DISCLAIMER: The problem with drinking a bottle of wine all by yourself on the 4th of July is that you have trouble remembering what happened. All of the statements presented here are clearly factual, until otherwise proven (with photographic evidence) that I am lying.

I’d been anticipating the 4th of July for a couple weeks. I took off work both Thursday and Friday, spending Thursday at various doctors’ appointments (including the dentist’s, where I found out I have another four cavities for not flossing every single day. Let that be a lesson to you). Number 2 and his brofriend, Juan, came down Thursday afternoon, dressed in white and went to go play tennis and have a circle jerk while BF & I went to yoga. No homo.

Came home, cooked filet mignon and asparagus and potatoes. Lounged, introduced the boys to Mr. Yogato. Chief drove from his Boston booty call and arrived at 1am Friday morning. And then he woke up at 7am, freezing, and decided to go get donuts. They didn’t open until 8, but he waited outside anyway. Such a good brother.

BF & I woke them up at 9. We’d been planning a photo safari of the places in DC that were significant to us (so that I wouldn’t miss it too much when we leave for NYC mid-August). It was a gorgeous day, so instead of driving as we’d planned, we all rented bikes: me, BF, my two bros + brofriend, Juan. I overestimated our stamina and planned a 15-mile bike trip around DC. I wanted to visit each place we’ve lived, along with where we went to school and our favorite places to go.

Our actual route took us up the Capital Crescent Trail and into Maryland, then back to DC, UP Massachusetts Ave to AU (worst idea ever after already having biked 8+ miles), my old  dorm, then to Tenleytown. I needed to show my brothers that the Tenleytown Metro Station does not look the same way as it does in Fallout 3.

where we goed

We stopped at Whole Foods to inhale pizza, and then biked down Wisconsin through Georgetown, where Chief nearly died (both at our hands, since he intentionally braked and made his P.O.S. bike squeal the whole way, and at the hands of other drivers, since he was riding like a jackass).

In my tired state after the ride, I estimated that we probably rode 12.6 miles. I rechecked my math and found that we actually rode 14.4 miles, which makes it official: I am a badass (and I cannot/should not do math). Before our bike ride my other brother, Boss, decided he wanted to join the fun at the last minute. Instead of riding with us, he rode the train down and met us post-sweatfest.

We came home and I took a nap while Number 2 and Juan jerked it to Federer before going out for Thai. We came home, they made Creamsicles (Spiced Rum and Orange Soda—aka Death in a glass) and I made a nectarine-blackberry crisp and we carb-loaded on that and my homemade ice cream  in anticipation of a day of drinking on Saturday.

Not ones to be let down, I promised my brothers a party at a law school friend of my boyfriend’s, complete with 2 full kegs and our own fireworks, courtesy of Number 2 and his cuddlebear, Juan.

And I also had a full bottle of Kim Crawford all to myself.

BF contributed by making a vat of pulled pork that took three days to make. He brined it for two days, and then spent all day Saturday smoking & basting it. Meanwhile, I played Suzy Homemaker, baking blueberry jam-filled lemon cookies, as well as lemon-cheesecake squares, for the party. No homo. Although, some people thought otherwise:

gayness

photo 4

Several rounds of beer pong (during which Boss carried me all the way except for the one shot I made by myself), we proceeded to get sufficiently trashed. Remaining true to his manipulative-for-the-purposes-of-amusement nature, BF coaxed a kosher friend into

trying his BBQ pork, took a picture (for evidence/posterity), and promptly threatened to email it to god@gmail.com. It was worth it. That warm feeling in your belly, Rob? Those are the fires of hell.

My brothers (all of them) thought that one of our friends looks like Jeff Goldblum circa Jurassic Park, and decided we should start a website with pictures of celebrity lookalikes. We already had one celebrity lookalike sighting in 2006: we saw Gandalf/Dumbledore at dinner in Park City.

gandalf

During that night, I also realized we had another celebrity impersonator: Allen from The Hangover, who politely removed his sunglasses for the picture.

Untitled-2

The rest of the night is kinda blurry, which makes sense, given that we lost at beer pong. I remember:

  • when we first got there, JB. was throwing a fit because someone had turned off Michael Jackson and put on rap. When he started threatening to punch the guy in the face, Boss got worried the cops were gonna come and asked me if it was okay that they were there, even though they were underage. So, I made the responsible decision of making him a strong drink.
  • my brother trying to figure out the perfect trajectory of the ping pong ball in order to make it into the cup (excluding wind resistance, off-balanced starting position from being drunk, and the moisture from cleaning off the ball)
  • some douche from UChicago going to my bro, “WOW only fucking 18 year olds try & blow into the cup to knock it out,” to which my brother said “that’s suitable, given I AM 18.” Then UChicago starts talking about how my bro is a tool, and even though Boss is going to MIT, UChicago is a “WAAAAAYYY better school.”
  • how at the end of the night someone had thrown beer all over UChicago, and Chief & Boss had left, trying to get into a strip club with their obvious fakes.

I remember sending Trish 150 texts asking her when she was coming, and then she finally showed up for about 4 minutes; my brothers lighting off fireworks in the middle of the street, and some chick with double d’s macking it to Boss (he & Chief were studs that night). I remember Chief was wearing a t-shirt that said “Support Local Music: Sleep with a Musician,” and how it almost got him laid.

Perhaps the best, and least sensible, memory of the evening was when I took off my shoes mid-conversation with BF’s cousin and some other people, and then returned, causing some surprise at my stature.

Them: Wow, you are really short without your heels!
Me: Yeah, I know, it kinda sneaks up on you. Like a midget in a horror movie.

BF’s cousin bet me $5 I wouldn’t remember I said that the next day, so BF helped me cheat by sending me a text of it.

As far as I’m concerned, I not only proved myself to be not only a bike-riding menace, but also a drinking champ. Unfortunately, I can’t really remember all of it.

her shirts reveal what her tattoos don’t:

my heart it beats for you

my heart it beats for you

farce

farce

http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=6410587 to buy.

There is a rampant child-shitting problem in DC:

scoop your pet/child's/pet child's poop

scoop your pet/child's/pet child's poop

I’ve been rereading things I studied in college–”Bullet in the Brain,” Cheever’s “Reunion,” Gardner’s “Redemption,” portions of Eliot’s “Waste Land” and “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” and I feel like there’s something to be said for the constancy of a good book, poem, or story. It’s ability to endure over time impresses me again and again, keeps me writing and working in order to produce something of that caliber.

I was explaining the other day how I read, how I start first by appreciating the words used, the rhythm of a sentence, and how I let the words bring me to the plot. In a good story, the conceit of the plot and words that allow you to understand it are often inseparable, as if they existed for the sole point of conveying that particular story.

After I savor the verbiage and the way the author sews the words into the plot, I evaluate the plot itself. I’ve decided that a [good] plot extends beyond the last page of the piece.

For me, the best story encourages the reader to think. The reader evaluates the story, the parts and the whole. The story achieves its success when the reader feels compelled to understand it, when, upon reaching the end, the reader continues to contemplate the characters, to apply their own life experiences to the story for a basis of comparison. For me, the best story is like finding buried treasure. You look within the landscape of the story after rumors of hidden gems that lie within, hoping they will quell boredom. Upon peeking through its pages you discover golden phrases inlaid among a bed of concrete story line. Though satisfying and exciting, the best kind of story keeps you coming back, having instilled in you the notion that your journey, your efforts to understand, were rewarding, and are worth pursuing in the hopes that your labor might be rewarded by future discoveries of treasure.

My status on Facebook: E: got into the new school’s mfa program holy fuckkkkkkkkk

MM comments (on my wall): FANTASTIC! So proud of you. Love, MM [seriously, she signed it "MM"]

Talking to MM, via Facebook chat:

E: your future son in law treated me to dinner
MM: nice of him. he is a keeper
E: yes, i think so
MM: i believe so. and by the way i don’t see how in the world fuck could be holy
E: i’m sure you’ve said “oh my god” during sex
MM: possibly.
E: so you can see how it is holy, then.

This is what happens when you forget to wake up and move your car from the Embassy of Rwanda’s parking lot:

next time. you park car this please we sacrifice you

next time. you park car this please we sacrifice you

Dear Family, Friends, and Loyal Investors,

You are reading the second annual Xmakuh letter. To those of you who are new to the ritual of the Xmakuh letter, welcome. Chris-ma-kuh was formed from melting down Santa Claus, aka “Father Christmas,” aka “Old Saint Nick,” aka “Kris Kringle–”such an unbelievable alias!–and packaging him into gelt (chocolate gold coins). You can read more about the origin of the holiday here.

For those of you who received the first letter and didn’t bother to read it, your computer has now been infected with the Computer Papilloma Virus (CPV) and will die shortly. (Siblings, you are exempt from this virus because I know none of you would ever ignore something I wrote.)

While most rational people usually wait until after Thanksgiving to begin preparing for Christmas, recent years have seen an onslaught of holiday paraphernalia several months before the actual holiday. I’m talking about the M&Ms I saw in CVS a couple weeks ago–before it was even HALLOWEEN. What the hell is that all about?

I’ll tell you what it’s about: The Economy.

Since we kicked off last year’s Xmakuh letter by establishing the origin of Xmakuh, we will continue in the same pattern and describe the origin of the Economy.

[Family: You can skip this email, but there will be a pop quiz on Thanksgiving that will determine whether or not you get a present this year.]

Contrary to popular opinion, the Asians, responsible for all things smart, did not come up with the Economy. The Economy began in ancient times, about 2500 BCE, with the Babylonians: they, along with “their neighboring city states later developed the earliest system of economics as we think of, in terms of rules/laws on debt… legal contracts and law codes relating to business practices, and private property” (Wiki 14). Basically, if you borrowed somebody’s cow and used it for milk, you could replace what the other person lost (the milk) by trading him with something like a bale of barley, or a small child.

Initially, the term “Economy” applied to the value of goods–like how much your cow was worth–and its value was established via trading.

Legend says that Socrates had a few too many barrels of wine one day and gathered a bunch of his boy toys around in Ancient Greece. Socrates was like, “Look, boys, something needs to be done. There are too many of you available to me, and it’s starting to cause a problem: I am not desiring you as much.” In explaining the dilemma to the attractive yet vapid kept boys, Socrates realized this was an allegory for a system he’d been observing for a while: the Economy (colorfully paraphrased from Plato’s Republic).

“If I like a guy and go after him, I am considered a consumer.” (Though a Greek word, “pedophilia” was not considered abnormal at the time of the Ancient Greeks). “The less available a particular good is, the more competitive the pursuit. However, if all of you boys make yourselves available to me, I won’t have to try as hard to seduce you.” From there, the phrase “Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free” was coined. The word “cow” is substituted in order to ensure appropriateness of the moral.

So, after Ancient Babylon, two hundred thousand years or so later in 1780, the Industrial Revolution reared its ugly head in Europe. All you need to know from this is a bunch of mumbo-jumbo that I will just borrow from Wikipedia:

  • Adam Smith (the first Economist) defined the elements of a national economy: products are offered at a natural price generated by the use of competition – supply and demand – and the division of labor.
  • The United States of America became the place where millions of expatriates from all European countries were searching for free economic evolvement (read: immigration, Ellis Island).
  • In Europe, wild capitalism started to replace the system of mercantilism and led to economic growth. This period is called the industrial revolution because the system of production and division of labor enabled the mass production of goods.

In 19th century Europe, communism was born out of the need to counteract capitalism.
What was happening there in the mid-to-late 1800s is similar to what is happening in America today: the divide between the rich and the poor was growing wider than ever. This led (albeit less directly than I’m suggesting) to the formation of various ideologies like Fascism and Nazism, which in turn caused World War II.

THEN. Fast forward a few decades, and you have 1981, the year that began the recession. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Wait a second, I’ve been paying attention to the news like a responsible citizen, and I’ve been hearing this ‘recession’ word a lot.”

What? You watch FOX news?

Ok, so maybe you haven’t been hearing about the recession. Anyway, it’s being predicted by liberals that it’s the end of the world, and conservatives are saying we’re perfectly fine, that China will never conquer us in terms of economic prowess.

So in order to determine the true state of the Economy, add the two sides together and subtract the load of shit. The result: the Economy is in the crapper right now, but it seems to do this every 25 years or so, so it’ll probably get better.

By now (or maybe earlier), you might have been wondering why I’m telling you about all this.

I care about the Economy. Why? Because it affects my severance package Xmakuh presents. AND YOURS TOO!

Friends: do you really want your parents to lose their jobs and not be able to buy you the new iPod this year?

Parents, aunts, uncles and older (and wiser) friends: do you really want your kids to lose their jobs and not be able to buy you the new iPod this year?

I don’t think so. Therefore, I have put together a comprehensive solution that will keep everyone happy.

By now, you should know that I am a concerned citizen ready to take on the issue of the fledgling Economy. You should feel confident taking the steps necessary to help me in this challenge. I propose that you transfer all of free cash to my Paypal account, and I will invest it in several small-cap companies. Over the next 10 years, your money will grow as the Economy recovers. By sending me your money now, you will take advantage of the low prices of these stocks and sit back as they increase over the next several years.
In order to participate in this plan, I will need the following:

–Your name;
–Mailing address;
–Telephone number;
–Checking account number;
–Paypal user information and password; and last, but not least:
–Your social security number.

I will keep this information TOP SECRET and will store it on my password-protected website. If you ever need to access the information, the password is “1234.”

Also, I want to warn you against others who are offering similar services around the holiday season. You may have heard recently of the woman who gave $400k to the deposed Prince of Nigeria. She was promised 20.5 million dollars in return for her help. I understand that 20.5 million is appealing, but $400k is quite a risk. Therefore, this plan only requires a down payment of $100k, and as an added incentive for you to invest with me, your $100k is invested WITHOUT a limitation of 20.5 million in returns. By investing with me, you can earn even more than that! (Depending on how much you choose to invest).

I hope to see you visit my website soon!

Yours until we file for bankruptcy,

Dick Fuld
CEO, Lehman Brothers
http://www.lehman.com/

PS: In case you didn’t get it, this is a JOKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  We’re not really going bankrupt.

E: We can go get free Krispy Kreme for voting.
BMW: And a free Starbucks.
E: And I can go to Babeland in NYC and get a free silver bullet vibrator for voting. And free Ben & Jerry’s.
BMW: Eat for free on Election Day!
E: Yep. Because the economy is in the shitter.
BMW: It’s the democratic conspiracy to give everyone diabetes so they support universal health care.

So you’ve heard about how Sarah Palin’s wardrobe was furnished? The Republican National Committee authorized the spending of 150k plus on Palin’s clothes, using some of the funds from campaign contributions and decided to go on a shopping spree at Neiman’s. This is not what confuses me.

Not this part, either: Today Sarah was talking about how she’s not a spendthrift. She grabbed one of her OWN jackets, from her “favorite consignment shop” in Alaska. In an effort to prove she’s the label whore that the Gotcha! Media makes her out to be, she said “My wedding ring, it’s in Todd’s pocket cause it hurts sometimes when I shake hands and it gets squished…A $35 wedding ring from Hawaii that I bought myself.”

I don’t even care that she made her husband look cheap by pointing out that he couldn’t afford to buy her a ring. What I’m confused about why her wedding ring would hurt her when she shakes hands, because wedding rings are worn on the LEFT hand, and people shake hands with the right.

IDIOT.

Go vote. GGkthx.

You Betcha!

You Betcha!

One of my closest friends sent me an email yesterday apologizing for not getting in touch, specifically during the week of 9/11. I thought my response would be a good way of sharing with you how I’ve been holding up.

Dear AP,

It was actually the best anniversary so far. I think going away at the end of August helped my mental countdown, because every year prior to this one, I usually start counting in my head how many days until the 11th. This year I counted down toward St. Maarten, even if I was sick as a dog the week before the trip and then the week of our vacation.

I was actually thinking about you yesterday and then I got an email from you! I was going to send you another email and stalk your Facebook profile until you got back to me! I was thinking that I never gave my high school teachers credit for how busy they must be. And then there you were!

I’m really glad you were thinking of me, and also sort of glad that you were one of the people who let me have some space on the anniversary. It’s really nice for people to let me know that they’re thinking of me during that time, but when I get texts and emails and phone calls with everyone wanting to check up on me, I have to either put on a show about how good I feel, or delve into the complexities of the anniversary–and then I’m drained.

But, in truth, you’re probably the only person who would accept how I felt about the anniversary and allow me to feel it. What I mean is, sometimes it’s so difficult for others to see me upset that they can’t help but try and inject positivity into our conversation, and then I feel like I can’t actually experience the emotions that are natural to me because I don’t want people to feel like their efforts aren’t working. I’m sure you know what I mean, because you’re a caretaker like most of they are.

The anniversary was actually really nice. We drove up to New Jersey on Wednesday night and slept in Thursday morning. I showered and dried my hair, something I haven’t been doing, but I wanted my family to see my new hair and how it looked blow-dried. I have a long history of coming home from DC badly in need of a shower, and I adhered to my tradition on Wednesday, arriving greasy and with my hair in a bun, as expected. Thankfully, though, my mom wasn’t home (she left the house in a fury, but not before flinging her plate of Chinese food all over the kitchen–more on that later. We walked in the house and Darla starts licking the duck sauce off the french doors, and my mom’s dog is having a field day with a discarded egg roll in the corner of the kitchen). My mom lost her shit because 1) my stepdad is being an asshole and they might actually get divorced, 2) it was the week of the 9/11 anniversary, and 3) a couple days before, she had a patient in her operating room who, before he went under anesthesia, made her promise to him that she would tell his wife he loved her. He knew that since this was his 3rd bypass, he probably wasn’t going to make it to celebrate his 40th anniversary that week. So my mom went to the wake the evening of the 10th and told his wife.

September 11th itself was good. Number 2 and Bee were at Villanova because they had class, so it was just the 29 of us at home: Me, BMW, Mogwog (15), Kaggle (turned 13 on Sept 13th), Chief and Boss (17) and my mom. My stepdad put the flag at half-mast that day, which was one of the only nice gestures (toward us) I’ve seen from him in a long time.

My mom was stressed out and insisted on cleaning to relieve her tension, so I fucked around for the morning while she tried to calm herself. She asked if I wanted to go to the fabric store with her, and I said that it wasn’t what I had planned on doing for the anniversary, and I think then she was confronted with the fact that we were, in fact, all home for a reason. That it wasn’t just a weekend away. For me, though, that’s how it felt—it was so refreshing to be with family, but at the same time, I was allowing myself to experience sadness for once.

My mom and sisters and I went to get pedicures, and BMW and Chief and Boss stayed home and prepped dinner. We ate lasagna, and it was yummy. And then we hung around the house and went to bed early, and for the first time in MONTHS, I slept most of the night without taking Ambien.

The next day, BMW and I drove out to Philadelphia to visit Number 2 & Bee. Number 2 had just moved into his apartment with his best friend, so BMW and I bought him a set of dishes and glassware and some kitchen shit because all they had were 2 plates and ONE bowl that they took turns eating cereal out of. We went out to this DELICIOUS restaurant that I’d been to before with my roommate from college–she grew up in the next town over.

Saturday began family weekend at Villanova, so my mom and the rest of my siblings (with the exception of Boss, who had something for band) drove out to Number 2’s apartment for the Nova-Lehigh football game and a huge dinner of 18 people at a typical Italian restaurant (during which various debacles occurred–more later).

And then Sunday, BMW and I went back to DC and I cleaned the house to get rid of my own stress. And here I’ve been since then, getting through my GRE guide (I take the test on 10/25), and trying to get myself to work on my stories (my first application is NYU’s due on December 18th, and I need to get my stories to my old professor/editor).

You don’t need a reason why you haven’t gotten in touch–you just need a reason to stay in touch. I think that even despite the short amount of time we had to get to know each other, we always connected every time we were together, and that both of us wished we had known the other for the important times in our lives when we had no one. I just want to hear what’s going on with you.

And that’s true for everyone I know. Sometimes I need to be listened to; other times I don’t want to talk about how I feel. Sometimes I just want to enjoy the absence my feelings, sad or otherwise, in order to focus on the feelings of my friends.

monthlies

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