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?  

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. 

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.

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. :)

I'm paranoid and it's Monday.

Holy Holiday, Batman!  Yeesh, it's been a long time since I've posted.  But never fear, my virtual amigos, I haven't forgotten about you.  I've spent the past several weeks doing last minute Christmas shopping and enjoying some quality unplugged downtime with psycho dog, kitty meow, and half of my family.  Alas, I'm back in the coal mines and I have plenty of fuel for my blog fire.

Being back at work means two things to me: 1) I have to endure ridiculously sad looks from my dog when I crate her before leaving for work and 2) I have to start dealing with office supplies again. Now, after some time, I have regretfully become accustomed to enduring said puppy dog eyes, but the same ease has not come when faced with the latter.  As was evidenced today. By my wild flinging of whiteout.  All over my pants.  My. Black. Pants. Awesome. I love work. For good measure today, I even threw in a nosebleed this morning when I was out of my office issue tissues, and a little something I like to call eating-shit-on-the-mail room-floor-because-my-heels-are-slippery-from-the-snow.  Cool.  I love Mondays.
 
Despite these things, and in spite of the mountain of email I had after being out for almost two weeks (what part of Out-of-Office auto reply don't you people understand?!), I'm in a pretty good mood today.  Which is why I am taking the leisure time (take that, deadlines!) to discuss being paranoid.  Now I don't mean being paranoid in the strict psychological sense of having a mental disorder.  No, no.  What I'm referring to are those little moments when you're walking down the sidewalk with one person behind you and you wonder if something is stuck to your butt.  Or when you're driving home on the highway and someone takes the same two exits as you and you start to wonder if they're following you. Or when someone you're talking to wipes their nose and you suddenly think you must have VBs (visible boogers, for those of you not in the know) so you start wiping yours too.  Or when you're in the bathroom and you feel like everyone can hear you breathing (newsflash - they CAN!).  For some reason, this happens to me all the time.  Seriously.  Anytime someone looks at me, I wonder what's wrong with me.  And you know you do it too.  Just think about it.  Or maybe not, because then you'll be paranoid about being paranoid.  Gah.

Maybe I just think this way because I'm prone to accidents and random embarrassment.  If I think there's something on my face, there's a fair chance I have a pen mustache.  Because I'm five and I don't play well with ink.  Just sayin'.  Who knows man.  And if you just tripped over something and you're all alone, yes, someone somewhere saw you.  And laughed.

And it may have been me.

Dear Cat...

Dear Cat,

I love you.  But I don't love you so much when I wake up at 1 am to the sound of you heaving  on my bedspread.  Nor do I have a fancy for finding a line of your barf strewn across my carpet when I walk into the living room in the morning. I don't appreciate finding more of the same presents when I get out of the shower. I downright do not understand why you also feel the need to barf in hidden places, like under the couch or my bed.  And, Cat, the retching noises scare me.  HuuuuuuuuuHhhh HHEEEEEEEhhh HHuuuuuuuuuhhhh BLAH. What is that about?  Your love of vomiting at inconvenient times and in strange places just baffles me.  I know you're doing this on purpose.  Do you want attention?  Is barfing your hidden ace when waving your cat-butt in my face doesn't work? You must have realized that when you do this I get concerned and check on you all day.  Why else would you regurgitate something as benign as water all over my rug?

But maybe I'm misreading your neediness.  Maybe this is revenge.  Are you angry that I've been gone much of the past month?  I'm sorry, Cat, but it could not be helped; it was business travel.  Do you seek vengeance because I introduced  Wooey Dog into your world?  Again, I'm sorry, Cat, but you need to get over it.  She's really not that bad.  She doesn't chase you and only sniffs you because she wants to be friends.  If you could get over yourself and stop clawing at her face, maybe you two could get along.  

Whatever the cause, barfing is not the solution.  I don't have the right stuff to get your bile out of my rug, and you refuse to move the two steps onto to the tile to make the cleanup job easy.  If you keep this up, I'm going to have to take you to the vet.  And then you'll really be pissed.

Love (most of the time),
me

P.S. Please stop licking strange things, like my jeans and the carpet.  It creeps me out.

three more reasons why the bathroom is the bane of my existence

Yea, I know.  But it has to be said.  Before I go insane and start laughing hysterically while I'm in there.  Because that would probably just make things worse.

1) Other people.  Stop following me into the bathroom!  Stop it.  Please.  I cannot go with you in there, and it's awkward for me to hold the door open for you when we both know that one of us probably has to shit.  It's even worse when that person is me. Because I can't do that with other people around.  So I wash my hands and leave.  Which leaves me with two problems: I still have to go, and now I look like a weirdo for coming to the bathroom to wash my hands when I could have used the office kitchen.  That's a double whammy.*

2)The toilet paper dispensers.  They. are. the devil.  Either there is too much paper shoved in them so it won't spin and you have to pull off one piece at a time or there is no paper at all, leaving you stranded.  If you are lucky enough to find the happy medium roll, you spend so much time fumbling around trying to find the end sheet while the dispenser squeaks mercilessly that it sounds like you're having a seizure. It's just a lose-lose situation.

3) Automatic flush toilets.  Why? Who thought this was a good idea? They supposedly have sensors to tell them when it's ok to flip the switch, but it never works.  They ALWAYS flush while you're still sitting there.  So you always end up racing them.  Trying to finish first. Before they flush and send a gust of air and splash of cold water straight into your crotchel region. **  While this may be what the inventors of the bidet were going for, in practice this is much less refreshing than it sounds.

Maybe public restrooms are just a bad idea in general.  Then again, maybe having to go to the bathroom is just a bad idea.  Solution: we should all be vampires. Shazam! Problem solved.


*For the love of God, I hope someone gets this reference. Mitch Hedberg.
**On a side note, it's always a little scary when the toilet flushes with you on it.  Aside from the gross factor, I can't help but be a little afraid it'll suck me down too.  Or that an alligator will crawl up in place of water.


UPDATE: I lied.  I have a number four for you.  Courtesy of a convo with Iz.
4) How there is never anything to dry your hands with.  The paper towels are always gone. So you're forced to turn to the hulking wind machine on the wall. Which is a bad idea.  Those blow drier things never work.  And once they're on, you feel like you're eighty and can't hear anything.  While you're thinking about the permanent damage being done to your hearing, you look down and see that you suddenly have mutant hands because the stupid drier is blowing your skin in all kinds of shapes and directions. Do you really have to put that much power into a bathroom blow drier? It doesn't dry anything anyway.  So you give up and wipe your hands on your back pockets. And walk around with wet hand prints on your ass for a while.  Yessssssss.

sleep secretly wants to ruin my life.

It seems to be a fact of life that sleep isn't always so restful.  At times, it just causes unnecessary problems. Some sleepwalk, others sleep-eat, and a select few even sleep-drive (scary prospect, I know).  Personally, I seem to be prone to sleep-talking.  While this might seem to be the lesser of the evils listed above, let me tell you...sleep talking isn't all cutesy.  Those nicely sketched word bubble clouds in comics are extremely misleading.  In reality, sleep-talk is a confusion-wreaking monster that stomps around while you sleep, throwing your credible sanity to the wind.

How does this happen?  Because I don't just mumble incoherently while I sleep. While the vast majority of my sleep conversations are with myself, my friends have a tendency to stumble into my dream babbling world. And I have full-blown conversations with them.  That I don't remember. In person, the conversations are ridiculous and usually go something like this:

Me(asleep, of course): " ..Hmm?"
Friend: "What?"
Me: "Sssssorry."
Friend: "What are you talking about?"
Me: "I couldn't get one because the dinosaur came."
Friend: "One what?"
Me: "Dress."
Friend: "What dress?"
Me: "Already told you!"
Friend: "What the hell are you talking about?"
Me: "What?"
Friend: "Are you awake?"
Me: "Mmhmm...."(annnd gone).



But my cell phone, and the fact that I have mad sleep talking skills, has taken this issue to a new level. Something about being on the phone transforms my subconscious mind into a coherent-conversation machine.  People call me during the night or while I'm napping and I manage not only to pick up, but I stay on the phone with them and blabber away. Apparently these exchanges give me plenty of time to do and say some nifty things. That I never remember. Allow me to elaborate.


Not too long ago,  I unwittingly blew off my friend Iz one morning.  What?  Exactly.  Apparently, she had called the previous night, and I made plans with her and told her I'd call in the morning. I had no memory of this.  At all.  I didn't even remember hearing the phone ring. Try explaining to an already annoyed friend that you don't even remember talking to her because you were asleep. You just sound like an asshole. Awesome. 
 
But my sleep rambling doesn't just affect people.  I also seem to have developed a knack for scolding my pets while I sleep.  It's great. To make myself feel better about it, I like to think it keeps them on their toes. I'm sure that they love it.  During a nap on the couch, I  sat straight up, yelled at my dog, and then laid back down.  The poor dog had been innocently sleeping between me and Iz, and I scared the crap out of them both.  Because I'm cool like that.  I've apparently also sat up in the middle of the night to hiss at my sister's cat.  To my credit,  he was scratching my dresser when that happened.  It was self defense.
 
Despite incidents like these,  I've found comfort in the fact that I am not alone in my oddity.  My college roommate, Blondie, has had her share of sleep talking madness too.  In fact, I think she may have had the ULTIMATE sleep talker experience.  She had - wait for it -  a sleep conversation with her fiance's* sleeping roommate.  EPIC.  When I heard that, I just about died.  WHO DOES THAT?!  I didn't even know that kind of thing was possible.  Kudos, dear friend.  You make me seem normal.

*also known as Biance.  Because he is B's fiance.  Clever, I know.

Bathroom Phenomena

I honestly had no intention of posting again so soon, but after my little adventure in the land of bathroom etiquette just now, I had to sit down and get this out (no pun intended, really).

You may have noticed -actually you should have noticed, and if you haven't this is directed at you- that there are certain unspoken rules when it comes to using public restrooms.  For instance, in the chick world, there are some cardinal bathroom practices:
-  Always help out another girl who is stranded without toilet paper.  You know it could be you next time.
- Do your best to avoid lurking near the cracks between stall doors lest someone think you're trying to spy on them.
- Wait calmly in line( unless you're lucky enough to find a deserted ladies' room).

- If it is too quiet in the bathroom, you know someone is trying to poop.  Leave as fast as you can so they can get on with it. 
-No cell phone conversations.  Ever.  Hang up and call back. Your chatter in the stall next door makes me self conscious.

Of course, rule numero uno for any bathroom is that you DO NOT use the stall next to someone when there are other open stalls.  You just don't.  It's creepy.  You're too close to me, and when I can hear every move you make -when I can hear you breathing-  I know that you can hear me too and it just ruins my bathroom experience.
 
So, why do people at my office insist on choosing the stall next to mine when the bathroom isn't crowded? Why would they even want to?  How could they possibly not fathom how awkward the situation is?  I can not only hear you trying to hold your breath, but the sound of you peeing is so loud that you might as well be on my lap.  Uncomfortable and unnecessary. Please, there are three other open stalls in the bathroom (four if you count the one with the door that gets stuck closed).  Pick one of them.  I strategically placed myself in this stall so you have the optimum number of other-stall options.  MOVE OVER.

Also, how is it that everyone chooses to use the bathroom at the same time?  I'm honestly vexed by this question.  For the past month, I've noticed that at certain times when I walk into the bathroom  ALL of the stalls are taken (except for one).  This presents a horrible situation.  I obviously have to pee, but I want to leave because the bathroom is packed.  I'm trapped, however, by that one open stall.  I have to use it.  Which then makes me that person who sits in the stall next to you.  But I can't avoid it because all of the other stalls are taken.  Thus I'm trapped in a warped vortex of bathroom manners that pulls me in all directions.  Have to pee - must stay.  Too many people in here - must go.  But there's an open stall - must STAYYY. But I don't want to sit next to someone - must GOOOO.  All in all I generally end up agitated and dash into the empty stall, holding my breath so the person next to me doesn't hear me and trying to get out of there as quickly as possible.  If you tell me this hasn't happened to you at least once, you're lying.