WRESTLING

Because I love Delaware, I thought I'd bloggity-blog about a movie filmed in The First State by a boy I went to kindygarten with. It's not out yet, but here's a little sneak preview.

MYSPACE LINK:
www.myspace.com/canyouevergetitback

Reminisce: Part 2

Party, that Pizza Party....Yeaaaaaaaaaaah!

*Still heard in the tri-state area when we are excited about ANYTHING.....

Reminisce.

I'm walking Go Go down the street.
He wags his tail at the friends we meet.
I walk him forwards, backwards too.
Go Go, my walking pup, I love you!

I'm walking Go Go.

(Who walks a dog backwards?)

My Day on the Subway

For those of you who know me – you lucky bastards – you know that I was born and raised in the rolling hills and green pastures of Suburbia. Sometimes, my experiences as a Philadelphia worker and inhabitant have been both eye-opening and humorous. Well, my most recent is one for the books.

While I am sure that some sort of public transit is available in the suburbs, it was none that I was ever aware of. I was once on the “El”, not “L”, on a Sunday afternoon while a friend was practically holding my hand for the entire trip. But, yesterday was my official first day on the subway.

I walked the two blocks to The Clothespin. Note: don’t make the same mistake I did. The Clothespin is not a trendy boutique or a dry cleaner. It is an actual giant sculpture in the shape of a clothespin. I don’t know how I never noticed that one before. (Oh right, I work for the devil and never leave the one-block radius of my cube during daylight.)

So, I descended the steps and found my Blue Line Westbound track, following the explicit instructions of my coworkers. Now, I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I have some appalling news. There are huge mice living in the tracks of the 15th Street subway. Don’t overreact, but there are maybe dozens of them. I plan to contact some higher-ups I am acquainted with in the tourism industry to make them aware of this problem. My tentative plan is to work a Rodent Free Transit Initiative into the Summer 2007 Marketing Plan.

After I recovered from my shock, I rode the elusive underground train to my destination with relative ease. My return, however, was another story. After I exited the train to return to work, I gave myself props for doing so well. I took in a deep breath of urinal-scented air and smiled. Just as I was about to break out the Mary Tyler Moore arms-out-twirl, I was confronted with another obstacle. There were two teenagers fist fighting at the top of the stairs – right under the sacred Clothespin! No one can get past the brawl so we are all just standing on the steps watching. Instead of trying to break up the quarrel, people were saying things like, “Can you get out of the way? I’ve got places to be!” So, apparently no one was concerned that two thirteen-year-olds were pummeling each other at 2:00 on a sunny Wednesday afternoon; they were merely concerned with their choice of location.

While I was waiting on the stairs, a crazy person ran into me at full speed and inadvertently head-butted me. As he proceeded to yell at me for not zippering my bag (which didn’t have a zipper), I noticed something drop out of the corner of my eye. I looked down to find pigeon excretion on my sleeve. That’s right – the rat of the bird world crapped on me while a crazy person was preaching street smarts at the top of his lungs. For about two minutes, I shifted my dumbfounded gaze from soiled arm, to crazy ranter, to soiled arm, and so on. Thankfully, the two fighters finally ended their squabble with a man hug, and we all walked to our respective destinations.

I walked to work, scrubbed my shirt, and dreamed of what it would be like to be able to fly.

Sorry, Chalfonte. You're not included. Yet.

Who loves the internet? I do, I do! I like this web site too: outside.in. The site captures neighborhood info on the web by pulling events and conversations, etc, off of local blogs. Put in a zip code or neighborhood and it pulls together all sorts of shizah going on there.

For my Rittenhouse Square zip, I learned some stuff, like that the guy from Post Secret (one of my fave blogs) is coming to Rit Sq bookshop. Then I put in my zip where I grew up, and got nothing. Sorry Charlie. I guess blogging isn't so big in the world of Big Wheels.

Goddam, mate.

The Geico commercials are so friggin hilarious. I love that Aussie little lizard with the big ego. AND the misunderstood cavemen? Brilliant. The duck with the mango salsa? The new one with the caveman on the moving sidewalk in the airport...when he gives the wry smile... so dear to my heart. Even my cousin agrees that Geico rules. Am I the only one laughing at car insurance?

PS: Brilliant though the ads may be, I still use Erie Insurance or some shizah like that.

Adventures in High-Rise Apartment Living, Part I: Smelly chick

As some So Unpretty readers know, I live in a high rise apartment building. My building makes up 1 of 4, actually, so you can imagine that there are quite a few people that call this place home. Given that there are many people that comprise the resident population, it's a given that there are many different personalities & people that I come across on a daily basis. One of these people is someone that I've not-so-affectionately nicknamed - Smelly Chick.

Smelly Chick has been grating my nerves for at least a year. She hasn't done anything to me really, she just stinks. Her personal stench is an offense upon my nose. See, Smelly chick & I work out in the fitness center at the same time. Her usual attire is cute running shorts, top, Ipod & matching Ipod armband. There's only one problem, she smells as though she just rolled out of bed. She & I both work out in the morning. I can understand the wanting to go to the gym in the morning to get an early workout in. However, it takes me all of 5 minutes to brush my teeth, wash my face, pop in my contacts and put deodorant on. She, on the other hand nixes the idea of morning grooming and heads straight to the gym. To add to her morning stench, Smelly Chick is an avid runner. Every time I see her, she's pounding out miles on the treadmill. So to add to her morning funky fragrance, you can add in sweat. By the time she's done exercising, she looks like something out of a Gatorade commercial. Her stench is so bad, I can smell her FOUR machines away! Initially, it was funny. Now, 1 year later, I'm irritated beyond belief. Sometimes, I feel like stopping my workout because I can't breathe. Plus, it doesn't take a lot to get me irritated first thing in the morning.

There's no way that she can't smell herself. Why should I or anyone else have to put up with her stench? Since approaching her & bringing it to her attention in a polite fashion is a fairly difficult task, I've tried weighing different options:

1. I could start exercising in the evening - No, I'm a morning person, I feel better when I get my daily fitness requirement done & over with. Plus, eff- that, why should I change my habits because of 1 person?
2. I could punch her in the face ( Violent, yes, but like I've said, this has been a problem for over a year, it's disgusting & really starting to piss me off) - No, this chick cranks out miles on that treadmill & she'd probably chase me down before I could even put my feet into motion. On the other hand, she weighs 2 pounds, so I could probably beat her.... I mean, could I get into legal trouble for that? IF so, it would be like that Seinfeld episode where Jerry forces the maitre 'd to sit in his smelly car to check for b.o. If a judge disputed me, I'd put him in the same fitness center with little air circulation and Smelly Chick pounding out the miles. Still weighing this option.
3. Maybe I'm misjudging her, maybe her stench to her is like what "Sexyback" on my Ipod is to me - it motivates me to exercise harder when I've got great music playing. Maybe she's using her stench as some kind of motivator - she's trying to outrun it. If this is the case, I guess I'll continue to do nothing about approaching her.
4. I hide behind a wall & attack her with aerosol antiperspirant & deodorant when she comes into the gym - Maybe. This would kill 2 birds with one stone - I've not so subtly told her that she stinks & now she smells decent enough for me to occupy the same room with her.
5. I tell her that she stinks & she should take care of it - for the sake of the everyone else's noses - Maybe. She might have hurt feelings, but that's nothing compared to the way she's been assaulting my sense of smell of late. Then, if she continues to consciously come to the gym stinking; she'd decided to ignore my feelings, which means that I can then proceed to exercise option 2.....

I don't know.

It kinda goes without saying, but B. O. ..... So Unpretty

Scenes from an elevator.

I'm not a lawyer-hater, I promise. Some of my best friends are lawyers-- I just spent the weekend with one! But the attorneys that share my office elevator give me such good fodder.

The scene: Late Friday night. Three people in elevator-- me and two lawyers, clearly, a partner-in-training and his sidekick-in-training. Sidekick realizes he forgot something in the office. But instead of getting off on floor 15, and getting an up-elevator from there, he rides all the way down with us. Partner-in-training scoffs "why didn't you just get out at 15 and go up?" Sidekick replies, "Oh, that would have been a good idea. That's why you make the big bucks. 'Cause you're so smart. Mr. Phi Beta Kappa. Yale. Law review."

I wanted to barforama on their Gucci loafers. It reminds me of the hero worship that highschool girls do, when the less-cool girls gush about how cool the coolest girl is to the boys. That's what Sidekick was doing... bragging so I could hear how smart and well-groomed his buddy was. I wanted to tell Sidekick, "hey man, buck up! Don't be this guy's own personal PR! Let him do his own work. So what if you didn't go to Ivy League? I didn't either! God loves us, everyone!"

But I didn't. I just smirked, internally, and thought, with a sad sigh, so unpretty,

Philly gets a Conde Nast cafeteria!

Ok my title was a bit of a lie. However, the Philadelphia Museum of Art IS getting a gallery designed by Frank Gehry, he of Conde Nast cafeteria fame. A-Some!! Two Franks abound in Philly, Frank Furness (think Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts) and now Frankie Gehry. We rule! It's not our birthday, shake it anyway!

Just watch out for muffin tops.

I had ranted. I had raved. Then I went to Old Navy and got sucked in by the bargain prices. I did it: I bought skinny jeans. I know, I know... they are so 80s. So trendy. No one really looks that good in them. And while I like to keep current, I don't often dip my toes into the trend pool of fashion. But I did it. My impending 30th birthday (in 4 years!) makes me want to milk my 20s for all they are worth, and goddammit if that means wearing unflattering denim then sign me up!

I've worn those mo-fos twice, but only with the encouragement of my friends. No one spit on me. No one laughed openly. Plus, both times I was safely within hipster bars, where the skinny jeans were as common as local draft beer. But I felt like I was wearing a costume "the 1984 Beanorama." However, I will be wearing them again tomorrow night, with a kick-ass pair of RED vintage heels I got. Yum.

OK signing off now with this vow: You might see me in skinny jeans, but I will NOT wear leggings. If you see me in them, push me down a manhole, and tell me I am so unpretty.

Let's Hear it for Dirt!

If you were anywhere but the East Coast of the United States this weekend, you may not have known that it was my 26th birthday. Yes, that's right. My maturity level, word choice, and tendency to sing weird songs c/o Beanorama may indicate otherwise, but yes, my friends, I am 26.

Much to the chagrin of my friends and family, the celebration commenced last Friday and extended until last evening, when my delightfully Italian mother hosted a dinner at her residence for me and 8 of my closest gal pals. Even though two friends disagreed, dinner was delicious.

But the true pinnacle of the evening was when we had my ultimate dessert: dirt. Yes, that's correct. Dirt. The delicious combination of crushed Oreos, pudding, and gummy worms. So good. I even refused Eagles Touchdown Sundae ice cream so I could focus only on dirt. And it was everything I hoped it would be. Needless to say, I will need to kick some serious tail at kickboxing tonight to make up for my chocolatey love affair last evening.

I also learned that there is a fairer cousin to my affection: sand. Hilarious.

Huh?

i'm flicking through the channels tonight and stumble across Larry King Live...i do enjoy this program once in a while depending on who is he talking to (is that supposed to be embarrassing?)

LK was "interviewing" Donald Trump. The Don never fails to amuse me with his robust sense of self worth. i really had no intention of keeping the show on, thinking i'd have better luck finding something mindless to watch on BRAVO or E!, when something at the bottom of the screen catches my eye...

below Donald's name was the most bizarre caption ever:

ON FOLEY SCANDAL, ANGELINA JOLIE, FIRING CAROLYN, WHY HE WANTS YOU TO BE RICH

you know that song; "one of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not quite belong..."

apparently Trump is an expert on ANY AND ALL THINGS, including Angelina Jolie. i couldnt help but be curious as to what nuggets of wisdom he planned on dispensing about the sexy, brad pitt-lovin, mother of three. i was thoroughly let down when the topic of angie was finally broached. for about two minutes he trashed her...why? because he is friends with her insane father, John Voight. apparently, he thinks she's a bitch for keeping her nutso father away from her kids. and then that was it. he moved on continuing to pronounce himself the most successful, smartest man in the universe.

ego-maniac tycoons that think they know everything...so unpretty.

Okaaaay...

a few days ago, while sitting at an abnormally long traffic light, i found myself behind quite a conundrum.

there, in front of me, was a very old, very dirty, but pimped out sedan. the ass of the car was elevated at least a foot higher than it should have been, and the car vibrated obnoxiously loud with some sort of bass. it also sounded like it had the motor of a tank sitting under the hood.

but, believe it or not, this isn't what struck me as odd. after all, this is not a rare sight in my neck of the city. no, what i found odd, funny and ironic (yes, all three, at once) was that scrawled across the back of the car on the rear windshield in shaving cream was the words: "4 SALE" and then a phone number. there was more to read though. just glancing at the bumper stickers that the owner had on display really sold me on the prospect of buying the car.

"My girlfriend's tits are the only two things I like about her" ...sweet, she must be so proud.

and there was another, even better. poetry really.

"Can you please sit on my face?"

this guy really knows how to sell a car. honestly, if i was in the market for a thugged-out, piece of shit pussywagon, this would have been a perfect fit.

Bravo, BRAVO!

i know i have pledged my undying love to MTV in the past. but i am a slippery mistress. i found a new a love. i am trading in a boy for a man...and his name is BRAVO.

how do i love thee, oh Project Runway...

how do i adore thee, oh Six Feet Under...

how i enjoy thee, Inside the Actor's Studio...

there is also Top Chef, Queer Eye and once in a while a great movie.

the only thing so unpretty with my new man (and hey, everyone has a flaw or two) is Celebrity Poker Showdown. but, i am willing to look past that and accentuate the positive. in the solemn words of Project Runway's fashion diva, Tim Gunn..."MAKE IT WORK!"

Fraudulent Feminist.

Most of my wacko stories on this blogarama involve interaction with wackos on the street. So here we go again:

I was walking to work in the usual manner, and almost slammed into a workman. I apologized, as did he, and then he added, "Pretty ass!"

"Excuse me?" I said, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
"Pretty ass!" he repeated. My inner Gloria Steinem reared her righteous head. "That is so rude! You don't just say that to a woman on the street!" Gloria retorted. Workman looked incredulous.
"Whaddya mean?! It's not rude! Pretty ass!" Gloria and I stomped away, in indignant feminist glory, tossing another "It's rude" behind my feminist shoulder.

But here's the fraudulent part. As I walked away, I started giggling and laughing, and even felt a little proud of my pretty ass. (Which is not especially compliment-worthy by any mean, but heh.) Gloria would NOT be proud that I giggled at the outright objectification.

But then... I kept thinking about it. When a workman compliments a lady's derriere, he ususally says "Nice ass" instead of "pretty ass." And wait... this guy hadn't even seen my tushie when he said it... Ut oh. I think I made a mistake. I think he probably said "pretty eyes"-- which is not so worthy of a Gloria-esque tirade. No wonder workman was so confused by my response. Actually, I'm pretty confused myself, as my eyes have never been much of a strong point with me, and plus this a.m. they were a little red and puffy from one too many Yards beers last night. That's all I want to say. Good night and good luck.

This is the stuff of legends.

I am over cards with line drawings of skinny women with little dogs. I am over pink! and purses! and shoes! and ribbons! and polka-dots! As far as I am concerned, that was an annoying trend brought about by the hyper-popularity of Sex and The City. (Don't get me wrong. I love S&theC. It's a-some and I miss those women.)

HOWEVER. I did feel a flutter in my heart yesterday as I was given an impromptu invitation with a coworker to meet someone in the Conde Nast cafeteria. The coworker did not realize the mythical connotations of this location, but I did, and my mascara'd eyes were fluttering with anticipation.

First of all, it's something like the only Frank Gehry-designed room in New York. I find that hard to believe, but that's what I was told. It had swirling, curved glass and little pods that made it feel like I was underwater with Ariel. Second, the service. All the workers were dressed to the nines, knew everyone's names, and were super friendly. Third, the food. Out of control afternoon omelet bar, smoothies galore, a salad bar that was beyond my beloved Salad Works. I would eat here breakfast lunch and dinner!

That said, I might be the only one eating, because the WOMEN in the caf don't look like they do much of it. Yes, these are the famed "clackers" of the Devil Wears Prada. In real life, most of them work at Vogue, and Teen Vogue, but I am sure the ladies of Conde Nast Traveler are no slouches either. The clothes were o.o.c... more skinny jeans, big blousy shirts, and waaaay-upscale designers than you've seen in one place outside of a fashion show. I was in turns jealous and horrified by my jealousy. And wait, aren't these ladies journalists? How do they pay for this stuff? The accessorizing itself would put me into debt. I thought by throwing on a tight pencil skirt I could compete with the New Yawkers, but alas, I did not plan on hanging out with the Conde Nasties.

It was a pretty memorable New York moment. Also memorable was when I ran into my cousin on the street and I'm not sure he knew who I was. And, oh yea, when a plane hit a high-rise. That was, needless to say, unpretty.

97 Reasons to Visit Philly

This guy should get paid.

Dear God...

Dear God,

i know you have a lot going on...war, famine, sickness, yada yada, yada...

...but, could you do me a favor? next time you decide to surprise the city of philadelphia with an impromptu nor'easter, can you text me? i would appreciate the heads up. the warning could inspire me to say, i don't know...wear trash bags, wrap my shoes in plastic wrap, and remove my mascara. walking home during a torrential down pour- so unpretty.

yours truly,
soaked and saturated in philadelphia

Welcome Back, Mrs. Cotter

sorry its been so loooong, but i am back and ready to blog.

forgive me? yeah, i know...you're like, i never knew you were gone :)

well, i promise to dedicate more time to you, so unpretty. time, after all is on my side. yes, it is.

Say no to food!

Ummmm… I’ve seriously been thinking about giving up food. Apparently you have to worry about everything you eat these days.
Yet again, there has been another recall of something that we all consume, almost, everyday. Lettuce…. (I believe Beanorama even wrote an ode to Salad Works a few days ago)
This is yet another e-coli recall, similar to the e-coli recall of bagged spinach a few weeks ago. It’s kinda weird because a colleague of mine asked whether most fertilizers have manure in them. If so, is it so farfetched that there might be e-coli contamination?
Either way, since there about a recall a month of something I ingest… I think food is now off limits because e-coli and dying is so unpretty…. But then again, so is starving… Hmmmmm, what to do?

Interaction in the city.

Sometimes interaction with strangers in a city can be a strange thing. Three cases to point out:

I live across from a school and have to navigate schoolkids on my way to work. This morning, I glanced up and a young, attractive dad with his 8-year-old daughter in tow. I was not ogling the man, and really only looked at him for a split second, but the little girl narrowed her eyes and gave me the look of the devil. Maybe she is used to young women liking her dad? Either way, such cruelty from a young'un.

In a more uncomfortable moment, I was on the bus the other night with three other people. A too-talkative, mid-forties lady, who has nothing to do with this story; a 30-something black man; and a 60-year-old, horn-rimmed glasses white guy. The bus stops in the middle of the road. We can't get through due to a very fancy car parked pretty much in the middle of the street, in a no-parking zone. Bus driver gets off the bus to locate car owner. Temper on bus is rising. Car owner returns to move his car. He happens to be a young black man. 60-year-old horn-rimmed glasses turns to me and the other guy in the bus and says, trying to be so cool and with-it, "Just one of the brothers, doing his thang." My polite, pasted on smile switched quickly into a dropped jaw and widened eyes. Um, are you kidding me? He got off the bus at that point, no doubt satisfied by the fact that he appeared so "tolerant" and "hip." When really, he was a dowdy professor dude about to get punched.

Last weird thing: walking home yesterday, I hear a guy say to a girl, "I love you!" as they parted ways. Next block, he says to me, I kid you not, "What's a cute girl like you doing walking by yourself?" When I called him out on the "I love you," he very quickly--too quickly-- dismissed me "oh, she's my sister." Then he asked, in rapid succession, if I like Old City, if I like crowds, if I have a roommate, a boyfriend, if I own my apartment, if I like my friend Z's fiancee that she is marrying this weekend (which I do), how long they have been dating, how old she was, where I went to college, was I a lawyer... and the list goes on.

That's it and that's all. Call me boring if you want. But don't call me late for dinner.