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.