| Have I seen me somewhere before? |
Inspired by Jess's foray into myheritage.com, I decided to put my face up for the internet gods to judge. They said that I look like:
Angelina Jolie
Jamie Lynn Spears
Beyonce
Jennifer Lopez (OKAY. I GET IT. I HAVE A BIG ASS. Jesus, myheritage.)
Mae West
Diane Keaton
Zhang Ziyi (OKAY. I GET IT. I'M ASIAN. God!)
Jean Seberg
Lauren Bacall
Mischa Barton
Man, if I had a nickel for every time someone was like "Ohmygosh, I LOVE your work, and your adopted United Colors Of Benetton babies are soooo cuuuutteee...wait justafuckinminute. YOU'RE not Angelina Jolie!" then I'd be a rich woman. |
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| How old are you in Dawg years? |
So today happens to be the birthday of a very, very good friend of mine. Separated at the birthmark, a 3 dawg day, give the ole girl some chicken fingers because she LOVES them like no other- every memory I have of her makes me chortle.
Because I am a *talented and **creative ***writer, I thought I'd honor my dear friend with some poetry I have written. All by myself.
A. Hem.
So I gots this friend named Katie
And she ain't no Peter Brady!
She's almost a doc,
She loves some Tu Pac-
Okay maybe not, he's shady.
Hm.
Let me try again.
Happy Birthday Dear Katie!
Like Jude may have said to Sadie,
"I love you my dear
And I'll always be near..."
Except I'm not chasing other lady...z.
Damn. This is hard.
There once was a girl from Illinois...
no.
Maietta is a name full of vowels...
Fuggit.
You know who likes chocolate a lot?
This very great friend that I've got!
She's now 25,
I'm glad she's alive,
So for her birthday I bought her ****a yacht!
 Happy Birthday, my friend!
*deluded
**barely literate
***person who tells stories about pee and farting
****gum |
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| If you got 'em, flaunt 'em. |
Jealous?
 We were trying to make fart sounds with straws and our "cleavage." PS- Blogger spell check does not recognize "fart." Stop being such a prude, Blogger spell check! PPS- I can't believe this blog doesn't snag me more dates. |
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| Mama, don't play me like that. |
Most people who know me are familiar with how gullible I am. I'm probably the most gullible cynic you will ever meet. I have a terrible habit of believing people, unilaterally, when they spin tall tales. Regardless of the story, I'll lean forward, clutch my pearls, go wide-eyed and say something simperingly asinine like "Oh my stars, really?" and then the orator will say "Of course not." And then I'll blush.
Sometimes, people won't tell me the truth right off the bat. Instead, I'll spend hours, days, weeks believing this highly improbable nugget. I'll mull it over, turn it around in my head, and worse yet- spread the damn thing. This just creates a terrible chain of awkwardness when someone references what I've told them a few months down the road at a cocktail party, or gala, or at Wimbledon- my usual hangouts. I have to retract my story with all the grace and panache of Dan Rather stuttering about on CBS after they sparked all those riots a while ago.
Probably one of the more embarrassing occurrences of this phenomenon was during my junior year at college. I was in a women's lit class, and we'd been discussing fairy tales and their role in the evolution of the portrayal of women in fiction. We watched a portion of Disney's Snow White and then had a follow up discussion. It was a particularly warm spring day. The windows were open, and we could hear the steady drone of a lawnmower not far away. It was the kind of humid, hazy, still afternoon when things just seem suspended in the air.
I had, of course, zoned out watching the lawn guy do some shrubbery maintenance when my professor (a bitter, bulgy woman) said "You're welcome to join us in this conversation, you know. Or, feel free to join the maintenance people outside. Your choice."
I immediately sat up straight, irate with 1) perceived classicism and prejudice towards the "maintenance people" who we ALL KNEW were highly skilled tree surgeons and super hot 2) her condescending tone and 3) the fact that she called me out on not paying attention, even though I had tried to look as though I was lost deep in thought when I was really wondering what the lawn guy could craft on my personal landscape. ("Consider this body your Great Lawn," I'd whisper alluringly.)
I was already blushing because of the attention I'd called to myself. So in a desperate attempt to reclaim my scholarly dignity and prove that I'd been paying attention, I said "Well, personally, Mary Ann, I was just thinking that the filmic depiction of Prince Buckethead's devotion to Snow White as an ICON is proof of a commodification and trophying of women's bodies as opposed to..." and then I had to stop talking because everyone in class was looking at me as though my words were coming out in a cartoony conversation bubble.
I'd managed to snag a seat next to my class crush that afternoon. He was tall and broad and smelled delicious. Every day I made a little bit more progress on my master plan of Making Him Love Me Through Sheer Will And Definitely Not Eye Contact, Christ No. It was coming along quite nicely. After my outburst he turned to me and said "Whose devotion?"
Me: Prince Buckethead. Because you know how he's decided he's in love with her bef...
Crushy Crush: Wait. No, seriously. What are you calling him?
Girl Nobody Likes: She keeps talking about a bucket.
Sorority Girl: I thought that's what she said.
(people begin to laugh)
Crushy Crush, gently, as though speaking to a developmentally delayed dog cowering in the bushes: Why do you call him that?
Me, still talking, wishing desperately I wasn't, unable to stop the flow of nonsense from my mouth: Because. That's. What. My. Mom. Toldmehisnamewas.
Girl nobody likes, growing more unpopular with me by the minute: I'm pretty sure his name is Prince Charming.
Professor: It is. That is his name.
Me: Ah. I see. Well. It appears that I have been misinformed.
Class ended shortly thereafter. I went back to my dorm and called my mom. We had this conversation:
Me: Ma. Did you know that the Prince in Snow White is NOT named Prince Buckethead?
Ma: (Silence)
Me: Mom. MOM. For real. Did you know that?
Ma: Um. Yes.
Me: What? You did? MOM. Why the hell did you tell me his name was Prince Buckethead? I just said that in class. Everyone made fun of me.
Ma: Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. It's just that, well, being a single mom is hard, and you spend a lot of time interacting with just children. No adults. So you kind of devise means of keeping yourself occupied...
Me: So you lied to me because you were bored?
Ma: Yes. Many times.
Since then, I've regarded the woman suspiciously and asked for written documentation of anything she wishes to tell me. I'm also afraid that there are other things I've accepted as truth that may have to be shifted to the "Mom May Make You Look Like A Dumbass With This One" category.
And yet, I still believe things that people tell me. I realize I'm exposing the chink in my armor by letting everyone know they can lie to me for fun, but it can't be helped.
So let the good lies roll. |
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| Anger Management? |
Things that have happened today that have made me fly into a rage:
-Coffee grounds somehow got into the coffee pot, making my coffee all "textured"
-My computer has adopted some sort of weird picture-in-picture feature wherein the window I was looking at previously doesn't entirely go away when I open a new window
-I dialed a phone number and a deaf person answered and kept yelling "I can't hear you! I am deaf!" but then didn't hand the phone to a hearing individual so essentially she just made me hang up on her
-I thought for one half-second that I could carry a (lidded) cup of coffee in the pocket of my (white) labcoat. I can't.
-My train conductor lady was a screamer
And then a few people obviously were trying to tempt me into violence, as they said things like:
"For all intensive purposes..."
"We're about the same heighth."
"Me and Dr Schlomo are camping."
"Where's that schedule at?"
Hope I make it through the day!
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| Further Justification of my camera phone |
Part II. See below for Part I.
Anyway, like I was saying, it is important to look hot for your man/lady/partner because that is how you keep the romance alive. Trust me, I've had amazing relationships that have lasted days longer than shaving. And I attribute those healthy, passionate affairs to my commitment to keep my lumpy, post-menopausal-esque physique in soft squishy shape, just the way I like it. My preferred exercise regime is engaging in the divine ritual of Dancing With My Cat. Here I am caught up in the moment of it all with my cat Miss Pussyface:
It's really beautiful, what we share. We've been dancing together since I was a wee thing. See?
But I digress, because I just love those pictures so so much. Finally, I'll wrap up this post with a warning. Ladies, not all the effects of cat dancing are desirable. Sometimes, you get so incredibly sexy-looking that you find yourself with more attention than you can handle. In this situation, I'd like to offer you the use of a handy little tool I found in my office:
See? See why I needed this camera phone? So important. Look how many lives I've touched so far. Be alert, dear readers! I may touch you when you least expect it. Go with God, my friends!
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| Wherein I justify my purchase of a camera phone |
I have a theory. I believe that the cosmic force that is responsible for me constantly humiliating myself is the same being who drops precious little gifts into my day-to-day life. It's a trade I'm really willing to make. For example, I was so super psyched and flattered to find that someone had made a poster announcing my upcoming one woman show:
That was pretty special. Look carefully at the info below the date/time. Check out the other acts with which I was appearing. 10 Speed Tranny is my fave.
Not long after, I was shopping with my roommate and we discovered the perfect gift for lovers to give one another, be they young or just young at heart:
Finally, FINALLY somebody has tapped into a woman's innate desire for undergarments sold in plastic bottles. Can you imagine her surprise, gentlemen, when you present to her this elegant carafe filled what she THINKS is red lace champagne? And then, as she starts to coo her thanks, you lay a finger to her lips, pop the cork on this bad boy, and give her weird, awkward, poorly made sweatshop undies. Wow. I'm getting shivers. Mmmm.
And girls. Don't think you're off the hook. It is our job to look damn hot in our new underthings. Therefore, may I suggest to everyone that they start consuming this product by the gallon:
I feel thinner already!
***To Be Continued in another post, because Blogger is being a feces head and won't let me put up some really wonderful and important pictures. Stay tuned!***
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| That Could Work |
La Chanteuse: I'm getting a haircut next week, any ideas for me? I want kind of the same thing as I have now, but with more layers. Maybe then I can get more laid! |
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| What I've been up to... |
Hi. I'm in Chicago.
<----- I wonder if it is a poor choice to drink a beer that I cannot lift.
*(Author's afterword) Turns out, it's not entirely a bad plan...but I've had better ideas. To my right is The Suzer, Mistress of All Enablers. I'm not entirely sure what all went on last night. But I do know that I woke up clutching a fur coat and my legs were covered in a lot of bruises. Smooches! |
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| 'Twill be the happiest day of your life... |
Runner: You know, I've been thinking about vowing to "love, honor, and obey" when I get married.
Suzer: Yeah. You could do that, but only if you want me to fling poop at you during your ceremony.
Dedicated to Brickman |
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| Maybe it's for an experiment |
At work, I sometimes have to spend time in the Anesthesiology lab. I don't actually do much that is all too labby- because of course I don't know how- but I use some machines and process some samples and things. In any case, there is a sign hanging to the left of my centrifuge machine that says:
Attention! Lubricate O-rings THOROUGHLY AND CAREFULLY Before Each Use Guess who giggles every time? |
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| Ebay should bid on US. |
Lolo and I were having some baby carrots this weekend when we discovered THIS little miracle!
Let me help you decipher this. To the left is Lolo's finger. You know, for perspective. To the right is a baby carrot that looks EXACTLY like a knee. Exactly! Let's look at it again.
Wow. That's intense.
We left it displayed all weekend. You know, kind of how people do when they find the Virgin Mary in a beef patty, or a Richard Nixon potato chip? Except we had smaller crowds and our carrot got soft and started turning black, so we had to throw it out. Later, Lolo said that if she'd been thinking straight, she would have sprayed our little goldmine with some polyurethane so that we could have kept it forever.
We would have ridden that little orange dream straight to the big house.
I meant that in a Rich People way...not a Prisony way. |
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| Don't make me use this voice. |
I had a fight with my little brother last night. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of meeting this young man, I'll give you his profile. He's 23, brilliant, socially aware and active, funny, and mostly fun. He's a better and smarter person than me but if you tell him this I will punch you in the neck.
Usually when my brother's friends meet me, they do a double take. Not in a Jessica Rabbit/big boobies/sparkly dress/hot girl kind of way; they often just say something like "THAT'S your sister? But...she's so clean..." because my brother looks like the crazy hippie that he is. Regardless, he's a really good guy- he is a behavior therapist for autistic kids, he builds houses and organizes food drives, he works for Amnesty, for MOPIRG, and a bunch of other policy and service organizations. He's someone I trust and respect wholeheartedly.
Except
for
one
little
weensy
thing.
He called me the other day to ask me some East Coast geography question because he still lives in Missouri and this whole map craze hasn't caught on there yet, I guess. (Note- I invented the answer because I didn't know what it was and didn't feel like getting up to ask google for its opinion.) During the course of the conversation, he mentioned that his summer vacation from school would be spent hitch hiking from Missouri to Gettysburg. I flipped out.
My brother trusts people implicitly. It's endearing and useful sometimes, like when I say to him "No, really. I loaned you twenty dollars. Don't you remember? You...gave it...to...an ORPHAN! Yes. An orphan. Who was homeless. And, um, had an STD. You felt really good about that. So pay me back." He always sees the good in people, and he will do anything for anyone. He's quite the helper monkey. So far, this attribute has served him well, karmically speaking. But last summer he chose to hitch hike from Missouri to New York to see me. He had nothing but problems the entire time. And for every bad thing that happened, he had an excuse or a justification or a rationalization- some answer that to him made the whole thing less dangerous and more of an adventure with his fellow man.
Here's a timeline of the phone calls I got depicting his struggles:
End of Day One- "So, I kind of got robbed. But it was really a good lesson to me. I mean, I had some money in my shoe, so it was fine, but also I learned some things about trust and awareness, you know? And I'm sure they wouldn't have taken anything that they didn't really need."
End of Day Two- "I lost two bus tickets and couldn't make it to my hostel last night. But it was really great- this church thought I was homeless and picked me up and let me sleep on their floor, and then this morning we all ate breakfast together and then I left. It was a good reminder of how we're all here to take care of each other."
End of Day Four- "Funny thing. I slept outside last night and it rained, so my phone charger got wet in my bag. (I asked where the phone was that spared it from the rain, and he said "In my pants.") So my battery is probably going to die soon- we should probably keep this short. I should really be paying attention and enjoying this experience anyway though, right?"
End of Day Five, from a payphone- "The man who picked me up today started to drive really fast off the highway, and when I asked where he was going, he said he was taking me back to his house so I could suck his dick. I asked him to turn the car around and when he didn't, I had to do a kind of dramatic dive roll from the car, and then he drove after me for a while, but it all worked out. I felt really bad for him. He had a pretty awful stutter- probably gave him self-esteem issues. He kept saying 'W-w-w-why d-don't you b-b-b-b-low me?' Has to be hard, you know?"
And it just went on like that until he arrived, safe and sound, at Port Authority. When it was time for him to go home, he was disgruntled that he couldn't fly or take a train and I had to gently remind him that one needed photo identification to board any of those crafts (no, library cards don't count) and his only option was the shady shady bus. On the way home, someone stole his duffel bag while he was sleeping meaning that my brother arrived in Missouri with literally only the clothes on his back.
So who wouldn't want a repeat of that vacation?
Am I being irrational? Probably, according to the laidback, fun-loving, hitch hiking community .
What do you all think?
I'm just so nervous. This cannot be a good idea. How many times can one cheat death? I love him very much and I'm just so worried about him.
Plus, I'm pretty sure the little punk owes me twenty bucks. Yeah...I think he does.Labels: family |
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| Where the fuck are they? |
A few years ago, I flew from New York to Dayton, OH to spend the holidays with my crazy but wonderful family. I am a little cursed when it comes to traveling- I have never checked a bag and had it actually arrive at my destination. Never. Ever. So I try my hardest to fit everything I own in to a little carry on.
(Sometimes that's nice, because I look tidy and efficient and non-materialistic. But usually on the way back from my visit, my bag is bulging like a hippo with a glandular problem. It's embarrassing. I'm that bitch who should OBVIOUSLY check that shit, yet I refuse. Sorry in advance if you ever have to travel with me.)
In any case, this particular flight was truly awful. There was a blizzard and I was routed and rerouted and our flight wasn't permitted to land and blah blah blah. In an effort to get from New York to Ohio, we flew through Pittsburgh, left Pittsburgh and flew over Philly, circled Philly for a long time, flew to Dayton, weren't allowed to land, circled Dayton, went back towards NY when Dayton called and said that its parents were out of town and it found a bottle of scotch in its dad's golf bag, so quick come over, and get someone to buy you a pack of cigarettes on the way.
I've never been in a situation like that before. People had been sick on that plane for hours. HOURS. It was awful. Everyone was cranky and smelly and had cabin fever and it was December 23rd or something like that, so people were really feeling bad for themselves. Personally, I felt okay, but that's only because I was bombed off my ass. I take a lot a LOT of prescription pharmaceuticals when I fly because if I don't I'll have a panic attack and my heart will explode.
Note- One time I fainted on a flight and in an effort to identify me the flight attendants were going through my purse and later one of them told me that as I was coming to, I looked at her holding my bag and said "They're not mine. I swear. I was holding them for someone else." She laughed it off but secretly I think she knew that I was a drug mule...for myself. Also she took some of my stash. Bitch.
Anyway, so we finally landed in Ohio in- no joke- 3 + feet of snow. As we were standing up to get off the plane, the guy who had been in the seat next to me during the flight said "Are you going to be able to walk in those shoes?" because I was wearing heels. I said "Oh, sure." He asked, "Do you want me to carry you?" I said "Um. Not really. Maybe next time." When I stepped outside of the plane, the ground crew guy said "Hey! Look at your shoes! Do you want me to carry you inside?" Again, I declined. But then I lost a shoe in the snow hiking to the airport (because we'd had to land kind of in the middle of nowhere) and the crew guy who offered to carry me had to be the one to stand with me while I retraced my steps, and you could tell we both kind of thought I was an asshole for a) wearing heels and b) not letting him just carry me in the first place. But that would have been horrifying! Right?
The airport was shut down shortly after I arrived due to the snow, and nobody in my family could come pick me up until the next afternoon. I have never looked prettier, let me tell you. Of course, my bag had been lost. I'd had to violate my personal policy and check it because it was chock full of Christmas presents and weighed 29384732 pounds (I got everyone a baby! Shhhhh...). Now it was gone forever. (I actually saw my bag on TV the next day when they were doing a news piece about how this particular day housed the most lost luggage in this airline's history.) This meant that I owned only what was in my purse and carry on, and nothing else. No clothes, no toiletries, nothing.
My grandmother, god love her, provided me with a stack of clothes that she thought I'd like to wear until mine arrived, or until we were able to buy more. These clothes were insane. They were the love child of Little House on the Prairie and showchoir. Plus QVC got her dick in there. There was one pair of jeans that looked so horrible when I tried them on that I teared up. I had to take them off immediately.
Not to be indelicate, but I didn't have any underwear. My grandma was so worried about this.
Grandma: Don't you have any pants (grandma-speak for drawz)?
Me: Nope. Just the ones I was wearing when I arrived.
Grandma: You don't have any pants in your purse?
Me: No...why, do you?
Grandma: You should never fly without some extra pants in your purse. Let this be a lesson to you.
Me: I don't want to carry underwear in my purse. That will be awkward during the bag search.
Grandma: Who cares? They'll all know they're dealing with a clean and respectable girl if you carry pants in your purse.
Me: But that's why I carry bibles. And rosaries. And bleach.
Grandma: That's no guarantee of anything.
Me: I think extra undies would make me look trampy. Like I might have to spend the night at someone's house without a moment's notice. If I meet them in the grocery store or something.
Grandma: You're not funny. Now listen to what I can do for you. Last month Mary Bisch's sister was in the hospital, up there in Good Samaritan, and we were going up to see her every day and she ran out of pants so we got her some pants- you know, the kind that everybody wears...(At this point my grandmother holds out three of the largest, whitest, craziest underwear I've ever seen. They were HUGE. They were like leotards. Seriously- I have skirts that are shorter than these) and we washed them and dried them and packed them in a bag with some sandwiches to take up to Mary Bisch's sister and then on the way to the hospital she died so do you want them? Here, take them.
Me: What? WHAT? No. No thank you. I don't want to wear a dead lady's underwear. Grandma! Ew!
Grandma: She never WORE them. She died first. They're clean. I washed them.
Me: What if she comes back from the grave to claim them? I don't want to make her mad.
Grandma: Here, just take them. You can't walk around without underwear.
Which of course I can do, and I did until the stores opened up and I could grab some new, smaller undies. So now I was the proud owner of these enormous underwear.
The Suzer and I are huge fans of the Big Pants. When I visited her, I managed to hide the pants away in her pillowcase. She eventually found them and after her next visit to me, I discovered them in the pocket of a sweatshirt. The rotation continued a few more times, until I decided I could step it up a notch. I wrote a little love note on the seat of them:
Suzie's
Pants
I also made them crotchless.
Not to be outdone by my brilliance, when I discovered the pants in my bathroom cabinet a few weeks later, they said
Suzie's Gift of Pants To Meg
She'd added my phone number and said "For a mediocre time call..." which was helpful.
The bottom line is that I'm getting really nervous. I gave the pants to suzie a few months ago, and then she came over to my house on June 2. I am sure that bitch put the pants in my room, but I can't find them. At all. I hate to admit this and sound like a crazy Shakespearean anti heroine, but I'm tearing my room apart every night. It's awful. I have considered the possibility that she didn't bring them, but I don't think that's very likely. So where are they? In another room of the apartment? Hidden in the pocket of some unloved jeans? Taped to the bedslats? TELL ME. |
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| Do it for the kids. |
So last night I volunteered at a benefit for a non-profit with which I am involved. (The organization is called Birch Family Camp and they are the nation's largest free summer camp for HIV+ children and their families.) The benefit was called Hula Baloola. I didn't know this at the time, but Hula Baloola is a game that is often played at camp. There are no rules and everybody wins. I have a feeling I will DOMINATE when we play this year. These kids won't know what hit them.
Tickets to this event were really expensive so a lot of the city's Richie Riches came out to play. They love a good cause, those socialites! Also, the whole thing was sponsored by Grey Goose so people were plenty plastered.
At one point, I was riding down in the elevator with some partygoers and they had this conversation:
Party Girl #1: he's so hot. i mean he's SO hot
Party Girl #2: I know, he's really hot. He's the DJ. He's really hot to me.
Party Girl #1: Well, I gave him bedroom eyes which I KNOW he saw. He gave them back to me.
Party Boy: Bitch, are you going to fuck that dj?
Party Girl #1: Yeah, I'm going to fuck him. I'm going to fuck him in an alley in Chelsea. I'm...gonna...FUCK...HIM! Wooooo!
Party Girl #2: Oh my god, you really are, aren't you. Does he want to fuck you?
Party Girl #1: Yeah. I look hot tonight. Anyone would fuck me.
Party Boy: Not me.
Party Girl #2: But you're a big fag.
Party Boy: I still wouldn't.
Party Girl #1, noticing me for the first time: Do you think we're bad? Do you think we're terrible people because we are going to fuck people in the alley at an AIDS fundraiser?
Me: Um. There are condoms on the table by reception.
Party Boy: She probably fucked him already. |
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| I have a problem |
Sometimes I can't keep it together. I don't mean I have nervous breakdowns or anything. It's far less severe and far more embarrassing than that. I have Sudden and Inappropriate Outburst Syndrome- a neurological condition in which I can't keep my trap shut and I blurt out whatever I'm thinking, even if I wasn't aware I was thinking it. My condition is exacerbated by proximity to crushes. So sit down. I'm going to tell you a story.
When I was a junior in college I accepted a job at a summer stock theatre in New Hampshire. We were to perform five musicals and a couple of children's shows in rotation over a period of 12 weeks. My talent earned me $150 dollars a week, plus some meals. (Once I sat down and figured out what we were earning per hour- I don't remember exactly what it came to but let's just say my net worth would have been higher had I been sewing volleyballs in South America, or working somewhere for Kathie Lee Gifford.)
We were housed in an enormous, vaguely charming, ramshackle farmhouse down the road from the theatre. This house was great and terrible. It was really pretty, but very old and run down. It was very large, but that was due to some hasty and careless additions, which meant that the rooms were just kind of haphazardly tacked on to one another. To get to my room from the living room, I had to go through two other bedrooms and a hallway. Or, I could go up one set of stairs, down another, and cut through a bathroom. Plenty of options. The plumbing was dodgy at best, meaning we were better off showering at the theatre than running the risk of draining the well every morning. It was in the middle of a field of wildflowers, which meant it was stunningly beautiful, but try stumbling back to the house in the middle of the night after hooking up in the drummer's car- it was the darkest dark I've ever seen. I frequently had to be talked out of "giving it all up" and laying down in the field until morning. Only the threats of bears and malaria convinced me to keep on keepin' on.
Anyway, I think you get the picture. This place wasn't going to get a spread in Architectural Digest anytime soon. But it was the most fun I've ever had, and I made some really great friends there.
This is all leading up to one of the worst episodes of SAIOS I've experienced to date. One morning, we woke up to discover a lack of running water at the house. Something had gone terribly wrong with the sewer lines and the well was dry as a bone. No water! We called whomever one calls to bring water but in the meantime we had to avoid turning on the taps, flushing the toilets, etc. Traumatic enough, but anyone who knows me knows that I'm a pee-er. I have no self restraint when it comes to liquid consumption, and I hate being thirsty. Plus it was summer and hot as balls. But what was I to do? No bathroom. So I thought I'd suck it up and be a big kid, just like everyone else. That night, we all used the bathrooms at the theatre and then trekked home after the show. The usual drinking and shenanigans were going on, but yours truly held her ground. Other people were comfortable going outside to pee, but I can't do that. I just can't. So I limited myself to a few sips of wine and turned in. I figured when we all woke up in the morning I could rush in to the theatre and take care of business. I was actually feeling pretty proud of myself when I fell asleep.
I usually keep a big bottle of water next to my bed because I get so thirsty at night, especially in the summer. The first thing I noticed upon waking the next morning was that someone had broken in to my room and consumed all my water. The second thing I noticed was how badly I had to pee. The third thing I noticed was that it was 6 in the morning. Nobody would be up for another hour at least.
Obviously, I had gotten thirsty in the night, emptied the bottle without waking up enough to realize it, and now was in a terrible, terrible predicament.
What. To. DO. I didn't have keys to the theatre and the stage managers (who were the only ones with keys) were both sleeping at hotels with their visiting boyfriends that night. There weren't any restaurants or gas stations or stores within walking distance, and even if there were they wouldn't have been open.
You guys, I really just can't pee outside. I can't. (Confessing this is a big deal as I have lots of friends who pee everywhere. Constantly.) I physically cannot bring myself to do it. I don't care what you think of me for it. That's how I roll.
So I had this plan. I figured if I put some sort of pee-catching receptacle in the toilet I could pretend that everything was working normally, do my duty, and then pick up my urine-filled container and whisk it outside where I could dispose of it discreetly. I know that some of you are recoiling in horror, but I DON'T CARE. It's way grosser to pee your pants. Ask Fergie. And shut up.
The best pee-catching receptacle (PCR) I could find was a big red Solo cup leftover from Beer Pong the night before. I grabbed it, tiptoed into the bathroom, and placed it carefully in the empty toilet. Then I peed into the cup as quietly as I could. I was SO nervous. Because if someone had come in to the bathroom at that moment, several things would have happened:
1) I would have looked like the gross girl who pees in the toilet when she was SPECIFICALLY asked not to
2) I would have been so startled that I wouldn't have been able to concentrate and probably would have peed everywhere instead of into my cup
3) I would have died of embarrassment instantaneously.
Fortunately, as is evidenced by my still being here, that didn't happen. Here is what did happen.
I peed in the cup, wrapped paper towels around it and picked it up. I tiptoed through the bathroom, through a bedroom, through the living and dining rooms, and to the kitchen so that I could take it outside. My heart was pounding, I was short of breath- I was a mess. I was positive that someone would wake up and instantly know what I was doing. Then I thought, "Hey, no problem. This is not a big deal. If someone wakes up and sees me in the kitchen with a cup, there's no way they'll think that is out of the ordinary. People stand with cups in kitchens all the time. Nobody will notice a thing." I relaxed. This was going to be fine.
Just then, I heard someone on the stairs. My crush of the summer was an early bird too. He was walking down the stairs in just his boxers. He looked so handsome. His curly hair was all wild and rebellious from bed head. He had a deep tan from spending our days off on the beach. He had dimples and really nice teeth. I froze. He headed in to the kitchen (still a good 10-12 feet away from me), smiled sleepily at me, and said "Good morning, beautifu-"
"THIS IS A CUP OF MY PEE!" I screamed.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
He said "What?"
"I don't know!" I replied smoothly.
"Gross."
"Ha ha!"
He got a bottle of juice from the fridge and headed back up the stairs. I was left alone in the kitchen once more, blushing, a cup of my own waste in one hand and a fistful of broken dreams in the other. There wasn't much to do except walk outside, dispose of my pee, and head back to my bed.
This may seem tragic to you, but honestly, it's just the beginning. This condition has led to some very interesting situations. I am also convinced that I could have had many successful relationships by now had I not inadvertently screamed audacities at potential partners. "I HAVE MY HAND IN THE GARBAGE!" or "I AM VERY SWEATY" or "DINNER AT OLIVE GARDEN MAKES ME GIGGLE BECAUSE I PICTURE EVERY SERVER TO HAVE A SPEECH IMPEDIMENT AND THEN I READ THEIR BUTTONS AS 'HOSPITAWIANO!' " and so on.
Honestly. It's like Tourettes.
I'm going to have a telethon for myself.
Auditions for the MC will be next week.Labels: accidents, inappropriateness, potty humor, TMI |
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| Like the Hiltons but worse |
I saw this girl on TV. Tila Tequila. I guess she is famous because she has more friends than anyone else on myspace. According to her profile, she has 1,101,578 friends. That is a LOT of friends! Her inbox must be chock full o e-vites! She must have to go to lots of birthday parties and holiday parties and (because she is only 19) graduation parties every year. Poor little thing. Fortunately, according to her profile, she has multiple personality disorder so I guess there is some job-sharing going on. (Note: I AM NOT MAKING FUN OF PEOPLE WITH MPD. I AM MAKING FUN OF TILA 'I'M NOT ACTUALLY OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK' TEQUILA FOR PRETENDING TO HAVE MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORDER.)
MySpacers, find her profile! Be her friend. She is lonely. And busy! She has a recording career, she's a model, she has a clothing line, she stars in a series of video games- the list goes on. Maybe once you guys are MySpace friends, you can meet her other pals- Candy Coated Sugar Sex, Mr Exclusive, ALexxx, Reality Bedding, Dragon Princess, the Shitlist, Pornstar in Training, and Seirra Luvs Dirty Girls. (But hands off Shlongwater, ladies! He's all mine.)
I even clicked around and found her "mini-bio." Do yourself a favor and please read this. I will tantalize you with an excerpt. Tila is wise beyond her years. And her vocab.
Here, Tila describes a heart-pounding episode of her adolescence:
"I even got into a HUGE fight with this one black guy that claimed to be in some gang. Everyone at school was scared of him as well....except for me.
So now the question is...how the hell did I get into a fight with a guy??? Well it started off as a crush. His name was Corey. Corey used to have a crush on me. He'd always try to flirt and get with me....but I was quite annoyed by him. So one day in science class I was really fed up with him. He kept bugging me and kept making these sexual remarks. I was like, "Leave me the fuck alone, I'm sick!" Then Corey annoyingly said, "Oh, I got some medicine fo ya, ma dick in yo pussy!" That's when I got up and pushed him. From that moment, he was threatening me, "Imma getcha at lunch bitch!"..."
Cliffhanger? DYING to know the ending? Fists clenched with the pain of suspense?
Then befriend Tila!
Your life will never be the same!Labels: silly, the internet |
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| Mad Scientist? More like RAD scientist. |
(It's sad that this blog is only 3 days old and already you guys are going to find out how gross I really am.)
So today when I got into work I found that the ceiling had leaked onto my desk over the weekend. The following items were drippy:
1) Keyboard
2) Renewal form for Spinal Epidural study to be submitted to the IRB today
3) Calculator (Don't look so surprised. I usually just show people how I can spell BOOBLESS on it.)
4) My nalgene with the really cute golden retriever puppy on it.
I was, naturally, more upset about the Nalgene than I was anything else. I drink out of that thing EVERY DAY and I am lost without it. What am I supposed to do, use the teensy little cups next to the water cooler like an asshole? I prefer to drink in bulk.
Obviously, I will take it home tonight and wash it properly, but I needed some sort of interim solution. So I took it to the bathroom and washed it very thoroughly, but I was still kind of grossed out. I decided that if I could get some boiling water in there, I'd be in good shape. Boiling kills germs, right? Ma Ingalls was forever boiling things, and that woman has never steered me wrong.
I skulked into the breakroom (I have to skulk because I'm not dressed in scrubs yet- I'm wearing workout clothes and I look like an extra in Flashdance) and filled my Nalg with hot water. Then I microwaved it.
I took it out when I saw bubbles begin to form inside the bottle. Then I dropped it on the ground because it was really hot and I'm an idiot. I took it back to the bathroom and washed it again, then filled it up and went about my day.
What do you think- will I die of some terrible drippy roof insulation water poisoning?
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| I coulda been |
I remember when we were in high school and we took the all-important Myers Briggs test. Developed by Katherine Cook Briggs and Isabel Briggs Myers, this test was designed to make people feel confused and compartmentalized so that they would be extra susceptible to the power of suggestion. Basically, for the uninitiated, your responses to a series of questions indicate your personality type, which indicates your career path, which indicates how hot your spouse will be, which indicates how well your marriage will work, which indicates your success level in life, which indicates your overall happiness for the rest of your life as long as you both shall live indivisible with liberty and justice for all.
So I took the test with all the confidence and panache of a person who has gotten what they wanted from standardized tests her whole life. I completed it, set down my #2, and waited to be put in the better reading group of life. A week or so later, the results were in- our fates were handed to us in white envelopes. My friends and I compared:
Molly- engineer (ten years later, she is getting her PhD in Complicated Esoteric Engineering at UC Irvine)
Jeannie- lawyer (just finished her first year at University of Minnesota)
Anna- lawyer (University of Michigan-Ann Arbor Law School, class of 2009)
Leena- Doctor (Brown Medical)
Everyone's MB results were so magically and intrinsically aligned with their own life goals! Miracle of miracles! I opened my envelope while wondering how exactly they were going categorize GeniusPrincessPresidentOscarWinner. Turns out they call it
Farmer.
I'm going to be a farmer.
But I don't know how. Nor do I own land, or tools, or skills. Fortunately, Katie and Izzie allowed for second and third choices, should the first choice prove impractical.
2) Bus driver.
I'm a very bad driver. Very, very bad. I get lost always and I've accidentally driven on the wrong side of the road before (in this country, not somewhere else where that is acceptable to do) and I have a crippling fear of running out of gas and I once caused an accident (nobody was hurt!) because I was staring at the boys' cross country team as they jogged on the side of the road. This is why I live in New York. I trust absolutely everyone else, including the blind, to drive better than I can. Thankfully, there is a third choice. A last refuge. A final professional hope to which I can cling...
3) Rabbi.
What. The. FUCK.
Dear Katherine and Isabel. You've dicked me over. Hope you're happy! Dream sweet dreams in your calico-lined Skinner boxes, you angry angry bitches.
Love,
A lover and a fighter...and a farmer...a bus driver...rabbinical wannabe...and a hobo. |
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| Stole My Own Thunder |
So I was all revved up and ready to blog because a bunch of my friends became bloggers practically overnight and I WANT what THEY have because I'm nothing if not competitive (without fully comprehending the competition) but every single url name I wanted was chosen, usually by a teenager who hasn't blogged in years meaning that not only am I immature but I'm also behind the times and now I'm tired and frustrated and annoyed.
So that's all I got.
This blog is destined for success, I can smell it. |
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
See my profile...
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TackODing font
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