May 18, 2007
I've had a week full of internal questions. Maybe I surround myself with strange things...maybe I think too much. Either way, here are some things I will never understand.
I myself am an avid coin pincher. Maybe not when it comes to SOME things, but I certainly have my fare share of being cheap. For example, if the 60% off necklace at Target is still $8.00, I do not think this is a bargain. However, if it's $3, I'll buy it, even though I may not love it as much as the latter.
But today, I experienced a line even I wouldn't cross.
Scene: I'm 2nd to the head of the line-out-the-door at Subway attempting the purchase of my 6-inch turkey on wheat. I may as well have been last in a line of 42, because the two girls ahead of me were, well, slow.
Girl 1: "I see you have a footlong sub. Now if I purchase this, can I get half italian cold cut, and half pastrami?"
Subway man: "Yes we have a footlong sub."
Girl 2: "But can we get two halves?"
SM: "Not a footlong. We charge you more for two halves."
Girl 1 to Girl 2: "Ugh, should we get cold cut, or pastrami then?"
After a huge debate (approx. 2.7 minutes) the girls decided that girl 1 wins, and they ordered an italian cold cut. But of course, they each decorated their halves respectively, obviously confusing SG (subway girl) who was second in the assembley line behind the counter. And of course, this was obviously their first time at such a place, so the array of luxurious toppings really excited them.
All of this to save 25 cents. I toyed with the idea of handing them a quarter.
***
My morning drive includes a painful journey up St. Paul Street. With illegally parked cars, busses, and wretched pedestrians, it's a constant brake-riding experience, day after day.
Today however, was especially fun.
I got cut off by a biker. Not a motor biker. Just a man on his bicycle. Keep in mind that immediately to my right, and left, there is a wide, perfectly paved sidewalk, for him to venture down.
And of course, after he cuts me off, he travels at approximately 17 mph below the speed limit. Fantastic.
***
I'm not going to lie and say I haven't fallen victim to this. I won't even tell you that I don't frequently peruse perezhilton.com, tmz.com, and thesuperficial.com.
But, there are other reasons besides total loserdom and sheer pleasure that I read this junk. For example, I totally knew the answer to the trivia question the other night...What is the name of Paris Hilton's dog? Duh. Tinkerbell. But in the last few days, I've seen actual headlines (not even just on these smut sites) that have really just made me realize that we live in a far from normal, and really just ridiculous world.
Here we go: Britney Chews Gum At Comeback Show
Wow! Really? But what kind of gum was it? "I don't know Bob, let's see if we can get a closer look...ah yes...based on the color, it appears to be..."
REALLY?!
***
That's all for now. The rest of the world still makes sense I guess.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Million Dollar Idea
Innovation...shouldn't this lead to invention? I mean, if I can figure out how to hang a bulletin board at work with a simple paper clip/push pin combo (which by the way, I'm still owed $10 from a bet that I couldn't do it) why can' t I come up with a solution to an everyday problem?
Oprah had a search for the best idea last week. The audience voted on the top 5 or so inventions that she found 'round the states, and the winner gets set up with a QVC commercial slot, patenting, etc. The winner, a brilliant idea, was the Lock-N-Bake, a 13x9 inch pan with foldable removable sides. Scene: You bake a cake. You have to cut the first piece and get it out of the pan prettily. We all know that the first piece is NEVER the cute piece. So, imagine a world where you can take same 13x9 inch pan, and fold off/remove the sides, leaving you with cake on tray. Like I said, brilliant. She also demo'd with a lasagna, which I have my reservations about. How does the sauce, etc, not pour out of the sides when cutting if the dish is still hot? Even so, as I was watching this, I kept thinking to myself...ugh, why didn't I come up with that! In my head though, I came up with her winning slogan, "It's a piece of cake!" I know, I'm good.
A few years ago, I thought I'd hit it with the "heated ice scraper" idea. Sadly, my dream came crashing down when I was told I could already purchase this at Target. Then I thought, "Fine! I'll come up with something else." From there, I came up with the lipstick prep base. If they can make a base for eyeshadow to keep it on all day, why can't they make one for lips...why should I have to reapply liner stick and gloss with every sip of my coffee? So instead of finding a chemist and a lab to stir up a batch of my miracle cream, I just stopped wearing lip accesory altogether. Now though , you can purchase this very item at MAC. If you're interested, its called Prep & Prime Lip, and its amazing. After all, I knew it would be.
Oprah had a search for the best idea last week. The audience voted on the top 5 or so inventions that she found 'round the states, and the winner gets set up with a QVC commercial slot, patenting, etc. The winner, a brilliant idea, was the Lock-N-Bake, a 13x9 inch pan with foldable removable sides. Scene: You bake a cake. You have to cut the first piece and get it out of the pan prettily. We all know that the first piece is NEVER the cute piece. So, imagine a world where you can take same 13x9 inch pan, and fold off/remove the sides, leaving you with cake on tray. Like I said, brilliant. She also demo'd with a lasagna, which I have my reservations about. How does the sauce, etc, not pour out of the sides when cutting if the dish is still hot? Even so, as I was watching this, I kept thinking to myself...ugh, why didn't I come up with that! In my head though, I came up with her winning slogan, "It's a piece of cake!" I know, I'm good.
A few years ago, I thought I'd hit it with the "heated ice scraper" idea. Sadly, my dream came crashing down when I was told I could already purchase this at Target. Then I thought, "Fine! I'll come up with something else." From there, I came up with the lipstick prep base. If they can make a base for eyeshadow to keep it on all day, why can't they make one for lips...why should I have to reapply liner stick and gloss with every sip of my coffee? So instead of finding a chemist and a lab to stir up a batch of my miracle cream, I just stopped wearing lip accesory altogether. Now though , you can purchase this very item at MAC. If you're interested, its called Prep & Prime Lip, and its amazing. After all, I knew it would be.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Catch and Release
May 2, 2007
You can take the girl out of her high heels, but you can't take the high heels out of a girl. Let me explain...
I used to be an all-star pitcher. And by "all-star" I mean, in my 5 year stint of a softball career, I pitched 4, and was accompanied by one full-game-pitched no hitter. Clearly, my one and only claim to fame so far in life. Ten years later, without so much as a nod in the direction of a softball glove, I decide to grab one and head on out for a friendly game of catch at the local elementary school field.
Let me preface...although I say I pitched, somewhat decently, back in my day, I never said I could throw. If you've ever seen me play beer pong, or even a piece of candy across the office, this won't come as a suprise. I have no aim. And even worse, I have no power. Are you standing 20 feet away from me? Move closer, you're too far.
Anyway, so here I am, playing catch with my newly purchased (gifted) hot pink and black softball glove. We've got a baseball and a softball to throw around for variety. And I decide, hey, let me throw a few pitches! As most of my great ideas are, this was a very bad idea...
First, because the memories of my pitching days are much prettier than what ten years out of practice reality actually is. Out of, oh, 473,000 pitches, I think I threw 3 slow pitch (I played fast pitch) strikes. On top of it, a 10,000 mile an hour ball came at me, which I caught, sort of, until it bounced out of my glove and struck me in the chin leaving stitch marks (battle wounds) in place of my new spray on foundation from MAC. AND three days later, I still can not lift my poor right arm over my head.
In my moments of cripple-dom, I had a lot of time to think about all of the other things I suck at now...
Biking. Yes. "It's just like riding a bike." Fine. But let me tell you, riding a bike is not even "just like riding a bike." I got on it, started to tip, had a small panic attack, thought I might die, and have since found home on the stationary bike that won't dump me onto a pile of gravel on the trail.
Cooking. Some of you who read this might laugh, but I really did used to be quite the little chef. In college, my roommates might have starved if not for me and my mother-donated recipe box. But somewhere along the way, I got lazy. Actually, let's "euphemism" this and say "cultural" in wanting to try out all different kinds of restaurants.
Farsi. Yeah, I used to speak it. So what if I was 5, but rumor has it that this girl was bilangual at the early age, until my second language was neglected in the home. Kinda not my fault, but still.
Makeup. I don't know if its my inability to do my own makeup, or just my skins inability to wear it proudly anymore, but when I look back at pictures from my earlier days of makeup wearing, it just looked better back then. Maybe because I used to spend an hour getting ready to go to the grocery store, and 2 if I was actually going somewhere there might be a camera. Either way, rest assured though, that I still can do other people's makeup. Feel free to hire me for your upcoming wedding or event.
I could go on. But my right arm is making it difficult to type from pretending that I'm still an all-star pitcher...
You can take the girl out of her high heels, but you can't take the high heels out of a girl. Let me explain...
I used to be an all-star pitcher. And by "all-star" I mean, in my 5 year stint of a softball career, I pitched 4, and was accompanied by one full-game-pitched no hitter. Clearly, my one and only claim to fame so far in life. Ten years later, without so much as a nod in the direction of a softball glove, I decide to grab one and head on out for a friendly game of catch at the local elementary school field.
Let me preface...although I say I pitched, somewhat decently, back in my day, I never said I could throw. If you've ever seen me play beer pong, or even a piece of candy across the office, this won't come as a suprise. I have no aim. And even worse, I have no power. Are you standing 20 feet away from me? Move closer, you're too far.
Anyway, so here I am, playing catch with my newly purchased (gifted) hot pink and black softball glove. We've got a baseball and a softball to throw around for variety. And I decide, hey, let me throw a few pitches! As most of my great ideas are, this was a very bad idea...
First, because the memories of my pitching days are much prettier than what ten years out of practice reality actually is. Out of, oh, 473,000 pitches, I think I threw 3 slow pitch (I played fast pitch) strikes. On top of it, a 10,000 mile an hour ball came at me, which I caught, sort of, until it bounced out of my glove and struck me in the chin leaving stitch marks (battle wounds) in place of my new spray on foundation from MAC. AND three days later, I still can not lift my poor right arm over my head.
In my moments of cripple-dom, I had a lot of time to think about all of the other things I suck at now...
Biking. Yes. "It's just like riding a bike." Fine. But let me tell you, riding a bike is not even "just like riding a bike." I got on it, started to tip, had a small panic attack, thought I might die, and have since found home on the stationary bike that won't dump me onto a pile of gravel on the trail.
Cooking. Some of you who read this might laugh, but I really did used to be quite the little chef. In college, my roommates might have starved if not for me and my mother-donated recipe box. But somewhere along the way, I got lazy. Actually, let's "euphemism" this and say "cultural" in wanting to try out all different kinds of restaurants.
Farsi. Yeah, I used to speak it. So what if I was 5, but rumor has it that this girl was bilangual at the early age, until my second language was neglected in the home. Kinda not my fault, but still.
Makeup. I don't know if its my inability to do my own makeup, or just my skins inability to wear it proudly anymore, but when I look back at pictures from my earlier days of makeup wearing, it just looked better back then. Maybe because I used to spend an hour getting ready to go to the grocery store, and 2 if I was actually going somewhere there might be a camera. Either way, rest assured though, that I still can do other people's makeup. Feel free to hire me for your upcoming wedding or event.
I could go on. But my right arm is making it difficult to type from pretending that I'm still an all-star pitcher...
Friday, April 13, 2007
Blueberry is the New Vanilla
April 13, 2007
I added a new segment to my morning routine. After bypassing the Owings Mills Dunkin Donuts for so long, I've padded my A.M. to include the savory pit-stop. It's a win win situation. I figure if I stop before work rather than go during, I save myself the lackluster drive sans hot coffee beverage, the time away from my desk, and most importantly, the fear of falling flat on my face on Calvert Street again.
I see the same people every morning. The young guy at the middle table by the window, always surrounded by books, facing the wall, with his "Great One" coffee in front of him within fingertip reach. I see the very talkative man who is always crossing Reisterstown Road to get his morning fix right around the time I park to get mine. The two older men, likely retired, that must meet there for "away from wife" time every morning at 7 am sharp. Anyway, there's a similarity between my new Dunkin pals. Unlike me, who gets to the counter, says "Good morning, extra large blueberry light cream no sugar please," and then pays my $1.98 after being rung up, these others never even speak to the ringer-uppers. They just get rung up, and handed their "usual."
I know there are downfalls to having a usual. I remember this happened to me once back in the day...where I'd walk in to what used to be my favorite bar, The North Star, and Bobby the New York bartender would have a Bud Light bottle on the edge of the bar for me...which was great until May hit and I was ready to start drinking a Corona. I never had a beer waiting at the end of the bar for me again.
Even so, I want a usual at Dunks. What will it take? Do I need to simplify my order? Am I too complicated since I hold the sugar and cut the cream? Or is it the unlikely blueberry flavoring that throws off the Mr. and Miss behind the counter? Will there ever come a day that my unusual usual is just the usual? And if and when that day comes, I can't help but wonder, will my usual have become my usual-ly?
I added a new segment to my morning routine. After bypassing the Owings Mills Dunkin Donuts for so long, I've padded my A.M. to include the savory pit-stop. It's a win win situation. I figure if I stop before work rather than go during, I save myself the lackluster drive sans hot coffee beverage, the time away from my desk, and most importantly, the fear of falling flat on my face on Calvert Street again.
I see the same people every morning. The young guy at the middle table by the window, always surrounded by books, facing the wall, with his "Great One" coffee in front of him within fingertip reach. I see the very talkative man who is always crossing Reisterstown Road to get his morning fix right around the time I park to get mine. The two older men, likely retired, that must meet there for "away from wife" time every morning at 7 am sharp. Anyway, there's a similarity between my new Dunkin pals. Unlike me, who gets to the counter, says "Good morning, extra large blueberry light cream no sugar please," and then pays my $1.98 after being rung up, these others never even speak to the ringer-uppers. They just get rung up, and handed their "usual."
I know there are downfalls to having a usual. I remember this happened to me once back in the day...where I'd walk in to what used to be my favorite bar, The North Star, and Bobby the New York bartender would have a Bud Light bottle on the edge of the bar for me...which was great until May hit and I was ready to start drinking a Corona. I never had a beer waiting at the end of the bar for me again.
Even so, I want a usual at Dunks. What will it take? Do I need to simplify my order? Am I too complicated since I hold the sugar and cut the cream? Or is it the unlikely blueberry flavoring that throws off the Mr. and Miss behind the counter? Will there ever come a day that my unusual usual is just the usual? And if and when that day comes, I can't help but wonder, will my usual have become my usual-ly?
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Silly Rabbit, I Like Bunnies Too
April 5, 2007
Not only do Jews not get Easter baskets, but Easter just so happens to fall in the middle of a Jewish holiday this year...Passover, the week where the South Beach Diet becomes a requirement, and not my own choice.
Easter baskets, easter egg dying, and easter egg hunts...these are the things that that my coworkers and friends got to experience when growing up. For me, all that gets "hunted" on Passover is a piece of matzoh...a giant tasteless cracker. Who even wants that? The jews disguise the boring-ness of this by calling it something fancy, the Afikomen, and unfairly lead you to believe that this is dessert. And then, whoever finds it gets $5, or some other type of inadequate prize. In my family, the cut-off age for the prize seems to be whatever age I am that year. Somehow, I got booted out of all the fun things when I matured enough to make my own $5 with a work permit.
I excitedly have been talking about the Bunny Bananzoo EGGgstravaganza happening this weekend at the Maryland Zoo, hoping someone would aay "YES LET'S GO!" But no, everyone is easter egg'd out, or, too busy with fancy family dinners to celebrate the close to the Cadbury season, alongside of their very own private EGGstravaganza. No one understands my urge to participate in such a fun holiday. Spoiled brats.
First, I get jipped out of a stocking, and now this. However, this past year, I made do with my pre-lit Wal-Mart tree for Christmas. This could just be the year that I'll go ahead and order (make) myself an Easter basket from Delish and deliver it to myself at work when no one is looking. A secret admirer? How nice!
Not only do Jews not get Easter baskets, but Easter just so happens to fall in the middle of a Jewish holiday this year...Passover, the week where the South Beach Diet becomes a requirement, and not my own choice.
Easter baskets, easter egg dying, and easter egg hunts...these are the things that that my coworkers and friends got to experience when growing up. For me, all that gets "hunted" on Passover is a piece of matzoh...a giant tasteless cracker. Who even wants that? The jews disguise the boring-ness of this by calling it something fancy, the Afikomen, and unfairly lead you to believe that this is dessert. And then, whoever finds it gets $5, or some other type of inadequate prize. In my family, the cut-off age for the prize seems to be whatever age I am that year. Somehow, I got booted out of all the fun things when I matured enough to make my own $5 with a work permit.
I excitedly have been talking about the Bunny Bananzoo EGGgstravaganza happening this weekend at the Maryland Zoo, hoping someone would aay "YES LET'S GO!" But no, everyone is easter egg'd out, or, too busy with fancy family dinners to celebrate the close to the Cadbury season, alongside of their very own private EGGstravaganza. No one understands my urge to participate in such a fun holiday. Spoiled brats.
First, I get jipped out of a stocking, and now this. However, this past year, I made do with my pre-lit Wal-Mart tree for Christmas. This could just be the year that I'll go ahead and order (make) myself an Easter basket from Delish and deliver it to myself at work when no one is looking. A secret admirer? How nice!
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
ACE in the Hole
April 4, 2007
Sometimes I wonder why I'm so stupid. Not even in a flaky "I don't get it" kind of way. But actually just stupid. Uneducated. Lacking knowledge. Unable to carry an educated conversation about history, politics, or current events.
Every week, team ACES (often under a different yet clever alias because certain people on my team think they're funny) goes to trivia in attempt to win it all. We spend four hours racking our brains in attempt to take the grand prize of $25 and ABSOLUT paraphanelia home.
And, every week, I hear questions that everyone else (with the exception of my team) seems to know answers to, and I realize that I should have cracked a textbook back in the day.
My mom always said if I applied myself, I'd be a straight A student, and in retrospect, I think she's probably right. But, I made it through school, no question. I was a solid A/B occasional C student, and had no trouble getting into college with 5 applications and 5 acceptions. But, on the latter side, I can't label a map, talk about past presidents, or identify the year of the Cold War (except now I can because I just Googled it.) People at work called me "Canada" for a while because of a slight mishap/miscommunication about where I thought it was located. And last night at trivia, me and someone (I won't mention her name for privacy purposes) decided that the number one coffee producing country was Hawaii.
In the end though, ACES usually ends up on top. So I may not be smarter than the average bear, but quick thinking and common sense does get me pretty far. And I sometimes can pull out the knowledge. My claim to fame at trivia was knowing the answer to: What's the only 2 syllable word in the English language using no real vowels? Do you know?
Sometimes I wonder why I'm so stupid. Not even in a flaky "I don't get it" kind of way. But actually just stupid. Uneducated. Lacking knowledge. Unable to carry an educated conversation about history, politics, or current events.
Every week, team ACES (often under a different yet clever alias because certain people on my team think they're funny) goes to trivia in attempt to win it all. We spend four hours racking our brains in attempt to take the grand prize of $25 and ABSOLUT paraphanelia home.
And, every week, I hear questions that everyone else (with the exception of my team) seems to know answers to, and I realize that I should have cracked a textbook back in the day.
My mom always said if I applied myself, I'd be a straight A student, and in retrospect, I think she's probably right. But, I made it through school, no question. I was a solid A/B occasional C student, and had no trouble getting into college with 5 applications and 5 acceptions. But, on the latter side, I can't label a map, talk about past presidents, or identify the year of the Cold War (except now I can because I just Googled it.) People at work called me "Canada" for a while because of a slight mishap/miscommunication about where I thought it was located. And last night at trivia, me and someone (I won't mention her name for privacy purposes) decided that the number one coffee producing country was Hawaii.
In the end though, ACES usually ends up on top. So I may not be smarter than the average bear, but quick thinking and common sense does get me pretty far. And I sometimes can pull out the knowledge. My claim to fame at trivia was knowing the answer to: What's the only 2 syllable word in the English language using no real vowels? Do you know?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
My Big Fat Jewish Seder
April 3, 2007
First things first, Happy Birthday Annie, Jesse, and any other April birthdays that might be coming up. Happy Passover, Easter, and any other holidays that might be coming up. Perhaps, if people think they will get shout-outs on my blog, they will actually start to stop by and read them. My aplogies to all prior bdays and holidays that did not receive shout outs themselves. Happy all of those things to all of you.
Back to Passover though. Last night, as we annually do, my close family (reaching 20 in numbers last night) gathered for dinner (or more specifically, the Passover seder) at my grandparents house. As you might imagine, dinner with my family is never boring, never quiet, and never ever normal. A quote, straight out of an email from my aunt that I got this morning..."Brad got in the car last night and announced that we are seriously dysfunctional. I have to agree."
Let's go around the table. At the far right end of the table, we have the "cousins." I have since graduated to the adult part of the table, but this is where I used to park for all family affairs. But, nonetheless, the rest of the cousins still get assigned here. First, meet the 6-year old, who last week, decided that Pottery Barn was a ripoff, and last night, decided it was time that she learned to knit. Then, there's the product of growing up along side of me, the 19 almost 20 year old college student, who thinks everyone has "issues", that relationships are a waste of time, and that marriage/children are out of the question. It is super fun for me, however, to hear how my stories have influenced him, and to take a breather as the attention shifts to his love life and not mine. Throw in the other cousins who can't sit still, or get through 5 minutes without whining or even crying, you get the first part of a circus act.
The middle of the table is filled by the aunts and uncles. This is the area of the table where the dinner conversation always switches from Israeli freedom to sex, and "sarcastic" analogies between slavery and marriage, and the awkward comparison between public and private schools make it so you can cut the tension with a butter knife.
To the far left sit my grandparents. At nearly 80, you wouldn't know it (my grandmother has less lines around her eyes than I do.) Talk about opposites attract...try polar opposites. Married over 50 years, 4 children, and 9 grandchildren later, they still share a bed. Last night was no different than any other night in there house. Women in the kitchen, men at the table, and my grandfather driving everyone out the door. After we were all yelled as he tried to uncover the culprit who turned on the AC when he had windows open, the 7 bottles of wine we started with at the beginning of dinner became 7 empty bottles pretty freaking quickly.
Conversations ran a muck, and as per usual, when questioned about my "dating-life", I laughed. See, with me, its not "meet the parents" anymore, it's "meet the family". Picture "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" with more bleeping. And I just don't feel sad that I am safely avoiding this so far...I just wait for the day that I decide to bring a date to dinner. I will have to forwarn and potentially ask for forgiveness after, about whatever unfiltered things get said during the break between matzoh ball soup and gefilte fish.
Seriously, how did I end up so normal?
First things first, Happy Birthday Annie, Jesse, and any other April birthdays that might be coming up. Happy Passover, Easter, and any other holidays that might be coming up. Perhaps, if people think they will get shout-outs on my blog, they will actually start to stop by and read them. My aplogies to all prior bdays and holidays that did not receive shout outs themselves. Happy all of those things to all of you.
Back to Passover though. Last night, as we annually do, my close family (reaching 20 in numbers last night) gathered for dinner (or more specifically, the Passover seder) at my grandparents house. As you might imagine, dinner with my family is never boring, never quiet, and never ever normal. A quote, straight out of an email from my aunt that I got this morning..."Brad got in the car last night and announced that we are seriously dysfunctional. I have to agree."
Let's go around the table. At the far right end of the table, we have the "cousins." I have since graduated to the adult part of the table, but this is where I used to park for all family affairs. But, nonetheless, the rest of the cousins still get assigned here. First, meet the 6-year old, who last week, decided that Pottery Barn was a ripoff, and last night, decided it was time that she learned to knit. Then, there's the product of growing up along side of me, the 19 almost 20 year old college student, who thinks everyone has "issues", that relationships are a waste of time, and that marriage/children are out of the question. It is super fun for me, however, to hear how my stories have influenced him, and to take a breather as the attention shifts to his love life and not mine. Throw in the other cousins who can't sit still, or get through 5 minutes without whining or even crying, you get the first part of a circus act.
The middle of the table is filled by the aunts and uncles. This is the area of the table where the dinner conversation always switches from Israeli freedom to sex, and "sarcastic" analogies between slavery and marriage, and the awkward comparison between public and private schools make it so you can cut the tension with a butter knife.
To the far left sit my grandparents. At nearly 80, you wouldn't know it (my grandmother has less lines around her eyes than I do.) Talk about opposites attract...try polar opposites. Married over 50 years, 4 children, and 9 grandchildren later, they still share a bed. Last night was no different than any other night in there house. Women in the kitchen, men at the table, and my grandfather driving everyone out the door. After we were all yelled as he tried to uncover the culprit who turned on the AC when he had windows open, the 7 bottles of wine we started with at the beginning of dinner became 7 empty bottles pretty freaking quickly.
Conversations ran a muck, and as per usual, when questioned about my "dating-life", I laughed. See, with me, its not "meet the parents" anymore, it's "meet the family". Picture "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" with more bleeping. And I just don't feel sad that I am safely avoiding this so far...I just wait for the day that I decide to bring a date to dinner. I will have to forwarn and potentially ask for forgiveness after, about whatever unfiltered things get said during the break between matzoh ball soup and gefilte fish.
Seriously, how did I end up so normal?
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