I was that kid that watched movies over and over, memorizing the lines and reciting them to my reflection. My old house had an entire mirrored wall, a dangerous installation for such a self-obsessed aspiring star... I'd spend hours in front of it, practicing looks of sadness, or fear, or surprise!, or terror, or glee, or... you get the picture.
Years later, while working in the drive thru at Starbucks, I said something witty (or entirely ridiculous) to a customer, and made some unfortunate smirk in his direction. He laughed and said, "You give good face." I still don't know what the hell that means, really, but I like to think he was trying to say that my expressions were fantastically original and thereby, glorious.
Drama club was something I tried briefly in middle school, and while I did actually enjoy it, I was also completely obsessed with what my friends thought--- and they did not think much of people in drama club. They (my friends, of course) were way too cool to be hanging out with me in the first place, so I figured joining my kindred spirits up on the stage would rock me right off the boat, and into a sea of self-loathing, stage make-up and ill-fitting wigs.
Even though I evaded plays through most of my youth, I still love Hollywood and the idea that these people, their voices and faces and even their mannerisms- will live on.
I love movies. I love actors. I love the words they say, and how they say them, the looks on their face and how some of them are so believable that for a second on screen, you're seeing the person they were always meant to be. It's like they could never be anyone else- until you see their next movie. I love how the right chord can convey sadness, or fear, or total elation. I love that weeks or months, or even years of writes and rewrites and shoots and editing goes into every two hour block of cinema I watch.
I also, kind of sort of, think that they (the people in Hollywood), would love me too. I really think I'd get along swimmingly with the Hollywood set. Not the Paris Hiltons, or anyone on a reality show (because they're not real Hollywood... being famous for being a douche bag isn't the kind of notoriety that I hope to achieve...), but the real celebs.
Whenever I buy a Cosmo (the magazine), one of the first things I read is the celebrity quiz, the one they write out longhand. I'd never thought much about Kristen Bell, but after reading her quiz, I couldn't help but like her - and her ALL CAPS penmanship. I think we'd be friends, should I relocate Los Angeles and bump into her (stalk her) on Robertson Boulevard.
I feel this way about a lot of celebrities. Like Sandra Bullock. If I ever actually knew Sandy, (which is what I'd call her, because, you know, I'd be allowed to, because we'd be BFF and all...) she'd love me. I figure I'd be just about the perfect addition to any celebrity's inner circle. I'm insightful, and quirky- in a cute way. I easily break tension with a joke or amusing quip. I would never sell them out to TMZ or the Enquirer, and I'd always have a pen they could borrow, or gum if they were so inclined.
I'd never falter if they needed me to swallow a balloon full of heroin, and I'm unnaturally gifted at coming up with alibis.
I, essentially, would be the best friend they'd ever have. I'd be everything they needed, and more. I think this way about my celebrity crushes as well. Another break-up, Jake Gyllenhaal? I'll ease your pain. I'm the one you've been waiting for. That Reese, yeah, well, she seems like a nice girl... but really. Do you want riches, personality and gorgeousness? Of course not. You need me.
It seems though, that every time I find a new celebrity to fantasize about, he gets hit with those pesky gay rumors. Wentworth Miller? Dining at Nobu with his main squeeze, Ryan. James Franco? Not confirmed... but all the signs point to gay...
Anderson Cooper? Bought a firehouse to renovate with his boyfriend of a year. Well, great, now I'll never be his wife. I get all depressed, thinking, "What the hell, he's gay?! Damnit! There goes my shot at getting out of this God forsaken town..." As if sexual preference is the one thing that's keeping me from dating, loving and living with Anderson Cooper. Never mind that I've never met (and will probably never meet) the man. Forget that he's almost the same age as my mom. Let's not even think about the fact that he is way out of my league, not to mention an actual Vanderbilt.
When I was younger, I had paper dolls that were made in his family's likeness that my grandparents bought when they visited the Biltmore House. There I was, at the ripe age of six, dressing Anderson's family in frilly frocks and dapper suits. At that time he was in his late twenties, probably out saving orphans in Somalia or being unnaturally wonderful, as usual.
Imagine the stories we could have told our kids! How serendipitous our union would have been, me with my paper dolls and him with his Yale degree and actual intelligence...
But alas, he's gay. Of course he won't love me. He can't.
Such is life.
Hollywood, I've learned, is full of heartbreak. That town will build you up to chew you up to tear you down to lift you back up again, all the while betting on how long until your next coke binge. Just look at Lindsay Lohan.
I've known fame, and I've also felt the cruelty of celebrity lost. Once upon a time, when I was in 5th grade, I was in a little thing called 'OM'. Odyssey of the Mind.
I don't really remember the specifics, because it was a looooong time ago, and I kind of have this problem where I don't actually pay attention to my surroundings- but the gist is this: we built a 15 gram balsa-wood structure, it held 700 pounds, we did a little play, and they sent us to Florida.
I try to be modest about it, but, just to let you know, I was the star of the aforementioned play. At least, I think I was. Again, I could be lying-- but I'm pretty sure I had most of the speaking parts. My character's name was "Madam Quinzo", and I was peddling things, namely balsa wood structures, on an HSN-like channel.
While we usually did our little act in front of a panel of judges, once we found out we were going to Florida, we were invited to perform in front of our school, Ridge View Elementary. After we finished and begged everyone for money, I was wandering the halls, props in hand. I don't know why I wasn't in class, though knowing me, it's not so unusual.
"Hi." A first grader with his arms folded across his chest said to me, darting out of his classroom. "Can I have your autograph?"
I smiled hugely, looking around the hall for witnesses. Curses. There were none. "Sure," I said, walking into the wet area to sign a piece of construction paper. "Who should I make this out to?..."
"Huh?" He asked.
"What's your name?" I shook my head. First graders. Total idiots.
"Colin," he answered, wide eyed. I wrote his name, and then signed mine as messy as I could, turning my nine-letter first name into little more than a squiggle. Lovely, I thought, I was born to be a star- this is the perfect signature. I stared at the paper, wondering what else an autograph should consist of? 'Best of luck' I scribbled on the top, handing the paper back to him.
He shoved it in his pocket and walked back to class without another word to me.
Whilst in Florida for OM, I bought myself an autograph book, procuring the signatures of Chip, Dale and Goofy. Mickey and Minnie were rather elusive, as were all the Disney princesses, so on the airplane ride home I filled out the rest of the pages with my own name, over and over again. I figured practice makes perfect, and I didn't want my hand to cramp up once I was bombarded by all the third grade autograph hounds.
My practice was in vain, as Colin was the last person to ever request my autograph.
Fame is fickle. This I know.
I still practice my signature, just in case. Also, I'm a notary, so I'll charge you $10 and sign loan documents, or adoption papers, or, you know, whatever.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
bang it!
I think I'm bitter. You've probably considered this as well, as most of my blog entries consist of constant (yet totally delightful) bitching about everything from drunkenness to Baconnaise. And being white. Ugh.
To know me in real life--- which I'm sure all of you do, or else why would you be reading this?--- is to hopefully know that I'm not the belittling shrew my words make me out to be. Well, I am... a little bit, I guess. In order to write these things, one would assume I must also think them, at least on some level...
But in real real life, I'm optimistic to a practically delusional state. I'm just a glass half full kind of gal. I assume the best in people, regardless of past precedent, even if they've disappointed me time and time again. I'm pretty sure that somewhere along the line, I'm going to win the lottery. I believe in karma and fate, and I like to think that there's a reason for our existence.
I am sarcastic, I'll admit that, and maybe I seem like a cynic... but I always hold out hope. I don't know why. Things go wrong, bad things happen- but there's a lot of good out there, too. There's beauty, and greatness, and plastic bags dancing in the wind.
Case in point- I love Disney movies... See? Happy. Sure, they usually kill off some lady character in the beginning, but hey- such is life. You roll with the punches. You might lose your wife after she's hatched all your kids, and your one remaining kid might be a bit of a cripple, but then you meet Dori, and visit 42 Wallaby Way, and life is swell again- as it should be.
I like happy. That being said, I seem to, especially in print, venture to the dark side more often than not. I've thought long and hard about why this is, and keeping in mind the whiteness I mentioned last time, I can think of only one other disappointment in life that my disdainful attitude stems from.
It's because I could never have proper bangs.
You read it right. This dark side of me, the angry, bitter one... she was fueled by lifeless, insipid hair.
You see, I have two cowlicks, these little swirly bits at the front of my hairline, that keep me from having a trendy coif.
Bangs that lie flat against the forehead? Never gonna happen. My cowlicks spin my hair so that a nice layer of fringe above my eyes will never be achieved. Ridiculously awesome puffy bangs circa Brittany Jones in the nineties? Nope. I would've killed for those bangs in sixth grade, but it just wasn't in the stars. I've tried blow dryers, curling irons, and so much hairspray that I was a fire hazard- to no avail.
Bangs and I will never live in harmony. It's something that I've come to accept, I think. I still make an attempt every once in a while, and sometimes they border on decent, but mostly, I look like a bang-loving, cowlick-having fool.
I've found myself discouraging my able haired friends from wearing bangs. I tell them, "They're just not in style." or, "I just like it so much better when you do the side-swept thing, it's way cuter. I've heard people say it about you. No bangs. Don't do the bangs. They're icky." I couldn't actually care less about my friend's hairstyles, I like them for their money, not their looks. But the jealousy bubbles every time I see someone shake the hair out of their eye-line.
Bitches.
Banglessness is just one more thing I have to come to terms with in order to be all the way happy... and haven't. The list is actually getting quite long...
-I can't have bangs.
-I'm too white.
-I can't ride a bike with no-hands.
-Tomatoes make me gag, regardless of how good they look, or how much I think I could like them.
-I'm pretty sure I'm going to die at age 27.
-I'm a bit clumsy, what with the falling out of beds and tripping over air.
-In addition to lacking bangs, I keep finding gray hairs. I just turned 23 last month. I hit puberty like, yesterday, and I'm already on the decline.
-I'm easily distracted, like today, when I saw said gray hair in the mirror and almost ran off the road (nearly taking a Toyota Tundra with me).
-Oh, also, I am not a competent driver.
-When I write, I make a lot of gestures and movements, and facial expressions. As in, I look like I'm fighting with the air- and it's winning.
-Anderson Cooper is gay, and will never love me. More on that later.
-I blush easily. When I'm embarrassed, or hot, or angry, or sad, or laughing, or... anything. It's probably some super sketchy disorder. It's probably what I'm going to die from, at age 27.
-I like my shows more than most of my friends... So anti-social...
-I think I have a bit of a lisp.
I'm sure there are more, but I'm growing weary.
I guess I'll part with one final thing I must come to terms with. I'm hopelessly in love with a craft that might never pay off. But I guess I duped you into reading this- so that's a start :)
To know me in real life--- which I'm sure all of you do, or else why would you be reading this?--- is to hopefully know that I'm not the belittling shrew my words make me out to be. Well, I am... a little bit, I guess. In order to write these things, one would assume I must also think them, at least on some level...
But in real real life, I'm optimistic to a practically delusional state. I'm just a glass half full kind of gal. I assume the best in people, regardless of past precedent, even if they've disappointed me time and time again. I'm pretty sure that somewhere along the line, I'm going to win the lottery. I believe in karma and fate, and I like to think that there's a reason for our existence.
I am sarcastic, I'll admit that, and maybe I seem like a cynic... but I always hold out hope. I don't know why. Things go wrong, bad things happen- but there's a lot of good out there, too. There's beauty, and greatness, and plastic bags dancing in the wind.
Case in point- I love Disney movies... See? Happy. Sure, they usually kill off some lady character in the beginning, but hey- such is life. You roll with the punches. You might lose your wife after she's hatched all your kids, and your one remaining kid might be a bit of a cripple, but then you meet Dori, and visit 42 Wallaby Way, and life is swell again- as it should be.
I like happy. That being said, I seem to, especially in print, venture to the dark side more often than not. I've thought long and hard about why this is, and keeping in mind the whiteness I mentioned last time, I can think of only one other disappointment in life that my disdainful attitude stems from.
It's because I could never have proper bangs.
You read it right. This dark side of me, the angry, bitter one... she was fueled by lifeless, insipid hair.
You see, I have two cowlicks, these little swirly bits at the front of my hairline, that keep me from having a trendy coif.
Bangs that lie flat against the forehead? Never gonna happen. My cowlicks spin my hair so that a nice layer of fringe above my eyes will never be achieved. Ridiculously awesome puffy bangs circa Brittany Jones in the nineties? Nope. I would've killed for those bangs in sixth grade, but it just wasn't in the stars. I've tried blow dryers, curling irons, and so much hairspray that I was a fire hazard- to no avail.
Bangs and I will never live in harmony. It's something that I've come to accept, I think. I still make an attempt every once in a while, and sometimes they border on decent, but mostly, I look like a bang-loving, cowlick-having fool.
I've found myself discouraging my able haired friends from wearing bangs. I tell them, "They're just not in style." or, "I just like it so much better when you do the side-swept thing, it's way cuter. I've heard people say it about you. No bangs. Don't do the bangs. They're icky." I couldn't actually care less about my friend's hairstyles, I like them for their money, not their looks. But the jealousy bubbles every time I see someone shake the hair out of their eye-line.
Bitches.
Banglessness is just one more thing I have to come to terms with in order to be all the way happy... and haven't. The list is actually getting quite long...
-I can't have bangs.
-I'm too white.
-I can't ride a bike with no-hands.
-Tomatoes make me gag, regardless of how good they look, or how much I think I could like them.
-I'm pretty sure I'm going to die at age 27.
-I'm a bit clumsy, what with the falling out of beds and tripping over air.
-In addition to lacking bangs, I keep finding gray hairs. I just turned 23 last month. I hit puberty like, yesterday, and I'm already on the decline.
-I'm easily distracted, like today, when I saw said gray hair in the mirror and almost ran off the road (nearly taking a Toyota Tundra with me).
-Oh, also, I am not a competent driver.
-When I write, I make a lot of gestures and movements, and facial expressions. As in, I look like I'm fighting with the air- and it's winning.
-Anderson Cooper is gay, and will never love me. More on that later.
-I blush easily. When I'm embarrassed, or hot, or angry, or sad, or laughing, or... anything. It's probably some super sketchy disorder. It's probably what I'm going to die from, at age 27.
-I like my shows more than most of my friends... So anti-social...
-I think I have a bit of a lisp.
I'm sure there are more, but I'm growing weary.
I guess I'll part with one final thing I must come to terms with. I'm hopelessly in love with a craft that might never pay off. But I guess I duped you into reading this- so that's a start :)
Monday, June 7, 2010
tan like me
I’m constantly on a quest to be edgy and cool, mostly because I'm neither of those things, and yet I think I should be in order to live happily. It was while navigating the cruel waters that are middle school that I first realized I needed outside help in order to gain acceptance and notoriety. Naturally, being the nifty kid that I was, I purchased a book titled, “How To Be Popular In The 6th Grade”, to do so.
It should be mentioned that I bought it from one of those Scholastic book orders. The day it arrived in my Language Arts class, I scrambled to the teachers desk, hoping to God I'd get to it before some one else, having figured out a bit too late that buying an instructional guide to aid in the search for popularity did not a 'cool kid' make...
Evidently I was not only a loser, but a slow one at that. The prettiest (and by default) most popular girl in the gifted program snickered as she read the cover, handing over the pink and white paperback with a condescending smile, “Good luck.”
Looking back, I don’t have to think hard as to why my efforts to be adored in middle school were in vain. It wasn’t my penchant for overalls, or my overbite. It wasn’t my obnoxious, know-it-all, only child demeanor. Nope. I'm sure it was my whiteness.
It’s because I’m pasty, and pale, and generally just not attractive- and we all know that’s the first step in being cool. Sure, you can have a dazzling personality that draws people in, or a substantial expendable income, but those take work. Good looks, including skin tone, are genetic.
Except, that is, when you tan. Screw mother nature! To hell with lackluster melanin levels! In high school I discovered that I could be cool, and popular, and most of all- not white.
Not that I have something against my heritage, or anything that legitimately unfortunate. I’m fine with the whole, ‘My family’s from Wales and Germany, and I’m distantly related to William the Conqueror’- blah, blah, blah nonsense. I mean, it’s whatever.
What does bother me, though, is my porcelain exterior. Now I know, again, perhaps this isn't the most ‘PC’ way to think. I’ve heard the Glamour/Cosmo/Oprah/Barney mantras, be happy with who you are, love what you’ve got, tanning will give you cancer, etc. But how am I to be happy with this glow in the dark shell? How am I to be happy when in every picture, I look blotchy, and sick- when I am in perfect (maybe drunk) health? Grayscale and sepia look artsy for two to three Facebook albums at best.
And, to be perfectly honest, while there is a part of me that thinks I'd rather be tan now than live past my 30's melanoma-free, there's a bigger part of me that's convinced that I will most definitely get skin cancer should I continue to bake myself in well-lit, plexiglass booths.
It was this fear of eminent death that drove me to Island Sun Tanning two days before my 21st birthday. Well, the fear, and my jeep. What was supposed to be a 20 minute pit stop turned into an hours worth of agony and self degradation at the hands of a swarthy Mystic Tan.
Oh, the shame.
I couldn’t figure out the damn booth. I stood inside, disrobed, my hands and feet covered in some sort of petroleum jelly excrement, waving my arms frantically in front of the sensors I thought were supposed to sense my presence, but they didn’t realize I was there. I looked around, a sitting duck inside a drafty, blue-hued, clothing-optional phone booth.
I refused to even consider wiping off the slime, dressing myself- complete with socks and shoes, only to miserably trudge out to the counter girl, a look of embarrassment upon my face. Especially after I’d already told her I was perfectly capable of ‘figuring it out’. I was college educated, for Christ’s sake. If an orange 16 year old with peroxide seeping through her skull could man the booth, I was surely competent.
Except, evidently, I wasn’t.
I pushed open the Mystic Tan door, thoroughly disgusted with the entire process, not to mention myself. I stood for a moment, thinking that if I spent enough time in the room, she’d come to me, wondering what the hold up was. How many hours could that take? I thought. She seemed rather distracted by the new issue of Cosmo, which I’d received in the mail weeks before.
Considering A Big Ash and I were to meet her roommates at Chili’s in a half an hour, I decided Jessica’s SSR would have to wait. I wiped off my feet and hands, dreading the walk of ignorance I was about to embark upon. I shook out the jeans that I’d haphazardly tossed aside in my hurry to be bronzed. How brazen I’d been to think the next time I wore them I’d be as sun kissed as a non-white person...
Glaring at the booth one more time, I threw my denim back to the floor. Out smarted by a tanning booth?! Not I!
I marched, or rather- stepped, as it was just a foot away, back into the booth. Waving my hand in front of the sensor, the air shifted.
A beeping started. A light flashed. I vaguely remembered that after the first spray, I was supposed to turn, as to not end up like Ross in that one episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.- with four 2’s on the front and nothing on the back. I didn’t want to look like a Jamaican coming and like a Norseman from behind. Not to infer that I look like a man from the back, but rather, I was trying to get across that I didn’t want to be really dark on my front half and white as snow (my natural coloring) on my back. My back looks girlish enough. I think...
I held my breath, only to realize that I didn’t have any air to sustain me for however long the toxins were spewing. Then I thought, toxins!? What? Is that allowed? Are they, the tanning particles, toxic? When can I breathe?
It was then that I started to freak out. If in fact, the tan was dangerous, then people who overused it- ie: the leathery women I saw on the way in- would be impaired, no? Near hyperventilation, I couldn’t think of one plane of existence in which they weren’t impaired. Skin color? Hair color? Sickening I-just-went-tanning stench? Sweet Jesus.
My face scrunched up in despair as the bitterly cold liquid misted over me. I then relaxed my face as best I could, as I didn’t fancy myself looking good with a wrinkly tan. I turned cautiously, exceedingly careful not to slip on the excess glow pooling at my feet.
My feet! Oh, God, I’d wiped the goo off! And my hands!?! Did that matter? Would they suggest it if it had no purpose? Knowing the way they pushed those $85 tan accelerators, I kind of thought they would. On the verge of what I could only assume would be streaky-orange tears, the misting finally subsided. My head cleared. I looked down at myself, relieved to see no orange what-so-ever.
My used, already lived-in outfit clung to my sticky, tanned limbs as I attempted to get dressed. I felt like a dirty shacker, taking a shower the next morning but without a clean change of clothes. I don’t make a habit of wearing soiled garb, but it happens. And it never feels quite right.
Through out dinner, the hand coming to feed my face became slightly darker with every bite. By the time my white chocolate molten lava cake (riddled with raspberries, which I hate, and did not realize from the picture that the dessert included them, or else I wouldn’t have ordered it…) arrived, I was fairly certain I could pass for someone who originally hailed from Nairobi.
When we made our way back to A Big Ash's apartment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was totally born the wrong skin color, I thought. I looked damn good. Sure, it was a little streaky, and yeah, it stained my white shirt a bit… I could have been a cast member on Jersey Shore… and I kind of looked unwashed. I was unwashed, so it wasn’t so surprising. But I looked tan.
Which, of course, made me cool.
And that's all that matters, anyway.
It should be mentioned that I bought it from one of those Scholastic book orders. The day it arrived in my Language Arts class, I scrambled to the teachers desk, hoping to God I'd get to it before some one else, having figured out a bit too late that buying an instructional guide to aid in the search for popularity did not a 'cool kid' make...
Evidently I was not only a loser, but a slow one at that. The prettiest (and by default) most popular girl in the gifted program snickered as she read the cover, handing over the pink and white paperback with a condescending smile, “Good luck.”
Looking back, I don’t have to think hard as to why my efforts to be adored in middle school were in vain. It wasn’t my penchant for overalls, or my overbite. It wasn’t my obnoxious, know-it-all, only child demeanor. Nope. I'm sure it was my whiteness.
It’s because I’m pasty, and pale, and generally just not attractive- and we all know that’s the first step in being cool. Sure, you can have a dazzling personality that draws people in, or a substantial expendable income, but those take work. Good looks, including skin tone, are genetic.
Except, that is, when you tan. Screw mother nature! To hell with lackluster melanin levels! In high school I discovered that I could be cool, and popular, and most of all- not white.
Not that I have something against my heritage, or anything that legitimately unfortunate. I’m fine with the whole, ‘My family’s from Wales and Germany, and I’m distantly related to William the Conqueror’- blah, blah, blah nonsense. I mean, it’s whatever.
What does bother me, though, is my porcelain exterior. Now I know, again, perhaps this isn't the most ‘PC’ way to think. I’ve heard the Glamour/Cosmo/Oprah/Barney mantras, be happy with who you are, love what you’ve got, tanning will give you cancer, etc. But how am I to be happy with this glow in the dark shell? How am I to be happy when in every picture, I look blotchy, and sick- when I am in perfect (maybe drunk) health? Grayscale and sepia look artsy for two to three Facebook albums at best.
And, to be perfectly honest, while there is a part of me that thinks I'd rather be tan now than live past my 30's melanoma-free, there's a bigger part of me that's convinced that I will most definitely get skin cancer should I continue to bake myself in well-lit, plexiglass booths.
It was this fear of eminent death that drove me to Island Sun Tanning two days before my 21st birthday. Well, the fear, and my jeep. What was supposed to be a 20 minute pit stop turned into an hours worth of agony and self degradation at the hands of a swarthy Mystic Tan.
Oh, the shame.
I couldn’t figure out the damn booth. I stood inside, disrobed, my hands and feet covered in some sort of petroleum jelly excrement, waving my arms frantically in front of the sensors I thought were supposed to sense my presence, but they didn’t realize I was there. I looked around, a sitting duck inside a drafty, blue-hued, clothing-optional phone booth.
I refused to even consider wiping off the slime, dressing myself- complete with socks and shoes, only to miserably trudge out to the counter girl, a look of embarrassment upon my face. Especially after I’d already told her I was perfectly capable of ‘figuring it out’. I was college educated, for Christ’s sake. If an orange 16 year old with peroxide seeping through her skull could man the booth, I was surely competent.
Except, evidently, I wasn’t.
I pushed open the Mystic Tan door, thoroughly disgusted with the entire process, not to mention myself. I stood for a moment, thinking that if I spent enough time in the room, she’d come to me, wondering what the hold up was. How many hours could that take? I thought. She seemed rather distracted by the new issue of Cosmo, which I’d received in the mail weeks before.
Considering A Big Ash and I were to meet her roommates at Chili’s in a half an hour, I decided Jessica’s SSR would have to wait. I wiped off my feet and hands, dreading the walk of ignorance I was about to embark upon. I shook out the jeans that I’d haphazardly tossed aside in my hurry to be bronzed. How brazen I’d been to think the next time I wore them I’d be as sun kissed as a non-white person...
Glaring at the booth one more time, I threw my denim back to the floor. Out smarted by a tanning booth?! Not I!
I marched, or rather- stepped, as it was just a foot away, back into the booth. Waving my hand in front of the sensor, the air shifted.
A beeping started. A light flashed. I vaguely remembered that after the first spray, I was supposed to turn, as to not end up like Ross in that one episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.- with four 2’s on the front and nothing on the back. I didn’t want to look like a Jamaican coming and like a Norseman from behind. Not to infer that I look like a man from the back, but rather, I was trying to get across that I didn’t want to be really dark on my front half and white as snow (my natural coloring) on my back. My back looks girlish enough. I think...
I held my breath, only to realize that I didn’t have any air to sustain me for however long the toxins were spewing. Then I thought, toxins!? What? Is that allowed? Are they, the tanning particles, toxic? When can I breathe?
It was then that I started to freak out. If in fact, the tan was dangerous, then people who overused it- ie: the leathery women I saw on the way in- would be impaired, no? Near hyperventilation, I couldn’t think of one plane of existence in which they weren’t impaired. Skin color? Hair color? Sickening I-just-went-tanning stench? Sweet Jesus.
My face scrunched up in despair as the bitterly cold liquid misted over me. I then relaxed my face as best I could, as I didn’t fancy myself looking good with a wrinkly tan. I turned cautiously, exceedingly careful not to slip on the excess glow pooling at my feet.
My feet! Oh, God, I’d wiped the goo off! And my hands!?! Did that matter? Would they suggest it if it had no purpose? Knowing the way they pushed those $85 tan accelerators, I kind of thought they would. On the verge of what I could only assume would be streaky-orange tears, the misting finally subsided. My head cleared. I looked down at myself, relieved to see no orange what-so-ever.
My used, already lived-in outfit clung to my sticky, tanned limbs as I attempted to get dressed. I felt like a dirty shacker, taking a shower the next morning but without a clean change of clothes. I don’t make a habit of wearing soiled garb, but it happens. And it never feels quite right.
Through out dinner, the hand coming to feed my face became slightly darker with every bite. By the time my white chocolate molten lava cake (riddled with raspberries, which I hate, and did not realize from the picture that the dessert included them, or else I wouldn’t have ordered it…) arrived, I was fairly certain I could pass for someone who originally hailed from Nairobi.
When we made our way back to A Big Ash's apartment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was totally born the wrong skin color, I thought. I looked damn good. Sure, it was a little streaky, and yeah, it stained my white shirt a bit… I could have been a cast member on Jersey Shore… and I kind of looked unwashed. I was unwashed, so it wasn’t so surprising. But I looked tan.
Which, of course, made me cool.
And that's all that matters, anyway.
Monday, February 22, 2010
deficient.
It seems that I, at least according to my blog entries, am either incompetent- or drunk, all of the time.
Sadly, this is another sparkling example that backs up that very assumption.
This afternoon, I got off work around 4, and, being the completely lovely person that I am, I offered to go to the store for my mother. She had five things on her list; coffee, milk, paper towels, and orange juice. Okay, four things.
She sent me with $50. I should mention that in my house, we generally purchase paper towels weaved with spun gold thread...
Anyway, almost two hours later, I returned, $90 poorer, yet enlightened.
I am not cut out of the housewife cloth. I will be a terrible wife. And mother. Just now I was trying to think of an area in which I excel, but, I can't even think of one.
Cooking? Pshaw. I can bake one kind of cookie, and I lifted the recipe straight off the back of the Reese's Peanut Butter chip bag. I fail miserably at almost everything else. Even my cereal is so-so at best.
General house cleanliness? Oh, God, the horror. I never put things back, or away in the first place. When I buy new things, I take what is needed immediately out of the bag, and then toss the rest on the ground. Months later, I'll stumble upon the sack, a pack of gum, a few point-of-sale DVD's and a wrinkled $5 bill sprinkled with change still inside.
The other day when I slipped and fell (I'm also not so good with balance), my crash landing was cushioned by various outfits that I'd tried on, decided not to wear, and subsequently left on the floor.
When I'm sick, I literally lie in bed until someone comes to save me. My mother, the only one who seems to care enough to search me out during my absence, then forces me to 'drink water' and 'take medicine', two medieval tricks that must have been passed down through the generations.
If it's cold in the house, I'll sit, freezing. Sometimes I'll get a blanket. When someone questions my choices, wondering why I didn't just 'turn up the thermostat', I stare at them blankely. Thermostat? That box-like contraption strapped to the wall? Witchcraft. I'll wait for the sun to warm me.
My plight is a combination of apathy, incompetence, and I think, most of all, laziness.
I'm in a pseudo-teenage purgatory, in which I look like an adult, and have shining moments of clarity and capability, but largely, I'm worthless.
Upon entering Yoke's Fresh Market, I was pleased, as I noticed the cart had cup holders, and I was currently utilizing only one arm because of my chai tea. I nestled the drink into the designated area, and begun my 90 minute shopping-trip-from-hell.
"We were doomed from the start, as starters are, why am I doing this?" Oh Brand New, you are so wise. Why had I agreed to go to the store? I always get lost in the stupid aisles, and I manage to consistently forget half the things on the list. I italicize list because if there is written record of the necessity of 'milk', then, you'd think I'd be able to read the damn thing and deduce that I do, in fact, need to purchase milk.
But alas, I always forget the milk. Milk has it out for me, this much I know.
I grabbed two bags of salad, and while you'll probably notice that 'salad' was not requested by my mother, it was something that I felt our house was lacking at the present juncture.
Making my way into the wine area, I was mesmerized for at least 25 minutes. I had decided that we were to have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, so I figured a Malbec would go nicely. For those of you who don't know my drinking habits, I think Malbec goes nicely with everything. Spaghetti, pizza, chocolate, breathing... etc.
There were Cabernets and Merlots and way too many Syrahs, and right now, to be honest, I'm wondering if varietals are capitalized at all? For this, let's just say they are. So yeah, I found a few $40 Malbecs, one of which I very nearly purchased (it was the first one I ever tried, back when I started drinking wine legally, AKA, last year.), but decided against it, because, really? $40? This is Yoke's, not Chateau la Brignon (I'm pretty sure that I made that up).
After agonizing over my options, I walked away with two bottles, one of which, an 'old-vine' Malbec from Argentina. For those of you who don't get paid to pore over the origins of various wines, Argentinian Malbecs are insanely popular. FYI, the Malbec sucked. It smelled like alcohol, something that, ironically, isn't really a good thing in wine.
Happy with my long awaited decision, I toddled down the aisles, searching for the things my mother had requested.
As you may know, I am easily distracted, which is part of the reason why this should-have-been-a-jaunt to the store turned into an all out marathon.
Rounding around a freezer case, this caught my eye:
.jpg)
Mmm, mmm, mmm. Beef pasties and pork fritters. WTF? What, exactly, is a beef pasty? I'd Google, but I have to admit I'm rather afraid of what results I'd obtain. And a pork fritter? Is that anything like an apple fritter? I sincerely hope not.
Severely disturbed, I continued on to the milk, a safe white liquid that's squeezed from a cow. Ugh. As I was about to reach for the dairy case door, I balked.
.jpg)
If you can't make out the lettering, let me break it down for you. For only $3.99 a pound, you could go home with a whole rabbit.
"Mom, what's for dinner?"
"Rabbit stew, Jimmy."
"Rabbit stew? Again? It better be a WHOLE rabbit, none of that half-rabbit shit from last week. That was gross."
This is how I imagine a rabbit eating conversation. I also figure they'd have no front teeth, thick southern accents and missing adjectives and pronouns through out their dialogue, as I'd always assumed people in the Ozarks were the only ones who ate rabbits.
I hate rabbits. They're weird, and I'm just not sure why they're allowed. Easter is a terrible time for me. Big rabbits that lurk around, hiding brightly colored eggs? If they hid brightly colored wallets, with green money inside, I might be more copacetic to their existence. But they do not. Their eggs contain jellybeans, at best.
When I was about 7, my cousin lived in West Richland. Back then, there weren't too many houses in their area, and their development was brand new, situated amongst the sage brush.
He was 8, and quite the outdoorsman. I generally stayed inside, with his mom, and made crafts. Already, I was living a very thrilling life. I'd venture outside with Chris every once in a while, but he liked hiking and running and searching for things, whereas I'd rather play in the yard. Where there was less dirt and more grass. And it was also in close proximity to the house, where I'd rather be.
One day, my aunt came home to find Chris and his friend holed up in the garage.
"Mom, we're starting a business. You gotta see this," Chris said, ushering her into his workspace. I wasn't there, but knowing her, and knowing what she was about to see, I imagine she let out a blood curdling scream.
There, nailed up on a large piece of plywood, were two, rather poorly skinned, jack rabbits. Bits of fur and flesh clung to their carcasses, their chests protruding out in their final pose.
Not understanding her complete shock and terror, Chris tried his best to soothe her crumbling exterior. "Mom! You paid $12 for my rabbit pelt. Think of how many we can make! And rabbits feet? We'll just cut them right off!"
"My son's a serial killer!" She told my mom, probably having seen too many Jeffrey Dahmer documentaries. "This is how it starts!"
FYI, Chris isn't a serial killer, but rather an upstanding citizen and sailor in the Navy. He has yet to kill anyone or anything, other than those rabbits. And, his business ventures since have been way less hare-brained. HA, I love a good pun.
Anyway, these were the thoughts bouncing around my head as I saw the rabbit sign. Easter, serial killers, jellybeans... all terrible things. I hopped (ugh) on the back of the cart and rolled on, into the salad dressing aisle.
I've never done too well with a lot of choices. I don't really belong in a democratic society. After only seconds perusing the Italians, Zesty Italians, Roasted Red Pepper Italians, and Creamy Italians, I was ready for a white russian.
Knocking one into my cart, I pressed on, until I saw this:
.jpg)
Baconnaise, the ultimate bacon flavored spread. I think it sounds quite disgusting, but when I got home, Chris was here. I mentioned the bacon infused atrocity, and he smiled, saying, "I don't know, it sounds kind of good."
He might be a serial killer yet.
I traipsed through the noodle aisle, wondering if thin spaghetti was the same as angel hair, and
what the difference between vermicelli and capellini was. Not having the interest or patience to do an all out investigation, I grabbed the angel hair and a jar of sauce on my way to bigger and better things.
I chuckled at the discounted Tiger Gatorade, gliding to a stop somewhere near the juice fridge. Orange juice, my mom wrote. Not calcium enriched, not pulp free, not extra pulp. She didn't clarify the brand, or if she wanted it in concentrated form. Knowing her daughter, and the road that lay ahead, she shouldn't have been so vague. I only use orange juice for two things, mimosas and screwdrivers, so I'm rather inept when it comes to choosing someones healthy breakfast beverage.
It was practically cruel to leave out such crucial clues, I thought.
I settled on the original variety of Simply Orange because I like their Simply Apple juice, and I feel that everyone should like what I like. She ended up mixing it with her vodka once I got home. What can I say. Apples and trees, my friends, apples and trees...
I nearly ran into the same 3 people on 7 separate occasions, which made me think that I wasn't the only hopeless one, wandering around the store looking for milk.
MILK! Damn it. I'd forgotten it in the rabbit-melee.
I spent the rest of my trip bumbling from corner to corner of Yokes, searching high and low for things like bread, and meatballs, the latter nestled next to the whole rabbits, wouldn't you know.
Naturally, I succumbed to a few impulse buys, like red x-factor Gatorade and vanilla pudding. I don't really know how the total crept up as far as it did, but, what can you do.
As I stood in the check-out lane I looked around at all the other people, perfectly capable, responsible adults, all of whom came to the store, and left, most likely without incidence.
It'd taken me an hour and a half, but they didn't know that. To them, I perhaps looked like an actual adult, myself. This pleased me, and I did not flinch when the cashier asked me for $90. I wheeled my newly obtained possessions to my car, briefly worried by the woman behind me who was wailing in a high pitched manner.
I turned to look at her, and she stopped. I'd also come across a 60 year old man with mullet and shirt that read, "PARTY OVER HERE". Grocery shopping was a weird, weird occasion.
Digging for my keys, I felt satisfied with my effort. Maybe I wasn't completely 'able', but I was well on my way. I jiggled my purse around, sure that I heard my keys bumping around the bottom. I thought, maybe, with a little practice, I'd become a pro at shopping. Maybe I'd even learn to keep up with my laundry, and vacuum properly. And cooking a meal? I'd figure that out in no time.
Searching my pockets for the second time, I peered through my passenger side window. Where the hell were my keys? I shook my purse again, the panic setting in.
Keys, purses, wallets, phones, shoes, earrings... anything you can imagine, I've probably lost. And I lose them frequently. Once a day. You'd think that I would rectify this, by, I don't know, paying better attention to where I leave things? But nope. I don't. I'm that stupid.
I dialed my mom, still fumbling through my bag. I pushed aside paycheck stubs, and pens, and a McDonalds toy. Lip glosses and quarters littered the bottom, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where else the keys would be? Shaking the bag frantically, I heard the tell tale sound of hope. Hidden in the lining where I keep my pints (not...), were my keys.
My mom answered, to which I said, "Nope, just kidding!"
"Where are you?" She asked.
"The store."
"Still?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in a second," I said, finally gaining entry into my automobile.
So yeah, I was feeling that this adult-responsibility thing wasn't far off, and then......
Oh who am I kidding. The day when I go to the store and don't gravitate towards the Trix and Reese's Puffs is the day that I finally can say, "Yes, I am an adult."
Until then, I'll be getting the Happy Meal, and most likely, looking for my phone for the 8th time that day.
Sadly, this is another sparkling example that backs up that very assumption.
This afternoon, I got off work around 4, and, being the completely lovely person that I am, I offered to go to the store for my mother. She had five things on her list; coffee, milk, paper towels, and orange juice. Okay, four things.
She sent me with $50. I should mention that in my house, we generally purchase paper towels weaved with spun gold thread...
Anyway, almost two hours later, I returned, $90 poorer, yet enlightened.
I am not cut out of the housewife cloth. I will be a terrible wife. And mother. Just now I was trying to think of an area in which I excel, but, I can't even think of one.
Cooking? Pshaw. I can bake one kind of cookie, and I lifted the recipe straight off the back of the Reese's Peanut Butter chip bag. I fail miserably at almost everything else. Even my cereal is so-so at best.
General house cleanliness? Oh, God, the horror. I never put things back, or away in the first place. When I buy new things, I take what is needed immediately out of the bag, and then toss the rest on the ground. Months later, I'll stumble upon the sack, a pack of gum, a few point-of-sale DVD's and a wrinkled $5 bill sprinkled with change still inside.
The other day when I slipped and fell (I'm also not so good with balance), my crash landing was cushioned by various outfits that I'd tried on, decided not to wear, and subsequently left on the floor.
When I'm sick, I literally lie in bed until someone comes to save me. My mother, the only one who seems to care enough to search me out during my absence, then forces me to 'drink water' and 'take medicine', two medieval tricks that must have been passed down through the generations.
If it's cold in the house, I'll sit, freezing. Sometimes I'll get a blanket. When someone questions my choices, wondering why I didn't just 'turn up the thermostat', I stare at them blankely. Thermostat? That box-like contraption strapped to the wall? Witchcraft. I'll wait for the sun to warm me.
My plight is a combination of apathy, incompetence, and I think, most of all, laziness.
I'm in a pseudo-teenage purgatory, in which I look like an adult, and have shining moments of clarity and capability, but largely, I'm worthless.
Upon entering Yoke's Fresh Market, I was pleased, as I noticed the cart had cup holders, and I was currently utilizing only one arm because of my chai tea. I nestled the drink into the designated area, and begun my 90 minute shopping-trip-from-hell.
"We were doomed from the start, as starters are, why am I doing this?" Oh Brand New, you are so wise. Why had I agreed to go to the store? I always get lost in the stupid aisles, and I manage to consistently forget half the things on the list. I italicize list because if there is written record of the necessity of 'milk', then, you'd think I'd be able to read the damn thing and deduce that I do, in fact, need to purchase milk.
But alas, I always forget the milk. Milk has it out for me, this much I know.
I grabbed two bags of salad, and while you'll probably notice that 'salad' was not requested by my mother, it was something that I felt our house was lacking at the present juncture.
Making my way into the wine area, I was mesmerized for at least 25 minutes. I had decided that we were to have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, so I figured a Malbec would go nicely. For those of you who don't know my drinking habits, I think Malbec goes nicely with everything. Spaghetti, pizza, chocolate, breathing... etc.
There were Cabernets and Merlots and way too many Syrahs, and right now, to be honest, I'm wondering if varietals are capitalized at all? For this, let's just say they are. So yeah, I found a few $40 Malbecs, one of which I very nearly purchased (it was the first one I ever tried, back when I started drinking wine legally, AKA, last year.), but decided against it, because, really? $40? This is Yoke's, not Chateau la Brignon (I'm pretty sure that I made that up).
After agonizing over my options, I walked away with two bottles, one of which, an 'old-vine' Malbec from Argentina. For those of you who don't get paid to pore over the origins of various wines, Argentinian Malbecs are insanely popular. FYI, the Malbec sucked. It smelled like alcohol, something that, ironically, isn't really a good thing in wine.
Happy with my long awaited decision, I toddled down the aisles, searching for the things my mother had requested.
As you may know, I am easily distracted, which is part of the reason why this should-have-been-a-jaunt to the store turned into an all out marathon.
Rounding around a freezer case, this caught my eye:
.jpg)
Mmm, mmm, mmm. Beef pasties and pork fritters. WTF? What, exactly, is a beef pasty? I'd Google, but I have to admit I'm rather afraid of what results I'd obtain. And a pork fritter? Is that anything like an apple fritter? I sincerely hope not.
Severely disturbed, I continued on to the milk, a safe white liquid that's squeezed from a cow. Ugh. As I was about to reach for the dairy case door, I balked.
.jpg)
If you can't make out the lettering, let me break it down for you. For only $3.99 a pound, you could go home with a whole rabbit.
"Mom, what's for dinner?"
"Rabbit stew, Jimmy."
"Rabbit stew? Again? It better be a WHOLE rabbit, none of that half-rabbit shit from last week. That was gross."
This is how I imagine a rabbit eating conversation. I also figure they'd have no front teeth, thick southern accents and missing adjectives and pronouns through out their dialogue, as I'd always assumed people in the Ozarks were the only ones who ate rabbits.
I hate rabbits. They're weird, and I'm just not sure why they're allowed. Easter is a terrible time for me. Big rabbits that lurk around, hiding brightly colored eggs? If they hid brightly colored wallets, with green money inside, I might be more copacetic to their existence. But they do not. Their eggs contain jellybeans, at best.
When I was about 7, my cousin lived in West Richland. Back then, there weren't too many houses in their area, and their development was brand new, situated amongst the sage brush.
He was 8, and quite the outdoorsman. I generally stayed inside, with his mom, and made crafts. Already, I was living a very thrilling life. I'd venture outside with Chris every once in a while, but he liked hiking and running and searching for things, whereas I'd rather play in the yard. Where there was less dirt and more grass. And it was also in close proximity to the house, where I'd rather be.
One day, my aunt came home to find Chris and his friend holed up in the garage.
"Mom, we're starting a business. You gotta see this," Chris said, ushering her into his workspace. I wasn't there, but knowing her, and knowing what she was about to see, I imagine she let out a blood curdling scream.
There, nailed up on a large piece of plywood, were two, rather poorly skinned, jack rabbits. Bits of fur and flesh clung to their carcasses, their chests protruding out in their final pose.
Not understanding her complete shock and terror, Chris tried his best to soothe her crumbling exterior. "Mom! You paid $12 for my rabbit pelt. Think of how many we can make! And rabbits feet? We'll just cut them right off!"
"My son's a serial killer!" She told my mom, probably having seen too many Jeffrey Dahmer documentaries. "This is how it starts!"
FYI, Chris isn't a serial killer, but rather an upstanding citizen and sailor in the Navy. He has yet to kill anyone or anything, other than those rabbits. And, his business ventures since have been way less hare-brained. HA, I love a good pun.
Anyway, these were the thoughts bouncing around my head as I saw the rabbit sign. Easter, serial killers, jellybeans... all terrible things. I hopped (ugh) on the back of the cart and rolled on, into the salad dressing aisle.
I've never done too well with a lot of choices. I don't really belong in a democratic society. After only seconds perusing the Italians, Zesty Italians, Roasted Red Pepper Italians, and Creamy Italians, I was ready for a white russian.
Knocking one into my cart, I pressed on, until I saw this:
.jpg)
Baconnaise, the ultimate bacon flavored spread. I think it sounds quite disgusting, but when I got home, Chris was here. I mentioned the bacon infused atrocity, and he smiled, saying, "I don't know, it sounds kind of good."
He might be a serial killer yet.
I traipsed through the noodle aisle, wondering if thin spaghetti was the same as angel hair, and
what the difference between vermicelli and capellini was. Not having the interest or patience to do an all out investigation, I grabbed the angel hair and a jar of sauce on my way to bigger and better things.
I chuckled at the discounted Tiger Gatorade, gliding to a stop somewhere near the juice fridge. Orange juice, my mom wrote. Not calcium enriched, not pulp free, not extra pulp. She didn't clarify the brand, or if she wanted it in concentrated form. Knowing her daughter, and the road that lay ahead, she shouldn't have been so vague. I only use orange juice for two things, mimosas and screwdrivers, so I'm rather inept when it comes to choosing someones healthy breakfast beverage.
It was practically cruel to leave out such crucial clues, I thought.
I settled on the original variety of Simply Orange because I like their Simply Apple juice, and I feel that everyone should like what I like. She ended up mixing it with her vodka once I got home. What can I say. Apples and trees, my friends, apples and trees...
I nearly ran into the same 3 people on 7 separate occasions, which made me think that I wasn't the only hopeless one, wandering around the store looking for milk.
MILK! Damn it. I'd forgotten it in the rabbit-melee.
I spent the rest of my trip bumbling from corner to corner of Yokes, searching high and low for things like bread, and meatballs, the latter nestled next to the whole rabbits, wouldn't you know.
Naturally, I succumbed to a few impulse buys, like red x-factor Gatorade and vanilla pudding. I don't really know how the total crept up as far as it did, but, what can you do.
As I stood in the check-out lane I looked around at all the other people, perfectly capable, responsible adults, all of whom came to the store, and left, most likely without incidence.
It'd taken me an hour and a half, but they didn't know that. To them, I perhaps looked like an actual adult, myself. This pleased me, and I did not flinch when the cashier asked me for $90. I wheeled my newly obtained possessions to my car, briefly worried by the woman behind me who was wailing in a high pitched manner.
I turned to look at her, and she stopped. I'd also come across a 60 year old man with mullet and shirt that read, "PARTY OVER HERE". Grocery shopping was a weird, weird occasion.
Digging for my keys, I felt satisfied with my effort. Maybe I wasn't completely 'able', but I was well on my way. I jiggled my purse around, sure that I heard my keys bumping around the bottom. I thought, maybe, with a little practice, I'd become a pro at shopping. Maybe I'd even learn to keep up with my laundry, and vacuum properly. And cooking a meal? I'd figure that out in no time.
Searching my pockets for the second time, I peered through my passenger side window. Where the hell were my keys? I shook my purse again, the panic setting in.
Keys, purses, wallets, phones, shoes, earrings... anything you can imagine, I've probably lost. And I lose them frequently. Once a day. You'd think that I would rectify this, by, I don't know, paying better attention to where I leave things? But nope. I don't. I'm that stupid.
I dialed my mom, still fumbling through my bag. I pushed aside paycheck stubs, and pens, and a McDonalds toy. Lip glosses and quarters littered the bottom, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where else the keys would be? Shaking the bag frantically, I heard the tell tale sound of hope. Hidden in the lining where I keep my pints (not...), were my keys.
My mom answered, to which I said, "Nope, just kidding!"
"Where are you?" She asked.
"The store."
"Still?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in a second," I said, finally gaining entry into my automobile.
So yeah, I was feeling that this adult-responsibility thing wasn't far off, and then......
Oh who am I kidding. The day when I go to the store and don't gravitate towards the Trix and Reese's Puffs is the day that I finally can say, "Yes, I am an adult."
Until then, I'll be getting the Happy Meal, and most likely, looking for my phone for the 8th time that day.
Monday, January 25, 2010
stupid is as stupid does.
Well, I officially hate my life. I've been hemming and hawing over it for a while, mulling around the notion that my existence isn't quite up to par... but now, I'm certain.
I've just spent the last 20 minutes, cleaning my bed. Sheets? Soaked. Pillows? Sopping. Mattress?... fuck, don't even get me started.
You're probably wondering if I wet the bed? I wish. I wish an inconsistent bladder was the worst of my issues.
No, I did not wet the bed. I haven't done that in at least two years. I, being the RIDICULOUSLY intelligent person that I am, spilled chocolate milk in my bed.
Yep. I set a glass down, on the mattress, and for some reason, it tipped over (shocking, right?). I could kick myself for not investing in one of those Tempur-Pedic numbers, you know, the ones where the girl is jumping up and down, and her glass of merlot doesn't-even-move!! ? Yeah, well, my 'merlot' moved all right. Moved all out of the cup. Moved all through my sheets. Moved, probably, I'm just guessing here..., all the way to the fucking box-spring.
If I could go back in time, I'd make sure to invest in a Tempur-Pedic. Oh, hell, if I went back in time, I wouldn't set down the fucking cup of chocolate milk on anything other than a sturdy, non-porous surface.
Well, actually, if I were to go back in time, I'd travel to my infancy, and somehow convince my parents to invest in several companies, like Starbucks, and Apple. Then, at least, I'd be a rich idiot- which is the best kind...
But, alas, I cannot go back in time. I'm stuck. I'm stuck as a completely worthless, milk-spilling asshole. Ughhhhhhh.
Before you go and think that I'm being too doom and gloom about my lackluster life, realize this:
This is not the first unfortunately stupid mistake I've made in the past month, let alone my entire awkward existence. To be honest, it's not even my first mishap with milk, or beds.
Last year, while standing in the kitchen, I glanced at my wrist to see what time it was. Looking back, I can count two problems with this: one, I had a mug of milk in my hand, and twisting to see the time caused me to dump the contents down my front. Two, I haven't worn a Goddamn watch since year 2000, ergo it was moot.
Last month, I had a bad dream and sprained my wrist whilst (or after?) falling out of my bed. Who does that? I told people I slipped on the ice. I did not. I, like 4 year olds all across the nation, rolled out of my bed, injuring myself in the process. Thank God it wasn't a bunk bed.
I'm just, unfortunate. That's the only word that fully encompasses my inadequacies and faults, all the while seeming a bit endearing (or pitiable, whatever).
There are innumerable occasions in which I was that girl. You know. That one, the weird one. The one you laugh at, because, if you cried for her, she'd probably feel a whole hell of a lot worse.
In the 6th grade, I was walking home with my friend J. I tripped, (probably over nothing) and then sat on the ground crying and carrying on like a crazy person for probably at least 8 minutes. Granted, I was like, 11, or something... but screaming out, "I HATE THESE SHOES!" (Doc Marten sandals, if you must know) repeatedly isn't justifiable.
It was also in 6th grade when I was walking into the DHMS girl's locker room, followed by a boy. "Boys aren't allowed in here," I said. She was not amused, to say the least.
In eighth grade, I was dragged to a Mormon mutual (probably by A Big Ash)... a Wednesday night gathering in which we probably made cookies or something down at the LDS chapel. We listened quietly as a boy recited a lovely poem, which he himself penned. I was very impressed by him, as I didn't have the guts to stand in front of hundreds and do anything, let alone speak. As he finished, I clapped. I think I may have even stood.
Mormons, evidently, do not clap for poems. They just stare blankly, like they did at me, until I sat my non-denominational ass back down. Silence. A Big Ash's family still tells the story.
In kindergarten, I was climbing in one of those spider web dome things, you know what I'm talking about? Anyway, I was hanging from the top, when I guess I figured, "What the hell!?", and let go. It did not feel good.
The second grade brought on greater responsibilities, and what I can only deduce as increased stupidity. As I recall, on this particular occasion, I was writing a report on the octopus. Being the savvy seven-year-old that I was, I was less than stellar at distinguishing similar words when accosted by them all at once... ie: when using a spell check.
So when I spell-checked my document, instead of sifting through the 8 very-similar examples, I just hit, 'Correct', over and over again.
Cut to my teacher, pulling me aside. Her name was Mrs. Oberding. Mrs. Oberding said to me, "Elizabeth, I think you made a mistake. You see, here, you put that an octopus has eight testicles."
She waited for my 'Oh, shit, my bad,' response... which never came. Not knowing what the hell she was talking about, I probably just blinked. She looked at me, probably with hidden amusement, and continued.
"Do you know what testicles are?" She asked.
"No," I said, having no reason to know such a thing, as I did not have testicles of my own...
"They're little boys' balls!" She said. I remember her laughing, and so I laughed too. Why would an octopus have balls?! They didn't play sports!! How silly.
She saw my mom a few years ago, more than a decade after the incident. Upon recognizing each other, Mrs. Oberding, laughing again, said, "Octopus balls!!" My legend, it seems, will never fade.
Ughhhh. While I've come to terms with most of my painfully awkward tendencies, this milk thing really pisses me off. Why? Why did I set it on my bed? Why did I even have a glass of chocolate milk? What am I, 8?
And, how does one go about cleaning that properly?
It's times like these in which I am immensely grateful that I have no children, or dependents, or... fish. Or anything that I could accidentally kill by being my careless, impaired-to-the-point-of-practical-retardation, self.
I trip, I fall, I say the wrong things. I slip in the doorway to Mike's, pop the lenses out of my aviators during my escape, and then wear the frames as I run home down B-street.
I'm that girl who gets dragged to the bar in SLIPPERS, because her friends are evil and told her that they were perfectly content with watching a movie that night, thereby tricking her into attendance.
I'm the girl, who with her brand new purse and wallet, and camera and iPhone and various other accouterments, buys a double vodka and soda. And when someone asks to see my new wallet, I'm not the type of girl to set her drink down, oh no. I'm the type of girl who bites the side of the cup, holding it with her clenched jaw, to better dig through her purse. And when they ask me where I got my wallet, I answer them. And drop the fucking drink INTO my purse, camera, phone, accouterments and all...
I'm that one who asks you how your grandma is, only to find out she died three weeks ago.
Oooooo, I hate myself.
No wonder I drink so much.
I've just spent the last 20 minutes, cleaning my bed. Sheets? Soaked. Pillows? Sopping. Mattress?... fuck, don't even get me started.
You're probably wondering if I wet the bed? I wish. I wish an inconsistent bladder was the worst of my issues.
No, I did not wet the bed. I haven't done that in at least two years. I, being the RIDICULOUSLY intelligent person that I am, spilled chocolate milk in my bed.
Yep. I set a glass down, on the mattress, and for some reason, it tipped over (shocking, right?). I could kick myself for not investing in one of those Tempur-Pedic numbers, you know, the ones where the girl is jumping up and down, and her glass of merlot doesn't-even-move!! ? Yeah, well, my 'merlot' moved all right. Moved all out of the cup. Moved all through my sheets. Moved, probably, I'm just guessing here..., all the way to the fucking box-spring.
If I could go back in time, I'd make sure to invest in a Tempur-Pedic. Oh, hell, if I went back in time, I wouldn't set down the fucking cup of chocolate milk on anything other than a sturdy, non-porous surface.
Well, actually, if I were to go back in time, I'd travel to my infancy, and somehow convince my parents to invest in several companies, like Starbucks, and Apple. Then, at least, I'd be a rich idiot- which is the best kind...
But, alas, I cannot go back in time. I'm stuck. I'm stuck as a completely worthless, milk-spilling asshole. Ughhhhhhh.
Before you go and think that I'm being too doom and gloom about my lackluster life, realize this:
This is not the first unfortunately stupid mistake I've made in the past month, let alone my entire awkward existence. To be honest, it's not even my first mishap with milk, or beds.
Last year, while standing in the kitchen, I glanced at my wrist to see what time it was. Looking back, I can count two problems with this: one, I had a mug of milk in my hand, and twisting to see the time caused me to dump the contents down my front. Two, I haven't worn a Goddamn watch since year 2000, ergo it was moot.
Last month, I had a bad dream and sprained my wrist whilst (or after?) falling out of my bed. Who does that? I told people I slipped on the ice. I did not. I, like 4 year olds all across the nation, rolled out of my bed, injuring myself in the process. Thank God it wasn't a bunk bed.
I'm just, unfortunate. That's the only word that fully encompasses my inadequacies and faults, all the while seeming a bit endearing (or pitiable, whatever).
There are innumerable occasions in which I was that girl. You know. That one, the weird one. The one you laugh at, because, if you cried for her, she'd probably feel a whole hell of a lot worse.
In the 6th grade, I was walking home with my friend J. I tripped, (probably over nothing) and then sat on the ground crying and carrying on like a crazy person for probably at least 8 minutes. Granted, I was like, 11, or something... but screaming out, "I HATE THESE SHOES!" (Doc Marten sandals, if you must know) repeatedly isn't justifiable.
It was also in 6th grade when I was walking into the DHMS girl's locker room, followed by a boy. "Boys aren't allowed in here," I said. She was not amused, to say the least.
In eighth grade, I was dragged to a Mormon mutual (probably by A Big Ash)... a Wednesday night gathering in which we probably made cookies or something down at the LDS chapel. We listened quietly as a boy recited a lovely poem, which he himself penned. I was very impressed by him, as I didn't have the guts to stand in front of hundreds and do anything, let alone speak. As he finished, I clapped. I think I may have even stood.
Mormons, evidently, do not clap for poems. They just stare blankly, like they did at me, until I sat my non-denominational ass back down. Silence. A Big Ash's family still tells the story.
In kindergarten, I was climbing in one of those spider web dome things, you know what I'm talking about? Anyway, I was hanging from the top, when I guess I figured, "What the hell!?", and let go. It did not feel good.
The second grade brought on greater responsibilities, and what I can only deduce as increased stupidity. As I recall, on this particular occasion, I was writing a report on the octopus. Being the savvy seven-year-old that I was, I was less than stellar at distinguishing similar words when accosted by them all at once... ie: when using a spell check.
So when I spell-checked my document, instead of sifting through the 8 very-similar examples, I just hit, 'Correct', over and over again.
Cut to my teacher, pulling me aside. Her name was Mrs. Oberding. Mrs. Oberding said to me, "Elizabeth, I think you made a mistake. You see, here, you put that an octopus has eight testicles."
She waited for my 'Oh, shit, my bad,' response... which never came. Not knowing what the hell she was talking about, I probably just blinked. She looked at me, probably with hidden amusement, and continued.
"Do you know what testicles are?" She asked.
"No," I said, having no reason to know such a thing, as I did not have testicles of my own...
"They're little boys' balls!" She said. I remember her laughing, and so I laughed too. Why would an octopus have balls?! They didn't play sports!! How silly.
She saw my mom a few years ago, more than a decade after the incident. Upon recognizing each other, Mrs. Oberding, laughing again, said, "Octopus balls!!" My legend, it seems, will never fade.
Ughhhh. While I've come to terms with most of my painfully awkward tendencies, this milk thing really pisses me off. Why? Why did I set it on my bed? Why did I even have a glass of chocolate milk? What am I, 8?
And, how does one go about cleaning that properly?
It's times like these in which I am immensely grateful that I have no children, or dependents, or... fish. Or anything that I could accidentally kill by being my careless, impaired-to-the-point-of-practical-retardation, self.
I trip, I fall, I say the wrong things. I slip in the doorway to Mike's, pop the lenses out of my aviators during my escape, and then wear the frames as I run home down B-street.
I'm that girl who gets dragged to the bar in SLIPPERS, because her friends are evil and told her that they were perfectly content with watching a movie that night, thereby tricking her into attendance.
I'm the girl, who with her brand new purse and wallet, and camera and iPhone and various other accouterments, buys a double vodka and soda. And when someone asks to see my new wallet, I'm not the type of girl to set her drink down, oh no. I'm the type of girl who bites the side of the cup, holding it with her clenched jaw, to better dig through her purse. And when they ask me where I got my wallet, I answer them. And drop the fucking drink INTO my purse, camera, phone, accouterments and all...
I'm that one who asks you how your grandma is, only to find out she died three weeks ago.
Oooooo, I hate myself.
No wonder I drink so much.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?
I got an email from Facebook tonight, saying that my friend S. Minnich, tagged me in a photo.
Oh, by the way. I have Facebook again. What can I say... I'm no quitter. But I digress.
So I got this email, saying that I was in a photo...
That's weird, I thought. I don't remember her taking a picture of me in recent times...? What could this picture be? Maybe it's old. Maybe it's from a high school album. Or, maybe it's something that reminded her of me, and she tagged me so that I'd look at it. As you can see, I was thinking tons of completely logical things.
Then I saw the photo in question. It was last week, at the bar. I'm jumping up in the background, acting a fool, grinning like the idiot I probably was at that (inebriated) juncture.
And I don't remember it at all.
This hasn't happened to me in a while, as I am now lame (as this blog has established time and time again), and no longer rely on the use of alcohol in order to be an agreeable, affable, amusing person. I now use it solely to drown myself into a slurred stupor, so that I can't fully recognize how boring my life has become. Just kidding... But seriously.
This got me thinking about the good ol' days, the days before we had jobs, the days when all we did was drink, and then go to class hoping the gin wasn't seeping through our pores, (Scott). So for my friends benefit, and because I haven't done anything to warrant a blog entry in recent times, I'm going to relive some of our best (albeit worst) nights.
Enjoy at your own peril.
"Oh no, not the senis again!" - Visiting Brother Bear's at Gonzaga was always an interesting experience. From my first visit freshman year, in which we were detained by the police, one member of our party giving him his library card, then debit card in lieu of an underage ID... to the last visit senior year... when we were forced to play an evil game called Web (it'll getcha).
But this story, stems from a certain finding in their attic. Or somewhere, I don't recall it exactly. For some reason, that is still unbeknownst to me, we found, and threatened each other, with a plastic penis. It was quite small, and I don't remember whether or not it had a battery compartment, but still. You didn't want to be slapped in the face with it.
After a rousing game of 'don't get touched with the penis', someone put the little bundle of fun away, much to everyone's disappointment, I'm sure. But, just as they always do, the penis popped up again, and I was heard saying, "Oh, no! Not the penis again?!?"
My ex-roommate, Kevy, always with a keen ear for funny Facebook album titles, texted me my exclamation, to better remember it, of course. On the ride home the next day, while going through my inbox, I looked at her, confused.
"Why did you text me, oh no not the senis again?"
"What?"
"This, you texted me, 'oh no not the senis again.'" I repeated. "What is a senis?"
Evidently drunks aren't the best typists. Which segways nicely into this...
"Progress report." Oh, boy.
On the lovely Red's 22nd birthday, naturally we had a nice, quiet little gathering, and then took a refreshing walk. To the bars.
And then, we lost Red. When her boyfriend (now fiance) texted me, asking me where she was, I replied, "Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?"
Uh, okay.
I still don't know what it means. But, I think I must have been either in, or outside, or thinking about... Pita Pit. Speaking of the Pit...
"We need some cheese!" - Pita Pit, the kitchen of debauchery, sees a lot of really ridiculous happenings. Like the time in which a certain friend of mine ventured out of his comfort zone and ordered the special. When he bit into his "quesa-pita", he was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that he started yelling. Yelling so much in fact, that they called the police, and escorted him out. That's just what goes down when you're open until 3 am and situated next to the biggest bar on campus.
One time, on a Wednesday afternoon... oh, um, by the way, I wasn't drunk, at this time. I know, it shouldn't be on the list, then, but wait. Someone was most definitely drunk, ergo it totally counts.
So anyways, I'm standing there, with my roommates, waiting for our pitas, when in runs fratty frat boy and his super cool sister in tow... (please ignore the disdainful wording, I honestly have nothing against Greeks. Or Romans...)
They looked around frantically, before appealing to the cashier with a shriek. "We need some cheese!"
The cashier glared at them, unamused. He'd probably seen it all. But I'm betting he didn't see this coming...
Fratty Fred yelled about cheese again, and then, pulled a mouse out of his pocket. Seriously. He literally had a mouse in his pocket, a live one, and he pulled it out. He held it up, slurring in his letter-wearing euphoria, "We rescued him, from a snake's cage. WE NEED SOME CHEESE! I'll pay! I'll pay for it!"
I looked to my roommates, wondering aloud if mice even ate cheese before commenting on how totally against health codes the entire situation was.
"Dude," the cashier said, handing him a little styrofoam bowl of shredded cheese. "Just go. You can't have that thing in here. We're serving food."
Food, indeed. The best money could buy. Except, not everyone thinks that payment is necessary.
On another occasion, I remember standing outside Pita Pit, chatting with friends, probably trying to find lost ones, or something. The bars were closed, and we were making our way home, when from Pita Pit, out shuffles Kevy, her eyes angry and arms crossed.
Our conversation went a little something like this:
"They just kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I don't know. We were talking about taking some cookies, and the guy was like, 'You need to leave.' And he made us get out."
"Taking cookies?"
"Yeah."
"As in stealing them?"
"Well, they're just sitting there."
"To entice people into purchasing..."
"Yeah."
"Did he maybe hear your plan to steal the cookies?"
"I don't know. He could have."
"You're too cool for me, Carl!"
For those of you who aren't familiar with the above mentioned quote, let me break it down for you.
On the 21st birthday of a boy we'll refer to as J, his friends threw him a (quite large) birthday party in Pullman. I was in attendance, as was just about anyone I've ever been good friends with. We laughed, and drank, and watched as J progressively got drunker than all of us. But it was his birthday! Obviously, he needed to be the most inebriated person in a 100 mile radius... And seeing as though most of us were underage, we said our farewells at 12, and made our way back to his apartment. At around 1:30, he came bursting in, tilting forward at a 45 degree angle as he stumbled down the hall.
He wanted a hot pocket. So we made him one. He lay on the couch, as we peppered him with questions about the bars and the drinks, but all he wanted was a hot pocket. More people drained in, and were excited to see that he was still awake, although he didn't seem very... coherent. But still, it was his birthday! Hoorah!!!
Cut to Carl, walking in, wanting to wish J a Happy Birthday. He said, "Happy Birthday, J! How about we take a shot?!"
It was then, that J started to cry. Between his sobs, he choked out, "You're too cool for me, Carl."
This was the first in a long line of instances in which blacked out J cried and made up crazy stories. Like the time we were walking home from Mike's, and he tried to convince everyone that I pushed him down. I did not. He then texted our friends, "Booze bit me, and I'm bleeding." Yeah, right. "She pinched me!!!" Again... total and complete blasphemy.
Or the time we were in Vegas, and he told everyone, "Nana slammed my arm in the door!"
I wish I would have.
"Stubby's... and Wiley's... and CAC love...
Wiley night. Ohhhhhh Wileys. It's still a wonder as to why they shut that place down... not. My heart goes out to all those who were too young to experience the greatness that was Pete's, and the shit show that was Wiley Night. Tuesdays will never be the same.
My first Wileys experience is, hazy, to say the least. I mostly remember waking up the next day with a trashcan under my covers, then later coming to find that my house key was bent in half. I still don't know how I made it through the front door. Shoddy craftsmanship, I suppose.
I believe that was also the night in which I had to close one eye, because if I had two open, I was "seeing too many things."... I may or may not have accidentally burst in the boys bathroom, as well.
Wiley night was consistently known for making asses out of relatively normal people. A certain roommate of mine, who shall remain nameless, was found sprawled on the ground outside of our apartment, laughing, as gaining entry was too difficult in her Wiley-ed state.
It was on a Wiley night in which my friend, fondly referred to as A Big Ash, brought home a bum. Not really a bum, more like a guy we used to all think was hot, but then turned granola-hippy chic. He invaded our apartment (A Big Ash didn't even live there, but invited back randos none-the-less), called us all 'beautiful people' at least 18 times, and then asked if we wanted to go 'dance barefoot in the rain'.
After a particularly great Poprocks Wiley (I never did venture outside the Flat on Your Wiley variety... a pity), my friend J was found Wednesday morning in G303, sprawled face up on the couch, with 905 blasting. On the kitchen floor was a jug of orange juice, an open gallon of milk, his socks, and a blackened pizza in the oven. Which had, evidently, been cooking all night.
And unfortunately, that wasn't the first time.
"Look what I did..."
Early our senior year, a select few of us woke up to the smell of burnt pizza. We didn't know where it was coming from, or why is smelled so strongly at 10 in the morning. We only wondered for a moment though, before O, aka "My Man", came ambling upstairs.
The night before, we'd returned home from the bars, and were watching a movie, or a show or staring numbly as the boys played Halo, and My Man had burst in the room.
"You guys want pizza? I'm making some pizza. You guys want? I'm making some... Stay awake for the pizza!"
Evidently, My Man should have heeded his own advice, as he did not stay awake for the pizza. He slept through the timer, the smoke and the stench.
It took weeks to air out the place.
"ROAAARRRRRRR!"
So, there's this guy I know. We'll call him "Chester the Molester", or, I guess, Chest for short. Anyways, this Chest, character, he's a bit younger than us. He didn't get to visit the bars until Halloween-time, senior year.
After a particularly great Saturday, I made my way to the PC, walked up to the third floor, and meandered out to the balcony, where Chest was yelling. He was yelling at passersby, and neighbors, probably telling them they were all 'mussies', and assuring them that the PC could out drink them, anywhere, anytime.
Then, he roared (literally), and ripped off his shirt. He threw it down to the grass below, probably yelled "Mussy!" and "Bitches!!!" a few more times, and then promptly passed out.
He's probably one of my favorite people, ever.
"Grr grr beats woof woof."
Oh, the west side. We only made a few treks, but they were all so interesting.
There was the singing of the WSU fight song whilst stomping down UW's greek row.
There was the frolicking in Earl's, where J found a 'straw' on the floor, that looked suspiciously similar to a joint... and then put it in his mouth.
There was Finn's. Where we sang karaoke. And by we, I mean J. And we heard crickets.
There was the time Maci stole a snowboard from a frat house, called the owner Tony Hawk, and then told him that "grr grr beats woof woof." Which, I think, means cougars beat huskies...
I miss those days. I regret to say that I couldn't think of a story involving several friends, including Peege. Well, except for the time he went around biting everyone... but that was 5-30-03, and therefore, ineligible as a college shenanigan.
But, I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane. And if you don't know any of these people... sorry. You're missing out. Also, reading this blog was probably a huge waste of time, as, generally, they're 'had-to-be-there' moments, a.k.a. not funny to anyone who didn't witness them first hand.
Liz, out.
Oh, by the way. I have Facebook again. What can I say... I'm no quitter. But I digress.
So I got this email, saying that I was in a photo...
That's weird, I thought. I don't remember her taking a picture of me in recent times...? What could this picture be? Maybe it's old. Maybe it's from a high school album. Or, maybe it's something that reminded her of me, and she tagged me so that I'd look at it. As you can see, I was thinking tons of completely logical things.
Then I saw the photo in question. It was last week, at the bar. I'm jumping up in the background, acting a fool, grinning like the idiot I probably was at that (inebriated) juncture.
And I don't remember it at all.
This hasn't happened to me in a while, as I am now lame (as this blog has established time and time again), and no longer rely on the use of alcohol in order to be an agreeable, affable, amusing person. I now use it solely to drown myself into a slurred stupor, so that I can't fully recognize how boring my life has become. Just kidding... But seriously.
This got me thinking about the good ol' days, the days before we had jobs, the days when all we did was drink, and then go to class hoping the gin wasn't seeping through our pores, (Scott). So for my friends benefit, and because I haven't done anything to warrant a blog entry in recent times, I'm going to relive some of our best (albeit worst) nights.
Enjoy at your own peril.
"Oh no, not the senis again!" - Visiting Brother Bear's at Gonzaga was always an interesting experience. From my first visit freshman year, in which we were detained by the police, one member of our party giving him his library card, then debit card in lieu of an underage ID... to the last visit senior year... when we were forced to play an evil game called Web (it'll getcha).
But this story, stems from a certain finding in their attic. Or somewhere, I don't recall it exactly. For some reason, that is still unbeknownst to me, we found, and threatened each other, with a plastic penis. It was quite small, and I don't remember whether or not it had a battery compartment, but still. You didn't want to be slapped in the face with it.
After a rousing game of 'don't get touched with the penis', someone put the little bundle of fun away, much to everyone's disappointment, I'm sure. But, just as they always do, the penis popped up again, and I was heard saying, "Oh, no! Not the penis again?!?"
My ex-roommate, Kevy, always with a keen ear for funny Facebook album titles, texted me my exclamation, to better remember it, of course. On the ride home the next day, while going through my inbox, I looked at her, confused.
"Why did you text me, oh no not the senis again?"
"What?"
"This, you texted me, 'oh no not the senis again.'" I repeated. "What is a senis?"
Evidently drunks aren't the best typists. Which segways nicely into this...
"Progress report." Oh, boy.
On the lovely Red's 22nd birthday, naturally we had a nice, quiet little gathering, and then took a refreshing walk. To the bars.
And then, we lost Red. When her boyfriend (now fiance) texted me, asking me where she was, I replied, "Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?"
Uh, okay.
I still don't know what it means. But, I think I must have been either in, or outside, or thinking about... Pita Pit. Speaking of the Pit...
"We need some cheese!" - Pita Pit, the kitchen of debauchery, sees a lot of really ridiculous happenings. Like the time in which a certain friend of mine ventured out of his comfort zone and ordered the special. When he bit into his "quesa-pita", he was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that he started yelling. Yelling so much in fact, that they called the police, and escorted him out. That's just what goes down when you're open until 3 am and situated next to the biggest bar on campus.
One time, on a Wednesday afternoon... oh, um, by the way, I wasn't drunk, at this time. I know, it shouldn't be on the list, then, but wait. Someone was most definitely drunk, ergo it totally counts.
So anyways, I'm standing there, with my roommates, waiting for our pitas, when in runs fratty frat boy and his super cool sister in tow... (please ignore the disdainful wording, I honestly have nothing against Greeks. Or Romans...)
They looked around frantically, before appealing to the cashier with a shriek. "We need some cheese!"
The cashier glared at them, unamused. He'd probably seen it all. But I'm betting he didn't see this coming...
Fratty Fred yelled about cheese again, and then, pulled a mouse out of his pocket. Seriously. He literally had a mouse in his pocket, a live one, and he pulled it out. He held it up, slurring in his letter-wearing euphoria, "We rescued him, from a snake's cage. WE NEED SOME CHEESE! I'll pay! I'll pay for it!"
I looked to my roommates, wondering aloud if mice even ate cheese before commenting on how totally against health codes the entire situation was.
"Dude," the cashier said, handing him a little styrofoam bowl of shredded cheese. "Just go. You can't have that thing in here. We're serving food."
Food, indeed. The best money could buy. Except, not everyone thinks that payment is necessary.
On another occasion, I remember standing outside Pita Pit, chatting with friends, probably trying to find lost ones, or something. The bars were closed, and we were making our way home, when from Pita Pit, out shuffles Kevy, her eyes angry and arms crossed.
Our conversation went a little something like this:
"They just kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I don't know. We were talking about taking some cookies, and the guy was like, 'You need to leave.' And he made us get out."
"Taking cookies?"
"Yeah."
"As in stealing them?"
"Well, they're just sitting there."
"To entice people into purchasing..."
"Yeah."
"Did he maybe hear your plan to steal the cookies?"
"I don't know. He could have."
"You're too cool for me, Carl!"
For those of you who aren't familiar with the above mentioned quote, let me break it down for you.
On the 21st birthday of a boy we'll refer to as J, his friends threw him a (quite large) birthday party in Pullman. I was in attendance, as was just about anyone I've ever been good friends with. We laughed, and drank, and watched as J progressively got drunker than all of us. But it was his birthday! Obviously, he needed to be the most inebriated person in a 100 mile radius... And seeing as though most of us were underage, we said our farewells at 12, and made our way back to his apartment. At around 1:30, he came bursting in, tilting forward at a 45 degree angle as he stumbled down the hall.
He wanted a hot pocket. So we made him one. He lay on the couch, as we peppered him with questions about the bars and the drinks, but all he wanted was a hot pocket. More people drained in, and were excited to see that he was still awake, although he didn't seem very... coherent. But still, it was his birthday! Hoorah!!!
Cut to Carl, walking in, wanting to wish J a Happy Birthday. He said, "Happy Birthday, J! How about we take a shot?!"
It was then, that J started to cry. Between his sobs, he choked out, "You're too cool for me, Carl."
This was the first in a long line of instances in which blacked out J cried and made up crazy stories. Like the time we were walking home from Mike's, and he tried to convince everyone that I pushed him down. I did not. He then texted our friends, "Booze bit me, and I'm bleeding." Yeah, right. "She pinched me!!!" Again... total and complete blasphemy.
Or the time we were in Vegas, and he told everyone, "Nana slammed my arm in the door!"
I wish I would have.
"Stubby's... and Wiley's... and CAC love...
Wiley night. Ohhhhhh Wileys. It's still a wonder as to why they shut that place down... not. My heart goes out to all those who were too young to experience the greatness that was Pete's, and the shit show that was Wiley Night. Tuesdays will never be the same.
My first Wileys experience is, hazy, to say the least. I mostly remember waking up the next day with a trashcan under my covers, then later coming to find that my house key was bent in half. I still don't know how I made it through the front door. Shoddy craftsmanship, I suppose.
I believe that was also the night in which I had to close one eye, because if I had two open, I was "seeing too many things."... I may or may not have accidentally burst in the boys bathroom, as well.
Wiley night was consistently known for making asses out of relatively normal people. A certain roommate of mine, who shall remain nameless, was found sprawled on the ground outside of our apartment, laughing, as gaining entry was too difficult in her Wiley-ed state.
It was on a Wiley night in which my friend, fondly referred to as A Big Ash, brought home a bum. Not really a bum, more like a guy we used to all think was hot, but then turned granola-hippy chic. He invaded our apartment (A Big Ash didn't even live there, but invited back randos none-the-less), called us all 'beautiful people' at least 18 times, and then asked if we wanted to go 'dance barefoot in the rain'.
After a particularly great Poprocks Wiley (I never did venture outside the Flat on Your Wiley variety... a pity), my friend J was found Wednesday morning in G303, sprawled face up on the couch, with 905 blasting. On the kitchen floor was a jug of orange juice, an open gallon of milk, his socks, and a blackened pizza in the oven. Which had, evidently, been cooking all night.
And unfortunately, that wasn't the first time.
"Look what I did..."
Early our senior year, a select few of us woke up to the smell of burnt pizza. We didn't know where it was coming from, or why is smelled so strongly at 10 in the morning. We only wondered for a moment though, before O, aka "My Man", came ambling upstairs.
The night before, we'd returned home from the bars, and were watching a movie, or a show or staring numbly as the boys played Halo, and My Man had burst in the room.
"You guys want pizza? I'm making some pizza. You guys want? I'm making some... Stay awake for the pizza!"
Evidently, My Man should have heeded his own advice, as he did not stay awake for the pizza. He slept through the timer, the smoke and the stench.
It took weeks to air out the place.
"ROAAARRRRRRR!"
So, there's this guy I know. We'll call him "Chester the Molester", or, I guess, Chest for short. Anyways, this Chest, character, he's a bit younger than us. He didn't get to visit the bars until Halloween-time, senior year.
After a particularly great Saturday, I made my way to the PC, walked up to the third floor, and meandered out to the balcony, where Chest was yelling. He was yelling at passersby, and neighbors, probably telling them they were all 'mussies', and assuring them that the PC could out drink them, anywhere, anytime.
Then, he roared (literally), and ripped off his shirt. He threw it down to the grass below, probably yelled "Mussy!" and "Bitches!!!" a few more times, and then promptly passed out.
He's probably one of my favorite people, ever.
"Grr grr beats woof woof."
Oh, the west side. We only made a few treks, but they were all so interesting.
There was the singing of the WSU fight song whilst stomping down UW's greek row.
There was the frolicking in Earl's, where J found a 'straw' on the floor, that looked suspiciously similar to a joint... and then put it in his mouth.
There was Finn's. Where we sang karaoke. And by we, I mean J. And we heard crickets.
There was the time Maci stole a snowboard from a frat house, called the owner Tony Hawk, and then told him that "grr grr beats woof woof." Which, I think, means cougars beat huskies...
I miss those days. I regret to say that I couldn't think of a story involving several friends, including Peege. Well, except for the time he went around biting everyone... but that was 5-30-03, and therefore, ineligible as a college shenanigan.
But, I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane. And if you don't know any of these people... sorry. You're missing out. Also, reading this blog was probably a huge waste of time, as, generally, they're 'had-to-be-there' moments, a.k.a. not funny to anyone who didn't witness them first hand.
Liz, out.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
anything anonymous
Hi, my name is Liz, and I'm an addict.
A Facebook addict, that is. And a gossip site addict. And an addict to just about anything that's counterproductive to life... aka 98% of the world wide web's offerings. I'm addicted to the internet.
12 hours ago, (yes, I've calculated it down to the hour...) I deleted my Facebook account. I can almost hear the gasps, the oh-the-horror's, and the WHAT?'s emitting across the Columbia Basin.
And all I can say is, I know.
I'm shaking like a crack fiend. Facebook has been an integral part of my 'social networking' for years. Hell, without Facebook, I'd probably have zero real-life friends, as I am less than reliable when it comes to answering my phone/returning calls... Facebook is the only reason I have sporadic activities and rendezvous' penciled in on my calendar, without it I'm just some loser that doesn't know what the hell's going on... especially with things concerning my friends.
I think I first noticed that I had a problem when I began thinking in Facebook status form. "Elizabeth Moss is practically DYING without fb :("
One of the most amusing parts of this whole Facebook thing, is that I've convinced myself that any of you care. You know, about my status updates. Or the fact that I posted pictures. Or what my favorite movies are, or my religious/political affiliation. Who am I, the Queen? Who gives a shit what I'm doing. No one, that's who.
But Facebook allows me to be the self-important jackass that I'm generally only comfortable being in front of my close friends... and since they account for only 5% of my friend list.... that would mean there are a lot of acquaintances that probably groan with every update, "Ugh, God, not her again."
What did we do before the days of social networking sites? Did we actually call people to chat? Just the thought of it makes me cringe. How did we get invited to parties? Paper invitations? How 1999. And don't even get me started on dating... how did we know whether or not someone's courtship was legitimate before they vowed their 'In A Relationship With...' status via minifeed announcement? Random sightings at the mall? Palpable affection? Ridiculous.
And, most importantly, how did one stalk their crushes, rivals and/or drunken acquaintances? Tailing them? Peering through a set of binoculars into their living room windows? How barbaric... and mildly thrilling.
Until Facebook came along, what did we do with all the time that we waste, er, I mean spend, on the computer? Frolic in the outdoors with three dimensional people? What an amusing thought.
Now, I realize that most of you don't have the same vices as I. You don't find yourself mindlessly navigating to Facebook during all hours of the night. You don't find yourself halfway through that one guy who sat behind you in English 351's wall-to-wall with his long lost best friend from preschool before realizing, "Shit, I'm supposed to be at work..."
But I do. I have a problem. And that is why I deactivated.
And none of you are going to see this. Because I have no way to tell you about it.
Hmm.
Didn't think this through, did I?
Dumbass.
A Facebook addict, that is. And a gossip site addict. And an addict to just about anything that's counterproductive to life... aka 98% of the world wide web's offerings. I'm addicted to the internet.
12 hours ago, (yes, I've calculated it down to the hour...) I deleted my Facebook account. I can almost hear the gasps, the oh-the-horror's, and the WHAT?'s emitting across the Columbia Basin.
And all I can say is, I know.
I'm shaking like a crack fiend. Facebook has been an integral part of my 'social networking' for years. Hell, without Facebook, I'd probably have zero real-life friends, as I am less than reliable when it comes to answering my phone/returning calls... Facebook is the only reason I have sporadic activities and rendezvous' penciled in on my calendar, without it I'm just some loser that doesn't know what the hell's going on... especially with things concerning my friends.
I think I first noticed that I had a problem when I began thinking in Facebook status form. "Elizabeth Moss is practically DYING without fb :("
One of the most amusing parts of this whole Facebook thing, is that I've convinced myself that any of you care. You know, about my status updates. Or the fact that I posted pictures. Or what my favorite movies are, or my religious/political affiliation. Who am I, the Queen? Who gives a shit what I'm doing. No one, that's who.
But Facebook allows me to be the self-important jackass that I'm generally only comfortable being in front of my close friends... and since they account for only 5% of my friend list.... that would mean there are a lot of acquaintances that probably groan with every update, "Ugh, God, not her again."
What did we do before the days of social networking sites? Did we actually call people to chat? Just the thought of it makes me cringe. How did we get invited to parties? Paper invitations? How 1999. And don't even get me started on dating... how did we know whether or not someone's courtship was legitimate before they vowed their 'In A Relationship With...' status via minifeed announcement? Random sightings at the mall? Palpable affection? Ridiculous.
And, most importantly, how did one stalk their crushes, rivals and/or drunken acquaintances? Tailing them? Peering through a set of binoculars into their living room windows? How barbaric... and mildly thrilling.
Until Facebook came along, what did we do with all the time that we waste, er, I mean spend, on the computer? Frolic in the outdoors with three dimensional people? What an amusing thought.
Now, I realize that most of you don't have the same vices as I. You don't find yourself mindlessly navigating to Facebook during all hours of the night. You don't find yourself halfway through that one guy who sat behind you in English 351's wall-to-wall with his long lost best friend from preschool before realizing, "Shit, I'm supposed to be at work..."
But I do. I have a problem. And that is why I deactivated.
And none of you are going to see this. Because I have no way to tell you about it.
Hmm.
Didn't think this through, did I?
Dumbass.
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