Out of context.

English is hard.  And thanks to the "that's what she said" phenomena, attention has duly been drawn to the ambiguities of the language that leave certain things...up in the air.  Guided by a mind generally half in the gutter, and a charge from CGB to take advantage of any TWSS moment, I have admittedly been on the forefront of this sometimes-irritating but always hilarious trend.  But being myself, I usually tend to be the offender who needs to be slapped with a "that's what SHE said."  I'm starting to think that I should hire a midget to follow me around to call me out on this shit - but since I lack the funds, I suppose I'll be forced settle for CGB's lunchtime comments for the time being.

Now, you may think to yourself, "Come on, D, it can't be that bad."  Oh really? You think so?

WRONG.  It can.  Because I blurt out gems like this without thinking:

"I only took it where you wanted it to go!"

"Are you racing to who swallows it all or just to who can shove it all in their mouth first? "

(on Gchat) "Sorry, man, I peaked* in your drawer while you were sleeping."

"Mm, thick bananas."

"You're eating Tim's bits!"

Because I'm awesome like that.  God forbid I ever post you more CGB/ME art - My end of the drawing spectrum looks like a mentally handicapped elephant tried to drawn a cloud humping a seahorse.  Which just means that a lot of the little doodles I do unintentionally look a) like crotchel parts, b)like sexual positions, or c) just plain awful.  Take, for instance, the time I was trying to decide whether to nap after work or do Pilates.  In discussing my options with CGB via notes, I decided it would be a good idea to try to illustrate my workout in stick figures.  Yea.  Shoulder bridge and the other exercises don't exactly translate well into stick figures.  Just sayin'.  Also, don't ever let anyone see you doing the Swan.  It just looks like you're humping the floor.

I'll pass along more TWSS gold when I spit it out later.  You know you love it (despite yourself).

 
*Yes, I underlined the key word there in case you're a little on the slow side today.

shining life moments.

I know, readers, I've been neglectful*.  I could make excuses to you about being sick (true) and sooo busy (not really true), but I won't.  I'm a bad mother duck.  I know this.  That is why I will never have kids.  But anyway.

So even though I'm not always on here, I'm always thinking about you and trying to dredge up stories to tell you from my most shining life moments.  Oddly enough, the bathroom - well known to be the bane of my existence - is my inspiration on this occasion. Why?  Because I just went to pee and realized that my underwear is on inside out.  Again.  Turns out I have skill, because this time I have no excuse.  Except being awesome, of course**.

Anyway, walking back to my cube of death following this little revelation, I let my mind wander back to some fantastic moments I've had with the Porcelain Throne.  And because you've been such good kids while I've been away dallying, I'm going to give you two*** of my top ten.  I know, exciting.

Moment #1: JD's going away party.

In the middle of college, my lovelyface decided to pack up her life and move to Italy to finish school there.  While this was schweet in some ways (oh, I totally hit that up on a visit), it also meant I'd be thousands of miles away from one of my best friends for around two years.  Faced with this seemingly endless expanse of time apart, we did what anyone would do.  That is, have a huge party and get trashed.  Naturally.  I mean, who wants to remember those precious last moments together anyway?

Needless to say, I don't exactly have the best memory of that night.  What I do remember is that at one point, JD disappeared into the house somewhere and being the good friend that I am, I went to find her to make sure she was ok.  Predictably, I found her in the bathroom in classic form wrapped around the toilet.  What ensued went mostly like this:

Me: (from the doorway) Hey, dear, are you ok?
JD: Uh huh. (gag) I'm fine.
Me: (walking over to rub her back) Are you sure?
JD: Mmhmmm...BLAHHHHHHHH (cue barfing)
Me: Shh, it's ok. (Here's where I made the mistake of looking in the toilet.  At which point I was hit by the nasty, warm smell of vomit) Umm.
JD: Hmm?
Me: (Gag, gurgle) Think you could move over?
JD: What? (Gag, barf)
Me: MOVE OVER! (dropping to my knees and throwing up)
---Insert a few more back and forth volleys of retching and heaving.---
JD: (giggling a little like a crazy person) You know, this must be love-HUUUUUH(barf).
Me: (barf, smile) Yep.

Because love means you can each take a side of the toilet and share.


Moment #2: A random night at Sig-O's.

This second top moment comes to you courtesy of another night of drinking.  But listen, I'm not really a lush.  It's just that some of my best stories come from the rare occasions when I do drink. So, no, I'm not that terrible of a person.

Anyway, one night Sig-O and I were at his place hanging out and having a few drinks, just generally being mellow.  Eventually, we decided it would be a good idea to head up to bed, so we started upstairs.  As we were getting settled I decided I had to pee, so I hopped (hopped is really not the right word, but still) up and said I'd be right back I had to pee.  The moon was bright through the window in the bathroom so I decided to leave the light off to save myself a headache, and I sat down to do my thing.  Having had a substantial amount to drink, there was much to, um, release(?), so I put my head in my hands  - you know elbows on the knees and all - for the wait.  While I was going I realized that I could hear his parents' TV in the next room, and discovered that it was tuned to the History Channel.  Being a huge fan of the History Channel (hello, Monsterquest!), I listened in and closed my eyes to try to imagine the show that I couldn't see.

Suddenly I heard a knock on the bathroom door.  Startled, my eyes few open.
Me: Um, yea?
Sig-O:  Babe, are you in there?
Me: (relieved that it wasn't one of his family members) Yep, it's me.
Sig-O: Are you all right?
Me: (confused) Yea, I'm fine.  Why?
Sig-O: Well you disappeared like a half hour ago to go pee, and you never came back.
Me: Oh!  Well, yea, I'm good.  I was just listening to the History Channel...
Sig-O: What?
Me: The History Channel.  I can hear the TV.
Sig-O: Right...But you're sure you're ok? You're not sick or anything?
Me: Nope, I'm fine.  I'll be out in a sec.

Turns out I fell asleep drunk, listening to the History Channel while I peed.  At least I managed to stay on the toilet.  Which gave me an awesome red O around my butt for the next hour.  Yay!

I'm attractive in my habits, I know.

Shining life moments, I tell you.  SHINING.





*Thank you, Blondie, for constantly harassing me and reminding me of this fact.  Don't worry, I have a story just for you coming soon.  It just has to bake in my brain some more...you know how that works.
**And, you know, I'm already halfway through the day so those suckers are just gonna stay like that. Such is life.  Suck it up, other side of the undies.
***In no particular order, chronological or otherwise.  Because choosing between the two would be too difficult for my lazy dome matter.

Open Letters...

Today, I want to shake things up a bit.  And this time, I've decided to try the classic "write a letter" approach.  Well, my friends, it seems as though I have several letters to write...


To the man in the burgundy Mercedes in front of me this morning,

QUIT PUSSYFOOTING AROUND AND JUST MERGE ALREADY!  If you're going to cut me off, you need to just do it.  This bullshit floaty dance you're doing with your car where you jerk the wheel into my lane and then back into yours (even though I've clearly stopped to let you go) is just pissing me off. You have a nice-ish car.  Learn how to drive it.

While I'm thinking of it, you might want to talk to your douche bag buddy in the green CR-V.  It seems he has no concept of merging either.  Continuing to drive next to me when your lane ended 500 feet ago is a good way to make me start thinking that real life bumper cars aren't such a bad idea.  Too bad I like my car too much.  Consider yourselves lucky.


Dia.



To the warm cozy bed I had to leave far too early,

I love you more than you know.  I'll be home soon. ;-)  Be prepared to snuggle.  And to be mobbed by the animals, who seem to love you as much as I do.

Love,
Me



To the girl walking down the street in the minidress,

Um, it's 20 degrees and windy outside.  What the hell is wrong with you?  Are you that desperate for attention that you are willing to freeze to death?  You have nice legs, great, we get it.  Now go put some pants on.  I don't know if you know this, but pants can also make your legs look nice.  They're called skinny jeans.  Find some.  Besides, then your butt won't look so lumpy.  I don't like feeling like I should put more clothes on to make up for your lack thereof.  So stop it.


Dia.



To the gremlin who lives in my TV,
 

I'd really appreciate if you could stop randomly turning off the TV at the most inopportune moments.  I mean, really bro, knock that shit off.  I know you may think it's all fun and games, but you really are starting to stress me out.  I don't handle suspense well.  And thanks to you, I don't know the DNA results from the hair found on the Monsterquest expedition.  (Narrator: "The Monsterquest team has just received the DNA results from the suspected Big Foot hair it found while doing it's field search.  And the results came back..."  Beep BoopBoopBoop.  TV off.  Great.)  Listen, man, if Big Foot exists, I NEED TO KNOW! 

You're pushing me into an awkward situation my small friend. I like to like my TV.  We're cool.  It helps me relax.  But not knowing the answer to the final Jeopardy question because you think the TV needs a nap is really starting to bug me.  I don't like making threats, but you've left me no choice.  Watch it, kid, or I'll be forced to evict you. 

Really, though, we should just be friends.  It would be way cheaper. 

Love,
Me.



To my squealing shower head,

WTF.  Why do you do this to me?  You know very well that I have enough trouble getting up in the morning, so why are you trying to make the experience worse?  I know that you don't always squeal like a dying pig, so why only do it when I try to make the water hot?  Are you trying to make me miserable?  I think you are.

I hate you.  This means war.

Hatefully yours,
Me.



To the random animal that has made itself at home in my wall,

Please don't die.  If you're going to die, go do it outside.  I can handle the fact that you want to live in there, but please refrain from decomposing and stinking up my place.  It would be much appreciated. 

Also, could you save your creepy scratching sounds for a time when I'm not trying to sleep?  I think you must have peep holes, because you always manage to start rummaging in there right as I'm drifting off.  And it freaks me out.  And confuses the dog.  And makes the cat want to hunt you.  And you know she'll want you dead, which I've already asked you not to do inside.

Really, I think it's in your best interest to relocate.  But that's just me.  Suit yourself.  Just remember, no dying in the house.

Love,
Dia.



To the TV Pilates instructor,

We need to get something straight here.  "Balance and grace" are both things that I lack.  So when you tell me to move positions with balance and grace, you must realize that I will be doing a lot of shaking and falling instead. 

As long as you're cool with a sometimes student who is a little bit spastic, the we're good.


Me.

P.S. It might just be me, but Swan makes me feel like I'm humping the floor or something.  There's got to be a better way.  Also, Seal makes me feel special.  And not in a good way.



To PsychoDog,

Could you not try to eat my feet while I'm trying to follow along with the Pilates lesson?  Cause I think that might be just a little bit helpful to my cause. 

K, thanks.  We'll go for a walk later.

Wuve you,
Me.



To running,

You're pointless, and I hate you.  You make my lungs hurt when it's cold out and I spend the next three days coughing like I have the plague.  Why everyone raves about you is beyond me.

I think we have a date later today.

Love,
Me. 



To Route One,

You are the bane of my existence.  That is all.


Ugh,
Me.

Virgins and Jehovah's Winesses.

My dear readers, I'm back.  I know it seems like a abandoned you in the midst of a cold, snowy February, but you were ever in my thoughts.  Needless to say, I'm here once again to brighten your day with another little tale from my messed up, socially awkward childhood.

Recently, while walking Psycho Dog, I came across two small children who were playing in the recently un-snow-covered dirt for some reason I cannot fathom*.  Since Nutcaseface was temporarily calm, they asked -in their creepy child voices- if they could pet my dog.  Of course you can, little children.  As they attempted to stroke her fur with arms that they apparently had no control over, they began telling me that they buried something.  Treasure.  At which point I look to my left and see an oddly familiar rectangle of disturbed dirt.  What kind of treasure did you bury, small ones**? Response?  A computer. 

Me: (getting all concernicus like a mother) You buried a computer?
Secret Devil Children: (nodding furiously with little smiles) Yep!  And a mouse, too!
Me: Um, I'm not sure that your parents will be too happy about that...
SDC: Oh no, it's ok!  We took it from our neighbor's house.
Me: (even more concerned) It's your neighbor's?  I don't think they'll be happy either...
SDC: Na, it's fine.  No one lives there anyway.
Me: Oh, uh huh. (Cue shifty eyes)

At this point, I decided the kids were talking out of their asses.  While I could definitely see that there was a laptop buried, I didn't believe the rest of their story.  I was just waiting for the angry neighbor to appear.  So, with the utmost stealth, I began inching away from them and got out of sight as soon as possible. 

As I finished walking PD, I began thinking.  Thinking about kids.  More specifically, about how kids are full of shit.  Case in point?  Me.

I may have mentioned before that a lot of my possessions are acquired as hand-me-downs.  Nowadays, I'm perfectly ok with this***.  But back in the day, hand me downs had a tendency to cause more than a little confusion****.  Take, for instance, this one little happening when I was in 4th grade.  It was gym, and like all of the other sad sops in class, I'd changed into some ratty clothes to sweat in.  That day, however, I was the proud wearer of a new, brightly-colored hand-me-down T-shirt.  While sitting on the bleachers waiting for class to start, the Tic-Tac Club noticed my newly neon self and came over to investigate.  

Now, what you need to know is that this T-shirt (courtesy of my super religious mom) was emblazoned with all of the names of different religious figures and groups.  The Virgin Mary, Jesus, Lutherans, Protestants, Catholics, Jehovah's Witnesses, and the like.  To my 10 year old brain, all of these things were equivalent.  As in, virgin = catholic.  I knew no better.  But the Tic-Tac Club was a bit more world wise.  And they had a field day with my ignorance.

TTC: (in the disinterested, uber cool kid voice) Hey, what's that say on your shirt?
Me: Oh, this?  It's just names of all kinds of religions and stuff.
TTC: Oh, that's cool.  So are these all things you believe in?
Me: (suddenly wary and unsure) Well kind of.  I'm Lutheran.
TTC: (sensing my doubt, and beginning to pounce) But it says "Jehovah's Witness" on here too, right next to Lutheran.  Are you a Jehovah's Witness?
Me: (really confused, but trying to stay cool and follow their logic) I guess so if that's what it says.
TTC: So you go to around knocking on people's doors?
Me:  Well...no.  I'm not that kind of Jehovah's Witness...
TTC: (closing in) Right. Are you a virgin too, then?
Me: (completely lost) Um, no I don't think so...
TTC: But it's on your shirt.
Me: Well, then maybe.  
TTC: Well are you or aren't you?
Me: (desperate not to claim a religion I was not and not understanding the connotations at all) Um, I'd say no.
TTC: You're not a virgin?
Me: I don't think so, no.

At which point they laughed furiously and just had to tell everyone.  For my part, I had NO idea of the mistake I'd made.  Frankly, I didn't even know what a virgin was, except that I knew Mary was one.  Way to go, me.  Wait, no.  Way to go parents, for explaining this shit to me.  Jeez.  Anyway, my cluelessness continued until my teacher heard the rather disconcerting news and decided to talk with me about it to see if I was OK. After sorting out my confused viewpoint, she finally explained things to me.

Cue me turning a ridiculous shade of red and dying for the rest of the week.

Great.

FYI, sex-ed started the next year*****.  Sigh.  If only it'd reached me in time.

* Once upon a time I used to love dirt and worms and all that good stuff, but for some reason I now see dirt as my nemesis.  I do battle with it via the washing machine.  And usually I lose.

** I don't actually sound like a child molester.  I promise.  Or maybe I do, and just don't know it.  Either way, I hate kids. So there.

***Especially when it comes to electronics.  GMK is notorious for constantly buying the newest gadgets possible.  And guess who gets the old unwanted big screen tv?  ME.  Yesssssss.

****Particularly because my siblings are quite a bit older than I am.  Outdated T-shirts anyone?

***** Oh, that is totally a story for another time, my friends.

Captain Ginger Beard, my complete lack of work ethic, and sticks.

In case you've not already met him here (the manly pink Post-its are his), I'm going to tell you a little something about Captain Ginger Beard.  First and foremost, CGB is my cube buddy.  My fellow non-worker.  Like fifth graders, we pass notes back and forth through the little window opening between out adjoining boxes of death to make the day go a little faster. This is done all day.  Seriously.  I have a stack of little rose colored notes (and a nice origami collection) that's probably an inch high.  That's a lot of Post-its. 

But, my point is it works.  Or I should say, it worked.  Because today, CGB is being...well, a fucking ginger*.  It seems that my little maladjusted friend found his work ethic after getting a verbal ass kicking from his boss yesterday (which I courteously transcribed for him via Gchat because I'm nice like that).  WTF, man?  What the hell am I supposed to do over here? Work?  What kind of girl do you think I am?  Sheesh.

Anyway, since I don't want to encourage his inner attention whore, I'm going to spin a completely unrelated yarn for you.  Because I have no work ethic today.** And I have no other outlet for my ramblings.  Be warned...


Most people have experienced a nosebleed at some point in their life.  Now, in normal people land, the causes for nosebleeds are pretty straightforward.  The average Joe with a nosebleed either A) lives in a ridiculously dry climate, B) just got a shot straight to the face, or C) has been blowing a few too many lines off a stripper's ass***.  But not me.  In my world, A and C are right out****.  And though, as a soccer player, I've taken plenty of hits to the face as mentioned in B, this has never brought about a nosebleed.  So, just what does make me get a nosebleed?  Sticks.  Allow me to elaborate.

When I was growing up, my neighborhood was still surrounded by mysterious woodlands that had these awesome rock formations in them.  Of course, being the spider monkey***** that I am, I loved to climb all over these gigantic boulder mountains and see just how high I could go before death became imminent.  One winter when I was about 13, my then best friend T and I decided to take a hike to our rocks and thus went traipsing through the woods.  But, it being winter and all, the ground was covered in about two feet of snow.  Which made moving in our snow gear pretty interesting.  Which really just means there was a lot of groaning and noodle-esque flopping on the ground going on.

So we're almost to the rocks and after a significant rest, T and I have our energy back.  I decide to make a run for it the rest of the way.  Cue me sloshing frantically through knee deep snow.  Insert giant log for me to trip on hidden in snow.  Pan to me flailing as I crash face-first to the ground.  And get a stick. Straight. Up. My. Nose. I cannot possibly calculate the absurd odds of that stick landing in my nose.  And it's not something I care to try to recreate, either.  Initially, I was just stunned.  Then I began to feel violated.  Sticks do not belong in the noses of young girls.  They just don't.  

While I was sitting on the ground contemplating the meaning of this major life event, T ran over to see why I hadn't gotten back up yet. 

T: (still a little ways off.  my back was to her) Hey, are you ok?
Me: I got a stick in my nose?! (turning to face her)
T: OH MY GOSH! Are you ok?!
Me: Yea, I'm fine.  Just...surprised.
T: You have blood all over your face!
Me: (dabs face with handful of snow) mEH?******

Cool.  My first legit nosebleed.  From a stick.  Something tells me Freud would have something to say about this.

Note to self: coming home covered in blood is a good way to scare the shit out of your mother.  Must try more often.


*No offense to the cool gingers out there.
**Some days I do, but today is not one of them.  I'm going to go ahead and blame the fact that my alarm didn't go off this morning and I overslept.  That really doesn't put you in the mood to work.  In fact, when I finally woke up and realized how late I was, I figured a few extra minutes couldn't hurt anything and I put my head back down.  I was thisclose to pulling a CGB (i.e. staying home from work for no reason.  faker).  But unlike the aforementioned old man, I managed to get up.  Because I'm a good kid.
***This list has been paired down from the one I received from CGB when I asked him for plausible causes of nosebleeds.  His original list (delivered on a pink Post-it, of course) read as follows:
1) Extremely dry air.
2) High-speed collision with a fist.
3) Too much cocaine.
4) Spite.
5) Not enough fingernail trimming before booger extraction.
6) Being challenged to a dual.
7) Lack of moral fiber.
Thanks, Gingy, for your awesome insight. Really.
****Missing out on C is a shame, I know.
*****NOT a Twilight reference.
******I had the overwhelming urge to be all "What's this? What's this?" a la Jack in The Nightmare Before Christmas.  But that movie scares me.  So I refrained.

If you want to live, you will stop wearing khakis.

Today for work I had to visit the science library at an Ivy League university, and while there I noticed a disturbing trend in the male population.  Namely, they were all wearing khakis.  And as it's a Wednesday, and I'm at the fucking library, I see no reason why these people (college students, mind you) should be so damn overdressed.  And poorly overdressed at that.  Thus, I have a little something to say to the people here (and to those, I imagine, at all other pretentious schools like this one):

STOP WEARING KHAKIS.  Stop it. Just. Stop.  It is a well known fact that khaki pants do not look good on anyone.  Aside from the general knowledge that khaki is a more disgusting looking version of the color nude (which can occasionally look nice on shoes), you must also know that khaki in pant form makes your ass look fat.  And I'm sorry, but fat asses on guys are just wrong. Also, it makes your crotch bulge in inhuman (and inhumane to the observer) ways.  That could just be the horrible pleats (whoever thought those were a good idea, I don't know), but still.  You, khakis wearer, must know that this makes me a hapless victim.  I am forced to stare in sickened awe at your bulgy, globular crotch wondering just what is in there.  And I'm not wondering that in a good way.  So stop.  Please.  For me.  I beg you.

While you're at it, you might also want to reconsider that absurd spring in your step.  I'm going to overlook the fact that you decided to wear sneakers (really?  come on) with your khakis and skip to the part where you bounce along like you'd rather be skipping.  What is wrong with you?!  Did they put some kind of peppy crack in the water here?  Why are you walking like that?!  You're a man.  Learn to man-saunter.  Quit this bullshit fairy crap.  Unless you're gay.  Which I know you're not because a gay man wouldn't be caught dead in khakis (smart ones, they are).  So it looks like you're out of excuses.  Enough of the heel and roll to tip toes. I'm putting my foot down, and hopefully you will too.  Shuffle if you must.  I'm serious.

Enough is enough.  I want some eye candy, not eye dandy.  Ugh.

Have I mentioned I love my job?  

**Guest Post** I’m Gonna Hug ‘Em and Squeeze ‘Em and Love ‘Em and… Oops.

In honor of her recent birthday (and partly because of my current writer's block), I've asked Blondie to write a guest post here.  Since we spent so much time together, I think it's fun to view our shared memories through her lens.  Read on and see what I mean.

 

**Freshman year at a university of 40,000 students can be quite isolating when you spend it the way Dia and I did.  That’s to say sitting in our dorm room downing Lipton Iced Tea and Easy Mac while watching Jeopardy! and our favorite CW shows (Gilmore Girls, you’ll always have a spot in my heart).  Our aversion to interacting with our so-called peers wasn’t so much a lack of interest in making new friends, but more so a lack of interest in stooping to such degrading levels.  Unlike our freshmen classmates, we neither wanted to wake up in a bush sans shoes and wallet, nor party on Frat Row which was pretty much around the corner.  We preferred to keep our integrity, even if it meant we practically lived like hermits.  

But that didn’t mean we weren’t lonely.  More than anything we both wanted to be home with our friends and loved ones.  And we spent A LOT of time talking to those people on the phone and making weekend retreats to places of familiarity.  Being far from home and only in the beginning stages of our roomie-ness meant there were holes.  Which needed to be filled.  By pets.  Like fish.

Pets weren’t allowed in the dorms except for one small fish tank.  And you can be damn sure we jumped at that opportunity.  My dad has always had fish tanks, so I was pretty familiar with the necessary details.  It wasn’t long before we were at PetCo deciding which lucky candidates would fill our needs for companionship.  

And so we returned to our dorm with a one gallon fish tank and a few tetras to call it home.  The initial setup was a little shaky (the bigger the tank the easier it is to get the water right I now know) but before we knew it we were in business and the proud parents of a small tetra school.  Things were perfect until winter decided to rear its head before the housing people decided to turn the heat on.  Fearing our little fishies would freeze to death, I quickly went to buy the smallest fish tank heater I could find.  After following the directions precisely, I felt pretty good about my installation of the heater and went to bed for the night.

When we woke up the next morning, we both knew something was wrong.  I went over to check on the fish but couldn’t find any of them.  I watched waiting for them to emerge from the Tiki head we bought for decoration, but there were no signs of life.  Once we couldn’t take it anymore, I decided it was time to go in.  I unplugged the cords, took off the lid, and reached in for the Tiki head.  It reached the surface followed by three faint ploop, ploop, ploops, as our poor fishes escaped their watery grave.

We consulted the fish man at Petco who suspected electrocution or overheating, but could only offer to test the water from our tank and make sure that wasn’t the problem.  He did what he could to calm the obviously distraught teenage girls before him.

Needless to say we were more than a little damaged by our inability to be loved by fish.**


A few comments.  1) Gilmore Girls was forced on me and I learned to love it.  Of course, this happened after the series ended, so I was left hanging.  Awesome. 2) We had a few different species of fish within the tetra family.  Mine was neon.  Naturally. 3) I'm going to go with electrocution.  Because that would happen to us.  Thankfully, we finally managed to acquire some fish who actually lived through being owned by us.  Thank God.