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.
Showing posts with label why me?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label why me?. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
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.
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. :)
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
i wish i was fat and bloody
I have no blood*. I don't have any blubber either. This means I'm always cold. The second a chilly breeze hits me I'm walking around in a parka, shaking like a chihuahua. This also means that people think there is something wrong with me because I'm a freak for heat. I gravitate toward anything warm with a sort of sickly devotion. I hoard blankets in my house like a troll. I keep my thickest spare sweater at work...and wear it...always - which prompts concernicus looks from everyone around me. I take random showers just so I can enjoy the scalding hot water and make the bathroom my personal steam room. I've even burned the inside of my nose from leaning over a steaming pot of boiling water. Brilliant, I know. But I'm desperate. If it wasn't for Sig-O** and my dog, who take turns keeping me warm, I'd probably freeze to death during the night. It's that bad. Really. I'm starting to think I'm cold blooded or something. It took 120 degrees of heat in Arizona this summer for me to finally feel cozy.
This isn't fair. I want to be one of those people who can walk around in shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of winter, snow be damned. Even if they do look retarded. Please, send your freakish heat waves my way! I'm serious.
Sigh. Maybe I'm an ice monster. Secretly. You know, like Frosty*** or something.
*No, really. In fact, every time I get my blood pressure taken they ask me if I feel faint. They won't let me give blood either because they say I'll just pass out right away.
**For those not in the know, Sig-O is my significant other. Commonly called my boyfriend.
***Don't even argue that he's not a monster. If your snowman suddenly started running around talking to you, you'd shit your pants
This isn't fair. I want to be one of those people who can walk around in shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of winter, snow be damned. Even if they do look retarded. Please, send your freakish heat waves my way! I'm serious.
Sigh. Maybe I'm an ice monster. Secretly. You know, like Frosty*** or something.
*No, really. In fact, every time I get my blood pressure taken they ask me if I feel faint. They won't let me give blood either because they say I'll just pass out right away.
**For those not in the know, Sig-O is my significant other. Commonly called my boyfriend.
***Don't even argue that he's not a monster. If your snowman suddenly started running around talking to you, you'd shit your pants
Why are you doing 55 in the fast lane?! Oh, you're from Pennsylvania. That's why.
In the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit it. I speed. A lot. Because I can*. For that matter, most of the people I know speed whenever they drive. So maybe that just sets me up to encounter this problem, but still. Seriously people, if you're going to drive slowly, then get the hell out of the fast lane. You never know what's behind you. Consider that fair warning.
Since I drive so fast, it is only natural that I encounter people who are moving slower than me. That's fine, I accept it. In my state, when people see me speeding up behind them they just move over. Problem solved, tailgating avoided, and everyone is happy. But driving in Pennsylvania** is a completely different story. Pennsylvania drivers don't seem to understand the concept of having a "fast lane" and a "travel lane" (travel being the operative word for slow in this case). Oooooooh no. To them, every lane is the travel lane. And that means that they will sit in the fast lane doing 55 while I try to hold on to my sanity behind them. And by sit, I mean that they will NOT move, even if there is an opening in the other lane (which there isn't because they're doing the same speed as the people in the other lane so you end up with that frustrating phenomena of two cars driving right next to each other for miles....).
So I tailgate. As my way of saying " F***ing MOVE already!" But this only results in stern looks from the offending driver in their rearview mirror. At this point, I start to feel funny - like I'm going to burst open or something. My face starts to flush and the car feels too hot because my soul is suddenly a boil- skinned, fire-breathing, winged monster stuck inside a tiny body and it's trying to get out so it can forcibly remove the car from the path of my driving rampage. To save the person in front of me from a horrible death and the world from imminent destruction, I'm forced to take action. While swallowing hard to douse the flames and keep the beast at bay, I resort to my last choice - I pass on the right. Much to the consternation and disapproval of the person being passed. Even though they started it. I want to tell the "Man, I just saved your life." But no. Instead I just smile blithely and continue on my way. I wonder if they can see the demon glaring out my eyes.
So, Pennsylvania drivers, now do you see why I need you to move? If you're suddenly flame roasted and snatched up to eat as a snack on the fly, don't say I didn't warn you.
*If you know me, you know just how true this is. And you also know how good I am at getting out of tickets.
**I went to college in Pennsylvania. I almost lost my mind during my four years there.
Since I drive so fast, it is only natural that I encounter people who are moving slower than me. That's fine, I accept it. In my state, when people see me speeding up behind them they just move over. Problem solved, tailgating avoided, and everyone is happy. But driving in Pennsylvania** is a completely different story. Pennsylvania drivers don't seem to understand the concept of having a "fast lane" and a "travel lane" (travel being the operative word for slow in this case). Oooooooh no. To them, every lane is the travel lane. And that means that they will sit in the fast lane doing 55 while I try to hold on to my sanity behind them. And by sit, I mean that they will NOT move, even if there is an opening in the other lane (which there isn't because they're doing the same speed as the people in the other lane so you end up with that frustrating phenomena of two cars driving right next to each other for miles....).
So I tailgate. As my way of saying " F***ing MOVE already!" But this only results in stern looks from the offending driver in their rearview mirror. At this point, I start to feel funny - like I'm going to burst open or something. My face starts to flush and the car feels too hot because my soul is suddenly a boil- skinned, fire-breathing, winged monster stuck inside a tiny body and it's trying to get out so it can forcibly remove the car from the path of my driving rampage. To save the person in front of me from a horrible death and the world from imminent destruction, I'm forced to take action. While swallowing hard to douse the flames and keep the beast at bay, I resort to my last choice - I pass on the right. Much to the consternation and disapproval of the person being passed. Even though they started it. I want to tell the "Man, I just saved your life." But no. Instead I just smile blithely and continue on my way. I wonder if they can see the demon glaring out my eyes.
So, Pennsylvania drivers, now do you see why I need you to move? If you're suddenly flame roasted and snatched up to eat as a snack on the fly, don't say I didn't warn you.
*If you know me, you know just how true this is. And you also know how good I am at getting out of tickets.
**I went to college in Pennsylvania. I almost lost my mind during my four years there.
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.
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.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
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).
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.
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.
-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.
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