Park It Like It’s Hot

This past Friday, I went out of my way to steal a car from my parents – before they could realize what was happening – and drove it to my apartment.  I then spent the next six to seven hours congratulating myself on finding an optimal parking spot right on my street.  “You’re so great, Alyssa,” I said to myself.  And I had to agree.  With myself.

The next morning, I woke up bright and early, stretched like Disney’s Cinderella BEFORE she became a princess, waved to some birds who did NOT wave back (rude), and skipped down the steps of my apartment building to admire last night’s successful parking job.

But, wait!  What’s this?  The car was…GONE!  It was like it had just walked away in the middle of night, or, perhaps only slightly more likely, had been towed by the city.  “You are less than great, Alyssa,” I said to myself.  And once again, I had to agree.  With myself.

So, I did the only thing a responsible, independent, and fully grown woman who lives alone could do: I called my dad.  After an excessive waiting period of disappointed sighs, he informed me that he was, “with the dog.”  I didn’t really see how that was relevant to my situation, but understood when I heard the dial tone.

And so, armed with only a sliced apple snack, and a wad of cash, I took off on a magical journey with my old friend Falcor to the end of the Earth to steal my car back from Mayor Bloomberg.

If you haven’t been, the Manhattan tow pound lot is located on the bottom of the Hudson River.  Upon my arrival, I was forced to fork over my life savings ($185.00 in Sacajawea coins) and then told to sit.

And wait.  When my name was called, I was asked to get into the back of a cop car, and then was driven to my vehicle.  During this ride, I tried to lighten the mood, asking the cop if I could just pick out any car I wanted.  He said, “Sure.”  And paused.  “Then try to get out of this parking lot without getting shot.”

I asked how often people did get shot in this parking lot, but he pretended not to hear me.

I drove the car back to my parents’ house in shame.  When I got there, my Dad asked, “What’d you do?  Park in a no parking zone?”

And you know what?

I think that’s exactly what happened.

They saw the whole thing.

A French Twist of Fate.

Last night, I saw Orphans.  The play, not the children.

It was terrific, though I am biased as my boyfriend, Alec Baldwin, was in the play.  You may have heard rumors that Alec is married to some exotic-looking bendy lady with a child on the way, but that’s just because he and I have an understanding and I could tell you about it but you probably wouldn’t get it and if you really want to know, I can send you a copy of my restraining order.

However, there was a large and rather unsightly obstacle to my (only-slightly-illegal) enjoyment of Baldwin’s performance.

hair

The Heat Miser sitting in front of me decided to pin up her hair in the shape of a voluminous haystack of bad judgement. Good work, lady.  Not everyone can pull off a look that says, “Troll Doll.”  However, while your hair was acting out its own creepy fan fiction dedication to the musical, “Annie,” I will be forced to lean into this strange, scarf-riddled woman next to me who smells oddly of SpaghettiOs and Pine Sol just to get a peek at the on-stage action.

I tried to drop some subtle hints about my viewing concerns by casually announcing that I was going to take my hair down (even though it was in a very tasteful/stylish/not-overtly-sexy-but-probably-turning-you-on-bun), but Carrot Top did not even budge.

But I suppose it’s understandable that she did not want to undo her updo, seeing as it looked so…good?

Blink. Blink.

Puttin’ on the Blitz

I have to tell you something.  This isn’t easy for me, but you deserve an explanation for all of the unanswered calls, the blank stares, the dark sunglasses, the bruises, the endless episodes of The Millionaire Matchmaker waiting, unwatched, in the DVR, the envious physique, the dazzling smile, the flirtatious winks, the…wait.  What were we talking about?

The truth is: I am an addict.  I want to stop, but – wait – no, that’s not true.

I love playing Bejeweled Blitz.  I play it in the morning before I shower, I play it on the subway, I play it while transferring subways, I play it at work, I play it when I tell my co-workers I’m going to get coffee, I play it at the gym, I play it in bars, I play it drunk, I play it sober, but usually I just drunk, I play it in bed, and…

I’m playing it. Right. Now.

Some people (AARON) think I’m playing this game too much, but I could totally tell he’s just jealous of my super high score!  Over 200K!  Maybe I’ll stop when I beat it.  HAHAHA JK I WILL NEVER STOP THIS IS MY DESTINY.

I know some of you are worried reading this right now, recalling the Snood fiasco of 1999.  But that was a different game and a different time.  I’m so much stronger now, and also don’t live with my parents so they can’t delete it off of our Gateway 2000 while I’m in the bathroom which I’m pretty sure was child abuse.  So, clearly, if anyone is to blame here, it’s them.

Honestly, with Bejeweled Blitz on my iPhone, I feel relieved to have finally found my purpose on this planet.  Some people were meant to save lives, and others were meant to educate our youth.  Turns out, I was born to re-align matching cartoon jewels in combinations of three, four, and sometimes even FIVE in a row to gain as many coins as possible in under 60 seconds.

But, it’s not all fun and games.

Oh, wait.  No.  Actually it is.

An excellent technique.