The waiting lounge here at the big city hospital is actually kinda nice. There’s lots of seating, two large screen, plasma (LCD?) televisions, comfy chairs–including some reclining chairs, vending machines, electrical outlets for computers and cell phones, up-to-date magazines, WiFi, and best of all, pillows.

You see the same family members and friends sit here daily. I’d imagine that it would be an easy place to meet new people, talking about what is ailing your family member and how they are doing. But no one really talks to each other. We read, watch TV, nap, talk on our cell phones. The time in the waiting lounge goes by very fast in between visiting times. It’s 90 minutes or two hours. But between the talking, the email checking, the napping–before you know it, it’s time to go back and try to comfort.

After Thanksgiving, I went to Puerto Penasco, Mexico, and then Las Vegas. I went with an old friend from college and some of her very fun co-workers. Great times. I had a lot I wanted to blog about regarding the trip, but I no longer really feel like it. What I did love about our stay in Mexico was that it was a true blend of touristy and local flavor. Not far from the condo where we stayed, there was utter poverty. People living in trailers and shacks so shabby and worn down that it briefly made me shameful of all my credit cards, clothing and never-ending wishlist of new toys and things. Not that this stopped me from spending more money on food and drinks I probably didn’t need — or my later trip to Las Vegas. But briefly, just briefly, it made me yearn for living with less.

I’m 31 now. The evening after I returned from Mexico/Las Vegas, I threw a happy hour at a Mexican restaurant to honor my birthday. It was mostly good — great because of the diverse different groups that came together (including an old high school friend). It was bad because I really hurt someone at last year’s surprise party and that person was feeling less than enthusiastic about participating in this year’s event. That made me feel terribly sad. BUT another birthday has come and gone. I’m anal about wanting to celebrate my birthday ON my actual birthday. But the next time my day falls on a Friday or Saturday — I’ll be not far from 40. (cringe.) I think I’ll need to start planning weekend celebrations for the next few years.

I went to our improv practice last night. Now that our 1A class is over, a group of us have been practicing by ourselves on Wednesdays. I’m conflicted as to whether this is a good idea. On one hand, practice is practice. And last night I felt myself doing some good stuff. Some of my scenes were not so great, but I had a few really good ones that I think could’ve been brillant had they had the chance to go on. I feel like, in many ways, my class is starting to gel. We’re starting to pick up on things from other people and we’re getting it. Even more than when we were simple 1Aers.

BUT. There’s are alot of weird vibes that are passed around. Because people get frustrated or annoyed or I don’t really know what they get but they don’t seem to be happy with what’s happening and what can you do? I don’t know if it’s an expectation of all of us playing together perfectly well. Or if there is something else going on that I’m not picking up on. At any rate, it all makes me wonder if I should just take a hiatus and wait for the next class to begin.  I think most of us are taking the same class anyway. My fear of missing out–or that my classmates will magically develop those improv skills, however, makes me think I should keep plugging along because practice is practice.

Speaking of improv (HA! Like I ever speak of anything else!), Saturday I am volunteering at the show. I’m doing the lights and sounds, and oh man, I’m nervous. I’ve shadowed once before but that was when the groups played at a different theater. Plus, I didn’t do it myself. But this week, they are desperate. I originally said I’d help out, but I wanted to work with someone once or twice again before going solo. Well, no time for that. Hopefully, all will go well. If not, at least lights that go on and off at the right times are better than no lights at all.

I’m in Tennessee, where I’ve been for almost a week. It started out as a conference for work, one where I mostly learned the basics of everything hydro. Chattanooga is a cute city.

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OK, sorry for the interruption. My pics have been uploaded to Facebook, so I’m going to take off to hike in Great Smoky Mountain National Park. It’s wet outside and there’s a lot of talk about afternoon showers. But, I’m going to march on through. In exciting news, I went hang gliding yesterday! A completely spontaneous thing. Photos to come.

I made my first trip to Atlantic City this past weekend. Technically, I’ve been there before. I was eight or so years old, and I went with my grandparents and my grandfather’s brother and wife. A group of grown ups with a third-grader. They all took turns entertaining me for a few hours while they went into the casinos.

The Atlantic City field trip was the brainchild of Delta G, fun college friend whom I saw at the end of last year during the random trip to New York City. DG is the ultimate adventuring friend. She is so laid back, flexible and spontaneous. She always makes sure that her companions get to see what they want to see and do.

So I drove to New Jersey Saturday morning and met up with them at about 3 p.m. (Never take Route 40 to Atlantic City; they built an expressway for a reason.) We grabbed hoagies at White House for lunch. Good enough sandwiches, but actually kinda underwhelming. I’m learning that it’s tough to beat the sandwiches from The Italian Store in Arlington.

So the rest of the girl posse go outlet shopping while DG and I go back to the hotel and start having some tasty gin and tonics.

The Borgata. Wow. I don’t think the room was worth $400 for the night, but I’m kinda a frugal gal. I’m sure the $200/night places closer to the Boardwalk were just plain crappy. The hotel was really nice and I loved the food. The girl posse seemed to have a little sticker shock with food prices, but coming from DC, I wasn’t too surprised to see cheeseburgers cost $6. Although no one should charge $3 for a bottle of Diet Coke no matter the location.

Now, maybe this is because I’ve never been into a hotel casino before. So my little eyes were just amazed that one could walk into the hotel lobby, turn to the left and see rows and rows of flashing, dazzling technicolor slot machines.

I brought with me about $7 worth of pennies. Some rolled in wrappers, others just in a big change purse. DG said I could play the penny slots. She laughed at my stack of pennies. Five dollar bills are the smallest currency accepted in the machines. Sure, I could’ve exchanged the penny rolls for a voucher to play in the machine, but what fun is that?

The girl posse went to the club in the hotel, Mixx, where we drank overpriced beer, danced with guys attending a friends bachelor party. (Yours truly unknowingly danced and fell in love with the bachelor — I quickly broke up with him after hearing it was his party.) Oh, and Danity Kane made an appearance there after their earlier evening concert with Christina Aguilera.

I lost only $60 on roulette, slots and video poker. Of course, I only played $60 too.

I know AC isn’t LV. I know it’s got major redevelopment issues to face. I know it’s even a little cheesey. But it’s the perfect place to visit with a bunch of gal friends for a fun, spontaneous weekend.

Christmas was good. I had my last day of work on Wednesday. I sat on my butt Wednesday evening, Thursday and Friday night — I didn’t even feel like going out or bothering with the crazy shopping crowds. Saturday morning, I ventured to my vacation home. Traffic blew. I knew it would. But I got there almost six hours later and met up with old high school friends and their significant others. I left them behind and drove to Pittsburgh to meet up with other friends.

Pittsburgh is a fun, cool city. Don’t believe whatever else you hear. I decided that even though it’s small and a little hokey (yes, big hair and mullets are frequent sightings, and people proudly wear their Steelers parkas out to classy clubs), it’s a city with a lot of personality (such as big hair, mullets, parkas). You really want to stop people and ask them, “Really? Why do you think that your haircut is OK?” You want to immediately submit their name and photos to “Fashion Court” or whatever those makeover shows are on the Style Network. But it’s all really funny.

I used to hate on western Pennsylvania and all its podunk towns and under-cultured people. But man, sometimes I really miss it. And I love going to the vacation home because while DC has class, money and education — the ‘Burgh’s got spirit. (It also has class, money and education, but it’s not commonly associated with the city.)

So Christmas came and went. It was good to be with family and all that great stuff. I then left the western part of the state for the eastern part. College friends Gen, Lori and I had yummy sushi in Bethlehem. We got tipsy off the sake and visited a coffeehouse nearby where I beat Lori in a sudden-death showdown of ’90s Trivial Pursuit. (She’ll argue that it wasn’t fair; that the rules were arbitrary. I still won.) Afterward, to the Bethlehem Brew Works, a surprisingly good brewpub with a really good selection of fancy Belgian beers. Like all my first-time experiences at a brewpub, I ordered a sampler sans the oatmeal stout. I liked them all.

The Brew Works is downtown, in a converted shopping mall. I could do another post on how much I love seeing this. If I could build a time machine and be a college student again, I’d have passed on journalism and delved into redevelopment planning stuff. Not of the big cities and the g-word (gentrification). But of once thriving small cities and towns that suffered over the years as people stopped using trains or factories shut down.

I’m getting excited, so I’ll save that as a post for another day.

Anyway, we got tipsy at the Brew Works. Actually by the end of the night, I was tipsy. We woke up the next day and headed to NYC. That will be a story of its own. But as you can see, we made it to Times Square and I tried to proposition a giant M&M.

Hey, there M&M, wanna go home with me? I bet you taste great!

P.S. UGH WordPress! Why do you not let me make a nice caption for my photo?

The weekend began with a post-work trek on Friday to Tyson’s Corner for Thai food and shopping with two very fun gals. Dinner was tasty enough, but I have yet to find a Thai restaurant that has really impressed me. We were all in search of the perfect top to wear to the party the next day. As with all my shopping trips, I struggled to find exactly what I wanted. Something fun, not just black, flattering and, of course, boobytastic.

At 8:45 in Express, I finally found the shirt. It was all black, but it’s cleavage-enhancing properties made up for its lack of color.

Saturday.  I was basically lazy throughout the afternoon, and started getting ready for the kickball party at 6ish. I wanted to be at the party early, at 7, which meant I had to leave my house by 6:15 (10 minute or so walk to Metro, wait for red line train, 20 minute ride to Farragut). I like to give myself an hour to get ready for parties. So I should’ve started that at 5:15.

6:05 – Heat up curling iron and hot rollers. Realize that plans to get to party at 7 are not possible. Begin playing fun music playlist.

6:10 – Hair is in rollers. Apply green goopy facial mask.  Loosely holding rollers are falling into green goopy mask, casugin green goop to stick to hair. Realize that I really should’ve done goopy mask before I started doing hair.

6:25 – Mask is washed off and most of the dried up chunks are picked out of strands of loose hair. Try on second black bra since first one just didn’t perk the boobs up enough. Second bra disappoints me. Third bra works well, except it’s not plain black. Tiny bright flowers decorate the bra, but I’ll just hope that it all stays covered up enough.

6:27 – Maybe I should just not wear this shirt. Try on second black top in front of full-length mirror. Behind me is a wide-open closet with the door directly behind me, blocking half of the hallway. I spin on my heels to go to the kitchen and smack my head, and the rest of me, into the wooden door. If I were in a sit-com, the laugh track would’ve been played right then.

7:19 – New black shirt with perfect bra is being worn. Toss aside gray skirt for jeans. Hair is finally in place after using flat iron, two different-sized curling irons and hot rollers (I just couldn’t decide how I wanted it). Make up is applied. I decide on a cute pair of black open-toed shoes that aren’t comfortable to walk in. I throw on my flip flops and carry the shoes in my hand. (Sidenote on the black shoes: I got them in college, so yeah, they’re a little old. I also didn’t really look at them when I pulled them from the closet.)  No time to paint toenails, so I throw a bottle of polish into my purse, opting to paint them on the metro.

7:23 – Stop at Potbelly’s on the way to Metro station to get a sandwich since I really hadn’t eaten anything, and I knew that I’d want to line my stomach. There’s a family with three kids in front of me.  The line is really long. The kids, probably no older than 7,  are really slowing things down. They pull out cans of Sprite Zero (formerly known as Diet Sprite) from the cooler. Mom tells them she doesn’t like them drinking pop (or soda as you may call it), yet she lets them have it anyway. They then each take a bag of chips. Mom says there is too much salt, they shouldn’t eat those, yet again, she lets them keep the bags. Is this a new style of parenting?

Finally, it’s my turn to order my sandwich, turkey on white with provolone cheese. While waiting, I open my can of Diet Coke (grown ups can drink whatever they want). After all the kids, Mom and Dad (who has two sandwiches for himself) add their toppings, I move up, stand tip toe to see over the counter.

The next sandwich off the belt is ham and cheese. I wait as the person behind me moves ahead to claim her ham sandwich.

I see two more sandwiches come through, both with wheat and not turkey. The Sandwich Accessorizer asks what I had. She yells the order to the one who clearly just somehow forgot to place my turkey in the toaster even though that was her only responsibility at the time.

“No, stop. I don’t have time for this.” There were at least seven other sandwiches behind me.  I’m hungry, so I’m cranky anyway. Now, I’m annoyed because I’m going to be late for the party and not have a Potbelly sandwich I had been craving all day — or at least for 10 minutes.

I would’ve just walked out, but I already drank 3/4 my can of Diet Coke, so I go to the counter and pay for it. A manager is standing there and he asks what’s wrong. I quickly explain, asking how could they just forget my sandwich?

“I’m really sorry, miss. You don’t owe us anything. Here take this cookie — it’s my favorite. I hope you’ll try us again on another day.”

I take the cookie and pop,  and I walk out. I do like their oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.  I eat it on the way to the Metro station. Don’t worry Mr. Potbelly Manager. I will be back. I like the sandwiches too much to not return. Unlike some other restaurants in Silver Spring (Tastee Diner), I know my bad experience at Potbelly was an exception to the norm.

The train arrives as I step off the escalator. Usually, this is good, especially when running late. But tonight, I wanted the chance to paint my toes on the platform. Of course, that wasn’t happening.

I take a seat and tug at the polish cap. OF COURSE! It’s stuck. I pull out my key and begin to saw away at the cap/brush. As specks of black plastic dust my coat, I am thinking how this can only cause a bad thing. I will either break my house key (that’d be bad since Wooha was away for the weekend), or I will shatter the glass in my hand, causing some red shade of Opi to spill everywhere, including the black shirt I so meticulously picked out.

At about Union Station, I finally get the key under the cap and SNAP. The neck of the glass bottle breaks off. Finally, I can get to the polish. But I won’t be able to keep it sealed up. I paint my toes anyway (Of course red is all my toes and flip flops). At Farragut North, my stop, I toss the polish into the garbage can.  Somewhere on the Internet, someone is blogging about how they couldn’t believe some girl was painting her nails on the train, that they were sickened by the smell and how rude. Sigh. I know. I’m sorry. But paintless toe nails are a serious crime in some circles.

Of course I take the wrong exit out of the station and I have to walk the longest possible way to the bar.

8:23 – I get to the bar, I take off my flip flop, put on right black shoe. All is well. I’m looking good, and I’m ready to party all night long. Put on left shoe.

Stop. Wait. Something is wrong.

Take off shoe and look. OF COURSE!

A peg or something from the heel is breaking through the sole. There’s a stump at the heel. I’m going to have to wear yucky cheapo CVS flip flops all night! Luckily, since they were high heels, most of my foot’s weight rested closer to the toes. So I kept on the shoes, even though the heel kept wobbling. I was just waiting for it to break away from me after a few beers and a few minutes on the dance floor.

Luckily again, nothing broke, and I managed to wear the cute shoes all night. Other than being sworn at by the bartender and harassed by the bouncer, the shoe incident was the last mishap of the night. I had fun at the party, a great way to celebrate the end of my six season as a kickball player.

Getting home after the bar closed at 2:30 was actually much less eventful. Of course, I fell asleep on the train, and of course, I decided I could make chicken parmesan when I got home. Because I can’t make it sober, but I’m Julia Child when I’m hungry and tipsy.

Roomie Woo-Ha and I treked to Virginia on Saturday night for a small house party. It was cold, but there was a fire pit in the backyard to keep us toasty, as well as the marshmallows we turned into s’mores.

We drank a little too much and stayed a little too late and ate not nearly enough. Our favorite spot, the Drunk McDonald’s, had long since closed. Luckily for our stomachs, Tastee Diner was just a few blocks from home and open all night.

Tastee Diner, for those not in the Montgomery County know, is one of those old-fashioned diner cars that is considered a local relic. I wish I could say it’s one of Silver Spring’s finest spots, a favorite of mine. But honestly, it really kinda sucks.

The food is mediocre — standard diner fare but just not that great, even for drunkesses. What really ruined the experience though was the service. I know it’s 2:30 a.m. I know we’re clearly two tipsy girls. But there’s no reason to go sit down three booths behind us and start gabbing to a friend in another booth while we’re searching around, looking for you.

Yes, our waitress blew the big one. After I stood up in my booth and made eye contact, she stopped the convo and came back to our table. We were clearly her only customers! That was strike one.

Strike two, she just stood there as we gave our order. I am always a little uneasy when a server doesn’t write down the order, but at a more classy place, where the servers are held to a little higher standard, I try to have a bith more faith that my food won’t come out wrong. But Chatty Cathy didn’t make such an impression.

She heard our order, went 10 feet to the computer, returned 30 seconds later, asking again what kind of fries I wanted (gravy). And as predicted, when the food came to our table several minutes later, the order was wrong. My grilled cheese came with a side of plain fries. She gave the gravy fries to Woo-Ha (she wanted cheese on hers).

Then, Chatty took my whole platter of fries and sandwich to return it back to the kitchen.

Brewmistress: Wait, what are you doing?
Chatty: Returning the fries.
Brewmistress: Can you leave behind my sandwich?
Chatty: Oh. oh, OK. (uses my fork to slide sandwich off of the plate and onto a smaller one in front of me).

Chatty returns with a plate of fries covered in microwave-melted cheese. Woo wanted American though. The cheese was cheddar.

We left behind a generous $2.30, barely 15 percent of a tip. You know it’s a sad situation when us two drunk girls really wanted the world’s most disgusting McDonald’s to be open. It’ll be a long time before I return to Tastee Diner.