I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

How many people actually fall into the lives they've always dreamt about? I'm going to assume that only 1% of us become the person we always dreamt we would. The rest of us just learn to develop more realistic dreams as we get older. When I was 6 I dreamt of owning a pizzeria. Little did I know I would fear the kitchen in my old age. When I was 7 I dreamt of becoming a teacher. As it turns out, I can't stand a giant room full of anyone of any age, especially under the age of 18. When I was in fourth grade, it was my life goal to be a marine biologist because I loved dolphins so much. Did you know you have to study every form of science and math imaginable to get that degree? Yeah, I didn't realize that either back then. In junior high I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing something that involved speaking French all the time. This was always a language I was fascinated with since early childhood, and finally had the chance to learn the language in school. To this day, the only type of French conversation I can hold sounds something like this:

"Hello. My name is Heather. It is hot (or cold) outside. I would like a an omelet please. I am going to go to the store. I love you. Good bye my friend!"

I'm fairly certain I need to learn a few more key conversational phrases before I can move to France.

When adolescence set in I gave up on career goals. Instead, I focused on short term dreams. I dreamt of being a Spice Girl. I dreamt of how I was going to be able to stay out past curfew. I dreamt of sucking face with a cute boy. I dreamt of having hair that wasn't frizzy to the point of being gravity defying. I dreamt of owning a cell phone. I dreamt of the array of colors I wanted my best friend to paint my toe nails. I dreamt of green tea and hummus.

(Does the word 'dreamt' sound funny to you now too?)

When I approached young adulthood, I had developed a dream of being materialistic. Not in the sense that would make me high maintenance; I would never impose my materialisticness upon a boyfriend or future husband. Instead I just thought it was best to destroy my financial stability and credit to purchase designer perfumes, purses, sunglasses, clothes, shoes, watches, cars and diamonds. I am now suffocated by debt for living in the "lap of luxury" since 2003. Actually, other than my car and impressive perfume collection, I really couldn't prove what I spent all of this money on.

Now in my mid-twenties, I dream of extremely realistic concepts. I dream that I can afford rent next month. I dream that I can show up at my Aunt's house at the exact moment dinner is done. I dream that someone will do my laundry for me. I dream that I will one day be able to cook something that doesn't involve unwrapping a frozen pizza and shoving it on the oven. I dream that Verizon Wireless will mess up and allow me to upgrade my phone early. I dream of being able to dance all night in a club without sweating like Richard Simmons.

...Okay I still dream of shoes too.

But most importantly, I dream of eliminating all of my debt. It's a really daunting task when I actually start to calculate just how much I owe to everyone:

1. School loans - this is just for undergrad, that I still have two years left in. Let's not discuss what grad school is going to cost me.
2. Car loan - My car will probably be stolen for parts before I'm able to pay it off.
3. Bank of America - why did you think it was a good idea to give a 22 year old child a $10,000 limit?! This is entirely your fault.
4. Staten Island University Hosptial - I didn't eat any of the food when I stayed in the hospital, and I certainly didn't ask to wear your hopsital gowns.
5. Blue Cross Blue Shield - You just suck on principle.
6. Macy*s - Did you really think making me a platinum AMEX member was the best business decision? Really?

I blame you all for making me a stereotypical, irresponsible, debt riddled American. I'm just waiting for someone to tell me that working full time, going to school 3/4 time and working part time as a waitress on the weekends will help me become a well rounded human being, so I can burn their soul from the inside out with my glares of evil disdain.

Dating Adventures in the DC Metro Area

It's been just over a year since my epic move down south and I have yet to find any kind of social network, let alone a decent man to date. I'm definitely not complaining; my forced alone time has helped me to become one with myself. However, I will admit that after moving down here I thought I would somehow find my dating mecca, since I hadn't any luck in the greater New York region. With pieces of my broken heart in tow, I opted for the still slightly looked down upon world of Internet dating.

Question: Why is it that online dating is still looked at as this taboo thing that only creepers, weirdos, and losers partake in? I still feel slilghtly sheepish after meeting someone online to admit to my friends and family where I actually met this guy.

Anywho, I re-established an old favorite and tried two new sites, one including OKcupid.com. Now enter the weirdos du jour:

1. Bonjour Monsieur French Guy!

An honest to god Frenchman, living here in America for 10 years, enrolled in grad school, planning to pursue a law degree, and a military veteren. He was very good on paper. Win.

He lived an hour away in Maryland, and agreed to come to my neck of the woods for dinner. Granted his English was spot on, there was still a language barrier, and my sarcasm didn't always make sense to him. He always overindulged in using the work "fuck", which gave this, one of my favorite words, almost no meaning at all.

We did end up kissing a bit, after he whispered French nothings in my ear. I swear, he could have been quietly telling me his plans to murder and dismember me later on that night, but it was still definitely VERY hot. He had decided to tell me that he will never peform oral pleasures on a woman during our next date, which came completely from left field. My first instintual reaction was "they still make people like you!?" We continued to chat for a little while, but things got VERY strange when one morning while running late to work he flipped out on me for not texting him by 8am. He swore up and down that "something was up".

Listen here little buddy:
a. stop being so paranoid
b. you aren't my boyfriend
c. you're a psycho

Shortly after his phone call flip out, I stopped speaking to him, only to have a very interesting text message conversation some weeks later (after I deleted his number) about how I'll pine over him forever, that I'm a whore for moving on, and immature for deleting his number. Seriously? Go back to France.

 2. Bryan, the commitaphobe Air Force guy who disappeared like a theif in the night.

I met this gem a few weeks before Thanksgiving. Things were going fairly well I thought. He took me out for sushi dinner for our first date. Sure, there were things that were slightly off, such as the oddly placed Calvin and Hobbs tattoo on his forearm, or his really terrible taste in attire, or his even worse taste in music. I could overlook those things, or at least help him dress better. He was tall, and handsome, and things seemed like they could have potential. And then *POOF* he was gone. He stopped answering his phone, his texts and his emails. I'm no stalker, and there wasn't much invested, so I took the hint and kept it moving onto another weirdo.

Wouldn't you know that he decided to pop up some weeks later, declaring his sincere appologies, and asked for my friendship, which I graciously extended. Only to find out no more that 48 hours later he stopped talking to me because he met someone. That doesn't seem very friendly, does it?!

3. "Shoulder Boy"!

I honestly can't remember his name at the moment. Perhaps it'll come to me later on. It was around Christmastime, so he suggested we go to a dinner and live performance event. Nothing too fancy, a group of local performers doing their own version of Scrooge. He was very polite, pulled out my chair. He did mention almost immediately that he would be paying for everything, so to order what ever I wanted. I didn't think much of it until he mentioned it several times over and over again that he would be paying for everything. Um... thanks?

We went out another time for sushi when I realized I was MUCH taller than him. I also learned he was strangely responsible for taking care of his live-in jobless brother, his jobless brother's jobless wife and their children. He was also entirely too proper for me, in an uppity snobbish fashion. I decided I couldn't stand the site of him any more after we went to the movies to see an action/drama and he proceeded to put his head on my shoulder. Perhaps I would have thought this was sweet if I liked him as a person, but instead all I wanted to do was rip my shoulder out from underneath his giant head and make him sit up straight in his chair like the adult he was supposed to be.

4. Jack the Unemployed Masturbator - Enough said.

5. "2.0"

After ending a short term healthy relationship over the summer, this was my first leap back into the dating game. He seemed legit. Very handsome, good job, nice car, and he thought I was gorgeous. I should have assumed he was out of his mind at that moment in time. We went out on three pretty awesome dates - he actually courted me like I was a lady! This could have definitely had potential. I made the mistake of engaging in sexy time after date #3 and was left more than just a little disappointed. These things can be worked with though, right? Let's just say it was a little too jackrabbity for any woman's liking. Word to the wise gents: TAKE YOUR TIME. The va-jay isn't going to run away from you.

Turns out he denied me date number 4 because he claimed I was too dramatic for him. The reason for being called dramatic? I allowed a friend to get drunk in my house after he had a bad fight with his girlfriend. I was told that I meddle in other people's relationships, that I have poor judgement, and poor insight.

REALLY!? Remind me not to call you when I'm down and out.

I hope your pathetic inability to please a woman causes your penis to fall off. Trust me, you're the only one who would miss it anyway.

In lighter news, I did get hit on by an old creeper at TGI Friday's the other day. He attempted to smooth talk me, and then he fell over a chair. At least I can always count on these winners to boost my self esteem.

Adventures in a Nail Salon

The first time I got a manicure was on my 22nd birthday. I was hooked from that moment on. Never in my life had I seen polish on my nails that wasn't lumpy, chipped, or all over my fingers like a four year old attempted to paint them. For a reasonably priced $8, I could have someone cut and file my nails, clean up my cuticles, rub my hands down with a lotiony massage and get freshly polished. Of course, you begin to realize rather quickly if that nail salon really is any good at all. It's hard to tell at first, since they do a lot better than you could ever do, and you have nothing else to compare them to. Then begins the hunt for the perfect nail salon.

In my hometown of Staten Island, there are nail salons literally on every block, usually located next to a pizzeria and a bagel store/deli. Within a one mile radius of my old house, I could walk to about 8 different nail salons. Take that number and times it by 58 square miles. That perfect nail salon might be hard to find. Actually, screw perfect, I'm just looking for half decent. Unfortunately, the best pedicure I've gotten to date wasn't even in this country; it was in Vancouver.

These places use trickery to make you think you're getting a great overall experience. From what I've seen, the nicest looking places are usually the one who will charge the most and give you the worst service. I usually aim for the crusty looking hole in the wall - they know service! I'm not asking for much, just don't make me bleed, don't get polish all over the place (I can do that myself), don't talk about me while I'm sitting right in front of you in languages I can't understand and have a real nail dryer, not just a ceiling fan for me to stick my hands underneath.

How come every time I get
a mani/pedi no one gives
me a pretty pink flower to
hold and wet rocks to
step on?

Nail salons in Virginia are a little different than those in the great state of New York. For one thing, the prices of a manicure are doubled, for service that is exactly the same, or less than that I would have received back home. I've been to three or four different locations down this way before I retreated to painting my own nails this past winter. It didn't look too terrible so long as you looked at them from 10 feet or more away.

After going months and months with bland fingers, I decided two weeks ago to get something called a "permanent french", which is basically some kind of acrylic gel that they put on your nails and then you stick them in this oven looking device with a blue light that bakes them, and voila! Perfect nails. It's amazing how beautiful a girl can feel when her nails are fresh and shiny. Until they start to grow out. Then you feel like homeless white trash.

I decided on my lunch hour today to take a trip to a nail salon to remove the overgrown french tips, which would turn out to be over-all traumatizing experience. I sit down in the broken and dirty computer-like chair and was told to stick my hands into a scalding hot bowl of nail polish remover. While I'm trying to ignore the burning flesh of my fingers, I can't help but notice the giant flat screen TV in the back, playing an honest to god Asian karaoke DVD of American songs sung with an Asian accent. I should mention that all 10 of these songs were from the 80's or early 90's, every "video" of the re-made song involved some Asian woman running through a field and the DVD was on repeat for about an hour before they switched the TV to an Asian movie, dubbed over poorly in a different Asian language with English subtitles.

After the skin on my finger tips had melted away, the manicurist proceeded to take the mechanical nail saw to remove the excess acrylic on my nails that the scalding hot soaking process didn't remove. Unfortunately, she started to get a little impatient and thought it was a better idea to saw away at layers upon layers of nail until flames started shooting up from my burning nail beds.

With bad karaoke music in the background, I walked over to the sink and got a nice whiff of delicious mildew. I guess the owner must have seen my screw face, because she soon lit some incense. So, now not only did the salon smell like mildew, but it smelled like matches and bad Korean incense. I sat down, and took my ring off and sat back because at least now I could get a little hand massage. Or not. Instead, she started to paint my nails, while traces of glue and acrylic remained all over my dry, unlotioned hands.

She begins to examine my face intensely for a good 30 seconds before she opens her mouth and says:

"You want eyebrow wax?"

"Um, no thanks", I said.

Now I'm just sitting there feeling insecure and defeated. What's wrong with my eyebrows? Why would she just offer out a random eyebrow waxing if I clearly don't need it? I have no stray and straggly hairs, I maintain my eyebrows almost too often. A part of me wanted to let her wax them so I could stop feeling like that 15 year old after-school special girl wishing for people to accept the real her.

Finally, after two hours of this nonsense, I sit down in front of the nail dryer, which is literally a box with a light bulb in it and a mini fan, as if the combination would actually dry my nails any differently then if I just blew on my fingers. While sitting there, I noticed that the manicurist proceeded to put the tools she used back into the "Sterile Package" in which they came from. After that she walked over to another girl and practically molested her from behind. I know that nail salons are usually a lax environment, but this seemed above and beyond. Before I could escape, she handed me a card to get a free manicure after paying for six. I don't think I'll be using that card anytime in the future.

Over-Committed

Have you ever met someone who didn't like music? These people confuse me. I mean, they truly make no sense to me. How else are you supposed to get over a bad breakup without listening to Goodbye My Lover by James Blunt while sobbing in the bathtub gripping a bottle of stale red wine? There must be a healthier way to grieve that I have yet to be informed of.

What about music is there not to like, let alone love? I love music so much that I keep really bad songs on my iPod because I feel guilty deleting them. I did enjoy these songs at some point in time; they didn't do anything wrong to me to deserve complete and utter dismissal. I just politely skip over them. The thing is though, my musical tastes have changed so rapidly over the years that a lot of the songs on my iPod get skipped daily. I think there are about two listenable songs per ten skipped songs (and this is out of almost 2400 songs). One solution to this problem would be to simply delete all of the songs I end up skipping over, but that seems like a highly drastic move. What if I happen to be in the mood one day to rock out to Jennifer Love Hewitt's one and only single? I could also make a play list of all the songs that are worth listening to, but I would have to break them down by genre and that seems like a lot of work.

If I was to put my iPod on shuffle like I always do, these are the following songs that would play:

1. Tracy Chapman - Fast Car
(just happens to be one of my favs - so we will give this one a listen.)

2. NaS - Hope
(I used to really love Nas. He's the reason I fell in love with hip hop about 14 years ago. This ship has long sailed, and I need to be in a kind of "mood" to listen to hip hop nowadays. Next.)

3. Nelly Furtado - Maneater
(I used to enjoy this song while getting ready to go out. It used to be a good "driving to the party" song. Every once in a while I'll let it play in my car, but this would usually get skipped. Moving on!)

4. TLC - Creep
(This brings me back to 4th grade when Crazysexycool first dropped. If I'm feeling nostalgic, I'll let it rock. Right now however, I'm not feeling it. Skipped.)

5. Anna Nalick - Shine
(While I do like most of Anna Nalick's songs, this one I don't. I downloaded it on the good faith that it would be as good as her previous songs. To the left, to the left.)

6. Alicia Keys - Tell You Something
(What can I say, I love me some A.Keys. We'll let this one play.)

7. Fredo Star - True Colors
(This is from the Save the Last Dance album - a movie that I really liked when I was 16. I felt a kinship with the white girl falling in love with a *gasp* black guy and then developed a deep bond through dancing and music. I bought the entire album in support of the movie. This song kinda sucks though. Moving on.)

8. 50 Cent feat. Beyonce - Thug Love
(Again, I would have to be in my hip hop mood to listen to this. Right now, that mood isn't here. Next.)

9. Limp Bizkit - Rollin'
(Welcome to 1999/2000 - I hated this song when it first came out, yet it somehow made its way into my music collection, and my iPod. Change this immediately.)

10. Rent Soundtrack - Goodbye Love
(I'm a sucker for most musicals, especially ones about the HIV and gay lovers. We'll let this one play.)

11. Alanis Morissette - Crazy
(I like the original Seal version better. Don't eff with a masterpiece...)

12. Mr. Scruff - Kalimba
(This is barely a song. It's just random musical tones over a bad beat. I'm not entirely sure how the hell it made it's way into my musical collection. Skipped.)

That is precisely two songs played out of ten skipped songs. I can't make this up! I was figuring all this out during my drive back to Virginia today - I had four hours of scientific research to back these foundings up. I do have songs that literally make me cringe every single time they play and I still refuse to get rid of them. I mean, who seriously has La Bouche, Kris Kross and Eddie Murphey on their iPod other than me!? I have to admit I'm embarrassed when someone is in my car and I have to keep my iPod in hand the entire duration of the drive so I can skip over the songs that would attempt to steal my dignity.

I might have to recruit some help to clean out my iTunes library. This is turning into a serious problem.

You are NOT a Professional

I can't help but cringe everytime I utter the words "I have a blog". Everytime I happen to mention to someone that I write, and follow up the statement by some how pointing out that my writing is done on a blog, I get this half cocked look from people, dripping with judgemental disdain. Online blogs have done to writers what YouTube has done to musicians: everyone thinks they have an original talent to share with the world. I'm sorry your mother, or dear Aunt Agnes could never bear to tell you that you're tone deaf, but let me make things clear to you Miss YouTube phenom... you suck. You're not talened, and you're not even pretty enough to fake being talented. Please sit down, step away from the front of the camera and point it at something worth watching, like an ant hill. At least the ants are doing something productive with their lives. So, similar to these musicial YouTube geniuses, most bloggers have zero writing ability. There are a plethora of blog sites out there; so much so now it's almost embarassing. Aside from sites dedicated to blogging, all credible online newspapers and magazine have blogs too, for their already paid journalists to write about what they had for lunch today.

(How many times do you think I can say the word blog during this entry?)

I'm definitely not going to sit here and pretend like everyone should be interested in what I have to say. Really, my blog is the Seinfeld of all blogs: it truly is about nothing. I can string some words together eloquently enough that they might make you giggle, but that's really all I have going for me. I'm an active complainer in writing form, just not in that whiney way that makes you want to poke your eyes out and rock in the corner. I add a cheery, positive spin to my words.

I do have a snobbish opinion of the articles I like to read, and I will not be afraid to voice my opinion. There are some rules that should be standard when writing a blog.

1. Please know and understand basic grammar. If you're in your 20s or older with a college degree and still don't know the difference between "to", "too" and "two" or "they're", "their" and "there", you need to stop writing immediately and go try to breathe underwater.

2. Do not write a blog that is just one big negative rant about the world and how horrible it is and that there is a giant black cloud of death over your life. Bad things happen to everyone; suck it up.

3. If your blog starts off with anything like "mm well what should I write today!? I don't know what to say", please warn me in advance so I can take a Prozac.

4. Please keep your eating disorder between you and your therapist. Documenting your daily caloric intake of 500 or less, while posting pictures of your rib cage and screaming that you're fatter than Kirstie Alley isn't what I would call "relevent reading material".

5. Accept the fact that you may not be that talented. It's okay, but maybe writing just isn't your thing. You don't see me running around tattooing people, or fixing cars. Want to know why? It's because I can't, and I accept my level of ability. Stop lying to yourself.

I've seen blogs that are truely original, edgy and make-your-sides-ache hysterical and I realize that I will never write like those people. I'm sure there's a niche for my style somewhere in the world though. What other creative outlet would I have, if not writing in a blog like the rest of the schmoes out here? Until I can actually figure out a way to make a living off of my thoughts and words, I suppose I'm stuck with your judgement.

Contamination

An upper respiratory infection has been trying to ruin my life in every aspect imaginable for almost a week now. It started last Thursday quietly with a scratchy throat and that "sick feeling" in my body when I woke up. I did my best to ignore it, and revel in the gloriousness of having a personal day off of work the next day. Friday morning came, along with body aches, and a burning throat. I forced myself out of bed and into the nail salon. I promised my chipped polish I would bring life back into my toes that day and wasn't about to back out on my word now. As the hours passed by slowly, my energy level seemed to run further and further away from me. Perhaps a good night's rest would be the cure I needed.

I called my mother Saturday morning. She picked up, said hello and when I offered out my most delightful sounding morning greeting, she paused, and said frightfully "Who is this?!"

"It's me Mom... Heather?"

She told me I sounded like a man.

Sunday came, but my voice had already fled the scene. I sounded like Ving Rhames.

I called out of work Monday morning, but I had to send an email to my boss too because I'm pretty sure he would have thought it was a prank call. I had now developed an ear ache, a cough, and the sneezies on top of my burning throat and man voice. I'm usually anti-doctor when it comes to getting sick. What exactly is the doctor going to say that I don't already know? A cold is a cold. I'll waste money on a co-payment and gas to sit there amongst other sickly people just for the doctor to confirm that I have a cold. She'll tell me to drink hot liquids and get rest.

I'm almost convinced this might be the plague though. So I took a trip to Kaiser.

I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, made half an attempt to look presentable enough for public viewing, packed my bag full of honey-lemon cough drops and headed out to the Urgent Care center for after hour sick people. Turns out that getting sick outside the hours of 9am to 5pm is inconvenient to Kaiser doctors. When I got there, the building seemed awfully dark though. Wouldn't you know that the power had gone out in half the building, including the Urgent Care center? Plus, all of their patient files are only accessible electronically and backed up no where in paper format. The doctors couldn't see anyone until the computers came back up.

Isn't it just poor planning to have zero backup for medical records? One woman asked them for a note to give to her job stating that she was at least there in the building waiting to get treatment, and the staff told her they couldn't provide this to her because all letters are drawn up on the computer. No one could think to hand write something for her? This should have been the opening scene to one of the Terminator movies.

In any case, I sat there and popped cough drops for three hours and waited as I slowly start smelling like a mentholated foot. I was given a 5 day supply of antibiotics to kill the upper respiratory infection and was sent merrily on my way.

I managed to get up for work Tuesday morning, and put on the sorriest excuse of my wrinkled clothes. I still don't understand why everything was wrinkled, it's not like I keep my clothes in a ball on the floor. Everything was neatly hanging up in my closet. I think my clothes knew I didn't feel well, and they just wanted to present me as the sickest and rattiest looking human being possible. My boss got to work about 2 hours after I did, came into my office and went "Ew, you look like hell. Please go home".

Yeah, he said "Ew".

My friend Niles called me a few hours later to make sure I was still alive. When I picked up the phone and greeted him with a friendly "yo", I heard the same pause my mother gave me when I spoke to her on the phone. He said I sounded like James Gandolfini. I guess I can't pull off that sick, sexy, raspy voice thing too well, since everyone keeps reminding me that I sound like an array of different fat men.

My mother brought me Robitussin and tissues at around midnight, since I now developed the uncontrollable urge to sneeze and cough simultaneously. I didn't get much sleep last night; I think there's traces of my lungs still left on the floor.

I hope to return to humanity tomorrow morning.

Rosetta Stone, Anyone?

No matter where you live you will encounter different accents and dialects that are native to the surrounding area in which you reside. Having spent most of my life growing up in New York, I never realized that some sayings I've known as normal were considered slang to outsiders. I was told yesterday that the New York lingo is too commercial,  but I beg to differ. It may be confused with being commercial only because all awesome famous people tend to hail from New York, so movies are frequently about New York and good hip hop generally reflects the urban vernacular of my home city. I swear I'm not biased.

I spent a few years during high school living in Flagstaff, AZ and the only word that made it's way into daily usage was "dude", which I never said before living there. Flagstaff doesn't have slang, at least not from what I can remember. I think it's because everyone is so laid back, and the air is so thin on top of that mountain that no one can come up with some their own distinctive jargon. I did of course run into the accent difference there. Arizonans have the non-accent accent; they all sound like newscasters. I, on the other hand, do not. While I don't have a very heavy accent, it's still there and noticeable. I can't begin to tell you how many times people would ask me to recite things to them, or have me repeat words so they could giggle at me in amazement like I was some kind of science experiment gone horribly wrong. I hope all those people amounted to nothing.

After living in Northern Virginia for a little over ten months now, I've learned that the people of the DMV (aka DC, Maryland, Virginia) sound... unique. I need a personal translator to talk to my own cousins. I went out to a gathering in DC once, and sat there astounded that I could only grasp about a third of what the conversation was about. If you thought New Yorkers spoke fast, think again. Not only do the DMVers speak faster than New Yorkers but they all sound like they have marbles in their mouths.

  

I would now like to demonstrate some sample sentences you are likely to hear on any given day here in the delightful DC Metro area:

1. "Ugh! Look at his shape-up...and his beat-up Pro Wings. Hes such a bamma"

2. "She's the complete package; looks, smarts and she cool to be around. I had to bun her"

3. "I dared him to touch her butt, but he a gump"
4. "Did u see that dudes shape-up? They was joning at the lunch table all period"
5. "Ima ja blown cuz I went over her house, and her parents were there, so I couldn't smash"
6. "During my free periods, we just be walking around or straight lunchin, cuz we be bored"
7. "Young, Im sick of school" (which is similar too...)
8. "Chill out, joe. It ain't even that serious"
9. "Why you fakin like you got money when you are really as broke as the rest of us?"
10. "That joint was jive tight"

I had to steal all of the above from someone online who was knowledgeable in DC gobbledygook because I feared my brain might have imploded if I attempted to come up with my own sentences. It's easier to figure out some of the meanings when you get to read it; hearing it in live action is a different story. Unfortunately, some of them make absolutely no sense no matter what. I can't comprehend how and/or why people came up with any of these sayings. I'll keep things spicy though and let you figure out the definitions yourself.

Aside from the above issues, there are some strange pronunciation issues here too. The one I would like to make special note of are the names Aaron/Erin or the word Area. First off, to me, the names Aaron and Erin sound dramatically different. I do know in Arizona these names were pronounced the same, but you could still make out what the name was. Down here, however, it's not quite so simple.

New York: Aaron - AAH-ren and Erin - EH-rin

Arizona: Aaron and Erin - AIR-ren

DMV: Aaron and Erin - ERRRRRN

(sounds like an exaggerated "urn", you know, that pretty vase that holds the remains of your dead Uncle Stu)

NY and Arizona: Area - AIR-re-yah

DMV: Area - ERRRR-re-yah

Also, take note that all the words mentioned in the numbered sentences may not be pronounced like a normal human. Take the word joint, for example. We run into the same pronunciation problem with joint as we do with Aaron, Erin and Area. Joint sounds like "jerrrr-nt".

Now, I could almost understand how Aaron and Erin get pronounced so strangely since they both end with the similar sounding "-ren". If we stretched the imagination, I could also almost understand the Area pronunciation. Joint, on the other hand, has no "r" present. There is no logical reason to insert an embellished sound that has no reason for being there!

You people make no sense. I'll stick to my over-commercialized ways. At least everyone understands me.