Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Phone Banks: Unspeakable Horrors.

This past electoral season (I know hearing that probably makes you want to blow your brains out. You've had enough, but I promise this post is comical and has nothing to do with politics...it is merely facilitated by politics) I interned for a congressman's re-election campaign. For the most part, I typed names into databases and resent mail to people who've moved (we will find you again), but every so often I would have to make calls.

Making phone calls to complete strangers is awkward, especially when you know that they really don't want to talk to you. No one wants a political call. In fact, it was quite obvious I was being screened after a little while. I get inexplicably nervous during these calls and my nervous laugh gets out of control.



I am also horribly conscious of each and every time I say "Um." I feel my intelligence dropping and I start to sweat and read the script like a woman narrating a tampon commercial.

Here are some highlights:

There was the time that I called a man and had just finished asking him how he was that day when he cut in and said, "I don't vote for that party! They lie!" in an abrasive tone.

Taken aback, I sputtered, "Oh I'm sorry you feel that way..."

He cut in again, "yeah, they lie all the time," and promptly hung up the phone.

I went ahead and listed him as a person who we could not count on for a vote.


Then there was the time that a woman answered the phone sounding bored and of lower intellect. I went through my entire spiel before there was a pause and she said, "Yeah I don't vote."

Thinking on my toes, I awkwardly stated that voting was an important part of the democratic process and it was certainly important to vote.

She replied, "Yeah I don't understand none of that stuff so I just don't vote."


Not much to say to that so I wished her a happy day. Hung up. Worried about America, and went onto my next call. 


Moving onto the time I was trusted to man the phones. 


The rest of the staff would be out for a while so naturally I prayed for the phone to ring so I could answer it and feel important. The phone did ring and I got an entire ear full from a man that felt as though one of the major presidential candidates was ignoring an important issue and he was worried, and I could I please pass on his message. I assured him I would of course because obviously I, as an intern for a congressional candidate have a close relationship with both presidential candidates. Then I gave him a number to another victory center so he may give his 5 minute spiel to someone else unsuspecting and just wanting to feel important. 

While calling people so get RSVPs for a dinner fundraiser  I was often usure how to pronounce people's names (I would guess occasionally and be corrected with annoyance: Oh I'm sorry you pronounce Liedleman LIEdlemen and I pronounced it Leedlemen: SORRY) so I just asked for the first names of the people.

A man answered and not thinking I asked, "Can I please speak with Bob or Linda (last name)?" 

Gruffly, "This is Bob." 

So essentially, that was the time I made a man question his telephone masculinity.  My bad. 



Friday, October 26, 2012

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:

Image Source

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Waking Up...Like a Champion

You know those cruel little pie charts, or lists, or whatever that state that in college there is sleep, a social life, and academics: You may choose two of them.  You've seen this yes? That graphical representation is a cruel farce because without your written or conscious consent, sleep is already eliminated; your professors will make sure of it. Therefore, as you can imagine, waking up after not getting the sleep you feel you deserve becomes a grisly operation.

1. Your alarm sounds and your head immediately denies it. "What's that noise?" your head says to you. My roommate must be waking up or something, maybe my dream now has background music! Wouldn't that be lovely. You feel a lot like this kid as you half slumber.


But then your brain takes over and you glance at your roommate's clock which suspiciously become an hour and twenty minutes fast (how does that happen? INCEPTION), and you realize that that light guitar noise is for you. Yes. Light guitar noises, you can't use those horrid beeps. You'll cringe when you'll hear them and wake up angry every time.

2. So after you've accepted you have to be awake you'll stare at your phone for about two minutes letting the seconds dwindle down until you can will yourself to slither out of your bed and head to the bathroom. The bathroom should always be the first place you go. If it's not I don't know how to respond to you as a person, especially considering a morning bowel movement almost ensures an off kilter day which is important to know upfront.

3. While sitting on the toilet.


I recommend that you begin to consider the outfit you'll wear that day. It will save oodles of time. If you haven't considered your outfit of the day you'll only end up staring at the mass of clothing in your drawers like so:


4. Once dressed, if you'z a ladayyy you've got to do a little to improve your appearance. Sometimes Jesus will smile upon you and give you hair that you can just not touch and run out the door. D-d-dancing in the dark.

And sometimes you wake up with some bed head and need to either create a manufactured style or throw it up in some sort of up do.

Up dos are also great if you haven't washed your hair recently. :) However, if at anytime in the morning you pull out a curling iron and use it. I, and women everywhere, will smite you...with that curling iron. Fuck you for curling your hair in the morning to go to class. Fuck. You.

5. Make up is up to you. I've been leading toward make up as of late as I've had some spottiness.  Thanks hormones and stress. Mascara is really the only challenging thing about make up in the morning as you feel with every stroke of your wand you are peeling your eye open again as it so desperately wishes to remain closed. I also find make up time the time to bargain with myself. (In that way I suppose waking up is a lot like grieving...hmmm) I promise that I'll nap after that class. I'll speed walk home and get a great nap in (I don't nap). If I'm headed to the internship, I'm going to cut out early and get a little nap in for sure! That never happens.

6. Now if you've got the time (it depends on how long you've spent dillydallying putting on your socks), you get to go downstairs to inject coffee into your veins (my coffee maker hasn't been working lately, it's not even a little bit okay, and I would really appreciate your thoughts and prayers guys), and maybe eat a little cereal. Don't eat a bagel with your coffee. Don't do that to yourself. You're going to shit directly in the middle of your class. I promise you.

7. NOW GET YOUR ASS OUT THE DOOR YOU'RE RUNNING LATE. (Even if you were done getting ready early you sat on a couch and stared at the wall as your eyes felt weird until you absolutely couldn't leave any later.) HAUL ASS.


Wednesday, October 24, 2012

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

Image Source
 
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
Image Source
It's quiet, it's effective.

C. Bag of blood
Image Source
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.

Monday, October 22, 2012

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.

 
Image Source
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!?

Saturday, October 20, 2012

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!

Image Source

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.

Friday, October 5, 2012

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:


Image Source

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:


Image Source

Thursday, October 4, 2012

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.

Image Source

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!

Image Source

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Accidental Thievery

So there's this guy in my English class...and he's probably 25-27 (my original typo was 77, that would be an absurd variation. I chuckled thinking about it, so I thought I'd share), and he has a really deep voice, and his contributions to the class are insightful and lovely, and he has pretty blue eyes to go with his pretty face, and yesterday he sat next to me.


I was pretty pumped to show off my similarly insightful contributions, and impress him, and make him fall in love with me, and take me to a coffe house, and then by me a Pumpkin drink, and then marry me, and father my children. I mean...I'm pretty fancy. How could he resist?


So anyway, he taps me on my shoulder, and I turn around ready to dazzle him with my smile like Edward dazzles Bella.



He in turn thrusts forward the sign-in sheet which I delicately take from him, saying thanks in a demure sort of way. He says something along the lines of, "That girl in front of you still needs it too," though his voice is so deep I really understood what he was saying because of his finger point in the direction of the girl ahead of me.

 I am instantly accommodating and bubbly, SO ready to give that girl the sign in sheet, and show him how perfect I am. So I take the sign in sheet and then I see the pen in his hand: it was a black pen, a nice black pen, I remember this still. My hand closes around the pen and I tug at it. He does not relinquish it. And I'm all:


Why was he not relinquishing the pen? I need it to sign in. And then I realized -- It was his pen.


I tried to steal his pen. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK. So I naturally turn into slightly awkward 1950's housewife me: "Oh my gosh I'm terribly sorry!" I then turn so I don't have to see his face which is almost certainly telling me that I am a huge dumbass. Meanwhile, the girl ahead of me has finished signing her name and turns back to me, unsure as to who she should pass it to. I'm unnecessarily terse with her, "I still need it; it has to come this way still." Subtext: You dumb whore.

It is only the first five minutes of my "shot" with this pretty, gravel-voiced man, and I've managed to make myself into the dumb fuck who steals pens out of people's hands. Then, knowing I have to spend the next hour uncomfortably close to him, I wear this expression for the duration of class:

Typical.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

My So Called Failed Writing Projects

Hi folks! Haven't been blogging lately I know :(

Anyway, I just finished a screenplay that I've been working on for a few weeks, and I'm sad that it's gone, so I thought I'd take a trip down memory lane and see what was in my writing journals. Since Stephenie Meyer convinced me that anyone can get published (that's not a jab at Steph Meyer, when I was fifteen she really did inspire me to actually try writing novels, I wrote a really bad novel about a fallen angel and then rethought life), I have kept a journal where I write down my ideas for books or short stories or screenplays. Sometimes I even write portions of the works in there. When I'm famous I'll sell them for millions MUAHAHAHA. Anyway. There are some real gems. Walk with me

1. I had this idea while washing my mother's car today and thinking about House Bunny: A girl who works for an sensual car wash starts dating a normal guy (the car wash is in Key West because Vegas would be too stereotypical. Anyway, they laugh about her job at the car wash because she's actually smart, went to a good school, but then it's not funny anymore and it draws them apart.

2. Two really bad Irish love stories: One was inspired by a book exchange that exists at my college (titillating, I know). Two librarians fall in love through letters and books. The other is an almost rip-off of the film P.S. I Love You. A girl studies abroad in Ireland, meets a cute boy. They see each other the next night. They go home together. The cute boy has some endearing Irish friends who are funny, and the two of them proceed to have a torrid romance throughout her college years.

3. A World War Two era novel that upon closer review is essentially a Pearl Harbor knock off without Josh Hartnett or the setting of Pearl Harbor. Boy and girl fall in love, boy is deployed, girl is pregnant, boy is lost in action, but is them found again, boy and girl get married.

4. I also found a bucket list scribbled down in between ideas.  One of the things was meet Stephen Colbert, Steph Meyer, and Robert Pattinson. That's all. Nice.

5. A horror novel set in the woods. I even got so far as to write a back flap to this one, I will even keep the original grammar for you: The way Susan saw it she and Graham had three choices; die from exposure, get killed by three serial killing psychos, or survive. She was hoping for the third, but the odds weren't looking good. When Susan is forced on a hiking trip for school, she thought that was the worst thing that could happen to her. Dealing with Graham Rollins, the devilishly handsome boy intent on tormenting her was almost a perk in comparison. Now Susan finds herself in much deeper trouble. Fighting for her life against bitter cold and three psychos, Susan must depend on who else but Graham Rollins.
OH SNAP! Also, I seemed quite intent on conveying that the serial killers were indeed psychos. Why there were three serial killers and not just one, I have no idea.

6. Finally, a novel circling around an anorexic ballet dancer named December. She goes to live with her Aunt and is shockingly an outcast. Though I bet anything she finds love soon.

I would like to also include a disclaimer that I am not a completely terrible writer, and not all of my ideas are this bad. Just the ones I get while ambling along the street by myself with nothing better to do than compose ridiculous stories in my head.

What stories are in your heads?

Monday, July 2, 2012

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:


Image Source
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:


Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Bridal Fitting

I'm in a wedding this summer yay! Though that of course means that I am put through the stress of getting a bridesmaid's dress. I got my measurements in the fall and of course with the amount of ice cream I consume figured that the dress would be too tight. I was having nightmares for quite a while.  As luck would have it the dress was far too large (evil smirks of satisfaction), even falling down in the boob department which is usually the department that I need more room for.

The first time I went in for a fitting I became inexplicably furious with my mother after she missed the turn off for the Bridal place, and then was told I needed to have my wedding shoes to even get the fitting done. Are you fucking me!? I scheduled another appointment and went off to buy a bra with no back and feel nervous about it the entire drive home. 

Fast-forward to my next appointment. I went up on my own this time making sure to bring my shoes with me.  Not my bra though; they can suck it. The woman retrieves my dress and holds it out; I look at her.  What does she want me to do? Take all of my clothes off in front of her to put this dress on? What if that's not what she wants? Wouldn't that be embarrassing if I just started stripping and she didn't want me to. "I'll just have you step into this," she says.  I take the leap and remove my clothing to step into the dress. "Do you have a different bra to wear?" she asks me. 

"Yeah I do but it's a backless one so I didn't want to wear it too many times." She nods but looks annoyed.

She pins up the dress in the places that need pinning and then brings me out of the fitting room to check the length. It was just fine thank you, so it looks like I didn't need the shoes the first time assholes. "I'm just going to bring out Rosa to see if I've pinned this right," she tells me.

Rosa comes out, and she's most likely an old Russian woman.  Oh boy, I'm excited.  "Dis bra is too high," she tells me. I give her the same spiel as the other lady.  "You should have brought dat bra because different bras sit differently," she tells me.  I am ashamed. "What size are you?" she asks. I tell her and both women disappear to the back (I should mention that in my nerves I almost tell her the wrong size and second guess myself twice. I'm a winner). 

So they have bras just sitting in the back!? Then why are they giving me so much shit. I tell you what....

The first woman returns, takes me into the dressing room, and straps me into the bodice bra she's brought out. Hey! I can put on bras all by myself thank you.  "Can you just slip out of the bra you're wearing?" she asks.

Obediently I slip carefully out of the bra I was wearing so I'm not wearing two bras.  That would be weird. I'm careful not to allow my boob, or a fart to slip out as I fear either one will. I'm quickly learning that the bridal fitting women have not shame.

I'm brought back out in my fancy new bodice bra that has most likely been worn by countless other women, and Rosa begins to circle.  "This is too big still," she informs the other fitting lady.  Nice job not Rosa, I think to myself. "I want you to learn to study her body," Rosa tells not-Rosa in her Russian accent. I stifle a laugh.

"See it's wrong here," she says lightly stroking my ass on the seam of the dress with one of her fingers.  My eyes go wide.  NO SHAME!

Finally my fitting is done, I change back into my real clothes, notice that I'm wearing bright orange underwear with white shorts for the first time today, make an appointment to try on the dress again after it's been altered. and I'm allowed to go on my way.  I promptly turn the wrong way, disobeying the GPS but eventually make it home safely where my mother lectures me on the upcoming bachelorette party telling me, "You're my baby I can't lose you."

Mom it's just a dinner.

See Spot Run

I write this blog post whilst watching Anderson Cooper because I'm cultured. The first words I heard when turning on the television were "sex criminals unit" not applicable but alarming nonetheless. Anyway, so it's summer and I'm home from college and aside from being ignored by the majority of my high school friends (even though they assure me that we have to hang out soon every time they run into me), I've been quite bored. I don't really come from a family of doers; we're go getters for sure, but we like to chillax when time has allowed for it.

Alright I can't watch Anderson, they're talking about the Sandusky trial and it's far too horrible to comprehend and Anderson's not even anchoring: to Mean Girls.

Anyway so I decide to go for a run.  Generally I cope with boredom with eating, many a Babybell Swiss cheese has been consumed on my break from college days, but I decided to be healthy instead.  I had a bit of unused energy left in me for the day. 

The majority of my jog was quite pleasant --

Oh wait, Cady Herron is having her epiphany. THE LIMIT DOES NOT EXIST!

-- sorry. My jog was pleasant, not once did I feel like I was going to pass out and die. I am fully convinced I am not made to run, but I did not feel terrible running. Pitbull was coursing through my iPod and my veins tonight! Then, I spot two dogs, one of which I had already seen a few streets over. I like dogs, I have two of them, but I know to be wary of dogs I don't know.. especially in the dark when they may feel threatened.  So, I slow to a walk and extend my hand out in a gesture of good faith.  One dog comes over to smell me and walks away, placated, while the other runs down the street.  Fine, be that way asshole.

I continue on my run, even crossing the street so I don't run into the dog who was barking at me again.  I may continue my run in peace. --

Cady just broke the crown; she's an inspiration.

Sorry again. I did not continue my run in peace, though, for the dog began barking at me again and ran out into the road to continue barking at me when I acted like it wasn't there. Cool. I was raised by dog lovers, I am a dog lover. I could not in good conscience leave this dog in the middle of the road.  Cars were already coming and, thankfully, slowing but I couldn't leave this dog. I bend my knees and call for it, it just barks at me, not moving. Awesome.  I do not give up even though the people in the cars are looking at me like, "Go get your dog you idiot." I mentally tell them it's not my dog...okay I said it aloud to no one as I swore repeatedly, still calling to the dog as brightly as I could.  A whole host of emotions were no doubt playing across my face at any given moment during this trying time.

I watch this dog nearly get hit by a black SUV and think great, now I'm responsible for the eventual death of this dog that I feared was going to bite me only seconds ago. Though, I did throw a curse word ---

Oh hold on, a Magic Mike trailer. DANCE Matthew!

--back. I threw some curse words at the SUV for not stopping soon enough and may have even opened my arms in the universal sign for "what the fuck?" I still can't get this dog to come to me.  You know,  the thing is I want this dog to come to me so I can return it to safety, but I am also terrified of having this dog come to me because I fear it will bite me. I am a very, very torn woman.

Finally, I myself go into the road to see if I can meet the dog in the middle ground...you know the middle of the fucking road. The dog however retreats to the other side of the road, barking the entire time. I am placated, he is no longer in the middle of the road, and now I can leave him. He won't come near my anyway.  So I begin my run again, rejuvenated slightly by this stressful break.

The dog runs out into the road again, barking. Fuck. I can't leave this dog there can I? Of course not.  I wish that I had my phone with me to call my mom so that maybe the both of us could coral the animal, she is better with difficult dogs than I am. Alas, I have only me and my iPod.

"CHEWBACCA!" I hear yelled from the Red White and Blue house across the street.  I kid you not, there is a home on the street where I live, have lived since I was four years old, that has been painted Cobalt blue, with the truest red woodwork and little white stars on the front until just a few weeks ago.  It's infamous in our little hamlet and for years I've had to admit that I lived jut across the street from it.  Anyway, I digress. A child emerges from the formally Red White and Blue house, and I ask him amidst the barking, "is this your dog?"

The child answers not and I'm annoyed and almost tell him snottily that I've seen this dog all over town; it has even shat in my yard, and now it almost got hit by a car. I hold my tongue, however, worried that he will say something vile or cruel in response. These are not good people these Red White and Blue people; they hang their delicates on lines outside their home.

"Come Chewbacca," says the boy, ignoring my previous question. The dog promptly ran away from him, and I watched it, marveling that this fucking dog's name is Chewbacca. "I have a sandwich," the boy calls.  Chewbacca wants none of it.  He waits around the corner for the child to turn before coming to bark and growl at me.

Eventually, he corralled the dog with his sandwich and brought him home, and I half sprinted home, fired up with anger that these people failed to take care of their dog. I thought about calling them once I'd gotten home but figured they might tell me to go fuck myself and thought better of it.  Instead, I told my parents I was almost ravaged by this dog and vented about irresponsible dog owners before telling my own dog that she was a good girl.

This is what I get for running!

Sunday, June 24, 2012

White Knuckles

White Knuckled is a term that all should know if they are ever to enter the sphere of Quimsical Audecdotes.  In fact, it surprises me that neither of us have blogged about it prior to this moment right here.  Alas, we haven't posted in a while and it struck me that this was something that I should in fact share with the blogosphere that reads this blog (THANKS, by the way!).

The state of being white knuckled, my friends, is when you desperately have to use the porcelain throne, however, social constructs do not permit you to excuse yourself to relieve yourself. I.e. you're in school (you must NEVER shit in school, nor any public place, as this post colorfully describes) or at a friend's home you're not comfortable with yet.  Not comfortable enough to shit in their home without the absolute knowledge that you will never be found out anyway.  If you are white knuckled you may be clenching your desk or the arm of your chair with supreme concentration, making your knuckles white with the strain of holding on.  Your fingernails if long enough may be digging into your palm, but your face will remain stony.  You must never betray the storm brewing down below.

There are two basic types of white knuckled: one where you merely have to take a normal pah-poo but you've been holding it in for some time and it needs to make its exit and soon.  You may be turtle-heading a bit, terrified of farting lest you release the nugget you're harboring against your body's will. This type of white knuckled is not so horrible, I suppose.  If you reach the point where you simply cannot hold it in any longer you may attempt to race to the bathroom (any form of white knuckled will result in an ass-clenched race to the bathroom) and quickly relieve yourself without drawing too much suspicion.  You may be able to do it quickly enough so that you will never be suspected of shitting, and, with any luck, they will have a little canister of air freshener for you to cover up any incriminating evidence. The second type of white knuckled is far more grave; it is when you have the dreaded explosive d. Your stomach gurgles, and you can feel it trying to escape you with every movement you make.  You may even have to bite your lip in concentration for this one.  My thoughts are with you. This state of being is a treacherous one; your body is threatening to betray you at every turn of the bowel. You cannot simply excuse yourself because what if someone walks in (if you're in a public restroom)? You'd have to silence them. And what would your friend think if you were spending a long, tumultuous time if the water closet? Sometimes all the air freshener in the world can't save you.

In the case of the second form of white knuckled, sometimes you just have to bite the dreaded bullet. I've done it, though, I can't tell you how many times in the dorm I rushed to the bathroom only to find someone there. I would instantly scream "NOOOOOOOOO!!" Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf style, clenching my knuckles in the air.  Though, if this should ever happen to you, this song by The Bravery should play in your head to give your situation the proper amount of drama and peril:
http://www.itemvn.com/song/The-Bravery-Red-Hands-And-White-Knuckles-Stir-the-Blood/5F4BA5177E

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Last Day of Finals: Full of Peril

Finals are stressful enough, right? Especially when you're battling with zero desire to do anything but read Game of Thrones and sprawl out around your house. But you know what, it's Wednesday. All I have to do is finish up a paper (I'm an English major, papers are what I do so no sweat off my back) and then take a final tomorrow morning. I GOT THIS.

So, I take break from my paper writing to begin the pain in the ass that is packing up your car. Lugging all my crap down the stairs, juggling armfuls of stuff and my car keys. So, imagine my surprise when I go over to the driver's side of my car only to find vomit all over the handle and then down the car door. This was done with malicious intent. When you discover vomit in an isolated area, the only area that you yourself would definitely have to touch in order to operate you vehicle, you are the victim of malice.

So, I recoil in disgust and immediately tell the first person I see.  My next course of action is to get my car washed. I will not clean someone else's vomit off of my own car. No, no. So I gather my text books that have been sitting in my room, waiting for me to sell them back, and head to the bookstore.  I have forgotten my student ID, dammit.  Why does one even need one's student ID to sell back books? I mean really. So, I bring up my school page and relay to her my ID number after taking a few tries to type in my Game of Thrones related password. I regret nothing. So after receiving a cool 33 dollars and 50 cents for 6 books I type in car wash into my Garmin to find a place to take care of that vomit sitch. Oh, also, I climbed into the passenger side of my car and then straddled my way over to the driver's side. I did not touch the vomit saturated handle.

I'm cruising now, listening to my Australian accented Garmin direct me (the American lady was snotty, go figure) and she takes me to some sketch-ass place. Not getting my car washed in a place that tells me to go inside and leave my keys in the car, that's how things get stolen.  I continue on my way and spot another car wash.  I whip into the lot only to see a sign that says "Opening in August." Shit. I'm about to give up when finally I see a normal looking gas station with the kind of car wash I wanted. Finally.

I pull up, am instantly terrified by the video presentation that the Speedway offers (a mother guiding me through choosing my carwash... I did not like it), and select the 8 dollar car wash.  I place my brand spankin new Alexander Hamilton in the cash thing and it instantly spits it back out at me. The mom screen blinks: EXACT CHANGE ONLY. Shit. Looks like I'm getting a 10 dollar car wash.

I drive away from my carwash, return home only to find that the vomit has left its orangish residue on my handle. Shit.

Fast forward to later when I'm googling what to do if your friend is bitten by a chipmunk and eating a ice cream sandwich from Insomnia cookies...because I deserve it.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Star of the Class Pt. II

So, the poetry class still goes on and Randall from Monsters, Inc. has not ceased to be creepy and confusing.  Although, we (and by we I mean my entire class who seems to have united under the basis of finding Randall from Monster's Inc. both amusing and frightening) may have found the cause.

I entered the classroom on that fateful day, instantly cold (this was not for dramatic effect, it's actually very cold in that room), my nose peaking at a familiar and infamous smell. Is it my imagination or do I smell a bit of Mary Jane, I wonder as I prepare for class.  I look up to see the kid across from me staring at Randall from Monsters, Inc. who looks doleful. Kid across from me glances to his friend and does the universal pantomime for smoking a doobie.  Friend nods and mouths: that explains a lot. I find myself sighing. First of all, I'm not so innocent that I was mistaken in my thought that I had smelled pot and secondly, thank you, baby Jesus, he's not just like that in real life. OF COURSE he's blazed all the time. Beautiful/intelligent/black-frame-glasses-wearing professor walks in, his nose peaking at the odor that has permeated the class.  I wonder if he'll say anything, already picturing in my mind how that would play out.  He doesn't say anything and begins class, ignoring the REALLY noticeable stench of pot in the air.

A few other tales to tell:

His last poem began with the line (or maybe this was the title, I couldn't tell): I think she may have fucked a glittery dolphin once or twice. I think that's all that needs to be said about that.

He's taken to giggling in class... all throughout class. When it gets particularly bad, Laughs-at-my-jokes-professor will nod at him and say, "oh yeah?" as if trying to figure out what the fuck is so funny.

He's moved on from saying "I like the words in this poem," and has taken to saying "This poem is hilarious" regardless of whether the poem is about gay anal sex (oh yeah, it happened), or a really butch chick who you've described as trollish, much to the poet's offense (I think she may have been dating this butch girl).

Most frighteningly however was when he chased a group of us down after class yelling "HHEEEYYY!" we all turned to see his black curly locks bouncing in the wind, his face lit up in that crook smile.  Our eyes collectively widened in horror. He closed the distance between us, and looked directly into one of my classmate's eyes inquiring, "do you have a lighter man?" I marvel at his urgency.

Perfect Professor is ordering pizza for our final class. When asked who wouldn't eat pizza, Randall from Monsters, Inc.'s hand shot up instantly.  His was the only one. Typical. I am now wondering if he will bring pot to share. Sweet/lovely/I-will-miss-him-forever-professor did say that we could bring something if we so choose.

Monday, May 21, 2012

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:

Image Source

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.









Thursday, May 17, 2012

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.

Image Source






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.