Enter the DisneyLimboLand

Why hello there, welcome. Do come in. I’m so happy to see you! I anticipated that your might be hungry from your travels, so I took the liberty of laying out a lovely spread of peanut butter finger sandwiches and chilled some Brita water for us. Oh don’t be silly, it was nothing at all. What? Of course the peanut butter is organic. What do I look like, a Republican?

Why yes, it is a lovely neighborhood isn’t it? The streets smell of aluminum foil that was once wrapped around a cart falafel and there is a homeless man stuck in a gap in the chain linked fence. No, no don’t worry, he’s fine! That is just where he sleeps.

It would be great if you would take off your shoes as we try to keep street feces out of the carpet, but I understand if you need the extra arch support. Sometimes I forget about that handicap because here in Brooklyn we have evolved. Flat foots didn’t stand a chance during the great Tom’s Shoe plague of 2010.

Oh, dear! What’s the matter, why have you ducked under my Ikea table? Ha, you’re so crazy, that’s no earthquake. Where do you think we are…LA…? (Scoff!, Ew!) That’s just the G train. It’s kind of comforting how it rocks the house back and forth, isn’t it? It brings me back to the days where I would smoke myself retarded and experience hiccups of vertigo the next day while I was buying some chapstick at CVS. I still always forget my chapstick, some things never change! I must have 30 half used tubes by now. Would you like some? Sometimes when I’m hungry and my weird mysteriously skinny roommate is making dumplings at midnight I just gnaw on a stick of Cherry Chapstick and pretend like my stomach is happy…

My job? Oh it’s going really, really well. I was able to find this great internship that pays the most nothing. Sometimes I don’t go and instead I drink margaritas out of a styrofoam cup in the park. Yes, on a Wednesday in the daytime.  No it’s totally fine, everyone else does it. Why aren’t they working? Most people my age have internship that pay less than my most nothing salary so they don’t have as much responsibility and their hours are that much more flexible.

What do I do, exactly? I’m in television. No, not Jersey Shore, but that is the “dream,” as they say. I work on set, and also sometimes in development. I’ve got this great idea for a show about meth-addicted half Asian swimsuit models that live in the back of a Dunkin Donuts in Nebraska. Just need to find the right network…

I hope you don’t have plans for tonight, because my friend’s friend’s band is playing in an abandoned lollipop factory in DUMBO (it’s a real neighborbood!) and I am on the guest list. They have a really fresh sound. I guess I’d describe it as pan-sexual Ecuadorian hip-hop with a little bit of Radiohead thrown in. Everyone that shows up gets a free personalized Pog and afterwards we usually play naked Scrabble.

Nooo…don’t go…staaaaaay. This is the greatest place in the world. Brooklyn is wide, wide, wide and we are young, young, young and every one here is going to live forever. Shhhhhh. It’s all going to be okay. Take this Moleskin. Cut your bangs. Drink the Kool-Aid.

This Is Not About Valentine’s Day

Just so you know, this is not going to be about Valentine’s Day.

“But why not?!” You whine. “I despise Valentine’s Day and had a sneaking suspicion that, you, as a female comically inclined writer, must be dripping with bitterness and loathe it as well. Won’t you please acknowledge this spinstery-dreaded day so I can feel less alone as I sink into my sectional in my leopard print Snuggie and hot pink Happy Feet and stick a straw in this bottle of wine?”

Nope. Not happening. I refuse to give Valentine’s Day any more attention. She does not deserve it. If Valentine’s Day and I made direct eye contact on the train today and she was all waaaavin’ and smiiiiilin’ like the idiot she is, I would look directly back down at my upside down Metro newspaper and not feel a singe of guilt. Why? Because Valentine’s Day is a bitch. I have given her way too many opportunities to be my friend- all great, perfect, wide open opportunities- and she blew it nearly every single time.

The exchange usually goes something like this:

I’m all, “Heeeey Valentines Day, I see you are wearing a oversized rapper T-Shirt and reading a book about Hunter S. Thompson! I like to do both of those things, so that’s pretty neat. How will you be spending this fine Sunday evening? Catching up on Intervention and eating an espresso mug full of Craisins? Whilst casually sipping on a glass of Maker’s on the rocks, because lately you’ve been drinking too much beer? Me too! Social science suggests we are destined to be best friends!”

Ah. But friends we would never be. Valentine’s Day may have coldly responded to my questions, fake smiled and agreed that, yes, we could in theory be “besties” …but then she just turned around and walked away, “accidentally” whacking me with her stupid, hideous Coach bag in the exaggerated process. She strutted off in her more expensive version of the same shoes I was wearing and started texting broke-ass versions of me, seeing if maybe they would be interested in going out for sushi later and talking about their feelings.

Every time we bump into each other, the interaction is the same. Except for that one time. One red-banner day, Valentine’s Day put out a really valiant effort. We ran into each other and instead of the usual glare-n-dash, she flashed a welcoming smile and took the time to invest in a conversation, even humoring me with a bit of witty banter. I thought to myself, hey maybe Valentine’s Day has changed. Maybe we can be friends.

Pshh. If only. Our very next meeting, she inexplicably brushed me off again,  as  if our lovely chat, all the laughs we shared!, had never happened. There I was left as she strutted on by…left standing like a fool, in the rain, on the wrong block.

But hey, fahgetaboutit, right? Like I said, I’m not going to talk about that corn syrupy faux-sweet n’ shallow waste of air.

I won’t bother mentioning how it even when we were both in the right place at the right time, it didn’t matter, she still found a way to stiff me. Oftentimes we found ourselves the first to arrive at dinner party. When the host would leave the room to check on the baked brie, clearing the way for some human bonding, what would she do? Would she join me in mocking the garish rug in the center of the room like any decent soul being would? No. The cold-hearted harlot would instead look down at her imitation leather-cased Blackberry and read her daily horoscope (we’re both Taurus, but she doesn’t care).

I just…I just don’t get it.

And then all the other guests would show up and be like, oh, Valentine’s Day it’s so nice to see you again! You look fantastic! And then Valentine’s Day would make some dumb joke and everyone would laugh and I would just be sitting there grinning like a monkey on a merry-go-round until someone would say,

“Hey Nora, have you met Valentine’s Day yet?”

And I would have to respond,

“Yeah, we have met like a billion times.”

And then the idiot would go on,

“You guys seem like you would really hit it off. You have so much in common.”

And then I would closed-mouth smile and take a very large sip of my drink.

The worst part is, I always knew she was a terrible person, and that our “common interests” were just a front so she could keep me hooked and reap all of the benefits of being an image of unattainable popularity. I knew this, but for some reason I still yearned to be friends with her. Perhaps it was because everyone built her up so much. And sure, on paper, it would seem that we really should have gotten along great. But there was something about her…person. She would walk around with that unwarranted air of superiority, pretend to befriend you… and then… “accidentally” spill her fluorescent Appletini all over your kick-ass new dress.

Well I am spent. Never shall I utter her name again. These days it seem we don’t have much in common anyway, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. She’s a fresh out of college Communications major who just got engaged to her slick-haired investment banker sweetheart and I am a nocturnal bar-slave and a “freelance writer” who sleeps on futon, goes out on weeknights and has permanently chipped nail polish. Meh. We’ll see who’s better off in 5 years.

So yeah. If you’re looking for someone to complain with you about Valentine’s Day, you’ll just have to keep moving across the internet, as there will be no mention of that See You Next Tuesday here. And you better believe the next time she shows her pink and plastic face ‘round here, I’ll give her nothing but the cold shoulder.

I hear chicks love it when you play hard to get…?

The Resurrection

Oh hey. Hello there. Funny running into you here on the internet. What a treat this is.

You guys. Let me first begin by applauding you. YEAH, YOU. All of you. You’re alllll to thank. Because of wordpress.com’s super fancy “dashboard” feature, I am able to keep tabs on you. Not you, like, specifically (although the WhiteMan probably can, so I’d be careful regardless) but you as a general viewing audience. My last post was in July. Do you know how many months ago that was? A lot of months. I don’t feel like counting because clearly my fingers are very busy typing at the moment and I forget how to perform that function without utilizing my appendages. But yes, since July, despite my clear disregard for all things extracurricular, someone, anyone, has been reading this. At least one person every single day, although often significantly more. This amazes and flatters me. Ya’ll are such cuties.

Oh wait, it gets better. The only day, and I mean ONLY day, in which no one read my dear, sweet Smokey Taboo, was on September 11th. I’m not kidding and I’m not even mad. As good, loyal, Bud Diesel-drinking Americans you clearly knew there were no smiles allowed on this day. And for this I applaud you.

Anyways. ARE YOU READY?! Back by popular(ish…) demand! I now declare Smokey Taboo: RESURRECTED. Poof. Wham. Pow. Digital cloud of smoke. Pixie dust fuckin’ everywhere.

Great news, in case you missed it: It’s a new year, you guys! Thank god, right? What a overall terrible fucking year. Maybe terrible is a harsh word…but regardless, mine was full of surreal highs and soul crushing lows, which, despite what the math suggests, do not balance out very well in realface. It’s hard to keep up with. It just ain’t right.

You want a glimpse of what my goddamn year was all about?

Oh 2K10… you were confusing. For the majority of you, I was illegally living in an apartment in New York City with an Ethiopian con artist who loved to watch the Bachelor. I was afraid to do my laundry for fear of being spotted and then evicted by the building president, so I would put it off for extended periods of time. Gross. There was a sudden, then gradual unraveling of some shit I had been lead to believe was wound pretty tight. At one point I was the coat check chick at a shady jazz club in the Village; one of those places with a lot of fake, tattered red velvet couches and stand up comedians as opening acts. I got to drink for free and I chose Gin and Tonics every time. I had a hoop nose ring for a week or so. I lost my digital camera full of memories in a cab and spilled vodka on all of my valuable electronics. I turned 22, which is the first totally pointless birthday. I fell asleep by the East River and got a heinous sunburn. I went to a lesbian bar or two and got really offended when no one hit on me. They told me they knew I was straight. I felt strangely transparent.

My computer became too old to support Hulu. My Y key fell off. My T key fell off. My brain fell off. One day my job was to wander around Spanish Harlem looking for a lost dog, armed with nothing but a bag of cheese. I joined a gym that had a cucumber water cooler and everyone that was a member there totally effing sucked. I danced really hard very often and used fake accents around people I thought were morons. I had a really intense conversation with a town car driver that used to personally drive for Mariah Carey and Robert DeNiro. He and his flight attendant best friend were about to use her  stewardess perks and hop on the next flight to a tropical island available for a mere two days. Just to get away. They were a couple of 30-something year old lost souls who bonded over being slaves to the service industry. I traveled back and forth a lot to Boston (once to Foxwoods… and a hotel in Mystic, Connecticut…), but most of the time it maybe would have  been best to stay in one place.

I got really lucky. Someone took me under their wing and showed me some high-class NYC. I got to go to very fancy outdoor bars on hotel rooftop patios. I was taught how to play pool (I still suck, but becoming a skilled pool hustler is now my New Years Resolution) in a Brooklyn dive bar. I sang with a big ol’ girl in a band on the street corner outside. I met a lot of people that really pissed me off, but a handful of good people that didn’t, most of which came about way too late.

Then I had to move home to the Boston burbs and finish…school. In the summer. Dumb. I was very emotionally unsettled for, meh, who knows. I took Spanish 101 and didn’t get a good grade despite previously having taken Spanish for 6 years. I took a film class and realized old movies were where it’s at. I kept getting really dangerously dehydrated. What was up with that? Once my Girl Gang and I wore I cat masks out for no reason and told people we were in a punk rock band. I started this blog. I started to go numb.

BUT OH WAIT. NOW IT’S A NEW YEAR. And although looking back, 2K10 was rather eventful, this one will be way fucking better, entirely due to apathy. Welcome to Don’t Give A Shit 2K11, kids. I’m living for myself and I’m living for the story, nothing and no one else, and that is that. If I were a Pokemon, I would have evolved. Into a cooler one. That breathes big flames and shit. All over the place. What does this mean? It means everything. Who knows. I could, you know, hop on a bus to god knows where with god knows who entirely on a whim. Or maybe sometime I’ll co-pilot a 20 hour snowplow mission, and drink beer in the passenger seat and play music and feel invincible. Maybe another other day I’ll let someone give me a homemade tat, prison style, bitchezzz, as a homage to one of my favorite poems…? I mean, why the fuck not, right? Some day I’ll elaborate on these further. You know, if they actually happened.

Anyway. I’m sorry this isn’t your typical ST entry. All things will resume as expected in due time. But hey. Merry belated DGAS2k11 everyone. And Happy Smokey Taboo Resurrection Day.

-EnEmDee

GIRL POWER! PEACE SIGN!

WHAT’S UP LAY-DEEZ. Just so you know, I’m going to be using some serious capital letters a lot because this is a WOMAN EMPOWERMENT POST.

Oh shit. Did I just scare all of the dudes away? I didn’t mean to do that. Guys, stay! It will be fine, we’ll have a good time, and maybe learn a few things along the way. Aight? I’ve never steered you wrong.

But this one goes out to all the ladies. And also for all the guys that want to try and understand them (at least the kind of ladies that would appreciate this, which are the only kind worth dating) so they can appropriately make make-a the romance. Now this is not a “guest contributor to CNN.com” woman-centered article…because trust me I have read plenty of those and they are twelve thousand percent crap. Oh really, you’re complaining about how the gym turned into a sweaty-ass match.com? Oh, cool, you’re sick of pretending like you want to split the bill for that dinner the random dude at the dive bar asked you out to? DON’T DATE PEOPLE WHO GO TO YOUR GYM, SWEAT OUT YOUR RED VELVET CUPCAKE IN HIDEOUS PEACE; IF HE IS THE ONE TO ASK YOU OUT, YOU POLITELY REACH FOR YOUR INSUFFICIENT DEBIT CARD, HE INSISTS ON PAYING, YOU SMILE, DONE. Great, I just saved you 500-700 words.

So anyways. I have some advice for you, my sisters. It’s all very obvious but it seems that the obvious is often the first to be forgotten.

I just waxed poetic all over this piece.

1. RELAAAAX. You have a zit? Cool, you’re a human. Your best friend’s boyfriend saw you without mascara on? Oh crap, now he’ll never date you! Wait…did you just…trip…and fall…? In front of those four people in American History 201 that arrive as early as you do? Noooo! All those kids that never converse with one another will totally be talking about you when they don’t hang out at parties.

Let me help you feel better about your life. This one time, I left my office building during a high-traffic period…(which means, when half of the building is following me directly down the stairs)… right by the security guards that I wave to every single day… across bustling Causeway Street (where a Duck Tour tour bus drove by, snapping photos galore)…all while my dress was tucked into my underwear. Thank God a kindhearted Spanish woman in a custodian outfit finally chased me down and brought my wardrobe malfunction to my attention.

THIS WAS EMBARRASSING. In fact, it was borderline mortifying. There is no doubt in my mind that some freshman at CU Boulder has a photo of my unsuspecting ass on Facebook. All of the already sketchy security guards suddenly got so much sketchier. If I ever ran into that lady from the HR department at the vending machine, you better believe I was abandoning my animal crackers. But you know what? It’s a hell of an ‘effing story. And that is what life is all about. Telling stories, handling anything that is thrown your way, laughing with people, being…real.

2. EAT FOOD. Now this doesn’t mean go get one of those pancake and sausage sandwiches that they grill on Hank’s muffler in the back of 7-Eleven. I’m just saying eat some freaking bread once in a while. Have an ice cream cone when you’re at one of those quaint sea-side shanties that your boy takes you to. You think your boyfriend wants to order a large cookie dough in a sugar cone and have you order a thimble of those strawberries they sometimes put on top? He doesn’t. He wants you to behave as real creature and as someone that appreciates delicious and appropriate things. And if he gives you some weird look or comment after you order something that is most likely already less caloric than what his metabolically privileged self is scarfing down, DUMP HIS ASS. Seriously. I’m not advocating for obesity, I’m advocating for reality. Hips are what separates us from the animals. Animals being men, of course. We all want what we can’t have. Be happy, be healthy, be who you are and who you want to be should surely follow. One ice cream cone or one piece of your sister’s wedding cake will not qualify you for TLC’s “Obese and Wanting to be Engaged.” I’m not sure if this show exists but it probably will soon, because television blows.

3. LIVE ON YOUR OWN. This is key. You need time and space for you to fully explore your strange habits and decide which ones will need to either be masked, dropped or fully embraced in the future. Have friends over that you know your existent or non-existent boyfriend wouldn’t approve of. Eat Cheeze-It’s for dinner! Drink a whole bottle of wine while watching one-star romantic comedies. Walk around in nothing but a Snuggie…and it’s up to you whether you want it to open in the front or the back. Now is the time to do all of these things before they are deemed as “sad.”

Enjoy this liberating time period to care only about yourself. There is no one to entertain, no one to impress. One day you will promptly wash your dishes and put away your laundry because it makes you feel better, not because you’re trying to play house. This is when you will know you are officially your own person.

4. FREE YOURSELF FROM GIRLS THAT ARE AWFUL. Ugh, girls can be the worst. We know this, we acknowledge this, yet we still spend time with people that are genuinely not happy for us when we get a promotion, lose those last five pounds from our winter hibernation or are asked out on a date by someone very attractive. Why do we let this go on?! It’s because we want to feel like we will always be able to have an intimidating crew of hot friends to impress people all those people we don’t know. That is a horrible reason but it is true. Let’s put an end to this ladies. Don’t waste your time with horrible girls, they are only going to stress you out and send you passive aggressive texts messages. You are already thinking of at least two people you would like to shed from your life right now, aren’t you? Do it. Lighten your load and roll with a posse that loves you. Of course you’ll fight with even your best friends on occasion, but it’s nothing that can’t be amended over some sushi. Sushi is the chicken noodle soup for temporarily under the weather friendships. Remember this.

Alright well I could go on, but I think this novel should suffice. I actually made the executive decision to go to bed somewhere around the Snuggie comment. The birds started chirping. Oops. The rest of this entry was powered on the groggy delusion that comes with sleeping strange hours. Maybe in the future there will be a Woman Empowerment Post Part Deux. But this should be enough for all you happy, angry, hungry, modern girls to digest, and it might take you a while. Just like those Cheeze-It’s you had for dinner.

MUCH LOVE.

-EnEmDee

A Love Letter

We all have one of these. It’s time someone does something about it.

Dear Boy I Have Passed On Campus Every Day For The Past Four Years,

There are no words that could describe us, my dear, for despite us never having shared a word, you have been with me through it all. You were there through short hair and long; through the good times and bad. You were my comforting constant through my shifting adolescence, seeing me link arms with three different boyfriends, test out the waters of three different hair colors and over-wear three different Northeastern sweatshirts until their completion. You have glided past me when I was looking my best; sun-kissed and freckled in the Summer II sun; but you have bared witness to me at my most atrocious; hung over and sleep deprived in the frigid and frantic December months. You have seen me trudging through the snow in inappropriate footwear, racing through the rain with nothing but an inside-out umbrella, and frolicking across the quad in my most darling sundress. You have heard me cursing at the Stairmaster, damning the InfoCommons printing system to hell, impatiently whining in the cafeteria stir-fry line. And as God as my witness, entirely by happenstance, you are presently sitting across from me in the library as I write this very homage.

I have a proposition for you, my should-be-lover. It is clear to me now that fate simply must want us together. It is our destiny. You are the Wesley Snipes to my Liz Lemon, my perpetual predictable serendipitous occasion. I have gone many campus-less months without you ever having crossed my mind, but as soon as I return, there you are!, in those cut off shorts you always wear, just as bicycle-rider-thin as always. How is this possible, that you are always near me? My schedule is bizarre and unorthodox. I don’t believe we share the same major, and I have never taken a class with you. I have a slew of good friends and nod-worthy acquaintances that I can go months, perhaps years, without ever running into on campus grounds. Yet you! You, whose name I do not know, whose life is a mystery, are always there, an unchanging collegiate guardian angel that assures me that even though it can seem that the world is spinning out of control, everything right here is quietly carrying on as it should.

I have tried to imagine the type of person you might be. I like to think you read a hard copy of the newspaper in the mornings and have an affinity for orange juice. You try to eat vegetarian but have never been able to turn down a good, juicy medium rare steak. I bet you never have to buy new headphones, because you take very good care of your things. Surprisingly, you adamantly follow hockey. I’m sure your favorite writer is George Orwell because he is respectable but not too obvious. At parties you would say, “1984 is not Orwell’s best work. You should read Burmese Days.” And you aren’t trying to be pretentious, you really mean it. You were riding your bicycle to parties and bars before it became the hip thing to do.

Perhaps a stable fella like you is exactly what a crazy gal like me needs. It is almost miraculous how nothing about you has changed; not your hair, not your skin tone, not your clothing. You have never worn a Northeastern sweatshirt. I like this about you. I have never seen you arm and arm with a girl. I like to think you say you aren’t showy but you just might kiss a girl in public, if she was the right girl. Are you waiting for me? How could I have been so blind!, when all along, the man I should love is walking briskly right there in front of me.

So whaddaya say? Let’s give this a shot. In a few months time I’ll be done with this crazy place, and if we don’t act now we will be forced to live the rest of our lives wondering…”What if..?”

These things happen for a reason; so we can make romantic movies starring Amanda Seyfried that say “based on a true story” in the beginning. Because of these five little words, everyone will cry more than they should. “But Amanda Seyfried shouldn’t play you,” you would say. You would never want me to be blonde.

The time is our time. Let’s begin our beautiful storybook life together, baby, for you are always exactly where I should be.

Here’s to love and coincidence,

Your destiny,

Nora

-EnEmDee

Nora and Ja Rule Go Grocery Shopping

Alright, alriiiiight. I know I vanished, but it’s been a crazy week. And by crazy I mean it was really hot out and the air conditioner doesn’t reach my bedroom office, where I am most inspired to enlighten the masses. So I spent most of my time rage-baking in my air conditioned kitchen and watching Gilmore Girls. I just can’t get enough of that show. Oh, and at night I was really busy riding my bicycle to my friend’s backyard so we could drink beers that we stole from our parents. Because apparently I am in high school again and I’m totally fine with it.

But I come to you now with a promise AND some exciting news. The promise is that this will be updated at least twice a week. I’d like to say three times a week but I don’t ever want to lie to you, because then I would feel guilty and guilt makes me do things like talk to my dog about my feelings. And I hate doing that because my dog is such a bitch. I’ll be telling her all these personal things I have kept bottled up inside and she just sighs and pretends to go to sleep.

And here is the exciting news! To ensure I will always have something fantastic for you to read, I’m calling on audience participation for a new segment I would like to call “Nora and her Extraordinary Friends Doing Ordinary Things” (NEFDOT). So essentially, I, or you, choose a random person or celebrity (because celebrities aren’t people…? whatever) and then choose a scene. Leave ‘em in the comments, preferably. “Nora and ______ go to the ____,” or something along those lines. It’s kind of like Mad Libs but ideally it won’t be incredibly disappointing and there is no pressure to pretend to laugh. I will then choose the best recommendations and write a story about how I envision this scenario going down.

Okay, okay, I’ll start!

The is the story of the time I took Ja Rule grocery shopping.

It was a steamy day in July when I pulled up to Ja Rule’s new apartment in Quincy. I had met him at a bar the night before, and since I was the only person who recognized him, he took an immediate liking to me and by the end of the evening he said I was his greatest friend. He confided in me that he was having some money troubles, his wife left him because he wouldn’t stop texting Ashanti and she suspected he was being unfaithful. He told his wife, “I ain’t cheatin! Shanti never responds. I dunno what kinda crazy ho doesn’t wanna get Ruled.” But she didn’t care if Shanti had gotten Ruled or not, Mrs. Ja Rule had enough of her husbands antics, so she kicked him out of the house and snatched up most of his money. Ja Rule doesn’t believe in banks, so all the money he had ever earned was stored in a safe behind a framed copy for that famous poster of Kramer from Seinfeld. He had no idea how much he had saved, and no way to prove his wife had stolen from him, so that night he found himself on the side of the road with a Jansport backpack full of boxer briefs and his favorite pieces of ice, looking like the saddest Ja Rule the world has ever seen. Fortunately his dawg had a place in Quincy that he used solely to store various car parts, and he said Ja could stay there for free as long as he was there at 3 a.m. every morning to let in people making deliveries.

In an effort to help a brotha out, I volunteered to teach Ja Rule how to budget, beginning with taking him grocery shopping. He had a problem managing his money and we concluded that learning to properly food shop was essential; he had been living off of hamburgers from graduation parties he had been crashing in the area, but during his most recent excursion he got in a fight with a young Asian boy wearing a G-Unit T-shirt which ended in the authorities being called. Now all of Quincy was on alert for the uninvited gangsta guest.

When I picked up Ja Rule, he was wearing a fur vest over a black Tee and jean shorts (“jorts, n****”). He climbed in the car and I asked if he was warm in that fur vest. He responded, “Girl I like it haaaaawt, HA HA HA HA.” His voice resembled that of a bullfrog who had been drinking obscene amounts of Robitussin.

On the drive to the supermarket, he scanned through my iPod and became visibly upset when he realized the only song I had of his was “I’m Real ft. Jennifer Lopez.” He was very jealous of my large collection of Lil Wayne and began to question my loyalty. I reminded him we had only just met but then starting spitting lyrics to “Uhhh Ohhh” to prove I was a real fan, which I was not. He called me out for only knowing that song because Lil Wayne was in it. I changed the subject to what his favorite kind of cereal was. He said Lucky Charms, because like him, they were magically delicious. I had expected as much.

We walked into Stop n’ Shop, and he immediately put on his sunglasses to “keep the fans at bay.” After we picked up the cart, we began making our way to the meat aisle. Ja Rule insisted he only ate steak. I tried to convince him to reconsider some of the more economical meats, such as chicken, but he wasn’t having it, because “Chickens are weak.” He finally agreed to mixing it up a bit after he remembered the movie Chicken Run. “Aight, aight, now those were some badass birds. lmfao.” And he actually spoke the letters l-m-f-a-o.

I told him to go find some bread while I picked him up eggs and milk, but when I headed to the bakery section, Ja Rule was no where to be found. I scanned the aisles, yelling his name, when finally I heard someone exclaim, “MURDA INC!,” followed by a loud crash. There in the snack aisle I spotted Ja Rule with an arm full of DunkaRoos, standing over a weeping young boy who had been shoved into a shelf of assortment of snack foods with no nutritional value. I yelled at Ja Rule and asked him just what he thought he was doing. He told me “This fool was trying to take the last box of Dunka Roos and Rule ain’t havin’ it.” I sighed and helped the shaking boy up from the ground, took a box of ‘Roos from Ja Rule and gave them to the victim, who immediately ran away in fear.

I scolded Ja Rule as we shopped for produce, and told him his budget had no room for snacks like DunkaRoos and that pushing children in public could get him in a lot of trouble. He wasn’t listening to me, instead he was distracted by the tubes of coffee beans; he turned the dial on one of the tubes and thousands of beans spilled all over the floor. “Oh, shit,” he responded, and then let out a knee-slapping guffaw. There was nothing for me to do but sigh.

We headed to the fruit section, and as I was going on about how Cortland apples were my personal favorite kind of apple, I realized that that pesky Ja Rule had sprinted off again, and this time he had taken the cart with him. As I set off to find him, I saw a mound of green and yellow come barreling around the corner; it was Ja Rule alright, and he had stacked the cart to the brim with tampons and adult diapers. He then started yelling questions about my cycle and suggesting I see a doctor. And that was when I decided I was through.

I so I left Ja Rule at that Stop n’ Shop and vowed to never attempt to do a nice thing for a sub-par rapper again.

THE END.

-EnEmDee

On Beaches in Dorchester

How’s everyone doing? We alright? I know I abandoned you guys for a second there, were you scared? Like a puppy or something? I was going to compare how I have been feeling about this blog to how I would feel if I had a child…you know, because I keep thinking about it; hoping I’m raising it right, wondering if it will grow up to become a person that can afford a summer house. But then it occurred to me that yes, while I am thinkin’ about this lil’ guy a lot, I still choose socially boozing over staying at home with my baby blog. So it’s really more of a puppy. I need something I have to walk in the morning and an excuse to keep me from passing out on other people’s couches in my contact lenses and cowboy boots. But I’m not ready to watch my language, allow content containing grown singing men in purple jumpsuits anywhere near my Netflix queue, or be responsible for convincing someone that brussel sprouts are good. So this blog is not my baby, it is my puppy. For now.

This will be a short post because it’s SATURDAY WOOOO and I have grand plans of watching a stop animation movie in my friend’s basement. But I didn’t want to let this thing get stale, because the only this worse than stale Wheat Thins is a stale blog. AmIright?

This will be about going to the beach. In my foolish youth I used to drive all the way to Nantaskett Beach in Hull to get my sun/toe dipping on. But now I have discovered that right down the street is beautiful Dorchester, the beach capital of Metro Boston! And since sitting on my porch sun bathing is getting awkward, I need somewhere where being very close to naked is the norm. But please don’t make me go to Hull.

In a mere 10 minutes, I can find myself on beautiful “Malibu Beach,” a little oasis located between Morrissey Blvd and I-93. It’s almost like being in Aruba. It’s never crowded (I don’t know why!) and it’s got all your beach essentials…and then some. I will now convince you to give Dorchester Beaches a chance. I go for the following reasons:

1. The Culture. The sign in the parking lot might say “Malibu Beach,” but all I see is “Epcot.” So much diversity…folks can come together and co-exist in perfect harmony. White, black, hispanic, albino, ginger, toothless, you name it!, that demographic is represented. And you learn so many different languages, there is no need to tune out the world with fancy iPods and or Bose speakers. The noise around you is like your very own Rosetta Stone. “Sientate, puta.” See? I believe this means “Indeed, you make a good point.”

2. The Fashion. “Malibu Beach” is more than a slice of sand, it is a catwalk. I have learned so much after watching the beach’s swan-like creatures strolling about by the water. First let me preface by saying it is nice to see a solid representation of plus-size models. Ladies, Disney fashion is making a comeback. That’s right; the Spring collection tossed away the former faux-pas that was denim on denim, and now the Summer assures us that even at age 38, Little Mermaid themed 2-pieces are completely acceptable. And black and hot pink will never go out of style, especially when paired with wristbands embroidered with images of bunny rabbits giving the middle finger.

Gentleman, you will be pleased to know that alcohol themed suits are all the rage. And not just any alcohol, but your favorite kind; light beer. Bud Light, Coors Light, Natty Light; play around with it!, fashion was meant to be fun and this is where your personality gets to shine through. Don’t forget your three-pack of Fruit of the Loom wife-beaters! It is very important you do not wear them while on the sand but only when going for a swim. This makes perfect sense.

3. The Marine Life. Have you ever wanted to really study the beautiful creatures that are jellyfish, but been too scared to pick them up for fear of them stinging you? Come to “Malibu Beach,” where the shore is riddled with dozens of dead jelly fish! You can poke them, squeeze them, throw them at your friends…the possibilities are endless.

4. The Buried Treasures. The kiddies will have a ball pretending to be pirates whilst digging through the sand, in search of gold and gems. While gold may be hard to find (although my friend Nicole did once find a silver dollar…but it may have fallen out of her purse…) there are plenty of other great treasures to be discovered. A bottle of prescription meds? A box cutter? Graduation cap? All these things have been found while excavating, and who knows what else could be lying beneath our towels!

These are just a few of the hundreds of fantastic reasons to give the dunes of Dot a try. So whenever you’re riding down I-93 and you see that beautiful ocean, give a honk. And please, make it real loud. You know I’ll be there, taking in all the sights and sounds, and loving Boston with all my dirty water-filled heart.

-EnEmDee.