From the Drafts: Spam names

This is part of my “unfinished excellence from the depths of my drafts folder” series.  Enjoy!

I used to get the BEST spam names in my gmail folder.  Periodically, I would just go through them because the made me laugh and laugh, and occasionally one stood out enough for me to put into a blog post that I was going to eventually make…in 2007.  Literally, the last time I edited this before today was March 17th, 2007.  So, here it is in it’s unfinished glory.  I assume they were all to have stories, but alas, we are left to ponder the mystery!   All I can say is thank god that Eon D. Cupcakes was released from the bowels of my Drafts folder!

________

Norse T. Eyebrows

Englebart Curry – I actually went to high school with a Curry.  I wonder if he is related?

Gerardo MacMullen – I’ve invented some elaborate story about how his father, a burly bekilted Scotsman, left the craggy highlands near Loch Lommond in search of a cure for his beloved sheep, MacFluffah, who had a terrible case of wool crimp (in which the wool grows crinkled instead of curled. MacFluffah was constantly made fun of by the other sheep for having sub-par wool growth, and had to seek company with the goats and with Daddy McMullen, who kept him as a pet). He sought the cure all over the world, eventually ending up in the mountains of Patagonia, having heard from a blind soothsayer he met in a tango bar in Sao Paulo that the natives of that area have invented such a cure for the Alapacas who are raised in that area. While there, he did in fact find a cure for MacFluffah, as well as a cure for his lonely Scottish heart in the form of a daughter of Spanish missionaries- Esmerelda. Gerardo is their only son.

Ola Crowwell – I’m pretty sure I have a great great grandmother with this same name.

Tempos L. Doormat

Dag Black – This is one of those “Max Power” sorts of names.  It sounds like the sports reporter on a local CBS affiliate who was crazy hot in the 80s but now just looks over-tanned and sad.  Like: “Wow, Dag Black really looks rough these days.  Remember that time that Mitzy made out with him in the bathroom of that TGI Friday’s?”

Carpetbagging E. Stromboli (seriously!) – That GODDAMN Stromboli!  Coming down here with his ideas of equality and freedom!  We oughtta take ’em down by the crick and tan his hide!

Wiggling D. Seminarian – Personally, I prefer my seminarians with extra wiggle.
Brashness O. Ruffling, in the meantime, wrote me an email with this intriguing title: “on marshmellow on auditorium” which I chose to read as “On Marshmellow! On Auditorium!” like I was calling out to my faithful reindeer to mush on, so that I could deliver presents to all of the good children of the world.

Gobnata Leclaire – Doesn’t this sound like a name in Harry Potter?  Like an evil cousin of the Malfoys?  Maybe that is where JK Rowling comes up with her creative names.

Eon D. Cupcake

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From the Draft Folder

I’ve been doing some clean up of the blog- fixing busted links and whatnot- and I went back through some of the posts in my draft folder.  These were posts that I started and for whatever reason abandoned eventually.  Some of them are almost finished, some of them are a few sentences, all of them are complete drivel.  But!  I can’t come up with anything to write about, so I thought I’d post some of them.  Stay tuned!

My trip to Baltimore this weekend

Presented in a convenient, easy-to-compose format that allows me to not have to think too much.

[4 months ago]

 

 My friend with the pregnant wife:  Hey!  A bunch of people who you’ve never met and only heard of twice my friends are going to drive down to Baltimore to see that team that you are completely indifferent tothe Sox play at Camden Yards.  Wanna come?

Me:  Not even a little bit!  But thanks for asking!

[1 month ago]

 

 

My friend with the baby (Baby Dan, in case you weren’t following):  Hey!  Remember that trip that I planned a long time ago when you didn’t know anyone and now you’ve met a lot of my friends and some of them are now your friends and you learned that I pick the absolute greatest people in the world to hang out with?  You know, to see that team that you used to not care about and now you watch most of their games and know their players and are actually starting to enjoy?  At that beautiful stadium that is so famous? Someone dropped out and we have an extra ticket.  Wanna come?

Me:  OH MY GOD!  I was so angry at myself for being silly and unadventurous and I was never going to forgive myself for missing what is going to be such a fun time because I was a wuss and worried about not knowing anyone! Yes!  A lot!  Thanks for asking!

 

[Saturday]

[7 AM]

 

Me:  WOOO!  Road trip!

Swing Dan (Yeah, the guy I’m taking swing with!):  Woooo!  Can we get some coffee now?

Me: …you have a 75 oz. cup of ice coffee in your hand right now?

Swing Dan:  Yeah, I’ll need more.  Can we get some coffee now?

Friend 1: Wooo!  Road Trip!

Friend 2:  *snores*

 

[7:45 AM]

 

Me:  Woo!  Rhode Island!

 

[7:47 AM]

 

Me:  Wooo!  Connecticut!  (You see what I did there?  How I made fun of Rhode Island for being small?  I am funny.)

 

[9:45 AM, still in Connecticut]

 

Text Message from Baby Dan, who is in another vehicle with most of the other people:  OK!  We’re leaving.

Swing Dan:  WTF?  How are they just now leaving?

Friend 1:  Dude, they are going to be late.

Swing Dan:  Cutting it close, for sure.

Me, texting furiously:  Do you have the tickets with you?

Baby Dan:  Yes.

Most of the car:  *is horrified*

Friend 2:  *snores*

 

[10: 30 AM]

 

Sign:  Welcome to New York!  The Empire State! 

Me:  Wooo!  New York!

New York Traffic:  *Grinds to halt*

New York Traffic:  [Haha!  Fuck you, anyone trying to get anywhere in this goddamn state!  I’ll show you traffic]

My brake lights:  [Jesus Christ!  What did I ever do to you?]

Friend 2:  *wakes up* 

Friend 2:  Yankees Suck!  

Friend 2:  *goes back to sleep*

 

[Nineteen THOUSAND hours later]

 

Swing Dan:  Alright!  We’ve been 14 miles!

Me:  I can’t muster up a “wooo” right now.

 

[1 PM]

 

Me:  Wooo!  New Jersey!

New Jersey on I-95: [Please enjoy my scenic smoke stacks and industrial complexes!  And look, here are some beautiful strip malls!  Lovely!  Also, I’m not going to label any of my exits with town names, so good luck trying to figure out where you are!  Thank you for visiting the “Garden State.”  Aren’t we hilarious?]

*insert 900 jokes about how much Jersey sucks*

Swing Dan:  At least the traffic isn’t bad!

New Jersey Traffic:  *grinds to a halt*

Swing Dan:  Fuck.

 

[2:28 PM]

 

Friend 1, looking through an atlas for entertainment:  Here’s a place called Fortescue!

Me:  *makes reference to obscure Harry Potter character Florean Fortescue*

Friend 1:  *gets it*

Me:  *mind is blown*

Me:  I think we need to be better friends.

 

[3:45]

 

New Jersey Turnpike Toll Booth:  [Thank you for visiting New Jersey!  Now bend over and spread ’em]

All of us:  Ow!  Our Rectums!

 

[3:47]

 

Me:  Wooo!  Delaware!

Toll Booth 1:  [Still smarting from Jersey?  Don’t worry, this won’t hurt as much!]

Toll Booth 2, 6 miles later:  [That’s right!  Another one!  We know you’re only here for 11 miles, but we have no sales tax, so you’re fucked]

Friend 1:  I’m glad that we’ve spent more in tolls than we did for the actual tickets.

 

[4:15 PM]

 

Me:  Wooooo!  Maryland!  We’re almost there!

Friend 1:  So, does anyone know where we’re going when we get to Baltimore?

All of us:  *Looking around inquisitively*

The car:  *crickets*

Swing Dan:  Look!  A friendly Maryland Welcome Center.  Lets stop, shall we?  Perhaps they can tell us WHERE THE HELL WE ARE GOING.

Maryland Welcome Center:  *Is helpful!  Here are some maps!  Good luck in Baltimore, Morons!*

 

[5:30 PM]

 

Me:  Woooo!  Baltimore, here we are!

30,000 Red Sox Fans milling around Camden Yards:  Woooo!  Go Sox!  Woooooo!

7 Orioles Fans fighting through the crowd:  Goddamn Sox.  This sucks.

Parking Garage 2 blocks from the Stadium:  [Parking!  1o dollars!  Flat rate!  Yeah, that’s right- 2 blocks from the stadium!  How much does that cost you in Boston?  40 Bucks?  How ya like Baltimore now?]

All of us:  Baltimore is awesome!

 

[6:00 PM]

 

Friends from Maryland who we met down there, on phone:  Come meet us right by the stadium!  Cheap beer!

 

[6:05 PM]

 

Beer guy:  Two beers for 5 bucks!  Right here! 

Me:  Holy Shit!  2 for 5 bucks!  And it’s good beer!  Yuengling!  Blue Moon!  Carlsbad!

All of us:  Dude.  Baltimore is really awesome!

Every single person within 100 feet of me:  Woooo!  Go Sox!

Swing Dan:  Are there any Orioles fans even here?

Camden Yards:  [Now do you get why they call me Fenway South?]

Me:  *is glad I bought that Red Sox tshirt last night*

 

[6:45 PM]

 

Baby Dan, via Text:  Yeah, we’re going to be late.  But not by much!

Me, increasingly drunk:  GET YO ASS HERE RIGHT NOW.

 

[7:05 PM]

 

Baseball Game:  *starts*

Swing Dan:  OK!  I’m on the phone with Baby Dan!  They are here!  Quick!  This way!

 

[7:08 PM]

 

Camden Yards:  *CRACK*

Camden Yards:  *Errupts with cheers*

All of us, making the same lame and obvious joke:  Heh.  I guess the Sox did something good.  Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.

(Shut up.  Did you read that earlier part about 2 for 5 beers?)

 

[7:10 PM]

 

Everyone:  There they are!  *rejoicing ensues*

Our Seats:  *are great*

Camden Yards: *is beautiful*

The Sox:  *win that shit*

[fin.]

 

So we had a wonderful time.   We ended up crashing in Maryland that night with some friends then drove home the next day, via an alternate route through Western Pennsylvania and north of NYC on the Tappan Zee bridge.  It took quite a bit longer- about 10 hours with stops for lunch and such- but it was incredibly beautiful.  It was really a lovely drive.

So a good weekend.  Great, in fact.

Back in the swing (God, strike me down for that ridiculous pun)

Back in High School, I had this deeeelightful boyfriend who used to go swing dancing with me.  And I’m not talking about some amature box-step shit, we were awesome.  Like, flips and throws and cute shoes and he wore a vest and a hat.  It was fantastic.  I LOVED every second of it, and it has been something that I’ve missed so very much.

About a month ago, one of my friends casually mentioned that she was taking a beginner swing dancing class with her husband in (LO!) Plymouth.  About 14 feet away from my house, in fact.  She said that the class was almost over, but that they were going to start a Swing 2 class when that one finished.  Boy howdy, you can imagine my excitement at the prospect, then my broken heart as I realized I didn’t know anyone who would take a swing class with me.   Bollocks, I tell you! 

(Aside:  listen, guys.  I’m going to tell you a secret right now.  LEARN TO DANCE.  It will automatically make you 135% more attractive to almost any girl in the world.  A guy who can dance is not only awesome but also in high demand.  THIS IS THE TRUTH.  And it doesn’t matter if you suck or you look stupid.  The fact that you are willing to try is hot.)

And then one night I was playing cards with some friends, and it was casually mentioned that one of them knew how to swing dance.  And I totally played that shit cool in the situation, but in my head I was going “SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” and trying to figure out how in the hell I could make him come to Plymouth and take this class with me.  I thought I was going to have to hem and haw and do all manner of convincing, but it was really easy.  Using the medium of my generation, Facebook, I approached him thusly:

 

(this is the legit word-for-word conversation, by the way)

 

Me:  Dude- you need to come to Plymouth on Monday nights and be my partner in a swing dancing class.  Seriously.  You’ve yet to learn how awesome I am and that makes me sad for you.
Dan (and no, not the Dan that just had the baby, but one of his best friends, just to be confusing) (He’ll be Swing Dan from now on, k?):
dude, i thought you’d never invite me.  you’ll be amazed at how slightly above average i am at it, especially if the song is in three.
now that i don’t tutor on monday nights anymore (huzzah!) i can probably do it. let me know what mondays you’re thinking of going.
 
Me: Did you just say huzzah in a sentence and actually mean it? I think we might be soul mates.
Several of my friends are taking the class right now, but they are in a “swing 1” level class (pshaw…amateurs!) and in a few weeks it switches over to swing level 2. I gotta tell you, it’s been a frighteningly long time since I’ve danced, so my pre-stated awesomeness may be a little less that I’d like to admit. Still though, I think I’m decent? (Dear god, please let me be decent still!) 
 
And that was that!  And this was about the 3rd time I had ever talked to him, so kudos to him for being willing to put up with me.  I guess my southern accent is more charming than I realize sometimes!
Last night we took our second class.  He’s really good.  I’m…not so much anymore.  I mean, I’m not terrible, but I am WAY below my high-school level.  There will be no flips in my future, especially since he’s moving to NYC in August to go to grad school.  That selfish jackass!
But until then, I get to look forward to dancing every Monday night.  Yay!

In my blood

The question that I get most regularly when someone finds out that I’m from Alabama is “can you make fried chicken?”  I’m not sure where this pervasive stereotype comes from, but people up here seem to think that we make and eat fried chicken 5 days a week down south (really, it’s only 3 or 4, depending on the season…) and that every person with southern blood seems to posses this skill.  Well, I don’t.  Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE fried chicken- who doesn’t?- but not only have I never made it myself, it also wasn’t something that people in my family ever made.  I didn’t have a granny who stood barefoot in a kitchen on Sundays and churned out heaping plates of southern cookin’, and while I can make some mean biscuits and both of my parents are quite fabulous cooks, that whole image of the big southern meal wasn’t really much a part of my childhood.  We were as likely to have stir-fry as chicken and dumplings. 

Regardless of that, I have come to want- nay, need- a repetoire of southern recipies that I feel that I have mastered.  Call it a desperation to connect to my upbring if you want, but really I think it’s just because southern food is so goddamn fabulous and I know I can impress people with it.  Either way, it works out well for you if you come over to my house for dinner.

About a month ago, one of my friends up here requested that I make her fried chicken.  I warned her that it wasn’t something that I had ever made before, but that I’d be willing to give it a go as long as I could make it at her house (the clean-up is a nightmare) and it could be on a weekend when I had all day.  It just worked out that the 4th of July fell perfectly, so we planned it for this weekend.

I combed quite a few trusted sources, before finally settling on the Alton Brown method (how do I love thee…? Let me count the ways:  sweet tea, pizza dough, fried green tomatoes, roast chicken…) which was perfect in it’s simplicity.   One thing that was pervasive in all recipes: use a whole chicken that you cut up yourself.  Sounds like excellent reasoning, but hell if I know how to cut up a chicken.  Good thing for us all, the friend who I’m making this for has a roommate who’s an executive chef, and he invited us to come down to his restaurant in Providence, RI for lunch and a chicken-hacking lesson on Friday afternoon.   How awesome is that?

And- AND!- not only did he volunteer his expertise, he also knew where to get me some excellent, fresh chickens.  Turns out there is an abattoir (that’s a GRE word for slaughterhouse, y’all) right in the middle of this swanky street in downtown providence.  Awesome.  The chickens I used were alive mere hours before I stuck my knife in them.  It was surreal to be standing in the kitchen of a gourmet restaurant in my sandals and jeans while GIANT pots (we’re talking witch cauldrons here) of chicken stock bubbled away, a pizza oven was roaring a few feet away and a guy was making fresh pasta at a table next to me, but it was a great lesson and now I am theoretically adept at dismantling a chicken in an efficient way.  Also lunch was fabulous.  

And  through the entire thing we were all desperately clinging to our cell phones awaiting news of the delivery, which was taking place as we were at the restaurant.  Damn…that really was a crazy day.

The chicken pieces got a nice, long soak overnight in buttermilk and the next afternoon I set out to attempt to fry chicken.  There were many false starts, I’m sorry to say.  First of all that there was SO MUCH CHICKEN.  Chef Jeff got three chickens so that I would have ample practice, and that makes for a shit-load of bird parts.  I was cooking them for hours- being severely impeded by having only one properly-seasoned cast iron skillet (and I’m not about to enrage the southern-cooking gods by using anything else).  And then I didn’t have a thermometer.  Every source I saw was adamant about having the oil at 325 and not to allow it to stray to either side, so I was doing a lot of guess work.  The very first piece I removed was unbelievably perfect with a beautiful, golden crust.  I could hear Colonel Sanders crying.  And then it all went to hell…pieces were cooking too slowly and then too quickly and they were perfect on the outside and raw on the inside and there was much hemming and hawing and stamping of feet.

And t hen they started to burn.  Fast.  And then the fire alarm went off.  So we were all rushing frantically to the smoke detector waving towels and pans at it and I was trying to turn down the heat while molten crisco was sputtering all over the kitchen and then…

And then Chef Jeff walked in.  To witness my utter failure!  But he just smiled and said “I think your oil is too hot” and I bit my tongue to keep from saying anything snarky.  After another 20 minutes of frustration, I got everything evened out and the remaining 1900 pieces cooked to my standards.  They were quite beautiful.  And really, really tasty. 

We sent some over to the neighbors and when they came over afterwards to play lawn games with us they told me it was the best friend chicken they had ever had.  Bless their yankee hearts. 

It was far from perfect, to be sure, but it was certainly edible.  And now I’m on a mission to perfect fried chicken.  I’ll be happy to cook you some on my quest, but you have to clean up after me.

Baby time

Yep, they had the baby.  Thursday night we all went out for Karaoke (these people are Karaoke fiends, it’s weird…except that they are really good, so it makes sense?).  We went back to their house afterwards and not too long after that, Dan’s wife said she was having some pains.  They asked me to stay, so I timed her contractions for a few hours before they left for the hospital at 3:30 AM.  On Friday, the 3rd, she was born at 8:39 PM.  Momma and baby are happy and healthy.

That’s great and all, but really I just care that I was the FIRST person to know that she was in labor!  I TOTALLY won the friend battle!  Suck it, other friends!

(Also, I am terrified of infants.  Why are they so scary?)

How can I type when I have lost motor control?

I have this friend.   This friend is a 23-year old guy who is a co-worker of mine.  In the last six months, he’s become a very good friend.  Tomorrow is his last day at work and I’m mourning his company terribly.  Not only that, but in 5 days his wife is due to give birth to their first child, so I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m probably not going to be seeing very  much of him…well, ever again, I suppose.

(As an aside:  OH MY HOLY PRESHUS JEEZUS 23 YEARS OLD.  He and his wife are so relaxed and unperturbed by the fact that they are about to have a baby that is throws me into conniptions every time I am around them.  They are absolutely about to live my worst nightmare and yet they seem completely OK with it.  How is is possible that everyone in the world isn’t terrified of children?)

So, due to the impending conflagration that their life is about to become, we’ve all been scrambling to hang out with them as much as possible.  They are one of those couples that is up for anything at any time, which is awesome, and they are ridiculously fun to be around.  I am absolutely not one of those people,  but Dan (the friend) is ALSO one of those people who can logically and easily convince you that whatever he wants to do is the best idea in the world.

Now generally these aren’t outlandish schemes or anything- just playing cards until all manner of late hours and various other enjoyable activities, but last Friday night (when I was home all snug in bed, thankyouverymuch) at around midnight I got a rather hilarious text from him:

“Come to Foxwoods on Wednesday night for Karaoke with me and the girl who is going to turn you into a lesbian.”

Says I:  “Goodnight!”

Even yesterday morning when I went to work I had no intention of going with him.  Let me tell you why:

1.  Wednesday night:  Hello!  I’m a big girl with a big girl job!  Sometimes I even wear nice shoes.  I shouldn’t go out a’drinkin’ on Wednesday nights.

2.  Foxwoods:  A casino.  Ew.  They make me sad.  And on top of that, a casino in…

3. FUCKING CONNETICUIT.  Look, I realize that New England states are small, but I have to drive though A WHOLE ENTIRE OTHER STATE just to get to Conneticuit (which is too hard to spell, you assholes!  Change your name!).  I realize that the other state is Rhode Island, but you can just stop right there with your New England snidery!  It’s the principle, yo!

4.  Karaoke:  I have a passable voice, and I will shred some major and awesome tunes…when I am alone in my car by myself.  I may have spent 4years in chorus in high school (in sequins!  Show Choir REPRESENT!), but I have no intention or desire to get up by my lonesome and pitchily embarass myself in front of strangers.  Thanks.  I’m all good there, friend!

5.  Lesbian:  Listen, y’all, I LOVE lesbians.  I even have some of my very own.  One in South Carolina (I love you leezle!) and my very own matching set up here in Massachusetts.  They are three of my favorite people in the world.  However, seriously- I am single and you aren’t going to convince me that way.  Here is a better way:  “There are going to be 7 tall brown-haired guys there who will appreciate your wit and intelligence and also think you are painfully hot.  You can take your pick.”  That is persuasive.  (Though, to Dan’s credit, he has introduced me to several of his hot, funny friends.  The jury is entirely out on whether they are in love with me like they should be.  Clearly they are morons.)

So you see what I’m saying?  EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THOSE THINGS IS UNAPPEALING TO ME.

And yet, inexplicably, I found myself sitting in Dan’s passenger seat as we made our way though Rhode Island last night after work, furiously scrolling through both of our iPods trying to find songs that we knew well enough to make asses out ourselves with.   How does he do this?  It is magic, I tell you!  It’s like he opens his mouth and unicorns prancing on rainbows come out and give you lollypops.

And we had an unbelievable time.  The Karaoke was top-fucking-notch.  I didn’t sing, but it was incredibly fun to watch an entire bar break it down to “The Humpty Dance” as performed by a middle-aged, overweight white guy who called himself AC Slater and knew every single word without checking the monitor once.  He is one of my favorite people.  Thank god he exists.

And then we left at 1 AM.  And drove through Connecticuit.  And then Rhode Island.  And then back to his house in Southern Massachusetts.  And then I picked up my car and drove back to my house  in Eastern Massachusetts.  And at 4:04 AM I walked in my door, collapsed in a heap somewhere in the vicinity of my bedroom, and staggered into work today for a delightful morning and afternoon with my boss as we sifted though files and files and files that dated back to 1981 (when I wasn’t even born!) as I pondered how quickly I could commit suicide using floppy discs and paper cuts (not quickly enough, damnation!).  I literally felt like I was going to die today.

And in a desperate attempt to try and keep myself from falling asleep at 5:30, I wrote this post (which took me SEVENTEEN HOURS because I can’t even remember where to put my fingers on the keyboard).   And normally I would try to come up with a witty and clever way to close this down, but seriously,  you’re lucky you got all that.  At least I’m not singing to you.