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