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.

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.

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. 

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.  :)

Fatty McFat Face

Let's get real.  There are tons of overweight and morbidly obese people in this country.  It's true. It happens.  Fortunately, I am not one of them, but it's not for lack of trying.  Trust me.  On the outside, I may be just another skinny white girl walking down the street, but on the inside I'm a sweaty 700 pound man.* In other words, I am an eating machine.  Most of the time anyway.

Generally, I try to make healthy choices** when I eat - you know organic, balanced meals and flowers and sunshine - but things don't always work out.  When I'm on, I'm on.  But when I fall off the horse, it all goes to hell in a hand basket.  At best, you could describe my eating habits as erratic.  Much to Biance's*** chagrin, I generally skip breakfast, eat some Peanut M&Ms, maybe get lunch (that's a big maybe - more like never), and then go home.  Since this is what many people see, I understand how they might be fooled by the slim facade.  But if you ever stick around for dinner, you'll see the fat man come out.  BIG TIME.

I need to stop eating dinners made for families of four.  Seriously.  Last night I annihilated a box of beef stroganoff large enough to feed an entire household.  The night before it was a massive steak and a box of mac n' cheese.  Maybe it's because I'm so hungry from the day, but I can put food away like there's no tomorrow.  Iz does it too and she's tiny.  Honestly, the way we eat attracts attention - in bars, in restaurants, people comment on how much we eat.  Or they stare - the men mostly admiringly, the women more with disgust.  It's starting to get absurd.  Maybe I should go to food rehab.  But at the same time, I feel no need to stop eating like a monster.  And thanks to a ridiculous set of genes, I don't really need to worry about it.  It's not even fair.  I'd feel bad, but I don't.

At least I'm generous about it though.  I think.  I try to take others down with me.  I'll name no names, but I've been known to sneak attack kidnap my lovelies into coming on food runs with me.  Or I bring food home to them. Sneakily. Food and sugar.  Mmmmm sugar.  Much like my sweaty, gelatinous inner fat man, I am probably destined for some serious diabetes.  Especially the way I consume sugar.  Like an addict.  But I'm OK with it.  For now at least.  Once my metabolism slows down though, I'm screwed.  And then I really will be 700 pounds.  Fat and happy.  Yesssss.

Whoo! It's almost lunch! :)

*This is, of course, in addition to harboring a winged, fire breathing monster on the inside as well.
**Contrary to what the Kit-Kat police would have you think.  You know who you are. cough cough Biance cough cough.
***In case you didn't get it before, Biance is Blondie's fiance.  Who happens to be a naturopath freak.  I say that with love. :)

so uh....

So yea, I have a funny little story for you today, courtesy of my lame apartment complex.  Allow me to explain.

This morning when my phone alarm clock went off at 6:35 I hit snooze and refused to get up (which isn't unusual).  It went off again, over and over until about 6:55 when I finally decided I should probably wake up and make the effort to shower.  But I'm starting to think someone, somewhere likes me dirty.  Because right as I lifted my head and did the cliche stretch and blink (still in bed because my apartment is freezing), I heard a little click and the power went out.  All of my clocks went blank and the heater turned off.  Why the hell did this happen?  I have no idea, especially since no one has anything turned on yet at such an ungodly hour.  But my apartment complex is lame and the power tends to flick on and off at times.  I swear I don't live in a ghetto, but something is seriously up with the electrical.  Frequently I picture a little mouse behind my walls chewing away at the wires or something.  Or I picture the retarded electrical sparking a fire and burning down all of my earthly possessions.  Because I'm cheery like that.  But I digress.

Anyway, since I'm used to having the power flick back on, I figure I'll stay in bed and wait it out since there's no use taking a shower if I can't dry my hair (since it's maybe 10 degrees outside) and there's no use getting out of warm bed to wander around my cold apartment when the heater is off.  So I wait.  And nap.  And wait.  Nothing happens.  7:30 finally rolls around and my apartment is still dark, cold, and powerless, but I don't want to be late for work.  So I get up and stumble around in the dark to find clothes, throw my hair in a ponytail (with cute braided hairband Blondie gave me for Christmas!) and give my best attempt at putting on some makeup blind. Cool.  I'm set, even if i do feel like a scummer for not washing my hair for the second day in a row.*

Fast forward to ten minutes ago when I had to pee from drinking three cups of hot cocoa.  Cue me finishing up and looking down.  Insert chagrined face as I realize I am not a vampire, I cannot see in the dark, and my underwear is inside out.  Awesome. I love my life.


*Usually I'm a nazi about taking showers etc.  I like being clean.  However coming back from break does things to a person.  Yesterday my desire to sleep longer outweighed my desire to wash my hair.  Don't get me wrong, I showered.  But there was no hair washing involved thanks to my handy dandy shower cap.  and my hair still looked perfect from the day before because God is amazing and created the CHI straightener. Which he then gave me for Christmas because it solves all hair evils.  Or maybe it was from GMK (my brother, dear readers).  Who knows.