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Feel my beat

As a Freshman in college I formed a series of friendships and by the end of my first two semesters these friendships melded into one group with whom I spent enormous amounts of time together between class and socialization. It became somewhat humorous to me to pretend we were a gang. Slow moments in class would be filled with doodles of the “Hotelie Ballas” wearing the popular ghetto runway boots “Timbs”, picking fights in bars with Grill (rapper fabulous diamond studded teeth caps) bedazzled smiles, and scuffed up features. To relieve stress during study breaks we would often host free style battles during which we would huddle outside laying down beats and coming up with humorous rhymes and insults. I found these sessions especially humorous when wearing pink sundresses with ribbon decorated hair to clearly illustrate the disparity. To this day the “Ballas” are enormously close, but our free styling sessions have dwindled due to the fact that we have spread ourselves thinly across this fine country. Since I am feeling particularly inspired and I like to find new and interesting mediums to poke some good-natured fun at my surroundings, I feel quite strongly it is time for my “Hotelie Blogger Free Style Debut.”

“Deep fry me something now before I wrestle you like I did that there gator”
-by Marissa
Yo Yo Yo I got the ill flow,
I live down South, I don’t like Techno.
I miss my ballas throwing down beats
To find good hip-hop, gotta search the streets
These Ladeeda peeps got the sun in their head
Listen to Reggaetone to up their street cred.
Despite my distaste for their musical style,
There are some things that make me smile
The beach is hot, the gators wild
I ate em deep-fried, got my buds all riled
Up so much I had to take a deep breath
And cool em down with a chilled bev
All this good food to my ribs they stick
I spend most of my time at the Publix .
The age is 71 but so is the temp
There are no hippies, the look is unkempt
But there are mullets, bullets, and silicone
I’m on vacay, this aint home
I voted blue, made the rednecks shout
When I’m gone y’all will miss me, but please don’t pout
You can visit me wherever I go
Where the age not temp is 30 or below.

Order in the Court!

“My name is Marissa Brady and my hobbies primarily center around buying and selling marijuana. I have strong distrust of the police and the judicial system as a whole.” That should surely win me a ticket out of jury duty I thought to myself as juror after juror introduced himself and listed his hobbies to the court. It was my first time with jury duty and earlier in the day after the Pledge of Allegiance the Court Personnel had instilled within me a strong sense of pride and excitement to be on jury duty. I was contributing to the unique judicial system that makes us American! It was mere moments into the day before I was swinging the flag, singing Yankee Doodle, while simultaneously reciting the Gettysburg Address. But by 3 pm when I was seated in front of Mr. Dewey, on trial for possession of marijuana, I realized that the judicial system is not so much wonderful as it is boring. I had enjoyed my moments in the lunchroom eating my Lean Cuisine watching the Anna Nicole trial with my co-jurors, where we shared some petty conversation and commiseration. But at a certain point I realized I would much rather be outside enjoying the sunshine than locked up inside the Broward County Courthouse with the dredges of society. Unfortunately, it was as I was contemplating this that it was my turn to introduce myself and the following pitiful sentence projected from my lips, “ My name is Marissa Brady and I enjoy reading, writing, beach activities, and cycling”. As soon as my turn had passed I had turned from cool and confident to scarlet with shame. “Could I have come across as a little bit MORE law abiding??” I do not think so. I am sure everyone in the Court Room nicknamed me Suzy Suck Up within an instant. I am fairly certain I even saw a raised eyebrow from the Honorable Judge. After my turn to speak I was sick with worry that I would have to endure another day of order and procedure. Why couldn’t I have just mentioned the fact that I hate cops and think marijuana should flow through the streets like beads at Mardi Gras??? It would have been a small task that could have easily ousted me from my juror seat. Perhaps I could have simulated a Turret’s attack or perhaps initiated a drug deal from within the walls of the courtroom. But instead I had to practically come skipping out in my habit and rosary with a picnic basket housing a puppy in arms. Perhaps it was this behavior that encouraged GOD to look out for me because as it turned out I was not selected. I have never felt a joy as pure as the moment the last juror was selected and I was not selected to serve on the case. I was free and am now untouchable for at least 12 more months. As promised by the Court Personnel I did drive away from the experience with a good feeling, but it was not so much warm and fuzzy as enormously relieved to not have to return the following day. I may not have truly contributed to the outcome of the trial, but at least I got home before sunset and in time to watch the first of many episodes of Law and Order.

Remember when I dissolved the duck?

My mom recently alerted me to the fact that she would rather I be dating a little blue doll than being a single independent woman. Meet Pierre! This endeavor was much more successful than the grow my own rubber ducky as I learned the dolls’ preference for tepid rather than boiling water. Note Pierre’s well defined abs and his flexible nature!

I’m Lovin’ it

Late yesterday evening I found myself hungry and on the run. A typical meeting that, under normal circumstances, should end after an hour and a half came to a creeping, sputtering halt after about 4. This was mostly attributable to the fact that the client with whom we met harbors an obsessive dependency on crack cocaine, which caused him to speak at the speed of light for about 95% of our demonstration turned one-man circus. As we left the meeting in a hurry, to get my boss to the airport for his flight and my co-worker and me back to a civilization based on less speaking and more boozing, we realized we were all extraordinarily hungry.

On any typical day my diet consists mostly of vegetables, lean meats, legumes, and whole grains in a strong and purposeful effort to avoid a literal meld into the couch. This becomes increasingly more difficult when you are in Key Largo and apparently the only dining option for those quick to escape is a McDonald’s “Express”. I use quotes here to signify the humorous use of the word express, as I am fairly certain the employees of this establishment drove to Miami and back in rush hour in order to provide us our meal. However, it was after this feat was accomplished on this fine day I found myself enjoying the American treat known as the Big Mac. Initially I was only going to eat half, but with every Lucifer inspired bite I became more infatuated with this succulent chaotic assemblage and huffed it down in its entirety faster than you can say Kokomo.

It is not that I truly believe this sandwich to be a good one. Clearly the bread is soggy, the lettuce wilted, the meat most likely not meat at all. However, I have to admit, it was the most delicious thing to grace my tongue in a long while. I don’t know if it is due to the recent caloric restrictions, the four hours spent in Satan’s sand box, or that I was contributing to the ultimate symbol of a questionably moral American Capitalist society, but it just felt so good to be so bad. It was like sneaking out past curfew and getting caught. I knew it was wrong and I would have to pay for it later, but even as I spent 2 hours on the elliptical to repent for the detour off my path of nutrition nirvana I could still taste that special sauce on my lips and it tasted just as sweet.

Just when you thought I couldn’t get any more lame

As I was recently reprimanded for a lack of present blogging I have been thinking about on which subject I can blog. What infinite possibilities. The new and enthralling changes in my life are too plentiful to count. The new people I’ve been meeting, the swank parties I’ve been attending, the revelations I’ve been making…. while meditating on these gems of progress, it hit me like a bad dream that in fact nothing is new in my life at all. Not only are none of the aforementioned examples of good fortune my own, but I am also scraping closer to the bottom than ever before.

In my previous life, when I actually had one, whenever I was sad or lonely all it took was a little baby or a puppy to walk by and all of my previous embittered emotions would dissolve instantly. These tiny, illiterate creatures were somewhat of a prescription painkiller for me, with fewer side-effects (other than temporary memory loss they were minimal). Anyway back to the point. As of late, the sight of these little cherubs doesn’t even fight to improve my contentment. For a few days I even considered not having children! It is as if nothing can lift my mood, not even the innocence of the ignorant and infantile. That’s when the real revelation occurred (actually right this instant).

The reason babies haven’t been making me happy lately is because… THERE ARE NO BABIES! I used to love walking around downtown Ithaca and watching all the hippie families with their patchwork pants and pom-pom hats, with tiny clones in toe. Laughing babies on shoulders, in strollers, swinging from swings. Some families doubled my pleasure by hanging tight to a Grateful dead leash which happened to be keeping a scruffy little mutt at bay. I love watching families at the beach playing Frisbee, twirling on tire swings, or engaged a round of Marco Polo. How uncomplicated and beautiful life is. No thought of tomorrow or the future unless an impending trip to Disney is in the works.

In truth, the average age of Broward County is 71 (yes this is the same age as the only man to approach me in a bar in a flirtatious manner. I know he was 71 because he told me). I am not embellishing this fact, this is no fillip, but a solid statistic provided to me by the car insurance company in explanation of the fact that my car insurance is astronomically high. Due to the elderly population there are no babies for me to ogle over. Therefore, I am pretty bummed on a consistent basis. This morning I woke up singing my special Birthday song thinking it was late June. Upon the realization that it is in fact still February and that I have somehow entered some sort of time vacuum from which there is no escape I began to silently weep.**

**Now that WAS overstatement, and there is no cause for concern, just bring me a baby or toddler and I will be as good as new. If you bring me that freak of nature from the Volvo commercial however, run for your life. If you still have yet to view this haunting advertisement consider yourself lucky and avoid TV at all costs in case of its appearance.

I think I have a problem

A few days ago I was speaking with a friend and she mentioned how she never makes time to go to the grocery store. She said she barely goes once a week as evidenced by the nil contents of her fridge. In addition to having little time to spend at the store she finds it an overwhelming task and thus typically avoids it at all costs. I laughed and was about to offer as a consolation that I too never have time to purchase my groceries. That’s when I realized it. Not only do I have the time to go food shopping, I go ALL the time. I am there nearly every single day.

I didn’t share this realization with my friend for fear of being singled out as an obsessive food shopping freak, but I realized at that moment that I might very well have a problem. It’s just that every time I feel sad, stressed, or upset walking through the food aisles soothes me. Everything is so organized and neatly displayed. I love walking through the produce section, smelling the tomatoes, squeezing the avocados to check for ripeness. I love peeling a small section of the corn on the cob to look for impurities. I love reading the nutrition information on packaged goods, the smell of freshly baked bread. I love seeing the elderly couples and wondering what they are making for dinner or if they are having Edna and Arnie over for cribbage. Its bizarre, but sometimes I will be driving home from the gym or an appointment and I will suddenly find myself not home, but rather once again at my local Publix.

Though I make nearly the same thing for dinner nightly, I love to walk around the store seeking inspiration from new and exciting ingredients. If the tomatoes are looking particularly good, it could be time to make a fresh pasta sauce or if ground turkey on sale perhaps a pot of chili fit for an army. If I didn’t go daily I could possibly miss these shipments and specials. Although it may be a rather odd hangout for a young single gal, I would say it’s a safer addiction than say heroin…

** As I am writing this post I literally am fighting the urge to go back to Publix as I was there earlier this morning and forbidden to buy wine prior to 12 pm.

What have I done to deserve this?

I may be biased but I feel like I am a pretty decent human being. I recycle, I eat whole grains, I volunteer, and I exercise my right to vote. I have never been incarcerated and I think there are a few cardinal sins I have yet to commit. I lend an eager ear and a shoulder to cry on to co-workers and friends in need. In the scheme of things I think the karma scale should be tipped to my benefit right? I guess the whole sin thing is weighed a bit more heavily because it seems that every time I visit my little mailbox I get served.

Yesterday I ventured out to the Post Office arms filled with fabulous goodies. Valentine’s with little pink hearts, glittery treats, and heart felt wishes overflowed from my giving arms. And as I returned home to check my own mail, only with hopes of the replacement ATM card I had requested, what do I find? Jury Duty and my car bill. I am sick of this adulthood bull. At college when I would check the mail there would only be cards or packages or nothing at all. Now every time I look its one more bill, fine, or duty to be served. And you know how they found me? They found me because I took the time and consideration to vote. I get no thank you, or “good for you”, no pat on the back. All I get is jury duty. It also most likely does not help that most Fort Lauderdale residents achieve exemption due to the 70-year-old age limit. So in essence I get slammed for being a young voter. I wonder what would happen if I stop being lazy and envious, as well as stop voting and recylcing…

**And just so everyone knows my TV channel changer broke mid post and I somehow ended up on some cartoon show with singing and dancing vegetables, where the main message is that friends last longer than donuts. Just to emphasize the point that someone is indeed out to get me. If you are reading this please send help.

A Mighty Fine Life

This morning was a typical morning. I woke up at around 9 am and began to browse the hospitality as well as world news headlines. As I read of upcoming development and industry progression as well as a painstakingly detailed and monotonous reiteration of last night’s State of the Union address, I realized something. “This is boring,” I thought. “Why am I reading this?” I wish I cared that at 8:07 Nancy Pelosi raised an eyebrow or pursed her lips, but shockingly I could not care less. Not only were most articles boring and meatless, but they were poorly written. “With this level of urbanity, I could write for the New York Times”. I was so bored with today’s news that I almost had half a mind to begin scripting a letter to the editor! That’s when I saw it.

In a chimerical moment the sun gently shimmered around my computer screen as a favonian breeze lightly blew a stray hair out my eyes. “The Food and Wine” section shone like a majestic watering hole for a hungry reader. As I read on Frank Bruni made the rest of the Times’ staff look like the everyday ignoramus. “Finally someone that can actually string a sentence together with a bit of finesse,” I exhaled with relief. I would urge you to read the attached article and perhaps continue to read Mr. Bruni’s article every Wednesday! I mean why not? A man with a reasonable IQ and a penchant for food, what could be better?

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/24/dining/24note.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&th&emc=th

yes that is an adorable pooch sharing his bed with a fawn

Its about time I found a retchid soul at the gym

I was getting a little bit freaked out by all of the friendly faces at the gym so I was more than relieved today when I found myself experiencing strong feelings of contempt towards another individual early this evening. I was innocently awaiting the start of my spinning class and soothing my pre-class jitters by browsing through an athletic magazine. As I was waiting this miniature motor mouth (whom I shall refer to as MMM from here on out) comes out of nowhere and starts babbling on to an equally miniature, but less obnoxious friend. This girl has more volume in her hair than volumes on her book shelf and she looks like is she is a children’s size extra small, but I don’t start to hate her until she begins recounting a recent excursion down to South Beach. Apparently MMM attended a party where the “hired help” had the nerve to hit on her.

First of all, who actually says “hired help” anymore? Is it 1930 and no one told me? Second of all, since we are dishing out judgments, the poor guy probably thought she was the hired help too and I don’t think he thought she was there to serve pigs in a blanket. She continues to loudly describe the absurdity of these advances to her friend whom I have now realized appears to be a miniature mute, but I miss out on the sordid details as I decide to move away from this classist overvolumized fool. As I snicker in disgust and huff off by myself, I also secretly harbor a tiny joy. “Oh feelings of hatred and pity towards those less evolved and fabulous than me”, I think to myself, “Welcome to the gym”.

**You may be thinking that my feelings of superiority are equally distasteful as the feelings MMM has towards the hired help, however they are not. I use my feelings of superiority as a way to humor myself and cope with the lackluster status of my life. I also openly admit having these feelings and that they are in fact unreasonable. I feel that this admittance rids me of the incorrect nature of my initial feelings. Therefore, I shall hate on and continue my path of anger-fueled humor.