over beers at Carpool and 2,000 text messages and phonemail messages left for me the next day, calling me hot stuff. Hot stuff. Seriously? The end.

My fantasy experience at Starbucks

I know that some of you think I am kidding when you read my drink order from Starbucks, but those of you who know me well (er.. Marci), know that I am not embellishing. Not even a little bit.

This is how my trips to the Barista/drink-order-taker usually go:

I walk up to the counter fiddling with the money in my hand. I like paying with a credit card, too because you don’t have to sign anything. That would be a great place to use a stolen credit card. I’m just sayin’. It’s hard for me to decide what I would like. There are far too many choices and I think I might just like everything. And what if I order the wrong beverage? Like say I ordered a mocha and it turns out, after I have tasted the aforementioned mocha, what I really wanted was a latte?
Once I have determined the beverage of my choice, I pick all of my modifications and with a slightly embarrassed look, try to relay them to the Barista/drink-order-taker. I am embarrassed because I know that I am out of control. Plus, it holds up the line and the Starbucks employees get frazzled. But that’s part of the fun. You know my typical order, so I won’t repeat it again. I then go hide in the front or the back of the store, depending on my Starbucks locale, and wait for them to attempt to announce my drink. Then I run for the beverage and leave.

Here is my dream experience at Starbucks:

I walk up to the counter with my head held high and look the Barista/drink-order-taker straight in the eye with confidence and begin the long sordid explanation of my beverage of choice.
“I would like a short, organic soy, no foam, no whipped, half-caf, extra shot, extra hot latte with ½ pump mocha, teeny squeeze of caramel sauce, and just the essence of vanilla. Oh, and double cup it. I ain’t out to save the world, and I like reading “The Way I See It” off the sides of the cups. Please make sure that the two cups are different.”
Then I would pay and scurry off to look at the items for sale that always intrigue me but never enough to actually buy, and wait for my beverage to be called out.
“DOUBLE CUPPED, SHORT, ORGANIC SOY, NO FOAM, NO WHIPPED, HALF-CAF, EXTRA SHOT, EXTRA HOT LATTE WITH ½ PUMP MOCHA, TEENY SQUEEZE OF CARAMEL SAUCE, AND JUST THE ESSENCE OF VANILLA.”
I push my way through the crowd that built up because of my labor intensive order to claim a wee cup with more writing on the side than a Manhattan bus while screaming “Hands off my drink!” And then I would turn around and run into the Dr. McSteamy from Gray's Anatomy, who would just happen to be in jeans and no shirt. He would say, "That's what I was going to order!" and whisk me away.

This is why Starbucks in Chicago is smart. They get your name and holler it out when your drink is ready. (Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf does this, too.)

Hi Washington Post Express

Two days in a row. People are gonna start talking.

My grammar-sound, yet highly convoluted sentence stylings are catching the attention of the blog readers of the Washington Post Express.
They took note today of my intro sentence from yesterday.

COMPLEX CONSTRUCTIONS: When we first scanned the following sentence, we thought that Starbucks had branched out from its newish breakfast sandwiches in a new push to take businesses away from the corner convenience store:
Stopped by Giant on my way to Starbucks where I ordered my grande non-fat one pump mocha/three pumps peppermint no foam no whipped latte and the girl kind of rolled her eyes at me, yet only charged me for a tall latte, to buy scratch off lottery tickets.Does Splenda dissolve the scratch-off silver stuff? Just curious. [Ah Bugger]

Splenda does NOT remove the silver stuff. Elbow grease and hopeful fortitude involving a quarter do. Since when is Giant a corner convenience store?

Washington Post Express also quoted me yesterday in their print edition for my dislike of the DC personality. Hey, listen WaPo. If you like me, just tell me. If I like what you are throwing out there, maybe we could be a couple. So far, I am digging what I am seeing.

Did I least win the genetic lottery? Hmm?

Stopped by Giant on my way to Starbucks where I ordered my grande non-fat one pump mocha/three pumps peppermint no foam no whipped latte and the girl kind of rolled her eyes at me, yet only charged me for a tall latte, to buy scratch off lottery tickets. I watched a special on E! (I think it was on E! It was late night and I couldn't sleep.) about lottery winners. I got to thinking about what I would do should I win the lottery. So, I bought two $2 scratch offs and one $1 one. They are all Halloween themed. It's September. But that aside, I scratched the $1 one called "Creepy Cash" off to find no matches under the silver foily stuff I had artistically rendered into a series of stripes that displayed the not-winning-numbers. It's cool though. Don't wanna win creepy cash. I want regular cash, or even happy cash. So before I opt to scratch of the two $2 ones, I thought I might tell you what I would do with the $815,000 I could possibly win.

1. Obvious one is to pay off anyone I owe right now. (Yeah, that means YOU, Big Guido. Don't break my legs.)
2. Ok, wow. I do not know what I would do with this money. What a boring entry. Turns out that I would probably put it into the bank, continue working and then use it to get my graduate degree. But if I won 100 million dollars, that would change things up a bit.

So let's see what is going to happen... (By the way, if I win $10, how anticlimactic, right? But winning nothing is even sadder. But paying $5 to write this Pulitzer worthy blog entry, worth every penny!) Here we go...

$2 "Little Green Men Doubler" Scratcher- I won $10

Wooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Net gross of $5. Worthwhile for sure!

Since that prediction seemed to work, let me try this: Gosh, winning $13,000 would be kind of boring, but winning nothing would suck.

$2 "Hallowin!" scratcher- The prizes available to me are: $15/ $13,000/ $50/ $15/ $30/ $13,000/ $30/ $1,000/ $50/ $3

Now I need to scratch off my winning numbers that correspond to which prize I get. This is exciting.

My winning numbers are 21. Hmph.. No corresponding prize. The other is 9. Damn. Well, ten bucks is ten bucks. Ya know what I am saying? I do think I would be an excellent lottery winner. I am going to play the big one on Friday. Then I will change the name of my blog to "Rich Bugger".

I have been a resident of this area most of my life.

There is a part of me that really is not fond of the personality type that seems to exist and thrive in Washington DC. I dislike how people don't seem to look out for each other. Everyone is only interested in how they can get ahead, and if you get in the way, well, there is a great possibility that you will be steamrolled. (And I don't mean in a super cool, Strange Brew kind of way.) The worst part of that is that the steamroller probably won't even notice (or care) that they ran you over. You notice it on sidewalks were people make no attempt to walk in a way that shares the sidewalk. You notice it on the metro where everyone is shoving to get on, never letting anyone off.
Washingtonians tend to think of themselves, not taking any notice of the things going on around them. It frustrates me.
But last night I was reminded of the best of the city. Sitting at a rooftop bar with a view of the Washington Monument and a fiery sunset over one of the most beautiful cities I have seen. Watching Marine One drop off one of the First Daughters, perhaps and then fly off again. Hanging out and laughing until my abs were ripped with some of the people who remind me that DC can be pretty awesome, even when the jackass (who reminded me of the why I hate DC, and I don't mean the blogger by that name) at the next table was living up to his name.

Damn, girls. You make me laugh. Thanks.

In attendance:
Velvet, DCSC, Sweet, Heather, Law-rah, Mappy B, and the Doll

Oh, and this girl:
Marci

Why does my blog hate Marci? I had her in my original list, and it erased her. So I entered her in as the socially awkward one, and blogger was still bitter. I hope it shows that Marci was enjoying the pretty night in DC with us now, because dude, Blogger is a bitter beeyotch.

OH MY GOSH! I AM GONNA DIE!

On February 16, 2062.
I will be 88 years old. That sounds okay to me. That means I still have 55 years to find the perfect man. The way things are going, I think that might just be how long it takes. Notice how I will die two days after St. Valentine's day? (Marci, it took all I had not to write Valentime's. HA!)
This is how I see it panning out.

Int: Old folks home, decorated for Valentine's day.

Pan in: on small person in large EZ Boy recliner. Notice that for an 88 year old, she is damn fine.

Old Man carries flowers to her.

WENTWORTH MILLER, AGED 89

I have been looking for you my whole life. Here you are, still as damned fine as I knew you would be. Let's love.

BUGGIE, AGED 88

That's sounds good to me, you still as handsome as ever old fool.

Together they slowly creep with the help of various walking aids off screen.

Pan to clock. Time flies by.

Pan to old couple, still walking...

Pan to calendar, day goes by...

Pan to couple, still walking...

Int: Old folks home bedroom, you know with florals and hospital bed.

Fade to black

Find out when you are going to die here.

Ahoy, me mateys!

Today be International Talk Like a Pirate day. Arrrr, me hearties! Today be the day where ye landlubbers send me doubloons and booty else I be sendin' ye off to Davy Jones' Locker, deep beneath the sea where ye shall find yer doom! Listen here, ya scurvy dogs, bring me saucy wenches and I be keepin' the cat o'nine tails from your scurvied hide. Bring me sons of a biscuit eater, and ye will be walkin' the plank. Arrrrr! Shiver me timbers, ye scallywags. We be drinking grog and singin' a chantey.
Fair winds!
Buggie Bucchaneer

Getting an oil change is pricey!

Today I took my car in to get an oil change, emissions tested and to rotate the tires. It cost me $214. Shocking! I know. Let me explain.

While they work on my car, I head over to a nice store that sells clothes and shoes. When they called my cellphone to let me know my car was ready to go, so was I... with a new suit, a t-shirt, a pair of boots and a kicky pair of heels. $173.

The car stuff was only $41.

Because this happens every time I go, I am lucky I only need to change the oil every three months.

2nd viewing of the show you are not watching but I am and aren't you glad because then you don't have to watch it because you can get the gist of it..

Title continued: here without having to subject your ears to the brutalization that I will undergo for YOUUUUUU.

I watched Celebrity Duets, but my DVR is punishing me by cutting off the ends of shows and so I do not know who was tossed. I do know that it is either Leah Thompson or Cheech Marin. I think Cheech would have to go as he reminds me of a ventriliquist dummy and I know I can't be the only one who sees that.

I will find out who was removed and get back to ya'll later.

People are so stoopid.

We gots to revenge the death of our pal Steve Irwin. We are coming after YOU, sting rays! You'd better watch out. That was disrespectful what you did, killing Stevie. How dare you?

Well, we are going to make sure it doesn't happen again. We are going to find you, cut your tails off and then throw you on the beach. What do you think about that? Bet you wish you hadn't hurt Mr. Irwin now, doncha? That's right! It's MISTER Irwin to you punks. You'd better recognize. This is OUR planet and it would serve you best to recognize your place and ours. We LET you swim/float/whatever movement it is that you do in OUR ocean. We'll teach you some respect. Now off with them tails.

MAKE IT STOP

Oh good and dear Lord, make Jamie Foxx stop singing. He is using his voice to bludgeon me and each fluctuation is like a stab to my soul. And the song? What was that? Musical porn?

"Can I take you home, girl? Getcha all alone, baby and do you like I want to and kiss you like I want to."

Awkward moaning and off pitch wailing with the occassional air sucking in so as to maybe demonstrate desire? Then, the ubiquitous oh oh oh oh. OH OH OH OH. ohhhh ohhhh ohhh ohhh ohhhhh.

Why are celebrities trying to make me go deaf? And why am I a captive audience?

On a related note: I have not yet watched the second episode of Celebrity Duets, but I will because I have no regard for my own well being. I do it all for you.

I have been a resident of this area most of my life.

There is a part of me that really is not fond of the personality type that seems to exist and thrive in Washington DC. I dislike how people don't seem to look out for each other. Everyone is only interested in how they can get ahead, and if you get in the way, well, there is a great possibility that you will be steamrolled. (And I don't mean in a super cool, Strange Brew kind of way.) The worst part of that is that the steamroller8/204/200/Image(08).jpg" border="0" alt="" />

Zouk and Phuture last night. It was a crazy ordeal. No camera = no pics. =) Too bad. Next time.

I love my boyfriend!gger.com/blogger/1808/204/200/Image%2809%29.jpg" border="0" alt="" />

Zouk and Phuture last night. It was a crazy ordeal. No camera = no pics. =) Too bad. Next time.

I love my boyfriend!

Smeh

Is it just me, or is the whole Suri "Tomkitten" Holmes-Cruise thing kind of a let down? I saw the pictures this morning and there they are. It's a kid. Wooo.
I liked her better when she was a pillow stuffed under Katie's shirt, or an alien with tentacles. The alien story could have some shelf life in it yet as we can say that they had to wait for four months to get the human suit to fit properly. She does had the downward slope of Katie's eyes, so I may buy that Katie Holmes did indeed, bring a baby into the world. I am holding my judgment on paternity until the kid's teeth come in, so as to see whether they are jacked up like Tom's. You remember how his teeth were all pushed to the side so in effect he had one front tooth? Look here. Ha! No, I'm kidding. That photo just made me laugh. Look here. There you can see his front tooth. I am standing by my assertion that this slimy fella is the father and that they are expecting Suri Cruise to grow up to be the Scientologist Messiah. I bet she grows up to be Courtney Love. Just a thought. Are the Scientologists going to come after me? I'm fairly unpure. The process for converting me would be way too involved.
Gotta go.

Crikey means gee whiz, wow!

Steve Irwin was killed this morning while filming an undersea documentary, by a stingray. The stingray's barb hit the Crocodile Hunter right in the heart. The venom went straight into his system causing cardiac arrest. Death from stingray attacks is very rare. It is a weird way for a man who dealt with some of the most dangerous creatures on the planet to die. I really used to love watching his crazy antics.

R.I.P

Steve Irwin

1962-2006

I have no fear of losing my life - if I have to save a koala or a crocodile or a kangaroo or a snake, mate, I will save it. Steve Irwin

Recap of a show you probably didn't watch, but I did and will again.

Dear friends,
As my predilection for bad reality television keeps me monitoring the channels for new shows to tape, I found and watched Celebrity Duets tonight. As such, should you desire to speak with me, you must do so via written word as my ears have turned black and fallen off from the musical stylings of the wondrous pipes of those such as Leah Thompson and Carly Patterson (the gymnast who apparently plans to make a career out of singing. Singing. With her voice.)

Some notes from my experience:

My relationship with (wrestler) Chris Jericho is over. You heard it here first! The singing and stage presence was so unfortunate. Well, maybe I wouldn't kick him out of bed, unless he tried singing to me. (He is just a little too cute. And the acid wash, tightly fitted gray jeans were making me go blind in my left eye. I had already begun to lose my hearing at this point, losing an eye was simply too much to bear.) I did not want to see the softer side of Chris Jericho. I liked the Best Week Ever Chris.

I think that the crush that was reserved for Chris has been transferred to Lucy Lawless (though I would kick her out for singing, too). Has she always been that pretty?

Hal Sparks is kind of dweeby, but he could be my boyfriend if he'd just call me back.

Please send Carly Patterson home. She makes my ears fold up and insert themselves into my eustachian tubes in an attempt to protect me from the horror.

Fricken' hell! Gladys Knight is adorable. The little Randy Jackson inside my head is all "She Blows, Dog!" Which I find viciously insulting of such an icon, so I had the little Simon Cowell in my head knock him down.

Um... Little Richard talked at length about Cheech Marin's bone.... um.... That gives me scabies. Gross.

I kind of dig Michelle Williams voice. (Destiny's Child #3). I wonder how many packs of cigarettes I would have to smoke in order to sound like her.

Send Carly Patterson home. (I totally give her props for being so brave, but honey, think of the children.)

Does Little Richard do his own bedazzling or does he send it out? Why is he little Richard? Who was big Richard? Is something little on him? Scratch that! Don't wanna know.

I had to fast forward through the recap to see them send Carly Patterson home, right? It's between her and my ex. Keep Chris. At least he is hot, even if he is wearing those jeans.

They kept Carly and sent Chris Jericho packing. (Ha, packing.) Damn. At least he won't sink further. Go do something fierce, Chris! Maybe my crush on you will resurface... when you are not singing.