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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Have I mentioned I love my job?  

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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.

 

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. 

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.