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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
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?
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
a midnight smack.
I've said it before. Sleep is out to get me. As much as I love it, the feeling doesn't seem to be mutual, and it continually plots against me. Case in point: one night freshman year when Blondie got a little more than she bargained for from her new roommate*.
Now you all know that freshman year of college is an awkward time to begin with. You move away from your entire life at home only to be cramped into a ten by ten box with a person you've never met before**. If this doesn't make you self conscious, the fact that you have no idea what you're like when you're sleeping should. Think about it. Unless someone in your house tells you, you have no idea if you snore, talk, thrash, or sleepwalk. Because obviously you can't tell yourself. Because you're sleeping. When you combine the initial move-in awkwardness with the unknown, what you have is a time bomb waiting to go off. Or a midnight beating waiting to happen, as it were.
Though our dorm room was actually a good size, the position of our furniture put my and Blondie's beds side by side. Probably about a foot apart. Perrrrfect. So one night, this happened:
*Me, asleep, thrashing around as usual. Rolling over* THWACK!
Blondie: (sleepy confusion) What the hell?
Me: (still sleeping) MMmfmm.
Blondie: Really?
Yea, I smacked her in the head. Violently. In my sleep. Which I got to hear about in the morning. If that's not a good way to build a lasting friendship, then I don't know what is. Really.
We ended up being roommates for all of college, and while this incident never quite repeated itself, there were several unconscious*** conversations that went on. Because we're cool like that. And Sleep likes to make me look like an idiot.
*Me, of course.
**And since you're in such a tiny space, you are forced to quickly get used to the idea of changing in front of a stranger. Creepy.
*** Read: Sleeping conversations. Yes. It happens.
Edit: Thank heavens I don't have this superpower. That would just be baaaaad.
Now you all know that freshman year of college is an awkward time to begin with. You move away from your entire life at home only to be cramped into a ten by ten box with a person you've never met before**. If this doesn't make you self conscious, the fact that you have no idea what you're like when you're sleeping should. Think about it. Unless someone in your house tells you, you have no idea if you snore, talk, thrash, or sleepwalk. Because obviously you can't tell yourself. Because you're sleeping. When you combine the initial move-in awkwardness with the unknown, what you have is a time bomb waiting to go off. Or a midnight beating waiting to happen, as it were.
Though our dorm room was actually a good size, the position of our furniture put my and Blondie's beds side by side. Probably about a foot apart. Perrrrfect. So one night, this happened:
*Me, asleep, thrashing around as usual. Rolling over* THWACK!
Blondie: (sleepy confusion) What the hell?
Me: (still sleeping) MMmfmm.
Blondie: Really?
Yea, I smacked her in the head. Violently. In my sleep. Which I got to hear about in the morning. If that's not a good way to build a lasting friendship, then I don't know what is. Really.
We ended up being roommates for all of college, and while this incident never quite repeated itself, there were several unconscious*** conversations that went on. Because we're cool like that. And Sleep likes to make me look like an idiot.
*Me, of course.
**And since you're in such a tiny space, you are forced to quickly get used to the idea of changing in front of a stranger. Creepy.
*** Read: Sleeping conversations. Yes. It happens.
Edit: Thank heavens I don't have this superpower. That would just be baaaaad.
Dorm Crawl: Part Deux
If you thought the story ended there, then you were wrong. Very wrong. That would have been too easy. And less gross. But you'll see what I mean.
About an hour after we finally made it back to your room - the process of which included much clamoring and the discovery of our incredible ability to fall up stairs - B called us back. Apparently his roommate had filled him in on our earlier escapades.
B: (in his typical slow drunk voice that makes him sound just a little creepy) Heeeey! Where are you guys?
Us: B! We're in our room, jerk! Wecametoseeyouandyouweren'tthere! Whyyyyyyyy?!
B: I was out at this party, but I'm back now. Come down!
Us: Ugh, fine.
So, we dragged our drunk asses back down the stairs* and back to B's door. Or at least, Blondie made it to the door. Halfway down the hall, my legs declared their secession from the governance of my brain and I found myself on the floor. Again. In classic fashion, I proceeded to crawl to B's door and sat there like a puppy while Blondie knocked and giggled uncontrollably. B, unfazed by the picture before him when he oped the door, helped me into a chair in his room while convincing us to imbibe a pretty pink concoction he'd made. At which point I was handed this awesome silver mug loaded with glowing ice cubes. I kid you not. Glowing. Ice. Cubes. Yessssss.
Needless to say I didn't want to share my hoard, and ended up clutching the cup for dear life as I drank the night away. Great idea. Meanwhile, Blondie continued to flop around the futon** we were sitting on, periodically making ridiculous gestures and letting out dramatic sighs. This was going great for her, until B produces yet another cup of glowing cubes. Cue excited squeal and leap off the futon. Insert my hysterical laughter as she smacked her head on the loft bed frame above us and fell back on to the bed. I'm an awesome friend, I know.
Soon after that, Ice Cream Dude showed up. Drunk as we were, we could still tell that this guy was trashed. And Blondie started giving me concerned looks. Drunk and eating a bowl of ice cream isn't really a good idea. Especially when you eat it as fast as this guy did. Because it comes back up just as fast.
*Everyone in the room happily chattering. Ice Cream Dude suddenly stands up and looks around after appearing to have passed out in a chair.*
B: Hey man welcome ba-
ICD: H- BLAH!!! (barfs strawberry pink ice cream all over the carpet. Wipes mouth, and sits back down) Ah.
*See: shocked faces from everyone in the room. We haven't even gotten to the disgust yet.*
B: Dude.
S: Really, man?
Blondie: Ugh.
Me: (because this is a completely normal reaction...not) We need to clean that up before it stains.
Yep. While everyone else was busy processing the absolute gross factor of what had just happened, drunk me dropped to the floor (where else would I be, really) and reached for the paper towels. Mmmm, barf. Turns out that when presented with the sight of barf, my natural lean or clean instinct kicks in. And it talks to me. "Hmm, someone should clean that. Why is no one cleaning that? It should be cleaned. It must be cleaned. Must clean. Clean! CLEAN NOW!" So I spend the next ten minutes picking up handfuls of barf and spraying Windex (another good idea, I know) on the carpet. Which B then decided to roll up and send home to his mom to clean. That poor woman.
Good choices, gang. Good choices.
*which really was quite a process, you have no idea.
**loft. beds. are. dangerous.
About an hour after we finally made it back to your room - the process of which included much clamoring and the discovery of our incredible ability to fall up stairs - B called us back. Apparently his roommate had filled him in on our earlier escapades.
B: (in his typical slow drunk voice that makes him sound just a little creepy) Heeeey! Where are you guys?
Us: B! We're in our room, jerk! Wecametoseeyouandyouweren'tthere! Whyyyyyyyy?!
B: I was out at this party, but I'm back now. Come down!
Us: Ugh, fine.
So, we dragged our drunk asses back down the stairs* and back to B's door. Or at least, Blondie made it to the door. Halfway down the hall, my legs declared their secession from the governance of my brain and I found myself on the floor. Again. In classic fashion, I proceeded to crawl to B's door and sat there like a puppy while Blondie knocked and giggled uncontrollably. B, unfazed by the picture before him when he oped the door, helped me into a chair in his room while convincing us to imbibe a pretty pink concoction he'd made. At which point I was handed this awesome silver mug loaded with glowing ice cubes. I kid you not. Glowing. Ice. Cubes. Yessssss.
Needless to say I didn't want to share my hoard, and ended up clutching the cup for dear life as I drank the night away. Great idea. Meanwhile, Blondie continued to flop around the futon** we were sitting on, periodically making ridiculous gestures and letting out dramatic sighs. This was going great for her, until B produces yet another cup of glowing cubes. Cue excited squeal and leap off the futon. Insert my hysterical laughter as she smacked her head on the loft bed frame above us and fell back on to the bed. I'm an awesome friend, I know.
Soon after that, Ice Cream Dude showed up. Drunk as we were, we could still tell that this guy was trashed. And Blondie started giving me concerned looks. Drunk and eating a bowl of ice cream isn't really a good idea. Especially when you eat it as fast as this guy did. Because it comes back up just as fast.
*Everyone in the room happily chattering. Ice Cream Dude suddenly stands up and looks around after appearing to have passed out in a chair.*
B: Hey man welcome ba-
ICD: H- BLAH!!! (barfs strawberry pink ice cream all over the carpet. Wipes mouth, and sits back down) Ah.
*See: shocked faces from everyone in the room. We haven't even gotten to the disgust yet.*
B: Dude.
S: Really, man?
Blondie: Ugh.
Me: (because this is a completely normal reaction...not) We need to clean that up before it stains.
Yep. While everyone else was busy processing the absolute gross factor of what had just happened, drunk me dropped to the floor (where else would I be, really) and reached for the paper towels. Mmmm, barf. Turns out that when presented with the sight of barf, my natural lean or clean instinct kicks in. And it talks to me. "Hmm, someone should clean that. Why is no one cleaning that? It should be cleaned. It must be cleaned. Must clean. Clean! CLEAN NOW!" So I spend the next ten minutes picking up handfuls of barf and spraying Windex (another good idea, I know) on the carpet. Which B then decided to roll up and send home to his mom to clean. That poor woman.
Good choices, gang. Good choices.
*which really was quite a process, you have no idea.
**loft. beds. are. dangerous.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Dorm Crawl.
It is a well established fact, and common knowledge among college students, that dorms are gross. They are. Really. Honestly, sometimes it seems that dorms are actually built on the dust bunnies and urine-vomit-ramen smells that overwhelm the halls. With such a high level of "yuck" going on, it's hard to believe that anyone would even live there in the first place. So who in their right mind would go crawling through the hallways on hands and knees making the most ridiculous noises ever heard?? Me and Blondie. Who else.
When freshman year was winding down, Blondie insisted that we do some spring cleaning. On a Friday. Lame, right? WRONG. This little bout of dirt-phobia brought about the discovery of several mini bottles of alcohol that we had stowed away earlier in the year. Being the awesome good kids that we were, we had decided not to drink those little shooters before. But after cleaning, we found that we had a fairly significant stash for two small, non-drinkers like ourselves. And it being a Friday*, we came to the mutual decision to say "fuck it" and kick those suckers back. Except we did this at around 8pm **. And lived two doors down from our RA. Good idea, us. You can pretty much tell from here that the rest of the night was full of good decisions.
After some initial giddiness - and much flopping around the room on our beds and generally flinging ourselves around like mental patients and sustaining a few minor injuries from the corner of my desk and the floor - we started to get bored. SOoooo, like any brilliant college students, we brainstormed.
Blondie: What do you want to dooooo?!?!
Me: I don't know, maannnn. What do you want to do??
Blondie: I don't know. Any ideas?
Me: I donno. What is there to do?
Brilliant, I know. But that was a better solution to things than what we decided to do next.
Blondie: I donno. Let's call someone.
Me: Well, I kind of want to call Sig-O*** and yell at him. (insert angry face that probably looked more like I had to shit) We kinda had a little fight earlier.
Blondie: OMG. Let's do it. I'll help you! We'll yell at him!
Me: We can yell at him together!!
Cut to me calling up Sig-O, who (thankfully) didn't answer. At the time, this just made me more mad.
Me: (as the voicemail recording kicks in) Asshole! He didn't answer!
Blondie: What the hell man!
Me: Now we really have to scream at him!
And scream we did. For the next five minutes we took turns spitting on my phone as we drunkenly berated him via voicemail. Needless to say he was not pleased with either of us in the morning. But alas, even after such an event, our quest for entertainment was not fulfilled. Still thrilled by the excitement of our recent phone adventure, we decided to call up B to see what he was doing, but once again we were denied an answer. Luckily, B lived within harassing distance. So, onward we went in search of glory. Or rather, in search of B.
With balance certainly not intact, we scuttled our way out of our dorm room with arms linked in the classic drunk clutch of death. Since we didn't want to get caught, we opted to take the stairs down the two flights to B's floor and chose to whisper instead of talk****. We took the stairs. The STAIRS. Which we both fell down. Which only caused us to laugh and whisper-shout at each other more than we already were. By the time we made it to B's floor, our mental capacity for being cautious had been reached. We opted for outright obnoxiousness instead.
Me and Blondie, in quite impressive unison: (coming out of the door to the stairwell and turning down B's hall) BBBBBBBBBBB!
Blondie: (in this crazy animal sounding voice) B!!!!!!!!
Me: (in the most ridiculous pitch and rasp I can manage) WHERE ARE YOU B!?!?!?!
By this point, we'd finally reached his door. At which point we started pounding on it like gorillas. Really. Two hundred-pound girls can make way more noise than you think.
BANG BANG BANG
Blondie: B GET OUT HERE!!
Me: NoooOOOOOOOooooW!
Blondie: DOOOOOO IT!
Me: B COME OUT AND PLAY!!
Frustrated that our pleas were going unanswered, I began to try the doorknob. It was locked. But I kept trying, frantically hoping that B would come out and entertain us. But I lost my battle with the handle and ended up falling down. At which point I started banging my head on his door. Like a weirdo. Yelling "B, where are youuuuuuu." Blondie started giggling hysterically, and eventually the door slowly opened.
Me and Blondie: (as door cracks open) BBBBBB!!!
(Cue the bewildered and slightly frightened face of B's roommate)
S: Um, B's not here.
Me: WHaaaatttt!
Blondie: Where is he?!?!
S: I have no idea, but he went out to some party. Call him. (shuts door with a face that says you-people-are-fucking-insane)
So, still on the floor, I began crawling down the hallway back toward the staircase, while Blondie wobbled after me, leaning heavily on the wall. Just before we reached the staircase door, the RA for B's floor came around the corner. Realizing my position, I had a flash of brilliance.
Me: (suddenly squinting at the floor) UGH! Where is my freaking earring?!
RA: (not looking convinced) Are you ok?
Me: (looking up, dusty and bleary eyed. insert smile) Yep, I'm fine. I jussssst can't find my earring. It dropped here somewhere.
RA: Oh. Do you want some help?
Blondie: No! No. We're fine. She'll find it. (insert best kindergarten smile)
RA: MM ok... (walks away)
Honestly, we couldn't have looked worse, but somehow we managed to convince ourselves that we looked sober and had fooled this RA. Which I know we hadn't. But he didn't seem to care. Which worked for us. And gave us a god-complex as we headed back to our room to regroup.
Apparently God laughs like two drunk, maniacal teenage girls.
*It was also one of those rare days when Blondie didn't have a shitton of work to do. Which was RARE.
**A notoriously boring hour.
***If you're still behind the times, Sig-O is my boyfriend. "Sig"nificant "O"ther. Get it? Good. Glad we're on the same page.
***Because we decided whispering would make us appear more sober to any passersby. Logical, I know.
Friday, January 28, 2011
how to be a creeper 101
Let's be honest. I'm a creeper. I am. I have an unconscious addiction to listening in on conversations and answering questions not directed at me. Luckily, however, I know I'm not alone. My friends are all creepy too. Case in point, B*.
Blondie and I met as roommates freshman year in college. I soon noticed that we shared a knack for being creeptastic after we were placed in a room on the third floor that gave us a perfect spy view. We would huddle in the window like trolls looking down on the tiny people below who crossed under our viewing bridge, and we would listen to their fights and parties and phone conversations. By year's end, and after accidentally electrocuting a few fish, we probably could have told you some awesome stories about people we had never even met. The trend continued during our first floor placement sophomore year, but remained harmless.
Our creeping, though,was kicked up to a new level during our junior and senior years. Junior year began the infamous Parking War with the neighbors in our apartment building. During this fierce battle, we would duel for the closest spot, each fearing to park next to the dreaded dumpster. In the end, we outnumbered the competition two to one, and we valiantly squared off against our Beemer driving foe. Luckily for us, we were not adverse to using spy techniques to win the game. We used our best creep tactics, peering vigilantly out the window to see when Beemer Dude left his spot vulnerable. Awesome as we were, we would call one another over to the window to ponder how he could be so stupid and we would swiftly swoop in for the kill. Though I do believe Beemer Dude was unaware of our tactical advantage, he was obviously competing just as hard as we. Triumphantly, we ended up with a streak of occupying the first and second spots, while Beemer Dude was left to settle for third. Score. Though the battle raged on through the middle of senior year, we believed our creeping to be a harmless advantage. Besides, he didn't know we were spying on his every move like overprotective den mothers.
However, we were forced to reckon with just how skeevy our creeping was when B** got a girlfriend. A girlfriend who lived in the house next to ours. Whose window looked directly into TWO*** of ours. At first, things were ok. The shades to the two windows facing hers were kept down to avoid any gross encounters. But one day, desperate for sunlight, we opened them. A few hours later, Blondie got a phone call from B.
B: Hey, are you home?
Blondie: Um, yea. Why, what's up?
B: Are you in the kitchen?
Blondie: Yea...
B: Hey, I have a surprise for you.
Blondie: OK(?)
B: Go to your window.
And Blondie walks over to the window. Only to find herself staring B in the face from across the way. And he was waving.
B: Hey! I SEE YOU. (excited smile)
Blondie: (insert freaked out grimace, with eyebrows raised) Uh ha-ha, you do.
Yep. Turns out the creepers were being creeped on.
We didn't look out the window for a while. Lesson learned.
*Not to be confused with Blondie.
**B is a good friend, but is waaaaay more creepy than we are. He's that guy.
***One looked into the living room and the other looked into the kitchen.
Blondie and I met as roommates freshman year in college. I soon noticed that we shared a knack for being creeptastic after we were placed in a room on the third floor that gave us a perfect spy view. We would huddle in the window like trolls looking down on the tiny people below who crossed under our viewing bridge, and we would listen to their fights and parties and phone conversations. By year's end, and after accidentally electrocuting a few fish, we probably could have told you some awesome stories about people we had never even met. The trend continued during our first floor placement sophomore year, but remained harmless.
Our creeping, though,was kicked up to a new level during our junior and senior years. Junior year began the infamous Parking War with the neighbors in our apartment building. During this fierce battle, we would duel for the closest spot, each fearing to park next to the dreaded dumpster. In the end, we outnumbered the competition two to one, and we valiantly squared off against our Beemer driving foe. Luckily for us, we were not adverse to using spy techniques to win the game. We used our best creep tactics, peering vigilantly out the window to see when Beemer Dude left his spot vulnerable. Awesome as we were, we would call one another over to the window to ponder how he could be so stupid and we would swiftly swoop in for the kill. Though I do believe Beemer Dude was unaware of our tactical advantage, he was obviously competing just as hard as we. Triumphantly, we ended up with a streak of occupying the first and second spots, while Beemer Dude was left to settle for third. Score. Though the battle raged on through the middle of senior year, we believed our creeping to be a harmless advantage. Besides, he didn't know we were spying on his every move like overprotective den mothers.
However, we were forced to reckon with just how skeevy our creeping was when B** got a girlfriend. A girlfriend who lived in the house next to ours. Whose window looked directly into TWO*** of ours. At first, things were ok. The shades to the two windows facing hers were kept down to avoid any gross encounters. But one day, desperate for sunlight, we opened them. A few hours later, Blondie got a phone call from B.
B: Hey, are you home?
Blondie: Um, yea. Why, what's up?
B: Are you in the kitchen?
Blondie: Yea...
B: Hey, I have a surprise for you.
Blondie: OK(?)
B: Go to your window.
And Blondie walks over to the window. Only to find herself staring B in the face from across the way. And he was waving.
B: Hey! I SEE YOU. (excited smile)
Blondie: (insert freaked out grimace, with eyebrows raised) Uh ha-ha, you do.
Yep. Turns out the creepers were being creeped on.
We didn't look out the window for a while. Lesson learned.
*Not to be confused with Blondie.
**B is a good friend, but is waaaaay more creepy than we are. He's that guy.
***One looked into the living room and the other looked into the kitchen.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
markers make me a liar.
Little kids are evil. They are. I think we all secretly know this, but everyone is too busy blabbering about how cute they are. Well, they're not. I hate to break it to you, but they are the best liars around. How do I know? Because once upon a time, before I developed a conscience fit to irritate a saint, I was a master child liar.
In my kindergarten class in Catholic* school, we had this white board. And man, that thing was god. Magic, I say. We worshiped that thing. It came with these super cool awesome markers that we could all smell when the teacher wrote, and we all wanted to use them. Desperately. Unfortunately, our teacher was the reasonable sort, and only let us use the markers on special occasions so we wouldn't wreak absolute havoc on the board. Smart lady, but not smart enough to outwit a determined demon child like myself.
One day, teacher was deciding who to let write on the white board and told us the first person to raise their hand would get the coveted marker for the day. My hand shot up in unison with that of the wheezing boy from across the room. I glared. Teacher looked back and forth. Me. Him. Me. Him. And she pointed....at HIM. I was outraged. Clearly I was more deserving, and I instantly came up with a plot to make the teacher regret her mistake. So I burst into tears.
At first, teacher seemed to think that I was just being a bad sport and ignored me. But as my sobbing intensified she started to believe something was really wrong. Perrrfect. Sorry lady, but my six year old brain didn't absorb your lessons about honesty and shit, and now you're playing right into my hands. I continued my best heartfelt cry until teacher gently called me aside to talk. As I snuffled and shuffled over to her, I flashed a victorious look at my baffled peers.
Teacher: Dia, what's wrong? Are you angry because I didn't let you write on the board?
Me: (As if I'd let you know my plan!) **sniff sniff, tear wipe** No.
Teacher: Are you sure?
Me: Yes-huff-huff-sss. (starting to cry again)
Teacher: (looking concerned. Ha HA!) Well what is it?
At this point I looked up with my big blue eyes and dropped the bomb that my brilliant mind had come up with.
Me: Well, it's my dad. He's in JAIL! (wail and crying some more)
Teacher: (shocked. Just as I planned) Oh Goodness! What happened?!
You should all know that my dad was a lawyer, and a well respected one at that, so the idea of him going to jail was preposterous. I can't believe this lady bought it.
Me: The JUDGE. He decided that he didn't like the guy my dad was defending and he sent him to JAIL! **sniffle sniffle** I don't know WHY!
Teacher: (concerned and trying to comfort me) I'm sorry dear.
Me: Me too. That's why I wanted to write on the board. I just wanted to feel better. (crying)
Teacher: Oh, honey! Of course you can write on the board!
BINGO. Evil child - 1, well meaning teacher - 0. Hell yes, I got to draw on that board for the rest of that whole damned day. As I left school, I counted the day as a win.
Of course, my concerned teacher felt the need to let the other teachers know about my family's predicament and warned them that they should be ready to comfort my older brother and sister. Like a champ, my brother GMK soaked up the attention and agreed with my story when his teacher pulled him aside to talk. I felt I did him a favor. But of course, no good deed goes unpunished.
When I got home, my mother was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. And I got a stern talk about lying to people about Daddy's job. But my small brain was unfazed, still high on the thrill of victory. Or maybe the marker smell.
:) I win.
*Yes, I went to Catholic school. It happens. Beat, but at least I never had to worry about what to wear to school.
In my kindergarten class in Catholic* school, we had this white board. And man, that thing was god. Magic, I say. We worshiped that thing. It came with these super cool awesome markers that we could all smell when the teacher wrote, and we all wanted to use them. Desperately. Unfortunately, our teacher was the reasonable sort, and only let us use the markers on special occasions so we wouldn't wreak absolute havoc on the board. Smart lady, but not smart enough to outwit a determined demon child like myself.
One day, teacher was deciding who to let write on the white board and told us the first person to raise their hand would get the coveted marker for the day. My hand shot up in unison with that of the wheezing boy from across the room. I glared. Teacher looked back and forth. Me. Him. Me. Him. And she pointed....at HIM. I was outraged. Clearly I was more deserving, and I instantly came up with a plot to make the teacher regret her mistake. So I burst into tears.
At first, teacher seemed to think that I was just being a bad sport and ignored me. But as my sobbing intensified she started to believe something was really wrong. Perrrfect. Sorry lady, but my six year old brain didn't absorb your lessons about honesty and shit, and now you're playing right into my hands. I continued my best heartfelt cry until teacher gently called me aside to talk. As I snuffled and shuffled over to her, I flashed a victorious look at my baffled peers.
Teacher: Dia, what's wrong? Are you angry because I didn't let you write on the board?
Me: (As if I'd let you know my plan!) **sniff sniff, tear wipe** No.
Teacher: Are you sure?
Me: Yes-huff-huff-sss. (starting to cry again)
Teacher: (looking concerned. Ha HA!) Well what is it?
At this point I looked up with my big blue eyes and dropped the bomb that my brilliant mind had come up with.
Me: Well, it's my dad. He's in JAIL! (wail and crying some more)
Teacher: (shocked. Just as I planned) Oh Goodness! What happened?!
You should all know that my dad was a lawyer, and a well respected one at that, so the idea of him going to jail was preposterous. I can't believe this lady bought it.
Me: The JUDGE. He decided that he didn't like the guy my dad was defending and he sent him to JAIL! **sniffle sniffle** I don't know WHY!
Teacher: (concerned and trying to comfort me) I'm sorry dear.
Me: Me too. That's why I wanted to write on the board. I just wanted to feel better. (crying)
Teacher: Oh, honey! Of course you can write on the board!
BINGO. Evil child - 1, well meaning teacher - 0. Hell yes, I got to draw on that board for the rest of that whole damned day. As I left school, I counted the day as a win.
Of course, my concerned teacher felt the need to let the other teachers know about my family's predicament and warned them that they should be ready to comfort my older brother and sister. Like a champ, my brother GMK soaked up the attention and agreed with my story when his teacher pulled him aside to talk. I felt I did him a favor. But of course, no good deed goes unpunished.
When I got home, my mother was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. And I got a stern talk about lying to people about Daddy's job. But my small brain was unfazed, still high on the thrill of victory. Or maybe the marker smell.
:) I win.
*Yes, I went to Catholic school. It happens. Beat, but at least I never had to worry about what to wear to school.
Spanish lessons in the drunk
As time goes on, I've realized that what they say is true. Enjoy your younger years while you can because it just goes downhill from there. Not that my life is going downhill, per say, but it is definitely more serious and less fun than it used to be. Aside from spending my days in a beige box*, I find myself worrying a lot more about money and bills and finding food to cook. My point is, I miss the good ol' days. I long for the 'lax feel of college and the parties, and the routine carelessness of high school. I miss being in a house that I didn't have to pay for and wearing clothes that magically appeared**. I crave the food that was there when I was hungry, whether at home or in the cafeteria (SLUSHIES!). So, in my infinite spare time at work (haha, yea ok. More like the time I spend daydreaming and wishing I was somewhere else), I've been taking a drive down memory lane. And I dredged up this gem...
In high school, I practically LIVED at JD's house. We would spend days together eating Chinese food, watching (awful) movies, and lounging on the ginormous bed in her room. Since where we live is kind of boring, one weekend we decided it would be a good idea to drink. Now, this was waaaay before I got to college and learned to hold my liquor like a champ. So I may or may not have been a little tipsy. Or shithoused. Whichever term you prefer. Anyway, after going through a good maybe half a bottle of something mixed with iced tea (I only remember that because it was hard to drink tea for a little while after that), I was pretty woozy. Yes, woozy. That's the right word.
Honestly, I have no real memory of what happened in the gap between drinking and what came next. JD could have shit her pants and I wouldn't have been able to tell you about it. But I do remember suddenly being in the bathroom with my face on the floor and my butt wedged up against her towel warming rack. Which was on. On high. With no towels on it. So I start yelling her name. Or at least that's what I thought it sounded like, but who knows. And then I stared at the heater. Intently. Reading the caution label. God only knows why. But by the time she made it into the bathroom, I was yelling at her in Spanish:
JD: Hey, are you ok?!
Me: Cuidado! (with frantic waving arms)
JD: What?
Me: CUIDADO!! Caliente!
JD: Um...
My babbling continued until I had successfully (or not) conveyed to her (in Spanish) the cautions on the heater warning label. And then I told her I thought the warm was going to make me barf. At which point she smiled at me like I was a crazy person, patted me on the head, and walked away.
Yessss.
*true, my cubicle is a sizable one and is really more a rectangle, but still. It's a box. rown and poorly lit by fluorescent lights that hurt my eyes. And there are no windows. It's just so...bleak and stifling.
**Also known as hand-me-downs.
In high school, I practically LIVED at JD's house. We would spend days together eating Chinese food, watching (awful) movies, and lounging on the ginormous bed in her room. Since where we live is kind of boring, one weekend we decided it would be a good idea to drink. Now, this was waaaay before I got to college and learned to hold my liquor like a champ. So I may or may not have been a little tipsy. Or shithoused. Whichever term you prefer. Anyway, after going through a good maybe half a bottle of something mixed with iced tea (I only remember that because it was hard to drink tea for a little while after that), I was pretty woozy. Yes, woozy. That's the right word.
Honestly, I have no real memory of what happened in the gap between drinking and what came next. JD could have shit her pants and I wouldn't have been able to tell you about it. But I do remember suddenly being in the bathroom with my face on the floor and my butt wedged up against her towel warming rack. Which was on. On high. With no towels on it. So I start yelling her name. Or at least that's what I thought it sounded like, but who knows. And then I stared at the heater. Intently. Reading the caution label. God only knows why. But by the time she made it into the bathroom, I was yelling at her in Spanish:
JD: Hey, are you ok?!
Me: Cuidado! (with frantic waving arms)
JD: What?
Me: CUIDADO!! Caliente!
JD: Um...
My babbling continued until I had successfully (or not) conveyed to her (in Spanish) the cautions on the heater warning label. And then I told her I thought the warm was going to make me barf. At which point she smiled at me like I was a crazy person, patted me on the head, and walked away.
Yessss.
*true, my cubicle is a sizable one and is really more a rectangle, but still. It's a box. rown and poorly lit by fluorescent lights that hurt my eyes. And there are no windows. It's just so...bleak and stifling.
**Also known as hand-me-downs.
Monday, January 24, 2011
vertical dry humping
...makes me feel like an idiot.
As we get older*, it's always nice to look back on our younger, more innocent days. Make that embarrassingly naive younger days. When I reminisce, I have a tendency to recall the moments where I was at my absolute worst. Now, by "worst" I mean my most stupid. Really, I must have been uber sheltered or something because I have a slew of awful middle school stories about my peers taking advantage of my lack of practical knowledge. Take, for instance, my first experience with what is commonly known as "grinding." Yea, you know this is gonna be good.
Growing up I wasn't really a nerd per say, but I wasn't exactly popular either, so I actually tried at life. I did my best to impress "those" kids. So imagine the scene is one of my seventh grade dances, where I was trying to be cool. There I was, shaking it away on our dirty gym floor in my awesome super light wash sparkly shorts and my classy no-brand, hand-me-down top. Ohhhh yeeeeea. I was HOT**. With two Ts.
Anyway, the Tic-Tac Club*** seemed to think that my already apparent un-coolness wasn't enough, so they flocked over to me in their classic huddle. Whence we had the following conversation...
Them: Hey D, what's going on?
Me: (confused since I'm obviously dancing) Umm, not much. Just dancing.
Them: Oh cool. Why are you dancing alone?
Me: (again, confused because I was dancing in a group with my less-cool friends) I'm not alone(?).
Them: But you're not dancing with a boy.
Me: I know.
Them: Well you should go dance with him. (point to the popular badass in our grade, named Matt)
Me: (mortified) I don't think that's a very good idea.
Them: Why not?
Me: Because I don't think he knows my kind of dancing.
Them: Well why don't you just go *grind* with him. (insert wicked half smirks partially hidden by big, round, attempting-to-be-innocent eyes. I am easily fooled.)
Me: Um... What's grinding?
At this point I should have known I was in trouble. Not only am I NOT a good dancer to begin with, but they were asking me to perform a dance I had never even seen or heard of. But being my good natured, eager to please self, I let them go on.
Them: It's a kind of dancing. You know, you just go stand next to him and bounce around and rub on each other.
Me: (obviously lying) Ooohhhh yea! I remember that one. (mentally freaking out)
Them: Yea, it's easy. Go try it. He likes grinding.
Me: (getting nervous now) Ha-ha. I don't know. (desperately trying to deflect) Why don't you guys just go grind with him?
Them: Because he wants you to do it!
Me: He does?
Them: Yessssss! Now go! (pushing me toward him now)
Me: Uhhh...all right. If you say so...
At this point I was shuffling red-faced toward my target frantically trying to figure out how to learn how to insta-grind.
Me: (standing next to Matt, who is facing mostly away from me) ummm Hey!
Matt: Hey.
Me: So, uh, they said you like to grind?
Matt: Yea.
Me: Oh?
Matt: Yep. (already starting to give me the what-the-hell look)
Me: (looks back anxiously to see "them" shooing me to dance) Well, uh, then you'll really like this...
And this is where it all went to shit. I had NO idea what I was doing. So, naturally, I just did my best interpretation of what the Tic-Tac Club had described. Which amounted to me jumping around doing the football chest bump with Matt while simultaneously seizuring my body as best I could. Yep. It was impressive. And not in a good way.
After about 10 very painful seconds of my "grinding," I was completely aware of how ridiculous I looked. I suddenly stopped and walked away from a very stunned seventh grade boy, leaving him there to ponder the wonders of women.
And my friends wonder why I refuse to dance at bars.
* Ok, so I'm not that old yet. But man, 23 is creeping up on me fast.
** With my awesome half eyebrows from over-tweezing and my complete lack of make up.
*** OMG. I can't believe I just remembered that. That was the name of the click of cool girls in my grade. They each had their own flavor of cool tic tacs. And I tried to be cool too, but all the good flavors were taken. So I got orange. Hey man, I thought it was a win at the time.
As we get older*, it's always nice to look back on our younger, more innocent days. Make that embarrassingly naive younger days. When I reminisce, I have a tendency to recall the moments where I was at my absolute worst. Now, by "worst" I mean my most stupid. Really, I must have been uber sheltered or something because I have a slew of awful middle school stories about my peers taking advantage of my lack of practical knowledge. Take, for instance, my first experience with what is commonly known as "grinding." Yea, you know this is gonna be good.
Growing up I wasn't really a nerd per say, but I wasn't exactly popular either, so I actually tried at life. I did my best to impress "those" kids. So imagine the scene is one of my seventh grade dances, where I was trying to be cool. There I was, shaking it away on our dirty gym floor in my awesome super light wash sparkly shorts and my classy no-brand, hand-me-down top. Ohhhh yeeeeea. I was HOT**. With two Ts.
Anyway, the Tic-Tac Club*** seemed to think that my already apparent un-coolness wasn't enough, so they flocked over to me in their classic huddle. Whence we had the following conversation...
Them: Hey D, what's going on?
Me: (confused since I'm obviously dancing) Umm, not much. Just dancing.
Them: Oh cool. Why are you dancing alone?
Me: (again, confused because I was dancing in a group with my less-cool friends) I'm not alone(?).
Them: But you're not dancing with a boy.
Me: I know.
Them: Well you should go dance with him. (point to the popular badass in our grade, named Matt)
Me: (mortified) I don't think that's a very good idea.
Them: Why not?
Me: Because I don't think he knows my kind of dancing.
Them: Well why don't you just go *grind* with him. (insert wicked half smirks partially hidden by big, round, attempting-to-be-innocent eyes. I am easily fooled.)
Me: Um... What's grinding?
At this point I should have known I was in trouble. Not only am I NOT a good dancer to begin with, but they were asking me to perform a dance I had never even seen or heard of. But being my good natured, eager to please self, I let them go on.
Them: It's a kind of dancing. You know, you just go stand next to him and bounce around and rub on each other.
Me: (obviously lying) Ooohhhh yea! I remember that one. (mentally freaking out)
Them: Yea, it's easy. Go try it. He likes grinding.
Me: (getting nervous now) Ha-ha. I don't know. (desperately trying to deflect) Why don't you guys just go grind with him?
Them: Because he wants you to do it!
Me: He does?
Them: Yessssss! Now go! (pushing me toward him now)
Me: Uhhh...all right. If you say so...
At this point I was shuffling red-faced toward my target frantically trying to figure out how to learn how to insta-grind.
Me: (standing next to Matt, who is facing mostly away from me) ummm Hey!
Matt: Hey.
Me: So, uh, they said you like to grind?
Matt: Yea.
Me: Oh?
Matt: Yep. (already starting to give me the what-the-hell look)
Me: (looks back anxiously to see "them" shooing me to dance) Well, uh, then you'll really like this...
And this is where it all went to shit. I had NO idea what I was doing. So, naturally, I just did my best interpretation of what the Tic-Tac Club had described. Which amounted to me jumping around doing the football chest bump with Matt while simultaneously seizuring my body as best I could. Yep. It was impressive. And not in a good way.
After about 10 very painful seconds of my "grinding," I was completely aware of how ridiculous I looked. I suddenly stopped and walked away from a very stunned seventh grade boy, leaving him there to ponder the wonders of women.
And my friends wonder why I refuse to dance at bars.
* Ok, so I'm not that old yet. But man, 23 is creeping up on me fast.
** With my awesome half eyebrows from over-tweezing and my complete lack of make up.
*** OMG. I can't believe I just remembered that. That was the name of the click of cool girls in my grade. They each had their own flavor of cool tic tacs. And I tried to be cool too, but all the good flavors were taken. So I got orange. Hey man, I thought it was a win at the time.
the magic moment
Despite what my sex and body issues may lead you to believe, I am quite comfortable talking about poop. Actually, disturbingly so. Credit for creating the poo gossiping monster that I am goes to my high school soccer team, who used to hold discussions about poop on our bus rides to games. No joke. However, there is a greater person who has to be recognized. All of you who enjoy the rest of this post must hail JD, who helped me discover and term "the magic moment."
For all you normal people out there, the magic moment is when you suddenly know you have to poop and you have to go right then. It is not to be confused with that ambiguous moment when guys "know" they have to poop and then spend the next twenty minutes waiting for it to come. No, no. The magic moment is a moment of enlightenment that comes a shade or two before the ol' "turtle head" and is a moment of peace and joy. You think "Oh. I have to poo" and you go. Bing Bang BOOM. Done. It's great. The magic moment is wonderful in itself, but also opens doors to what we like to call "speed pooing," which saves time and energy. But I digress.
Anyway, so the other morning (I'm going to go with Friday) I was up earlier than usual* and went about my morning stumble around the apartment before I get into the shower. This is generally the time when I think about things like brushing my hair (helps keep away shower knots..those little bitches), finding underwear for the day, and doing my business before I shower. With the first two items done, I wander into the bathroom to pee, but I don't really have to go so I hop in the shower. About fifteen minutes into my shower ** I'm just finishing shaving leg number one when I feel my lower stomach region lurch and drop. Hmm. I keep shaving and move on to leg number two. Then it hits me. The Magic Moment. Only this time it's not so magic because I'm in the shower. Shaving. And it's cold out there. Which means prickly legs. Oh, hell no.
With butt cheeks resolutely clenched, I continue toward underarm shaving. But the turtle wants to come out. NOW. With a sad look, I rub my soft, smooth legs and sigh. Defeated and shamed, I step out of the still running shower and do the cold, waterlogged waddle to the toilet. I plop my soaking wet self on the pooper. Insert prickly legs. Cue ridiculous sliding around the toilet seat because I'm all wet. Awesome. Pan to my dog looking curiously at me through the bathroom door, debating whether she should come in to lick the water dripping off me. I give her a death glare, flush, and fling myself back into the steamy goodness that is the shower. And start shaving all over again. Needless to say I was late for work.
Yep, that's my life.
*Getting up early classically makes my stomach do strange things. Like growl. And hurt. For no reason. Jerk.
**Yes, I do really take that long. Usually about 20-30 minutes. I'm a water waster, what can I say.
For all you normal people out there, the magic moment is when you suddenly know you have to poop and you have to go right then. It is not to be confused with that ambiguous moment when guys "know" they have to poop and then spend the next twenty minutes waiting for it to come. No, no. The magic moment is a moment of enlightenment that comes a shade or two before the ol' "turtle head" and is a moment of peace and joy. You think "Oh. I have to poo" and you go. Bing Bang BOOM. Done. It's great. The magic moment is wonderful in itself, but also opens doors to what we like to call "speed pooing," which saves time and energy. But I digress.
Anyway, so the other morning (I'm going to go with Friday) I was up earlier than usual* and went about my morning stumble around the apartment before I get into the shower. This is generally the time when I think about things like brushing my hair (helps keep away shower knots..those little bitches), finding underwear for the day, and doing my business before I shower. With the first two items done, I wander into the bathroom to pee, but I don't really have to go so I hop in the shower. About fifteen minutes into my shower ** I'm just finishing shaving leg number one when I feel my lower stomach region lurch and drop. Hmm. I keep shaving and move on to leg number two. Then it hits me. The Magic Moment. Only this time it's not so magic because I'm in the shower. Shaving. And it's cold out there. Which means prickly legs. Oh, hell no.
With butt cheeks resolutely clenched, I continue toward underarm shaving. But the turtle wants to come out. NOW. With a sad look, I rub my soft, smooth legs and sigh. Defeated and shamed, I step out of the still running shower and do the cold, waterlogged waddle to the toilet. I plop my soaking wet self on the pooper. Insert prickly legs. Cue ridiculous sliding around the toilet seat because I'm all wet. Awesome. Pan to my dog looking curiously at me through the bathroom door, debating whether she should come in to lick the water dripping off me. I give her a death glare, flush, and fling myself back into the steamy goodness that is the shower. And start shaving all over again. Needless to say I was late for work.
Yep, that's my life.
*Getting up early classically makes my stomach do strange things. Like growl. And hurt. For no reason. Jerk.
**Yes, I do really take that long. Usually about 20-30 minutes. I'm a water waster, what can I say.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
tattoos = naked chicks. who knew.
Yet again, I find myself in a classic awkward situation. Which is mostly in my head, but still.
So I'm at work, and -being the quality employee that I am- I'm on Google looking for new tattoo ideas. At the moment, I happen to be looking for some inspiration for a shoulder/quarter sleeve piece. Like a responsible worker, before beginning my search I consider what kind of results I'll get. Naturally, I figure that the arm is a benign enough area and will turn up safe images. Or at least you would think it would. So WHY is there vagina all over my screen?! After I searched "girl quarter sleeve tattoos." On my work computer. Vagina.
As if you didn't already guess how awkward this is for me based on what I told you in my last post, you can at least appreciate how freaked you would be if soft core porn suddenly appeared on your work computer. In the middle of the day. With your boss walking around the corner as you frantically try to click Microsoft Outlook back up to cover things. Yea, that's what I thought.
Really though, what's the deal? Having tattoos doesn't mean I like vag. It just means that I will likely search to see other people's ink. Which I would prefer to see when they're clothed. Gah. If I was more malicious than I am, I would wish that someday those naked pictures would come back to bite those chicks in their perfect, shiny asses. Oh well. Guess I'll just have to look like a perv as I squint at the search results to find what I'm looking for. It happens.
So I'm at work, and -being the quality employee that I am- I'm on Google looking for new tattoo ideas. At the moment, I happen to be looking for some inspiration for a shoulder/quarter sleeve piece. Like a responsible worker, before beginning my search I consider what kind of results I'll get. Naturally, I figure that the arm is a benign enough area and will turn up safe images. Or at least you would think it would. So WHY is there vagina all over my screen?! After I searched "girl quarter sleeve tattoos." On my work computer. Vagina.
As if you didn't already guess how awkward this is for me based on what I told you in my last post, you can at least appreciate how freaked you would be if soft core porn suddenly appeared on your work computer. In the middle of the day. With your boss walking around the corner as you frantically try to click Microsoft Outlook back up to cover things. Yea, that's what I thought.
Really though, what's the deal? Having tattoos doesn't mean I like vag. It just means that I will likely search to see other people's ink. Which I would prefer to see when they're clothed. Gah. If I was more malicious than I am, I would wish that someday those naked pictures would come back to bite those chicks in their perfect, shiny asses. Oh well. Guess I'll just have to look like a perv as I squint at the search results to find what I'm looking for. It happens.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
try explaining Viagra to your grandfather
Really. Try it and then let me know how it goes. I need to compare stories. I feel traumatized.
So I'm in the South visiting my grandparents, and my Nannie (grandma), Popop (grandfather), and Grandnannie (great-grandma) are sitting around the table with me and my mom. We're just enjoying each others' company and chatting, when Viagra suddenly comes up. God only knows why. And apparently my Popop has no idea what it is. And for some Godforsaken reason they all look to me to explain. At which point, I freeze and proceed to die. Of embarrassment.
Let me give you a little background. Growing up, my family just didn't talk about those things. I don't think I ever got "the talk," and I definitely never talked about boys with my mom. Silence was golden when it came to anything reproductive, body, or sex related. Thus, as an adult, I'm extremely uncomfortable discussing these things. With anyone. Even my best friends mock me for the way I react when such a topic comes up. I'll do anything to change the subject and still can't help but blush at certain words. Like penis. Hehehe. This...phobia (if you will, for lack of a better word) has driven me to extremes. Seriously. Like jumping off a boat. To escape a conversation JD and her mom were having about dildos. A little drastic, maybe. But you can't tell me that subject isn't awkward. At least a little.
Anyway, now that you have some background, I'm sure you can imagine my intense feelings of humiliation as my GRANDPARENTS stared at me waiting for a description of VIAGRA. Insert me sitting there dumbfounded and completely red-faced and flustered. During the pause while I was trying to regroup and think of a delicate way to approach things, my Nannie hints - in between giggles, I might add - that the little pill has to do with sex and enhancement. My Popop takes this to mean that it helps women. At which point he starts blabbering excitedly and asks me if gives you bigger "titties." Insert hysterics from my mom, Nannie, and Grandnannie. Awesome. Thanks, Nannie, for making my job WAY more difficult. *
By this time I figure that I should probably intervene before things get even more out of hand. So in my awkward way, I tell him no, it has to do with helping a guy. But apparently Popop doesn't make the right connection. Insert Popop's confused rant wondering why a guy would want bigger balls. Great. Nooo, I say, its for the other guy parts. But obviously, my vague descriptions aren't doing the trick. Nannie gets his attention and uses her finger to demonstrate. Popop's eyes light up with understanding. Cue end of any decipherable speech. Mom and Nannie are both in tears laughing, and Grandnannie is so pink I think she might have a heart attack from the excitement. And I just sit there. Red and stunned with a grimace on my face. Yessssss.
I am scarred for life.
* I love her though. She and my Grandnannie are the cutest. :)
So I'm in the South visiting my grandparents, and my Nannie (grandma), Popop (grandfather), and Grandnannie (great-grandma) are sitting around the table with me and my mom. We're just enjoying each others' company and chatting, when Viagra suddenly comes up. God only knows why. And apparently my Popop has no idea what it is. And for some Godforsaken reason they all look to me to explain. At which point, I freeze and proceed to die. Of embarrassment.
Let me give you a little background. Growing up, my family just didn't talk about those things. I don't think I ever got "the talk," and I definitely never talked about boys with my mom. Silence was golden when it came to anything reproductive, body, or sex related. Thus, as an adult, I'm extremely uncomfortable discussing these things. With anyone. Even my best friends mock me for the way I react when such a topic comes up. I'll do anything to change the subject and still can't help but blush at certain words. Like penis. Hehehe. This...phobia (if you will, for lack of a better word) has driven me to extremes. Seriously. Like jumping off a boat. To escape a conversation JD and her mom were having about dildos. A little drastic, maybe. But you can't tell me that subject isn't awkward. At least a little.
Anyway, now that you have some background, I'm sure you can imagine my intense feelings of humiliation as my GRANDPARENTS stared at me waiting for a description of VIAGRA. Insert me sitting there dumbfounded and completely red-faced and flustered. During the pause while I was trying to regroup and think of a delicate way to approach things, my Nannie hints - in between giggles, I might add - that the little pill has to do with sex and enhancement. My Popop takes this to mean that it helps women. At which point he starts blabbering excitedly and asks me if gives you bigger "titties." Insert hysterics from my mom, Nannie, and Grandnannie. Awesome. Thanks, Nannie, for making my job WAY more difficult. *
By this time I figure that I should probably intervene before things get even more out of hand. So in my awkward way, I tell him no, it has to do with helping a guy. But apparently Popop doesn't make the right connection. Insert Popop's confused rant wondering why a guy would want bigger balls. Great. Nooo, I say, its for the other guy parts. But obviously, my vague descriptions aren't doing the trick. Nannie gets his attention and uses her finger to demonstrate. Popop's eyes light up with understanding. Cue end of any decipherable speech. Mom and Nannie are both in tears laughing, and Grandnannie is so pink I think she might have a heart attack from the excitement. And I just sit there. Red and stunned with a grimace on my face. Yessssss.
I am scarred for life.
* I love her though. She and my Grandnannie are the cutest. :)
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