If you thought that incestuous behavior was relegated soley to small pockets of rural, backwoods towns in our friendly southern states, you thought wrong. You see, ever since I was a teenager, my mother has been trying to set me up with my relatives. Not Aunty Judy's husband's 3rd cousin's step-son type of "relative". I mean blood relatives. The kind that would make you babies come out with hooves. These include numerous first and second cousins, the most recent indiscretion occurring this past Christmas, when my mom suggested, to the shock and appal of our extended family, and in a not so indiscreet manner, that my seven year old cousin could be a legitimate potential suitor for myself. I am 23. You do the math.
That's right. Seven. Not seventeen, not twenty seven... 2 front teeth missing, is asleep by 7pm... wears pajamas with trains on them...that kind of age. This is merely the latest in a string of suggestive comments and foiled plans to find me a boyfriend. It's not like I'm on the shelf yet. Im young, spritely, and entirely capable of finding somebody to date who is not in my family. I am used to her setting me up; the main issue I have with this situation was the multitude of potential criminal offenses and the flagrant and obscene nature of the suggestion.
My entire family from Scotland was over for my cousin's wedding. She was marrying a man who had two sons from a previous marriage. Essentially, they were to become my second cousins. The young one took a liking to me immediately, the way that little kids always look up to their elders. We became buddies.
A few days before the wedding, we were all sitting in my house and I was playing with the little one, when my mom says to me, in front of everyone, (the boy's father included):
"Vicki, do you fancy Eric?" (I decided to change his name in the event of future litigation)
My mom is Scottish, and so to her, to "fancy" somebody is akin to liking them in a romantic or sexual way.
"Sorry Mom, what?" I hadn't misheard her. I just wanted her to have to repeat the question and possibly in that moment realize its ridiculous nature.
"I said, do you fancy him? He's really not that much younger than you, you know."
"Yes, Mom, only 16 years younger", I said, my face red with embarrassment. It was at that moment that the innocent manner in which I was playing with Eric on the couch felt extremely perverse and uncomfortable. Not to mention all eyes were on me as I groaned in exasperation and slouched back on the couch.
"But I am five years older than your father, Vicki... when Eric is 20 you will only be 36"
"Mom, seriously. He is seven. If I liked him, I would be in jail right now. Stop talking about this".
She continued whole-heartedly to advocate the relationship for a full ten minutes, unable to turn anybody else on to the idea of her bright idea for a courtship.
In this same trip home over Christmas break, she also tried to rearrange the seating at the wedding reception so that I would be sitting next to another cousin, aged 22 and single, for the sole reason that he was single. Luckily, rearranging the seating arrangement turned out to be a logistical nightmare and I ended up sitting next to Eric anyway.
I also have to throw in the time last summer when I had three missed calls from my mom in the course of an hour. Naturally, I ignored the first two. By the third call I thought that there might be some sort of emergency. I call back, only to hear her excited voice on the other end of the phone:
"Vicki, GUESS who just broke up with his girlfriend??"
"Humor me- who"? I was slightly interested, yet simultaneously irritated at the triple call for lack-of-emergency ring.
"Simon!"
"Umm, my cousin Simon"?
"Yes!" she screeched. "Isn't that fantastic?" In my mom's eyes, the timing couldn't be better. My cousin Simon is English, and we were happening to be flying to England only weeks later for my grandfather's 75th birthday.
"He is a lawyer, Vicki. He's very bright, you know. And sooo good looking. He is very wealthy too.... I hear he does corporate law in London..." By this time I was already knee-deep in three instant messenger conversations and was only catching a word or two of her rant.
"So I'm going to call your grandma and make sure that you are sitting next to him at Grandad's party". Hold up. Now I was listening.
"What, no. Mom, can you not do that please? Like please. I haven't seen him in like ten years I can't make conversation with him for two hours. And isn't he thirty-something?"
"Nooo Vicki, he is thirty". The deal was as good as done.
A week later my mom called saying she bought me a Gold's Gym membership. I honestly think it was so I would look good for Simon. And I got a brand new dress, courtesy of the rents, so I suppose things didn't work out too badly for me.
Needless to say, I did end up sitting next to Simon at the wedding. He was as good looking as promised and I had a great time hanging out with him. Can't hate on my mom for that one. And at least he was legal.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
When Lazy People Start Blogging...
When lazy people start writing blogs, THIS happens. I have no justifiable excuse for my absence in blogdom. Too much schoolwork? Never. Not enough free time? All my time is free time. In fact, if I took even 5% of the time I spent stalking random strangers on facebook each day and instead used it for something useful, like blogging, I believe I would be a much more productive member of society. Alas, the past 8 months or so have provided me with new material, and I can say with as much certainty and promise that I am willing to muster that I am, for now, back. So my friends, I ask of you- do not give up on me. Check in once in a while and you might be entertained.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Not the Worst Job I've Ever Had... But Close (part 1)
There is something about being in a foreign country that makes you do things you wouldn't even dream of doing at home. Going home with an 11 year old Taiwanese eunuch? Maybe. Waking up next to a foul smelling German sporting a Fila tee shirt? Perhaps. For me though- it involved something much less glamorous and infinitely more physically demanding. It was migrant farm work. Seven days of pure misery; culminating in a check that in any other circumstances would not have been worth the paper it was printed on. A migrant worker is essentially just somebody working outside of their home country, typically performing seasonal work for less than standard pay. This is like analogizing that a street walker is just somebody who enjoys intercourse, may or may not have a meth problem, and may have been fondled by Uncle Gus as a child. Migrant workers are extremely underpaid, over-worked and exploited. This post is not a rant on migrant farm work, however. I'm no social activist. All I knew of migrant farm workers before this experience was of those that sneak over from Mexico and pick oranges wearing straw hats and wielding machetes in the Everglades.
My sister and I had been backpacking in Australia for 5 months. We had virtually run out of money and had consigned ourselves to eating couscous and stealing rations of butter and spaghetti sauce from the hostel refrigerator. The plan was to rent a car with two of our friends and drive across the Outback. The only glitch in the plan was that the car rental was for two months and had to be paid in full up front. Out of some deal-gone-wrong with my sister, the burden was placed on me to find us some sort of temporary employment for just over a week. The hostel bulletin board contained signs all over the place for receptionist jobs, data entry, etc., but the problem was that these were positions that you had to train for and were on a semi-permanent basis. What we needed was quick cash. Short of selling my body (4 months of binge drinking had not been favorable for my figure- my clientele would be sub-par to say the least) I didn't have any options.
One day as I ran my eyes over the board I saw a sign which simply read, "Workers Needed", and underneath was a 10 digit phone number making reference to a man named John.
"Hmmmmm" I posited. Sketchy? Without a doubt. The sign looked shabby and was devoid of any sort of job description whatsoever. Since I have an intense fear of getting bludgeoned and killed, I was skeptical to say the least. We were in an unfamiliar country and I did not know standard backpacker protocol for situations like these. I approached the hostel reception desk, sign in hand.
"Do you know anything about this job"? I asked.
"Nothing", she replied
"Well, did you at least see who put it up? I mean, is there any sort of procedure for who can put up job postings in your hostel"?
"No, not really. I mean, anyone can put up a sign really if they pay the $10".
Great, I thought. For the mere price of ten dollars I was going to be personally responsible for shipping us off to dismember body parts, or worse, to have our own body parts dismembered. I wondered if our rotting corpses would be found in decent enough shape to be expiditedto the US in a coffin.
I debated whether to call or not for all of two hours before I decided that we had no other options, short of flying back to Florida 4 months early. The phone call left me even more unsettled. All that I got from this "John" character was that he seemed to be middle-aged, no-nonsense, and needed workers almost as badly as we needed a job. The only informative given to me was a remote address, a bus number, and a day on which we were to meet him at the bus station. He had hung up before I realized that I had completely forgotten to ask him what we would even be doing.
After looking up the town on the map, we realized how remote it really was. The Outback is a vast and desolate place and you can drive for days without even seeing another human. Needless to say, we packed our stuff and said goodbye to our friends. We had mobile phones, but no way of knowing if they even would work where we were going. I had set up a rudimentary emergency plan for if we did not arrive back the next week- our friends were to alert Australian authorities and give them the phone number from the board.
We boarded the bus with trepidation and hoped for the best.
Part 2 Coming Soon..
My sister and I had been backpacking in Australia for 5 months. We had virtually run out of money and had consigned ourselves to eating couscous and stealing rations of butter and spaghetti sauce from the hostel refrigerator. The plan was to rent a car with two of our friends and drive across the Outback. The only glitch in the plan was that the car rental was for two months and had to be paid in full up front. Out of some deal-gone-wrong with my sister, the burden was placed on me to find us some sort of temporary employment for just over a week. The hostel bulletin board contained signs all over the place for receptionist jobs, data entry, etc., but the problem was that these were positions that you had to train for and were on a semi-permanent basis. What we needed was quick cash. Short of selling my body (4 months of binge drinking had not been favorable for my figure- my clientele would be sub-par to say the least) I didn't have any options.
One day as I ran my eyes over the board I saw a sign which simply read, "Workers Needed", and underneath was a 10 digit phone number making reference to a man named John.
"Hmmmmm" I posited. Sketchy? Without a doubt. The sign looked shabby and was devoid of any sort of job description whatsoever. Since I have an intense fear of getting bludgeoned and killed, I was skeptical to say the least. We were in an unfamiliar country and I did not know standard backpacker protocol for situations like these. I approached the hostel reception desk, sign in hand.
"Do you know anything about this job"? I asked.
"Nothing", she replied
"Well, did you at least see who put it up? I mean, is there any sort of procedure for who can put up job postings in your hostel"?
"No, not really. I mean, anyone can put up a sign really if they pay the $10".
Great, I thought. For the mere price of ten dollars I was going to be personally responsible for shipping us off to dismember body parts, or worse, to have our own body parts dismembered. I wondered if our rotting corpses would be found in decent enough shape to be expiditedto the US in a coffin.
I debated whether to call or not for all of two hours before I decided that we had no other options, short of flying back to Florida 4 months early. The phone call left me even more unsettled. All that I got from this "John" character was that he seemed to be middle-aged, no-nonsense, and needed workers almost as badly as we needed a job. The only informative given to me was a remote address, a bus number, and a day on which we were to meet him at the bus station. He had hung up before I realized that I had completely forgotten to ask him what we would even be doing.
After looking up the town on the map, we realized how remote it really was. The Outback is a vast and desolate place and you can drive for days without even seeing another human. Needless to say, we packed our stuff and said goodbye to our friends. We had mobile phones, but no way of knowing if they even would work where we were going. I had set up a rudimentary emergency plan for if we did not arrive back the next week- our friends were to alert Australian authorities and give them the phone number from the board.
We boarded the bus with trepidation and hoped for the best.
Part 2 Coming Soon..
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Exercise in Futility
So my summer thus far has basically entailed putting in about 40 hours a week at my restaurant job and about 3-12 at my internship. I don't know if it is possible to get fired from an unpaid position, but that seems to be quickly becoming a reality as my "personal days" off seem to be accumulating more rapidly than time actually spent at the office. The internship, however, is a topic for another post entirely.
The subject of this post concerns a practice at my restaurant which only serves to demoralize the staff. At the end of every shift, without fail, we have to sweep the carpet around and under our tables. SWEEP the CARPET. And not in a haphazard, half-ass kind of way which I have been accustomed to doing in almost every aspect of my daily activities. Rather, the carpet must be swept until it is rid of every single crumb, speck, and molecule to the point where it looks like it has never come into contact with a human being. Now, where I come from, vacuums are used to clean carpets while brooms are used to sweep hardwood floors and outdoor foliage. Using a broom to sweep a carpet is like taking a horse and carriage to the mall; slow and unnecessary.
The job itself sucks enough on its own merits. To add insult to injury, however, I have to spend about 40 minutes each night sweating profusely while I drag chairs and tables around viciously hacking at the carpet with a broom while silently cursing the gods above. Since I am relatively new to the job, it is not really my position to say anything about the complete futility of this practice. I also don't want to upset the corporate harmony which my restaurant constantly tries to achieve. Anybody known to speak out against work policies disappears silently and suddenly; their name crossed off the schedule with a black marker, never to be heard from again. No, I am not ready to put myself out there yet.
There are a number of reasons why sweeping the carpet has to be the dumbest fucking thing I have ever heard of or been forced to participate in:
1. The availability of a financially reasonable and time-saving alternative. The vacuum. Enough said.
2. The scarcity of brooms and dustpans. Just like Prohibition in the 20s; when a resource becomes scarce, people will fight to the death to gain access to the precious commodity. The brooms have been disappearing like wildfire at work. We are down to only 3. This is in a restaurant with over 70 staff and the square footage of a football field. Where the fuck are they going? I expressed my anxiety over the issue to a fellow co-worker, who informed me that employees actually HIDE the brooms at the beginning of their shift just so they have one available when it is time to sweep. Are you kidding me???
3. The physical exertion necessary to successfully sweep the carpet. Sure, I'm no athlete, but I do go jogging on occasion and can climb a few flights of stairs without collapsing into convulsions. Why, then, does the mere act of sweeping make me feel like I just swam the English channel? The wear and tear on my biceps alone is palpable. My wrists are already developing signs of carpal tunnel; evidenced even as I type this blog now. I attribute it to the vigorous back-and-forth of broom to carpet; sweeping the same exact spot over and over because that little piece of tortilla just doesn't want to be swayed by a few horse-haired bristles.
This entire post may sound trite, or may make me sound like the laziest person in the world (I am) but I just can't stand the lack of efficiency, and knowing that my precious time is being wasted in such a manner. I'm over it. I don't know how much longer I will last there.
The subject of this post concerns a practice at my restaurant which only serves to demoralize the staff. At the end of every shift, without fail, we have to sweep the carpet around and under our tables. SWEEP the CARPET. And not in a haphazard, half-ass kind of way which I have been accustomed to doing in almost every aspect of my daily activities. Rather, the carpet must be swept until it is rid of every single crumb, speck, and molecule to the point where it looks like it has never come into contact with a human being. Now, where I come from, vacuums are used to clean carpets while brooms are used to sweep hardwood floors and outdoor foliage. Using a broom to sweep a carpet is like taking a horse and carriage to the mall; slow and unnecessary.
The job itself sucks enough on its own merits. To add insult to injury, however, I have to spend about 40 minutes each night sweating profusely while I drag chairs and tables around viciously hacking at the carpet with a broom while silently cursing the gods above. Since I am relatively new to the job, it is not really my position to say anything about the complete futility of this practice. I also don't want to upset the corporate harmony which my restaurant constantly tries to achieve. Anybody known to speak out against work policies disappears silently and suddenly; their name crossed off the schedule with a black marker, never to be heard from again. No, I am not ready to put myself out there yet.
There are a number of reasons why sweeping the carpet has to be the dumbest fucking thing I have ever heard of or been forced to participate in:
1. The availability of a financially reasonable and time-saving alternative. The vacuum. Enough said.
2. The scarcity of brooms and dustpans. Just like Prohibition in the 20s; when a resource becomes scarce, people will fight to the death to gain access to the precious commodity. The brooms have been disappearing like wildfire at work. We are down to only 3. This is in a restaurant with over 70 staff and the square footage of a football field. Where the fuck are they going? I expressed my anxiety over the issue to a fellow co-worker, who informed me that employees actually HIDE the brooms at the beginning of their shift just so they have one available when it is time to sweep. Are you kidding me???
3. The physical exertion necessary to successfully sweep the carpet. Sure, I'm no athlete, but I do go jogging on occasion and can climb a few flights of stairs without collapsing into convulsions. Why, then, does the mere act of sweeping make me feel like I just swam the English channel? The wear and tear on my biceps alone is palpable. My wrists are already developing signs of carpal tunnel; evidenced even as I type this blog now. I attribute it to the vigorous back-and-forth of broom to carpet; sweeping the same exact spot over and over because that little piece of tortilla just doesn't want to be swayed by a few horse-haired bristles.
This entire post may sound trite, or may make me sound like the laziest person in the world (I am) but I just can't stand the lack of efficiency, and knowing that my precious time is being wasted in such a manner. I'm over it. I don't know how much longer I will last there.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The Book of Mormon
Sincerest apologies to my loyal readers for my absence in blogdom over the past month- a month and a day, to be exact. However, I am back and refreshed and ready to blog all summer long. I start two new jobs tomorrow, so I'm sure that there will be plenty of good material coming out of both of these endeavors. In the meantime, I should probably address today's seemingly irrelevant post-title.
Last week, I was sitting on my couch eating my new hangover food (Chick Fil-A) and wallowing in self-pity over the enormous amount of alcohol consumed the night before, (and the ensuing stupidity) when I heard a knock at the door.
My heart started racing. First of all; nobody ever comes to my door unless specifically invited (yes, I run a tight ship). I don't like people just "stopping by" for visits unless I have had ample preparation time. Secondly; as a result of watching entirely too much Rescue 911 and America's Most Wanted as a child, I am deathly afraid of intruders. My default position is that I will probably get murdered in my own home, and so every night that I survive I chalk up to good luck and karma.
There were only 2 options in my mind of who could be at the door:
a) a friend or b) a rapist (the more likely choice in my opinion).
I muted the t.v. and tiptoed to the door (never let the assailant know you are home). I peered outside the spyhole, but it was smudged (I have since remedied this problem) and all I could see were two blurred figures. Fuck. Well.... I guess this is as good a day as any to be bound and tortured, I thought. I've already made it through my first year of law school, so if I die today at least I've accomplished something notable. With that thought in mind, I opened the door.
To my relief, standing there were two women. Well, not women exactly, but not girls either. (thank you Britney Spears for clearing up this awkward transition stage). They were in their late 20s, although this is not really relevant.
Both were mildly retarded. One was completely cross eyed. They had the same shoes on. (these were my observations before they even opened their mouths).
They were at my door to sell me the Book of Mormon. The first girl started speaking while the second (cross-eyes) hung back and just STARED with one eye at the other girl, hanging on every word as if she were speaking the word of God himself.
"Do you read the Bible"? she asked.
"Ummm, I mean, I've read it. Like, for school". I looked like a hobo- I was still in my clothes from the night before and my face was covered in makeup. I am a sinner, I thought. I am going to hell.
She proceeded to embark on a 10 minute shtick about the Book of Mormon, which actually would have been interesting, if only she could actually string coherent words together. I don't know what form of mental illness she had (I'm no doctor) and I won't even venture to guess as I don't want to offend anyone, butttttt, I will say that the first thing that popped in my head was Down Syndrome... just saying.
She would say about 5 words then just literally stop and stare at me. It was so unbelievably uncomfortable that I didn't know what to do. Who the hell decided that this would be a good idea- to send two incompetents door to door to sell religious literature??? If I weren't so confused it would have been funny. During one of the many awkward silences, I peered around the door. Is there some sort of supervisor, I wondered?A higher-up in the chain of command? Surely these two didn't come alone. I mean, can they drive even?? I really thought there would be a middle-aged man on the stairs in a cheap suit sporting a mustache. Nothing.
Due to my hangover, much of the conversation has escaped my memory. There is one part that I vividly remember:
Girl: You know, ummm, it took a long time back in the day to spread the word because, umm, it wasn't like Jesus had e-mail or anything.
(Cue chuckle from Googly Eyes) Omg was this scripted??
Girl: He couldn't just ummm, call the apostles on the phone or anything.
Me: Awkward laughter. Noo, I guess that wouldn't um, really work.
What did I get out of this entire exchange: Well, I know that the Book of Mormon was written on either the North or South American Continent and may or may not have been written before the Bible. Beyond that, my knowledge is hazy. It is also to be read in conjunction with the Bible, as more of a supplement, and can be purchased through a 1-800 number. Though I didn't buy the book, I did take a card to appease the women, and after a light tap on the ass to googly eyes, sent them on their way.
Last week, I was sitting on my couch eating my new hangover food (Chick Fil-A) and wallowing in self-pity over the enormous amount of alcohol consumed the night before, (and the ensuing stupidity) when I heard a knock at the door.
My heart started racing. First of all; nobody ever comes to my door unless specifically invited (yes, I run a tight ship). I don't like people just "stopping by" for visits unless I have had ample preparation time. Secondly; as a result of watching entirely too much Rescue 911 and America's Most Wanted as a child, I am deathly afraid of intruders. My default position is that I will probably get murdered in my own home, and so every night that I survive I chalk up to good luck and karma.
There were only 2 options in my mind of who could be at the door:
a) a friend or b) a rapist (the more likely choice in my opinion).
I muted the t.v. and tiptoed to the door (never let the assailant know you are home). I peered outside the spyhole, but it was smudged (I have since remedied this problem) and all I could see were two blurred figures. Fuck. Well.... I guess this is as good a day as any to be bound and tortured, I thought. I've already made it through my first year of law school, so if I die today at least I've accomplished something notable. With that thought in mind, I opened the door.
To my relief, standing there were two women. Well, not women exactly, but not girls either. (thank you Britney Spears for clearing up this awkward transition stage). They were in their late 20s, although this is not really relevant.
Both were mildly retarded. One was completely cross eyed. They had the same shoes on. (these were my observations before they even opened their mouths).
They were at my door to sell me the Book of Mormon. The first girl started speaking while the second (cross-eyes) hung back and just STARED with one eye at the other girl, hanging on every word as if she were speaking the word of God himself.
"Do you read the Bible"? she asked.
"Ummm, I mean, I've read it. Like, for school". I looked like a hobo- I was still in my clothes from the night before and my face was covered in makeup. I am a sinner, I thought. I am going to hell.
She proceeded to embark on a 10 minute shtick about the Book of Mormon, which actually would have been interesting, if only she could actually string coherent words together. I don't know what form of mental illness she had (I'm no doctor) and I won't even venture to guess as I don't want to offend anyone, butttttt, I will say that the first thing that popped in my head was Down Syndrome... just saying.
She would say about 5 words then just literally stop and stare at me. It was so unbelievably uncomfortable that I didn't know what to do. Who the hell decided that this would be a good idea- to send two incompetents door to door to sell religious literature??? If I weren't so confused it would have been funny. During one of the many awkward silences, I peered around the door. Is there some sort of supervisor, I wondered?A higher-up in the chain of command? Surely these two didn't come alone. I mean, can they drive even?? I really thought there would be a middle-aged man on the stairs in a cheap suit sporting a mustache. Nothing.
Due to my hangover, much of the conversation has escaped my memory. There is one part that I vividly remember:
Girl: You know, ummm, it took a long time back in the day to spread the word because, umm, it wasn't like Jesus had e-mail or anything.
(Cue chuckle from Googly Eyes) Omg was this scripted??
Girl: He couldn't just ummm, call the apostles on the phone or anything.
Me: Awkward laughter. Noo, I guess that wouldn't um, really work.
What did I get out of this entire exchange: Well, I know that the Book of Mormon was written on either the North or South American Continent and may or may not have been written before the Bible. Beyond that, my knowledge is hazy. It is also to be read in conjunction with the Bible, as more of a supplement, and can be purchased through a 1-800 number. Though I didn't buy the book, I did take a card to appease the women, and after a light tap on the ass to googly eyes, sent them on their way.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Vending Machine Woes
So I'm sitting in school today (Saturday) half-heartedly making note cards for my Property final and reminiscing about yesterday's shenanigans, when I realize how unbelievably thirsty I am. While the ten beers and two mixed drinks from last night have led to a surprisingly hangover-free morning, the remnants of last night's drinking binge has manifested itself in today's unquenchable thirst.
I decide to wander down the hall to the vending machines. I ponder my choice of beverage for a good ten minutes or so, and narrow down my options to a Glacier Freeze Gatorade or a Vitamin Water. Since I've already drunk 1 Gatorade already this morning, I decide that the water would be a more prudent choice. Also, drinking something infused with vitamins makes me feel healthy and in a way, counteracts the damage done to my body from drinking a case of beer and smoking a pack of cigarettes. So I swipe my credit card and hit A3. The drink is nudged forward, and then... NOTHING.
It is stuck in the machine.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" I yell as I dramatically collapse against the machine, my arms wrapped around it in an awkward embrace.
The study group next to me peers around the corner; curious.
"My drink... it's... Stuck!!"
They don't care. They just want me to shut up. Well I won't. This drink must come out. Are the vending machine Gods not watching over me today??? Do they not see my parched lips and unbridled thirst?
I start heaving myself against the machine. Trick of the trade. Unfortunately, the machine is in a hallway, so I can't get much of a running start. My mind flashes back to an email that was sent out by administration a few weeks ago, warning students not to bang on the machines when the drinks are stuck. I look up. Am I on camera?? Probably. But I'm soooo sooo thirsty. Taped onto the vending machine is a disclaimer, presumably in response to the number of drinks that get stuck in these machines. It reads: "In the event that your beverage gets stuck, please go down to the school cafe and fill out a Reimbursement Form".
2 Problems: it is Saturday and the school store is closed, and THEY DON'T SELL VITAMIN WATER.
Despite my best efforts, the drink is still in the machine. I had to give up. The reason the drink is stuck in the first place is due to a complete and utter design defect. The glass on the face of the machine needs to be pushed out 1-2 inches, because the drinks don't have enough room to fall down. I must find who manufactured these faulty contraptions, and write to them immediately. If your sole job is to make vending machines, shouldn't it me of the utmost importance to determine whether the dimensions are correct for proper vending??
Out of spite, I refuse to put any more money into ANY of the machines in this school today. I will have to nurse what is left (about 2 sips) of my Zephyrhills water bottle for the next four hours.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Awkward Hookup Story # 1
I've had more than my fair share of embarrassing fleeting encounters with random guys in my younger, sluttier days. Before I knew the high risks of contracting an STD, and was not privy to the information that you could kill an unborn foetus with a swift kick to the uterus. Now I am older and wiser, but look back on this time in my life with just a bit of nostalgia.
I have decided to tell this series of "Awkward Hookups" one at a time, and sporadically, in a half-hearted attempt to somehow diffuse my promiscuity. And with the hopes that some young gent may still be interested afterwards (Inquire within).
One night a few years ago, I was stumbling back to my college apt. in the wee hours of the morning. I had been at a friend's house in the neighborhood and, despite advice to the contrary from my friends, assumed I would be able to make it home alright (it was approximately a 3 minute walk). At the home stretch, I spotted a neighbor of mine, standing on his porch smoking a cigarette. Well, everybody is a friend when you're wasted at 4am, so I (not so gracefully) ventured over to say hello.
Lets just say this: he gave me a cigarette... one thing led to another, and before I knew it I was in his bedroom. I tried to justify my being there in a number of ways:
I have decided to tell this series of "Awkward Hookups" one at a time, and sporadically, in a half-hearted attempt to somehow diffuse my promiscuity. And with the hopes that some young gent may still be interested afterwards (Inquire within).
One night a few years ago, I was stumbling back to my college apt. in the wee hours of the morning. I had been at a friend's house in the neighborhood and, despite advice to the contrary from my friends, assumed I would be able to make it home alright (it was approximately a 3 minute walk). At the home stretch, I spotted a neighbor of mine, standing on his porch smoking a cigarette. Well, everybody is a friend when you're wasted at 4am, so I (not so gracefully) ventured over to say hello.
Lets just say this: he gave me a cigarette... one thing led to another, and before I knew it I was in his bedroom. I tried to justify my being there in a number of ways:
- He was generous! (gave me a cigarette)
- Smart! (in college)
- Attractive! (he's not smaller than me; I'm just wearing heels).
However, as soon as my shirt was off, I already regretted being there. Oh, what I would have given to be in my nice, big bed... alone. However, I was already past the point of no return- read: pants on the floor, I didn't want to be a rude house guest (he invited me in), and he seemed kind of into it ( I could have replaced my own body with a pool flotation device and he wouldn't have known the difference).
Morning came; and as the daylight always tends to do, brought feelings of remorse. What is it about the darkness that makes me think I am hot/not slutty/ want a random hookup??
It was early and I wanted to leave, preferably without having to wake "him" (name still unknown) from his alcohol-induced state. Unfortunately, this posed a bevy of problems.
All I was wearing was a sock and a gold hoop earring. With the dark eyeliner smudged under my eyes, I'd say that I looked something akin to Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean.
Ughhhhhhh, where the fuck are my clothes?? Pan right: more horror- you are not even attractiveeeee. God, I suck. This was not my low point, however.
I was trying to quietly navigate down the side of his bed looking for stray items of clothing while still covering myself with his sheet (is there any point to being modest in the morning??) when there was a loud rap at the door.
Girl: "Bryyyyyyyyyyan" (presumably unknown male next to me)
Bryan: Audible groan.
Girl: "Bryyyyyyan, are you in there?"
Bryan bolts up with a look of horror on his face.
Me: Who is that?
Bryan: My girlfriend.
!?!?!?!?!
So Bryan starts freaking out. "I need you to climb out the window", he says.
Me: "What, no way".
Bryan: "Please, please", he begged. "She can't see you".
The girl is still knocking but he has silenced her with a story about a bad hangover and a promise of Belgian Waffles.
At this point, what I should have done was told him to go fuck himself, walked out his bedroom door, through the living room, and outside. However, the thought of marching through the living room in nothing but a hoop earring and a sock in front of god knows who (remember, these are my neighbors) sounded worse than the alternative.
Me: Oh my goddddd, I can't believe I'm doing this.
Bryan: Thank You, like, seriously.
Me: I feel like fucking Joey Potter.
Bryan: She is going to break up with meeeee.
Me: Where is the ladder?
Bryan: What? We're on the first floor (obviously not a Dawson's Creek fan).
With as much self-dignity as I could muster, I tumbled out the window and landed in the bushes. I had managed to find my jeans and tank top under his bed. It was broad daylight on a Saturday morning and I just wanted as few people to see me as possible. I didn't even have house keys, so I ended up having to sit outside and wait for my roommates for 2 hours. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the semester avoiding Bryan at all costs. I'm pretty sure that his girlfriend never found out, because I saw them together a bunch of times.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
April 15
Today is tax day. This means nothing to me, because I don't do my own taxes and my yearly income hovers somewhere around the $900 mark. However, on my way to school today I heard that Dunkin' Donuts is giving away a FREE donut with the purchase of any hot coffee for today only. Now, while I won't be there, I urge my fellow readers to go. Not necessarily to get a free donut, but to observe on the type of people who are getting free donuts. I would like to know whether my Donut Theory holds true regardless of whether the donuts are being sold or given away.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Donut Theory
I am convinced that there are only two, narrowly defined classes of people that can get away with eating donuts.
1. Very Fat People
2. Very Skinny People.
Now, I tend to fall somewhere in the middle and thus, am banned, by my own stringent standards, from eating donuts.
The other day my theory was severely tested. I woke up on Saturday morning, hungover, and in need of a ride to my car. I called Law School Friend # 1, who promised she would be there within minutes. True to her word, she arrived shortly thereafter. In the car I expressed my strong desire for a Dunkin' Donuts ham egg and cheese bagel, and an iced coffee.
"Ohhhh, you're going to Dunkin Donuts. Could you do me a huge favor, and get me a Boston Cream?? I'll give you the money for it".
First of all, I hate donuts and would never order one for myself. But this is not the issue. The issue is that I am neither fat enough nor skinny enough to buy a donut. If I was morbidly obese it would be acceptable. Donuts, along with acrylic nails, would be one of my only true forms of pleasure. On the other hand, if I were thin as a rail, then it really wouldn't matter how many donuts I was eating.
"Oh my god, pleeeeeeeeeeease don't make me do this", I begged.
"Why, what's the big deal"?? She just didn't get it, because she falls into class #2 of acceptable donut-eaters, (the skinny kind).
If I were to order a donut, (in addition to my already substantial order) I would be subjecting myself to unnecessary criticism from both the DD employee and the other customers in line. While I am not fat, I am certainly not skinny enough to unself-consciously order a donut without the people in line thinking , "wow that girl does not need to be eating donuts". If she wasn't such a good friend, I would have undoubtedly refused this request. Unfortunately, I knew how much she wanted the donut and didn't have the heart to say no.
I was worrying about the donut order all the way up to the register. And, as always tends to happen to me, the only other customer in line was a hot 20-something male. Just my luck. So I put in my order (sans donut).
"Is there anything else I can get you today"? Asked the male behind the counter.
"Ummmmmmmm". (Now what I was planning to do was take out a piece of paper out of my pocket and pretend that I was reading off of a list, so that it would definitely look like I was getting donuts for somebody else. Unfortunately, this trick doesn't really fly when the "list" consists of only one item"). My other alternative was to say:
"Yeah, I'm going to need a Boston Cream please". By using the term "need", you are implying that the item is not for yourself. It works in many contexts. For example, "I am going to need 5 lamb shanks", or "I am going to need 4 cans of eggshell white paint". Both phrases connote the idea that the said item is not for yourself, but for somebody else, or perhaps the greater good.
Instead, I just turned red with embarrassment and said nothing. He repeated his question. I glanced over at the hottie next to me, who seemed completely disinterested in my order at this point.
"Yeah, actuallyyyyyyy", I was almost whispering at this point. "Could I get a Boston Cream?"
"I'm sorry, could you speak up"??
"A Boston Cream", I hissed. My blood pressure at this point was just about off the charts.
It was at this moment that the guy next to me turned and gave me a FULL BODY SIZE-UP of my figure. I swear to God. Judgment!
I grabbed the donut, the bagel and the coffee, and made a run for it. My stress level had caused me to squash the donut with my trembling, nervous hands; and by the time it found its way to LSF #1 it looked like a big sugary mess. She didn't care though. She loves donuts. The whole experience has only served to reaffirm my belief; that I cannot, and never will be able to eat donuts.
1. Very Fat People
2. Very Skinny People.
Now, I tend to fall somewhere in the middle and thus, am banned, by my own stringent standards, from eating donuts.
The other day my theory was severely tested. I woke up on Saturday morning, hungover, and in need of a ride to my car. I called Law School Friend # 1, who promised she would be there within minutes. True to her word, she arrived shortly thereafter. In the car I expressed my strong desire for a Dunkin' Donuts ham egg and cheese bagel, and an iced coffee.
"Ohhhh, you're going to Dunkin Donuts. Could you do me a huge favor, and get me a Boston Cream?? I'll give you the money for it".
First of all, I hate donuts and would never order one for myself. But this is not the issue. The issue is that I am neither fat enough nor skinny enough to buy a donut. If I was morbidly obese it would be acceptable. Donuts, along with acrylic nails, would be one of my only true forms of pleasure. On the other hand, if I were thin as a rail, then it really wouldn't matter how many donuts I was eating.
"Oh my god, pleeeeeeeeeeease don't make me do this", I begged.
"Why, what's the big deal"?? She just didn't get it, because she falls into class #2 of acceptable donut-eaters, (the skinny kind).
If I were to order a donut, (in addition to my already substantial order) I would be subjecting myself to unnecessary criticism from both the DD employee and the other customers in line. While I am not fat, I am certainly not skinny enough to unself-consciously order a donut without the people in line thinking , "wow that girl does not need to be eating donuts". If she wasn't such a good friend, I would have undoubtedly refused this request. Unfortunately, I knew how much she wanted the donut and didn't have the heart to say no.
I was worrying about the donut order all the way up to the register. And, as always tends to happen to me, the only other customer in line was a hot 20-something male. Just my luck. So I put in my order (sans donut).
"Is there anything else I can get you today"? Asked the male behind the counter.
"Ummmmmmmm". (Now what I was planning to do was take out a piece of paper out of my pocket and pretend that I was reading off of a list, so that it would definitely look like I was getting donuts for somebody else. Unfortunately, this trick doesn't really fly when the "list" consists of only one item"). My other alternative was to say:
"Yeah, I'm going to need a Boston Cream please". By using the term "need", you are implying that the item is not for yourself. It works in many contexts. For example, "I am going to need 5 lamb shanks", or "I am going to need 4 cans of eggshell white paint". Both phrases connote the idea that the said item is not for yourself, but for somebody else, or perhaps the greater good.
Instead, I just turned red with embarrassment and said nothing. He repeated his question. I glanced over at the hottie next to me, who seemed completely disinterested in my order at this point.
"Yeah, actuallyyyyyyy", I was almost whispering at this point. "Could I get a Boston Cream?"
"I'm sorry, could you speak up"??
"A Boston Cream", I hissed. My blood pressure at this point was just about off the charts.
It was at this moment that the guy next to me turned and gave me a FULL BODY SIZE-UP of my figure. I swear to God. Judgment!
I grabbed the donut, the bagel and the coffee, and made a run for it. My stress level had caused me to squash the donut with my trembling, nervous hands; and by the time it found its way to LSF #1 it looked like a big sugary mess. She didn't care though. She loves donuts. The whole experience has only served to reaffirm my belief; that I cannot, and never will be able to eat donuts.
I'm a Failure.
So you know that old saying, "I gave up drinking, smoking, and having sex, and it was the worst 5 minutes of my life"? I find this quote to be very applicable to my life at the moment. Well, besides the fact that I have been in the thralls of an eight month dry spell and am not emotionally ready to give up smoking. So okay, I guess this quote only applies to me in the context of drinking.
You may or may not know that last weekend, I made a pact with myself to give up drinking until finals were over, (mid-May). Well that lasted a day and a half; a pathetic run even with my track record. It was a bad idea and one that I should have known better than to think I could accomplish. On Monday evening, I went out to dinner with the best intentions of drinking water and eating a salad.
Somewhere between asking for a table at the bar and requesting to see a drink menu I got derailed, ending up consuming two double-tall vodka tonics and mauling down some (delicious) steak quesadillas.
My critical error was in my choice of venue; Chilli's. Its close proximity to my front door and all day two-for-one drinks makes it a red flag for the slippery slope to falling off the wagon. Not to mention the fact that the wait staff are real pushers when it comes to ordering doubles. They like promoting the double drinks because a) they are more expensive and lead to a higher tab and b) theoretically, the customer drinking the double tall is going to drink more slowly than if drinking a single, thus creating less work for the waiter/waitress. This doesn't always seem to be the case; however.
The waitress comes to the table and I put in my drink order; vodka tonic with a lime.
"Would you like to make that a double"? she asks.
"A double?!?" I shout, incredulously. (keep in mind it is Monday, finals are looming, and I have only just decided to jump back on the liquor train).
"Yes", she began patiently. "A double is when we put two shots in the glass instead of bringing you two normal drinks one at a time".
"I know what a double is", you moron. I wasn't raised by wolves. "Fine fine, bring me a double" I barked. She was testing my patience.
Long story short, I finished my first "double" in about 2.2 seconds, and beckoned her back to the table before she could scamper off into the Chilli's waiter abyss.
Bottom Line: Chilli's has sneaky sales tactics and I can't say no to alcohol.
You may or may not know that last weekend, I made a pact with myself to give up drinking until finals were over, (mid-May). Well that lasted a day and a half; a pathetic run even with my track record. It was a bad idea and one that I should have known better than to think I could accomplish. On Monday evening, I went out to dinner with the best intentions of drinking water and eating a salad.
Somewhere between asking for a table at the bar and requesting to see a drink menu I got derailed, ending up consuming two double-tall vodka tonics and mauling down some (delicious) steak quesadillas.
My critical error was in my choice of venue; Chilli's. Its close proximity to my front door and all day two-for-one drinks makes it a red flag for the slippery slope to falling off the wagon. Not to mention the fact that the wait staff are real pushers when it comes to ordering doubles. They like promoting the double drinks because a) they are more expensive and lead to a higher tab and b) theoretically, the customer drinking the double tall is going to drink more slowly than if drinking a single, thus creating less work for the waiter/waitress. This doesn't always seem to be the case; however.
The waitress comes to the table and I put in my drink order; vodka tonic with a lime.
"Would you like to make that a double"? she asks.
"A double?!?" I shout, incredulously. (keep in mind it is Monday, finals are looming, and I have only just decided to jump back on the liquor train).
"Yes", she began patiently. "A double is when we put two shots in the glass instead of bringing you two normal drinks one at a time".
"I know what a double is", you moron. I wasn't raised by wolves. "Fine fine, bring me a double" I barked. She was testing my patience.
Long story short, I finished my first "double" in about 2.2 seconds, and beckoned her back to the table before she could scamper off into the Chilli's waiter abyss.
Bottom Line: Chilli's has sneaky sales tactics and I can't say no to alcohol.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
If You Like This..
If you find this blog entertaining at all, then add it to your favorites because if you're already here, you probably got the link off of my facebook profile.
I can't keep that link up on facebook for privacy reasons (namely my mom) and I am preparing to do a series of stories on awkward hookups, so I really would prefer to not have the link on my profile.
I can't keep that link up on facebook for privacy reasons (namely my mom) and I am preparing to do a series of stories on awkward hookups, so I really would prefer to not have the link on my profile.
If You're Gonna Run a Red Light, Don't Cut Off a Cop While Doing It
My last post reminded me of something that happened to me the other week.
I wish I could say that this is about some random idiot-driver, but, unfortunately it is about my idiot-self.
The stoplight to make a left turn into my apartment complex takes an eternity. While I don't know how many minutes it lasts exactly, I know some things I have done while sitting there, like... eat an entire bag of pistachios, listen to two songs on the radio, get harassed by my father about my dire financial situation, and send a string of harassing text messages to an unnamed recipient.
On the average, I would say that I run this red light about 50% of the time. And when I say "run" the light, I don't mean that the light was changing from yellow to red and I speed through at the last second. I mean that I sit for about 20 seconds or so in contemplation deciding if
a) I care if the car behind me will think I'm a total asshole (bc usually it is one of my neighbors) and
b) If there is any chance somebody in a position of authority will see me.
The reason that I run this light at all is because there are rarely any cars coming in the other direction. Ideally, this would be the perfect spot for a flashing red arrow. Some days I will just sit, with no cars coming in either direction, like a scene out of the Truman show.
On this particular day of my traffic violation, I was in somewhat of a hurry because I was about to embark upon a three hour journey, and just wanted to drop some stuff of at my house. I sat there for a minute or so, then decided to gun it. There was only one car coming in the other direction, and it was pretty far away. Plus, what were the chances of it being a cop?? High, I guess. Because the second after I made the turn, I saw my fatal error.
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK" I yelled out. I thought I was in the clear, though, because (and I'm not sure why) I have always believed that there is some sort of "home base" immunity which would entirely preclude me from liability. I don't know why I have ever thought this. I guess you just rarely see people getting pulled over in their own driveways. So I speed through my neighborhood, thinking that if I can pull in and park the cop won't be sure which car is mine and I can deny ever being in it at all. (the R.Kelly sex video comes to mind at this point) Wrong. Sure enough, as I am about to pull into my PPS (prime parking spot) the cop flies in like a bat out of hell, lights blaring. So yeah, I got pulled over directly in front of my apartment.
All I could do was laugh at my own stupidity.
Cop: Didn't see me there, did ya?
Me: Uhhhhh nope, guess not!" (would I have done that if I had?)
Cop: Are you in a rush to get somewhere?
Now, this would have been the perfect chance to use the old "shit my pants" trick that everybody talks about but nobody ever really uses. I just didn't have the balls.
Me: Well, I mean, I'm kind of in a rush. See, I have to drive to Tallahassee today to pick up my sister...
Cop: (cuts me off) License and registration please.
I have never gotten a ticket before, and for some reason just knew I wouldn't on this day either. It is not due to my overwhelming charm (some say I'm actually not charming at all) but for some reason I always get the impression that cops think I look like I don't have enough money to afford the ticket, and will end up subjecting them to more problems than if they didn't give me one in the first place.
My instincts were correct. He returned to my car, saying that I was getting off with a warning. I stopped listening after that because I was so thrilled. All I heard were snippets of him talking about an urgent 911 call, a $180 dollar fine, and how by running the red light I had fucked up the light cycle for everybody else.
I wish I could say that this is about some random idiot-driver, but, unfortunately it is about my idiot-self.
The stoplight to make a left turn into my apartment complex takes an eternity. While I don't know how many minutes it lasts exactly, I know some things I have done while sitting there, like... eat an entire bag of pistachios, listen to two songs on the radio, get harassed by my father about my dire financial situation, and send a string of harassing text messages to an unnamed recipient.
On the average, I would say that I run this red light about 50% of the time. And when I say "run" the light, I don't mean that the light was changing from yellow to red and I speed through at the last second. I mean that I sit for about 20 seconds or so in contemplation deciding if
a) I care if the car behind me will think I'm a total asshole (bc usually it is one of my neighbors) and
b) If there is any chance somebody in a position of authority will see me.
The reason that I run this light at all is because there are rarely any cars coming in the other direction. Ideally, this would be the perfect spot for a flashing red arrow. Some days I will just sit, with no cars coming in either direction, like a scene out of the Truman show.
On this particular day of my traffic violation, I was in somewhat of a hurry because I was about to embark upon a three hour journey, and just wanted to drop some stuff of at my house. I sat there for a minute or so, then decided to gun it. There was only one car coming in the other direction, and it was pretty far away. Plus, what were the chances of it being a cop?? High, I guess. Because the second after I made the turn, I saw my fatal error.
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK" I yelled out. I thought I was in the clear, though, because (and I'm not sure why) I have always believed that there is some sort of "home base" immunity which would entirely preclude me from liability. I don't know why I have ever thought this. I guess you just rarely see people getting pulled over in their own driveways. So I speed through my neighborhood, thinking that if I can pull in and park the cop won't be sure which car is mine and I can deny ever being in it at all. (the R.Kelly sex video comes to mind at this point) Wrong. Sure enough, as I am about to pull into my PPS (prime parking spot) the cop flies in like a bat out of hell, lights blaring. So yeah, I got pulled over directly in front of my apartment.
All I could do was laugh at my own stupidity.
Cop: Didn't see me there, did ya?
Me: Uhhhhh nope, guess not!" (would I have done that if I had?)
Cop: Are you in a rush to get somewhere?
Now, this would have been the perfect chance to use the old "shit my pants" trick that everybody talks about but nobody ever really uses. I just didn't have the balls.
Me: Well, I mean, I'm kind of in a rush. See, I have to drive to Tallahassee today to pick up my sister...
Cop: (cuts me off) License and registration please.
I have never gotten a ticket before, and for some reason just knew I wouldn't on this day either. It is not due to my overwhelming charm (some say I'm actually not charming at all) but for some reason I always get the impression that cops think I look like I don't have enough money to afford the ticket, and will end up subjecting them to more problems than if they didn't give me one in the first place.
My instincts were correct. He returned to my car, saying that I was getting off with a warning. I stopped listening after that because I was so thrilled. All I heard were snippets of him talking about an urgent 911 call, a $180 dollar fine, and how by running the red light I had fucked up the light cycle for everybody else.
Undercover Cop Cars
Is it just me, or are there a multitude of Constitutional rights being violated by allowing cops to patrol in undercover vehicles?? There is something inherently wrong with an undercover cop driving a brand new champagne colored Jeep Cherokee which one moment is just another car on the road, and the next is lit up with blue and red lights like the inside of fucking Studio 54. Imagine how pissed of you would be getting pulled over by one of these cars? My hometown is famous for this. I always feel sorry for the poor sucker that is taking a field sobriety test in front of a cop driving a Mini-Cooper. I refuse to pull over for anything less than a government issued, law-enforcement vehicle.
If the cops are so intent on going stealth mode, at least put them in something that slightly resembles the classic Crown Victoria. Like a Lincoln. Or a Mercury. Not a white Mustang Convertible. I'm sorry, but when I see this car on the road, I automatically assume that it's occupied by a high-school cheerleader giving road-head to her boyfriend; not the deputy sheriff issuing speeding tickets.
I think that this practice should be banned. It is sneaky and malicious; not to mention the fact that the police force seem to do a good enough job with their overstaffed fat-ass employees driving around in marked vehicles without throwing us for a loop with this bullshit. When I get pulled over, I would like to know that it is at least legit. I mean, can I put lights on the inside of my dumpy Civic and start making citizens arrests? I sure as hell know that I've seen some shit going down in cars before that should not be legal. Like the time I saw a girl blowing lines off the dash at a stop sign. Lets call in the undercovers on this one, boys!
If the cops are so intent on going stealth mode, at least put them in something that slightly resembles the classic Crown Victoria. Like a Lincoln. Or a Mercury. Not a white Mustang Convertible. I'm sorry, but when I see this car on the road, I automatically assume that it's occupied by a high-school cheerleader giving road-head to her boyfriend; not the deputy sheriff issuing speeding tickets.
I think that this practice should be banned. It is sneaky and malicious; not to mention the fact that the police force seem to do a good enough job with their overstaffed fat-ass employees driving around in marked vehicles without throwing us for a loop with this bullshit. When I get pulled over, I would like to know that it is at least legit. I mean, can I put lights on the inside of my dumpy Civic and start making citizens arrests? I sure as hell know that I've seen some shit going down in cars before that should not be legal. Like the time I saw a girl blowing lines off the dash at a stop sign. Lets call in the undercovers on this one, boys!
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Hey, That's Not a Backpack!
There is an odd trend which is sweeping my law school at the moment. Whether it is specific to my school in particular, my geographic location, (Florida is hot and your shoulders get sweaty?), or the upper echelons of academia in general is yet to be known. Students, and more than a slight minority, are using suitcases as backpacks. Suitcases! Like the kind that comes off of the conveyor belt at LAX when you are on a two week vacation. I am honestly baffled every single day when I enter school, as to what practical purpose a suitcase serves as transportation for you books and laptop. What happened to the good old classic two-shoulder backpack?? There is a reason that it has been around for so long. Because it works! You don't see people going around looking for an alternative to forks and plates. Why fuck up a good thing?
First of all, the suitcase is entirely impractical. Sure, it has wheels and an extendable handle which is convenient for long walks (ie Terminal A to baggage claim). But my school is by no means large, extends vertically rather than horizontally, and the most one can walk is about 20 paces before reaching an elevator, or some other folly which causes the suitcase holder to have to readjust their stance/grip on the handle.
What really kills me is watching people with suitcases take the stairs in the library. Our library is three floors, without elevators, so it is entirely impossible to avoid them. And, since the suitcase-holders tend to be more studious than the rest (or are just fooling us all) they tend to flock in disproportionately higher numbers to the library. When ascending or descending the stairs, the student wielding the suitcase essentially has two options:
1. Lift up the suitcase like a small child and carry it up/down the stairs.
2. Tote it behind you as it clunks painfully down the stairs and causes a ruckus.
Obviously, option #2 is the more popular option. If you are so lazy that you have to wheel around 3 books, then you're sure as hell not going to defeat the purpose by physically carrying the suitcase up the stairs.Secondly, WHAT THE FUCK IS IN YOUR CASE?? I mean, who are you trying to fool? We all take the same classes. We all have 5 books, give or take, and maybe a laptop. The school is equipped with an unnecessary amount of lockers for this purpose; and this purpose only. The only reason I could possibly foresee bringing a suitcase at the school is if you were planning to have a sleepover in the library. And who the fuck is going to do that??
For once, I would like to see somebody with a suitcase actually using it for its intended purpose. How about bringing a change of clothes? Wear a suit to school, decide spontaneously (or not, because you already planned ahead) to change into gym clothes because you are being choked by your lapel. Maybe even smuggle some around some Mexican immigrants (just be sure to leave a few inches unzipped for air). I bet you could fit at least 3 small children or two malnourished men in there.
Or maybe you could bring a picnic. But not just a normal picnic, a feast! Like the Last Supper! You could open up your suitcase and inside would be a portable Coleman stove and a Panini maker. That's where it's at. It would be the veritable travelling cafe, and you'd certainly be the talk of the school.
Until I hear an argument to the contrary, I will continue to find the suitcase/backpack utterly absurd.
Pact With Myself
I am giving up drinking. At least until my law school exams are over, which falls somewhere around May 14. I came to this decision this morning, as I lay hungover in my bed eating a McDonald's breakfast hash brown and spilling water all over myself because I was too lazy to lift my head to take a sip. I had a transcendental moment, in which I saw myself from outside my own body, and realized what a poor sight it was.
I have never stuck to anything in my life, so this should be a real challenge. Obviously, I will be notably absent from the bar scene for the next five weeks. I lack the will power entirely to sit at the bar sipping on water while my friends get ridiculously drunk. I will likely remain holed up in my apartment on Friday and Saturday nights, but I think it will be a good time for self-reflection and growth (read: watching reality tv and facebook stalking).
Giving up drinking also serves a three-fold purpose:
I have never stuck to anything in my life, so this should be a real challenge. Obviously, I will be notably absent from the bar scene for the next five weeks. I lack the will power entirely to sit at the bar sipping on water while my friends get ridiculously drunk. I will likely remain holed up in my apartment on Friday and Saturday nights, but I think it will be a good time for self-reflection and growth (read: watching reality tv and facebook stalking).
Giving up drinking also serves a three-fold purpose:
- I will be cutting out on my "going out" expenditures, which at the current time grossly outweigh all other living costs.
- I will be able to focus more on school, or at least wake up without a hangover.
- I will be able to start losing weight for my optimum summer beach bod. (8 Jack and Cokes racks up an absurd amount of calories).
This is my goal. Don't try and lure me out with promises of gratuitous late-night sex and shenanigans. Drinks on me on May 15th.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Do Guys Like Sloppy Drunks?
Fine, fine. I already know the answer to this question. I have sabotaged many potential relationships with my reckless drinking habit. It's not a problem, per se. But it's not exactly endearing, either. Luckily, I think I have enough redeeming qualities to overshadow this aspect of my lifestyle.
Anyway, last night was rather interesting. I was at a local bar with friends for "a few drinks" (read: it was ladies night and hence free alcohol) when I went outside to make a phone call. The details of what occurred next are hazy; and all that I know is what I have been told by others. One of my friends was sitting in the bar unsure of my whereabouts when she received a call from my phone. It was a cop. He had found me semi-passed out in the bushes. She thought it was a joke. He said that if she didn't come outside right that minute he was going to "take me down to the station". I apparently was saying that all cops are pussies. He wasn't amused. My friend dragged me into a cab. When we got back to my apartment, I refused to get out of the taxi because I thought it was comfortable and wanted to sleep in it. The meter was still running.
I woke up covered in mulch and it is still all over my bed.
Anyway, last night was rather interesting. I was at a local bar with friends for "a few drinks" (read: it was ladies night and hence free alcohol) when I went outside to make a phone call. The details of what occurred next are hazy; and all that I know is what I have been told by others. One of my friends was sitting in the bar unsure of my whereabouts when she received a call from my phone. It was a cop. He had found me semi-passed out in the bushes. She thought it was a joke. He said that if she didn't come outside right that minute he was going to "take me down to the station". I apparently was saying that all cops are pussies. He wasn't amused. My friend dragged me into a cab. When we got back to my apartment, I refused to get out of the taxi because I thought it was comfortable and wanted to sleep in it. The meter was still running.
I woke up covered in mulch and it is still all over my bed.
Is This Deranged??
Sometimes I do or think things that may or may not be completely psychotic. Maybe you can be the judge.
I like to visualize my own funeral when I'm going to sleep at night because it makes me cry and I can fall asleep faster. This is something that I have done for years. It began innocently enough, where I would just picture the manner in which I died, who would come to my funeral, etc. It has now evolved into a full blown funeral procession that I have orchestrated right down to the slide show and music.
Sometimes I am concerned that not enough people would be able to show up. I have lived in a lot of different places and it would be hard to find a central location to hold my memorial. Ideally, I would like people to be lining up outside, but this would only happen if my parents gave everyone enough notice to take work off (what is the standard protocol for missing work for funerals?, and do airlines sell discounted tickets for this sort of thing?) I would like my sister to say something, opening with a quote from a known author or poet. Then, to add an element of spontaneity, one of my friends would randomly stand and tell a funny story about me. People would laugh and cry at the same time (killer combination). Another friend would feel compelled to stand and give their piece.
The real piece de theatre of the whole funeral would be the slide show. I basically know what pictures I want to include. Obviously it would be chronological- baby pictures up until present day. I would like to state for the record that any photographs from my freshmen year of college should be omitted. Nobody likes a fat girl, even in death.
There are two songs that I want to be played in conjunction with the slide show. I will be emailing them to my sister shortly. The first is Joseph Arthur's "In the Sun". It will be a real tear-jerker; trust me. If anybody is still dry eyed after this song has played then they must have metal appendages and robot brains. This song is 4 minutes and 12 seconds long. At the 4 minute mark, I would like the second song to start playing over the first; creating a seamless transition. If anybody is skilled in audio mixing, let me know. Your services may be needed upon my death. The second song will be Dido's "Here With Me", although this is still tentative.
I am going to hover above the funeral and watch it proceed. I'm looking forward to see who turns up. For the record- no-shows will be haunted in their sleep.
I don't do this that often- probably no more than once a week. If you can relate to this then maybe we could be friends.
I like to visualize my own funeral when I'm going to sleep at night because it makes me cry and I can fall asleep faster. This is something that I have done for years. It began innocently enough, where I would just picture the manner in which I died, who would come to my funeral, etc. It has now evolved into a full blown funeral procession that I have orchestrated right down to the slide show and music.
Sometimes I am concerned that not enough people would be able to show up. I have lived in a lot of different places and it would be hard to find a central location to hold my memorial. Ideally, I would like people to be lining up outside, but this would only happen if my parents gave everyone enough notice to take work off (what is the standard protocol for missing work for funerals?, and do airlines sell discounted tickets for this sort of thing?) I would like my sister to say something, opening with a quote from a known author or poet. Then, to add an element of spontaneity, one of my friends would randomly stand and tell a funny story about me. People would laugh and cry at the same time (killer combination). Another friend would feel compelled to stand and give their piece.
The real piece de theatre of the whole funeral would be the slide show. I basically know what pictures I want to include. Obviously it would be chronological- baby pictures up until present day. I would like to state for the record that any photographs from my freshmen year of college should be omitted. Nobody likes a fat girl, even in death.
There are two songs that I want to be played in conjunction with the slide show. I will be emailing them to my sister shortly. The first is Joseph Arthur's "In the Sun". It will be a real tear-jerker; trust me. If anybody is still dry eyed after this song has played then they must have metal appendages and robot brains. This song is 4 minutes and 12 seconds long. At the 4 minute mark, I would like the second song to start playing over the first; creating a seamless transition. If anybody is skilled in audio mixing, let me know. Your services may be needed upon my death. The second song will be Dido's "Here With Me", although this is still tentative.
I am going to hover above the funeral and watch it proceed. I'm looking forward to see who turns up. For the record- no-shows will be haunted in their sleep.
I don't do this that often- probably no more than once a week. If you can relate to this then maybe we could be friends.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Rat-Faced Roommate
This story is about a roommate that I had in college; and one of the main reasons that I now insist on living alone.
For the sake of privacy, I'll call her Lina. Since she was a random roommate, the odds of her being cool were statistically against me, but,I decided to keep an open mind. Until she walked in and I realized she was the fucking personification of a rat. As in, her top lip didn't even cover her front teeth, so when her mouth was in a relaxed position, all you saw were two big chompers.
To say that our relationship was strained is an understatement. One night in the beginning of the year she let a known coke dealer named Frankie into our apartment unsupervised, and I woke up in the morning missing my laptop, camera, and perfume. The fact that I was in such a drunken comatose that I didn't wake up while he was doing this is worrying; though irrelevant to the matter at hand.
Lina was passionate about cooking, and would cook for anybody who could stand to sit across from her for an hour and stare at her ugly rat mouth chomping on pasta. Italian food was her specialty, and she could bread chicken cutlets faster than a Cambodian child stitching Nikes in a sweatshop. It was a systematic process which often seemed to overload her pea-sized brain. Because Lina and I were at odds for the majority of the year, I was never invited to these get-togethers. I wouldn't have cared at all except for the fact that my bedroom was directly off of the kitchen, so as she was making calls to get anybody (read: anybody) to come over for dinner, my emaciated form would be laying on the bed writhing with hunger as the smell of marinara sauce wafted under my door. Too bad for Lina, I would come home drunk every night and eat the leftovers anyway, so fuck her.
During second semester, Lina developed a crush on a guy named Mike who lived in our apartment complex. He was the epitome of a male-chauvinist asshole, and she loved it. He would literally barge in the house and order her to cook from him. She would be sitting on the couch nibbling on a block of Swiss cheese, or doing some other rat-like activity, and he'd go "Lina you fucking slut where is my chicken parm?" This was their typical night:
For the sake of privacy, I'll call her Lina. Since she was a random roommate, the odds of her being cool were statistically against me, but,I decided to keep an open mind. Until she walked in and I realized she was the fucking personification of a rat. As in, her top lip didn't even cover her front teeth, so when her mouth was in a relaxed position, all you saw were two big chompers.
To say that our relationship was strained is an understatement. One night in the beginning of the year she let a known coke dealer named Frankie into our apartment unsupervised, and I woke up in the morning missing my laptop, camera, and perfume. The fact that I was in such a drunken comatose that I didn't wake up while he was doing this is worrying; though irrelevant to the matter at hand.
Lina was passionate about cooking, and would cook for anybody who could stand to sit across from her for an hour and stare at her ugly rat mouth chomping on pasta. Italian food was her specialty, and she could bread chicken cutlets faster than a Cambodian child stitching Nikes in a sweatshop. It was a systematic process which often seemed to overload her pea-sized brain. Because Lina and I were at odds for the majority of the year, I was never invited to these get-togethers. I wouldn't have cared at all except for the fact that my bedroom was directly off of the kitchen, so as she was making calls to get anybody (read: anybody) to come over for dinner, my emaciated form would be laying on the bed writhing with hunger as the smell of marinara sauce wafted under my door. Too bad for Lina, I would come home drunk every night and eat the leftovers anyway, so fuck her.
During second semester, Lina developed a crush on a guy named Mike who lived in our apartment complex. He was the epitome of a male-chauvinist asshole, and she loved it. He would literally barge in the house and order her to cook from him. She would be sitting on the couch nibbling on a block of Swiss cheese, or doing some other rat-like activity, and he'd go "Lina you fucking slut where is my chicken parm?" This was their typical night:
- Lina cooks while Mike screams profanities behind her and grabs her ass. She wards him off with a spatula.
- They eat while she chatters on and he feigns attention.
- They go into Lina's room where all I can hear are yelps from the rat and strange grunting noises.
- He grabs his shit and leaves.
- She cries and eats leftovers.
So one night, Lina and Mike, who at this point had been "seeing each other"- to the extent noted above, got in a big fight. She felt terrible about it, and so the next day called him promising him dinner; and the best part; he didn't have to come over to eat. It would be hand delivered a la Lina. I don't know where the fuck she found a bowl big enough to hold all the spaghetti she made, but it was about twice the size of an upside down lampshade. On top of the pasta were about 10 chicken breasts. She covered the carbohydrate monstrosity in tinfoil, and walked it over to Mike's apt to give to him and his roommates in an attempt at reconciliation.
Skip to the next morning.
I'm laying in my bed at 10am when I hear a blood curdling scream that could only have come from the rat herself. Then I hear gasping sobs marked by inaudible curse words. Since she had already woken me up, the least I could do was humor myself and go out to see what was going on.
So there is Lina, standing outside the front door, barefoot, standing IN THE ENTIRE UPTURNED BOWL OF SPAGHETTI. It was priceless. Apparently, Mike, at some point during the night had decided that this would be hilarious (I don't entirely disagree). She had innocently stepped outside in the morning and into the mass of pasta, the situation exacerbated by the hours of time she had spent on this dinner. I actually felt bad. Not bad enough to help her scrape 5 lbs of spaghetti off the ground, obviously, but bad enough that I got her a trash bag and stood on in awe and embarrassment for this poor girl.
To date, it is the most humiliating act I have ever seen against another person. I will never forget it.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Cottage Cheese Update
"The Letter That Never Got Sent" is about to be sent. Consider it in the mail. Why? Because I opened a container of cottage cheese thismorning (still Breakstone 2%) and it was whaaaack. The entire thing. And I was hungover, which made me even more pissed off. When I'm hungover, all i like are eggs, cheese, or a comination of the two. I frantically dumped the top layer into the sink, thinking that the rest would be quality. It was all slop.
I was considering returning it to my local grocer, but I know that the dumpy 16 year old behind the Customer Service desk could not give a shit about my cottage cheese woes; and rightly so. I would like to speak to somebody with a vested interest in the future of Breakstone. After some investigating, I found that they are actually owned by Nestle, so at the present time I am unsure about where to direct my letter. Investigation pending...
I was considering returning it to my local grocer, but I know that the dumpy 16 year old behind the Customer Service desk could not give a shit about my cottage cheese woes; and rightly so. I would like to speak to somebody with a vested interest in the future of Breakstone. After some investigating, I found that they are actually owned by Nestle, so at the present time I am unsure about where to direct my letter. Investigation pending...
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Random Convo
Day at the pool... (as I'm drinking a bottle of Miller Lite)
Security Guard approaches in stealth mode: You know what I do to girls that drink out of glass bottles at the pool, right?
Me: No, I don't actually.
Security Guard: Throw them in the pool.
Me: You know what I do with glass bottles?? (as he's walking away)
Security Guard: No, what?
Me: Crack skulls.
Totally unnecessary seeing as he had become a non-threat at this point and my beer/self were in no apparent danger. However, I couldn't help myself. The timing was perfect.
Security Guard approaches in stealth mode: You know what I do to girls that drink out of glass bottles at the pool, right?
Me: No, I don't actually.
Security Guard: Throw them in the pool.
Me: You know what I do with glass bottles?? (as he's walking away)
Security Guard: No, what?
Me: Crack skulls.
Totally unnecessary seeing as he had become a non-threat at this point and my beer/self were in no apparent danger. However, I couldn't help myself. The timing was perfect.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
The Letter That Never Got Sent
Dear Breakstone,
I have been an enthusiastic consumer of you Breakstone 2% Cottage cheese product for almost 2 years now. I tried almost every product on the market before settling on yours. I was on a quest for the perfect texture, taste, and consistency. Truthfully, when I tried yours, I knew I was home. However, these past few months have proven to be a troublesome time. Are you mis-treating the cows?? Three times in the past 6 months, I have opened up a container of cottage cheese, excited to delight in the sensory overload which only Breakstone can produce, to find myself, only seconds after putting a heaping spoonful in my mouth, spitting it all over the counter/sink/self. It was horrendous!
It tasted like I was suckling off a cow's teet and a pasty white sludge was draining into my shocked palate. Do you not have taste testers at your mythical dairy factory? Are there not rigid standards which must be adhered to before your products get sent out into the market? I thought maybe the first container was a fluke; an oversight by the higher-ups perhaps. But three?? That is more than mere coincidence. I demand quality in all of my dairy products. Until you fix whatever troubles may be plaguing you staff, your cows, or (dare I say) you staff-cows, I will be switching brands. I know that I will not enjoy my breakfast as much, but at least it will be consistent and I won't be retching in disgust for the rest of the day. Please return to the high standard of quality that I know you can achieve.
Sincerely,
A disappointed customer.
PS. There is a possibility I could be paid off with a lifetime supply of cottage cheese.
I have been an enthusiastic consumer of you Breakstone 2% Cottage cheese product for almost 2 years now. I tried almost every product on the market before settling on yours. I was on a quest for the perfect texture, taste, and consistency. Truthfully, when I tried yours, I knew I was home. However, these past few months have proven to be a troublesome time. Are you mis-treating the cows?? Three times in the past 6 months, I have opened up a container of cottage cheese, excited to delight in the sensory overload which only Breakstone can produce, to find myself, only seconds after putting a heaping spoonful in my mouth, spitting it all over the counter/sink/self. It was horrendous!
It tasted like I was suckling off a cow's teet and a pasty white sludge was draining into my shocked palate. Do you not have taste testers at your mythical dairy factory? Are there not rigid standards which must be adhered to before your products get sent out into the market? I thought maybe the first container was a fluke; an oversight by the higher-ups perhaps. But three?? That is more than mere coincidence. I demand quality in all of my dairy products. Until you fix whatever troubles may be plaguing you staff, your cows, or (dare I say) you staff-cows, I will be switching brands. I know that I will not enjoy my breakfast as much, but at least it will be consistent and I won't be retching in disgust for the rest of the day. Please return to the high standard of quality that I know you can achieve.
Sincerely,
A disappointed customer.
PS. There is a possibility I could be paid off with a lifetime supply of cottage cheese.
The Best Cups For Drinking and Driving
As much as road safety is a concern for me, getting drunk (often in a speedy and efficient manner) is a more pressing concern to my reckless, alcohol-indulging self. Years of experience have shown me the importance of choosing the right cup when embarking on a night of drunk driving. In an effort to help out my fellow readers, I have compiled a list, outlining the positives and negatives of the standard beverage holders.
1. The Solo Cup.
The Classic. This cup has been helping frat guys get laid since the dawn of the drinking culture in American universities. However, it does have many practical uses outside of the college party. First of all, it tells your friends, "I'm here to party". How often do you see a red solo cup that isn't filled with beer/mixed drink/ vomit? Its surprising durability and ability to hold over 16oz of liquor make it a fine choice. While perfect for the house party, I would not recommend this cup for the car. Just as it serves as a notice to your friends that you are well on your way to getting fucked up, it tells the cops the saaaaaaaaaaame thing. Pull up to a stop light drinking out of a Solo Cup and you will be pulled over faster than you can take another sip. Keep this cup at home. Unless you want to throw the cops for a loop, which I often do- use the solo cup in the daytime, and fill it with water or juice. Seeing an officer of the law while doing this has the same euporhic effect as the first few months of using your id after turning 21. It's a real mindfuck for the po's.
2. The Used Water Bottle
I can only reiterate this concept so many times: only clear beverages go in the water bottle. This means vodka/tonics, gin/tonics, or for the real crazies that think they have their drinking and driving down; Everclear and Sprite. This way, when you get pulled over, that half empty Poland Spring is so unassuming that the cop won't even think to check what's in it (granted you can hold your shit together while he's talking to you). No mixers that stray from the clear. It's just asking for trouble, believe me.
3. The Glass
A bad choice all around. You have to be pretty ballsy to do this. It is telling people that you are so confident with your drunk driving skills that you didn't even think to take something more discreet. In fact, when you leave with a glass, it is usually something you stole from somebody else's house, because you didn't care, maybe didn't like them that much, and know that they will never see it again. We rarely bring glasses from our own homes. Why? Because we know they're going to end up crushed to smithereens on the side of the highway during a moment of clarity, when we toss them out the window realizing how bad of an idea they actually are.
4. The Protein Shake Bottle
My personal favorite. Its large size is perfect for the 4 shot drink when you really want to get blitzed. Maybe you have an awkward social function to attend, maybe you just got off of work and your friends are light years ahead of you in alcohol consumption. Whatever the reason, I highly recommend adding one of these cups to your personal collection. They come with a lid and so are highly spill proof. They are so big that there is ample room for an indulgence of ice and mixer. It's a real toss-up as to whether the cops are going to find this kind of item suspicious. I'd say if you're a big guy and have a copy of "Men's Health" on your passenger seat, then you're in the clear. Otherwise, proceed with caution.
5. The Bottle the Drink Came In
This is obvious but needs to be mentioned. If you're taking swigs out of that bottle of Captain, you better be ready for the consequences. You are either driving to the highest bridge you can find to jump off, or your life sucks so bad that you don't care what happens to you. I have never heard of any stories ending well in a situation like this. If any readers know of anything to the contrary, I'd be interested to hear about it.
Moral of the story: Drive safely. And I don't condone drunk driving.
1. The Solo Cup.
The Classic. This cup has been helping frat guys get laid since the dawn of the drinking culture in American universities. However, it does have many practical uses outside of the college party. First of all, it tells your friends, "I'm here to party". How often do you see a red solo cup that isn't filled with beer/mixed drink/ vomit? Its surprising durability and ability to hold over 16oz of liquor make it a fine choice. While perfect for the house party, I would not recommend this cup for the car. Just as it serves as a notice to your friends that you are well on your way to getting fucked up, it tells the cops the saaaaaaaaaaame thing. Pull up to a stop light drinking out of a Solo Cup and you will be pulled over faster than you can take another sip. Keep this cup at home. Unless you want to throw the cops for a loop, which I often do- use the solo cup in the daytime, and fill it with water or juice. Seeing an officer of the law while doing this has the same euporhic effect as the first few months of using your id after turning 21. It's a real mindfuck for the po's.
2. The Used Water Bottle
I can only reiterate this concept so many times: only clear beverages go in the water bottle. This means vodka/tonics, gin/tonics, or for the real crazies that think they have their drinking and driving down; Everclear and Sprite. This way, when you get pulled over, that half empty Poland Spring is so unassuming that the cop won't even think to check what's in it (granted you can hold your shit together while he's talking to you). No mixers that stray from the clear. It's just asking for trouble, believe me.
3. The Glass
A bad choice all around. You have to be pretty ballsy to do this. It is telling people that you are so confident with your drunk driving skills that you didn't even think to take something more discreet. In fact, when you leave with a glass, it is usually something you stole from somebody else's house, because you didn't care, maybe didn't like them that much, and know that they will never see it again. We rarely bring glasses from our own homes. Why? Because we know they're going to end up crushed to smithereens on the side of the highway during a moment of clarity, when we toss them out the window realizing how bad of an idea they actually are.
4. The Protein Shake Bottle
My personal favorite. Its large size is perfect for the 4 shot drink when you really want to get blitzed. Maybe you have an awkward social function to attend, maybe you just got off of work and your friends are light years ahead of you in alcohol consumption. Whatever the reason, I highly recommend adding one of these cups to your personal collection. They come with a lid and so are highly spill proof. They are so big that there is ample room for an indulgence of ice and mixer. It's a real toss-up as to whether the cops are going to find this kind of item suspicious. I'd say if you're a big guy and have a copy of "Men's Health" on your passenger seat, then you're in the clear. Otherwise, proceed with caution.
5. The Bottle the Drink Came In
This is obvious but needs to be mentioned. If you're taking swigs out of that bottle of Captain, you better be ready for the consequences. You are either driving to the highest bridge you can find to jump off, or your life sucks so bad that you don't care what happens to you. I have never heard of any stories ending well in a situation like this. If any readers know of anything to the contrary, I'd be interested to hear about it.
Moral of the story: Drive safely. And I don't condone drunk driving.
The Playdoh Living Room
So the professor of my writing class makes no secret of how intolerant she is of us as a group. She constantly points out our "unprofessionalism" and inattentiveness during class. Her solution: treat these 20somethings as children, and they may actually grow up. Au contraire. The first day of this semester she arrived with a Playdough multipack, including 20 mini-tubs of every color under the sun, cookie cutter shapes, and rolling pins. I could tell instantly that this semester was going to be better than the last.
"I am sick of everyone browsing the internet, chatting, and generally not paying attention during class. This is playdough. If you feel like you can't pay attention; use this. I don't mind."
What! This was the best thing since free pizza on Tuesdays!
Only a few of actually have ever used the playdough during class. More specifically, only myself and Law School Friend #1 have used it consistently, every single class period. That is why we have the skills that the others only dream of. The key to a good playdough designer includes nimble fingers, creativity, and patience, amongst all else. (note: Friend # 1 ran into alot of trouble with a lampshade for our endtable today- her dedication to this 1/4 centimeter piece of craftsmanship was truly inspiring). We worked straight through the hour long class, here, I am proud to show you our final creation.
The Clay Living Room
"I am sick of everyone browsing the internet, chatting, and generally not paying attention during class. This is playdough. If you feel like you can't pay attention; use this. I don't mind."
What! This was the best thing since free pizza on Tuesdays!
Only a few of actually have ever used the playdough during class. More specifically, only myself and Law School Friend #1 have used it consistently, every single class period. That is why we have the skills that the others only dream of. The key to a good playdough designer includes nimble fingers, creativity, and patience, amongst all else. (note: Friend # 1 ran into alot of trouble with a lampshade for our endtable today- her dedication to this 1/4 centimeter piece of craftsmanship was truly inspiring). We worked straight through the hour long class, here, I am proud to show you our final creation.
The Clay Living Room
We couldn't believe how well it turned out, to be honest. The key was that Friend #1 has small hands, and so was really able to excel at the detail-oriented items that this picture do not do justice to (note: plates, knives, forks on the kitchen table. Fruit bowl, end tables, and lamp). I on the other hand, really found my calling with the furniture pieces. (I made the couch, kitchen chairs, and area rug). The best part of all of this?? My teacher could not do one god damn thing about it! It was her idea! IT was the great Playdough Backlash of 08'.
When class ended, we were so proud of our finished product that we did a photo shoot, capturing the room from multiple angles (in the right lighting the cat looks alive). We even gave guided tours to the 2 or 3 lingerers who were legitimately impressed with what we had accomplished. Professor feigned amusement, but I know she was cursing us on the inside. Our next project: an Amusement Park. Stay Tuned.
When class ended, we were so proud of our finished product that we did a photo shoot, capturing the room from multiple angles (in the right lighting the cat looks alive). We even gave guided tours to the 2 or 3 lingerers who were legitimately impressed with what we had accomplished. Professor feigned amusement, but I know she was cursing us on the inside. Our next project: an Amusement Park. Stay Tuned.
The Modelling Stint
When I was ten, my mom, always a sucker for money-making scams, decided that I could potentially be very lucrative to her, and so enrolled me in modelling classes in Boston that claimed to take clumsy toothless children and turn them into child stars.
6 Saturdays, 200 black & white head shots, and $4000 dollars later, I was a certified model through the Cameo Kids Modeling Agency. What does this mean, you may wonder? Well, besides a closed circuit television commercial for Campbell's soup, in which I was eating out of a clearly empty bowl, I didn't have too much going on. My career was about as happening as Stephanie Tanner's after the cancellation of Full House.
Sure, I had a few stints here and there. I was in a shoot for Met Life magazine posing on a basketball court, and a couple of other minor roles, but nothing serious. Lets just say it was taking me longer than I thought to pay off the new Huffy. All of this is pre- "big break". When it came, it came hard and fast. My classmates turned green with envy. The pay was good, the job was easy, and the rewards... well, they would launch me into print modelling stardom.
It was a shoot for McGraw Hill, the text book company. Specifically, a fifth grade math book. I remember the day vividly. I could hardly sleep the night before. I was picked up after first period by my driver (Parental Unit #1) and whisked off; the starlet that I was, to an undistingishable office park on the outskirts of Boston. Since I didn't know what they would make me wear, I brought plenty of outfits in the event that they wanted me to put on a runway show or strike some poses. So I arrive, and there's 4 other kids there. It is a scene from a fucking United Nations ad: The Asian male, the little black girl with cornrows, a dorky looking white kid in a polo shirt and glasses, and me. What was my role? I wondered. I would soon find out.
A mock classroom had been set up- equipped with a chalkboard and roundtable where we would be sitting. Feeling unsure of myself in the hideous duds they put me in, I was apprehensive about where I was supposed to sit. I was not yet a seasoned model at this point. The woman running the shoot took me by the arm.
"You're going to be sitting there" she pointed.
She obviously was mistaken.
"Sorry, where?"
"In the wheelchair" she said impatiently.
"You want me to sit.. In. A. Wheelchair"??? THIS was my big break?? They wanted me to play a retard in a fucking wheelchair?? Wait until the kids at school got wind of this..
Ten minutes later and after much convincing from my mother, I sat in the wheelchair and smiled meekly at the Asian, who at this point had already constructed a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of the blocks on the table. Who said stereotypes aren't true?? I played the part well, refusing to take direction and making obscene gestures throughout the entirety of the shoot. Lets just say I never got another job offer from the company. My career ended as quickly as it had begun.
And for the record: this 1995 McGraw Hill basic math book is no longer in circulation, so don't even try to locate it.
6 Saturdays, 200 black & white head shots, and $4000 dollars later, I was a certified model through the Cameo Kids Modeling Agency. What does this mean, you may wonder? Well, besides a closed circuit television commercial for Campbell's soup, in which I was eating out of a clearly empty bowl, I didn't have too much going on. My career was about as happening as Stephanie Tanner's after the cancellation of Full House.
Sure, I had a few stints here and there. I was in a shoot for Met Life magazine posing on a basketball court, and a couple of other minor roles, but nothing serious. Lets just say it was taking me longer than I thought to pay off the new Huffy. All of this is pre- "big break". When it came, it came hard and fast. My classmates turned green with envy. The pay was good, the job was easy, and the rewards... well, they would launch me into print modelling stardom.
It was a shoot for McGraw Hill, the text book company. Specifically, a fifth grade math book. I remember the day vividly. I could hardly sleep the night before. I was picked up after first period by my driver (Parental Unit #1) and whisked off; the starlet that I was, to an undistingishable office park on the outskirts of Boston. Since I didn't know what they would make me wear, I brought plenty of outfits in the event that they wanted me to put on a runway show or strike some poses. So I arrive, and there's 4 other kids there. It is a scene from a fucking United Nations ad: The Asian male, the little black girl with cornrows, a dorky looking white kid in a polo shirt and glasses, and me. What was my role? I wondered. I would soon find out.
A mock classroom had been set up- equipped with a chalkboard and roundtable where we would be sitting. Feeling unsure of myself in the hideous duds they put me in, I was apprehensive about where I was supposed to sit. I was not yet a seasoned model at this point. The woman running the shoot took me by the arm.
"You're going to be sitting there" she pointed.
She obviously was mistaken.
"Sorry, where?"
"In the wheelchair" she said impatiently.
"You want me to sit.. In. A. Wheelchair"??? THIS was my big break?? They wanted me to play a retard in a fucking wheelchair?? Wait until the kids at school got wind of this..
Ten minutes later and after much convincing from my mother, I sat in the wheelchair and smiled meekly at the Asian, who at this point had already constructed a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of the blocks on the table. Who said stereotypes aren't true?? I played the part well, refusing to take direction and making obscene gestures throughout the entirety of the shoot. Lets just say I never got another job offer from the company. My career ended as quickly as it had begun.
And for the record: this 1995 McGraw Hill basic math book is no longer in circulation, so don't even try to locate it.
The Arrest
When I was 17 years old, I was arrested for shoplifting. Now usually this could be chalked up to a case of juvenile delinquency, if only I weren't a freshman in college at the time. It is harder to justify when you are a college student at home over Christmas break, because you are expected to know better, and rightfully so. I had dabbled in petty theft when I was younger, but never anything too serious.
Well, the day before Christmas break, a girl in my dorm who I never had liked (she was a part-time prostitute and a full time slut) gave me a Christmas present. And a fairly nice one at that. Shit, I thought. Now I was obligated to get her something. One afternoon around the end of break, I decided to go to the mall to do some post-holiday shopping. While perusing the racks in Macy's, my eyes were drawn to a wall of fantastically ghetto Tommy Hilfiger apparel that I thought would be perfect for this less than savory character (we'll call her "Jenny") who had bestowed the gift of giving upon me. However, the thought of actually spending my own Christmas money on this girl was difficult to stomach. I found a hooded sweatshirt that I thought would serve the dual purpose of carrying around her portable weed stash and covering her massive breasts (the perfect gift, you could say) and brought it into the changing room. Along the way I also grabbed a 3 pack of white Tommy athletic socks, with the logo on the ankle. In the changing room, a small moral dilemma ensued. Should I just shove this shit into my purse and dip out, or just shell out the $40 odd dollars on this purchase. Needless to say, I chose the former option. With a racing heart, I walked out of the changing room, down the escalator, through the maze of perfume and makeup counters, and out into the open mall. Home free! Or so I thought. I was about 50 feet from the Macy's entrance looking at jade necklaces at a stall, when two sweaty heaving fatasses came charging at me, grabbing me on either side by the arms.
"I think you have something that doesn't belong to you, Mam".
"Uhhh, I stammered, red as a beet, as I made eyes with the vendor of the jade necklaces".
They made me open my bag, pulling out both the sweatshirt and the athletic socks. There are two issues that really get to me to this day about the situation:
1. The fuckers waited until I was halfway through the mall before apprehending me
2. I stole a Tommy Hilfiger hoodie and accompanying socks. Could there be ANYTHING shittier to steal from a department store? I was embarrassed. I pictured myself standing in a courtroom with a judge listing off the merchandise, to a room full of fellow criminals who would scoff their heads in disgust at my dismal takings.
The two dragged me back into the store, and brought me through a long hall to some sort of 'interrogation room'. I use the term loosely because the windowless room consisted of a card table and 3 chairs. They sat me down and told me to wait, that someone would be with me. When alone, my first order of business was to do something with my fake id, which was sitting in the place of my license in my wallet. Still handcuff free at this point, I quickly pulled the id, and afraid of getting strip searched, stuck it in my underwear. Seconds later, the two thugs who had caught me came back into the room, followed by a fat female who was head of security. She certainly had enough brawn for the entire staff.
The three hooligans proceed to verbally berate me as I broke down into tears. It was about 5:00 pm at this point, and I had to babysit at 7. I knew I probably was not going to get this process sped up. They also refused to let me phone home. So anyway, the manager started emptying the contents of my bag onto the table.
"Birth Control??" she hissed. "Are you having sexxxxx?" I swear that venom came out of her mouth.
"Uh no" I replied. And I know for a fact that you're not either you fat bitch, is what I wanted to say, but didn't.
Minutes later, the arresting officer arrived. I don't need to elaborate on the details. He cuffed me and marched me through the shop and out to the cop car. One notable point- as we were cruising through the parking lot, me and Officer Dickhead, an elderly woman flagged down the cop because she had locked her keys in her car. This is seriously what the cop said to the poor woman-
"Back up mam, I have a prisoner in this vehicle". She jumped a mile and scurried off.
Four hours and two psychological exams later, my dad arrived to pick me up. The disappointment in his face said it all. My mom ended up having to go and babysit for me that night, telling the child's parents that I had a flat tire. All in all, I only ended up having to write an essay, and was banned from all Macy's stores for 1 year. It was literally the most humiliating day of my life, and I will absolutely never steal anything again. I learned my lesson. The point was drilled home even farther when I had to take a Greyhound bus from my college to home for my court date at the end of January. But that is a story all to itself.
Well, the day before Christmas break, a girl in my dorm who I never had liked (she was a part-time prostitute and a full time slut) gave me a Christmas present. And a fairly nice one at that. Shit, I thought. Now I was obligated to get her something. One afternoon around the end of break, I decided to go to the mall to do some post-holiday shopping. While perusing the racks in Macy's, my eyes were drawn to a wall of fantastically ghetto Tommy Hilfiger apparel that I thought would be perfect for this less than savory character (we'll call her "Jenny") who had bestowed the gift of giving upon me. However, the thought of actually spending my own Christmas money on this girl was difficult to stomach. I found a hooded sweatshirt that I thought would serve the dual purpose of carrying around her portable weed stash and covering her massive breasts (the perfect gift, you could say) and brought it into the changing room. Along the way I also grabbed a 3 pack of white Tommy athletic socks, with the logo on the ankle. In the changing room, a small moral dilemma ensued. Should I just shove this shit into my purse and dip out, or just shell out the $40 odd dollars on this purchase. Needless to say, I chose the former option. With a racing heart, I walked out of the changing room, down the escalator, through the maze of perfume and makeup counters, and out into the open mall. Home free! Or so I thought. I was about 50 feet from the Macy's entrance looking at jade necklaces at a stall, when two sweaty heaving fatasses came charging at me, grabbing me on either side by the arms.
"I think you have something that doesn't belong to you, Mam".
"Uhhh, I stammered, red as a beet, as I made eyes with the vendor of the jade necklaces".
They made me open my bag, pulling out both the sweatshirt and the athletic socks. There are two issues that really get to me to this day about the situation:
1. The fuckers waited until I was halfway through the mall before apprehending me
2. I stole a Tommy Hilfiger hoodie and accompanying socks. Could there be ANYTHING shittier to steal from a department store? I was embarrassed. I pictured myself standing in a courtroom with a judge listing off the merchandise, to a room full of fellow criminals who would scoff their heads in disgust at my dismal takings.
The two dragged me back into the store, and brought me through a long hall to some sort of 'interrogation room'. I use the term loosely because the windowless room consisted of a card table and 3 chairs. They sat me down and told me to wait, that someone would be with me. When alone, my first order of business was to do something with my fake id, which was sitting in the place of my license in my wallet. Still handcuff free at this point, I quickly pulled the id, and afraid of getting strip searched, stuck it in my underwear. Seconds later, the two thugs who had caught me came back into the room, followed by a fat female who was head of security. She certainly had enough brawn for the entire staff.
The three hooligans proceed to verbally berate me as I broke down into tears. It was about 5:00 pm at this point, and I had to babysit at 7. I knew I probably was not going to get this process sped up. They also refused to let me phone home. So anyway, the manager started emptying the contents of my bag onto the table.
"Birth Control??" she hissed. "Are you having sexxxxx?" I swear that venom came out of her mouth.
"Uh no" I replied. And I know for a fact that you're not either you fat bitch, is what I wanted to say, but didn't.
Minutes later, the arresting officer arrived. I don't need to elaborate on the details. He cuffed me and marched me through the shop and out to the cop car. One notable point- as we were cruising through the parking lot, me and Officer Dickhead, an elderly woman flagged down the cop because she had locked her keys in her car. This is seriously what the cop said to the poor woman-
"Back up mam, I have a prisoner in this vehicle". She jumped a mile and scurried off.
Four hours and two psychological exams later, my dad arrived to pick me up. The disappointment in his face said it all. My mom ended up having to go and babysit for me that night, telling the child's parents that I had a flat tire. All in all, I only ended up having to write an essay, and was banned from all Macy's stores for 1 year. It was literally the most humiliating day of my life, and I will absolutely never steal anything again. I learned my lesson. The point was drilled home even farther when I had to take a Greyhound bus from my college to home for my court date at the end of January. But that is a story all to itself.
The Car Wash
One day in high school, my best friend had picked me up to drive to another friend's house. Off of the main road, we saw signs for a free car wash, and, in the spirit of never turning down anything that is free, we decided to stop by. The car wash was run by a youth group from South Carolina who were promoting some sort of religious endeavor. My guard immediately went up. I have never been a fan of organized religion, and become all the more skeptical when it is being flung upon me by devilish little children.
The group had been travelling by coach bus, apparently hitting up all the states along the eastern seaboard. I have honestly never seen such enthusiastic tweens in my life. I would venture to say the pastor was partaking with them in some sort of lewd sexual activities on the bus. Anyway, I didn't really know what were were supposed to give them in a form of a donation, because they were refusing to take money. I hastily put the two crumpled dollar bills that I was planning on giving for a donation back into my wallet. We sat in my friend's saab while soaped up 12 year olds got frisky while sponging down the car. One of the girls (a ginger with a mouthful of neon green braces) indicated for us to roll down the window. In the thickest southern accent I have probably ever heard, she said
"Instead of donations, we are asking if you would please join us in a prayer circle".
Oh fuck me. I have a tendency for laughing at extremely inappropriate times, and I knew that I was totally going to lose it. Not to mention, we are at a hillbilly Chevron station off of a busy road, and I don't want anybody I know to see us. We reluctantly stepped out of the car, where a pre-pubescent boy held out his hand for me to step into the circle, which was about 20 people deep (my friend and myself being the only outsiders). The minxy ringleader just happened to be the afore-mentioned ginger, and she pulled out a laminated card with a picture of Jesus on the cross, and a prayer or scripture of some sort printed underneath. She began reading the first line (I distinctly remember her saying that Jesus would forgive us), and then slowly but surely, the rest of her little minions started joining in. The only thing that would have made this prayer circle more cult-like was if a man in a white cloak appeared from out of the ground bearing a candle and holy water. The complete and utter awkwardness of the situation was too much.
I burst into fits of hysteric, uncontrollable laughter the second I made eye contact with my friend. There was nothing I could do. The persistent ginger brushed off any offense she must have taken by this outburst, and kept reading, her voice never wavering. I kept apologizing profusely in between fits of laughter. After what seemed like an eternity, the prayer ended. We jumped into the car and sped off. Amen.
The group had been travelling by coach bus, apparently hitting up all the states along the eastern seaboard. I have honestly never seen such enthusiastic tweens in my life. I would venture to say the pastor was partaking with them in some sort of lewd sexual activities on the bus. Anyway, I didn't really know what were were supposed to give them in a form of a donation, because they were refusing to take money. I hastily put the two crumpled dollar bills that I was planning on giving for a donation back into my wallet. We sat in my friend's saab while soaped up 12 year olds got frisky while sponging down the car. One of the girls (a ginger with a mouthful of neon green braces) indicated for us to roll down the window. In the thickest southern accent I have probably ever heard, she said
"Instead of donations, we are asking if you would please join us in a prayer circle".
Oh fuck me. I have a tendency for laughing at extremely inappropriate times, and I knew that I was totally going to lose it. Not to mention, we are at a hillbilly Chevron station off of a busy road, and I don't want anybody I know to see us. We reluctantly stepped out of the car, where a pre-pubescent boy held out his hand for me to step into the circle, which was about 20 people deep (my friend and myself being the only outsiders). The minxy ringleader just happened to be the afore-mentioned ginger, and she pulled out a laminated card with a picture of Jesus on the cross, and a prayer or scripture of some sort printed underneath. She began reading the first line (I distinctly remember her saying that Jesus would forgive us), and then slowly but surely, the rest of her little minions started joining in. The only thing that would have made this prayer circle more cult-like was if a man in a white cloak appeared from out of the ground bearing a candle and holy water. The complete and utter awkwardness of the situation was too much.
I burst into fits of hysteric, uncontrollable laughter the second I made eye contact with my friend. There was nothing I could do. The persistent ginger brushed off any offense she must have taken by this outburst, and kept reading, her voice never wavering. I kept apologizing profusely in between fits of laughter. After what seemed like an eternity, the prayer ended. We jumped into the car and sped off. Amen.
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