everybody reach up for the ho-zone layer

Missmo and I are having a "ho war." That's when everything we say ends in "ho." Like, "Oh my God, you and Geoff will be here tomorrow, ho." Or "You like getting text messages at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday night that say 'Are you still awake?', ho." Or "I don't care that you have to work seven days a week. We're going dancing until 3 in the morning on Friday so stop being lame, ho."
In honor of the current ho war, I'm gonna post this actual footnote from an actual case out of California. I so wish that I was the clerk who got to write this footnote. It is my very favorite piece of legal writing EVER. It's just absolutely genius.
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Footnote 1 from U.S. v. Murphy, 406 F.3d 857:
The trial transcript quotes Ms. Hayden as saying Murphy called her a snitch bitch "hoe." A "hoe," of course, is a tool used for weeding and gardening. We think the court reporter, unfamiliar with rap music (perhaps thankfully so), misunderstood Hayden's response. We have taken the liberty of changing "hoe" to "ho," a staple of rap music vernacular as, for example, when Ludacris raps "You doin' ho activities with ho tendencies."
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Everyone have a happy ho day.

just a whole buncha randomness on a monday afternoon

SEEN & HEARD THIS WEEKEND

A woman's t-shirt:
(front) Men are like parking spaces
(back) All the good ones are taken and the ones that are left are handicapped

A homeless man and woman on the sidewalk:
Woman (in old drunk lady tone): Fffffffffuck you.
Man: Fuck you too, bitch!
Woman (again in old drunk lady tone): Fffffffffffuuuuuck you.
Man: Fuck you in your fuck you face. (ß best comeback ever)

Tour bus driver to me: Excuse me. Where's the White House?

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

I broke up with a friend this weekend. A strictly platonic guy friend. It sucks. We weren't friends for that long, but I thought we were pretty good friends. Turns out it doesn't matter if you are romantically involved or platonically involved – the majority of them will sell you out at the drop of a dime for a big butt and a smile.

BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

Then I have this other one that's kind of a friend, kind of something else. He's great. But the platonic friend who sold me out also made problems for me with the not-so-platonic friend which is making me think that maybe I should just cut it out with the not-so-platonic friend. Does this make sense? No? Good. It's not supposed to. This is the internet, for God's sake.

WE'RE GONNA GET BELIGERENT

I'm in trouble. Missmo is coming back this weekend. She can't get enough of the District. Which is what I want to see, because I want her to move up here. Unfortunately, however, I've been on these 7-day work weeks and 3-day going out binges, so I'm just about exhausted, and amazingly, BROKE. I even made a vow yesterday to cut back on the going out. BUT this time, she's coming with the bawsiest of the bawsy, Mr. G. Thompson. He's the man. He's a lot of fun, and let's face it girls, not too hard on the eyes. (He's so gonna read this and have a head the size of Texas.) (Hi, Geoff. Be sure to bring your boxer briefs up here with you because while Missmo gets to watch you run around the house in them all day, Jane and I could really use a little excitement in our house.) So I'm really excited. We're gonna have so much fun.

no subject

It has hit five o'clock and I can no longer focus on chest x-rays, pulmonary function studies, and presumptions of total disability. So I shall blog.

I love my life today. This whole week, actually. Monday I got my first paycheck as a professional. It wasn't that much, being that I am a government lawyer (or will be assuming I pass the bar), but it did buy me the four-inch black pointy toed heels that I've been fantasizing about for weeks. I saw them at the Nine West at the little mall at my metro stop, and at least once a week I would go in to visit them and subliminally tell them, "Don't worry, my little preciouses. In a short time, you shall be mine." So now I finally have them. They were a little hard to get used to at first. I could walk in them, but every time I caught my reflection, I'd be like "Oh my god. I look like a hooker." And they started killing me after having them on for one single hour. But now it's two days later, and now when I catch my reflection, I'm like "Oh my god. I'm so hot." And they don't really hurt anymore.

So yesterday I went down to this little place called Marvelous Market for lunch. They have all really good gourmet sandwiches and shit that I like to eat. I work in Chinatown, which is a pretty busy part of the city. "Vibrant," actually. So I sat up at the counter that faces the window so I could see the world go by, and I looked down at my four-inch black pointy toed heels and my gourmet sandwich and out at my city and for a second there, I was simply elated.

And today Missmo arrives. In two hours, to be exact. This makes my life today PERFECT. Don't worry, lovely readers, the next entry shall be "in our own universe part duex" and we shall have lots of stupid pictures to show you all. Perhaps we'll even get kicked out of the marine barracks…you never know…

9/11/01

Well, it's that date. That one date that conjures up feelings of fear, anger, sorrow, and solidarity all at once. Last night, my roommate and I watched a special on CBS about the firefighters who lost their lives in the World Trade Center. It has been about a year since I really sat down and watched the whole thing happen again on television. It reminded me of that day, how confusing and scary it was, and how surreal it was. Still to this day, I don't think I really understand the totality of what happened. I was in Florida when it happened, getting ready for my Biology lab. I hadn't been to New York in years, and at that point in my life, I had never been to DC. I had seen the towers before, but I was very young. I still can't really remember how tall they were; how grand they really were. In 2003, I visited Ground Zero. I remember looking up at all the other skyscrapers and thinking to myself, "These buildings are so tall, but they're nothing compared to what those towers were." I stared into the void that is now where the towers used to be, but I still couldn't wrap my mind around what had really happened there. I wonder if I'll ever truly understand.

There is one image that I've seen on television over and over again that makes it real to me. I watched as the second plane crashed into the tower; I watched both collapse in real time. I saw the people running down the street, crying and screaming, and since then, I've seen the footage of the staircases - people in business suits going down the stairs; men in fireproof jackets going up the stairs. But still, there is just one image that makes my heart sink as low as it will get and gets me all choked up every time I see it or talk about. It's a young woman, with dark curly hair if I remember correctly, standing on a corner in Manhattan, holding a picture of another young woman, her eyes wide with desperation, holding the picture to the camera and pleading to anyone who will listen "Please, I need to find her. This is my best friend. Please."

I'm even getting a little emotional right now writing about it…

This is the image that makes it the most real to me. The planes, the towers collapsing, the people running through the streets – it seems like a movie. The firefighters climbing up the stairs – I don't know what it would be like to be them. Did they know they were climbing to their deaths? Were they scared? I have no idea.

But I know how that woman felt. My heart breaks with her every time I see her. I know about having a best friend, a friend that you just couldn't live without. I don't know what it would be like to be her at that very moment, but I know how I would feel if I were her. I know that getting there and finding her would be the only thing that I would be able to do with my life. I know that I would stand on the street corner with her picture, day in and day out, pleading, hoping, fearing, crying, searching. Nothing else in my life would matter.

I wonder if she ever found her. I hope so.

yo quiero tacobell

Somebody in my office is cooking microwave popcorn or something, and it smells like a chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell. Now I really, really want a chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell. And I want it NOW.

Just a little FYI - if I were to have one now, it would be my first sober chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell experience. Missmo and I always share one on our way back to the house after a night out, but I don't think I've ever had one during the day. They usually serve as a little appetizer until we can get in the house and get into the Grilled Stuffed Burritos with extra sour cream, please.

Jesus Christo. And I wonder why I'm not a size 4.

rain, rain, go the f away!

One thing I hate about being a city girl: making the mile walk to the metro at 8:45 a.m. in the rain. HATE IT!!! By the time I got to the metro this morning, my pants were soaked up to my knees, and I was slipping and sliding out of my flats that I must wear because after all, the walk is a mile. I shudder to think of all the nasty little organisms that I picked up from the nasty city puddles and that are probably colonizing between my toes as we speak. But here's the absolute best part - that my big bootylicious booty sticks out from under the umbrella a little bit so my ass is also soaked.

What a miserable start to the day. Good thing Missmo will be here in one week and one day. And good thing I have an office with a door that I can close and listen to Esthero all day long.

On a final note, guys are so confusing. So confusing.