Baby Got Black: The Sequel

This afternoon, I almost stole a black baby from a local burger joint. Now now, I know what you're all thinking: "Didn't she almost steal a black baby from a city bus once? What in G-d's good name is wrong with this girl?" Before I get pegged as a crazy would-be baby thieveress, let me reiterate my dislike of children. Further, I didn't ACTUALLY almost steal him. I would never thieve a child (a pan of fresh baked Ghiradelli brownies, maybe. But that is another story for another day when I finally give up on my arteries.) In fact, 99.9% of them annoy the crap out of me. It just happens that Montclair is apparently populated with hoards of the most adorable black babies the world has ever seen.

Today's baby was named Bishop (which begs the question of who ACTUALLY names their child "Bishop"...you know...like the chess piece? I guess? But I digress) and he was one year old (strangers also like to tell me the life stories of themselves and their children; it happens at least 5 times each day.) He was walking around the burger joint with his mom as his dad got their food ready (go ahead, everyone have a good laugh that the vegetarian was in a burger joint, because no one has yet realized that veggie burgers have been around for at least fifteen years. Hardy har har), and then tried to sit across from me at my table. The determination on his face was priceless...until his mom yanked him away, apologized, and took him back to their table.

It was mildly heartbreaking. But still not as much as when they discontinued all-banana Tootsie Roll pops.

And Now for Something Completely Different.

Like snow. To that end, I've decided to petition Ms. Nature for a redress of grievances (a.k.a. let's send the mother of all mothers a bitchy rambling piece of brain trash composed as the clock approached midnight):

I have to hand it to you, Mother Nature. You've really gotten all sorts of creative this winter. We've had blizzards, on top of sleet, on top of dustings, on top of more blizzards. I have to tell you, I'm not thrilled. You see, dear Mother Nature, I'm really not a fan of this mayhem you've chosen to unleash on our fair state. I understand that it's New Jersey and if I hate snow, I should move south. But, Mother Nature, what you don't seem to realize is that I'm scared of the following things: palmetto bugs; fatback; and kissing cousins. I just don't think I'd last too long in those states we should have just let secede.

Furthermore, I understand that snow is good because it blah blah blah something about global warming. In the interest of being fully candid, though, I must tell you that your behavior this season is really just making me want to drink from disposable plastic water bottles while driving the new SUV I'm going to purchase just to spite you.

Bitter? I wouldn't call it bitter. I'd call it time for sunshine before I crawl into a hole and don't emerge until June, when it will be time for Mountain Jam, and my soul will no longer be weeping.

Mother Nature, please just stop. Save the snow for those polar bears who really need it, and give me back my 70 degree Februaries.

Slowly losing it,
Me.

Ode to My Fat Jeans

Fat jeans
My fat jeans
I love you so

You let my ass grow
And grow
...and grow

I don't care that you're faded
And ripped
And tattered

You let me eat veggies
Not steamed
But beer-battered

While my skinny jeans would mock me
And make me feel awful
You'd encourage that extra waffle

Fat jeans
My fat jeans
I love you so

You let my ass grow.
You let my ass grow.

The Biblical Grace of the Bathroom Wall

Written in a stall of the bathroom located on the History Department's floor is the following conversation (contained hereunder within brackets for easy identification):

[Root Statement: "Love thy neighbor."
Reply to Root Statement: "God is Everywhere."
Reply to Reply: "Amen"
Reply to Amen: "Especially when you masturbate."]


...
....
.....
...And let us say, "Amen."

Baby, You Can Drive My Bus

I love The Beatles (in case you didn't catch the oh-so-subtle tribute to them in tonight's title, I'll just state it outright.) I do not love creepy store clerks who hit on me while selling me my monthly bus pass. As you may already know, public transit has become a really important part of my life. Part of it is because it gets me from my apartment to my campus and back again. Part of it is just so I can lovingly remember the days of being crammed between a fat drunk kid about to vomit and a couple who may or may not be having sex on my way to stats class. (By the way Rutgers, stay classy.)

So last week, as I bid January a fond farewell, I made my way to the nearest vendor of monthly bus passes, located in the train station-turned-mini-mall near my apartment. I was really proud of myself for being on top of things and purchasing my ticket before the months even changed. I was also really cold and badly in need of chocolate. (Which, as usual, bears no pertinence to the story at hand. But it seemed like I should mention it for all the fellow cold-hating chocolate lovers out there.) I go up to the window and clearly request a one-zone monthly pass. The man behind the window smiles creepily and says something to the effect of, "You don't want me to give it to you, two zones?"

...Well, golly. If I weren't already taken, that offer would have swept me off my feet for sure. Nothing gets me going quite like a dash of badly-orchestrated sexual innuendo surrounding a bus ticket purchase.

I already knew it was going to be a special day. I looked at him and said, "No. I just need a bus pass for one zone. That's 49 [dollars], right?"

"Ohhh you want it, 49 zones?!" Now, I'm no master of anatomy. In fact when it comes to science, I'm that kid that is perpetually riding the little bus. But I'm pretty sure that's not even humanly possible.

Anyway, he must have eventually realized I wasn't feeling it. I paid, took my bus pass, and left, to start yet another strange day in the city I'm currently calling home. Cheers, Mr.Creepy. Cheers.

Is This the Laptop Line?

I have little patience for stupidity. Actually, that's an understatement. I think stupidity should be punishable by public flogging. I constantly find myself wondering how 98% of the population has made it this far. Similarly, and ironically, I find that the highest concentrations of absolute dolts seem to reside on college campuses.

(Here is some pertinent background information in which I'm positive no one is interested: For my current job, I spend hours upon hours in the library's dungeon reading and transcribing reels of microfilm tax logs that are pushing the ripe old age of 150. To facilitate this, I require but a few, wee simple contraptions:

1) REALLY ancient microfilm scanner that is about as stable as a PMSing woman who has just had both her chocolate and Midol stolen; and
2) A laptop.

Once I've procured my film from our dear MSU history department (LOVE THEM!), I trot across the way to resume my post as subterranean library troll. Usually, this is the highlight of my day. I actually look forward to work because the only people I have to listen to are the members of The Dead as they resonate through my headphones. However, today was not going to be one of those days.)

I arrived at the library only to find that the laptop checkout line was stretching halfway through the lobby. Stupendous. I get on line, and proceed to wait patiently while trendy-tortured-huffy-artist-girl-with-giant portfolio holder brushes past everyone to demand that she go first because she wanted a Mac, not a PC (She would!). I continue to wait, stare at the backs of my counterparts, and calculate the number of minutes in line that I will never get back in life. I listen halfheartedly as tall-chunky-creeper with a beard proceeds to hit on each member of the laptop staff. And then I feel someone tap me on the shoulder: "Is This the Laptop Line?"

It's not that there were a bunch of students waiting under a sign clearly marked "LAPTOP." It's not even the fact that each student in the line that was previously without a laptop walked away proudly carrying the same. In fact, I'm not sure what it is. Regardless, in my mind, there she went. To the stocks. Without a laptop.

Dear Zack Morris

Thanks for not getting ugly after all these years.