(Insert Witty Title Here)

Family Matters

2010-01-09T13:03:00.000-08:00

I avoid coming back here. It's like looking at pictures of my awkward pre-teen era where my acne flourished, my bangs tried desperately to cover it (to no avail) and my only shining attribute were my braces.

I only come back because recently I've been getting an unusual amount of comments written in Asian about Viagra and Miley Cyrus.

My brother recently married a South Korean woman.

Coincidence?

I think not.

I've got those doll's eyes

2009-11-13T14:22:00.000-08:00

I've ever so recently become doll-ishly impaired. My right eye wants to be a doll. That's right, a doll. Can we blame it, really? I mean, dolls have been around since the "dawn of civilization" (gracias, Wiki). My right eye is just vintage. Vintage and fancy. I'm actually not sure how my left eye isn't jealous.

It doesn't want to be just any doll...it wants to be the type of doll that has those special eyes. Smart eyes, if you will. The eyes that close when laid horizontally (as if asleep) and open when vertical (as if awake). (This is where girls will nod with comprehension and boys will stop reading. Although I believe a G.I. Joe with opening and closing eyes has serious potential.) Yeah, that's what my right eye has decided to do. It's become nearly impossible to open my right eye while laying horizontally. It's no longer an involuntary movement that requires zero thought. I now have to waste my brain waves on opening my right eye. It's like my eye is playing hard to get with my brain. "You got me to just open up for nothing before, huh? You took me for granted and now you're going to have to work for it".

Sounds eerily familiar to the advice I gave to my relationship-handicap (more commonly known as Bat Shit Insane) friend. If only the cure for my eye was as easy as a bottle of wine and a read along tape of He's Just Not That Into You.

I'm 24 years old.

2009-09-21T14:18:00.001-07:00

I have sores on my tongue from eating too much Cap'n Crunch.

Pathetic?

I'm Alive

2009-04-09T10:13:00.001-07:00

Yeah, I'm alive.

The bad news: I live with my bankrupt, bi-polar older brother. Oh and about a half dozen other people. That's almost not an exaggeration. If I were "hip" I'd say "FML". But I'm not "hip"; I say things like "dang it".

The good news: Amazing Guy has weathered the storm(s) and is still around. Ok, there haven't been any storms but he's definitely still around and will be for FOR-EV-ER. He meets my silly mom tonight. Wish him/her/me luck.

Because sometimes taking the clock off the wall is just too much work

2008-11-26T14:24:00.001-08:00

Taken at the classiest of classy laundromats.

San Francisco houseless get creative

2008-11-26T14:19:00.000-08:00

Why yes, that's two mice on top of a cat sitting upon a dog.

I like my life. A lot.

2008-11-25T20:48:00.001-08:00

I'm a teacher for little ones with disabilities. I take pride in the fact that my preschoolers are ahead of many of the general education kindergarteners at my school. Today one of my students, Nala, did me proud. She finally mastered how to write all the letters in her name. She took that bright pink sidewalk chalk to the black top and this is what she wrote:

ANAL

Ok...so it looks like we have to work on the order of those letters.

Yeah...or maybe not...

Some Thoughts

2008-11-12T14:00:00.001-08:00

I don’t think sushi restaurants should be allowed to have aquariums as decoration.

I don’t like the winter because it gets late so early.

I was gum on the bottom of a shoe for Halloween. It was better than your costume. For sure.

And yes, after an entire month that's what I got. Now aren't you happy I left?

Hi

2008-11-11T22:54:00.001-08:00

I've been MIA. Not exactly sure why.

I think maybe it was the man in the cape. I've been questioning my self worth ever since.

Or maybe I've just been enjoying the "non-virtual" world too much.

But if I had to bet I'd blame in on the man in the cape. Definitely the man in the cape.

True Life: I Have Chronic Hiccups

2008-10-15T21:59:00.000-07:00

It all started when I was a junior in high school. I don’t think I realized it at first. I mean hiccuping is a common enough occurrence to not think much of it. But quickly I (and the people around me) began to realize I had an issue.

They aren’t the hiccups as you normally think of them. They are isolated hiccups padded by a heavy dose of time in between. Whereas your hiccups are like sprinters, fast and confined to a short period of time, mine are like a never-ending marathon speed walkers, slower but ungodly steady.

And most likely wearing sweatbands and ankle weights. Because that's just what they do.

A few years ago I asked my doctor about them just to make sure it wasn’t some sign of quickly approaching death. She said as long as they weren’t effecting my quality of life to not worry about it. And honestly, at the time they weren’t. They were probably increasing it. For some reason people think an involuntary spasmodic contraction of the muscle at the base of the lungs (diaphragm) followed by the rapid closure of the vocal cords is funny. And who am I to take away something that makes people giggle?

But that was then and this is now.

Ladies and gentleman, my hiccups are worsening. My diaphragm and vocal chords need to get their shit together. Real fast.

I’ve started taking data. I have hiccupped 26 times so far today. Enough to annoy but yet not enough to count as an ab workout.

I’m tired of hiccupping in public, people laughing and then in 20 seconds looking expectedly at me. I don’t have the normal hiccups, so move along. Give me like 20 more minutes and I’ll probably give you another one. But no guarantees. I’m not a seal.

I’m tired of my grandma telling her friends about her freaky hiccupping granddaughter.

I’m tired of answering questions about them.

But I think now I’m just scared they are never going to go away. I’ll be hiccupping tomorrow. I’ll be hiccuping a year from now. 3 years from now. 37 years from now.

I can see it now.

I’ll be hiccuping while having sex.

I’m com ‘hic’ ing.

I’ll be hiccuping while explaining to someone that my hiccups don’t really impact my life.

No, I mean they don’t ever have a negative effect on my social ‘hic’ life…

I’ll be hiccuping at my wedding.

I ‘hic’ do.

Maybe I’m just not the crazy risk taker I used to be. Maybe I’m a boring adult now. Maybe I'm selfish and don't care about making other people laugh. Call it whatever you want I can’t take these chances any longer. My quality of life is at stake.

What A Crazy World It Is

2008-10-15T11:48:00.000-07:00

Why do raisins get the special privilege of a name not tied to their origin?

No other dried fruit gets a whole new name. Ok, prunes do. But people only eat prunes to shit not for actual enjoyment purposes. All other fruits are just dried whatevers. Dried apricots, dried apples, dried bananas. Ok, maybe they are banana chips...but that makes way more sense than going from dried grapes to raisins.

Maybe there are a lot of holes in this argument of mine.

But I still want to make it.

I don't like raisins all that much, unless they're in cookies or oatmeal so I'm going to demote them from their high status and just start calling them dried grapes.

I think that's fair.

(Insert Title Here)

2008-10-14T17:52:00.000-07:00

Some girl had this as her gchat away message today:

love my job... 3 days of work this week!

Doesn't that mean she doesn't like her job? I mean if she truly LOVED her job she would want to do it every day, no?

Miserable in Hotlanta

2008-10-13T14:40:00.001-07:00

I'm miserably sick and in the process of flying from Ohio back to San Francisco.

I tossed my cookies on my last flight. Twice. Actually I take that back. I think the first time I tossed some applesauce and the second time I tossed my small intestine. Small intestines? Fuck 'em, who needs 'em anyways?

I must say, puking on an airplane is nothing short of thrilling. The loud sucking noise just adds to the drama of puking. I gave it fist pump.

Ok, ok it was a mental fist pump. Whatever. Real fist pumps take too much energy at the moment. It's the thought that counts.

And then I went back to my seat, cried and hoped that my small intestine landed on a fat kid.

Activity Inspiring Pants

2008-10-09T17:49:00.000-07:00

I'm in Ohio to see my family. My brother, grandma and I were shopping this evening. We ended up going to Value City because my brother is oddly proportioned and they always have deformed clothes there. They also have some super sweet styles. And more honestly? There ain't jackshit to do in Youngstown, Ohio.

I gave all the effort I had in my body to try to get my brother to buy the shirt that had the word "graffiti" graffitied all over it.

He refused causing me to contemplate our BFF status.

My brother and I were trying to figure out the appropriate times to wear all of this unique clothing. Let me tell you, deciding the appropriate time to wear yellow, orange and brown camouflage thumbprint cellphone-pocket-having shants paired with a flannel shirt truly tests your creative brain cells.

We came across some odd lumberjack Ralph Lauren pants.

Brother: These are for hunting foxes.
Me: Nah, hunting for wild turkeys.
Grandma: No way! You could only wear these hunting for deer. Two-legged deer.

The odd part? I've never heard a more true statement.

Bum Pride

2008-10-07T18:04:00.000-07:00

As some of you know, I am morally against calling bums "homeless" because home is where the heart is and who am I to say a bum doesn't have a heart? I am nobody to say something so poignant. Actually, I'm probably nobody to say the word poignant. I don't even think I know what it means.

So this is what I plan to do: I want to make t-shirts. I think I'm gonna go baseball style with this one. There is just something about the white torso and colored sleeve that really gets me. It just looks good on everyone. But it really looks good on bums, if ya know whaimean? At least that has been my experience thus far in this world.

The Front: "Home is where the heart is"

The back: Houseless in 2008

If it goes well maybe I can move into making cups with a similar theme. Bums need cups. You know, for collecting change. And their teeth.

Oh and then they can wear them to the pinata parties!!!

My oh my, this is so perfect.

I'm Not So Cool or So Funny Afer All

2008-10-03T15:47:00.000-07:00

Today is just one of those days. I'm not funny. At. All.

Nope, not even a little bit.

The worst part is I have a funny story to tell. But for the god damn life of me I can't put the words together to make it seem funnier than it is.

Actually fuck that, I would even settle for a little less funny than it is. I'm flexible.

But my sense of humor is like, "Nope, not doin' it. I'm not sensing anything today. So back the fuck off."

Last night I saw a swarm of vandals attack a moving bus. That shit is funny. They swarmed. The bus stopped. They spray painted the shit out of it. The windshield, the sides.

This is funny, no?

But I can't do it justice. My wittiness is lost. Blowing in the wind. Ooh, maybe that man with the cape stole it yesterday without me even noticing.

Was that funny?

No?

Shit.

See, I can't even make not being funny funny. This is rough.

I'm Not So Cool After All

2008-10-02T15:21:00.000-07:00

Whenever I am on my scooter riding around the streets of San Francisco I'm always actively checking out other mopedders. I don't care about motorcyclist. They are out of my league. But I pay very close attention to my peers.

I want to check out my competition. I want to figure out who I am going to cordially invite to my future scooter gang. I'm not sure if I'm going to call my gang the Silly Skulls or the Galloping Unicorns. Not sure what image I'm going for quite yet.

But maybe there isn't much of a difference.

This morning I saw the coolest man ever. Like in my entire life. And believe me, I've seen cool. I AM cool. But this was a whole other level I didn't know existed. I have never even imagined being this cool. I didn't even know cool that cold would ever grace my presence.

He was driving a moped and wearing a CAPE!!! Yes, a cape. It was so super heroesque. It gracefully trailed behind him. It was like it was screaming, "I don't give a fuck, I just sway in the wind".

You know what? I bet he is already part of a scooter gang. I bet he won't accept my cordial invitation to The Silly Skulls.

Whatever.

All I know is that it is hard going on with your day when you are shown up so early in the morning.

Little Bo Peep Lost Her Sheep

2008-09-30T19:42:00.000-07:00

And I finally figured out where the fuck they went.

They all got a little cut & color and are hanging out at 2951 Cesar Chavez, San Francisco, CA.

Like literally hanging out.

This is undoubtedly going to be your new favorite sheepskin store. I just know it. In my bones, I know it. I suspect you are probably really emotionally attached to your local sheepskin store. But I think the outdoor display at Sheepskin City will win over your heart. And your soul.

The soul winning is where Sheepskin City rises above the rest. They converse directly with the depths of your soul.

They do it with the white tiger print sheepskin.

Again with the red leopard print sheepskin.

Once again with the dirty ass cheetah print sheepskin.

And then they can always seal the deal with the ripped and tattered neon green sheepskin.

They just have a way of gently holding your soul in their hand. That’s why I like them.

This is not Sheepskin Town. This is not Sheepskin Settlement. This is not Sheepskin Township and definitely don’t confuse it with Sheepskin Municipality.

This is The Real Deal. Sheepskin City.

It’s too bad they no longer sell pagers.

Chirp back, homes!

This Brilliante Weblog Award Thingy

2008-09-29T21:32:00.000-07:00

I'm not exactly sure what caused the confusion but I'm not Hispanic, people. I mean, I'd be down with being Hispanic. I like burritos and chips and salsa and stuff.

Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered. Really, I am.

But I was born Caucasian. Nothing I can do about it. My dad is Polish my mom is a German-something-something mut and that's just the way the birds and the bees work.

I'm just never going to be Hispanic. Comprehende? See look, I don't even know how to type an upside down question mark.

And I would be delighted to pass this on but I honestly just don't know any Hispanic bloggers.

Lo siento.

Catch Me If You Can

2008-09-29T06:41:00.000-07:00

I'll give you a hint.

Today I'm here.

Saying in Action

2008-09-28T22:01:00.000-07:00

Today I was walking down the street with Amazing Guy and we witnessed a woman guiding a blind man.

Oh, that's nice, you think. I mean he can't see, he needs some help, right?

The catch: The woman was blind.

We pass, jaws dropped, look at each other.

Amazing guy comments, "Wow. Talk about the blind literally leading the blind."

My Sincere Apologies

2008-09-28T20:01:00.000-07:00

I've disappeared. I temporarily found a life.

Well, that is sort of A Lie.

Closer to The Truth: Amazing Guy came to visit and I was busy watching Stomp The Yard, judging people in the park, practicing my sarcastic fist pump and getting in fights with concession stand workers.

Sometimes you just have to prioritize.

But lucky for you (and probably him*) Amazing Guy has departed.

I'm back.

Not to really post anything at the moment, but I'm back.

Hi.

*There is probably some sort of sarcastic fist pump threshold that was reached.

Endless Laughter

2008-09-23T20:28:00.001-07:00

You know those things that just make you laugh over and over again no matter how many times you hear them??

The Hippo Song is one of mine.

It is old. It is brilliant.

If you don't laugh at this there is no way we could be friends or even acquaintances on the Internets or in reality.

What could be better than a hippo who likes to jump, who also likes to drink soda pop and naturally has oodles of noodles on his back??

I challenge you to answer that question.

Go ahead, try.

I dare you.

Why My Brother is My BFF FOREVER

2008-09-22T19:20:00.000-07:00

The following is a gchat conversation conducted by me and my older brother.

me: How do you feel about pinatas?

7:01 PM Brother: making them or breaking them?

me: c) all of the above

Brother making them would be fun

hitting stuff with a stick is fun

7:02 PM chasing candy is of course fun

remember those witch pinatas mom always kept

what happened to those?

me: exactly. they are all around a fun thing to do. they aren't given enough good PR, and only "appropriate" at children's parties. I think this should change along with the availability of soft pretzels.

mom had witch pinatas?? what?

7:03 PM did we have the same mother?

Brother: we had them in hyde park (where we lived until I was 3)

she brought them when we moved

they were always in the closet with the bathing suits

me: haha that is so bizarre.

Brother: we should ask her about them

7:04 PM you don't remember?

my god, they were spooky

me: Because normally she gets rid of everything. I wonder why she would keep silly witch pinatas?

Brother: what could be put in adult pinatas?

me: condoms

Brother: beyond like condoms ans

haha

me: little bottles of liquor

Brother: maybe flavored

me: candy necklaces

7:05 PM i am an adult and i really like candy necklaces

Brother how about a bum pinata party

me: socks and toothbrushes?

Brother: could you see them scrambling for single shots of scotch

i like this idea

okay

me: me too.

Brother little toothbrushes

7:06 PM deodorants and soap

me: and little Andes mints

Brother: it takes all of the oppression out of charity

me: everyone likes andes mints

Brother: i would eat the mints

some things shouldn't be shared w/ bums

me: would you fight a bum for Andes mints?

Brother: i would distract him with the liquor

i know what i like

7:07 PM me: that is smart. how about ear plugs? it must be loud sleeping on the street every night

Brother: okay

good

and little notepads

this is our admission ticket

7:08 PM they write down the crazy stuff in their brains

if they don't write, we don't let them into the pinata party

we publish this stuff

to fund the parties

Brother:we'll write up the business proposal later

i hate christian charity

7:14 PM it's like, we don't really want to include you in our world

we'll just drop in at thanksgiving and give you some stuff and then go back to our world and you can stay in yours

even after the kraft mac n cheese is gone

7:15 PM it maintains the status quo, you know?

obviously we have much to learn from these people

me: exactly

Brother: and they deserve a party

7:16 PM me: just without andes mints

Brother: um, keep the mints on the books

business expense, but we don't stuff them

7:17 PM me: we hoard them

Brother: then melt them down into a bathtub

and get big straws

me: ooo i want to dip milano cookies in it!!

7:18 PM Brother: there's so much we have in common

One Of My Favorite Things

2008-09-21T21:17:00.001-07:00

One of my very favorite things to do is recommend music. I have an unhealthy obsession with iTunes and therefore am always discovering new music.

I've been a long time fan of Joshua Radin. He just recently came out with a new album, Simpler Times.

Here is one of my favorite songs off the album. It was hard to pick. And yes, it is actually called Vegetable Car. Go ahead, judge. See if I care.

Age Warp

2008-09-21T20:43:00.000-07:00

I know this person that is 24.

He looks at least 43.

Sometimes I just can't stop thinking about it.

I'm Sorry Miss But You're Out

2008-09-20T16:36:00.000-07:00

I met this girl the other day.

I hate her.

I would like to just stop there. But my mother always says that hate is a strong word, so I think I should provide sound, reasonable reasons for my hatred.

Strike Numero Uno: She’s a girl.

I can hear you all in an uproar already. “That’s unreasonable, YOU are a girl!”

Details.

Hypocrisy doesn’t make something an unsound reason. Although I am a female, I can’t really say the gender does much for me. It’s something about the combination of the inability to make a joke that evokes laughter, the propensity towards over excitement due to ballet flats and the need to divulge private information to strangers when drunk that makes me nauseous.

Strike Numero Dos: She apparently wanted to be my psychologist. And although I probably have multiple issues (most of which revolve around extreme hatred for fat kids), I wasn’t in the mood to be taken seriously.

She was overly attentive.

She nodded excessively.

She made uncomfortable amounts of eye contact as if her eyes were laser beaming small, but oh so many, holes into my soul.

She threw out the exact same overly thoughtful “hmm…” every time I made an observation (mostly about fat kids). She would have provided the same response no matter if I told her I liked eggs, had an ingrown toenail or liked to eat my grandma’s shit.

She said “I see” while pressing her lips together so many times that I began fantasizing about first gouging her eyes out, then cutting her lips off and stuffing them into her empty eye sockets. At least that way it would be funny when she commented that she could see (and therefore unstriking Strike Numer Uno).

Just by being in her presence I began to yearn for a sticky leather couch, a box of tissues and childhood issues.

Or just the relief of the cold metal of a rifle at the back of my throat.

Most likely the latter. But really. What’s the difference?

Strike Numero Tres: She spells definitely incorrectly.

I refuse to even replicate the spelling for fear that my fingers might fall off and my IQ would drop to the single digits. Let’s just say there was an “a” forced helplessly (probably kicking and screaming) into the middle.

I have standards here, folks. And although I don’t believe in God, it doesn’t mean I don’t believe in anything. I believe that people that spell definitely incorrectly are not worth my friendship, but are, in fact, worth my loathing. Call it cruel, call it judgmental, call it whatever you want but I have a feeling Jesus would back me up on this one.

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're DEFINITELY out,
At the old ball game.

I'm Doing September 18th Right

2008-09-17T19:34:00.004-07:00

How you ask?? Saving clubbed seals? Make lots and lots of peanut butter and jelly for the masses? Inventing teleportation?

No no. Better.

I have amazing handwriting today.

I mean I always have good handwriting.

But today? My handwriting is phenomenal.

I am ON. The Slant. The Spacing. The Flow.

No mistakes. Just perfection.

It's like 4000 times better than that girl you sat next to in English in the 8th grade and 12 billion times better than your mom's handwriting.

The only thing that could have made this post better (besides if it was about something else and actually funny) would have been if I could have handwritten it.

Doing September 18th Wrong

2008-09-17T19:34:00.003-07:00

So I receive emails each day containing dictionary.com's word of the day.

I don't get these emails because I will ever actually verbalize them. I get these emails because I think it is important, vital really, to be prepared for the verbal section of the SAT's at any point in time. Even when you are 23 and have already graduated from college.

Catch me mid-morning, I'm ready. Catch me after dinner, I'm primed. Catch me eating a burrito and diet coke, I'm acquiescent.

I mean, you really just never know when you're going to be asked to sit down and complete obscure analogies.

Better to be safe than sorry. That's what I always say.

But today's word is unacceptable.

Unacceptable to send out to thousands, possibly millions, of inboxes around the world. And more importantly, just unacceptable as a word.

tintinnabulation \tin-tih-nab-yuh-LAY-shuhn\, noun:

A tinkling sound, as of a bell or bells.

One found oneself immersed in the infinitely nuanced tintinnabulations of clapping cymbal rhythms passed from one player to the next, in the barely audible, rain-like patter of drums that suddenly grew into an overwhelming mechanical onslaught.

I believe this gives me license to make up my own word. I heard gunshots a little bit ago. No no, excuse me, I heard boomboomabulations.

boomboommabulations \boom-boo-mab-yuh-LAY-shuhn\, noun:

A booming sound, as of gun shots or bombs.

C'mon dictionary.com don't do September 18th wrong like this.

Hmmm....

2008-09-17T19:34:00.002-07:00

I just received a voicemail:

Hey (insert my first name) this is Dave. This message is for Robert. Hey Robert, if you still have your Expedition. Um, we're interested in buying it. This is Dave form Nevato Ford. Whether you do anything with this or not, we'd like to make you an offer to buy your vehicle. Give me a call back at 415......., and ask for Dave.

See, the issue with this is that I don't know a Robert.

Let Me Elaborate

2008-09-17T19:34:00.001-07:00

I think this illustrates the issue pretty well:

So we were showering and out of nowhere Weepy McHelpless started intensely sobbing. Like not even out of left field. I fucking know where left field is.

And then Sat Down in the shower.

Ass Flesh to ceramic.

Apparently standing up and sobbing just isn't dramatic enough. Who knew?

At that point in order to be a quarter of a decent person you have to ask what's wrong (while washing your hair). You have zero choice. Zilch. Nada. Otherwise you look like the bad person.

Or sane and logical. I forget.

As I recall, showering while someone sits on the floor and loudly sobs is nothing short of awkward.

The water gets cold and then what in goodness name are you supposed to do?

I mean if your mother just died and you'd like to sit in the cold shower and sob, I approve. I'll even help you arrange it. Hell, I'll provide some soap and a new blue lufah.

But if you just want to cry about how you are a useless 28 year old can't you do it while warm and dry?

And while we're wishing for things, how about by yourself?

Or better yet, get off your ass, dry off and go do something about it?

And leave me here alone to cry over the fact that I'm with you.

Big Boys Don't Cry

2008-09-17T19:34:00.000-07:00

I once had this boyfriend.

He cried all the time.

Not like some of the time.

Like. All. The. Time.

What a pussy.

An Unspoken Memory

2008-09-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

I counted the number of streetlights across the levy. 32. A habit. I’d counted a million times. Comforting to know the answer before I started. Something concrete to hold onto as my world quickly spun and tangled inside his car.

If I focused on something outside the moving car maybe what was happening inside the car would be trapped.

Unable to seep out.

A wet knot in my throat. Warm tears soaking my cheeks. A cry that nobody else could hear but so deafening inside that nothing else could be heard.

I hadn’t seen my dad in a year.

He had picked me up every week or two to take me to dinner.

Always late.
Always a smile.
Always without an apology.

But I hadn't really seen him.

Too hard to look him in the eye.
Too hard to give him me.
Too easy to shut down.

He was talking. Cushy words carefully chosen to soften the blow. It was like putting saran wrap around a car on a train track, crossing your fingers and then standing back and expecting it not to be obliterated before your eyes.

As he explained he would be getting married in less than two weeks to a woman I had not only not met but a woman I didn’t know existed, I looked him in the eye for the first time in over a year.

More importantly, it was first time I had let him look into mine.

To this day I wonder if he felt my heart shatter.

Tears untouched I quietly explained to him that I would be unable to make the ceremony and silently slipped out of the car only to realize that everything inside had not only seeped out but flooded every rift, crack and fissure of my life.

Open Call

2008-09-14T23:34:00.000-07:00

In order to get to "Cheeseburger Titties" my brother and I went through some other names.

Happy Meal Mounds (maybe for the younger crowd? 3-6?)

Wrap-Around Tatas

Equal Opportunity. Two In The Front, Two In The Back.

And my brother just made a brilliant point.

Brother: you figure, language has to follow cultural currents

and as more people get fat we need to supply the correct terms for these things

So here is my challenge*: Come up with fat kid terms. Including, but not limited to their ChuberTits. Look! Look! I just came up with one!

*Please actually do this so I don't look like a no good goober. Please. Please.

A Little Tasty Dessert

2008-09-14T22:47:00.000-07:00

Because I know you guys want more.* Admit it.

I'm not exactly sure what stage. I'm no expert or anything but it just might be the 80's Krimp Nip Stage. At least he's running, eh? Oh and he totally is rockin' the layered look!!

And this is just defying all logicality. Asians get fat?
Sweet bangs, dude.

cingular. raising the bar.

Right there. No, no, Ma. A little lower. Ye...no...still a little lower. Yeahhhhhhh, right there.

Ohhhh fat kids, they get me every time.

*Also known as, I just didn't want these goodies to go to waste yet I desperately needed them off my desktop.

Please Wait For The Puberty Parade

2008-09-14T18:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to the park. I was sitting there soaking up the sun and innocently writing thoughts in my little red book when I was taken by surprise. I looked up and I was blinded by what was before me. It wasn’t a meteor or even a glimpse of an old man spit-shining the old water pump, if ya know what I mean.

(For the record, I have actually seen an old man masturbating in his truck on my college campus, gave him a thumbs up, reported it and eventually had to identify him in a line-up. That, my dears, is a post for another day.)

This was worse than that.*

(Drum roll)

A 9 year-old obese girl wearing a skin-tight shirt that read across her large calorie induced tits:

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! BUY ME A DRINK!

She was 9 or maybe just a blown up 6 year old. Hard to tell really. Either way, the only birthday gift she would ever receive from yours truly would be a thigh-master and some Richard Simmons tapes.**

Anywho, I told this story to my brother last night via videochat (right before we gave each other video dental check-ups because who needs dentists when you have high defintion videochat and a brother). Of course we spoke about the absurdity of the message sprawled across her chest, but we were much more concerned about what was beneath.

No, not her feelings or even her soul.

Her tits.

She had breasts but she was too young to even be in the same town as the puberty parade.

I am personally concerned here. Her breasts are, in fact, very dissimilar to my own. Her breasts? Are from twinkies. Mine? Are not.

It would be irksome to even use the same word.

Our solution: Cheeseburger Titties.

A label wasn’t enough. There is also a difference in development and shape. We felt the need to break this down into stages.

They are as follows:
**WARNING: Graphic photos ahead. Viewer discretion is advised.**

Stage 1: Flappy Nips. Squishy flesh protrusions. Dollops, if you will.

Stage 2: The Boston Creme. As if they were donuts being squirted full of gooey goodness.

Stage 3: The Wrap Around. Unlike normal breasts, Cheeseburger Titties spread like herpes on a SlutAssWhore. They begin to invade the armpit region.

See how sneaky they are??

Underwires, Johnny. They’re called underwires.

Stage 4: Cheeseburger Back Tits. The spreading continues. The horror ensues.

Stage 5: Sneaky Ass Crack. The back tits are fully formed and therefore causing the spine to become a deep crevasse, an extension of the ass crack all the way up to the neck.

Stage 6: Complete Fucking Chaos. The Cheeseburger Titties take over the entire body. The arms. The legs. The chins. Everything is fair game in Stage 6.

Jessica. Girl. Get a grip.

So there ya go, folks. Next time you see a girl who wasn't patient enough to wait for the puberty parade to grow some knockers (or just a boy who has tits) you can place them neatly into a stage.

And then point and laugh.

I strongly encourage the pointing.

And the laughing.

*Okay, not at all. But whatever. If I compared every moment to the moment I saw Old Man Joe wacking it in his pick-up my life would be forever down hill.
**Sweatin' to the Oldies!! Has it seriously been 20 years??

The Definition Of Cruelty

2008-09-14T03:06:00.000-07:00

Have you been lying awake at night wondering about the definition of cruelty?

You have? I just knew it.

Well here I am, at your service, to explain.

So it is a Saturday night. I'm sick. My insides have exited my body through my mouth and into the plumbing system. My head feels like it is about to explode. My body is utterly confused about what temperature it should be or feel like, but is dead set on sweating.

Not cruel yet.

So I cuddle with Steph Hen.

Making matters less cruel.

The gay Irish Mexicans who live below me start to karaoke.

Approaching cruel.

It is 3:04 a.m.

Approaching quickly.

They argue for close to 8 minutes about what song to hurt my ears with next.

We're getting there, folks.

They just started singing City High.

Now that? Is cruel.

The Bum Of The Night

2008-09-13T21:08:00.000-07:00

I have a quite hilarious post in draft form that was co-brainstormed by my one and only brother.

Okay, okay. So he's not he only one. I've got two. Whatever. Details.

Here's a little teaser: It's about CHEESEBURGER TITTIES!!! yay. One of my personal favorite topics: FAT KIDS!!

Until then I am going to leave you with my Bum Of The Night story:

I watched Crunchy today and the only "restaurants" he would enter were also known as donut shops and theater concession stand. So my intake of food stuffs today consisted of one (1) glazed donut and approximately two and a half (2.5) handfuls of popcorn. And then I skyped my brother for too long talking about cheeseburger titties. Normally talking about cheeseburger titties would make me not want to eat but I was so hungry by the end I could have eaten a cheeseburger titty.

So I walk over to the grocery store to grab some consumables. On my way back there is a jazz bar that always has a little chalkboard stand that states who is playing and their specials for the night. It's rather quaint. I guess since it was a happenin' Saturday night they decided to get a little fancy shmancy on us and add some balloons.

I found it delightful and/or pleasant. I may even go as far as to throw out the word whimsical. Yes, you heard me. I said it. Now I would like to use it in a Vocabulary Lesson Sentence.

I thought the colorful balloons swaying in the breeze on a Saturday night were whimsical.

But The Bum? Was NOT having it. He body slammed the entire stand to the ground. Half eaten piece of pizza in one hand. Aggressively popped the balloons with the other.

And who said houseless people couldn't multi-task???

The Bum got up and started mumbling nonsense. I wrote him off thinking my writing skills weren't nearly good enough to making this postable. I mean, I'm good...but not THAT good. A simple body slam to the chalkboard and balloon poppage wasn't going to cut it.

And then it came, like a shooting star in a foggy San Francisco night...

Bum: I mean, I just can't help it I'm so strong.

And I mean, I guess he's right. He can't help who he is.

Two Things I Am Not Happy About On This Wonderful Day

2008-09-12T15:23:00.000-07:00

Today is a pretty fucking good day. I mean, for one it’s Friday. And who doesn’t love a good ol’ Friday? I mean there is a whole restaurant chain devoted to the day, and maybe blocks of time on some TV station or another devoted to the exclamation that it is Friday. Or maybe that stopped when I was in the 5th grade? I don’t know. I don’t own a TV.

It at least gives you something to say when something goes haywire at work. Shaking your head at your co-worker. “I don’t know what I would do if today wasn’t Friday! TGIF!!” Or when you are sending out work emails you can even add the friendly “Happy Friday!” farewell statement. Try it some time! It really shows off your casual, carefree side!

And to top off the Friday bonanza, I didn’t have to be into work until 9 and got off at 1:20.

Baller.

Perfect, eh? So I had it all planned out. I would come home, quickly change, take a nice jog through Golden Gate Park while listening to a little NPR This American Life or Pink. Ya know, just depends on my mood. Maybe lounge around in the park, take in some scenes, judge a few people (or a lot, just depending on my time schedule). Good times.

No no. San Francisco got wind of my plans and decided to blast me with a little bit of it’s own. It wasn’t having it. It decided to turn on the chill. Full blast.

Yeah, thanks, but no thanks. I wasn’t quite done with you, Summer.

But SF? Done. It had its two glorious weeks of summer. Yes, you heard me correctly. 2 weeks. 14 days. No more. It quit.

So now I sit curled up in my bed buried in layers upon layers of cold repellent clothing (scarf, hood, wool socks) and refuse to venture into the brisk weather outside. I might be being a tad dramatic. But only a tad, no more than just an itsy bitsy tad.

So here I am in bed, hot chocolate close by, angry about this coldness and one more thing.

People who don’t move their arms correctly.

You know the kind. The ones that look like their arms must have just magically appeared last night. They’ve obviously been up all night staring at the new arrivals, but just can’t quite figure out their purpose.

They walk and their arms dangle helplessly at their sides. No sway. No ease. Just sagging limbs of awkwardness.

Like sausages stapled to their shoulders.

Maybe sausages holding imaginary suitcases. But suitcases that need to be held with limp hands away from the body. Very far away as if they have modeled their arm position after a 4 year olds stick figure drawing.

So yeah, today is great except the cold and those damn sausage suitcase-holding arms.

Happy Friday!!

(See, doesn’t it work? Aren’t I so casual and carefree!?)

My Subconscious

2008-09-11T10:55:00.000-07:00

I remember my dreams nearly every night. Normally this is entertaining. I can usually figure out I am in a dream while I'm dreaming it, and if it is a good night I can manipulate it. When I wake up I can usually do some soul searching to figure out why I was dreaming about it and if I'm feeling motivated I can decipher what sort of meaning it has.

But last night's dream has me completely stumped. I didn't realize I was in a dream and given the absurdity of it, I am disappointed in myself. And for the life of me I can't figure out what sort of meaning it has.

So here it is:
I get some girl friends together to go to a "movie". Halfway through the movie the movie theater is attacked by 53 Canadian Geese. Not 52 or 58, exactly 53. I begin violently hitting them with my large purse. I aim for their necks.

The worst part: I knew in advance that this was going to happen. It was a movie theater devoted to this very purpose. It was a historical reenactment of a previous disaster (sort of how crazies do Civil War reenactments).

So in my dream not only did I believe that there was a previous and well known Movie Theater Canadian Geese Attack, but I was willingly attending and inviting my friends to the reenactment.

Luckily no one was hurt. But I sure beat the hell out of a few geese.

Save the Rainforest

2008-09-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

I think I just figured out how to do it. It's simple, really.

Someone just tell drug stores like Walgreens and CVS to stop printing 14 foot long receipts.

I don't think buying a bag of pretzels requires a novel in return.

Fair Point

2008-09-09T14:03:00.000-07:00

This morning while walking Jason (one of my students) to the bathroom.

Jason: Miss B......., (looking at me with disgust) I really don't like your shirt today.

Me: Whoa. Jason. I thought I looked good today. Why don't you like it?

Jason: (With serious authority) It is NOT orange.

Me: Fair point, Jason. Fair point.

Go Shorty

2008-09-09T13:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my birthday. Hello 23.

Oh and hello realization that I fucking hate people singing happy birthday.

Everyone thinks singing happy birthday is a grand idea until the whole tradition is underway. Then everyone in the room starts to wonder what the fuck they are doing.

When else do you have a room full of people sing directly at you?

Never.

There is a good fucking reason.

You aren’t allowed to sing so what are you supposed to do while they sing to you?

Hum along?

Tap your toe?

Twiddle your thumbs?

Sharpen pencils and then ever so carefully puncture your ear drums?

Stare each one of them down while mouthing “I fucking hate you”?

I usually opt for the last one.

Next year when people ask what I want I will already have it figured out.

Don’t fucking sing Happy Birthday to me.

Guest Blog

2008-09-05T23:17:00.000-07:00

My dear readers, I've thought long and hard about this occasion. I've stayed up late at night contemplating my course of action. Picking my first guest blogger wasn't easy. There are many things to consider. You, loyal reader, come first (after me). So I've gotta pick someone talented, good-looking, witty, funny, etc. but yet I don't want to pick someone you'd leave me for. So after carefully calculating my moves I've chosen someone. You can call him CST, S in LA or Casey Jones, take your pick. He is incredibly good-looking, funny and the best part (drum roll, please) NOT a (current) blogger. So after this, you're stuck with me. Think of it as mind-blowing sex with someone you'll most likely never hear from again. Enjoy it while it lasts.

In some ways, writing on someone else's blog is a lot like fucking someone else's wife. It feels awkward at first – it's uncomfortable knowing that someone else has been everywhere you could even imagine going – but once you get into it, you realize that it feels just like your own wife/blog. Admittedly, in other ways, writing on someone else's blog is not at all like fucking someone else's wife…which I suppose means I don't need to be wearing this condom as I type. In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I wasn't always a fan of blogs. In fact, there was a time when a younger, less informed me thought that blogging was nothing more than story-telling's form of masturbation: after all, you're doing something you would normally do with someone else…by yourself…in front of a computer screen. [Fantastic, it's still the first paragraph and I'm already an anal sex reference and a perfectly timed gag reflex comment away from hitting for the graphic novel cycle.] Over time, however, I've grown to tolerate blogs, and I've even blogged myself every now and again on special occasions.

It isn't just a special occasion that motivates my blogging this time around; it's a true crisis. I'm not knocking global warming or the avian flu, but mankind is being threatened by a far greater evil: girls posting pictures on facebook of photo shoots taken in the bathroom. Forget Hurricane Hanna, society is crumbling under the weight of every snap-happy Hanna, Jane, and Jenny with a Canon and a small bladder. This shit's gotta stop. Seriously. I obviously missed the memo announcing that the ladies room was officially being transformed into the photo booth at the State Fair (which is weird, because in college I even signed up for the email list titled "Changing Trends in Drunk Girls Taking Pictures"). Am I missing something here? What is it about pissing and shitting that screams, "Hey, while we're in here, let's snap some cute pictures! Quick Betsy, come sorority squat over here by the hand dryer"? As if the act of taking photos in the bathroom wasn't bad enough on its own, every single toilet-taken Glamour Shot album looks exactly the fucking same. Here's the predictable sequence:

Shot #1: Group photo in the mirror where skank #3's face is completely covered by the flash

Surprise, surprise. The lighting in the bathroom isn't ideal for picture-taking. Shocking, I know. Thanks for posting this shot on facebook though. Now we officially know that you were too damn ignorant to realize that if you put the camera right in front of your face the camera would cover up your face in the actual picture too. (Mirrors are absolutely CRAZY these days.)

Shot #2: Group photo shot in the mirror that is completely off-center because skank #3 tried to take the photo way off to the side

Congrats. Outstanding improvement from Shot #1. For better or worse, we can now see everybody's face (by the way, you all get an "A" for effort on that whole "trying extra hard to look attractive" thing). The only problem is that now you cut off half of your fat friend's body...I guess that's ok though, at least in the picture she weighs about the same as you and the rest of your anorexic friends.

Shots #3-8: Close-up face shots of you and your friends

We get it. Your arm isn't long enough to turn the camera on yourself and not have your big, fat dome take up the entire picture. Unfortunately, we also know that there are 7 of you idiots in that bathroom (we saw them all in shots 1 and 2), so why not hand the camera to someone else to take the fucking picture? Keep up the "faces smushed together" look, though. Every man dreams of hooking up with conjoined twins who are attached at the cheek.

Shot #9: Picture of you or one of your friends sloppy drunk on the toilet going to the bathroom

I'm sure there are guys out there who find this sexy. If they're your target audience, do your thing girl. For the sane portion of the male population, however, this photo is about as arousing as watching elephant birthings on the Discovery Channel (again, I'm sure there are guys out there who find this sexy).

Shot #10: "Kissy face" pictures of you kissing your friend on the cheek/lips

To be honest, I don't really give a damn that you only took the picture so that you could write some really clever caption referencing Katy Perry's song. Perhaps more importantly, in the age of 2 girls, 1 cup, most guys aren't very impressed that you're close enough friends with another chick to peck her on the lips. Eat her shit, then let's talk. You're already halfway there...you're in the bathroom.

Ladies and gentlemen, please help me in stopping this epidemic. I'm begging you. For the sake of simplicity, let's institute the following rule: the ONLY time it is appropriate for you to take a picture of yourself in the bathroom is if you are getting pissed on by R. Kelly.

M in SF, thank you for letting me fuck your wife.

Hold My Nuts, Please

2008-09-05T21:29:00.000-07:00

It isn’t that I don’t like the taste. It’s the texture that gets me.

You know what I’m talking about.

Nuts.

Peanuts, almonds, cashews, pecans, macadamia, pistachios, walnuts and the list continues. But I am going to personally discontinue it before my gag reflex involuntarily activates.

On their own turf, I am not as morally opposed to them. I can throw back a peanut or two at a baseball game (as long as I only suck on the salty shell and quickly follow it by a hearty swig of Bud Light). I might even grab for a cashew as a quick way out of an awkward conversation at a holiday party. Hastily stuffing them into my cheeks like a squirrel until I can literally no longer talk. It’s the almost perfect solution to not enjoying talking to people with jingle bell earrings. Then you are no longer “rude”, just the girl with lumpy cheeks…

But I digress...

It’s when they start occupying foreign territories where they are unwanted, unwelcome and only there to cause problems. That’s when they make My Shit List. (Hm…maybe nuts are oddly similar to the U S of A…)

They are interrupters. Their sole job in this world is to take the things I hold dear to my heart, brownies, ice cream, and cookies, (which non-coincidentally are later held non-dearly to my thighs) and annihilate them with their crunchy interruptions.

They just can’t seem to let the brownies do the conversing with my tastebuds. Which is a shame, brownies have all their own deliciousness to convey. They are just trying to do their chocolatey thang and along comes Mr. NutChip trying to chime in with his two cents.

And nobody gives a fuck about Mr. NutChip’s two fucking cents. He’s like the fat drunk dancing girl at the party, bouncing her back rolls into other people’s personal space with her unsmooth moves. Everybody wants them out.

Unacceptable. I would even go as far as to say it’s rude.

They are tiny land mines just waiting to burst pellets of disappointment into my mouth.

People have tried to pull one of over on me. “Oh you can’t even taste the nuts, just try it!” Oh please. Spare me the time. My mouth is polite and perceptive beyond its years. It knows an interruption when it feels one.

It’s high time for nuts to adopt a new foreign policy and start sticking to what they know: Mr. Planters cans and tiny bowls at holiday parties.

Overheard On The 6

2008-09-03T21:39:00.000-07:00

So I tipsily rode the 6 bus home tonight. Six middle aged men boarded the bus around Haight and Filmore. They were all adorned with decorative facial tattoos and visible and smellable liquor running through their veins.

Notable comments:
Dude #1: I think we should go to this one place. Dude, it is like crawling with 19 year olds.
Dude #2: Yeah dudes, last time I was there we went home with like 5 of them. We lifted up their skirts and used whips. They love that shit. Just think about what you could do with saran wrap...

Break in the conversation...

Dude #3: Dude, (it isn't a coincidence I am labeling these people as dudes plus numerals) so this girl is a transgendered mangirl and only likes gay guys. So she is like a girl who is a guy who only likes homos.
Dudes: Silence....

I'm officially selling my scooter tomorrow. If I want to be serious about this blogging shit I need to get myself on public transportation more often. I couldn't make this shit up.

I hate that I just ended a sentence in a preposition, but "I couldn't make up this shit" just doesn't have the same effect.

Weekdays at 4:11

2008-09-02T20:53:00.000-07:00

Everyday at approximately 4:11 p.m. I become aggressively frustrated. My blood boils a bit and my head involuntarily shakes with irritation. And if it wasn’t for the fact that I was riding my scooter I would most likely throw my hands up in disbelief and confusion and exclaim, “Holy smokes, people are fuckpits."

And then I’d quickly look around, scanning the area to make sure nobody heard me say “fuckpit” because what the hell does fuckpit mean? And then I’d lower my head in shame and mutter, “Look who’s the fuckpit now.”

Please, bring me back to my main point…

You: But why, M in SF, do you get so frustrated at 4:11? Oh, do tell.

M in SF: Oh, I’m oh so happy you asked. Delighted, really. I finally get to share with your readings eyes the instant of absurdity that ruffles my feathers.

Everyday I ride home on my scooter and I pass this same motherfuckin' lady. Every. Single. Day. Where, you ask? On a bench? In a coffee shop? At the park? Oh no no, mis amigos. This old, wrinkly hag sits in the middle of the fucking grassy median under an umbrella (ella, ella. eh eh eh, eh eh eh). What’s the big deal you ask? You live in a city, that must be the only morsel of grass she can find. She must just be clinging onto the only small glimpse of nature in the entire city.

No, you dumb shits, the median where she sits is no less than 10 feet from Dolores Park. A. Huge. Fucking. Park. Grass, abundant. Open spaces, abundant. Social acceptable places to lounge with an umbrella, abundant.

What could possibly be relaxing and/or enjoyable about sitting very literally in the middle of traffic?

Maybe it is the thunderous shrill of automobiles and horns whizzing by. Or the calming realization that a car could swerve, jump a 2 inch cement barrier and mangle her body like a garbage disposal does your leftovers. Or maybe it is the pleasant sensation of fumes ripping through her respiratory system.

I think I am going to start taking rice (and an occasional 12 lb bowling ball) to hurl in her direction. Every Single. Day. Let’s see how she likes being annoyed on a daily basis.

Fucking twat.

Matty B

2008-09-01T20:44:00.000-07:00

Introducing one of my dear dear friends from college, Matt Belsante. I used to make him PB&J sandwiches while he came over and played his guitar (I'd argue he sounds better in person post PB&J than in his recordings). I would drag him to movies like Stomp The Yard with me to make loud commentary and annoy the rest of the audience. Stomp The Yard is phenomenal and so is he. To this day we haven't figured out why it didn't win an Oscar. Totally underrated.

But anyways, he's got some Frank Sinatra, Michael Buble attitude happening. And he's easy on the eyes, ladies.

Check him out

Make him famous so one day I can say I knew him and people will be impressed.

My personal favorite at the moment: Haven't Got Much

Step Hen The Dolp Hin

2008-09-01T19:30:00.000-07:00

Ok. So seriously, guys.

I have been struggling.

Struggling for material. I spent the long Non-Labor Day weekend with Amazing Guy. And although Amazing Guy is funnier and wittier than me and time spent with him is sort of like professional development (or unprofessional, depending on your take on the situation), discussion of him is off limits on this here blog.

Dang it.

Guys these days. Apparently they don’t want their lives broadcast on public forums. WTF?

So the weekend could have been disastrous. I could have left with a great weekend behind me but nothing to bring to you. And that? Would have been selfish. But don’t you worry, you loyal readers. He’s looking out for you. “How?” you ask. With the most amazing birthday gift ever.

I can just imagine you there on the edge of your seat wondering what it could possibly be. Boys get your pen and paper and start taking notes. You’re thinking, “Diamond earrings? Chocolates? Flowers? No no, it was a fruit basket, wasn’t it?!?”

Even better, guys. Better than oranges and apples all tied up with curly ribbons in a basket. You didn’t think it was possible, did you?

But he’s smarter than that. He knows the way to my heart. And it definitely isn’t through jewelry or bananas.

Think larger.

Think plush.

Think marine mammal.

Yes, folks, you’ve got it.

A ridiculously humongous stuffed dolphin.

“Why?” you ask.

I think that question need not even be asked, let alone answered. I think ridiculously humongous stuffed animals should be given out on a more frequent basis. But if you must know, read this. I have what one might call a preoccupation with humans fucking dolphins. Now you understand why Amazing Guy is well…so amazing. He not only puts up with my questionable mental thought processes, he encourages them. He has solved all my logistical issues of sleeping with a dolphin. So thoughtful of him. I can now sleep with a dolphin nightly. Disease and injury free.

So the fact that I now have a large “Lifelike & Lovable” dolphin all my own, cleverly named Step Hen the Dolp Hin, is worth a chuckle.

Yes, all fun and games until I was made to fly home with it. Cruel and brilliant all at the same time.

When was the last time you had to walk through a public place with a large stuffed marine mammal?

Huh?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

And I thought my “WANTED: AMIGOS” t-shirt was a good conversation starter. Was I ever wrong. Who needs a t-shirt begging for friends when you can simply carry around an oversized plush dolphin?

Two birds with one stone. He simultaneously solved my logistical dolphin love-making issues and my lack of a social life. See? Is there really any other word than Amazing to describe him? I think not.

My favorite interactions of the afternoon.

While checking my bag:

Me: Sooo, I have this bag but also this large dolphin…
Lady at the counter: Hmm…Yeah. Interesting thing for a girl like yourself to have. A gift for someone?
Me: Oh no, a gift to me. What? You don’t like marine mammals?
Lady: Nervously chuckles. I’ve rendered her speechless. So how about we just check your bag, you can carry on your dolphin.

While going through security:

The dolphin goes on the conveyor belt through the x-rays.
Lady X-Ray Stand Around and Doing Nothing Person: Inspects Step Hen's tag. Oh wow, this is really nice. I’ve heard of this toy maker. She strokes the dolphin. (She’s obviously not an amateur. No wonder she lives by the beach). And then hands it to the 8 year-old girl in front of me. The girl in front of me merely looks back at me, wide-eyed.
Me: Yeah…that would be my dolphin. Thanks.

While walking through the airport:

A man sees me walking, we make eye contact. He literally bursts out laughing, nudges his wife and points. Thanks, you old fucks. I’m not a fucking circus freak.

On the plane:

I sit next to a nice little old lady with a puffy Irish cap with a red pom pom on top. She had just attended the Irish Catholic convention and although tempted I refrain from informing her that there is no god. I think it might make our trip a tad awkward and move our small talk into the realms of big talk, which I believe is prohibited on most domestic flights.

I help her settle in, picking her shit up off the floor, tugging the seat belt from under her ass while she informs me of pop culture according to her OK Weekly magazine she is reading. I’m almost embarrassed that she knows more about pop culture than I do and is wearing such a sweet hat. I cower in my realization that the 82 year old woman sitting next to me is cooler. Then I look into the overhead bin and see Step Hen The Dolp Hin and realize there was never a competition. I win. I’m cooler. Eat that, sucka. We land and get up to depart. We say our goodbyes and farewells. I reach for my dolphin.

Old Lady: Well aren’t you just a peculiar traveler.
Me: Oh yes, aren’t we all. (My thoughts: You fucking old hag.)

On the bus home from the airport a girl about my age asks me about which bus she should take to get to Golden Gate, I inform her that she should get on the same bus as me. We begin to make small talk. I fucking hate small talk and it is beyond me how I get myself into these situations. Carrying a large dolphin apparently screams something, but I'm not exactly sure what. We board the bus finding seats together so we can continue our conversation.

I have a suitcase, large purse and Step Hen in tow. The crowded bus glares at me. I’m noticeably not welcome. I find out she has just moved here and we bond over being newbies to the city. She is heading to the park to read and I notice the only thing in her purse is a bible. And once again, although tempted, I refrain from informing her that there is no god. I refuse to bring up the fact that I am carrying a large dolphin. I want to see how long it will take her to say something about it.

Approximately 20 minutes pass, we’ve exchanged numbers and finally she asks. Now, I don’t know about you guys but I would undoubtedly ask someone why the fuck they had a dolphin with them before I got their number. But she doesn’t seem phased. Finally she pops the question.

Her: So, what’s the deal with the dolphin?
Me: Relieved. I thought you would never ask. So there is this guy and we have this joke about dolphins… At this point I realize I’ve wanted her to ask, but was completely unprepared for the A part of the Q&A session we were having. Shit…
She’s obviously befuddled. Complete silence. Minutes pass. She finally gains up the courage to probe further.
Her: Ok, so I have to know, what could possibly be the joke about dolphins?
Me: Ok…so our first conversation we ever had revolved around talking about people fucking dolphins...Hearing the words come out my mouth and fall upon the ears of those around me makes me realize how intensely bizarre I sound. The bus arrives at my stop. I get up, rearranging Step Hen and my bag. I turn back, Google that shit. It’s true. I quickly flee.

….Hmm…for some reason I don’t think I’ll be hearing from her…

So the moral of the story is:

...

Yeah, so much like the Q&A sessions I just had, I’m also not prepared for this part of the post.

But I’ll give you some options:
A) Guys, buy your girls large plush animals and make them walk through public areas discussing besteality
B) Don’t believe in god
C) Be jealous. Very jealous.

Happy Birthday, Jacko

2008-08-29T13:46:00.001-07:00

In honor of Jacko's 50th I went on my lunch break to get this:

That just made you a little wet, didnt it? Go take a moment to settle down. Or go to the bathroom and do what ya gotta do. I'll wait....

It took me ages to decide what I wanted to get. I flipped through books and magazines, I spent hours on the phone with my mom and my psychiatrist. It took me FOR-EVER!!!! O!M!G!

This was my other top option:
See this option wasn't so much directly related to Jacko. It was more a tribute. In a you fucked up your face I'll fuck up mine sort of way. I thought I made the right choice, but now I'm not so sure...

I guess there is always next year...

Before 8:37 a.m.

2008-08-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

I strolled across the yard as children celebrated goals and screamed their frustrations. I yawned away my sleepiness and absorbed the morning sun. I received hugs from a few children and engaged in small talk with fellow teachers but for the most part I was by myself. Happy to monitor and happy about the relative peace that is so rare on this yard. I kept my hands in my pockets, wrapped up in my own thoughts when I noticed a young girl under the play structure.

She was a bubble of calmness among the chaos that surrounded her. Among the open space she had managed to find a hideaway. She was the only girl on the yard that didn't have at least 4 other young girls in tow, that wasn't showing off dance moves or fluttering around like a hummingbird on cocaine. She was alone. Silent. From far away I couldn't tell if she was lonely or content.

Either way she intrigued me. People by themselves always have. I'm not particularly sure why. I think I see something of myself in them. I'm not sure if that something is strong or weak.

As I walked closer and crouched down by her side she looked to her left, squinting her eyes to avoid the beating sun. The sun shone down on her face revealing scars that no child should have. Her eyes were soft and calm, almost thoughtful. She didn't say anything but wasn't alarmed or disturbed by my presence.

I smiled. She smiled back. It was our own quiet, silent, greeting. Both of us content. She avert her attention back to her work. She had markers laid out and a blank pad of paper.

I sat down. I planned not to talk much, if she had wanted to engage in conversation she would have joined the other hummingbirds fluttering about.

She looked at me and back at her paper then back at me. She carefully picked out a blue marker, readjusting the others so as none were out of place. She glanced back at me before her marker made a mark then drew a lopsided blue circle.

"What are you planning on drawing?"

"You."

I smiled, "Why did you decide that?"

"I think you're pretty." A nervous yet innocent smile spreads across her face.

A smile spread across mine causing hers to grow bigger.

"Thank you. What's your name?"

"Melissa."

"Hi Mellisa, I'm Miss B......."

"Hi."

She continued to draw. Her eyes continually sliding from my face to her paper and back.

An image started to form. My eyes were on opposite sides of my head (slightly resembling a frog), my arms protruded from where my ears should have been, my legs grew out of my neck.

It was beautiful. She was right, I am pretty.

The bell rang, summoning us to join the rest of the school. She finished up my left leg and she quickly, yet carefully, placed her markers back in her pouch and slipped it into her backpack. She tore the paper out of the pad, but it tore at a diagonal slicing off the top of my head. She handed it to me.

"Do you want this, Miss B...?"

I smiled, feeling the sun on my back, "Of course I do, Melissa."

She shimmied out from underneath the structure and reached for my hand.

But I thought...

2008-08-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

Since I started talking about purchasing and subsequently riding a scooter I've heard "be safe" an insane amount of times. You'd think I was jumping out of a 14 story building with cardboard wings and a hope of survival strapped to my back, not riding on a glorified bike that I'll never ride over 45 mph. I think my Grandma even went out, bought a few rosaries and started some daily Hail Mary action.

She's Baptist.

But I guess I can't blame them. I did crash on my first ride. And when the knowledgeable man sold me my helmet he said, "The worst thing you can do to the helmet is drop it."

Wait.

Excuse me. Rewind. What did you say the WORST thing you could do was?

But I thought...

My Father

2008-08-26T15:40:00.001-07:00

I just called the old man to catch up, vent, and have a guaranteed laugh. He didn't let me down. Oh and he lives behind a golf course. Which I would have thought would be unbearably boring, but maybe not...

Mid-conversation...
Dad: Sorry to interrupt but I'm standing here watching a lady chase a flock of geese. She has an angry look on her face. Very determined. This could get interesting. Keep talking, but I'll keep you posted.
...I chuckle and we go on with our conversation...

Dad: Oooo now the geese are chasing her. Return of the Angry Geese Part 1.
...I laugh and we go on with our conversation...

Dad: This woman is nuts and sucks at golfing. Even the geese want her off the course. Have you ever thought about putting a speaker in a tree and saying odd things or making weird noises?
...I laugh and fully realize where my sense of humor, or lack thereof, came from...
Me: So do you think people would lose weight if they had flavored wallpaper?
Dad: (Without missing a beat) Absolutely!!! I want chocolate on one wall and pep and mush pizza on the other.

This is why I love my dad. He likes when women are chased by geese, has fully thought out putting speakers in trees, and has vision regarding flavored wallpaper.

First Days

2008-08-25T14:04:00.000-07:00

Today I began my life as "Miss (EnterPolishLastNameSki)". I think I would hate the Real World if I wasn't obsessed with my job. I'd be grouchy and cynical. I'd be the girl in her cubical blogging about her fat, dumb co-workers, muttering curse words under her breath and counting down the minutes until she could leave the office (in just enough time to make it home to go to bed). Instead I'm the girl who is pissed because nothing shitty happened today, so what the hell am I going to blog about?

A little kid yelling across the room "Miss (4YearOld'sRemixOfMyLastName), do you want butter and jelly on your toast?" while pretending to pop up toast and scramble eggs makes my day but doesn't bode well for blog entries. But fuck yeah I want butter and jelly. Throw it on there, bud. Oh and I want my eggs over easy.

But being as though it was the first day it made me think about my first days of school as a student. All of them (as in kindergarten through all of college) blend together with memories of new outfits and hopes of new cute boys. Except one. 2nd grade.

The night prior to the first day I didn't feel well. I confided in my mother but she said "Bitch, go to school." Okay, that's a lie (my mom has literally never said bitch in her life) she probably said "Honey, I'm sure you are just nervous it will be fine once you get to school."

So I went. Green and queasy. I'm sure you can see where this is going. Morning group time. Brand new teacher (much like myself today).

Me: Miss Bailey, I'm not feeling....
But before I could verbally finish my sentence I acted it out. I puked all over her, the carpet and splashed a few innocent classmates. Actually I bet they weren't innocent. 2nd graders can be little fuckers, I bet they had it coming.

The convenient thing was that it was the first day of school and somehow they didn't have my home number on file. Therefore I later spewed my innards into the water fountain and then again in the bucket I was forced to carry around the rest of the day.

It did wonders for my 2nd grade social life. Seriously. There is no such thing as bad publicity.

Oh and I totally showed my mom. Look who's the bitch now.

A Meaningless Yet Flavorful Glimpse Into My Morning

2008-08-24T11:54:00.000-07:00

Me (upon leaving my apartment building): I wonder if people would lose weight if they had flavored wallpaper...

Houseless Man (listening to my brilliant comment): That's bullshit.

...whoa...

My Input On The Situation: The houseless people these days really have no vision.

Amazing Guy Input On The Situation: Houseless people, by definition, are not to be consulted on decisions regarding wallpaper.

Oh so true.

Reporting Live at 3:11

2008-08-24T03:11:00.000-07:00

Somehow I came home with a dog.

Because when a dog named Ernie comes up to you and starts following you, you don't leave him on the streets to get hit.

I like Ernie.

Reporting at 12:57 p.m.

2008-08-23T12:57:00.001-07:00

I think synchronized wheeled chair dancing should be a sport.

It's 12:55...

2008-08-23T12:55:00.001-07:00

...and I'm a shit show.

I'm doing it solely for material. Basically I'm taking one for the team.

I'll report back lata.

Dangerous Play

2008-08-22T18:48:00.001-07:00

Today I went up to my special little kid playground to make sure it was safe when I take my kidders up there on Monday.

I found these following items:
1) A rusty spatula
b) A 4 hour Nokia super charger
tres) 2 used condoms
iv) One yellow "Geniune Snake" pimp shoe with a snazzy buckle
5) eight bottles of spray paint
seis) one bottle literally labeled "TNT"

What I did with these items:
Left them there. I thought they would be great conversation starters come Monday. "So kids, where do you think these came from?"

What can I say? Teaching comes naturally to me.

A Morning In My Brain

2008-08-21T15:02:00.000-07:00

My morning has been spent entirely taking care of logistics. I am getting my classroom ready for my kid-a-roos who come on Monday. I can’t wait until my assistant is here so I can boss he/she around. I hope it is a mean old man so I can boss him around and then stick my tongue out at him when he gets pissyface and turns around.

Actually, I take that back, I hope it is a pleasantly plump older woman with huge swaying breasts that only wears plaid jumpers and black gym shoes. If she was like that I’m positive she would bring me homemade peach cobbler on Thursdays. I really like peach cobbler. And Thursdays. We could be BFF. Forever!! (I'm fully aware that the last F in BFF stands for forever. But I'm so cool, I don't care.)

But knowing my luck I’ll get an evil 42 year old man who doesn’t speak English, has a pony-tail, lives with his mom and has oral herpes covering the left side of his face. And really? There is nothing worse than a 42 year old bum with oral herpes covering half his face. Well…maybe a 42 year old bum with herpes covering all of his genitals.

I’ll let you know on Monday who shows up and what their herpe status is.

So since I am doing mindless work, but work that needs to be done by me because my black gym shoe wearing, wobbling breast, peach cobbler making BFF (FOREVER!) isn’t here yet, my mind starts to wander…

I think I should start eating cereal with water instead of milk. I don’t really like milk anyways. And soggy is soggy, right?

Why does the McCain campaign in Ohio keep sending me emails? Dude. Back. The. Fuck. Off.

I’ve never had a cavity and I think that’s pretty baller.

Per request: Riding a scooter is the shit, but sort of lonely. No radio or anything so I’ve started singing and bobbing along to my own tunes. The acoustics inside my helmet are STELLAR. Yesterdays ride home was:

Who let the dogs out (woof, woof, woof, woof)
Who let the dogs out (woof, woof, woof, woof)

About 5 minutes into it I realized those were the only words I knew to the song. I started to annoy myself so I stopped.

I think today I am going to opt for some Michael Jackson. Maybe Beat It or Billie Jean. Maybe both if I’m feeling adventurous.

Typing of which, Billie Jean was totally his lover.

She Told My Baby We'd Danced 'Till Three
Then She Looked At Me
Then Showed A Photo My Baby Cried
His Eyes Looked Like Mine

He just fools you by repeating “Billie Jean Is Not My Lover” 48 bajillion times, but he totally banged her. Gotta watch out for Jacko, he’s a tricky one.

Why aren’t there wipers on motorcycle helmets? It’s bogus. We gotta be able to see in the rain too.

Are a majority of girls fun suckers? Obtaining joy by sucking the fun out of anything they can. I just accidentally wrote, “fuck suckers”. Freudian slip, perhaps?

What would happen if I just disappeared for the weekend?? I’m seriously contemplating it.

I should probably go practice my tricycle racing. Monday is a big day and I can’t look bad on the first day of school. I've got a serious reputation to uphold. I need to show my students they need to respect me. I think racing them and beating the shit out of them is probably the way to go.

Most days I look at how many people visit my site and I feel famous. Today I found out that the most commonly used keyword that led to my site was "besteality" because of this post. I think I still feel famous anyways. Just slightly dirty.

My dad used to chase my brothers and me around the house with underwear on his head screaming, “I’m the Underpants Man! I’m the Underpants Man!” It wasn’t funny. It was terrifying. I wonder if this has had any lasting psychological effects.

I’m morally opposed to girls who post weekly pregnancy tummy photos on Facebook. Sweetheart, we already know you have a bastard child waiting to slip out of your loose va-jay-jay, must you really post close-ups of your stretch marks??
I was almost religiously opposed but then I remembered I’m atheist.

Tiny Tragedies

2008-08-19T21:20:00.000-07:00

I have some coming clean to do. So let’s do this Hillary Duff style. Just listen while I shed every color trying to find a pigment of truth beneath my skin. She is so unbelievably talented. Sometimes I lay awake at night thinking about the logistics of her awesomeness.

I can’t live with this guilty conscience any longer. Not one more minute. I’ve been hiding things from you. And you, loyal reader, don’t deserve such explicit censorship. In the last few weeks I’ve had some rather serious mishaps. Catastrophes, if you will.

First disaster: So you know that beautiful scooter I purchased not too far back. I was an arrogant biatch. I talked incessantly about what a badass I was. Cooler than the other side of the pillow. Cooler than The Fonz. Basically I was like, “Just call me AC”. Yeah, well I forgot to remember that I’m well…just not cool. Lukewarm at coolest.

I crashed. I was like a little kid who well…fell off a bike. Bloody, bruised and an oh-so-damaged soul. I didn’t tell anyone about it. If I even so much as texted about it I knew my eye sockets would quickly transform into faucets. Much like a child who has just become face pals with concrete, they quickly hop up but if you even so much as look at them as if you are going to ask if they are ok they immediately fall apart at the seams.

My thigh had a bump that could have doubled as a hold on a rock-climbing wall. I actually tried to donate it to the local gym but there were too many fat people running inside and it made me nauseous and I had to leave. Now it has just turned into a tie-die oblong coloration decoration on my leg. (My favorite color is the fuchsia!!) I shamefully glued my rear-view mirror back onto my scooter and then vengefully coined my bike Scooty Doo to belittle it as much as possible.

My second mishap: I somehow managed to flood my apartment with 2 inches of water on Saturday. Which subsequently flooded the 3 apartments below us. By the way, our landlord LOVES us.

Good thing I had an amazing guy visiting me for the weekend. Because nothing says “Will you please sleep in my bed” quite like, “Uhhh want to help me clean shit off the floor?”

My game is untouchable.

Explain To Me What I Do With This or I Put it Where? or Explain to Me Just One More Time What I Do With This

2008-08-18T21:48:00.000-07:00

I was guided into a store today called Department 56. I’ve seen it from the outside and always had this strange unexpected gag reflex occur. Today I was forced to enter its gaudily decorated Halloween doors and all my previous gag issues started to make sense. I'm just allergic to useless shit.

Wait. Halloween? Like little kids in plastic costumes begging for sugar?

It’s, like, August, right?

Last time I checked the calendars Halloween was in what? October? Actually at the very end of October. I wasn’t even aware that Halloween decorating required any planning ahead but apparently it requires at least 2 ½ months. I must have not gotten the memo. Hopefully they send out a reminder soon.

Do real people, like people with jobs and friends, buy these fake minatures? Like actually take out their wallet, hand over some sort of non-sexual payment, make the effort to hold a bag in their hand and transport it all the way to some special home for itsy-bitsy Monster Rock Bands?

In all seriousness, what is their purpose? (Well besides exponentially increasing your quality of life. Because how could two snow babies with shopping bags riding on a Vespa not do that?!?!)

I believe they just give you a reason to dust more frequently. I personally like to stick to buying things that do things for me, like dishwashers and dildos. Not things that make me do things. Seems rather demanding of an inanimate object. I don’t like animate objects that are high maintenance, let alone inanimate objects.

The whole experience made me wish our economy would really speed up this nose-dive so that no one I know has the extra cash to buy this:

So Back To Pigeons and Scabs

2008-08-17T15:03:00.001-07:00

Ok so my iPhone did some messed up shit with this photo. Piece of turd. Anyways it is a picture of a pigeon coming into this coffee shop where I currently am. He actually came over and asked me for a scab.

He must have been talking to his other little dirty, winged friends.

God, I'm so famous.

My New Zoo

2008-08-17T13:55:00.000-07:00

Have you been to the zoo lately?

Wait. I take that line back. It sounded like corny stand-up and I don’t really care if you’ve been to the zoo lately. I’m here to tell you that the zoo fucking sucks.

That’s right. The Zoo. The place with the animals. They do a great job making you think it would be it would be exciting, educational or I even dare say thrilling. What with the exotic animals and what not.

I’m here to state the truth and nothing but the truth. Do not be fooled by their interesting facade. The zoo fucking sucks.

I’d rather keep my money and play a good ol’ game of House? Or Houseless? in Golden Gate Park. (H?OH? is a little game I’ve formulated where you pick out human beings at the park and as a group decide who you think has a house and who doesn’t. Sound reasons must support your conclusion. Here in San Fran it is trickier than you’d think, norms of showers and groomed nails are thrown out of the window upon entering city limit). I believe that would more than fully satisfy my animal watching needs.

The zoo involves lots of walking, lots of cages, horrible smells and tons (pun intended) of bratty fat kids. None of the animals are ever doing anything of interest. The least they could do would be to sniff each other’s assholes. I mean really, didn’t I pay to be entertained? Even domesticated pooches can do that.

With the likes of the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet being out there and actually showing animals DO stuff (like fuck and hunt). The zoo has serious competition. If they are going to stay in the business the zoo needs to step it up a notch. Or 7.

Which is where I come in. I’ve devised a 7-day schedule that the zoo could advertise and implement.

It is as follows:

Monday: Creature Gladiator. Specie fights. Two species are chosen at random, possibly out of a hat or say a computer-operated randomizer. It would be sort of like the animal death lottery. Whoever wins gets to prove themselves worthy of zoo status. It gives true meaning and value to being a zoo animal. Why not make the zoo elite? Nowadays any old anteater or sloth can make it to the zoo. And obviously the public likes competition, just look at reality television. And really, who doesn’t love fur, blood and guts on a Monday evening? And I’m sure the zoo would make a killing off of popcorn sales.

Tuesday: Bring your Grandparent to the Zoo Day!! One lucky old fuck will be nominated to go into the cage of a deadly animal of their choice. I mean it would only be fair for them to decide. As long as it is a deadly, famished animal. They’re old, they’re going to die soon anyways. Might as well go out with a roar!!

Wednesday: Where’s Kitty?! Exactly like Where’s Waldo. Except in real life. And instead of searching for a tall lanky young man in a striped shirt you are searching for a ravenous lioness. I haven’t gotten far enough in my brainstorming to formulate what the winner receives. I’ll worry about that after the fact. And maybe the lioness would have an idea or two.

Thursday: Bring your Fat Kid to the Zoo Day!! The fattest kid gets…I’m not even going to explain this one. I’m just looking for a way to exterminate the world of fat kids. One zoo visit at a time. And just think of the money the zoo will save on animal feed.

Friday: Fucking Friday!! Put on some Celine Dion, light some candles and inject the animals with hormones if you have to. Get those animals fucking. Have you ever seen a zebra penis? True Story: A safari driver once convinced me that we were seeing a zebra with a deformed 5th leg. The saying should undoubtedly be “Hung like a Zebra”. Horses ain’t got shit on zebras.

Saturday: Saturday Scavenger Search. (God I love alliterations. One of my favorite songs is my brothers made-up jingle called “Alliteration Alliteration”. True genius. But that’s neither here nor there.) Each visitor at the zoo has to complete the scavenger hunt before being allowed to leave. I imagine the objects would be something along the lines of a monkey feces, mammal semen (you’d have to be tricky to get that one), or giraffe ear wax.

Sunday: I would have the zoo closed on Sunday. Well, almost closed. One cage would be unlocked. Nobody would know which one. Maybe the animal would get out, maybe it wouldn’t. Because there is no reason the fun of the new zoo should be confined to zoo grounds. God, I’m so generous. I amaze myself sometimes. Always thinking of others.

I really think this here schedule could do wonders for the zoo. It would make it legitimately exciting, risky and thrilling. Dangerous? Well yes. But oh so exciting.

And as I always say, you could get killed walking across the street. And honestly try to tell me getting killed trying to obtain antelope semen wouldn’t be a better story?

Why not live life on the edge? And as they say, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. (Unless of course it leaves you paralyzed. But those are just details, I tell ya.)

So who’s with me?

One More Thing

2008-08-15T19:15:00.000-07:00

I fed my scabs to the pigeons today. I couldn't decide if it was cruel or generous of me.

I think generous.

I'm Lazy

2008-08-15T18:33:00.000-07:00

So I have a half written post but then I plugged in my iPhone (don't worry I don't think it raises my cool factor, I mean at least not too much) and up came these brilliant photos I've taken. San Francisco really is a beautiful city and I just wanted to spread the joy.

I was just jealous of her sexiness. Especially the black scrunchie you can't see. And god black leather jackets on women make me wet. And yes, that's a Mickey D's cheeseburger in her hand. Go get it giiiirl!!

Because why have dreadlocks when you can just have a dreadlock? God, San Francisco is just so Zen.

I am all for gay rights and gay marriage, but I think there might just be some things, regardless of sexual preferences, that shouldn't be done in children's playgrounds.

Because anything with the word smelly in it is funny and I thought maybe Mel was related to my friends at the laundromat. You never know, it's a small world and even smaller when you're smelly.

Ok ok. This wasn't taken in SF, but still funny, right??

Witnessed Incident (Not photographed): Woman and man obviously on awkward first date. Man holding door open for woman, she climbs in and cracks her skull on the top of the car. I hear it from about 20 feet away. Neither one of them says a word. Act like it never happened. WTF? Acknowledge that. That shits funny.

Blog Rolls

2008-08-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

So it appears that I have a few new readers and blog rolls have been mentioned. And I really am flattered.

I only wish blog rolls were as cool as this roll.

Cotton candy, sweet and low,
Let me see that Tootsee Roll!

Elementary skating parties, any one??

Reporting Live From the Laundromat

2008-08-14T18:54:00.000-07:00

This shit be crazy.

Houseless jittery oozing sore face man walks into the Laundromat. (I call him houseless because really who am I to say he is homeless? That would be like me saying he doesn’t have a heart. Home is where the heart is, right? Seems rather presumptuous and soulless of me to say he doesn’t have a heart. Actually if I was houseless I would wear one of those crocheted pillows that said “Home Is Where The Heart Is” around my neck. But my guess would be that it wouldn’t be quite as funny if I were actually homeless). He will henceforth be referred to as SirMoistNastyOoze. That shit be gross.

SirMoistNastyOoze: Hey you want some acid?

Uhh…Me? In my Vanderbilt sweatshirt and designer jeans? Acid? What? Are we doing a science experiment? Yay! Wait...let me get grab my safety goggles real quick before we formulate our hypothesis.

As I rummage through my backpack looking for my goggles I realize he isn’t talking to me but instead to the equally jittery and houseless woman attempting to undirty her dirty clothes. Good luck, crackwhore.

(Who knew the houseless did laundry? Apparently you don’t learn everything you needed to know in kindergarten.)

She is eager. She wants in. She’s like a little kid who has just heard the Ice Cream Man jingle and is hurriedly rummaging for loose change under the couch cushions. She scuttles around, throwing objects forcefully into the trash, and slamming washer doors with serious attitude. She has dropped 7…oops there she goes again, 8 objects within the last 37 seconds.

SirMoistNastyOoze gives her a deal, a deal she can’t refuse. Hell, I almost couldn’t refuse. I even grabbed for my wallet. Then I remembered I don’t do acid. Sometimes details are important. $4. You can’t even buy a burrito for $4!

So they set a meeting place and he turned to go out the door. At which point I said “Hey Dude!” he turned around, hair blowing in the wind, puss dripping down his right cheek, music started to play softly in the background and I threw him a bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide. And told him, “Go soak your face in this shit.”

Ok…that’s a lie. But only because I didn’t have access to hydrogen peroxide or a stereo system at the moment.

Since he left Houseless Homegirl has made 4 phone calls to “Benny” leaving urgent voicemails. She keeps taking her coat on and off scratching her entire body as if she is crawling with insects. Which I don’t blame her, she probably is.

And then we’ve got Sk8r Boi to my right detailing every drug experience he’s ever had to somebody on the phone and explaining why he’d rather just "get really drunk tonight" and not do shrooms. Dude's got work tomorrow. Oh the sacrifice!!

As I said. This shit be crazy.

I'm Sorry I Haven't Called, I've Just Been So Busy

2008-08-14T15:25:00.001-07:00

I've been thrown this line many times in my girly days by disappearing/reappearing men.

And the ONLY time I've ever accepted it is when I know they are shitting their pants.

That's when you know you are busy, when you are forced to shit in your pants. Going to the commode would just take too much time.

So ladies out there, unless your man is dripping with turds, don't believe him.

Forcibly Exercised

2008-08-13T22:53:00.001-07:00

Tonight I tried to change the template to this damn blog. It ended up being whimsical and girly. Those two things? I’m not.

And then it forced me to get rid of my beautiful San Fran photo. Which would really just be unacceptable. Unacceptable for the following reasons:

1) It’s gorgeous
2) I took it.
3) Great unexpected lengths were taken to obtain this photo.

The story is as such:

I was here visiting my brother exactly a year ago. Love at first visit, if you will. Not with my brother, with the city.

My brother and his partner had a business meeting across the bridge. I tagged along. I’m a good tagger alonger. I provide silly commentary and then when you need me to get lost I’m usually wanting to get lost by that point anyways. Rather convenient for all involved.

So I wandered the streets and talked to strangers for a few hours. Or at least looked at strangers and thought about talking to them.

After the meeting the guy offered to take us to a good scenic view. And who doesn’t like a good ol’ scenic view? And of course my brother was delighted to be relieved of his tour guide role for a brief moment. We accepted the invite.

We drove up windy roads and into some cove-ish area. Parked. Shimmied out of the Mini-Cooper and stood basking in the sun in our snazzy dinner clothes. Made small talk about the beauty of the view. You know the type, “Oh the natural beauty! Just gorgeous! This is better than watching my step cousin undress!” The norm. We thought we had arrived at our final destination.

No. No.

Businessman: You guys want to get some exercise?

Us: Awkwardly look at each other. All come to the same conclusion that he is probably talking about a brief hike up the hill. Sure.

Business man then turns around and starts running.

Not walking.
Not power walking.
Not a jog.
And definitely not looking back.

So what are we to do? We hesitate. We have no choice.

We run.

And we run…

We run some more…

We run up hills…

We run through mud…

We just keep running..
I fall back because it is difficult to run and hysterically laugh simultaneously.

It’s been one of the few moments in my life where I actually questioned whether I was dreaming. I thought for sure I was.

Eventually we get to where we are going. Businessman starts talking about the history of the area as if there weren’t 3 twenty somethings panting and profusely sweating in nice clothing in front of him.

And then I took this.

And then we all ran back down the hill.

The businessman never mentioned running.

We said our farewells. And the businessman was never to be seen again. At least by me. I'm sure someone has seen him at some point.

So that brings us here folks, back to the basics.

My Lunch Break

2008-08-13T13:44:00.000-07:00

I’m at work. I made it today. Snaps around the house! It’s lunch time and my stomach has officially commenced eating itself. I should just hop on my scooter and go around the block to grab a taco. I honestly think they only sell tacos and Flintstone's Push Pops in a 5 mile radius of this school. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I think it is brilliant.

But I’m too lazy to go anywhere. Actually it isn’t so much that I’m lazy but I know if I jump on my scooter I will somehow find my way to a park to read a book and not back in my classroom.

So instead of eating I am going to write. I should be rewriting my parent letter because my bitchass principal said it sounded too smart. That’s what I get for being intelligent. More fucking work. I knew there was a reason I should have decided to be dumb in the 7th grade (because I think that is about the time decided to be smart).

But I shall avoid work and write about food.

I am what all of you would call a Cereal Connoisseur. (Not some of you. All of you.) I just spelled connoisseur correctly on the first try. Must have been a vocabulary word in the 7th grade.

Lately I have been eating cereal for 3 meals a day. It isn’t because I am lazy. I’d cook if it meant that when I cooked my end product was cereal. But that isn’t the way the world works, unfortunately. You end up with things like grilled chicken, vegetables, and spaghetti. Not Fruity Pebbles or a spitting, crackling bowl of Rice Krispies.

‘Tis a pity.

Most of the time I mix it up (Raisin Bran, Life, Cheerios, etc) but for the last 6 meals of my life I’ve been eating Puffins- Peanut Butter. Orgasmic. It’s sort of like eating a healthier version of Reese’s Puffs (which is a genius cereal).

Wait. Don’t jump to conclusions. I’m not eating it because it’s healthy. I’m eating it because it is delicious and because my grocery store only sells healthy food. Honestly, if you went into that place and bought a cookie (that wasn’t a No Cookie Cookie, yes those exist) they might put a sticky note on your back when you left that read “Kick me. I eat REAL cookies.” The crazy thing about San Francisco is I bet people would kick the shit out of me.

I’m used to the mid-west where if you order a King Size Big Mac Meal with a chocolate shake at MickeyD’s and ask them to hold the mayo you will be asked why you’re being healthy and probably lose a majority of your friends.

Anywhooo, I’m smitten with cereal. I imagine at some point I’ll be forced to eat something else. But Not Today.

And that? Warms my heart.

I'm An Atheist But...

2008-08-12T22:42:00.001-07:00

I full heartedly believe the words twat and smitten should be used with greater frequency.

What's Your Job? Oh, I'm a Smile Whore.

2008-08-12T21:59:00.000-07:00

Ok so my whole “back to work” thing didn’t last long. One 5 hour day. I think I am going to opt for the one day on, one day off plan. Or better yet, one half day on, one full day off.

Why haven’t more people thought of this? People are idiots, I tell you.

It is going to be harsh for all involved when I actually have to go back to work and am forced to stay. It really is too bad temper tantrums go out of style when you are 4. I think I could throw a temper tantrum with the best of them. As I recall flailing is key. Lots of flailing.

Instead I did “work” at home. And in all sincerity I did get some work done. But with more sincerity I mostly did nothing. Well except for discover a new cereal and put all of Old Sluts left over belongings on the street to get snatched up by the neighborhood bums. Anyways, I was gchatting with my “busy” sign up. Not because I’m busy but because I think it makes me look cool. Like “I’ve got better things to be doing than talking to you, but I dare ya. I dare ya, just send me a message and see what happens.” Or maybe it is just because I like red better than green. I can’t remember.

So I was typing with CST and homeboy started a new blog. But don’t get excited there will probably never actually be a post on it. Pointless you say? Yes. I agree. But apparently he has bigger fish to fry and his “busy” sign isn’t just to be cool. I guess some people have real lives?

The whole phenomenon is fascinating really.

CST: what isn't a good idea probably is registering for a blog called angryatwork.blogspot.com while at work on my work computer

Brilliant, right? I mean, not original. But everyone is angry at work. Angry is like the definition of work.

So it got me thinking. When was the last time I was really angry at work. Ahhh yes, yesterday. That one day I went to work...

Yesterday I went back to work. I rolled up to my school on Scooty Doo, awkwardly chit chatted with my bitchass principal about my summer. Hallucinogens, rough sex, you know. The usually. And then she dropped a bomb on me. Luis wasn’t coming back. Security Guard Luis. My Homeboy. I’m immediately confused and angry.

I moved to SF on April 27th and started work on April 28th. I was alone, terrified, and heart-broken. I was busy with figuring out how to drive a stick-shift through the ghetto, get through life without friends, teach children in an empty classroom and still find at least an hour each night to cry on the phone with my mom. Tight schedule. So I went to work and Luis was a welcome face. Creepy. But welcoming.

He was a 40 year-old, Peruvian, soccer jersey, sunglass wearing, hair gelling oompa loompa of a man. He was single and, by god, ready to mingle. With ladies half is age. Lucky me.

But I was lonely. I had heavy objects that needed to be moved. Furniture that needed to be assembled. And a damn good smile that I didn't mind whoring out.

So in exchange for some smiles and allowing him to call me “Bonita”, as opposed to my real name, I got all sorts of party gifts from this walking Peruvian Party.

Lunch from my choice of places nearly every day. Free. Well, free to me. I was an avid aficionado of Taco Tuesdays. No sour cream. Gracias.

Free labor.

32 pirated DVD’s with no covers in a black plastic bag. Because at one point he asked “Do you like movies?” and I said, “Si.” (I was practicing my Espanol.)

An invitation every Tuesday and Friday night to go salsa dancing with him in the city. And on this one really special occasion he asked me to go to San Jose with him to go dancing and meet his familia.

Really everything a girl could ask for. Except pinatas. I really think pinatas could have helped his game. Every girl likes blind-folds, bats and candy, right?

But I was playing hard to get and declined all these invitations.

Now I’m suffering the consequences.

I’ll miss you, Luis.

Oh I forgot to mention why he left. Luis was threatened at gunpoint after school one day by some gang banging teenager for busting one of their drug deals a year earlier. Kids these days.

(I feel like this should have been a key point of discussion somewhere in this post. I really dropped the plate on that one. I think it should be plate instead of ball. Balls bounce back. Plates? Do not. If you want you can imagine cutting and pasting it wherever your little heart desires. But I’m too lazy and have a bowl of cereal that needs to be eaten.)

My Peruvian Security Guard was whisked away and that makes me angry. I knew I wasn’t working in perfect bubbly suburbia. But I just thought that meant I would hear gun shots on a regular basis and have to deal with aloof parents.

Not disappearing Peruvians.

But no worries Luis, I’ll keep your DVD’s safe.

The Last 9 Minutes with My Brother

2008-08-12T20:32:00.000-07:00

He leaves door open while he pisses. I walk by.

Me: Do you always keep your legs that far away when you piss?
Brother: Yes. pause. piss. I have a penis.
Me: Oh.

I laugh uncontrollably.

6 minutes later

I'm at my computer and John Mayer is playing.

Brother: Wow, it's been forever since I've heard some Dave Matthew's.
Me: Especially because this is John Mayer.

And then we decide we think Obama will be assassinated before November. Therefore leaving Hillary, The Chosen One, in the office. And That? Is beyond terrifying.

He Ain't No Clay Aiken

2008-08-12T15:20:00.000-07:00

I just got home from an ice cream cone outing and roommate bashing session with my brother. Ahh good times. Nothing like a little sugar and drama to bring two siblings together. Adorable, really.

Anyways, I must have been mouse-like in my entrance because intern homeboy doesn't know I'm here and is TOTALLY rocking out.

Problem is: He sounds like a cat being strangled. His voice is doing this strange crackly, shaky, speedy pitch/tone changing craziness. I think I might go put cotton balls in my ears to keep my brain from oozing out my ears.

Who does this kid think he is, Clay Aiken?

I think I should go tell him I'm home.

*Clay Aiken is apparently a new father. Apparently his boyfriend was pregnant. Who knew?
(Sorry about two links, I couldn't decide which picture was more hilarious. Clay Aiken just provides too much good material. Not my fault.)

Sexy Time

2008-08-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

My heart was aching for Kenya the other day so I decided to stalk myself and look through all my Africa pictures.

My heart did an alley oop when I came across this. I know, I know, my photography skills are untouchable.

Yes, ladies and gentleman this is a red albino. So my unkind soul sent this out to a few people asking if they thought he could win some sort of contest or what they would say if I said I was related to this man. Which is actually believable because my smile is a dead ringer.

So that evening I had a friend come over and we were drinking a couple beers and discussing her hook-up earlier in the day with her surf instructor. And then I said, "Speaking of hot surf instructors and sexy time on the beach I think you should see this picture."

I did a little clickity-click and conjured up the above stunning image.

Without hesitation her first response was: He looks like a really nice guy.

WHAT?? Have we seriously become so PC in this world that you can literally see a photograph of quite possibly the most disgusting looking man in the entire universe and you say "He looks like a really nice guy"?

Whatever happened to "Holy shitfuck If I was his mother I would slit my wrists and perform self surgery with a rusty knife to remove my ovaries"?

Old Garlicy Slut or I Hate Disrespectful People or This is The Longest Post Ever So It Was Only Appropriate to Have a Really Long Title

2008-08-11T22:59:00.000-07:00

I apologize for lacking in the post department. My life has been elsewhere. I’ve been forcing myself to ride “Scooty Doo”. I know, I know, not dark and sexy. But let’s just say the first ride didn’t go as planned. I don’t want to talk about it. All I know is that I want my guy to be named the least terrifying name possible. If it is named something like “The Godfather” or “Thor” I might whimper like a beaten dog every time I mount him. And no guy wants that, now do they?

I’ve also returned to work and realized there’s nothing that frustrates me more (except for the below roommate story) quite like disgustingly non-supportive public schools but nothing that makes me happier than getting into my own classroom of a disgustingly non-supportive public school. Quite the conundrum. But in any case, tricycle races and magnet experiments here I come.

And THEN I’ve been dealing with roommate relations, which is something I DO want to talk about. Now not a whole lot gets my panties in a bunch. But this? Got my panties in some sort of crazy tornado swirly.

So here’s the dealio (I’ll try to be brief and concise about this, but I know I am going to be terribly unsuccessful. I’m only ever long-winded when I’m pissed, especially about 30 year-old women who want me to pay their rent):

I moved to San Francisco at the beginning of May. I was living with my older brother south of SF. He is starting up a software company and his business partner’s older sister (who will henceforth be referred to as Old Slut) moved to the city at approximately the same time as I did. Long story short, we all decided to move in together. Brady Bunch style. Two brothers, two sisters, two last names, too many people.

We found an amazing place on the corner of Haight & Ashbury (yay! now you can stalk!) and moved in at the beginning of June. The two brothers are starting a company and therefore the apartment also doubles as an “office”. Realize the term office is used ever so loosely. “Office” means there are usually people in their underwear computing and listening to vinyl in the living room. Old Slut is apparently also a part of this “company”, but the only thing I ever saw her do was roll joints, smoke them, force people to wash forks, and make motzah ball soup and fruit smoothies with garlic (uhhh…what?).

So from what I know the arrangement was that if she came out here and worked (worked being the key word in this sentence) her brother would pay her rent. Unfortunately for her, highness and nasty ass smoothies aren’t very valuable products. Imagine that? So her brother informed her more than a month ago that he was no longer going to pay her rent. Keep in mind Old Slut is 30. Yes, 30. As in, not just out of college, has a few gray hairs and she’s 30. Not 29 but 30. Oh and she sleeps with lots of men and likes to tell me how sore she is. Keep your 30 year-old pussy dilemmas to yourself. I’m negatively impressed when you sleep with 3 men in less than 5 days. Thank you very much.

So living arrangements are as such: I was sharing a room with my older brother. Not ideal, but temporary and rent was being split 5 ways (4 roommates and “the company”), so I was cool with it. He talks about batshit crazy stuff in his sleep, so in my mind it was free entertainment. Whatevers. Old Slut and her brother were sharing a room at first and then Old Slut moved her stuff into one of the “office rooms”. No big deal, whatever. Oh and somewhere along the way an “intern” moves in. Why or how this happened is still a mystery to me but the dudes 45 minute showers are a constant schedule issue in my life.

Ok so she finds out her younger brother is no longer going to pay for her rent. She finds some job in China starting in August and plans on leaving at the end of August. Job falls through (I think they heard about her Banana Raspberry Garlic Shit Smoothie). Then she decides she is going to go to Europe for a couple weeks, whore her pussy out to tres men, take 1,072 pictures (literally) and come back. Comes back at the beginning of August and is planning on staying until the 20th. She has also simultaneously moved all of her stuff out of the “office” and back into Ian’s room. August 1st comes and goes. I pay my rent. My bro pays his rent. Neither one of them pay their rent. Hmm…

So finally August 9th my brother asks for a rent check. Apparently they think since Old Slut has moved back into Ian’s room that she should therefore not have to pay rent.

Excuse me?

…Wait…
............What?...

(I'm especially perturbed because if this is in fact logical, why the fuck have I been paying for rent?)

Whoreface over here gets mail here, has her own shelf in the bathroom, has food labeled in the refrigerator, has obnoxious neon green sticky notes of “funny” sayings on the kitchen wall. The chick LIVES here.

So she decides this is blasphemy, books a ticket for August 11th. She is just going to flee and not pay any rent…

Excuse me?

What?

We find out she is leaving because she sends this email to my brother:

hey (insert my brother’s name),

i was hoping to have a chance to speak with you before i leave tomorrow about the rent situation... understandably (insert her brother’s name) has approached me about it, and he's hoping that you and i can resolve this without his involvement, which is what i'm hoping for as well.

so my understanding is that you want me to pay rent for this month. as you know (which he didn’t), i am leaving tomorrow so i would hope that you don't intend to collect a full months rent from me. being that my mother has supported my entire time here in san francisco, and that i do not have any money of my own, all i can tell you is that whatever arrangements you have in your mind about the rent, i apologize but you'll have to deal with her directly from this point on.

her email is (insert her mother’s email). you are welcome to email her to sort this out. in the meantime, please don't put any more stress on my brother than he is already dealing with.. he is not responsible for me (but apparently her mother is?). he works too hard to have to deal with the rent issues between us. and quite frankly, i don't understand why you never approached me about this in the first place... you should have.

so that's everything. i hope this email is well received, as i don't write it maliciously. i just want to make sure that things are clear before i leave.

perhaps i'll see you later... if not, i wish you the best with all of your endeavors.

take care,
Old Slut

Yes, this girl just tried to peace the fuck out and have my brother ask her mommy for rent. No, she isn’t asking her Mommy for rent at 30 but she is asking other people to ask her Mommy for rent at 30.

Wow. Dome-blasting.

My brother confronts her that evening. I was expecting more of a show and was rather disappointed. It went down like this:

My brother: Um...I’m not trying to be a dick, but we just need to pay rent. And it only seems fair that the people living here pay rent.

Old Slut: You are going to have to talk to my mom about it. And I don’t think she is going to be happy about it.

My brother: Um…ok. I mean I don’t think that makes sense, but whatever I have to do to get rent, I guess. I don’t understand why she would be upset. Paying rent just needs to happen. I mean we just have to pay rent.

(I think what he was trying to get at was that we just need to pay rent. But I could be wrong.)

Old Slut: She just isn’t going to be happy because she has been supporting my entire time here. I have no money of my own.

My brother: Ok, well it isn’t any of my business where your money comes from. But you have been living here and you need to pay rent.

Me (I gracefully enter stage right after eavesdropping): I don’t really understand why my brother needs to ask your mother for rent. If you’re broke and need money shouldn’t you ask her?

Old Slut: Uhhh…I don’t have any money.

(Ohhhhh so THAT'S what this is about.)

Old Slut’s brother (entering stage left after eavesdropping): Old Slut, this is ridiculous, you can’t ask (insert my brother’s name) to ask Mom for rent money.

Old Slut: (Obviously feeling attacked) Ok, I’ll ask mom for the money. I’ll do the footwork.

Roommates disperse. My brother and I go into our room and just give each other a look like “WTF? Who are these people?” and then talk and laugh about the silly movie experience I had that evening and move on with our lives.

This morning we receive this email from Old Slut’s brother:

This didn't occur to me last night, I was exhausted.
Id like to consider waiving her prorated rent for this month.

My two reasons are simply the following:
1) She has been in the house this month for only about a week (not true, almost 2 weeks), after returning from Germany.
2) She has been out of the house an additional 3 weeks (also not true, 2 weeks) in the past several months, not having occupied house space. Going on the standard that was recently discussed, of counting physical bodies in the house, she has been around much less than any of us, in the last several months.

My other two reasons are:
1) She has paid for the general mov-ein costs, items, etc. as far as I know, and has not been paid back. Those costs pushed past $300.
2) We have allowed 2 family members to live in the house for 1 or 2 weeks (my mom and grandma stayed with us for 8 days and took them out to dinner on multiple occasions), I cant remember how long they were here, without paying rent, etc. They were extra bodies living here for all intents and purposes for a significant amount of time, and it was, in my opinion, very tight. If you look at this as man months, this is like having one person living with us for free for an entire month. (Or two sweet woman taking you out to dinner for a week and making you cookies at night.)

In summary, she was here for just one week this month, and even moved all her stuff out of the room that she was sort of occupying. I feel that her time away from the apartment and her paying for house costs makes it within reason to count that as one week of rent.

I would have mentioned this last night, and I had discussed this with her already, but I was exhausted, and was simply annoyed about the idea of (insert my brother’s name) having to contact my mother. That was my issue.

I would like to talk about splitting rent simply 4 ways this month.

Lets talk tonight.

My response: Jaw to the ground, shit in my undies, and immediately write an email in response. Keep in mind she is copied on this email.

Yes, I've got balls.

My email:

(FYI I’m not normally this much of a bitchface until, as I said earlier, a 30 year-old women tries to get me to pay her rent)

I am at work and will be home around 4 or 5 and would LOVE to have a conversation about this.

My points will be as follows:

1) She has been living in this apartment for 11 days. Unfortunately when you are an adult, living in an apartment = paying rent.

2) Just because you leave your apartment does not mean that you do not have to pay rent. For example, I was out of town last weekend but have not and do not plan on asking for paying for only 27 of the 31 days in August. My brother does not ask for reimbursement for the nights that he goes to Palo Alto. We don't live in a hotel. We do not pay per night. She moved in with us as a roommate, she left on vacation and that therefore does not mean that she is no longer a roommate.

3) In most (aka ALL) renter cases I believe that at least a 2 weeks notice before moving out is required. The only reason I knew Old Slut was moving out this morning was because I very specifically asked her yesterday. I have a job. I have a budget. As far as I knew Old Slut was leaving the 20th (and that information was also obtained only days ago because I specifically asked). All of a sudden being told (on August 11th) that rent for ALL of August is going to be split 4 ways instead of 5 effects my budget. If she knew she was leaving this needed to be discussed sometime in July, not mid-way through August. I also understand that she didn't know she was leaving this soon, but it all honesty she is leaving because she can't pay for rent. This situation would be exactly like me saying today that I'm moving out tomorrow and I want my rent check for August back. Which is unacceptable and in all honestly really disrespectful and illogical. I believe rent until the 20th should be paid considering no notice was given. But if nothing else at least the time she was here should be paid for.

4) We all paid for move-in costs (or at least I know I did). I brought many things to the apartment upon move-in (e.g., cleaning supplies, kitchen towels, bath hand towels, toilet paper, paper towels). It is just the given costs of moving into a place/living in a place/being an adult. The extras that Old Slut bought (kitchen racks that have yet to be hung, bag holders that aren't used, trash contraptions that sit in boxes under the kitchen table, and hanging fruit baskets) were not asked to be purchased, and she has also not asked anyone to reimburse her for them. Therefore, I think that "$300" is not a point of discussion.

5) As for my Mom and Grandma visiting. I do really appreciate that everyone was cool with it. I know at times it was tight. But I also think this point is irrelevant. The original plan was that they would stay in a hotel, but since Old Slut was gone we figured we could make it happen. I asked everyone if it was all right if they stayed. Everyone replied "yes". They stayed for 8 days, therefore it is nothing like an extra person freeloading for an entire month. If an issue of increased rent was an issue then it should have been brought up then. And it happened in July. The current discussion is the rent for August 1- August 11th.

But you know what? If she is that broke (which is odd to me considering she had the money to go to LA/ Europe for over 2 weeks) and doesn't want to ask her Mommy for the cash, I'll write another check from my OWN bank account. But please know, it is complete bullshit.

Sincerely,
Me ☺

If you couldn’t tell, I was fuming. That shit is unacceptable. Fork up the cash. It isn’t even a lot, at this point it is just the principle. You can’t just live somewhere, not expect to pay and then when you realize you have to pay peace out. Somehow I’m 22, just out of school and have my shit together enough to pay rent every month. You’re 30 and have to ask Mommy Dearest for the cash. Maybe if you didn’t spend all of Mommy’s cash on the reefer you’d be okay. Or maybe…I don’t know? Get a job? Novel idea. I know, I’m brilliant.

After my email her brother wrote a check for her rent for the days that she was here.

Anti-climatic. I know. She never responded to my email. But I know she read it and maybe it will maybe make her take a step back and look at her slutty, rent avoiding ways.

I think the moral of the story is this:

Don’t be 30, sleep with 3 men in 5 days, smoke the reefer continuously or buy hanging fruit baskets.

Oh, and DEFINITELY don’t put garlic in your fruit smoothies.

Is It Enough?

2008-08-09T09:37:00.000-07:00

So last night I was being a lone wolf (one of my favorite activities) and stayed in on a Friday night. I received this mass email from a friend of mine. It went as follows:

I mean one thing if it IS brad pitt, but is a look alike enough? thoughts?

I immediately had an opinion on this matter. My response back to the group went a little something exactly like this:

I feel as though to properly answer this question I would need some background questions answered. I imagine sitting down with this HPV infested and possible cervical cancer ridden young lady, making her a cup of tea and both of us sitting in rocking chairs having a lil' heart to heart.

My questions are as follows:

a) How many adult beverages did it take to make him look like Brad Pitt? My guess would be around 7 or 8 cranberry vodkas and maybe a shot (or 2) of Tequilla.

b) Did he fuck like Brad Pitt (or at least how we think Mr. Pitt should fuck)? A pretty face (which I've already established was most likely only pretty because you were Missy McCrunk) is only a pretty face until that pretty face can make you orgasm. And honestly, my educated guess would be that Sir Faux Pitt in his drunken stupor and with his diseased peen wasn't too worried about your womanly needs.

c) How does it feel to be left by Sir Faux Pitt? When it's the real deal and you're Jennifer Aniston there are the John Mayer's around the corner. But you, darlin? Where you going from here (besides to get tested)?

d) Is the real Brad Pitt going to be at the doctors office with you when they tell you that you have cervical cancer? Yeah....didn't think so.

e) So in a sober, non pleasured, lonely, diseased state of mind do you think it is still worth it?

No you say?

Hmmm...

Well then sweetheart, I think that just makes you a STD ridden whore. And please, for the sake of my own and all of our sexual health, don't keep that a secret.

My Dream Man

2008-08-08T09:29:00.000-07:00

My "Dream Man" should, first of all, be very slippery and naked. He should have a physique like John Candy, a profile like Paris Hilton, and the intelligence of a dolphin. He must be polite and always remember to thrust my vomit, to tip his prostitute, and to take my taint when crossing the street. He should move vengefully, should have a well-hung voice, and should always dress passionately. I would also like him to be a furry dancer, and when we're alone, he should whisper rosey nothings into my nostril and hold my putrid testicle. I know a dazzling man like this is hard to find. In fact, the only ones I can think of are Verne Troyer and Rick James.

Now if this doesn't make you a fan of Mad-Libs, I'm not sure what will.
Thanks for making my mad-libs dream come true.

*Note: I took what I thought were the best words and filled in the self playing side, so none of these words are planted in certain areas. I'm a real mad-libber.

1 Man in The Room

2008-08-07T14:28:00.001-07:00

Ok, so I know we aren't in a room...so be creative.

Or I'll just fill it in.

2 Adverbs

2008-08-07T14:27:00.001-07:00

2 Body Parts

2008-08-07T14:26:00.004-07:00

Again, I encourage inappropriate answers.

3 Nouns

2008-08-07T14:26:00.003-07:00

1 Verb

2008-08-07T14:26:00.001-07:00

1 Animal

2008-08-07T14:25:00.001-07:00

2 Celebrities

2008-08-07T14:24:00.000-07:00

7 Adjectives

2008-08-07T14:21:00.000-07:00

For all you slackers in the world that don't know what an adjective is it is a word...actually if you don't know what an adjective is, you need to go put rocks in your ears and sit in a corner for awhile and think about where your life is going.

I encourage raunchiness.

Let's Play A Game

2008-08-07T14:13:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you but I'm a HUGE Mad Libs fan. I'm often begging my roommates to partake, they are always unwilling at first but are always full of laughter by the end. I've been known to do Mad Libs via text therefore I figure it could work just as smoothly via blog.

My very favorite Mad Lib saying has been "Shiver me transvestites", from the well known, award winning Pirate Mad Lib book. So we have some serious competition.

Ok so I know y'all read (I've got a tracker that tracks how many hits I get a day, I'm totally lame, I know) so don't be shy.

I'll make a post for each part of speech and how many I need.

If you think this is lame, I don't want to be your friend anyways. So there.

DMV Mating Grounds

2008-08-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

So I think the only thing I am good at anymore is rambling. Sorry I don’t have anything intelligent to enhance your lives with.

I just read that sentence and realize it sounded like I think I have said intelligent things in other posts. Who do I think I am?

Today I woke up at 5:04 a.m. and my sheets were drenched. There very literally was a wet spot where my body lay. An outline of a dead person, which is basically what I felt like. Apparently my Extra Strength Tylenol coma from the night before had worn off. So I laid in my own perspiration for a while because it was too painful to move. At which point I tried to will my mom’s teleportation (Mike TV style) to San Francisco through my thoughts. I realized after about 25 minutes that I wasn’t in the Chocolate Factory and she wasn’t going to magically appear in my purse. I was going to have to take care of myself. Shucks. I then took a cold shower and attempted to OD on Tylenol.

My OD went fairly well. 6 Extra Strength Tylenol in 2 hours seemed to do the trick. At least my body was a normal temperature and I could move without tears welling up in my eyes. I don’t cry all that often but it tends to happen when I’m sick. I get pissed because I can’t get away from my body.

I had stuff to do so I took yet another shower, threw back a couple more tylenol and headed out. If I want to drive my sweet ass new scoot I had better get myself to the DMV.

And let me tell ya, apparently the DMV is the new bar. Serious mating grounds. Who knew?

Part of it was that I had seriously low expectations. I expected obese women going through sugar withdrawals barking at me for asking which line I needed to go to. Instead, I was greeted by obese women with jolly smiles. Everyone was overly helpful. Like we were one big family just all trying to prepare for our big annual road trip. I wished I could package one and bring her home to make me soup and get me cold washcloths. I was tempted to ask, I almost think one of them would have taken me up on the offer and spent the rest of the evening cuddling me in her bosom and pushing the sweaty hair off my forehead.

Ok wait. Excuse me. The fat jolly women don’t make it mating grounds.

This does:

Damnnn, there were some fine lookin’ men at the DMV. I was sitting in the chair waiting for this nice man to take care of me and Hottie McHipster sat down right next to me. (If you haven’t noticed upon meeting people I usually come up with pet names including “Mc”, “ie” or “y”.) Hottie McHipster had it goin’ on. Rockin’ smile, sparkly shoes…. I hope you just paused when you read sparkly shoes. I paused when I laid eyes on them. At which point he was written off.

I would consider myself a smile/shoe girl. I gotta be able to kiss the smile and be seen in public with the shoes. He chatted me up, I talked about large bosomed women. Man I got game. It ended in my number being called, him asking if I wanted to grab coffee sometime, me thinking about sparkly shoes and people that don’t like Siamese twins and then declining.

Only to then be greeted in another line by Tall, Dark and Handsome Mobster. This place was crawling with beautiful men. A tad too old, but the thought of him putting his gun and cold hard cash on the night stand (not because I’m a hooker but because he just got home from some mobster activity) before we fucked and then me riding away on my scooter sort of turned me on.

If you haven’t noticed I like to assign entire lives to people I don’t know. This man? Definitely owned a Laundromat, drove a Cadillac with tinted windows, ate bacon for breakfast this morning and his friends call him “Vinny” even though his name is Angelo.

This man saw I was getting my motorcycle license and I think my sexy points went through the roof (I didn’t dare correct him and tell him it was only a scooter). I told him I don’t date men that only like me for my ride.

I don’t get this much attention at bars. It must be something about the musty smell and obese women at the DMV that bring out the friskiness in people.

I then took two tests for driving an automobile (so I can get my CA license) and also a motorcycle permit. I saw 4 people ahead of me FAIL these tests. So I started to panic and sweat (but that may have been contributed to my waning Tylenol and returning fever). I thought for sure I was going to fail and I’d be stuck there the entire day retaking them. Which actually didn’t seem too bad, at the rate I was going I would be engaged by 3:25 p.m….

…Then I bet the photo man behind Window B would offer to make us a “marriage license” and we could take our picture together and they would send it to us in 4-6 weeks…

But I passed my test with flying colors. I received 100% on both accounts. (I immediately called my mom to tell her my Vanderbilt education had paid off.) But the best part: the overly happy man behind the counter sing-songily exclaimed “Oooooooo noboda doa thi gooo” (that was my failed attempt at expressing an Asian accent, I suck) and drew two (not one, but TWO) smiley faces on my tests. It’s amazing how good smiley faces and a little verbal praise can still make me feel at 22 years and 11 months old. (That was my way of letting you all know my birthday is in a month and I expect some chocolate marshmallows in the mail.)

So I left the DMV being able to legally operate a motorcycle and feeling sexy and smart. What more could a girl ask for?

And then I went home, took 4 Tylenol and I’ve been curled up in my bed ever since. Only moving to spill chicken noodle soup on my scarf and write idiotic posts. Priorities.

Scooterlicious

2008-08-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

I went to go meet a 300 lb man today. It was love at first sight. It wasn't his bangin' bod that got me hot and bothered but rather the scooter he had in his possession.

Now, ladies and gentleman it is in MY possession. He's beautiful and chromalicious. The only thing is this scooter here needs a name. I'm thinking something dark and sexy. I need your input.

Yes, I know, I'm a badass. Now let's figure out a badass name for this guy.

Ramblings

2008-08-04T23:24:00.000-07:00

Rambling # 1:

I’ve grown up with an unusual name. Well my name isn’t necessarily unusual but the spelling is. I’ve loved it. I always looked forward to the first day of school when a teacher would mispronounce my name and I would have to correct them.

I’m not sure if I enjoyed this because it made me feel unique or I liked making the teacher look like an illiterate asshat right off the bat. Me: 1 Teacher: 0

Probably the latter. Definitely the latter.

I had a conversation with a guy the other night as he talked himself from drunk to hung over and I listened and laughed my way from somewhat hung over to real hung over to greatness. We decided that to take this concept and apply it to ordinary names. We think it would be fun to name a child something completely ordinary like “Thomas” but make the pronunciation “Th-omas” and pronounce the /th/ sound (who could go by Th-om for short). You could have a whole crew of them: Step-hen, P-hoebe, Ch-risto-p-her.

Nobody would expect it. First day of class the teacher stands in front of the class with her crisp new roster. She gets to an “easy” name like Thomas and thinks there is no way in hell she could mess this one up. And then she gets hit by a shit ton of bricks to the face.

Teacher: Thomas, are you here?
Th-omas: (Raising his hand) Umm, actually it is Th-omas. The h isn’t silent.

Score Board
Teacher: 0
Th-omas: 17 (at least)

Eat that.

No, Gracias

Last night I was coming back from a pretty amazing weekend. I was sitting at the bus stop with my beachy summer clothes all packed up in my luggage and being bombarded by San Francisco’s frigid “summer” waiting patiently for my bus. When up comes Diego DrunkyPants and plops his inebriated, wobbling self uncomfortably close to my nostrils.

He then mumbles unintelligibly but with the undeniable intonation of a question.

My response: Act busy with my phone. And hope he forgets he asked a question.

He isn’t having it. The mumbling gets louder sounding something like “baamenaapaaa paaaaaaaa” and then his head would sway back and forth.

His pores were oozing so much whiskey that even I started to feel tipsy. Secondhand drunkiness.

His “baaamenaaapaaa paaaa” business continued and grew in volume and intensity so I felt obligated to respond in some way. Oh and it is also just hard to act like someone who could very easily stick their tongue out and lick your eardrum doesn’t exist.

Me: “Sir, you’re shitfaced. I can’t understand a single word you are saying.”

Diego DrunkyPants: “Ooooooo boooonn….iiiii….ttt…aaa. Tomorrah is anotha day. Tu quieres una cervezaaa?” Translation: Ooooooo bonita. Tomorrow is another day. Do you want a beer?

Me: “Nah I’m good.”

DDP got up and walked…excuse me, stumbled away.

I was just thankful he didn’t ask me if I wanted to take a shot. I can never say no to shots.

Alarming

I have this pink watch I use to go running. I bought it at Target for $10 over 4 years ago. I fucking hate the thing. But I refuse to get rid of it (I’m not trying to be cutesy and deep and come full circle from my previous post, I’m just stubborn slash a complete idiot.)

It doesn’t fucking work. The only part of the watch that works is the stop watch aspect of the whole plastic machine. Which is what I need for running, so that is why I keep it. But nothing else about it functions.

It doesn’t tell time. Therefore when I’m wearing it and someone asks me what time it is I have to honestly say “I have no idea.” Which is really just down right embarrassing. Who in their right mind wears a watch that doesn’t tell the time?

The worst aspect of the watch: the alarm. It goes off every single day. It has for over 4 years. It is quite possibly the most annoying 60 seconds of every day of my life. It goes off for an entire 60 seconds. I can’t even figure out how to make it turn off before the 60 seconds, if I try it just goes off again in 5 minutes (and then I’m doubly as mad). But I neither know how to set the time or how to set the alarm or turn it off, so I’m stuck. I’ve messed with it a few times hundred times and can’t for the life of me figure it out. I have changed it from going off at 6:52 am to 8:52 am to now 11:52 am. I undoubtedly end up throwing it back in my draw and emphasize it with a curse word of sorts.

I’ve looked at new ones dozens of times but every time I can’t bring myself to actually purchase one. I say to myself “There is nothing wrong with the watch, the problem is with me and it just doesn’t seem fair to the watch to get rid of it when it is perfectly functioning. I’m just too dense and impatient to figure it out and the watch shouldn’t have to suffer because of my stupidity.”

Shoe Sympathy

In the 5th grade I bought a pair of shoes because I felt bad for them because they were so ugly. I knew nobody else was going to buy them. 2 weeks later my sympathy waned and I went to a creek and destroyed them with a key and sloshed through extreme amounts of dirt so my mom would buy me new ones.

Blogerapy (Blog + Therapy. Get it?)

2008-08-04T11:15:00.000-07:00

Exactly 5 months ago I had my heart broken. It was the kind of break that should have made a noise. A loud, reverberating noise. I was oblivious. I thought I had found the love that everyone was jealous of. Before him I had believed that there was always a lover and beloved, but never equality. With him I thought I had found the real deal. Disgusting chick flick style. We never fought and when we did it was about our conflicting schedules and not being able to spend enough time together. We were the annoying couple constantly laughing hysterically at inside jokes, finishing each other’s sentences and unable to keep our hands off each other. It was nauseating, really. I often wanted to puke on the situation. We hadn’t been together long but he talked about and planned the future. I was leaving Nashville after graduating but we had a plan. Stay together. Long distance. Eventually moving to the same city. Marriage. Popping out a few little fuckers. Being old farts together. The whole bit.

One night he was supposed to come over. We were supposed to go out. He called and said he was staying out with his friends I had never met. (As in, I hadn’t just not met these friends, but ANY friends EVER. Red flag. I know.) I’m understanding (and the best girlfriend ever) so I said, “Of course baby, have fun. I love you.” His response, “Thanks baby, I love that you’re so understanding. I love you like crazy. I’ll call you when I get home.” He never called. Didn’t pick up my phone call. I’ve been in unfaithful relationships a few too many times and know the signs. Drunk boyfriends in love (even if they are with their friends) send goofy misspelled text messages and call when they get home slurring and tell you how much they want to have sex with you. Cheating boyfriends? Don’t call.

I know, I know. Harsh. I suppose there are exceptions. There are to every rule. But from my experience this is how it goes. Oh and one more thing, the over apologetic yet defensive phone call the next morning. I know it all too well. I got the over apologetic yet defensive phone call the next morning. I accepted the apology. I didn’t get mad. When I’m genuinely hurt I don’t get mad, I turn my switch. So I guess in actuality I do get mad, but not in the yelling crazy bitchwhore type of way. Off I go, and folks, it ain’t easy to turn me back on. I shut down.

I knew. I knew he had in fact called me when he got home. It just happened to be the next morning and not the previous night. And he sure has hell wasn’t sleeping on a bench in the park. But I didn’t want to know. I wanted to make every excuse for him. I wanted to believe his bogus story. So I did. It was easier. Then I didn’t have to listen to the little voice in my head that says “you’re not worth keeping” every time a man in my life cheats, lies and leaves.

From that point on shit (or more like messy diarrhea) hit the fan. Really long story short, he became Sir McSketch. I called him out on being Sir McSketch. He broke up with me because he said I would never be able to trust him or “anyone”, aka I’ve Found Someone Better and Want to Leave You But Would Feel Better If I Could Make It Your Fault. I pointed out the interesting fact that I completely trusted him until Sir McSketch reared his ugly head. But logic seems to be lost on men who are bangin’ other women.

More diarrhea splashes into the fan splattering all over the walls and furniture. Not pretty.

I’m a dumb whore and allow this to happen (against all my better judgment): He stays in contact with me, we continue to engage in physical activities (no, not foosball), he still denies a relationship with Abbey McFuck. Then Abbey McFuck sends me a nasty crude self-righteous email about her “honest and wonderful” boyfriend. Warning to all you girlies out there, sending me a nasty crude email to me about your great boyfriend who is denying relations with you, still telling me he loves me and engaging in non foosball type physical activities: Not A Good Idea (unless you want to look like a dumb slut- I also realize I look like a dumb slut but at least I’m not claiming the dude involved is a saint). I can out wit and out write you any day. Bring it. So I write probably the funniest email in my entire life. Which is somewhat of a waste because I don’t think my audience fully appreciated my humor.

Sorry, I think at one point I said this was a short story. I think I’ll be taking that statement back now.

Last conversation I had with him he admitted to me that I was a “filler” (exact quote, folks) until he found some one he was serious about. It wasn’t the cheating or lying, but rather this incredibly honest conversation that broke my heart. For a few months I struggled with this harsh reality. I’m not one to play the victim and therefore have a tendency to blame myself. I clung to the typical girly things for awhile: not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not funny enough, not pretty enough, oh and did I mention not pretty enough?

I then went through a stage where every penis owning human was a complete dickweed. But that falls into the category as incredibly pessimistic while simultaneously hating half of the world’s population, which seems just a TAD extreme.

It wasn’t until I had a conversation a few weeks back with a previous ex (with which I had a very volatile relationship with a few years back) did I have a mini-epiphany. We were playing the whole “friends” card. But once a volatile relationship always a volatile relationship. We disagreed about something irrelevant and meaningless and his response was as follows: “J, you wonder why every guy cheats and leaves you. You’re not worth keeping” as if I was a broken clock, useless, and easily discarded. My response: Pause. “Thank you.” Hang up phone.

My “Thank you” was not sarcastic but incredibly sincere. He helped me realize the “problem” was indeed with me. But it sure wasn’t because I’m not a size 2 or Angelina Jolie. I just fucking suck at picking out halfway decent guys. I’m no victim. I hand picked these guys and I’ll take full credit for that one (or two or five). But it also isn’t because of something about me personally that makes me “not worth keeping”.

(Ok so maybe I’m not so smart considering it took me awhile to figure this all out. But whatever. Who likes smart people, anyways?)

So not that I’m looking and not that I’m not looking. Or maybe there already is somebody. But I know that I’ll be a tad more careful next time around, but not too careful that I don’t give some one worth it a chance.

And even if I haven’t learned a thing, all my conclusions are ill founded and Volatile Ex is right, even a broken clock is correct twice a day. I’m bound to get lucky at some point. Right?

Like Apples and Oranges

2008-08-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

So there is some sort of saying about not being able to compare apples and oranges. I’m tipsy so I can’t think of it at the moment. But whatever, it is total bullshit (not that I’m tipsy, but not being able to compare apples and oranges). Shit, apples and oranges are very similar. In fact, I think they go better together than peas and carrots. Who the fuck likes peas and carrots? (I do, but that’s besides the point. I like peas because I think they taste like corn. People have told me this isn’t true. But I don’t give a fuck.) I don't know how I feel living in a world where peas and carrots are best friends and apples and oranges are not only not friends but are too dissimilar to even compare. They are both fruit and I think that makes them comparable. But my point here is not to compare the two. I’m talking about apples and oranges because they go well together. No fuckhead in their right mind (apparently I cuss a lot when I’ve been drinking) would EVER buy a fruit basket without both apples and oranges.

Which brings me to my main point. I have this friend who is like the orange. Actually I take that back. I want to be the orange. He can be the apple. I don’t think he’ll mind. We go well together, like apples and oranges in a monthly fruit basket. And who doesn’t love monthly fruit baskets?? After all, fruit baskets are the only respectable and socially acceptable way to send fruit through the mail. Respect to the basket.

Anyways, back to the point. I have this friend. I wouldn’t say we were instant quaker oatmeal best friends. But we definitely instantly got along. He’s quirky as hell and I enjoy every god damn second of it. (He avoids eye contact like shit in your bed. But not only does he just look away he turns his whole head. It's brilliant.) I met him through a friend. We had a few drunken nights filled with him attempting to hold my eyes open because I am deathly afraid of camera flashes and a night of National Hebrews. He’s Jewish, but that’s not relevant at all. Have I gotten to my point yet??

Ok long story short, we went to Africa together. We weren’t great friends at the beginning, actually more of acquaintances. Which is awkward when you’ve agreed to spend 3 months living and working with someone and you barely know the character. But it was a beautiful harmonious awkward. It was one of those friendships that didn’t take effort. Like when you are in the second grade and all it takes is to share your pencil or your pickles at lunch and you are instantly best friends. We fell beautifully into sync.

I’m a self-proclaimed loner and therefore most people begin to bother me after about a week of continuous togetherness (I know this is a character flaw. I should be more accepting, but that is what my career is all about not my social life). But not my apple. We lived, and worked together for 3 months straight. Not once did I physically want to harm him. Quite the opposite occurred. We opted to sleep in the same room, even though we both had our own rooms. We had our own twin beds and would stay up late at night and laugh hysterically until my mom asked us nicely to keep it down.

I experienced the most incredibly and rewarding 3 months of my life with him. We laughed when kids farted on my lap or pissed out the 2nd floor window (not onto my lap). I tell him my deepest secrets that I wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. He’s my soul mate amigo.

It was natural. It was comfortable. It was hilarious. He’s my apple.

He thinks meatball wraps are hilarious. And really? What else could I ask for in a friend?

And my god, I miss him like hell.

King Size Tots

2008-07-29T23:18:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer to persons that were, are or have fat kids: I do not apologize for this post. Not in the slightest. It is meant to be offensive.

Fat kids fucking piss me off for the following reasons:

They have elastic waistband pants they undoubtedly bought in the Husky section at Wal-Mart. The Gap doesn’t (at least they shouldn’t) sell khakis in size FAT.

They have bigger tits than me. Which folks is NOT an easy accomplishment, especially for a 5 year-old boy. But they all done gone and done it. And they run around without support. Large fleshy nips poking through their snug shirts. Damn, that must be painful. I couldn’t imagine running 20 seconds without 2 sports bras strapping my ladies down, so kudos to them for that. I’ll remember to pass out Extra Strength Tylenol to all the Tubby McFattertons next time I’m at the park. That or bras. Maybe both, like little fatty kid party gifts. But being fat doesn’t seem like much of a party with all the sweaty ass crackness and finding fried chicken in your back rolls. I bet they would ask where the cake was. Then I would punch them in the gut and run. My hope would be that they chase me and burn a calorie or two. Just trying to be a good citizen.

They recruit friends to tie their shoes because bending over would exert too much energy.

The only exercise they’ve had in the last 3 years is when they ran for the candy when Cindy down the street had a piñata at her birthday party.

Their games of tag last 2 minutes tops before they are all sprawled out in the grass gasping for oxygen, their pores oozing Oreo cream and McDonald’s grease. At this point I want to pull out my rape whistle, line them all up and make them run sprints until they vomit up their 12 ½ strawberry Pop Tarts and 18 slices of bacon covered in cheese they had for breakfast.

Fat, thick pudgy sausage phalanges. Which are only used to hold twinkies, play video games and pick wedgies. Wedgies seem to be a very serious issue among obese children. Their parents can’t keep up with their new underwear sizes that increase exponentially at least every 17 days therefore forcing them to wear underwear that is constantly stuck in the deep abyss of their asscrack.

I bet they take a fork and knife into the bathroom to eat their own shit. They wouldn’t want to actually have anything extracted from their body. This way everything they eat very literally just attaches to their thighs and tits.

What pisses me off more than fat kids:

Their parents. These 5 year-olds aren’t paying for deep fried Snickers on their own.

What is the thought process behind this? Someone, for the love of god, please enlighten me. Your kid is fucking fat. She comes home every day tears running down her rotund cheeks because the kids at school make fun of her and throw Tootsie Rolls at her dome piece and your response is, “Here Betsy, how about you eat 14 donuts and a coke. It’ll make you feel better. And don’t go anywhere today, just lay right here and I’ll rub you down with butter flavored Crisco and you can lick it off later. Oh and roll over so I can pick your wedgie for you, sweety. I wouldn’t want you to pull anything.”

Go to the grocery store. Buy some bananas and celery, take away the Playstation and make them actually go outside. Their translucent skin could probably use the Vitamin D.

And if that doesn’t work, I guess just start throwing Tootsie Rolls at their head.

Best Cover Ever

2008-07-29T21:47:00.000-07:00

Brilliant.

Some Photos I Took Today

2008-07-29T20:50:00.001-07:00

I went to Alcatraz today, these are the only photos I took:

My grandma and I decided we are both going to grow our hair out to duplicate this do (my Mom said it wasn't her style). It is unfortunate that I got my hair cut yesterday. It is going to put me back a few weeks.

This? Makes my heart ache for Gob Bluth. Only 3 seasons of Arrested Development is by far the worst/most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to the entertainment industry. "Illusion, Michael. A trick is something a whore does for money..."

Randomness

2008-07-28T22:15:00.000-07:00

I was downtown shopping today and my grandma and I saw Ross Dress For Less and we decided there should be a C at the beginning of the name.

My mom bought me my own cookie sheet. Heaven. Not to brag, but I make the best chocolate chip cookies EV-ER.

My grandma is sitting across from me angry that I am not paying attention to her and pretending to “compute” saying “choo choo choo choo”. Who knew keyboards sounded like trains? All aboard.

I painted her nails earlier tonight. It reminded me of when I used to stay at her house for 2 weeks in the summer when I was little and she used to paint mine. She told me about a time when she was little and she “beat the tire out of another little girl” with a RAINCOAT and then fled the scene. My grandma is the bomb diggity and if given correct gear will kick your ass. The people in the other room had to tell us to stop giggling.

I listened to an NPR This American Life podcast the other day and it talked about things that people went most of their lives believing that weren’t true. For example, some girl was 22 before she found out unicorns weren’t real and then embarrassingly found out around a keg stand when she asked if they were extinct or just endangered. Talk about being a total dufus. Until I was at least 12 I thought all brake lights meant there was a cop nearby because once I asked my mom why the car in front of us had red lights in the back and she answered, “because there is a cop nearby” (which was true at the time, but I clearly overgeneralized). I never understood why there were so many cops out at night. I was also around 11 when I figured out that you didn’t have to eat half of a big cookie before it would fit into a glass of milk. You can just break it in half. But I think that is more me just being an asshat than a miscommunication.

I ate onion rings tonight. I hate onions but my oh my do I love friedness. Probably not the best thing to eat when I’m going to the beach in a few days. I should have asked to substitute my onions for tapeworms.

My mom just sent me an email from the other room that said “I don’t miss you”. She thought it was the funniest thing that has happened since George Carlin and for the life of her couldn’t understand why I didn’t laugh. Hmmm, and for a minute last night my ego was busted that she didn’t think I was funny. Now I just realize she just has a terrible sense of humor.

I was talking to a friend last night and we decided the best pick-up line ever has got to be “Hey baby, can I enlarge your clitoris?”

I told the same friend my ovaries were paining and were about to explode. He suggested I make omelets for my roommates. I didn’t have a comeback.

This same friend has been adamant over the years that I’m “really awkward”. Which doesn’t particularly bother me, awkward people are the shit. Why do you think I work with children with Autism, because I’m a noble person? Hells no, I thrive off of uncomfortable situations. Last night he conceded that I’m “quirkily fun”. I like that better.

I’m in love with my no baby pills because I can (not that I do) have orgasmic, passionate, unprotected, irresponsible sex with men that I would never want to be the father of my children. Not so natural but definitely still selection.

When I was in Kenya on a field trip with all the students one of the tubby ones stole everyone’s drink. Fat kids are the same all over the world. We were going on safari and immediately upon entering the park he began to tell us he was “pressed” (translation: I’m about to piss out everyone’s drink into my undies). We were in a safari truck and in the park, therefore couldn’t let him out (ya know lions and things). He pissed his pants and acted like it never happened. My friend took a picture of the piss river going down the middle of the truck. Karma is a bitch.

One time my friend E and I got a Kenyan drunk in the middle of the day off of Vodka, orangey concentrated sugar water and spring rolls. Needless to say, he vomited on the side of the road. Blamed it on the spring rolls. Then we all stumbled home to eat dinner with my mom.

Mommy Loves Me, This I Know

2008-07-27T22:55:00.000-07:00

My mom is trying to set me up with one of my older brother's friend (gag) who is going to be visiting San Francisco. He sent me a Facebook message and my mom about shit her undies with excitement. This conversation then ensued:

Mom: What did his message say?
Me: That my reply to his original message was 7 times funnier than his and he is the one that writes for a living.
Mom: Pause. But you aren't funny.
Me: Pause. Thanks?

Upon seeing my profile picture:
Mom: Is that you?
Me: Pause. No it is Grandma.
Mom: It doesn't look like you.
Me: What? It is a photograph, therefore an exact replica of my face.
Mom: Your hair looks different. I didn't know you were that pretty.
Me: Pause. Thanks?
(In her defense for some reason my hair looks really dark in my picture. It isn't.)

Upon seeing the link to my blog:
Mom: What is that?
Me: A link to my blog.
Mom: What do you write about?
Me: Things. I guess you could say most of it is supposed to be funny.
Mom: Pause. Confused. But you aren't funny. Pause. What is all this business about you being funny?

I like.

2008-07-27T11:42:00.001-07:00

Most all of “comedy” is complaining about shit. Most stand-up revolves around pointing out things that don’t make sense or making fun of people. I hate complaining as well as people that complain, but I do a lot of it on here. So I thought I would write about things that I do enjoy. But not the obvious things like sex, miniatures (babies and puppies), and bubble wrap.

Things I like:

1) My Grandma’s rambling which often includes her making fun of me. She is to the point. “You’re crazy!”
2) Dogs. (But I hate people that say they like dogs. I also hate hypocrites.)
3) Crazy people on public transportation (as long as they aren’t obese). I get a ride and free entertainment.
4) NPR podcasts.
5) The library. Free books!
6) Guys that accept imperfections including but not limited to my negative knowledge of movies, or just really any pop culture. (My mom told me yesterday that Angelina Jolie had twins. She was pregnant? Who knew?)
7) Noodles with butter. It’s better than spaghetti any day.
8) People breaking up on Facebook. “Katie Smith is no longer listed as in a relationship”. This is terrible, I know, but I love it. Knowing other people are miserable makes me happy.
9) Burning my tongue.
10) First kisses, if I know they’re not the last.
11) A hot dog with mustard, preferably accompanied with a cold beer.
12) Being alone.
13) Being intoxicated in the middle of the day (but not alone).
14) The fact that dickies exist. I literally just fell down the stairs laughing trying to explain to my mom and grandma what I was talking about. Because sometimes wearing an actual shirt is just too much.
15) Circus peanuts. I told a friend in the 7th grade that I liked circus peanuts and she said I was gross. I haven't mentioned circus peanuts since. I ate them in secrecy. Consider this my circus peanut coming out. I love everything about their orangey, spongey deliciousness.
16) The 80 plus black man that got on the bus and had a mohawk. I gave him a high five. Hells yeah.
17) The fact that my mother has never been drunk (I actually saw her take her first sip of beer about a year ago) and that I have never heard her say the word "fuck". She'd be so fucking proud of me if she read this.
18) The fact that Mike commented on my blog. Hilarious man. Made my night, my week and quite possibly the next 2.3 weeks.

What Not To Do

2008-07-26T23:43:00.000-07:00

So I went on a coffee/tea non-date about a month ago. About 4.2 minutes into the non-date I realized it was going nowhere at lightening speed. He was objectively good looking (chiseled jaw, tall, yada yada) but his negative sense of humor (and by that I mean he lost in the witty banter game, and I can only date people that beat me), overly shined shoes and crunchy hair made me cringe in disgust. Needless to say I gulped my tea and said “Oh gee, will ya look at the time!” and then I looked at my watch that doesn’t exist, snapped my fingers, made a grandpa look (I don’t even know what that means, but I did it) and then boogied out.

He texted immediately saying he had a “great time” and hoped we could “do it again soon”. Seriously, dude? A) Did ya come up with that line on your own? and B) Are you socially slow? Did you not just realize I was escaping from your presence?

Anyways, he texted and called a few times. I hate not responding because it is cowardly and mean, but I also don’t want to waste anybody's time with games. Therefore, if I know I am not into somebody but they are going to continue the pursuit (aka bother the shit out of me), I will politely tell them I am not interested. So our conversation (a textual convo) went something exactly like this:

Jonah: So what are you doing Friday night? I’d love for you to come out with me and my friends.
Me: Hey, thanks for the invite. But I think you will appreciate my honesty in what I’m about to say. I want to avoid games and save us both some time. I’m not into you. (Harsh, I know. But I’m all about no bullshit. And the “I think you’re great, and we could totally be friends”, is TOTALLY bull.)
Jonah: Well I wish that wasn’t the case, but thanks for being honest. I think you’re great.
Me: No response. No, I didn’t say “no response”, I just didn’t respond.

Game over. Or so I thought.

He texted me inappropriate things on a few weekend nights. Obviously drunken texts, which I strictly enjoy only from people I enjoy. And therefore did not respond.

Game over round dos. Or so I thought.

So yesterday I am sitting reading a book while Crunchy spits on floors and occasionally attacks me for telling him not to spit on floors and my phone dings. And me, thinking it is one of my amigos sending me a little textual goody, gets excited. Who doesn’t love a good textual goody?

No, no. No textual goodies for me. This is what then transpired. (Keep in mind I was respectful and very clear in telling him I wasn’t interested.) (That right there in that parenthesis before this one was my way of saying I tried to be nice at first and therefore I cannot be held responsible for being a mean whore later.) [Oh and I also realize that I could have just not responded and therefore he would have just left me alone. I was egging (or edging, depending on who you are) him on, but I was bored and it was a better alternative to jamming jelly beans in my ears with rusty nails.] (Keep in mind I hadn’t had contact with this character in approximately 3 weeks- which was one way contact anyways.) (Everything in parenthesis is my commentary and not actually part of the conversation.)

So this conversation went something exactly like this:

Jonah: What are you wearing?

Me: FYI dude, that’s a super creepy question.

Jonah: I’m sitting at the dentist’s office not far from loosing it. Had you ever got to know me you’d know I am not the least bit creepy…

Me: You just honestly asked me what I was wearing. That, sir, is the definition of creepy.

Jonah: Loosen up, cutie.

Me: Creeper.

Jonah. LOL sketcher. (Minus 227 points to Jonah for using “LOL”)

Me: Nah, I’m more of a painter. (Hells yeah, +334.5 points to the witty girl in jeans and a brown sweatshirt-that is what I was wearing for all you other creepers.)

Jonah: I see what you did there…Well done! My god quick wit is fun.

Me: At least one of us is having fun.

Jonah: No appointments ftl. I can fully appreciate the pulling teeth saying…Thanks for helping me pass the time! (I would say “ftl” is a spelling error, but I'm not sure for what and lately I’ve been thrown all these crazy acronyms that I have no idea what they mean, so it could stand for “fit to load” or “frumpy tree lungs”, I have no idea. Kids these days.)

Me: The pleasure is all yours!

Jonah: Oh thanks. I have some good Winston Churchill quotes, interested? (WTF? That right there is the only acronym I endorse, well besides ASAP.)

Me: Not at all, but I have a feeling that won’t stop you, so go for it.

Jonah: Your enthusiasm is lacking…

Me: My enthusiasm is picky. My apologies on its behalf.

Jonah: Accepted. What does it take for your enthusiasm to come around?

Me: It knows what it likes when it sees it.

Jonah: It’s (grammar police please help!) got eyes of it’s (and here) own? Quite evolved! Do you think I could have a word with it?

Me: Again, nothing I say seems to stop you. So go for it.

Jonah: Are you gonna go see the sailing ships? (Not only does he not pick up on social cues, but he’s also ADD, folks.)

Me: No.

Jonah: You go see the pride parade but not the tall ships? I’d be happy to be your guide if your (grammar police should be on speed dial) so inclined?

Me: No. I have a busy schedule, and as already stated nicely, I’m not interested. You’re setting yourself up for rejection.

Jonah: Fun. What is on the tight agenda? (Seriously, did he not read the second half of that sentence?)

Me: Really? I’m not texting you my weekly schedule. Return of the Creepiness Part 3. Popcorn and a Diet Coke, please.

Jonah: LOL. Its (speed dial usage) sir creepy to you.

(At this point I don’t respond. It is physically painful to continue this conversation.)

1 hour and 17 minutes later…
Jonah: Still waiting…

Me: On??

Jonah: The dentist.

Me: Congrats. Want a fucking cookie? Or do you prefer gold stars?

Jonah: Let’s leave the stars for you. (Wow, good comeback). Are you always this splendid? (Yay! He’s picking up on the fact that I’m being a total bitch!!)

Me: Not always. I save it up for special texting conversations like this. Wouldn’t want to go around charming every one.

Jonah: This certainly is special. Thanks for emptying your cache on me. (I’d also like to empty a big bucket of shit and black licorice on your head, but that would require seeing you, and well…if you haven’t noticed, I’d rather not.)

(I don’t respond.)

32 minutes pass…

Jonah: So when is our big date?

Me: Did you seriously just ask me that?

Jonah: Yep.

End of Conversation.

This probably just portrays that I’m a huge bitch. But I would like to think it should be a warning out there to all you pathetic, crispy hair, shiny shoe no sense of humor jackasses. I’m not entirely sure what the warning is. But here are some possibilities:
a) Don’t be a creeper or some chick will write about you in her blog.
b) I don’t have a b.
c) I don’t have a c either. I’m tired.
d) Both b and c.

This post sucks. I’m sorry. Go tickle yourself or throw something at somebody to make yourself laugh, because I'm sure this didn't do the trick.