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Sigh. [Oct. 4th, 2009|07:48 pm]
I'm so tired of feeling like I'm the only person who has their shit together.
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UnbeWEAVEable! [Feb. 20th, 2009|05:03 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[mood |amusedamused]
[music |In Flames - Move Through Me]

Years ago, when I lived in West Philly, Missy, Erica, and myself would all say, "Unbeweaveable!" if we saw some random woman's weave on the sidewalk. I called them "Tumbleweaves".

Well, out of Kansas City, we now have this story:

A woman's weave STOPPED A BULLET from entering her skull.

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A PSA: When someone brings doughnuts to the office... [Sep. 2nd, 2008|03:31 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[Current Location |Norristown, PA (work)]
[mood |annoyedannoyed]

Okay, look people, we need to straighten something out, because it's pissing me the fuck off. It's come to my attention that apparently people cannot figure out how to handle a box of doughnuts being gifted upon them.

First rule. If someone brings in a box of donuts to your office, don't be that motherfucker who picks up each one, stares at it, and puts it back down. C'mon jackass, almost every single doughnut is covered in sugar or frosting or some other form of sticky goodness, and now I can see your greasy finger marks in each one. And all over the box, and the surrounding countertop. This isn't a police station and I didn't ask for you to be fingerprinted with confectioner sugar. Knock it the fuck off.

Second rule. Don't walk into the kitchen, cut the doughnuts in half or quarters, and take fucking pieces of each doughnut.

Look, I don't even eat doughnuts, but can you not see how fucking obnoxious and selfish this is?! Other people maybe wanted the whole bloody doughnut, and instead there's just this hastily sliced-up, leaking-creme disaster left in the box. I don't care that you wanted to try each one, this isn't a double-blind taste test sponsored by Krispy Kreme. Someone paid for whole doughnuts. If they wanted everyone to have bite-sized bits, they would have bought Munchkins or some other doughnut hole with a slightly insulting name.

This is how it works, okay? You select ONE doughnut, you take it without touching the others, and you eat it. And then depending on who you are, you shove some fingers down your throat and throw it up, because you can't handle having 340 fuck calories from a single snack. I don't give a fuck, your doughnut-imia doesn't leave little mangled bits of doughnut in the box.

But may the gods help me, if I see you walk up to that box with a plastic knife in hand, ready to cut up your own little concoction from the doughnut buffet, I'm going to steal that knife from you, hang you upside down, and slice your neck open with it like in that really brutal scene in Dexter.

To review:
1) Keep your fucking fingers to YOUR doughnut.
2) Leave the doughnuts whole or else I will kill you.

Thank you.
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I need to post about this. [Aug. 22nd, 2008|11:29 am]
[Current Location |Norristown, PA (work)]
[mood |amusedamused]

So on late Friday night, I took the last Amtrak train out of New York heading direct to 30th Street Station in Philly. I exited the train, came up the stairs to the grand, echo-filled interior of 30th Street station.

Anyway, I went outside and caught a cab at the station taxi line. The driver was this very tiny, 1.4 meter tall Indian man who could barely see over the dash. This was the conversation I had with him:

Me: "Hello, 50th & Baltimore please."

Driver: "15th & Baltimore? Such a place does not exist."

Me: "50th, sorry, I mumble."

Driver: *hysterical laughter* "How are you tonight sir, how was your train, from where are you coming to us this evening?"

M: "New York, I had a great train ride, thank you for asking."

D: "Wonderful, wonderful sir. I go down Market to 43rd, that okay with you sir?"

M: "Yes, that's just fine, thank you."

D: *horn honk* "Drive! People in this city, braking at a green light, I will never understand. I can't do this much longer, I swear to you!"

M: "How long have you been driving a taxi?"

D: "Oh, about 3 days, I just start. Not a problem, you see, I drove trucks for about 10 year, then drove a greyhound bus for the last 3 year, but I just get fired a few week ago."

M: "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

D: "Well, I going to sue them, you know, for firing me, they say I was drinking on the job! But I drink at home, not when working. State police came and tested me and looked on the bus, but they didn't find any alcohol, but I still got fired.

D: "I tell you what it is, what really happened...my manager never liked me, it was all personal, he just wanted to get me out of there. Never liked me. Never ever.

*Pause*, total silence in taxi.

D: "It's because I fuck his girlfriend behind his back. Is not my fault, you see, she was there and so was I, and things happen. You have to keep the pussy on a leash, you see, you have to keep it locked up, or else it will wander and do what it wants. Doesn't matter if it's your girlfriend or wife, you have to keep the pussy on a leash, they'll cheat, no matter what! So, he never liked me, because I fuck his girlfriend one time behind his back. I make no money on this job, you have to pay to start shift, then fill up with gas, no one in this town tips you if they are the black-skinned types, shit job, you know?"

I had no idea what to say. At this point, we arrived. Total was $10, I gave him $17 and told him to keep it. He seemed like someone I wanted to keep happy until I exited safely.
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On Temporarily Living At Home. [Apr. 10th, 2008|03:05 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[Current Location |Norristown, PA (work)]
[mood |tiredtired]
[music |In Flames - Ordinary Story]

When Megan and I split up and moved out, she found a place right next to her office, took the dogs, and left. It left me in the unique position of being completely freed from any and all obligations. As a result, I'm now looking for a new job and also a new home at the same time. Without knowing what direction life was going to pull me in, I decided to do what every mid-20s misanthrope eventually does...I moved back home.

Almost all of my personal possessions were placed in a large storage unit, and I returned home with nothing more than 2 suitcases of clothing, some toiletries, and my computer. By only bringing back those items, I made a statement to myself, that of, "I am not going to be here for long."

My mother lives in a townhouse in a densely populated section of New Jersey, a state which is, in turn, the most densely populated in the union. Within the confines of her home, however, one would think they were in a rural cottage in Shropshire. Pay no mind to the fact that the I-295 and New Jersey Turnpike corridors are less than 1 kilo from her front door, or that there is a Navy proving ground, complete with a replica battleship cruiser, visible from the garage. Inside, it is as quaint as corporate America allows a housewife to be.

There is a cathedral, vaulted ceiling with a faux-antique chandelier dangling from the ceiling. It looks as though it was once situated in a grand ballroom; instead, it was purchased at the Ethan Allen for $799.99, plus tax. There is a fireplace with antique-looking crown mouldings, it’s gas and was an optional upgrade from Toll Brothers for $4000.00.

Surrounding the fireplace are Little Souls dolls, at least a dozen, which are a part of the essentially menopausal homemaker accoutrement. In the kitchen, there are tens upon tens of Longaberger baskets, another menopausal favourite. They hold everything, the napkins, the paper plates, the phone, the paper towels. They line each cabinet, and sometimes even hold Little Souls dolls, a delightful crossover that I’m certain was not unintentional. Four of the baskets are ones that she made on her own at the Longaberger headquarters in Newark, Ohio. Yes, she willingly made four separate trips to Newark, Ohio.

Everything in this home is right in its place, and that is for two reasons. Firstly, because my mother is extremely OCD and a neat-freak (she can’t go to sleep if there are dirty dishes in the kitchen sink), and secondly, because the house is up for sale.

Living in a home that is on the market is not unlike living in a museum. There can be no evidence that any human actually resides in the property; rather, it exists solely for well-dressed people to walk through and observe with the utmost scrutiny. Her reasoning is something along the lines that if there is any imperfection, no matter how small, it will surely be noticed, the home won’t sell, and my mother will wind up in a poor nursing home where the aides steal from her instead of on a waterfront condo in Florida.

I had, over the past several years of my life, forgotten just how difficult of a woman my mother actually is. It's suddenly no surprise to me that her second marriage ended in a divorce, and that her previous engagement (to a different suitor) was called off so abruptly. Even as I sit here typing this, my left eye has begun twitching spontaneously from my sudden, elevated blood pressure.

I wake up every morning to the sound of my mother singing doo-wop songs, which are being blasted out of at least three different radios at the same time. My mother cannot have only one device turned on at one time, she wants to have her content sent to every room in the house at once, so her solution is to simply turn on every radio or TV to which she has access. Therefore, by 07:00, a radio is playing WOGL, Philadelphia’s Oldies station, in her bathroom, bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen. My attempts at listening to NPR or the BBC World Service are drowned out by the sounds of Smoky Robinson and The Four Tops. I’ve actually started to miss the sound of Robin Lustig’s voice.

My room must remain spotless. If I shower before making my bed, my mother will yell at me. After my bed is made, my violin must be placed across the pillows, and my sister must do the same on her bed with her cello, an about-as-subtle-as-date-rape method of telling our real estate seeking guests that, yes, we are cultured, yes, you should purchase our house, yes, living here will make you as cultured as we are.

Showering is not so much a way of getting clean, but a morning exercise in futility. My mother’s taste in gold, decorative, antique-looking bathroom fixtures led her to Restoration Hardware, where she purchased a shower head that essentially doesn’t work. Attempting to shower with it is on par with having a friend spit on you repeatedly while you try to lather up. It also makes a sound not unlike Bill Cosby giving a zrbtt on your belly. “Pfffbbbt!” goes the shower, and I rejoice as I get to clean a small swatch of skin on my shoulder. “Pfffbbbt!” again, and I have a clean nipple. Showers that used to take me five minutes are now bordering on forty-five, and I still don’t feel very clean.

Dirty clothes must be placed in a hamper (which is, of course, a large Longaberger basket), and wet towels (remember, wet towels drying is a sign that people actually live here) must be placed in a separate hamper just for wet towels & dishrags. It too, is a Longaberger basket, complete with a moulded liner.

The house is on a very strict schedule, namely that of the sundry, unnamed Realtors® (a registered trademark of the National Association of Realtors) that come through on a daily basis. Simply put, if they are going to be there, we cannot. This isn’t an issue during the standard nine-to-five workday, but they show up on Friday evenings, Saturday mornings, Sundays near dinner. As a result, I’m simply never home any longer. I’ve caught up on every new film I wanted to see in the theatre. I read eleven books just in March; the staff at the local library & Borders now knows me by name. I started refereeing a women’s roller derby team. Essentially, I’ve done anything I could think of to keep me out of the house at any minute when I’m not working.

But even leaving the house is not as easy as simply walking out of a door. Oh no, far from it. You see, unlike the war in Iraq, my mother’s house has an exit strategy. There cannot be footprints on the carpet, only fresh vacuum tracks. Therefore, you must leave through the garage, following a very strict path from the upper floor, vacuuming after yourself on the way out. The vacuum joins you in the garage, and the pristine house with fresh vacuum tracks lies undisturbed for the next agent to walk through it.

Every day I return home, like an Alzheimer’s patient, thinking that everything will be fine. But instead I come home to my mother in a panic about something she forgot to do before she left for work that morning. A banana wasn’t positioned quite right in the decorative fruit bowl on the table, the dishwasher door wasn’t latched shut, a spec of dust was visible on the countertop. Surely one of those minute details is why the home hasn’t sold.

Never mind that the market is terrible, and she’s asking over $450,000 for a townhome that was purchased in 1999 for $186,000. No, clearly the issue was the placement of a banana.

I’ve started smoking.

This is my life with my mother, and it’s killing me, one day at a time.

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Jesus gets sexier & sexier every year. [Mar. 24th, 2008|01:42 pm]
[Current Location |Norristown, PA (work)]
[mood |tiredtired]
[music |Tenacious D - Double Team]

This is a scan of the mass card my mother picked up from her church yesterday for Easter Sunday services:

Exposed pecs, hairless chest, extremely white for a Jew from the middle east, beckoning a woman on her knees who is reaching out towards his crotch.

In 5 more years, it's just going to be Jesus in a thong, lying on a beach.
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Adventures in what?! [Mar. 6th, 2008|10:17 am]
[Current Location |Norristown, PA (work)]
[mood |amusedamused]
[music |Pain of Salvation - Flame to the Moth]

Yesterday, I mentioned to a few co-workers that I was going to start blogging about my thus-far awful experiences with the dating scene. I came into the office this morning to find this image in my inbox:

I'm not really sure what to say about it. I mean, I obviously laughed, he did a pretty damn good job of putting my head in there...but the title has me a bit disturbed. Babydating?! WTF is baby-dating?! That sounds wrong, not to mention illegal. I mean, he could have at least crossed out the baby part, right?

And furthermore, why am I scaling a building with a bunch of strangers?!

Oh well. Either way, it's a good way to kick off the new blog.

Mike Palumbo presents: "Mike Palumbo's Misadventures in (baby) Dating", starring Mike Palumbo. Entries will start this afternoon.
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Who didn't see that coming, really? [Jan. 25th, 2008|10:44 am]
[Current Location |Norristown, PA (work)]
[mood |blahblah]
[music |In Flames - Another Day In Quicksand]

This made me cackle with laughter (which I really need right now). Just watch the first minute, at least.

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In Honour of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. [Jan. 21st, 2008|11:42 am]
[Current Location |Norristown, PA (work)]
[mood |tiredtired]
[music |In Flames - Only For The Weak]

This is a restaurant in Chicago called The Weiner's Circle, on Clark Street (the same street featuring the airborne Ferrari in Ferris Bueller). It's famous for the fact that the employees are generally abusive and curse you out when you order; if you saw the episode of Insomniac with Dave Attell a few years ago on Comedy Central, this was one of the featured spots he hit, as it stays open until 05:00 on the weekends.

The problem comes in after the bars let out, when the all-black staff has to deal with the all-white crowd of frat-boy drunkards.

"At it's best, especially early in the evening, this is what it's like. Friendly. But there's another side to things here. When the Weiner Circle suspended the normal rules of how people should treat each other, they accidentally unleashed a lot of pent-up feelings that probably were pent up for good reasons."

We still have a long way to go.
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Lesson Learned. [Nov. 26th, 2007|10:50 am]
[Current Location |Norristown, PA (work)]
[mood |annoyedannoyed]
[music |Symphonie Fantastique, Op. 14: Marche Au Supplice]

I decided on Wednesday that I would cook for Thanksgiving. My mom was obviously cooking as she was hosting the damned event, but my family's turkey day cooking has always been a bit blasé at best and downright awful at worst.

It's the standard holiday fare: turkey, mashed potatoes, some overly-cooked green vegetable that's limp and devoid of any and all flavour, and a few dozen baskets of Pillsbury dinner rolls, the latter being absolutely necessary given the fact that my cousins refuse to eat anything else on the table, including turkey. If it's not white bread covered in butter, they won't touch it, so rather than letting the little bastards starve, my mother goes out of her way to bake no less than 8 cans of those accursed, chemical-laden crescent rolls.

It was with this in mind that I decided I'd have a go at it. I simply did not want to tolerate another gathering with my family and not even have food as a possible source of enjoyment. It's not as though I attend the event for the riveting conversation, mainly consisting of my extended family making racist comments about whatever they see on television.

So, here is the list of what I made for dinner, to accompany the turkey:
  • Roasted butternut squash covered in mozzarella and fried sage leaves, topped with arugula and a bit of olive oil.
  • Puréed turnips in heavy cream with fresh rosemary.
  • Blanched brussel sprouts sautéed with bacon and balsamic vinegar.
  • Italian sausage stuffing with fresh cranberries, thyme, and a base of French bread and turkey broth.
  • Sliced Peruvian purple fingerling potatoes with pancetta and fresh rosemary.
  • And for dessert, a pumpkin pie with fresh heavy whipped cream.
Everything came out incredibly well, I tasted each one as I was making it and I was so proud of myself. On Thursday afternoon I packed everything up into my R32, and drove over to my mom's house in New Jersey. I brought in 3 large bags containing everything, and started heating it up.

I brought everything out to the table, and told everyone what I made. I sat down at the table, my cousins said their grade school version of grace while I rolled my eyes, and then dinner began.

For the next 45 minutes, I watched as my family had helping after helping of food...and skipped over everything that I cooked.

"What are these, Mike?"
"Peruvian fingerling potatoes."
"Why are they purple?"
"That's just how they come out of the ground! They're from the Andes mountains in Peru."
And then they'd pass the dish to the left.

"Mike, what is this again?"
"Puréed turnips in heavy cream, it goes really well with the meat."
"Oh, okay, I don't want any, I just wanted to know what it was."

The only thing that my family ate was the pumpkin pie, and that's it. I literally came home with everything I cooked except that. I was completely and utterly defeated by my family, and I should have known better. These are the same family members who won't use Comcast because they're run by "Jew bastards". I should have known that they wouldn't appreciate anything I made. I probably would have been better off bringing over some goddamned Burger King. Now I'm not saying that they have to be gourmets, but would it kill them to at least try the stuff?
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