All I can say is...

...you're welcome.

I got it from my mama

Following is a piece of electronic communication I received today from Ma Nugget. The subject line was "Nugget, where you at?"

Whassup, boo?

I don’t wanna get all up in you grill, but shoo man—I need to hear from you!

OOOOh, that was ridiculous.

Let me know what your plans are.

Love,

Yo mamma

I responded with this piece of music from Will.I.Am: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APHm8DbYkL0

Freedom

Well, my dear Wink, right now the only thing I can taste is the garlic from the breadsticks I had at lunch at Olive Garden.

Don't fret my pet; you'll join me in strikingly similar endeavors quite soon.

Joles.

Nugget got to leave her summer internship and is currently swooning over her deliciously present boyfriend, family and friends as she gears up for exotically-located internship #2. I am still at my stupid summer internship for another stupid month, and today I did stupid mailing, public folders cleaning and transcribing while trying to avoid the urge to jab a Foray medium pt. green pen in my eye.

Dearest Nugget, what does sweet, sweet freedom taste like?

Uh ohsies...

I just got talked into joining a co-ed D.C. football league for Minnesota alumni. Though I know nothing about the sport much less how to successfully play it, I joined, naturally, in hopes of making friends and finding something fun to do.

Then I looked at our website and found our tagline: "Where sportsmanship is the exception."

Oh...my...G.

Chicken + waffles = crazy delicious

I had a guest in town this weekend so my local friend took us to Los Angeles. We did the normal things, i.e. ate some burritos, cruised down Santa Monica Boulevard singing the eponymous Sheryl Crow song, went celebrity hunting (mission: unsuccessful), checked out the Walk of Fame and tried not to get shot.

But we also did something extraordinary. We went to an eatery that had culinary delights beyond our wildest dreams. I have but three and a half words for you: Roscoe's Chicken 'n Waffles.

Before we entered this gastronomical mecca, I tried to imagine what was in store for us. Chicken-flavored waffles? Waffle-stuffed chicken? Chicken-shaped waffles? As the waitress passed out menus she scootched us down the ratty leather booth with her sizable derrière and asked, "What's poppin' babies?" The name stitched on her uniform read Mama Ella.

I ordered the obvious choice. One piece of chicken. One waffle. Stat.

I tucked into my treat and felt as if joy fireworks were erupting in my mouth. What a supreme idea. Breakfast and dinner. Grains and meat. Carbs and protein. Sweet and savory. Delicious and nutritious. It was, by far, the best part of LA and the only reason I will return if given the chance.

Dude, what's your beef?

Since we enabled anonymous comments, I’ve received some not-so-favorable ones on posts about the people I lived with for the majority of the summer. Due to their tone I’m inclined to believe they’re all coming from the same source.

Some examples:

On the post about me confronting the woman who ignored me for nearly a month and a half:

“Recorded the conversation? How old are you? That is a little invasive, don't ya think?”

On the post about me moving into a new apartment:

“I hope you don't treat your new roommates like total shit like you treated your last ones. And please, for everyone's sake, do not record any more conversations. That is a little creepy.”

And:

“^^Excuse me, VERY creepy. Very.”

Wink and I have only distributed the address to this blog to our friends and family. That leaves me to believe Anonymous Commenter No. 1 either stumbled upon Truth Pirates randomly or it’s one of my former roommates, who (though this is quite unlikely) snuck into my room and rooted through my browser windows when I wasn’t around.

ACNO: I would love to know who you are. I would also love for you to take off your cranky pants and change into happy pants before you comment.

Dude Ranch

When I was making moving arrangements this spring I foolishly chose a place where the lease ended Aug. 15. I would use the end date as a negotiating chip to weasel myself into a job, I figured—something in the vein of, “Why don’t you make it worth it for me to find a new, long-term lease?” Or, if I had decided I didn’t want to stay (as ended up being the case) I figured I could just crash with one of my adoring coworkers for the balance of the summer.

Finding myself with neither a desire to stay nor a bevy of couch offers, I hesitantly returned to the services of that loathsome man Craig and his list, who was the arbitrator of my horrid living situation with the two ladies on whom I’ve expended much binary code. To my delight, however, it didn’t take me long to find a furnished place in a nice part of town that would charge me but $10 per diem. Perfect.

Yesterday I rushed home (as much as one can rush when reliant on public transportation) to hastily finish lobbing my worldly possessions in any container I could find. When I walked in the door I saw a piece of paper on the table that usually hosts my mail. “Awww!” I thought to myself. “They’ve put all our differences aside and written me a goodbye note!”

“Leave a check for $41.50 to cover the electricity and cable bill,” it read.

My one friend came to pick me up, and two trips later I was installed in my new abode. Well, sort of. Everything I own is currently piled in a corner of the living room because the room I was supposed to occupy currently holds three men. There are two others sharing another bedroom. I’m living in a dude ranch.

But I’m more than OK with camping out on the futon because they’re all exceptionally nice (and attractive) young gentlemen. It was quite bizarre to have conversation with real, live human beings in my home after so many months of all my social interaction occurring via phone. I might just enjoy my last week here. Fancy that.

I feel so ashamed...yet intrigued.

Have you ever heard of the Starbucks Oracle? It judges you based on your regular drink.

My drink: Grande Caramel Apple Cider.

What the Oracle said:

Personality type: Clueless

You don't go to Starbucks much; when you do you just tag along with other people since you have nothing better to do. You would like to order a Tazo Chai Crème but don't know how to pronounce it. Most people who drink grande caramel apple cider are strippers.

Also drinks: Wine coolers
Can also be found at: The mall

Ok...I don't know about the mall (I did go to Gap on my work break today) but other than that, this thing is dead on.

What does it say about your drink?

More reading material here.

Damnit craigslist!

When I found my current living situation on Craigslist, I thought I was the luckiest little Internet user that had ever lived.

Yeah not so much.

Roommate anecdote #2056984206
It's a Monday night. I had just made myself a delicious dinner and was letting it settle as I, myself, settled down to watch an episode of 30 Rock on NBC.com. Our apartment only has free wireless in the living room, so that is where I sat. As I was relaxing, delighted by Tina Fey's comical genius, the door creaked open and in shuffled my roommates, coming from a nice smoke break. They plopped down in the living room, surrounded me and discussed which celebrities they thought were going to die next. The rest of my episode was accompanied by this and by one roommate loudly letting my other roommates in on her secret absinthe recipe while she was opening her package of US mail filled with various types of fresh drugs, drug paraphernalia, and other drug-related content.

Yaaaay I love it here!!

Bite me

Every morning for the past week I’ve awoken with a new bite somewhere on my vast expanse of skin. These painful, itchy red welts the size of a raindrop always show up in the most infuriating places: in the middle of my wrist where my palm meets my arm, on my big toe joint bone, on my shoulder where it’s impossible to reach, right below my right eye, etc.

I want to know two things.

1. What kind of creature is sneaking into my room during my slumber and inflicting this pain?
2. Is this creature also responsible for my spike in nightmaring?

It’s probably a spider or fruit fly, but I’ve been amusing myself during this slow news day by imagining my new enemy is this or this.

Important Truth Pirate Announcement

Attention maties: Ye may now publish anonymously at yer leisure! Haul in the gangplank me hearties!

-Nugs and Wink

As seen on the trolley:

The man seated across the aisle was wearing a gray cotton shin-length house coat with a high collar and gray skinny jeans, pink flip flops and a fake rose nestled at his neck. His dirty hands were tipped with long fingernails painted slightly silver and held a pair of heeled sandals. His dreadlocks were piled and pinned atop his head.

His hands twirled and gestured like a flamenco dancer’s as he conducted imaginary conversations. The ferrety woman seated across from him huddled in the corner, determinedly avoiding the awkwardness of a wayward glance being construed as proffered friendship.

Trolley police boarded to check that everyone had paid. The man held out a tattered Metro card, which had clearly expired—perhaps months ago. The police must have said something to this effect (I had my earbuds in) because he launched into an explanation of how he was on his way to court to stand trial for the same offense.

Then it made sense: his imagined soliloquy had been him practicing the testimony he would give to the judge. The skeptical officers decided it wasn’t worth a fight and let it slide. The man joined his hands as if in prayer and bowed deeply to them. As they walked on he could hardly contain himself, fluttering his arms and stroking his face with those long nails, struggling for composure.

Suddenly he took a crocheted, cream-colored sweatshirt from his messenger bag and held it up as he turned to me, asking, “Do you shop at Bebe?”

“No, I’ve never been there.”

“They’re having a sale right now.”

He then got up, exiting the train at the stop before mine. I watched him as he switched to the heeled sandals, walking primly down the street with all the delicacy of a debutante.

Just...ugh.

I'm beyond disgusted right now.

Who is the employee of this news organization that deems it pertinent to take the SMELLIEST DUMPS KNOWN TO MAN on a multi-daily basis?? Honestly, walking near the bathroom (which one must do to access the kitchen) I can instantly not only smell but feel the hot, sick stench of terrible butt poops infiltrating the entire hallway.

Nevermind the fact that it's the only bathroom on our whole floor minus a totally inconvenient one in the elevator lobby...this employee needs to be stopped!

My sweet, sweet weekend.

I'm just going to get out there and say it.

I really don't have friends here. I do have a friend (singular), and she's great. But her family is here for the week so she's not even going to work, much less hanging out with me. Believe me: I'm not depressed. I'm having a great time - almost too great a time hanging out with myself for my own good. To prove it to you, let me present you with a list of activities I did this weekend. Alone.

• Friday night - made burritos. Watched One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest. Watched most of The Graduate. Talked to boyfriend on phone.
• Saturday - finished The Graduate. Ate toasted sandwich. *Went to zoo alone. Watched episodes of 30 Rock on NBC.com in nearby coffee shop. Talked to boyfriend on phone.
• Sunday - Attended four - count it - FOUR movies in the theater. Paid for one. **Watched more episodes of 30 Rock in said coffee shop. Talked to boyfriend on phone.

Listen, I had fun. It was a nice, relaxing weekend. And I am the first to admit I was sort of a loser this weekend. Shhh. It's ok.

*Upon hearing I did this my dad responds with "Don't you think that's a little pathetic?"
**Upon ordering my classic drink, woman behind counter loudly proclaims "Hey...you were here last night weren't you?"

Defeat is mine

She won.

I broke the silence.

I returned from an afternoon at the beach and the grocery store yesterday and headed to the kitchen to unload my booty (get it? Because I’m a Truth Pirate?) even though rustling and clanging announced her presence in the very room. Bolstered by a conversation I had just had with my chauffer to these locales, I went into the fiery gates of the kitchen thinking, “This is getting a wee bit ridiculous. I think about this all the time. Why don’t I just ask her the reason for all this beeyotchery?”

I had to walk past her to get into the narrow corridor that is home to my sole cupboard. With a friendly smile plastered to my face I shyly said, “excuse me,” expecting at least a little bit of eye contact. Instead she flattened her girth against the wall and looked determinedly to the ground, violently returning to whatever organizational task she had commenced before I had upset the chi of the house by entering.

I started unloading my plastic bags (themselves an egregious offense—my roommates had told me emphatically at the beginning of my stay that they only used cloth grocery bags so as to do their part for the environment), steeling myself for a confrontation. Then a note tacked to the wall above the sink caught my eye. I read it with the uncomfortable knowledge of her knowledge that I was reading it.

“Please squeeze out the sponge when you are done using it,” it read. “Leaving it wet will result in mold. Also return it to the cup, as leaving it in the sink results in the same problem.”

The note defeated any courage I had had in commencing my verbal affront. I retreated to my room and began chatting with my co-Truth Pirate, Wink, about the latest battle in Roommate Wars 2007. She convinced me that it was not too late; the time was now. She also offered the brilliant suggestion that I record the conversation.

My mp3 player tucked surreptitiously into the right pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, I gathered my courage and knocked on the door.

Apparently the reason she has not spoken to me for the past 41 days is because I didn’t clean the bathroom. Apparently I was supposed to guess that this was what she wanted. Apparently when she told me in mid-June that she was starting a new job and wouldn’t be able to “clean up after me” anymore when I left one bowl in the sink while the dishwasher ran was the extent of her maturity when it came to household manners. Henceforth I was supposed to have relied on clairvoyance.

After she told me about how hurt she was I never inquired about her new job (with which I countered her silence on such subjects as my birthday, an illness in my family, um… a gigantic BRIDGE collapsing two blocks away from my old apartment), she turned to friendly banter, quizzing me with a quickfire obnoxiousness about my next job I had forgotten she possessed in this month and a half of silence. I backed slowly out of her room before escaping back into my cave.

I have a feeling I’m going to look back on my quiet time with fondness.

Eavesdropping

In response to this article (an excerpt of which is reprinted below)...

TIJUANA, Mexico (AP) -- Jorge Hank Rhon brags about drinking tequila mixed with bear bile and steeped with the penises of tigers, lions and dogs. He has weathered allegations of ties to drug trafficking, money laundering and murder-for-hire.

...the following conversation ensued in my office:

"I would never brag about that, about drinking tequila laced with snake penis."

"Snakes don’t have penises."

"Of course they do. The eggs drop down like with birds. And then they get fertilized."

"Birds don’t have penises."

"Birds and bees have to have penises. Otherwise why would there be that song?"

(murmurs of assent)

"Do fish have penises?"

Popularity comes with a price

For the past two months I’ve been bemoaning my lack of companionship since I moved. Since Tuesday, however, it seems my luck has changed. And I don’t know how I feel about it.

It all started when I was in the airport waiting for my flight to take me back to this cursed place. The businessman sitting next to me asked me to watch his luggage whilst he relieved himself (I know, I know… he could have had a bomb in it and then I would have been an accomplice to terrorism), and when he got back he struck up a conversation with me about the media.

Then he segued into a story about how he was flying home to see his father on his deathbed before he “passed on.” And yet, he offered to give me a ride home, 20 or so minutes out of his way. Along with the fact that I would hate to prevent him from catching his father’s life force in a jar, his head smelled funny and he wore socks with sandals so I decided I couldn’t trust him.

I moved on to my next friend, Mark, who was seated next to me in Row 30. Mark is a Jostens sales rep. He got married a year ago and his wife is nine months pregnant with a girl they will name McKenzie Rose. He’s the oldest of seven children and his next-oldest brother is his best friend. He lives in a condo he bought with his uncle. He had to buy an aisle seat because he’s 6’5 and most of his height is in his legs. Want to know how he proposed? Where he went to school? Where he’s been on vacation? His feelings about button-down shirts? I am now a Mark-pert and I can answer anything you’d ever want to know about it.

After the plane landed I bid Mark farewell and scurried out of the terminal as to avoid Monsieur Creepy and hopped into an airport shuttle filled with ladies from all over the country in town for a mothers of twins convention. The woman next to me, a local artist named Therese, was not part of this bunch. She has just been in Oakland to visit some friends. She took pity on my “alone in this godforsaken place” life story and told me she’d take me to some art galleries, slipping me her card before she de-shuttled. She called my office yesterday, telling my coworker she had met me on Cloud 9 (the name of the shuttle service). So this coworker has no choice but to assume I’ve fallen in love with an older lady I just met.

I thought perhaps the plane had created some sort of friend-attracting aura around my being that would wear off once I was no longer officially in transit, but my trolley ride home the next night proved me wrong. Three strapping Italian students sat in the empty seats around me, engaging me in conversation about a trick they were playing on one of their friends. They were switching out a green-colored gum for wasabi they had pilfered from a sushi restaurant. “You can’t eat it,” they said with glee. “It hurt. Much pain.”

When they departed they were replaced by a 60-something-year-old man with a handlebar mustache wearing a USS Nevada cap and holding what looked very much like a gun in orange packaging. He caught me staring at it. “It’s a gun,” he said, patting the plastic packaging. “It’s a small one, but it can do some damage. It’s not cheap.” I avoided eye contact has he stroked the firearm, positioning it so everyone on the train could see his new toy. I fled the train when it reached my stop, only to bump into a 6-foot transvestite, his muscles bulging in his tanktop, his ass hanging out of his skirt and a crappy blonde wig perched atop his head.

Tired of my newfound popularity, I sped home, trying not to look anyone in the eye.

Love from Cali

There are few things worse than being away from everyone you love and care about when tragedy strikes.

Both of us were stranded on the West Coast, frantically trying to get in contact with everyone we care about when we heard the news of the bridge collapse. Luckily, they’re all OK. But our hearts still go out to everyone affected, which, frankly, is nearly everyone in Minnesota.

We’ve been keeping up with news of our beloved Twin Cities through our alma mater’s student newspaper, The Minnesota Daily, which is doing an amazing job updating their website with incredible photos and up-to-the-minute developments.

We <3 MPLS.

A really weird Monster.com experience.

So all I wanted to do was delete my Monster.com account, because all the account gave me was a ton of unwanted Spam and no actual offers or contacts. Since the site does not offer you a convenient link whatsoever to do this, I had to connect to a live chat to talk to a customer service representative. It was one of the oddest experiences of my life.

*note: actual names and personal information have been omitted and replaced. Bam.

Monster Live Chat

Welcome to Monster, Wink.
You are connected to an agent.

Wink:hello, I have a question.
Uma:Hello Wink!
Uma:Thank you for contacting Monster, my name is Uma Maheswar, how may I help you?
Wink:Hi Uma. I'm wondering how I can delete my entire Monster account
Wink:I'm having trouble finding out how to disable it
Uma:I am sorry for the inconvenience caused to you.
Wink:can you tell me how to do this?
Wink:no problem
Uma:I will be glad to help you with this.
Uma:Wink, May I know why you want to delete your account?
Wink:I want to start a new one later on
Uma:Okay.
Uma:Wink, I will help you with this.
Uma:To locate your account, May I have your email address and full name as in your Monster account, please?
Wink:wink@truthpirates.com, Wink
Uma:Thank you.
Uma:Wink, I have located an account with the information which you provided me.
Uma:Just to make sure that I am in the right account; may I have your Complete Street Address and Phone Number as mentioned in your Monster Account?
Wink:****,***
Uma:Thank you very much for verifying your account details.
Uma:I have located your account.
Uma:Wink, Instead of deleting your account you can disable your account, so that you are not going to receive any emails from the Monster or from employers.
Uma:You can reactivate your account in the future if you want to use Monster services.
Wink:would it be possible to just delete it?
Uma:Wink, please let me know do you want me delete your account or disable it?
Uma:Okay,I respect your decision.
Wink:thanks
Uma:Please give me a moment while I delete your account
Uma:You are welcome.
Uma:Thank you for your time and patience.
Wink:thank you
Uma:Wink, I would like to inform you that I have successfully deleted your Monster account.
Wink:ok
Uma: As per your request, your account and all of your personal information have been removed from our database.
Wink:thanks for the help
Uma:I suggest you to try to login to your account to check whether account is deleted or not.
Wink:ok I'll do that
Uma:It's my pleasure.
Uma:Please let me know are you able to login to your account.
Wink:ok I'll check
Uma:I will stay online to make sure that your account is deleted properly.
Wink:ok it won't let me log in so it looks like it worked
Uma:Yes, now you can confirm, that your account is no more active.
Wink:ok. thanks!
Uma:It is deleted properly.
Uma:Wink, Have I resolved your issue today?
Wink:yes, thank you.
Uma:You are most welcome.
Uma:Is there anything else I can help you with?
Wink:nope that's it
Uma:It's my pleasure.
Uma:Take good care of your self.
Uma:Thank you for using Monster, have a good day.
Wink:thanks you too

Then, I got this in my inbox!

Hello Wink,

Thank You for contacting Monster Customer Central. With regards to the chat we had today, I would like to inform you that I have successfully deleted your account. As per your request, your account and all of your personal information have been removed from our database. This is just a confirmation email from your side informing you that your account has been deleted from Monster. In the future if you want to start an account in Monster please feel free to email us at uma.s@monster.com , I will be glad to help you. You are valuable customer at Monster and we will be happy to assist you. All the best and success.

Thanks & Regards,

Uma Maheswar.

Monster Customer Central

Monster -- Today is the Day.

Do I like……have a relationship with this woman now??