My Many French Faux Pas

I thought I would take this opportunity to memorialize what a dumb ass I sound like in french. I sit here typing this from my bedroom while the cleaning lady and host mother speak rapid french. She just asked if the french dog was finished barking - funny story about that dog, he's deaf - the vacuum was started and then a french baby began to cry. I'm also rather certain she screamed, "are you done vomiting!?" See the chaos I put up with? Things are bound to get lost in translation and I inevitably look like an American fuck.

1. This instance is not so bad, but my Mom and Dad visited me here, bless them, and my host mom gave my vaginal birth mother a nice book of the region. A couple days after my parents had left, my host mom asked if my real mom had looked at the book. Now, mind you, I had no idea if my mother had looked at the book, but I went ahead and said that she had thoroughly enjoyed the book. While she sat on top of the plane..

2. My horrific mistake of telling a six year old that my favorite animal was a baby seal. Now, the word for seal in french is phoque, aka, FUCK in english. I have this little blond six-year old looking up at me saying FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, ton animal préféré est un bébé fuck. I wanted to to pull a Russel Edgington again and shoot the phoque up into the sky.

Image Source..and my brilliant text addition

3. For about two months now, I have been saying "salut" every time I walk in the door. It's friendly and informal enough for family so I'm not saying, good day to you ma'am every time I come home from school. Apparently my American accent bastardizes the shit out of that little word "salut" and makes it sound something like sah-low (phonetically). In french, however, sal-oh, which is actually the word "salop" means something very different than "hey." Let's just say I've been calling my wonderful 70 year-old host mother who takes care of me, cooks for me and loves me a man slut since I got here. Oh, let's not forget that I've been calling the six year-old a man slut, too.

4. I had known that a friend of my host mom's and said friend's husband were no longer together. I assumed divorce, naturally. Aparrently my American ears didn't catch the whole story.. while at dinner one night, we are talking about this friend and her life and how her story is depressing as fuck and whatnot. So, I venture into being sympathetic and trying to generate some conversation.

"Well, do they still speak?" I ask innocently. My host mother looks at me with quizzical eyes and draws back like I've just attempted to stab her with a fork. Feeling awkward and feeling the need to fill the silence, I continue and try again. "Do they still speak? Even after divorce people can have friendly relationships." I let it hang, I feel supremely awkward.

"Do they still speak?" she asked.

"Yes, yes!" I say, excited that she finally understood my question.

"Well, he's dead," she says.

"Ah." I grab my water as quickly as I can and take a drink to excuse me from having to say anything more.


4. Body language in its purest form. The toilet is right next to my host-mother's bedroom, where she slumbers and snores like an asthmatic bear. You all know how we feel about using public bathrooms, friends' bathrooms, etc. here at Quimsical Audecdotes, and if you don't, you can find out here, hizzere or maybe even hurr. Trust me, they're all worth a read. So, I'm naturally apprehensive about using the toilet to hershey squirt next to her bedroom and I can tell by the outrageous size of my stomach that I am about as full of gas as this hiphopanonymous:

 

Nonetheless, I creep down the creakiest stairs known to man, there is no hiding my descent. I use my iPod light to guide me to the door that plainly reads: toilette. She is snoring deeply, I may proceed quietly. I open the door and it makes a creak akin to a fart. I pause... she's still snoring. I enter fully and immediately rip my shorts off and sit myself down. GAH, the door is still slightly open. I reach forward like Mufassa trying to save himself from falling off of the cliff and then I realize: my own ass is my Scar.. I ERUPT in a horrific cacophony that I attribute to the canned lentils I ate earlier in the day and I can only describe the force with which air exited me as "farting hurricanes." It's gale force winds that could bestow flight upon a blue whale. Once mine ass has had its say, I freeze, screaming silently and listening. She has stopped snoring.. PHOQUE. I console myself by knowing that I can blame it on the six year old if I have to, in much the same mentality as this creepy ass little girl:

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Planning for the Zombie Apocalypse

I'm not a normal person. For a couple years now, I have been unnaturally excited for the inevitable zombie apocalypse, thrilled, in fact. As you know, I've been spending my days watching The Walking Dead and drawing zombie me, which clearly does not help my zombie apocalypse fever. Hence, this post in which I will outline my plan for when the flesh eaters finally show up.

1. We all know you need a mode of transportation during this time or you will be fucked. Especially if you can't run because you look like this:

Stay away from tubs of mayonnaise. Image Source

We all know you're gonna need something that is fast, powerful and obviously bad ass (this is my one chance to steal any car I want! Yay pillaging!!)

Mercedes G AMG

Badass, right? Yes, of course I have thought of strapping a bike to the back of it, I'm not a fool. God forbid this beast broke down, I wouldn't want to be running through hoards of zombies, hence the bike.

2. Like it or not, you're gonna have to kill some shit and you shouldn't try to do it with your bare hands - scratches do just as much as bites, people. Man up, or grow some lady balls, and pick up a weapon. Guns are great but I've never shot one and I would probably end up shooting my foot, one of my car tires, or someone in my PAWP (post-apocalyptic wolf pack, duh), so I am going to stick with other things.

A. Samurai sword

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This, more than effective (although I'm sure it would be) is convenient for me because I have one sitting in my room.. it is also in line with the badass theme.

B. Crossbow

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It's quiet, it's effective.

C. Bag of blood

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I find this brilliant, if I do say so myself. Smear some of this somewhere and all dem fuckers are distracted for a good 10 minutes while you escape.. in your G Wagon.

D. One person you don't care much about and who is slower than you.

This seems self explanatory to me.

3. You need a plan so you don't just wander around until you die.

A. Avoid large cities.
B. Find some food, you WILL get hungry, you shit.
C. Head toward the barren wasteland that is the Midwest or try to find a boat and float in the ocean until something happens.
D. Make sure you're with someone you can have sex with so you're not that person who masturbates all the time. Post-apocalyptic sexual frustration will probably be the reason we all die.
E. Grab some medical supplies so when I shoot you with my crossbow on accident, you can have a band-aid.
F. No matter what chaos is ensuing, BRING A TOOTHBRUSH AND TOOTHPASTE.
G. Find an abandoned bar and take all of the hard liquor. For the obvious: Molotov cocktails and silent raves.
I. iPod - for silent raves. (I happened to be iPod... they both start with "I" :3)
J. Bring your dog for Christ's sake! A companion and defender.
K. Despite what a good idea it may seem like, just don't go into a shopping mall. Zombies errwhere. I promise you won't look good in the Marc Jacobs you stole if half of your face is ripped off.

Okay, my brain has exhausted all of its life-saving tips but, alas, I'm sure there are many more. What is your plan? Weapons? Transportation?

To end, here's a little treat:

I wasted my time making this. No regrets.

Effects of Laziness: YouTube Rabbit Hole

You know those days when your parents drop you off at your host mom’s house at 8:30 in the morning because they have a flight to catch back to the States and you clearly can’t go with them, so you just lay in bed from then until 8 at night watching The Walking Dead, Modern Family and other  shows until your eyes hurt and you question your existence? 

Yeah, me either.

No, but I totally do because that has been my life ALL day today. I'm pretty damn sure I'm near developing bed sores from my level of inactivity. I'm making Stephen Hawking look like a gold medal gymnast.

So, what have I done with myself other than watch too much of The Walking Dead (there is no such thing) and stare longingly at the jar of peanut butter on my desk?? I have watched an unhealthy and unfathomable amount of YouTube videos. Things I don't even care about, like a 16 minute makeup tutorial that I only endured because it was done by Jenna Marbles and I love her. I sat through a 13 minute video where some questionable gay (no h8) and this British girl laughed at how they pronounced words differently. In fact, right toward the end, my internet quit unexpectedly and you know what I did? I found that damn video again because I was so intrigued as to how the British girl was going to try to read a sentence from The Hunger Games in an American accent. She was awful. I happened upon some quirky science experiment videos, magic sand, magnetic putty, and somehow found my way to Honey Boo Boo...

So what's my point? here it is - holy shit, my door just opened on its own.................. now that I'm safe, my first thoughts were that it was either a zombie, and I would soon see a hand reach through the crack, or it was the turtle that inhabits this fine residence. The uncomfortable reality is that the turtle is more likely.. or is it?? Sorry. Huge distraction from "the point" - when you have literally nothing to do, not a god damn thing, and you subject yourself to hours of YouTube videos, you will get sucked down a rabbit hole. A very uncomfortable and furry hole where rabbits claw at your eyes and try to disembowel you with their horrid, yellow teeth.

I would say that my worst rabbit hole experience was today, when I began my YouTube expedition with the Marry the Night video by Lady Gaga. She is not the most normal person, granted, however, I never thought I would end up where I did after I regained consciousness in reality.

I want you to guess. Are you guessing?

Live horse births.

Yes. I got from point A: Lady Gaga, to point 'whatthefuck:' live horse births.

I can't unsee that. I mean, just imagine a horse coming out of another horse. It's long bony legs and hooves! I didn't JUAN to see that! Nonetheless, I watched. I even scrubbed backwards at one point to be like, "huh, how the hell did that come out of there and end up over there?"

My point is, friends, don't be a fucking loser like me because you will develop a headache and end up witnessing live births. I consider myself lucky; live horse birth seems relatively tame compared to what else you could stumble upon. God forbid you had to watch an aye-aye give birth or be born because they are the absolute ugliest creatures that mother nature has ever thought up. I'm pretty sure they're the hate child of a bat and Wormtail from Harry Potter.

 

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Now, the only thing that would be worse than watching that be born is watching it eat its own placenta. Gah, imagine if it tried to hug you!?

Halloween in a Foreign Country

This post is the child of my sudden realization that I will be missing Halloween, the most revered of all holidays that are not Christmas and Thanksgiving, in the United States. You know, I wouldn't be as upset about missing Halloween had I been able to make the biggest zombie walk in all of Europe that was held in the city where I currently reside. My father happened to be visiting that weekend and I didn't think it too kind to tell him I'd rather be with the rest of the freaks in this town walking like a god damn zombie for a mile. But honestly... missing the biggest zombie walk in Europe? Cut me a break, baby Jesus.

Reasons Halloween in the United States is superior:

1. It's expected of me to have at least two to three costumes because Halloween is not one night. It's like a three day thing. Let us celebrate multiple personality disorder and cos-play.

I'm talkin' blood-lusting zombie to smooth-as-velvet greaser to fucking Jack Sparrow. I once was Edward Scissor Hands and wore a leather coat. my mother's leather coat. backwards. get at me.

My chameleon status.

Note how zombie me fails to have feet.. clearly, I ate them myself. Also, I refuse to draw hands. That's why zombie me's left arm looks like a skinny penis and Jack.. has uncircumcised penis arms. I'm actually just noticed Jack's arms. I'm appalled. Greaser me is fly as fuck, however. Can we talk about those purple shades? I may or may not have those in real life and I may or may not wear them regularly.

2. In the United States, it's only mildly frowned upon to go from house to house past, like, 9th grade in high school. I continued to go until, well, now. I was never shunned or spat upon but I feel like here in France (where apparently it's considered inappropriate to smile at people on the street) I would be seriously judged. In french. I also don't know how to say "trick or treat" outside of my mother tongue and I feel like stumbling my way through the closest thing to it: "give me all of your candy," would seem like a threat.

Here is Audecdote and I. Clearly, she is Bellatrix Lestrange and I am supposed to be an asylum escapee, however, I look more like Ozzy Osbourne post bat-devouring. We were in our senior year, I believe.

3. In America, we have a wonderful love of scaring the shit out of ourselves! Hence all of the seasonal, murderous hayrides, haunted houses, disturbing porch displays with motion-activated screaming mummies, the Halloween movies on constant repeat on television, our use of black cats as a scapegoat for our shitty luck, and the obesity in a cup that is Pumpkin Spice Lattes from Starbucks (oh, how I long to suckle at your teat). Contrastingly, in France.. I have yet to see a pumpkin, much less a god damn gourd with those horrific warts!

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Sweet fuckery, that gourd's mother HATED him! Can I ask how that is even evolutionarily advantageous?? Yes, let me look like exposed body fat, terminal acne and a Hagrid's scrotum all at once, that'll keep me on top. However.. I miss them.

The only reason Halloween might be better in Europe is for the ladies. In the States, Halloween is your one chance to dress like a complete slut and be only semi-judged for it. In Europe, apparently they dress like sluts on the reg:

That's "slutwalk" if you didn't catch it.

 I'm going to miss being in the limousine of death, driven by a middle-aged man with red eyes and a mullet and his female (?) cohort. Then there was being dragged out of said limo by chainsaw-wielding clowns. sigh.. it's just not the same.

River Rats and Dumb Whores

Today is the one year anniversary of this blog! Finally, I actually committed to something. Sorry I don't have some cool montage of every story ever written on here to make one masterful post encompassing the whole year. In lieu of that.. I will tell you a little story about my evening.

So, my friends and I happened upon a purely American inspired diner in France. It has everything from the neon lights and a Coca Cola sign to red leather booths and a plethora of milkshakes. In all honesty, it tried to hard and fell short of the real thing. Milkshakes that were actually the consistency of milk?? Albeit, a delicious fucking milkshake of vanilla-speculose. It was like drinking a caramely graham cracker. My face when I tasted it:

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After the diner that tried too hard, my friends and I went down to the river to hang out and have some drinks. All was going well, we were laughing and talking and enjoying the wonderful evening weather. The only appalling thing that had happened all night was that an enormous river rat swam by us. I'm talking beaver sized river rat. This thing had its own wake and could probably destroy an on-coming boat.

Only a short amount of time passed before other river rats began to stir up trouble of their own. And by other river rats, I mean the group next to us who decided to get into a serious river rat brawl. It was really exciting to watch it break out, actually; I never knew how riveting I found violence! There was the usual pushing and shoving and the occasional hearty swing of a backpack. However, shit got real when a big, glass bottle was broken against a lamp post and the guy tried to, essentially, stab the other guy in the head.. so, that was when I decided to leave..... and watch from the bridge.

Also, on the tram on the way to the river, my group of friends and I were standing next to a shitty little group of french boys who remarked and guffawed at the fact that we were Americans in France. Little did they know that I could understand them perfectly as they said that they didn't like it that we were here and that I looked like a condom with my hood on. Well, fuck you. The events of tonight have led me to the conclusion that:

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Quimsical's European Adventures (part 1?)

What the fuck. I haven't been in the blogosphere in like, many months and, for that, I apologize because I know how much my presence has been missed: page views have been off the charts - not. Flatline. You've all killed me with your lack of love. Just kidding, I did this to myself.

Anyway! I have so much shit to fill y'all in on. Since the last time I wrote a post on this majestic blog, I have been to 5 European countries and am now residing in one. I'm not gonna say it because I don't want to get stalked. Just kidding, it's France. The point of me telling you this isn't to be like, "oh, I'm so worldly now and I only condone wearing leather jackets and high top sneakers.. Meehh," in fact, it is simply to tell you all how much WEIRD shit has happened to me, or I have witnessed since being here. I will tell my anecdotes in order of least strange to most strange, or on the scale of "public toddler urination to gypsy curses."

1. I was admiring the gorgeous architecture in central Berlin and glanced down at my arm to see two bugs fucking each other on it. I flicked those shits off but later reflected on it and decided I was actually kind of flattered. My arm screams sketchy motel hookups.

2. An elderly woman was walking down the stairs as I was walking up them in a beautiful old castle. She must have been super excited because she decided to skip a step and consequently fell into the wall nearest her, ricocheted off of that wall and was making a beeline for me. My instinct for self preservation manifested itself in me sticking my arm out (I also hoped to save her from falling down stairs made of pure stone). Did I save her? No. She has already semi-caught her footing and I ended up punching this poor, old German woman directly in her chicken cutlet breast. Needless to say I blushed and wanted to fly away like Russel Edgington in True Blood.

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3. "I just wanna go out and dance tonight!" The harmless utterance that resulted in.. Well, you'll see. So, Wrocław, Poland has a pretty decent nightlife and my mates (friends don't exist in Europe..) and I decided to give it a try. Ah, the bar with the red awning looks good! Enter we did. The bar had a nice vibe and the downstairs dance floor was pretty decent. As the night went on and the shots started to wear off, strange things were noticed.. Like, the portrait of Mao Zedong on the wall and the one of Stalin opposite him. Oh, then the one of Che Guevera. Then I began to notice that everyone was at LEAST 38-45 in this bar and all dancing like they had no arms. As I rested on the guard rail, I observed the fine detail work. Hmm, a sickle. Man, all of the lights in here are red... And so was the awning. In .002838 seconds, my eyes widen, my buzz dies like it was shot in the face, and I realize that we are in a middle-aged Communist bar. The despicable dancing should have been the first sign.. We left alive, un-sacrificed, and uninitiated into any sort of underground gang.

4. To begin with, public transportation isn't my strong point. I am always clammy-handed thinking that I will end up on the wrong side of town. So, with this worry floating around in my mind, I wait for my tram. Waiting at a tram stop late at night is also not one of my favorite things to do, which is why I always pretend to be talking to someone, whether it be texting or speaking, on my phone. Not the best strategy. Noot the best strategy. I'm approached by two men. My heart's pace quickens and I get really involved in the 'text message' I'm composing, only this time I wonder if I should actually compose something - a cry for help or my will. I'm spoken to. [I'll translate the french into true English]
Guy: "Eh, j'ai besoin de ton portable" = Yo, bitch, I need your ghetto ass phone, you're not even texting anyone.
Me: "Euh.. non, je ne fume pas." = Umm, no thanks, I don't smoke. <-- me being a fucking idiot
Guy: "Non! Ton portable. Donne-moi ton portable." = No, you piece of shit, give me your phone, I wouldn't ever offer you one of my cigarettes anyway.
Me: "Uhh, non merci. Je n'ai pas de..." = Um, no thanks.. I don't have <-- me stopping myself from saying that I don't have a cellphone.. because I realized that it was in my hand.
Guy: grabs phone from me and calls his girlfriend, then shoves it back in my hand.
Me: "Merci!" = thank you for not killing me, do you have any hand sanitizer?

See how that played out?? I was the one who ended up saying thank you! After being harassed for my phone, I said thank you; probably because I was thankful that I still had a heartbeat and that I had my phone back. Fuck. At least I got on the right tram.

5. Just chillin' in the park. Little toddler walks by with her mother and she is complaining about something ridiculous. Oh, she has to pee. Well, hold it like the rest of civilization. No. That mother was on her game and spared no time de-robing her very own daughter in public by ripping her frilly tutu off. Then, something happened that looked way too well rehearsed: the mother lifted the child up so that the child's back was against the mother's stomach and her legs were in stirrup position. What ensued, I have not words to describe. Shameless, the child exploded a stream of pee that made Niagra Falls blush. It went on for a solid 25-30 seconds, too. This little girl was not kidding. Tutu was pulled back on, scooter was remounted and off they went into the sunset.

6. Waiting to pay for a delicious dinner of mystery-meat dumplings in Poland, a pregnant gypsy and her son began to approach my group's table. Let me say, dis ain't no Esmerelda. She looked like she had just crawled out of Katy Perry's garbage can, if that helps you visualize her. I immediately girded my loins and felt for my wallet in my pocket. It was there. She would have to cross many a boundary to get to it, however, I felt that she wouldn't object to violating me. Her squinty eyes scanned our table and then, of course, because my life is a joke, the kid next to me, who has decided to pay with nearly all coins, drops them ALL on the ground. Her tongue flicks and she whips her head in our direction. "Jesus, pick it up!" I say, keeping my eye on the gypsy kid, I can tell he's already a swift thief. Phew, all the coins have been picked up and the gypsy slows her pace. All is well until HE DROPS EVERYTHING AGAIN. This time, the gypsy screeches and throws her hands in the air and her son turns into the devil and runs straight for me. At least, that's how it went down in my head. He picked up the coins again, this time in the nick of time, as the gypsy rounds our table. She then murmurs some ugly words and makes some hand motions in our direction, the whole time, her stare unwavering. And that was the day I was presumably cursed by a gypsy.

These are just some of my stories and I'm more than certain that more will come.. Until next time!

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The Day of 18 Holes

What could be more perfect for a reunion than an 8:30 tee-time of 18 holes of golf. I'm sure many many people wouldn't protest. I, however, only find golf to be fun: 


a. When I hit the ball well
b. When it is limited to between six and nine holes (nine is pushing it..)
c. When I have a golf cart to drive recklessly - this is a must.


Now, seeing as how I'm not a very accomplished golfer, only "b" and "c" are usually pretty realistic while "a" happens only once in a blue moon, or as my Dad said to me when I had a surprisingly nice shot, "even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while."


Let's just say, I started the day with my first drive, like anyone else, however, I managed to hit the ball at a ninety degree angle to the right. Fuck. Also, I was golfing with my Dad, my sister's husband's Dad and his nephew who was closer to their age than mine. Meanwhile, the husband, his two brothers and another kid my own age (all in their fresh twenties) went off golfing together... with a pack of bud light lime. I had a hat that made me look like an Asian tourist, a second hand set of golf clubs, less than half of my dignity, and was rolling with the old men. Also, I forgot my golf shoes that are two sizes too big and ended up wearing top siders.


Things really didn't change from hole to hole. I hit the ball like shit, put like shit, and swore a lot more than should be allowed -- hold on, I just witnessed a dog take a shit; so carefree they are. I told my Dad that I "fucking hated this." There is nothing worse than golfing like shit in a group of people that can golf well. It's the whole waiting factor. The fact that people actually have to wait for you because you suck at hitting a ball off of the ground is beyond mortifying. I'm also weirdly uncomfortable bending my knees and jutting my butt out - some clubs are just too disproportionately short. My Dad just patted me on the back and called me a good sport. I wanted to rage flail.


By hole seven or eight, this was everywhere you looked:

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Hardcore Japanese beetle orgies. I mean hardcore. This is, from what we see, a monogamous relationship. The golf course literally had dozens of beetles on top of one another every four feet, not to mention the ones that were flying around attached to each other. In the middle of this golf shit show, I thought, at least someone is having a good time.

I was given the opportunity to bail after hole nine but my horrifically beautiful conscience told me that this was for my Dad and not for me, so I stayed. He repaid me by peeing at the tee-off on hole ten. Broad daylight, an open golf course, and he's just peein' away. Not surprisingly, this was the hole that, when I went to drive, completely missed the ball and ended up sending a cheeseburger-sized patch of grass soaring.

I can't tell you the number of times I hit the ball way into the rough and just kind of kicked it out onto the fairway. Karma bit me in the ass when I did this once. I hit the ball, a great hit might I add, and it ended up ricocheting off of a tree trunk and shooting backwards. I actually managed to hit the ball backwards. Who am I?

Other than almost getting killed by a rogue ball hit by some man with an OBSCENELY saggy stomach, golfing turned out to be not too bad. I learned more from my Dad than I would have if I was drinking bud light with the guys and managed to get a pretty good tan after four and a half hours in the blistering sun. Why do I have to find lessons in things? Fuck. I just wanted a beer. 

Moral of the story: golf is sadistic, golfers are masochistic, but golf with the family somehow makes that okay. Now here is Robin Williams demonstrating all too well how ridiculous golf really is:

That Time I Got Trapped In The Women's Bathroom

I'll preface this with: I am a male. This is important to the story, as indicated by the title of this post.

So, I'm just strolling through JCPenny's, which is nobody's ideal shopping paradise, when I realize that I should probably find a bathroom before I make this place even more of a nightmare by projectile shatting all over a mannequin. I look up and see a sign that has this picture on it, more or less:

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Ah. A woman, a man, a child, and Professor X - everyone can use this bathroom, even mutants.

I follow the ceiling signs and finally find the bathroom. Now, mind you, I have been doing this brisk walk for fear of an early bomb toss, so I really just plow right into the bathroom without a care and head for a stall.

I sit down in peace and let the good times roll. Everything is peachy. Someone enters the stall next to mine, she has some nicely painted toenails and is most definitely Asian by the look of those toes. To the left of me another person enters the stall. She also has some lovely painted toenails and is most definitely a chubbier, white mom with short spiky blond hair - I can just tell. (If you have never tried guessing at someone's appearance simply based on their feet, give it a go; you may surprise yourself.)

Wow, a lot of women and only women have been coming in and out of this family/mutant friendly bathroom. I start to get nervous and shift around a bit, noticing how ugly my boat shoes must look to all of the pretty, painted toenails around me. I even drop my shorts lower to cover up my hairy legs. All of the sudden, paranoia sets in. I break into a gentle sweat and realize that I should not be here.

I imagine the look of pure disgust and shame that spiky-haired mother would give me as she wraps a protective arm around her young daughter while I exit the incriminating stall. What a sick mother fucker, is all she would think while she shook her head in slow motion. The daughter would be crying, of course, with nothing but pure fear in her eyes as she looked at me. At this point, I'm convinced I'm a terrible person.

Some girl has this horribly loud walkie-talkie and it sounds like she is getting paged by the store. Naturally, I assume she has been sent to find me for violating women's rights or something. But she, too, sits in a stall. Then, who I assume to be her grandmother, also sits in a stall and takes an obscene amount of toilet paper, wipes once and leaves. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE.

Finally, I have waited for about 15 minutes... the coast has just cleared after walkie-talkie granddaughter taught grandmother how to dry her hands with an air dryer. I whip my shorts up, don't take the time to flush and book it out of there, only to be greeted by my friend, whom I was with, and some sales employee he had enlisted in the search for me. Apparently, I had been paged throughout the entire JCPenny's, while I was trapped in a women's bathroom, surrounded by glossy toenails.

To end, I glanced at the bathroom door. It said WOMEN'S BATHROOM. So clearly, JCPenny's needs some ceiling signs that match what's on the actual door for God's sake.

A Belated Mother's Day Post: how my family knows how to do up a holiday

I understand that Mother's Day has already passed and is nearly a week behind us all, however, mothers still deserve to be honored and that is why I am telling the tale of my mother's Mother's Day. I'm not good at blogging on time. That is a fact.

So, the day starts rather wonderfully. I snap one eye open at 8 a.m. and look out of my bedroom window to see my mother and father sauntering away from the house in preparation for a run. Perrrrfect (conniving, one-eyed, lazy smile - I can only open one eye in the morning, whaterr.) Little did I know, this would not be like most other runs (we will come back to this). Normally my parents take a specific route on their runs so, naturally, I assume they will follow this trend.

I skillfully and dexterously tiptoe down the stairs, taking caution as to not be spotted through the windows by my all too unsuspecting parents. Seeing as how I just got a new set of temporary wheels, I plan to sneak to Wegman's and purchase a devilishly gargeous, not gorgeous, but GARGEOUS, bouquet of flowers for my mother. My little brother wakes. For some reason, I did not expect him to be home.. he is only 10, so this is a foolish assumption and I mentally slap myself.

"Come to Wegman's with me," is all I say. He complies and grabs a prepaid Visa, while I fumble with some crumpled cash. Something isn't right here.

We get into the car, which has a manual transmission - something I know how to drive but am super rusty at. Therefore, first gear is smooth sailing. Shift to second, car gives a protesting lurch, however, we continue on. Third gear, all is well, save my white knuckles clenching the steering wheel and my perpetually (while driving this car) tense toes.

Once onto the main street, I begin to relax. We saw no sign of my parents, meaning that they took their usual route and the path to Wegman's would be clear.

NOT THE CASE.

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My parents were directly in front of us on the sidewalk. I ineptly pulled into a "deliveries only" parking lot to somehow avoid driving past them and ruining everything. Like a dumbass, I pulled out almost immediately after I had pulled in. I think I was afraid of getting chastised for not having anything to deliver other than a really lame story about how I wanted to surprise my mom with flowers.

The inevitable happened. I pulled up to the the red light right by where my parents were running. My little brother, like the stealthy spy that he is, pokes his head up and looks them dead in the eyes.

"Oh, great! Now they definitely saw us!" I poorly blame him.

My parents have literally stopped running now and are just looking at me. The light goes green. I pull into an empty PetSmart parking lot.... what I thought this would accomplish, I have no idea, but I did it. SO. Flowers - busted. I did end up buying her some anyways.

Later in the day: family golfing! Not bad, I think. I'm ready to dress like a douche and swing a club, so I'm all for it. We're going along, hitting our balls, some better than others, when we finally reach hole 6 or something. It's an elevated hole, so where you tee off from is raised quite high. High enough that there is the top of a small apple tree to the left of the tee.

I hit the ball, it's beautiful - soars right to a nice spot on the green (this happens to me about 3% of the time I play golf). My little brother skips on up to his tee and swings his club with the might of eighty men. It must have been too much for his tiny body to handle because the club flies forth from his tiny hands and wedges itself comfortably into the top of the apple tree. My poor father, one of the champion golfers at this country club, mind you, climbs the apple tree. The ten year-old brother failed miserably at climbing. So my Dad is up there for a good ten minutes, I would say. My Mom and I are dying laughing because all you can see is the occasional hand reaching for the club and the rare foot dangling from the leaves. To make matters more embarrassing for my father, golfers have caught up behind us. Oh, and the daughter in the bunch has a scholarship to play golf at Rutgers, so we're feeling pretty good right about now.

"Yeah, I don't know.. I think he is in the tree," I hear someone say.

Dear God, we just need to leave this place.

Finally, my Dad is able to free the golf club and it falls to the ground. Freeing himself from the tree was not as easy. Let's just say, when the first thing you see coming out of a tree is someone's ass, it's likely to be a difficult descent.

Happy belated Mother's Day. I hope you all were able to maintain your dignity.

Childhood in the 90s - A Stallion With Pedals

Here is the second post pertaining to my Olympian-status childhood in the 90s. I feel like those were the days when forming a bike gang was cool, accepted, and feared by those not included. Fuck no we didn't wear bike helmets. That would have made us the Steve Urkel of bike gangs. My friends and I, including Audecdote, were much more better..

We would meet up in the morning, not on the sidewalk like any dumb old kid, we met up in a bush. You heard me. We had a completely concealed sanctuary shrouded in shrubbery, with enough room to stand. Eat your heart out sheet-fort kids.

Once we had met and written down a detailed account of the current and predicted weather forecast in a Harry Potter journal, it was time to ride.

I'm going to ask you to play this song while you read the next part:

Imagine the silhouettes of three comrades, faintly coming into view against the blazing backdrop that is the morning sun. We rode with conviction, plowing mercilessly over any ant or twig that came in our way.

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We fucked bitches on the reg. Or did we? No, we didn't. We glided over the concrete coming to our final stop. A final stop that only a regular Evel Knievel or Jackie Chan would dare attempt. What was it you ask? A poor excuse for a hill in my Grandmother's back yard.

We lined up our bikes as they whinnied and neighed in protest. Here's where I'm gonna mind fuck you. We pretended our bikes were horses, no, not horses, but GIANT stallions, their muscles rippling and their hooves the size of garbage can lids. The sweat dripped down the sides of our faces from the velvet riding helmets that sat atop our heads, secured by a delicate and choking leather strap. Remember when I said we were way too cool to wear bike helmets? T'was because we had access to fucking velvet riding helmets. Let me reiterate that we were the cool bike gang.

"HIYA, Lightning!" I shouted the name which I had bestowed upon my bike, pointing forward and then quickly retracting my hand to get it back on the bike handle.. I mean, mane. My stallion cautiously descended the hill that was at a near-90 degree angle, and by 90 I mean 35.

"Magnum, ride!" Audecdote shouted on my coattails. The name came from the brand of the bike, however, I now realize that it sounded like she was shouting some sort slogan for a condom campaign.

The third, in elegance as usual, simply acted as if she was giving the horse a firm kick to the sides to get her horse moving.

Down we rode in slow motion, the wind blowing in our faces, forgetting about the world around us and focusing only on the task of making the next jump: the drop-off of the driveway into the neighbor's lawn (a good 2 feet).
 

Most importantly, what happened when we came into contact with another bike gang? I'll tell you this much, the kids with the velvet helmets definitely owned.

It went something like this:

Clearly we were Liv Tyler. 'Nuff said.

Childhood in the 90s - Pokemania

I'm thinking that I would like to write a series of posts about being a child of the 90s. Probably one of the better decades to have grown up in. I mean, I did some of the craziest shit in the 90s. Crazy as in "would I dare attempt to swing from that tree like that nowadays?!" as well as "You're literally fucking crazy, Pokemon do not exist." (they might).

Speaking of Pokemon, I think that is the first thing I will focus on. Even typing the word gets me all excited and giddy, yearning to earn some official pokeleague badges! Rather recently, my family and I moved, thus requiring a thorough cleanup of my room and of course, the inevitable process of deciding what gets to stay and what goes.

So, I sat there and cleaned my room up, finding things like old pamphlets from musicals I had been in, books I had forgotten I had, old drawings shoved into a binder, and something that was a translucent purple. SWEET BEAN POD! I had stumbled across my old Gameboy Color! I was the cool (?) kid who had this one:

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I actually remember my step-brother once saying: "I want the one you have. That queer lookin' one." I simply believed he could not say "clear" and had some unheard-of speech impediment. Not the case.

I picked it up and held it with such care and reverence that it seemed impossible to me how indifferently I had treated it when I was younger; tossing it aside when I was done with it, allowing the screen to get all scratched up, losing the cover that goes over the batteries. What was once simply a toy was now a treasure and an all too tangible link to my carefree days as a child riding his Big Wheel with his Game Boy in his pocket. The nostalgia set in and I realized I kind of had to shat.

What was more glorious was what I found when I turned it over to inspect it:

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MY FRIENDS! That was the first thing I thought. I mean, how goddamn pathetic. But seriously! Every day I had played this game and trained my little monsters! It's like when there were all those articles in the paper that instructed parents how to care for their child if Harry Potter died in the final book.... only vastly different. There was no article about how to cope with the fact that Pokemon was technically on the outs and that young men in their late teens probably shouldn't be caught playing it in public.

Y'know whuh I says? I says FUCK DAT!

I started a new game and played to my heart's content. I'm still playing, in fact. I played this morning. I then found my Gold Version:

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This required some surgery, seeing as how the battery inside of it had died. Yeah, there is a battery inside of the cartridge. So, if your game doesn't hold a save, Google how to replace the battery and you'll be gold (pff... no pun intended). I went so far as to use a butter knife, two miniscule screw drivers, and a chopstick, I'm pretty sure, to pry that cartridge open and replace the battery by gracefully taping it into place with scotch tape. It worked!

My life became so much brighter! I had a REASON to finish my homework. I was training myself to get all of my work done by like, seven o'clock on a weekday (unheard of) so I could play my game. It worked wonderfully, my grades were steady As, I had time to relax, I was super happy. I even got sucked back into the TV show. Another throwback to my carefree days as a rockin' fourth grader.

 The 8 or 9 year old me was back. The one who adamantly supported the theory that Pokemon, in fact, exist. They just don't want us to see them because we're not ready for them just yet. I convinced a few and drove away a lot more.

My obsession grew and I ended up buying two games from the newer generations (not as good.. noooot as good Nintendo/Gamefreak). I even asked for one for Valentine's Day. Things got out of hand.. I refused a VERY nice offer because I was in the midst of an Elite Four battle.. I mean, you just don't mess with that shit. I tried to re-initiate the offer I had been given once I saved the game.. apparently the moment was gone.

My point: If you can find time to relive something that made you SO happy as a kid (in some semblance of moderation), you will be a happier person. I not only find fun in replaying the games but a sense of comfort in the nostalgia of it all.

Find the time to become a child again for a day or two. It puts trivial worries in perspective and gives you a chance to enjoy the day :)

To close, I shall provide you with the most epic song ever composed:

Comment back with your own childhood adventures!

Things That I Know Happen While My Eyes are Closed

What a hiatus! I shall waste no time boring you with what I was doing for weeks because it was all boring and worthless. I sound like a MANIC DEPRESSANT!! (screamed like SNL's Target Lady. Kristen Wiig, I cherish you.)

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Anywho, back to the point of this post. Lately, I have been having trouble opening my eyes after I close them. Don't worry, it's not due to some horrific medical condition.

Worse.

It's due to what my brain does to me when I close my eyes.

For example: Showering. All is well while I'm in the shower. I scrub my body with absolutely luscious soaps whose fragrances range from shea butter to pomegranite and mangos. The water is just hot enough that as it rains on my head and flows down onto the rest of my body, I get chills and the utmost satisfaction of reveling in such sinful warmth. I scrub my head with shampoo and rinse. I grab the exfoliating face wash.. wait. This is where things get hard. As you can imagine, washing your face with your eyes open isn't easy, especially in a shower where unexpected water splashes are frequent.

I brave the storm and slap the wash on my face, eyes closed. DAMN IT. As soon as I am ready to open my eyes, I know that I will see this:

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(No, not the normal guy who looks unfortunately unaware of the horrific demon behind him) peering at me from behind a slightly pulled back shower curtain. It's a good thing I'm in the shower because I will inevitably have shat myself.

I also know that once I switch off the light in the bathroom after I'm done showering and am ready to leave, this will happen:

 

Actually, this happens to me in my mind more often than most other scary things. And, of course, my wedgie will be nowhere near as awful as her's. Her asshole chafe must be out of this world.

Aah, so once I have been properly spied on by the demon in the shower and dragged down the stairs to an unholy wedgie-hell, I'll go to bed. ONLY IT IS SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT.

The bed faces the closet. Sometimes the closet is still open when I get in bed. The lights are off. This means that I will not get out of bed for fear of getting dragged under my bed in a similar manner to what happens to me after I get out of the shower. So there I lie, my eyes unwaveringly locked on the closet, waiting for this to happen:

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I don't know why this must happen to me. I accept that my subconscious wants to terrify me and clearly the movies I watch don't help either. I also frequently imagine myself just about to leave the apartment and then DRAGGED RIGHT BACK INSIDE! God, I need some sleep.

So please, share what wonderful things your mind does to you!

Stress Continued

I posted previously about my stresses, one of which manifested itself like a dormant alien baby come to life inside of me, punching, kicking, scratching, and swearing in an extra-terrestrial language I can't understand (no one likes being left out of a conversation). This particular stress is associated with my future and how study abroad may or may not fuck up my life. It went a little like this:

Me, 2:00 p.m.:

"Yep! I'm going to my adviser's office today to figure things out, I'm sure it will all work out."

Later in the Day:

Adviser - "Well, it's definitely a tricky one!" (makes some sort of motion like she is going to give me a playful punch) "Your next step is to make a meeting with your department chair, he can help you organize the rest of your semesters here."


At this point, I'm feeling only slightly less optimistic due to her confused look when I asked her how I should plan my semesters in order to graduate on time. Summer classes might be an option. (In my mind, there is still that stigma of the delinquents in my high school associated with summer school).

Me: "Hi, I need to make an appointment with my department chair."


Oompa Loompa-like woman: "Huh, his door is closed."


Me: "Okay, well is he inside? I need to know because I still have to apply for abroad and the application is due soon."


Oompa Loompa: "Well, I mean, the door is closed.. I.." she said, like I have asked her to summon the devil and send him to heaven, making the task of knocking on a fucking door seem an impossible task. She holds her hands out to her side like she is balancing two serving trays, shaking her head from side to side.


Me: Okay. Well, I'll just come back another time then.

Now, I was pretty pissed off. All I needed was a signature from him to confirm one thing and a nice meeting to figure out some other shit. I decided that I would attempt my other adviser. He was not in his room. So, I made my way over to Arts & Sciences to see if I could get the head of the French department's signature for my minor form.


Such a beautiful woman. She sports the latest in mullet trends, peppered mousy-brown hair of course, has a ski slope nose that ends in a nice sharp point and, atop that nose, round, silver glasses that frame her black beady eyes. Her stature is that of a Hobbit, and, though I've never seen her feet, I'm assuming they are also Hobbit-like. She...

photo source from mymiddle-earth.net

was also not in her room.

By now, I had walked between three different departments in a horrific slush that my boat-shoes betrayed me in. I would say I have almost broken BOTH of my legs at least seven times today.


I walk into the student dining center, not even a dining hall, so I am forced to use money instead of a meal swipe. Immediately, I see some sad-looking Mexican man making quesadilla. YES. I trudge over to him and order in staccato: Veggie. Everything. Sour Cream? Yes. Salsa? Yes. For here or to go? GO.


Once I have the hot, slightly B.O. - smelling quesadilla in my hands, life seems a little brighter. While waiting in line, I notice a basket. A glorious basket filled with cookies, however, these cookies are anything but ordinary. They're literally seven or eight inches across...

Me, 3:30 p.m.:

Can I handle that fucking cookie??

Yes. Yes I can handle that fucking cookie.


I snatched it from the basket, I think I scared some of the people around me. And since you all know what happened after I bought that cookie, I will end the post like this: