Take me to another place...

The time has come: I am now on Tumblr instead of regularly posting here.

http://applebloggingjeans.tumblr.com/

You may either copy and paste, or click on the title of this blog and go straight there. Hippity skip!

I hope you'll make the transition and follow there. :)

Until then...

How To Drive In The Rain

I signed onto the web-guru that is weather.com today to check out the forecast for sunny NC, which recently, to my dismay, has been not-so-sunny. I clicked on the lovely 10-day forecast button for my zip code... waited a few moments... and began to peruse the upcoming days.

Today: Light Rain and Wind. High of 61, low of 56. Yeah, cool, that's about right.

Tomorrow: Rain and Wind. High of 68, low of 60. Par for the course.

Saturday: Showers. High of 75, low of 61. And a link to an article entitled "How To Drive in the Rain."

...
...
...

What in the bloody hell? Are they kidding me with this?

We live in North Carolina, people. Not the Sahara. Do we really need instructions outlining how, exactly, we are supposed to drive in the rain?

Let me just tell you something. The showers they are predicting-- they're mild. Meek. Like a little baby lamb. A lamb-let, really. Today's 100% chance of rain has left simply a few droplets of moisture on my office window... and I think that was 2 hours ago.

We are not in the midst of monsoon season here, people. We don't even have a monsoon season.

What we do have, apparently, are a bunch of paranoid losers who need instruction on how to navigate four wheels when it's spritzing.

The article, on which I clicked out of my sheer desire to see something completely stupid, acted as if driving in the rain were a near-impossible feat. According to them, successfully driving in the rain is almost as possible as flapping your arms really hard and then, consequently, flying to the moon.

I was somewhere between tips on proper windshield wiper material, how to replace the little rubber strips on your wiper blades, and advice on how to spend a whopping 80 smackers on rain shields for your windows (just in case you are in dire need of rolling down your window in the midst of our impending sky tsunami) when I just had to get a hold of myself.

And then it hit me. Like a ton of bagels.

There are places in the United States in which people genuinely cannot function on wheels when water falls from above.

I was in California earlier this year. The sun was setting and I had places to be. I took off down the highway in a Jeep ready for a little adventure when, GREAT MOTHER OF PEARL, it started to rain.

Nothing alarming, really. I think a grand total of 15 drops hit my windshield.

I did what I thought any sane driver would do. I reached forward and *click* turned on the wipers.

Swish-swish. The rain was gone. Just as quickly as ding-dong, the witch was dead.

But. Apparently, I was the only person on the entire highway capable of doing this.

In an instant, the nicely flowing traffic came to a complete stand-still. The screech of rapidly braking tires resounded for miles. It literally sounded like the screech heard round the world.

Oh.
My.
Gosh.

And then, for the next 2.5 hours I sat in traffic without going anywhere, I was able to ponder the idiocy of those around me.

Perhaps I should make 1.6 million copies of "How To Drive in the Rain" and send them west.

Nose Crinkle Giggly Face

Do you remember feeling like this?
Feeling like your insides might just be full of sunshine and it's just screaming to get out?
Do you remember feeling like you have to let it escape?
Share it with the world, or else the world just might not make it?
Do you remember the joy just having to bounce around the room a little bit?

I had forgotten.
But now I remember.
Thanks for that, Avery.

Jack London. 38-year-old Brilliance.

“ You look back and see how hard you worked and how poor you were, and how desperately anxious you were to succeed, and all you can remember is how happy you were. ”

This is me. Right now.

One Way Ticket to LoserVille

Ok ok ok, I know I posted a long list of reasons one may still be single a while back, and I never quite responded to that as promised. Bad, bad Apple. I know. I hang my head in shame, and all that jazz.

But today, to make it up to you, I have something much better.

Why is it better, you may ask? Well, it's better... because it's real! Kinda like those great jokes that are funny because they're true? Or women's breasts. Yeah, this is on that level.

So yesterday, I was chatting with my lovely friend Flex. God love her. And in a particularly entertaining bout, she went on a rant.

I do so love a good rant.

So, I figure... you will so love a good rant as well.

Context: Single-ness and the way that, on occasion, it's not all that it's cracked up to be. Flex decided to tell me about her recent string of beaus, none of whom appear to be particularly impressive. But, being of sound mind and body, I'll let you decide that for yourself.

And here we go:

Flex: Let me tell you about the People that love Flex

Apple: i'm ready.

Flex: A) Men that are VERY VERY wealthy who want to parade Flex and her very large chest around like arm candy, but cannot maintain an erection if their life depended on it.

Apple: HAHAHAHAHAHA... continue!

Flex: B) Hockey players who have been hit one too many times in the junk and speak as though their testicles have actually ASCENDED

C) Boys who use the word 'britches'. Enough said.

D) Photographers who are so emo that their hair cuts itself.

Apple: oh my gosh stop! i'm dying!

Flex: E) PhD students who 'act like royal turds' and can't decide if they like a girl or not -- and are very quick to defend themselves when accused of booty calling

F) Men who struggle through reading 'the hobbit' -- and brag about it.

Flex: OH

Apple: and wait, there's more

Flex: there was G) the guy I only talked to on the phone ONCE who asked me in our first phone conversation if I thought Keira KNightly or Kate Hudson had nicer tits.

Apple: oh my gosh.
tell me you're kidding.
what did you tell him?

Flex: I thought to myself clearly I was not the right person for him, if that body type tickled his fancy.

Apple: you're asking the wrong girl, cause honey, those girls don't even HAVE tits?

Flex: precisely.

Apple: there's another winner.

Flex: I give you, Apple, the men in Flex's life. this is pathetic.

FYI, B D and G didn't make past a first date

Apple: well that's good

me: oh, and F

Apple: at least you have standards

If you make a fool of yourself, they will come.

Saturday night, I had a mini-college-reunion in Wilmington, NC-- otherwise known as the Land of Perfection.

I swear, I don't know what it is about Wilmington and the Wrightsville Beach area in general, but I think my soul just takes off and grows little wings every time I venture anywhere near that salt water. I lived there for a few months after college, in a fleeting moment of wild abandon, and by golly, I believe I must live there again someday. Someday very soon. I owe this to myself and to the world that deserves a less anal-retentive me. But I digress.

Upon arriving in town at a very leisurely pace, one of my favorite people on the planet and I decided we wanted to stay beachside. With no reservations and no remote idea of hotel vacancies, we just decided to head to the ocean. One of the best feelings in the world is that of setting off in your car with a haphazardly packed suitcase and no clue where you'll rest your head or when that rest will come... and we decided to indulge ourselves in that feeling.

We got a perfect room with an ocean view overlooking a gorgeous swimming pool. We were high enough above the ground that the full moon over the ocean made it look like we were on the bow of a ship. I breathed in the setting sun and breathed out my working-girl life. Quick. Simple. Easy.

Just as I stepped out on the balcony, a band below belted out "Whyyyyy do you build me up (build me up), Buttercup, baby just to let me down (let me down)?" and I giggled unashamedly. I have a friend who sings this song daily in public places; I suspect he does so because he likes to hear his own voice. So, in the presence of the perfect ocean, the full moon, and the ocean air, I called him to tell him he was with me. That was the only part of my home-world that entered my perfect beach-world that night... and it was, in fact, perfect.

The night was a mix of good champagne, great seafood, old friends and new experiences. We had a three-hour dinner, over which we all went around the table and answered the question: "What have you been doing for the past four years? Readdddyyyyy... Go!" We laughed. A lot. And drank almost as much as we laughed, which would explain why I still feel a bit like I've been hit by a mack truck. On steroids.

But the highlight of the evening came at a rooftop bar somewhere near the river in downtown Wilmington. We had just come from a club full of sweaty teenagers posing as hip of-age 21-year-olds. They looked silly, we looked out of place. We're 26 and 27 now; clearly much older and wiser. Most of those folks were sporting crotch-high skirts while I was looking decidely J. Crew in knee-length denim. It became obvious we needed to roll. So roll we did... onto the rooftop bar and into a selection of music so delicious, Steve Perry would have been jealous.

We decided what the world needed that night was a good, solid dose of 80's and 90's dancing. So we rocked it out. Sprinkler? You got it! MC Hammer? No doubt!!! We even did the Running Man. A lot.

And suddenly. We were the coolest people in the bar. I learned a lot from this experience. Dance like a moron, and everyone will want to dance with you. Did I mention we did the Shopping Cart? We danced and danced and danced... and people crowded around and joined. At one point, we even did the "let's all stand in a circle and sway together" move, and this poor guy tried to break into the circle. Unsuccessfully. I felt a little guilty for that.

But in the end, it was all perfectly untimed, perfectly unplanned, and perfectly surreal. We all stepped back into our old lives, our college lives, our old selves... but we brought our new selves with us. We have less perfect skin, a fuller bank accounts. We have more stories to tell, and more stories to make. And floating around in all that, well... we just have us. And that is the best part.

But seriously. Dance like an idiot. People will love you for it.

Do You Know Someone Who Drinks Too Much?

For today's edition of Apple Blogging Jeans, I am simply copying and pasting an email I received today. It seems my entire group of friends is suffering from an outbreak of some terribly retched respiratory bug. Therefore, it became necessary today for a field trip to the doctor's office. Since I was 1.) not sick and 2.) hard at work (wink, wink), I did not go. What follows, however, is a first-hand account of the things that happened today in the urgent care facility.

Tee hee.

#1. Vivienne and I arrive at the Duke's Urgent Care center and are banished to the waiting room immediately, where we notice this very-novice looking poster on the wall, demonstrating the stellar "teamwork in action", as expressed via cheesy little Excel spreadsheet graphs, using the default line graph. These posters are an attempt to illustrate the great amount of teamwork. However, Vivienne noticed that while their statisfaction was rated "high" in the last month, the previous month had taken a huge digger in the area of satisfaction.

#2. Vivienne and I are escorted to the traige area, where Vivienne barely is able to squeak out her own name.

Nurse: "Wow, you don't sound very good!"

Vivienne (shaking her head) says: "I'm fine"

Nurse: "Well, either you don't sound fine, or you're just shy".

Cue Flex laughing hysterically at the suggestion of Vivienne's bashfulness.

#3. While still with the nurse.......

Nurse: "Any tobacco use?"

Vivienne: "no"

Nurse: "Alcohol?"

Vivienne.......unresponsive.

Vivienne: "Well, I mean, I'm a social drinker -you know, weekends and stuff"

Nurse: "So, would you say 1...? 2?"

Vivienne: "Per day?"

Nurse: "Per week...."

Vivienne:.......unresponsive.

Nurse: "3? 4, maybe?"

Vivienne: (matter of factly): "um, I'd say 8 to 10"

Nurse (nods, in disbelief and types it into the computer)

Vivienne: (in sheer defense of this point, hand gestures included): "But that includes weekends too!"

I lost it guys. I completely lost it and could not recover from that point on.

After the nurse leaves Vivienne says to me "Well, I mean, seriously. What do you expect from a 25 year old who drinks from the bottle in a fort?? We drink from the bottle! How am I supposed to know how many drinks that is?!"

All I really need to know...

... I learned at local franchised restaurants.

Some people say they learned their "stuff" in kindergarten. But I beg to differ with those people. I learn my stuff at restaurants I frequent with some degree of regularity.

Today, I walked into Doc Green's, a local salad eatery with the best friggin' "build your own" salads I've ever put in my pouty little mouth.

My friend Doc? He knows his greens. He also knows that I do so enjoy my hankering for field greens with almond slivers, bleu cheese, strawberries, almonds, one hard-boiled egg and raspberry vinaigrette dressing. But I digress.

Today, I walked into Doc Green's, and the pretty lady behind the counter greeted me immediately! "Hello, Lindsay!"

"Oh!" (Oh my!). "Hello!" I said with a smile.

This lady was much better than Nate. Because, if you recall from my journey into hot dog land earlier this summer, Nate sucked.

So I put in my order and made my way around the counter. At the register, she said "You know, you always come in here smiling! And so fresh looking!" (I was wondering if all this salad lingo was going to her head...)

"Wow!" I replied. "Thank you so much." This was very nice icing on an otherwise-drab day.

Then, to top it all off, she gave me a discount on my salad! Sure, it was only two bucks... but those are two bucks I can use elsewhere and, really, it was about the gesture more than anything.

I walked out of Doc Green's a little bit happier than when I walked in. That lady made me feel special.

Rewind to last week when I did a quick grab-and-go lunch at the Quizno's just down the street from my office.

The manager on duty, Dan (whom I call "inconspicuous Dan" to his face, because he scribbled his name on his name tag in such a way that it might say "Doo" or "Daaaa" or the ever popular "D-squiggly-line"), remembered my name when I walked in the door too!

I walked in, and Dan exclaimed, "It's Lindsay Apple!" (Note to all of you in the witness protection program: don't make friends with Dan.)

Just as I did today, I smiled and laughed and told Dan I was happy to see him. And do you know what? Dan gave me a discount on my sandwich! Just like that! Bam-- 15% off at Quizno's!

These people. Are. So. Nice!

So I just want to throw this out there for the world. I just learned two things:

1. Be nice to people. Smile at them and ask them about their days. Random strangers, people you know, whatever. Because, I'll be darned, they remember it. And then they give you random compliments and discounted food.

and 2. Maybe I eat out too much.

Why I'm Still Single, Part 1

I recently stumbled upon an article called "100 Reasons Why You Are Still Single". Or something like that. And, being a 20-something single (aka not married) gal, this caught my eye.

Often, I peruse the interwebs for interesting tidbits, and I had been directed to a website called "RADAR" by a friend. Apparently, this website contains all sorts of interesting items for internet reading pleasure... and boasts it is the guru on all things "Pop, Politics, Scandal and Style". Sounds like a pretty solid place to get my read on.

So, here's what I found. And this list... well, this list requires commentary I can't give right now. But trust me, the commentary will come. Soon.

Why are you still single? Possibly because you...

1. Call Grey's Anatomy simply "Grey's"

2.Have entertained the notion that "the Axe Effect" is real

3.Own tie-dyed gym clothes

4. Purchased your dining room set with Marlboro Miles

5. Are only gay when you're drunk

6. Have written poetry inside a Starbucks

7. Wink in a rakish manner each time you tell a joke

8. Have a ferret on your shoulder

9. Call sex "the squishy squish"

10. Are Courtney Love

11. Hug amusement park mascots

12. Address acquaintances as "guy"

13. Use emoticons in handwritten letters

14. Own a "It's Not Going to Suck Itself" T-shirt

15. Initiate line dances

16. Have only one pickup line: "Why the long face?"

17. Posed shirtless for your MySpace page

18. Can't stop missing Anna Nicole

19. Scream out Wheel of Fortune answers

20. Call your therapist from work on speakerphone

21. Won't travel anywhere out of "blading distance"

22. Sleep on WWF sheets

23. Begin stories with, "I'm not a stalker, but ..."

24. Snack on Bac-Os

25. Know someone who knows someone who knows the Geico caveman

26. Flash devil horns in wedding photos

27. Eat with one arm guarding your plate

28. Refer to your PDA as a "Crackberry"

29. Have a dartboard in your kitchen

30. Own a calendar featuring babies dressed as cowboys

31. Call October "Rocktober"

32. Keep a dream journal

33. Own slot-machine gloves

34. Are the president of a fan club

35. Weave and distribute friendship bracelets

36. Have a "lucky" garter hanging from your rearview mirror

37. Prefer the "fist bump" when meeting strangers and always insist they "lock it in"

38. Refuse to remove your Bluetooth earpiece during sex

39. Take off work each year to celebrate Cinco de Mayo; are Irish

40. Have a disturbingly high thetan count

41. Display your framed degree from bartending school

42. Have been edited out of several Girls Gone Wild videos

43. Converse with angels

44. Refer to Target as "Tar-Jay"

45. Have ever said: "That's sooo Sagittarius"

46. Feel most comfortable in Tevas and jorts

47. Have a five o'clock shadow, on your ass

48. Wear a "No Spin Zone" windbreaker

49. Cry when you listen to Belle and Sebastian, then, still tearful, blog about it

50. Use an electronic device to smoke pot

51. Call underwear "panties"

52. Have more than zero stuffed animals on your bed

53. Live by two sartorial rules: pleated, stonewashed

54. Display samurai swords in your office

55. Think the energy crisis can be solved with crystals

56. Have ever dressed up as a penis or tampon for Halloween

57. Own a 60-inch flat-screen plasma television but sleep on a broken futon

58. Have taken more than one cell phone picture of your genitals

59. Close all correspondence with "Prayerfully Yours"

60. Consider Maroon 5 sort of "your group"

61. TiVo'd the entire run of Criss Angel Mindfreak

62. Use the word "scrumptious"

63. Have a Tasmanian Devil "tramp stamp"

64. List "Dungeon Master" on your business card

65. Carry an All Things Considered tote bag

66. Wouldn't be the person you are today without Mitch Albom's Tuesdays with Morrie

67. Subscribe to any massive multiplayer online gaming experience

68. Take advantage of the eight-at-a-time Netflix option

69. Have a rhyming nickname

70. Sold your forehead to goldenpalace.com

71. Have a "LaRouche '08" bumper sticker

72. Have taken a course on improving your oral sex technique

73. Will do anything for "shits and giggles"

74. Collect throwing stars

75. Have a bedside stack of Sudoku books

76. Can only make love to the Mighty Mighty Bosstones

77. Are infamous among your coworkers for your dead-on Baba Booey impression

78. Own all 24 volumes of Now That's What I Call Music!

79. Are O.J. Simpson

80. Have a screensaver of you posing with your Frisbee golf bros

81. Refuse to drink any beer that hasn't been "beechwood aged"

82. Have cellulite on your face

83. Refer to yourself as a "vagitarian"

84. Have a Web shrine devoted to a long- deceased pet

85. Consider riddles a great way to break the ice

86. Purchase meals solely for their tie-in products

87. Get visibly angry during Apple vs. PC debates

88. Are known among your girlfriends as "Heavy Flow"

89. Feel you've found the deeper meaning behind Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light"

90. Own all the Matrix novelizations

91. Raise iguanas

92. Posted your profile on Sean Hannity's "Hannidate"; are black

93. Have a "Peeing Calvin" decal on your hatchback

94. Work at Radar

95. Are learning to play the bagpipes

96. Don't like Insane Clown Posse's music per se, but think their philosophy is sound

97. Phone in long-distance radio dedications

98. Posted a Craigslist "Missed Connections" ad to find the kid who groped you on the subway

99. Believe the mouth is self-cleaning

100. Have had something on your face since the late '90s

Why yes... they call him The Streak

Lately, too many times to count, I have been reminded of the Ray Stevens song "The Streak," brought to glory in days of old.

Spank me if I'm wrong, but I'm fairly certain this song was made popular in the mid-1970s and sparked a national (international?) movement of nude running at sporting events and other public gatherings. Again, pardon my assumptions, but it seems that most of the individuals who felt so inspired to publicly display their wobbly bits were... um... er... usually not exactly the people one wanted to see running around in all the glory mother nature intended.

Well. Guess what?

Ray Stevens' legacy lives on. And it lives on right in my very back yard.

It seems I live in the midst of a semi-nudist colony. Only, I live in the suburbs... in an upscale apartment community... in the middle of one of the fastest-growing areas of the country... amongst some of the most well-educated 20- and 30- somethings I've ever encountered in my sweet little Southern life.

The thing is, there are quite a few characters who fit the bill.

Let me paint you a picture.

Nudist #1. We'll call him Paolo. Paolo isn't one who prances around fully nude in broad daylight... but he might as well. Paolo is of Latin descent and graces us with his presence by the pool every Saturday afternoon wearing nothing more than a pair of Speedo briefs. Now, this is lovely... and would be particularly lovely if Paolo were interested in women. However, the briefs?

Well, they're white. 'Nuff said.

Nudist #2. We'll call her Vivienne. Vivienne is an incredibly attractive, petite blonde. She's in her mid-twenties and she's feisty in the best possible way... whatever way that is.

Vivienne likes to wait until the sun sets and jump into the swimming pool (which resides in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by about 50 apartments with large windows with a skybox view) completely and utterly au natural. She jumps in, she floats about, she calls out to her friends... regardless of their location or proximity to the swimming pool. She sees neighbors watching her through binoculars from across the parking lot.. and she. does. not. care.

Praise all that is good and holy, for this, we love Vivienne. Secretly, I think we all want to BE Vivienne.

Nudist #3. We are going to call him the on-purpose-but-I'm-going-to-act-surprised-when-my-bits-make-a-public-debut nudist. OPBIGTAS for short.

Now, the first time OPBIGTAS made an appearance, it was within the four walls of another resident's apartment. People were hanging out, dancing, participating in general merriment. All of the sudden, from out of nowhere... BAM!

OPBIGTAS bursts into the room wearing a teeny tiny pair of women's underwear.

For the record, OPBIGTAS is not a woman... though on occasion, he may secretly wish he were. ;)

Now, one may argue that if one is wearing undergarments, regardless of one's gender and the intended gender for said undergarments, that one is not, in fact, nude. However. I beg to differ.

Wait for it.

OPBIGTAS was wearing a thong.

I'm going to let you take a moment to let that soak in.

See that mental image you're getting right now? Yes. That's it.

There was, in essence, visual nudity. OPBIGTAS knew it. Everyone in the room knew it. There was really no getting around it.

But, kind soul, this was not an isolated incident. OPBIGTAS likes a fine ladies' garment, and he knows one when he sees one.

Several evenings ago, OPBIGTAS was out by the pool. (With Vivienne, no doubt, because would we really expect Vivienne to stay at home on such an evening?)

OPBIGTAS found an abandoned red dress amidst the pink donut floats and one large, grey, inflatable swan.

...
...
...

OPBIGTAS disappeared. Huh.

Then, re-emerged wearing... the dress. This is fine enough. Not a huge deal.

Only...
He was wearing nothing under the dress.

This was fine enough too. Until he decided to cut a flip into the pool.

Gravity took over.

I'll leave the rest to your imagination.





And this... is where I live.

You want some fries to go with that shake?

Well... ladies and gents... this is it. I have decided that I am officially old.

In approximately 37 days (but who's counting?), I'm going to be 27. But the number... well, the number is not what bothers me one bit.

I'm not a big numbers gal. I can't remember what I made on the SAT, I'm not sure what a gallon of milk costs, and I went 26 and a half years of my life without owning a scale. Furthermore, I don't care how much money you make, as long as it's enough to make you happy and support your habit.

Really, I think there are only two numbers I think about on a regular basis. 5, because that's the time I aim to leave the office everyday, and 8, because if I get any fewer hours of sleep than that, I'm a cranky-meanie-whiney-pants. And you know who likes a cranky-meanie-whiney pants? I'll give you a hint. It's the same amount of people who "put Baby in a corner."

But I digress. Let's get back to the point at hand: My old age and the fact that this old gal ain't what she used to be.

I base this statement on one thing and one thing only, and here's the story.

I went dancing on Saturday night. Nothing fancy-- I didn't salsa or tango, though there were likely elements of those moves somewhere in the mix when we started doing the Cuban (aka Cupid) Shuffle.

No, I went out with my peeps and we did some straight-up, old fashioned booty dancing. If you are confused, I suggest you go here: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Booty+Dance

Today, my friends, is Wednesday. And what night did we go out? Saturday. Saturday night... to Wednesday morning. And do you know what? MY friggin' HIP hurts. I have had all these days to recover, but dog-gone-it, I think I threw something out.

I realized I had done something very, very wrong on Sunday afternoon when I went to the mall. Walking across the sporting goods store, I felt something in my left hip lock up. It hit me like a ton of bricks.

"Ok, Apple, walk it out," I told myself. But I couldn't. Right there in the middle of the sports bras, I had to stop walking and take a few deep breaths. Son of a... I felt like I had a peg leg that I had to drag behind me. Not cool.

Carry that feeling over into this morning, when I almost tripped walking into work because my left leg didn't want to cooperate with my brain.

Now I'm sitting here in my lovely little ergonomic chair thinking... seriously? When did this happen to me?

I am miffed. And I refuse to go down without a fight. Notice to my joints: it's on!!!

Something's Rotten in the State of Denmark

Ever wonder what would have happened had Hamlet lived today? Welcome to Sarah Schmelling's version of this.

If Hamlet had Facebook:

Horatio thinks he saw a ghost.

Hamlet thinks it's annoying when your uncle marries your mother right after your dad dies.

The king thinks Hamlet's annoying.

Laertes thinks Ophelia can do better.

Hamlet's father is now a zombie.

- - - -

The king poked the queen.

The queen poked the king back.

Hamlet and the queen are no longer friends.

Marcellus is pretty sure something's rotten around here.

Hamlet became a fan of daggers.

- - - -

Polonius says Hamlet's crazy ... crazy in love!

Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Hamlet are now friends.

Hamlet wonders if he should continue to exist. Or not.

Hamlet thinks Ophelia might be happier in a convent.

Ophelia removed "moody princes" from her interests.

Hamlet posted an event: A Play That's Totally Fictional and In No Way About My Family

The king commented on Hamlet's play: "What is wrong with you?"

Polonius thinks this curtain looks like a good thing to hide behind.

Polonius is no longer online.

- - - -

Hamlet added England to the Places I've Been application.

The queen is worried about Ophelia.

Ophelia loves flowers. Flowers flowers flowers flowers flowers. Oh, look, a river.

Ophelia joined the group Maidens Who Don't Float.

Laertes wonders what the hell happened while he was gone.

- - - -

The king sent Hamlet a goblet of wine.

The queen likes wine!

The king likes ... oh crap.

The queen, the king, Laertes, and Hamlet are now zombies.

Horatio says well that was tragic.

Fortinbras, Prince of Norway, says yes, tragic. We'll take it from here.

Denmark is now Norwegian.

Real Men Bring Cupcakes

My friend Stephen is a god.

I decided this on Sunday afternoon when he brought me a large, triple chocolate cupcake from Whole Foods. After all, the scientific term for the Cocoa Tree is "Theobrama Cacao"... which is the Greek term for "Food for the Gods."

I can only deduce that if the food is meant FOR the gods, it must come FROM a god. Therefore... Stephen = a god.

That is the way my logic works. And I like it.

I enjoyed that Triple Chocolate deliciousness for two days. That s*** was amazing.

In other news, I stumbled across this website today that made me absolutely pee myself. (Not in public, though, because we all know how I feel about public urination.)

The site is called "Postcards from Yo Momma". Let me give you the scoop: people go to this site and post bits of chats or emails from their mothers. Some are semi-funny. Some are roll-on-the-floor-and-snort-embarrassingly funny.

http://www.postcardsfromyomomma.com/

So, here is your homework assignment for the day.

1. Go there.
2. Think of what your mother would say. And trust me, you'll want to click back to read previous entries. Some of the best ones ever are a couple pages in.
3. Come back here and tell me your own stories.

Deal?

There Are No Hot Dogs in Chapel Hill

It all started with a voicemail: "Hey PerLins! Your sister and I are going to dock the boat over at Humphrey's Ridge for some lunch. She has a craving for a hot dog."

That was all it took. I had to have one. And this was no small feat for a gal who dabbled in vegetarianism during her pre-teen years and still refuses to eat pork of any description because of a horror story recounted circa 1993 by her middle school phys-ed teacher. (Did you know that if you pour alcohol on a slice of raw ham in the sink, worms will crawl out? Cross my heart.)

I think my last act of hot dog consumption took place roughly a decade ago. But even that memory is hazy, and there's no way to be sure.

In the midst of running Saturday-afternoon-big-girl errands, I found myself on a mission. Lowe's Hardware would have to wait.

So I pulled out my portable GPS (God bless Tom Tom), and started typing furiously.

"Hot dog." "Chapel Hill, NC."
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Nothing.

Ok, I had to regroup.

"Bar-b-que." "Chapel Hill, NC."
BINGO! Less than 5 miles away, there was this place called Jim's. Or Jimbo's. Or John's. Whatever. If they had BBQ, I knew they must have hot dogs. And surely, if they did not, they would know who did. My plan, I thought, was fool proof.

So I pulled up to Jimbo's... Jay's... Jarvis's... and walked in with an abnormally large smile on my face. As soon as I walked in the door, I spotted Nate, a mid-30-something, slightly overweight in that Puilsbury Doughboy kinda way, waiter wearing a bright red apron with sauce stains smeared across the front. Nate looked like a man who knew a good hot dog when he saw one.

"Nate!" I cried, "I'm lookin' for a hot dog! Can you help me?"

Rather than reply "Why yes, little girl, I have the perfect hot dog right here just waiting for you!" (which is what I really, really wanted Nate to say)... Nate wordlessly stared at my chest.

"Excuse me. Nate?"

"Uhhhh, yeah. ???"

"Hot dogs? Do you have 'em?"

"No, but I think Food Lion does."

"Well, you see, Nate. This does not help me. Because today, I'm an instant gratification kind-of gal, and I really just want one, already cooked hot dog with slaw. Any idea where I can get one of those?"

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"Uhhhhh. Nope. Sorry." (But let me stare below your neckline the entire time I'm talking to you, and hope that you won't notice.)

"Well, thanks for all your help, Nate."

Nate sucked.

I exited Jasper's with a slightly smaller grin than when I walked in. But I was determined not to be thrown off the path. Not by Nate, and not by Nate's inappropriately fixed gaze.

So I got back into my car and started making calls. Surely, someone must know a good hot dog spot.

But oh no. No. No one knows where I can find a good hot dog in Chapel Hill. But they are all very sorry for my plight.

Finally, I turned once again to Tom Tom. "Bar-b-que." "Anywhere near me."

BAM! Allen and Sons. Fifteen minutes away. And most definitely not in Chapel Hill.

So I sat there for a few moments. I asked myself, "Self, are you willing to drive 30 minutes for a hot dog? One hot dog? With a gas station sign staring you in the face taunting a mighty $4.06 per gallon?"

The answer was a resounding... YES.

I took off for Allen and Sons, and found myself in the middle of nowhere. I road behind a John Deere on the highway for about 8 miles to get there (thereby increasing my travel time, but that's another topic for another day).

Sweet, sweet meat products. There, Allen... or his Son... gave me the best hot dog I have ever put in my mouth. With coleslaw. And sweet tea. And a side of hush puppies. Because, dammit, I drove 45 minutes and spent about an hour of my time to make this happen.

I write this for you, weary traveler, to let you know... just in case you are wondering... there are no hot dogs in Chapel Hill. But you can always count on Allen. Or his son.