It's Ok When it's in China Though....

This is the sign directly over the toilet in our hotel room in Beijing. Hotels there have to cover their asses because there are so many landslides in the hotel rooms.

(literally translates to "slippery floor")

These are the instructions for the shower in the same bathroom:

1) "To head up to open the big circular, switch the water comes out."

2) "To turn right or left for adjusting hot cold water."

3) "To adjust the small circular for surfing, spraying, showering."

4) "To get down and pull the close the big circular switch."

You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?

This is my introduction to you of one of my biggest pet peeves. Maybe it makes me look like a judgemental bitch, but I really don't care.

Wow, I've never had Middle Eastren food before, maybe I'll stop by and try it, considering you're "the best" but couldn't afford to SPELL CHECK and buy a new one that actually says "2009" instead of writing it in Sharpie? Jesus.

Seeing the "Middle Eastren" sign reminded me of a couple other jewels from my travels in OK and KS.















"Squawk n Skoot", yet "Chicken & More." Was there an argument about which was catchier, "n" or "&"? Are they two different businesses?

Clearly, S n S offers ings, CA Fish, gizzards and ustom welding, whereas C&M only has calf fries and l ier s.

Who is in charge here?!?!
















Great, it is "essential to survival" but I have no freakin' clue what it is.
















What?

Oh, thank god...I've been looking EVERYWHERE for ethanol-free gyros.

Ugh.

This isn't intentional, but they've really gotta get on fixing that. Bad for business. Everyone in Massachusetts names their businesses "Mass (something)" but no one names anything "Ass (anything.)"

This is more of an example of when you should run your business name ideas by someone else before ordering the sign.

Alfieism

Liz and I spotted this bad boy in a vendor's booth at the Taste of Colorado this weekend. It was better in a 16" x 20" format, but if you read my last post, you know I'm already well off in the 16" x 20" department. We were attracted to it like unpaid parking violation notices to my mailbox. We pushed and shoved our way through the crowd and grabbed a smaller, less ridiculously priced one, and waved it around in the air with the fervor of a Powerball winner gloating about their frivolous win.

Alife, now otherwise known as "Chairman Meow" has been supporting Communism since the 70's. He firmly believes that if he isn't sleeping, no one else is either. We all must work together to achieve our common goal. In recent months, he has gone as far as to use violence and mental abuse to portray his beliefs.


When we got him as a baby, we thought he would be grateful for all of the love and tuna juice we had to give him. We didn't realize that his blood ran cold, and his affection was all a ploy. It wasn't long before we were to come to understand that he was indeed a Chinese spy sent to lay the groundwork for a new political regime based on oppression, collectivisation, famine, and terror.


Many nights have been spent at the Belmont Buckingham camp trying to avoid or curtail his mission. We've covered our faces, arms and vulnerable toes with blankets to attempt in vain to soften the blows of his sharp, claw-wielding paws. He steals our most coveted belongings (sunglasses, favorite pens, illegal smoking devices) in an effort to diminish our sense of individuality and pleasure. Similarly, he was very vocal in his earlier days about the absurdity of one's enjoyment of ice cream. He screamed and crawled up our arms whenever he heard the 'clink' of a spoon against a ceramic vessel. His attempts to eat our ice cream were direct orders from Stalin.

In early September, we staged a revolution. We were naive and hopeful of a new way of life. Perhaps, we thought, we could quiet his rage and outright demands for power by cutting it off directly at the source. We scheduled a covert operation at Planned Pethood and dropped him off, blindfolded, early in the morning. He did not go easily, but the operation went off without a hitch. Although our uprising was as abusive and possibly violent as his actions had been toward us all these months, we believed we had no other choice.

For the first day, he was quiet and reserved. He did no screaming, and the dive-bomb attacks were minimal. A wave of relief washed over the camp.

"Not so fast," Alfie whispered in my ear as I slept. We had been so immature in thinking we had seized the beast. He was back, and in full force. We had no chance to escape from the camp while he nursed his wounds in a drug-induced haze. He bit my arm and raced over my face, jumped up onto the window sill where he threw my favorite trinkets to the ground, reminding me once and for all that he is still in charge here.

Alfie, shown here at age 3 months, attempting to rid Liz of one of life's greatest pleasures; ice cream.

Don't Mock Me...

My first post on this blog was about a poster that read "Get Excited and Make Things" that was a spin-off of "Keep Calm and Carry On." At the time, I felt that Keep Calm and Carry On was a hidden gem itself, and I liked Get Excited and Make Things because it was even more obscure and original.

Even so, I bought "Keep Calm and Carry On" in mustard, 16' x 20".


Not even a day later, I came upon yet another spoof, "Keep Calm and Carry Pepper Spray" on a notebook in Urban Outfitters. At first, I felt pretty cool for having already purchased the original poster. I thought "I'm pretty cool, because I already bought the original poster, and the idiot emo kids that buy this won't even know where the idea came from." Idiots.



Then, walking down the street that same week, I spied spoof #3 guerilla-plastered on an electrical box on the street! "Just Relax and Enjoy it Baby" had made its debut. My feeling of coolness was quickly swept away by the warm Colorado breeze.


As the old adage goes, "Spoof me once, you're clever, spoof me twice, you're still pretty clever. Spoof me three times, now I'm just a silly joke of a poster that's been spoofed all over the place."

I still love Mr. Mustard poster, and it hangs over the cutest desk in the world (see post from 8/21,) but I can't help but feel a little jaded by the outpouring of recreation out there before it even had a chance to be cool itself. Hmph.

Just wanted to share...

Thoughts?

Love is a Tone-on-Tone Custom Bird Mural

Ohhh, Design*Sponge, how I love thee.

Last week's easy homemade terrariums made my heart skip a jump. The "Before and After" section gives me a feeling of euphoria as if I were skipping through a field of poppies on my way to the Emerald City. When you show us the various uses of vintage suzani fabrics, my breath is stolen from my lustful lungs.

Only you know how to tantilize the taste buds of my eyes with the glory of a freshly painted and stenciled floor using glistening goldenrod and glossy white paint.

When I am feeling lackluster and in need of a creative outlet, it is you, Design*Sponge, that I turn to for restoration in my faith in good design as well as a seemingly useless old cabinet.

When my day is as grey as the carpeted walls of my designless cubicle, all I need to do is type in those 24 letters and numbers into the address bar, and I know I will be whisked away to a breezy patio garden or a clever reuse of an architectural salvage.

Thank you, D*S, for everything you do. Please, please don't mess with my head and get cancelled like Domino magazine was.

This Makes Me Happy, But Shouldn't

I don't know how to post a video so click on this. (Thanks, Dave for sharing.)

I know I said I don't like Talking Heads covers, but this one is in reference to the title of my blog as well as my favorite Talking Heads song. I can be a real hypocrite sometimes.

For instance, when I'm a pedestrian, I believe I have the right to cross the street whenever I want (within reason) and I yell at cars, but when I'm driving in a car, I also believe I have the right of way and then I yell at pedestrians. It's a tough way of life.

My Bad.

So, apparently http://www.bestbuddies.com/ is an actual organization. Not only is it an active organization, it's one for really good people who want to help out kids with Down Syndrome.



Here I am, bitching about my silly love life, potentially to people I don't even know, and the Tom Bradys of the world are out there giving their time and support to kids who were born with a severely life-altering disease. It's just too rich.



Thanks, Kate for bringing this to my attention. Now I feel even worse than I did when I was bitching.



P.S. I looked for a picture of Tom Brady contributing to the cause like Kate says he does, but I found this other Brady who has also supported the cause for 10 years.

Everyone Is Doing It (Part IV) or Everyone Sucks

So a little over 5 hours later, I'm ready to write.

Here's what I know:

- If a guy likes you and wants to see you, they will call and make plans to see you.

- When people tell you not to make the first contact when you're wondering if he likes you and wants to see you, they're 100% correct and you should listen to them instead of doing it anyway as if it's a secret and no one will ever know you did it.

- If you're spending a good amount of time with a guy who you have a bunch in common with, and he smiles when you're around and likes to hold hands even when you're just hanging out at home, it doesn't mean he likes you and it's very likely that he'll stop calling within one week.

In the words of Cher Horowitz, "Did my hair get flat? Did I stumble into some bad lighting? What's wrong with me?!"

I simply do not understand the turn of events here. He introduced me to his best friends, then told me that they asked him not to "screw this one up" because they like me. He met my cousins and legitimately spent time talking to each of them. He told me I'm pretty. We've had sleepovers. He feels comfortable with me because we come from the same place.

One night, he decides he needs to tell me that we should "slow things down." After he spends some time explaining himself, I do an evil girl Jedi trick and mince his words to become "I'm not attracted to you and I jut want to be friends." I get embarassed and kind of upset, then tell him how I've interpreted what he's saying. Apparently that's not what he was saying at all. He just wants to become friends before we're all of the sudden officially "dating." Whatever, sure buddy.

I run his request by several of my male friends, coworkers and family members. Every single one of them says it's weird and that guys don't operate like that. Clearly, I have no friggin' clue how guys operate, but I agree with them.

We stopped kissing when we would see each other for the first time. We hang out with groups of friends. We still hang out until late, but no sleepovers occur.

Now you're up to date.

How am I feeling about this, you ask? I'm feeling annoyed, frustrated, confused and obviously now bitter and pissy enough to write on my blog. I didn't pay $59.95 to sign up for "BestBuddies.com." I have lots of friends. In fact, my friend roster is somewhat full now that I have bi-coastal (despite there being no coast here) groups of friends. If I were to meet him and his friends under a "friendly" circumstance rather than what was supposed to be a clearly romantic one, I would have had to think hard about whether or not he would make the cut. I have several friends on the bench as it is, and I'm not in the market to do any trades yet.

So here I am...I went on a date with someone else to spite him, and did it make me feel so much better about myself? No. That guy fixes cars, can't spell and definitely shaves his back and I could already tell that HE was judging ME!

I'm just a chick who wants to spend time with a guy I like so I can stop being annoyed by happy couples I encounter. I want to bake him something that he really likes and go on random road trips. I want to not be embarassed by the way he dances because I think it's endearing and I want to have inside jokes that make other people uncomfortable. Is that so much to friggin' ask?!?

F you, BestBuddies.com. (click there)

Everyone Is Doing It (Part III)

Alright. Here's the deal. I went on date #2 about three weeks ago. I started a post about that date and him in general and it was boring. I'm not ready to write bitterly about it yet because it's not necesarrily over.


However, I can tell you this. He pissed me off on Friday when I texted to see if he might want to hang out at some point over the weekend. He replied, "I have plans on Saturday, but maybe Sunday." Screw you. "Maybe Sunday." ?? The last thing I want to be is a girl you aren't that psyched to hang out with. I didn't reply to his lame text and instead started texting with another guy with whom I had emailed enough to exchange phone numbers.


We'll call him "Billy." Billy's profile pictures were smokin'. One kind of looked like Adrian Grenier, who happens to be in my top 3 celebrity crushes (Matt Damon and Gabriel Garcia Bernal filling out the roster, in case you were wondering.) Those pictures were enough to offset his really short, misspelled profile.

We decided to meet up at a local bar and grab a drink. He's the definition of "tall, dark and handsome." He's also kind of the definition of "I know I'm tall, dark and handsome." He's a race car mechanic, and he's super psyched about it. He has his last name tattooed on the back of his neck. I'm pretty sure he checked out a few girls at the bar while I was talking. But what pretty blue eyes!


We bar-hopped for a few more beverages. He's the kind of guy I'm pretty psyched to be entering a bar with. If I saw a girl walk in with him, I'd probably think, "That girl is not that cute and probably a bitch." Just being honest.


Not-that-long-of-a-story made shorter for dignity purposes, he didn't like Alfie and didn't try to pretend he did. Other things went wrong, too, and I'm pretty sure that's where the story of Jessie and Billy ends.


Still no word from the guy who pissed me off. Right when I feel like I'm en fuego, I realize I'm really more like some smoldering coals. But don't I have the cutest kitten? He's a great cuddler too.

Is It Unnatural to Have Lust for Furniture?

I'm short of breath. I...I......I don't know how I will continue to live my life without this desk and chair. Do I have mulitple parking tickets to pay off? Yes. Do I have to save to get my poor, unassuming kitten's manliness chopped off? Sure. Did I just agree to take on a second rent at a mountain home and need to buy a ski pass and skis? Absolutely.

Have I already called and begged the seller to call me immediately because I got paid today for writing my blog and playing Scrabble online for a month? You betcha.

Everyone Is Doing It (cont'd)

I kind of thought that this would be easier. I thought that I had essentially just paid $59.95 (plus the cost of hours of online "shopping") for a shiny new boyfriend. It's just not the case.

After about two weeks of searching, judging, reading, looking, judging and projecting my own happily-ever-after fantasies on the maximum number of men match.com would let me view, I got a real bite.

His name was cryptic, his email title was creative, his eyes were dark and captivating. We met up for dinner in my neighborhood, which turned out to be his also. His house was right on my daily walking/running route, and I hadn't known I'd been running right past him every day. I thought, "What a sweet story to tell our grandkids." He's a lawyer. He fights for social rights. He's passionate, sarcastic and funny.

Four dates, a makeout sesh, a concert and an invitation to one of his big public hearings later, he disappeared into thin air. No answer to the last text, no follow-through with weekend plan making. There he was, gone. I called every single one of my close friends, my mom and my brother and recounted the story over and over. I cried and went over every possible thing I could have done to make him evaporate. They all tried to convince me that it wasn't my fault and that he was probably just a jerk (or a eunich, in the case of my imaginative mother.)I took their advice and kind words and stored them in the back pocket of a pair of jeans I knew I wouldn't wear for weeks. I was down. I was sure it was hopeless, that I would most likely never find anyone reliable and honest who would also want to allow me their undying devotion and attention. It was the proverbial hangover that the otherwise joyful tonic that is vodka leaves behind.

Then, as quickly as it all happened, it was over! I remembered that it had only been three weeks since I had enrolled in givemeloveimmediatelyordie.com, and I had only even known the guy for two weeks! I realized that not only did I overreact and slather him in girlfriend vibes, I led myself to believe that I knew him well and that we were really good for each other. Like the relief of untying a stubborn knot, I had actually figured it out. I scared the shit out of him and he straight up ran away. It was a matter of survival for the poor soul.

I knew I'd step into the next date-tionship a little calmer and a little wiser. No need to rush things. I knew I'd keep in mind that I don't really know these men, no matter how many times I read (between the lines) their profiles and pour over their photos. I got back on the horse, and winked my little heart out all over that site.

I had a date in less than a week.

....stay tuned.....

Everyone Is Doing It.

I moved across the country and left many of my good friends, family members and dissipated old bastard flames behind. Six months into my Colorado endeavor, having lost my job and found myself still single, I made the leap.

I joined an internet dating site. I paid $59.95 for a three month subscription on match.com so I could "expand my friend circle" and "meet new people."

Backtrack for a second...It was 4th of July, my favorite holiday. I got dressed up, had some strong cocktails, straightened my hair, fixed the face, (unfortunately, yes, in this order) and headed out on the town with a few of my favorite happy couples. Not only were the fireworks not set off over any body of water, as I like them to be, we missed them altogether. Like everyone else, we herded into one of my less favored and crowded bars downtown. Girls were wearing things that didn't even qualify as garments. They were groping big, sweaty guys who were wearing purposefully vintage t-shirts and sandals that double as bottle openers. Naturally, I drank more vodka, and started up a game of shuffleboard, hoping to attract a fellow shuffler, perhaps even a male one with a purposefully vintage t-shirt on.

Yada yada yada...clearly, it doesn't end that way. I leave the bar, leaking tears of frustration with a splash of cranberry and extra lime. Someone else's boyfriend (whom I happen to love) tells me I'm beautiful and shouldn't be crying.

Fast forward to July 5th, 11 am. You'll find me in an actual vintage (read: "old") t-shirt and sweatpants entering my debit card number into said internet dating service's website. I surprised myself, waking up with the drive and will to fix the issue myself instead of the regular old temporary cure of bad fashion tv and toast. I was awake and on a mission to...shop online for my soul mate?

Like vodka, online dating makes you feel good about yourself for a solid period of time. Here you are, flipping through pictures of men (ha, "men") exploiting themselves in hopes of attracting the right girl, and you have the power to skip past them, one after the other. "He's too young." and "This guy seems like a dweeb!" coupled with a "Yeah, right buddy." and maybe a bit of "I'm so sure you're 5'10" creates a new, unfamiliar sense of self-righteousness.

I "wink" at the ones who are lucky enough to have written something clever, had a picture of themselves with a baby or a puppy, be over 6 feet tall AND not intimidate me with their pure stereotypical Colorado athleticism. I even email them if they say something extremely relevant to my search in my mate of the soul.

Some aren't as lucky. One looks exactly like my grandfather did when he was 50. One has a user name of "LonelyGamer." One says he "NEVER gets up later than 8 am, uses the Lord's name in vain, drinks, smokes, or admits (he's) wrong." I'm looking down at these poor souls from my pedestal, thinking, "You poor souls." Until the next day.

Weird, he looked at my profile (you can see when someone looks at your profile on this site) and he didn't wink back...OR email?! Strange, he got my email, and wrote back "No, thanks." WTF?!?! I go back through my pictures to make sure none of them mislead these poor souls to think I'm fat, ugly, a lush, have hotter friends than me, am obsessed with something strange...nope, none of them do. I delete the part of my profile that reads, "Toyota Tacomas are hot; really strappy man sandals are not," in case I've led them to believe that a) I'm materialistic about cars and/or b) don't understand that all guys in Colorado have to wear strappy sandals at some point while they're rafting/paragliding/wakeboarding/hiking in a river.

I feel down. I feel like I'm being judged by people who don't even know me! These guys haven't even met me, and they're not giving me a chance to let me shine my internal sunshine on their lives?! What gives? I change my search to include ages 25 and 34, guys who are bald, and might carry "a few extra pounds", and I change my distance requirement to a 100 mile radius. There, that should fix it.

I'm up again! Really cute guy emailed me! He thinks my profile is funny and that I have a nice smile. He went to Bates, and is from Maine, small world! I know people from Bates...I list them. All of them. He doesn't write back. Shit.

Ugh, guys are so dumb. It's like they all attended a match.com profile-writing seminar and took the same notes. "I'm a pretty laid back guy. I spend most of my time outdoors, mainly rock climbing, mountain biking and snowboarding in the winter. I like to go out for a few drinks downtown, but I also like staying in to snuggle up to a good movie." If I had a nickel for every time I saw those sentences in a profile! Come on, intrigue me! You've GOT to have something better than that to say. I'm up again. I'm funny and smart and unique, and these guys are lame and can't find cool girls to date them so they are forced to go onto a site to trick girls into at least going on one date. Ha. Guys are such idiots.

...to be continued...

Respect David Byrne.

I don't like song covers. If I do like a song that is a cover, it is usually because I am unaware of the original artist because they are old as dirt or they obviously didn't get to be as successful as the band I'm listening to who is covering the song. If it's the case of the former, I like to keep that little nugget of information about the original artist in my pocket to bring out and use condescendingly whenever I'm with someone who says they like the cover.

If you're going to sample a song, or straight up cover it without even attempting to showcase your "talent," then you ought to do your research, and give the song some respect. Don't pick a superstar to cover, then go off pitch or speed up the tempo. Don't change it to another style of music (ie. rock to country, reggae to electronica) unless you're Norah Jones. Norah Jones can do whatever she wants. Don't cover the Talking Heads.

David Byrne is off his rocker. No one is really on his mental level, and as a superfan, I can't even say I try to be. His musical genius deserves to be left untouched, and no one wants to hear your dumb "I-can-be-weird-too" version of it. Why would you think that it's going to make sense at all for people to hear you singing "Now, we're your children/Come and ride your horse/In the night/In the night/Come and ride your horse?" Even worse, if you go with some mega hit like "Once in a Lifetime" you will have to live with the rejection and shame of the fact that all anyone is thinking about is that you don't sound like David Byrne.

Having said that, I would also like to say that I DO like Muppets.

Muppets, like Norah Jones, can do whatever they want.

(If you haven't clicked on the above sentence, please do so now.)

Kate, Rachel, Erin, Mols, Emily, Liz, Katie, Molly, Jenny, Arianna...

As I tossed restlessly in my bed last night, uncomfortable with a presumed migraine and delirious from a leftover Vicodin I took to relieve said migraine, for some reason, I thought about you guys.

I've boasted for months about really not having suffered much home sickness since living in Colorado, but those sentiments decided to rear their ugly heads at 2:30 am MST. 

Suddenly, I really just wanted to be in a room (on a dance floor, at the dining hall, on a road trip, etc.) with all of you ladies. (Preferably not at 2 am with my head splitting and for some reason hallucinating that my arms were really, really big, like too big to fit on the bed.)

Then I went through and listed what comes to mind when I think of you, even if it was just a little memory that, at the time, I was unaware I would remember years later in a sleepless, unintentionally drug-induced mind-rant. I also added in "Thanks for introducing me to..."

This is what I came up with, in no particular order. Order would be silly, since at this point it's 3 am.

***Disclaimer*** I'm sorry if you read this and you're not featured. It doesn't mean I love you any less. Unless you pissed me off recently. C'mon, it was late.

Arianna

I admired the way you could arrange all of your products, bottles, lotions and things in perfect descending height order on your dresser in Meadows.

That ridiculously awesome 80's romper we made you wear on your birthday (21?) and those epic dance parties in Everett and in the pool hall.

How fascinated Kate and I were when we first witnessed how kind everyone in your family always is to one another. 

Spice cake.

Thanks for introducing me to your mom's baked brie, cheap gallons of wine and allowing me to be comforted by the fact that I am not the only one who's grossed out by sharing dairy products.

Mols

Declaring and succeeding in driving from Providence to Charleston to Florida without ever looking at a map.

Interviewing people about their shopping experience at Big Al's and the cashier at the liquor store claiming to have the largest selection of beer in the state of Maine except for Heineken Light.

Your hair in Costa Rica.

Concussions.

Cat-flipping Bobby Ganoush.

Thanks for introducing me to your entire extended family, Destiny's Child and the importance of O.P.T. @ 12:30 am.

Hilary

The way you say "buT-Tons" and "Whea-Ton."

The fact that you had the audacity to trust me to cut off your blonde ends in the bathroom during Spring Weekend while people were funneling beers in the shower.

Picking you up at the airport when you came home from being abroad.

Dodging your wedding bouquet.

Thanks for heightening my awareness of and compassion for all of the living beings in the grass and for trying to stop me from walking on it and killing all of them.

Kate

Letting me know it's fine to waste a perfectly good Sunday by lying on parallel couches (or bunk beds, or an oversized futon, whatevs) watching Murder She Wrote or that crappy reality tv you like and eating junky snacks and drinking orange soda.

Finally allowing me to mimic your mirror face even if I get the death glance.

You've worn the same silver ring the whole time I've known you. 

You understand why it's funny to needlessly verbally deride and express great disappointment in your small pets for your own personal satisfaction. 

We've had incredible living quarters.

Thank you for introducing me to the allen wrench, lemon bread, morals and Harrison Bender Shea. 

Rachel

The way you scrunch your nose and squint your eyes in pictures so that you look kind of a lot different than how I see you. 

The way you say "museum" as "moo-zem."

That day that we laughed so hard in the park at work with Dave and Liz that led to a full day of none of us doing anything but sending each other pictures of different types of couches.

Your dweeb-tastic relationship with Jack, and how you agree to go to "Become a Millionaire" seminars with him and he agrees to go to salsa classes with you. 

Thanks for introducing me to the two different bakeries that make Girl Scout cookies, and for satisfying my need for Samoas this spring, for your continued effort in trying to keep secrets from me, and for a good book when I need one.

Molly

How well you wear a structured pea coat of primary color and frog rain boots.

Assembling Ikea furniture.

Sampson (RIP) and his unwavering, unmatched love for us and the taste of our lips, and how awkward it was when we put his litter box in the middle of the living room for that short bit.

The best damn bicycle pub crawl the City has ever seen.

Thank you for introducing me to the chronicles of "The Bean," Waking Life, Benetint, hair volumizing tips and expertise with making names for things sound snappier (snapperton.) 

Liz

You've developed an unfortunate habit of crying whenever I do.

The guy giving you a traditional Chinese massage got annoyed when he tried to massage your face and it was all wet with tears from laughing so much.

Texts of what religious billboards say in the Bible belt, mostly "from God."

You try so hard to teach things you know, and I'm a damn stubborn learner. However, who else have I been paragliding, rafting and skiing with?

Thank you for re-introducing me to the yumminess of sauteed brussels sprouts, getting us first class seats to and from Asia, and for telling me that funny "Rindercella" story where the words are all messed up.

Emily

You are a bear cub, and I am a little lamb, but Molly is a LION!

You really rocked it out at the Gold Party, which reminds me of the time you told me I looked like Beyonce.

You smile with your eyes and you always take showers that are a little bit too hot and they make you kinda dizzy.

Tuna pasta.

Thank you for introducing me to your entire extended family, that game you play with the Wills that made you have to go into that store with a helmet on and try to buy a beer with 57 pennies, singing songs that rhyme and include "and a dee dee dee and a doo doo doo."

Erin

Admiring each others pretty summer dresses on the way to that Caribbean music class.

Enviable white girl dance moves at Arco Iris in Costa Rica, empanadas and rattails (see above) in Argentina!

The girl I want to spend the day with hunting at a flea market, and who appreciates aesthetics as much as I do.

Thank you for introducing me to Reggaeton, those silver earrings you know I covet, the courage (or boredom?) to get my nose ring.

Katie

"Let's party!! Yeah, baby, Woo!"

The first conversation I actually had with you was initiated by you, and it was about how you were really craving a good burger.

Your hot pink pumps flying down the stairs of the Brighton apartment.

Pulled pork and root beer floats.

Thanks for introducing me to the finer elements of the Michigan accent, fried pickles, Bump'n Grind and for forgiving Uncle Howie for repeatedly urinating all over the bed you are currently sleeping on.

Jenny

I like it when you laugh like a seagull or a dolphin or whatever it is and it sounds like you might stop breathing.

That dirty basement apartment in Providence that you tried so hard to make nice.

Trying to jump.

Skipping class to lie in the dimple and persuading passers by to do the same.

Egg salad sandwiches. An underwear drawer organized by style, color and fabric. 

Thank you for introducing me to the boys, Nordstrom's generous return policy and Talib Kweli's "Get By"