My friend, Megan, and I have birthdays about 2 weeks apart, so when I saw a recent Facebook status update from her saying that she wasn't liking this new age I was immediately concerned that something horrifying happens the day you turn this age. Well, it turns out it's not an age-specific thing, it's just a really, really shitty year for my friend thus far. I won't get into specifics as it's not my business to air the details of her life. All I will say is that a couple of days after her birthday she received a gift that she's been waiting for a long time only to find out mere weeks later that she can't keep it.
Megan and I became friends in late middle school, but it wasn't until freshman algebra that our friendship was really cemented. We would spend hours on the phone doing our homework together, eventually coming up with the right solutions to the complex problems (although as our teacher pointed out one day our solutions were frequently correct, but often the "long" answer to a problem that could've been solved in 5 steps instead of 15.).
Through the years Megan and I have solved our share of problems: from the time we almost lit her mom's house on fire making funnel cake on a camping stove, to finding solutions to our relationship problems, and even figuring out a way to drive in a snowstorm with no electrical systems in the car. With our combined smarts and wit it seemed like there was nothing we couldn't fix, even when the proverbial chips were down.
But now Megan has a problem that I can't help her fix. I know she will be okay because she is strong and has a lot of love and support at home, but unlike our algebra problems, there doesn't seem to be a short solution to this. I wish there was a way I could warp space and time and modern medicine and make it all right for her.
So, Meg, until I can figure out how to harness 1.21 jiggawatts, know that I am here to help make it better however I can; even if that involves attempting funnel cake.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Next Thing I Knew...
I had a very interesting weekend, it began when I arrived home from my moonlighting gig around 2am Friday night (technically Sat morning)....
I got out of my cab on the corner because my street was blocked off due to some Big Deal production--and, by Big Deal I mean my friend, Eddie, had been texting me furiously earlier with all of the celebrity (real and potential) sightings he had been having. I also mean Big Deal, in that they had an entire Manhattan street closed down, granted it was 2am, but nonetheless, we're not talking low-budget indie here. In addition, there was a giant 6-story high crane parked on 6th Avenue fixed with a huge stadium-style light shining down my street...at 2am. I waltzed over to the nearest Production Assistant to inquire as to how long this night-shoot-masquerading-as-daytime would last (having been disrupted 2 weeks ago by Ugly Betty shining a spotlight directly into my bedroom window, I was not anxious to have a repeat bad-night's sleep). Luckily, they wrapped very quickly, but it set my weekend off to an interesting start.
Saturday found me paying a visit to my favorite, crazy Polish waxer, Lana. I should note that Lana is quite a talker and a little bit crazy, so sometimes I just let her talk and don't pay complete attention to what she's saying. Note to self, not a great idea to not pay attention to what the woman with the hot wax is saying, as I learned this weekend. Lana was busy working on me, slathering wax and chatting away and the next thing I know hair was being ripped from places on my body where hair has never been ripped from before. By that point, it was too late to say anything, lest I risk being oddly asymmetrical for the next 6-8 weeks. Next thing I know, she's thrusting a mirror in my hand to show off her handiwork. She then asked me if I wanted her to "take a little more off?" I politely declined, while secretly wondering where she was planning to "take a little more from." From what I could see (with my trusty mirror) there wasn't really much left to "take."
The rest of the weekend passed somewhat uneventfully, but after the 12 hours of excitement on Saturday I was pretty glad to have nothing else to report.
I got out of my cab on the corner because my street was blocked off due to some Big Deal production--and, by Big Deal I mean my friend, Eddie, had been texting me furiously earlier with all of the celebrity (real and potential) sightings he had been having. I also mean Big Deal, in that they had an entire Manhattan street closed down, granted it was 2am, but nonetheless, we're not talking low-budget indie here. In addition, there was a giant 6-story high crane parked on 6th Avenue fixed with a huge stadium-style light shining down my street...at 2am. I waltzed over to the nearest Production Assistant to inquire as to how long this night-shoot-masquerading-as-daytime would last (having been disrupted 2 weeks ago by Ugly Betty shining a spotlight directly into my bedroom window, I was not anxious to have a repeat bad-night's sleep). Luckily, they wrapped very quickly, but it set my weekend off to an interesting start.
Saturday found me paying a visit to my favorite, crazy Polish waxer, Lana. I should note that Lana is quite a talker and a little bit crazy, so sometimes I just let her talk and don't pay complete attention to what she's saying. Note to self, not a great idea to not pay attention to what the woman with the hot wax is saying, as I learned this weekend. Lana was busy working on me, slathering wax and chatting away and the next thing I know hair was being ripped from places on my body where hair has never been ripped from before. By that point, it was too late to say anything, lest I risk being oddly asymmetrical for the next 6-8 weeks. Next thing I know, she's thrusting a mirror in my hand to show off her handiwork. She then asked me if I wanted her to "take a little more off?" I politely declined, while secretly wondering where she was planning to "take a little more from." From what I could see (with my trusty mirror) there wasn't really much left to "take."
The rest of the weekend passed somewhat uneventfully, but after the 12 hours of excitement on Saturday I was pretty glad to have nothing else to report.
Friday, May 1, 2009
The 25th Hour
When I was in high school there was this club in a nearby city called "The 25th Hour" and on certain nights it was for under 18's, meaning high schoolers could go as no alcohol would be served. They had these radio ads that ran which used the song "the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire" as part of their, I guess, jingle.
Well, the other night at my apartment the roof was, almost, on fire. In my attempts to be more frugal I have decided to eat most of my meals at home, which I realized was going to involve me finally cooking something other than Campbell's soup and Kraft Mac 'n Cheese. So, I decided to bake a potato, and this being a modern era (and the fact that my oven has never quite worked right since there was a fire in there---this one not my fault) I decided to bake it in the microwave. I put said potato on a plate and set the microwave off to do its job. Since I put it in for a good 10 minutes, I decided to go into the living room to eat my salad while it cooked. Well, after a good amount of time my roommate (who, thank goodness was doing dishes in the kitchen) called out, "um, I think you should come in here." As soon as I got up I could see black smoke billowing out of the microwave. I immediately ran over turned it off and unplugged it, got the fire extinguisher out from under the sink and instructed my roommate to dismantle the smoke detector and open all the windows in the apartment.
And then I just stood there waiting....
For what, I'm not sure. Maybe for the fire to exit the safely contained confines of the box, or maybe for it to explode, I'm not sure. Thank goodness it didn't explode, or leave the confines of the box. It eventually burned itself out leaving the acrid smell of fire in our apartment along with the lingering smoke that was still billowing around the ceiling. When I eventually felt it was safe to open the door of the microwave it was to discover the potato still intact, but practically disintegrated and the plate it was sitting on charred to a crisp. Apparently the plate wasn't microwave safe. Okay. Well, lesson learned, do not heat non-microwave safe dishes beyond a certain point in the microwave lest they start a toxic-smelling fire.
Happily, the microwave is still operational, and 3 days later the smell of smoke has practically dissipated from the apartment. However, I think I'll stick to soup and pasta for now until I muster up the courage to attempt cooking again.
Well, the other night at my apartment the roof was, almost, on fire. In my attempts to be more frugal I have decided to eat most of my meals at home, which I realized was going to involve me finally cooking something other than Campbell's soup and Kraft Mac 'n Cheese. So, I decided to bake a potato, and this being a modern era (and the fact that my oven has never quite worked right since there was a fire in there---this one not my fault) I decided to bake it in the microwave. I put said potato on a plate and set the microwave off to do its job. Since I put it in for a good 10 minutes, I decided to go into the living room to eat my salad while it cooked. Well, after a good amount of time my roommate (who, thank goodness was doing dishes in the kitchen) called out, "um, I think you should come in here." As soon as I got up I could see black smoke billowing out of the microwave. I immediately ran over turned it off and unplugged it, got the fire extinguisher out from under the sink and instructed my roommate to dismantle the smoke detector and open all the windows in the apartment.
And then I just stood there waiting....
For what, I'm not sure. Maybe for the fire to exit the safely contained confines of the box, or maybe for it to explode, I'm not sure. Thank goodness it didn't explode, or leave the confines of the box. It eventually burned itself out leaving the acrid smell of fire in our apartment along with the lingering smoke that was still billowing around the ceiling. When I eventually felt it was safe to open the door of the microwave it was to discover the potato still intact, but practically disintegrated and the plate it was sitting on charred to a crisp. Apparently the plate wasn't microwave safe. Okay. Well, lesson learned, do not heat non-microwave safe dishes beyond a certain point in the microwave lest they start a toxic-smelling fire.
Happily, the microwave is still operational, and 3 days later the smell of smoke has practically dissipated from the apartment. However, I think I'll stick to soup and pasta for now until I muster up the courage to attempt cooking again.
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