Wednesday, August 31, 2005

By Semi-Popular Demand: How An Alien Fetus Done Flew Out My Coochie

I've never been a ginormous fan of scary movies. They make me tense. All jittery. And I'm tense enough on a day-to-day basis that there's really NO NEED to augment that by watching uneducational scary movies with creepy music and aliens. Especially aliens. No me gusto el Creepy Aliens.

But, alas, I have many a friend that find the thrill of the Scary Movie Genre very exciting and thrilling and oh-so-very entertaining. Naturally, these friends also enjoy the Creepy Alien movies. Naturally, naturally. And so on occasion, I am forced to watch the creepy, the sadistic and the alien-having movies that I normally avoid like a bad case of herpes.

Such was the case my freshman year at college.

My roommate, Ruby, was a member of the off-beat crowd. The crowd that indulges in displays of punkish hair color, black eyeliner and what can sometimes be truly unattractive clothing. Thanks to genetics (or no thanks, however you'd like to look at it) I resembled more of a country club breed than a punk rock breed. I had smooth, undyed hair. Minimal makeup. And lots of dress pants that I chose over the traditional blue jeans and track pants favored by college students the world over. The amusing part of this living arrangement was that I was considered the oddball, the freak, the "are you SURE that child isn't medicated?" kind of roommate. Due in part to my then-lack of inner-monologue. And a tendency to get whacked out on NyQuil. Which I only took twice when I was sick. Much to my later embarrassment. But I digress.

I found all this very amusing, of course. As did Ruby.

So it was one Saturday afternoon where I was presented with yet another opportunity to make a total and complete (and unintentional) F R E A K of myself.

We'd been watching one of the Alien movies. The ones with Sigourney Weaver. One of the forty Alien movies out there. The Birth of Alien. The Learning of Alien. Alien: The Teenage Years.


The movie (played on VHS, naturally, because poor college students did not have money for DVD players 8 years ago) had creeped it's creepy little way into every pore in my body and even though the sun was shining through our giant windows on that Saturday afternoon, I was truly terrified of going to the bathroom alone. But the teeney size of my chickpea bladder negated any more time spent curled into a ball on my bed, crushing the pillow to my chest and biting the frilled edges. I had to go RIGHT THEN or risk actually shooting urine out of my belly button.

Now, Ruby and I shared the bathroom in question, the one I'd soon be using, with our suitemates, Baptist Judy and Penecostal Mary. Both quite adverse to my lack of inner monologue, which had left them in the wake of my ranting stream-of-consciousness cursings more than once. The general rule with the suitemate bathrooms consisted of always keeping the doors shut between the two rooms and always unlocking the other suitemate’s door before exiting the facilities. An easy enough task. Though if you were just popping in for a quick piss, you normally just took your chances. It's not like someone couldn't HEAR you through the plywood doors anyway. You had to assume that most people had enough sense to not walk in the bathroom if they heard a steady stream of urine hitting a porcelain bowl.

So I extracted myself from the impenetrable barrier my covers allowed me from the nasty aliens. Ruby, ever aware of my unabashed fear of aliens, had the heart not to let one trickle of laughter escape her as I pee-pee danced into the bathroom, shutting the door on the Icky Alien Movie.

I unbuttoned my slacks, pushed the zipper down and sat gratefully upon the toilet. As soon as I sat down, however, I knew something was wrong.


But the urine was dashing out so quickly I had no way of stopping it. No matter how many Kiegel exercises you’ve done in your lifetime, THERE’S NO STOPPING A GIANT RUSH OF PISS, NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY.

So I mentally urged my bladder to empty as quickly as possible because I couldn’t STAND not knowing what was TICKLING MY DELICATE INNER ASSCHEEKS. THE INNER ASSCHEEKS ARE OFF LIMITS. TO EVERYONE.

And so I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, ready for the wipe-n-dash.

Monday, August 29, 2005

So. I quite liked telling of my little adventure on the vomit ferry. Hence, a selection of incidents which I will write about in the very near future. Of course, I will be taking ballots on which one should get written about first. Though if nobody cares too much, it's CAPTAIN RANDOM for everybody and if you don't like it then LICK MY IMAGINARY BALLS.

1) How I Obtained Free Pizza And Became a Legend at the Sigma Nu Papa John's
2) How I Got Dry-Humped on Film and How Said Film Was Then Shown For Artistic Purposes In Front Of A Great Many People
3) Why Some People (boys) Should Keep Their Pants On Or At Least Send Out A Memo Regarding Pant-Dropping Event
4) How An Alien Fetus Done Flew Out My Coochie
5) Sing to the Furry Kitty, He Likes It.
6) An Earwig In The Ear and a Midas Touch
7) The Turning Angel Lives In The Ghetto And You Should Never Ride Around With Boys Who Take Off Their Shirts When You Are Underage, Even If Your Tire Goes Flat
8) The Wheels On The Bus Go Round and Round-- Can You Think Of Other Things to Go Round And Round? Can You?
9) Why Some Boys Should Just Not Speak-As They Will Not Make Any Sense And Further Confuse Your Very Important Anthropological Studies Of The College Age Male

Aren't you excited? I can feel your excitement.


I'm sorry.

I don't speak Skankho

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

The Story With The Bad Ending, finished

Once the vomiting had ceased, I found myself rooted to my chair like someone had taken an invisible wire and lashed my legs to the bench beneath. I was at once fascinated by the display beside me and horrified that I found myself unable to move.

Thankfully, my fellow ferry-goers and myself were in the non-sypmathy-puker crowd. Being mostly alcohol, Drunk Blond Girl’s stomach contents had little smell, not to mention the fact that we were separated from the pukage by her luggage and the now ruined leather of her Louis Vuitton. I felt relatively secure, assuming that even if she had to move to the larger purse, or even if the small purse began to over flow a bit, I was more than safe.

This, of course, is always the thought that one thinks before the earth opens it’s gaping mouth and swallows you whole.

So as Drunk Blond Girl continued to hang limply between her knees, the ends of her hair now trailing in the purse-o-puke instead of the floor, I counted down the minutes until the ferry doors would open and boarding could begin.

Five minutes to go.

Drunk Blond Girl managed to pull herself up a bit, elbows resting on her skin-tight jeans. She let her right hand drop between her knees to grab the strap of the wee purse resting precariously on the floor. She pulled the strap up so she could grasp the sides of the purse while I braced myself for what appeared to be another bout of stomach expelling when Drunk Blond Girl, in her infinite wisdom, SLUNG THE PURSE DIRECTLY TO HER RIGHT, EMPTYING THE FULL CONTENTS ONTO MY SHOES, LEGS AND SKIRT.

I sat in shock, pure unadulterated shock, for a full minute. Drunk Blond Girl was completely unconcerned and proceeded to puke heartily into her freshly emptied purse. The incident had attracted only a few dead-eyed stares from the passengers around me and so I began the process of gathering my sanity and dignity, fighting back rage so sudden and acute I was shaking with the onslaught of it. I had no rags or paper towels with which to wipe myself free of the larger chunks so I slowly stood and shook out my boots and skirt while staring daggers at the Drunk Blond Fucking Bitch now leaning back in her seat, head bumping the jacket of the passenger behind her.

Though I was covered in puke, standing in puke and overall surrounded by puke, I decided a little bit more wasn’t going to hurt me.

I stood directly in front of Drunk Blond Fucking Bitch and grabbed the now full Louis Vuitton. She drunkenly slurred some nonsense about someone stealing her purse. The doors began to open and the throng of people pushed forward, leaving me in claustrophobic anonymity. As the people pushed by, intent on gaining the always illusive clean ferry seat, I dumped the contents of Fucking Bitch’s purse into her lap, shaking every last drop out, splattering her arms and chin with residual chunks. Too wasted to do much more than stare at me blankly and mutter obscenities, I then carefully took each piece of her luggage and laid them upon the terminal floor, making sure each one gained maximum puke exposure.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork.

“Bitch,” she slurred.

“Cunt,” I calmly replied back.

I turned and walked to the ferry doors, looking back once to see Fucking Bitch’s body slumped sideways over the now empty seats.

I found a seat at the front of the ferry and sat perfectly still for the choppy and turbulent ferry ride home. I exited the ferry once we docked at Staten Island and walked briskly to the bus terminal, waiting on Bus S66 to make it’s way to the front of the line. I boarded the bus and was rewarded with an entire row of seats all to myself as the 20 or so other passengers became aware of a) what the residual chunks on my shoes, legs and skirt were and b) from where the smell was emanating. I exited the bus at Victory Blvd and walked the blocks to my apartment. I unlocked both outer doors and climbed the three stories to my floor. I opened the apartment door and sat my purse and keys on the kitchen table, turning to relock both deadbolts. I unzipped my suede kitten heel boots and placed them in the garbage can. I then walked in my stocking feet to the bathroom and turned on the water. I waited until it was sufficiently warm and hit the lever for the shower. Stepping delicately in the shower, careful not to touch the shower curtain, I stood under the scalding hot spray, fully clothed, for a good 30 minutes. When the water began to cool, I stripped off my socks, skirt and sweater and pushed them towards the drain. I scrubbed my entire body with the pumice stone intended for callused feet. I washed my hair.

When I was done, I stepped out of the shower and toweled dry. I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a plastic bag from the supply under the sink. Back in the bathroom, I scooped up my wet clothes, never letting my bare skin touch the clothing, and tied the bag into a knot. With my towel tucked under my arms and wrapped around my body, I slipped my feet into my nearby house-shoes, walked down three flights of stairs, out of the two ground floor doors and into the freezing cold street.

I carried the plastic bag to the dumpster on the side of the building and placed the bag inside the smelly metal vat.

Inside the building, I went to the bedroom and extracted fuzzy pajama bottoms and a soft long sleeve sweater. I grabbed the pack of cigarettes on my nightstand and opened the French doors out onto the terrace. I slapped the pack against my hand good and hard, then pulled out a perfectly sculpted stick and struck a match against the wall. I cupped my hand over the cigarette and inhaled strongly, giving life to the burning cherry. I blew a perfect stream of smoke into the frigid blackness and lowered myself onto the reclining chair. Unable to see stars, I stared at the mottled sky above me and waited for dawn.


Monday, August 22, 2005

The Story With The Bad Ending, continued.

You can always tell when you’ve entered the ferry terminal. Years of smells indicative of summer’s heat, winter’s cold, lacquered benches, linoleum floors, pigeon shit, body odor, janitorial supplies and vending machine food have all been meshed together in a very round, almost-unpleasant-but-never-rancid kind of smell.

That Saturday evening, I had taken my seat close to the ferry doors; something rarely accomplished as my normal commute forced me into the time zones inhabited by Manhattan’s weary workers. Standing Room Only was my normal activity while waiting for the ferry so I was awash with relief that not only had I found a seat, I’d found a whole row of seats within throwing distance of the ferry doors.

After a few minutes of reading my deliciously dark mystery novel, I was startled into awareness when a young woman quite unceremoniously flopped herself into the chair one spot down from my own. She then proceeded to cram her random belongings into the opening directly beside me, something I found very uncool as I thought everyone was aware of the unwritten rule concerning public transportation: Take Up As Little Space As Possible, more commonly known as Keep Your Shit To Yourself.

A hanging-clothes bag, a duffel and a large brown leather purse were somehow positioned into the empty seat. I almost gave the girl credit for managing to keep her Louis Vuitton luggage from touching the questionable floor below, the now Standing Room Only ferry goers and my shoulder as each bag was crammed full to the very brink of explosion.

After another few minutes went by, I noticed that the young woman beside me appeared to be having a bit of difficulty. She would lean slowly forward, eyes glazed and raccooned with smeared mascara, only to snap her self erect. She’d then none to gently rest her head upon her piled luggage only to slide forward yet again, pulling herself up at the last possible moment.

I smiled secretly to myself, amused at the girl’s total lack of decorum and control. I fully expected her to fall flat on her face and spend the next 6 hours sleeping off her airplane vodka on the cold linoleum.

The girl seemed to prove my theory when she managed to dance through one of her little leaning exercises only to be unable to pull herself back up. Her arms hung limply at her sides, blond hair trailing the very floor from which she’d been so anxious to protect her luggage. I could hear her muttering to herself so I absolved myself of any heroic action. If you’re sober enough to mutter, then you’re sober enough to not choke on your own vomit.

And so I returned my attention back to my book, only to be distracted yet again. This time, Drunk Blond Girl has pulled out her wee Louis Vuitton purse and placed it in between the points of her boots. Still hanging limply over her knees, she methodically and with great precision pulled out:

2 tubes of lipstick
1 roll of BreathSavers Wintergreen mints, half gone
1 travel comb
1 Luis Vuitton wallet
2 wadded up receipts
1 condom

All this she laid out in a very straight line, directly perpendicular to her pointy-toed boots. A feat only the intoxicated can fathom.

At this point I dropped all pretense of reading my book. I was vastly interested in this display of drunkenness. She was young, blond, obviously wealthy or lacking in financial sense (Should I eat or should I buy Louis Vuitton? LOUIS VUIITON IT IS!) and she was pretty in a very Staten Island kind of way. Not to mention the lack of any makeup save the smeared mascara and a kind of I-washed-my-hair-two-days-ago vibe. And now, there was a perfect line-up of the offending objects that had previously been contained by her $400 purse. It was all too strange.

Drunk Blond Girl then decided it was time to snap to attention. She popped back up so fast I’m willing to bet she dislodged brain cells previously dissolved by one too many vodka tonics.

Fifteen seconds later, (she’d been staring blankly at the hip-area of the large Hispanic woman standing five feet in front of her) Drunk Blond Girl calmly and without warning EMPTIED THE ENTIRE CONTENTS OF HER STOMACH INTO HER RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE PURSE.

To be honest, I was almost in shock. Drunk Blond Girl had emptied a lot of liquid with a few chunks of last night’s dinner into a teeney weeney purse AND NOT ONE PERSON TURNED TO LOOK. NOT A ONE.

I looked at the clock above the ferry doors: 7 minutes to go. There was no way I was giving up my seat just because Drunk Blond Girl had given up her liquid dinner. I would wait out the seven minutes in the seat I’d been so thankful to have not 20 minutes before because I WOULD BE DAMNED IF I LET SOMEONE ELSE HAVE IT. I WOULD NOT lodge myself between the large Hispanic woman and the tall Caucasian woman/man who I can only assume is the genetically mutated offering of Cher and RuPaul.

Oh, how I was to regret that decision in the moments to come.

Friday, August 19, 2005

This Story Will Have a Bad Ending. Just Warning You.

One Saturday night in New York, I painstakingly got ready for a friends birthday party in the city. Living in Staten Island as I did at the time, this was quite the ordeal.

First, I had to make sure my outfit was appropriately festive.
Second, the appropriately festive outfit had to be warm enough to survive 2 bus rides, 2 ferry rides, 2 (possible) cab rides and several blocks in between.
Third, the shoes that went with the appropriately festive, yet warm, outfit had to be able to withstand a) cold and b) excessive walking.
And Fourthly, the accompanying purse had to be fabulous enough for an evening out as well as large enough to hold my giant set of keys (four of which I had to use to get in my building), my Metro Card, my mini bottle of hair-fixing spray, my lipstick, my blush, my mints, my book (for reading on ferry) and my money. (No messenger bag for me that night! NO SIR. I was going to a PARTY.)

At the end of all my hemming and hawing – something actual New Yorkers never do, along with drinking sweet tea— I had decided upon a very appropriately festive outfit that was warm enough to allow me to wear my party coat (which is specifically for parties, as it does nothing else but embellish the ensemble), a pair of super snazzy boots purchased explicitly because of the low kitten heels but super sexy Come Fuck Me Knee-High Length and a delicious under-the-arm purse that looked sleek and expensive and oh-so-very fabulous.

I walked the three blocks to the bus station at corner of Victory Blvd. Rode said bus to Staten Island Ferry. Boarded ferry. Rode ferry to Manhattan. Walked 5 blocks to 1-9 line. Road 1-train up to Houston St and proceeded to walk around for 20 minutes, looking for Thompson St. Found Thompson St. Walked in WRONG direction for 15 minutes- because GOD FORBID Amy pick a bar that any of us had EVER been to. NOOOOO. Pick some obscure bar that fails to actually be in the Meat Packing District, Greenwich Village, East Side, West Side, etc—JUST SOME RANDOM FUCKING BAR. Gah.

I eventually found the bar, its name escapes me. Something about a cat. Possibly a black cat. I show up, unintentionally but quite obviously fashionably late. Kiss-kiss all my work friends (my only friends, mind you) and start paying $8.50 per Cosmo.


I’m sitting in the back of the bar, near the pool tables, and Riccardo has his hand on my knee and OH MY GOD I’m suddenly very aware that Riccardo is six foot two, half-Italian and possesses the kind of beautiful, shiny, thick brown hair that I have always dreamed of having. Oh, and it’s pulled back in a soft pony tail at the base of his yummy neck, his shoulder length locks hanging over the edge of his blood-red collared shirt.

Now, I’d spent eight hours a day with Riccardo for five months and NOT ONCE realized he was a living, breathing VERY HOT male. I was very distracted by not having air conditioning, and then by my long commute, and then by my chronic aching feet and then by heinous roommates, consecutively.

So as I’m becoming more aware of His Hotness, I continue to drink a bit more, eat some food to dispel the coursing of the alcohol through my veins, and then drink some more- just for shits and giggles.

The evening winds to a close and Riccardo and I have managed to place ourselves with the last group of people leaving the bar. It being late, His Hotness suggests we share a cab to the subway.


But there are no cabs. Not a one. OH, DARN.

So we walk, hand in hand, around the neighborhood. And then we stop at a street corner, under a streetlight and next to a closed little bodega full of fresh flowers and he cups my face and kisses me—just like it was out of a movie scene. My mittened hands slide up around his neck and we have one of those kisses that proves that someone, somewhere, is passing around a handbook to a select group of males that shows, in detail, how one goes about the whole kissing thing without being a giant slobbery slug.

Brilliantly, a cab turns the corner at the end of the block just as we pull away to smile shyly at each other. He strokes my hair back away from my face (furthering my belief in said handbook) and we turn, arms around waists, to hail the oncoming cab.

He gives me another stunning kiss before putting me into the cab, leaning over to kiss that shivery spot right under my ear. I look quizzically at him, thinking we would share the cab to the subway.

Reading my mind, he tells me that he lives 2 blocks from the bar. He’d just wanted to spend more time with me so he’d suggested a cab ride, knowing the cabs were few and far between at 3 in the morning in that part of town.

I glowed. GLOWED I tell you. No illusions of wedding bells and babies or even future dates. I was happy that someone, somewhere, had thought me pretty and funny and smart and given me a Saturday night that made up for every other Saturday night I had spent in the past five months, lonely and isolated from my roommates.

Amidst my glowing, I’d told the cabbie to take me to the ferry. Tonight was a night of luxury. I would go home, go to sleep and spend a blessedly roommate-free Sunday sipping coffee and smoking my 7-dollar ciggies on our beautifully landscaped terrace. Granted, that terrace was in Staten Island but it was beautiful nonetheless. I was planning my day of relaxation, my day of bliss as I paid the cabbie and walked into the ferry terminal.

I picked a seat close to the ferry doors, popped out my book and began to read; totally unconcerned with my 30-minute wait for the next hourly ferry.

The next 30 minutes were not to be spent reading, however.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Notice: Weird Femaley Crap Discussed with Slight Mention of Actual Feelings

Yesterday, after a quick pop over to the library on lunch to exchange books, I was sitting in my car reading a novel written by one of my favorite authors. She writes offbeat mysteries and whatnot. Normally in series fashion. So I'm sitting and I'm reading. Very excited because had library-ed three of the books in the series from library over weekend and had devoured them quickly and with great ferocity. Completely out of order as they were, I didn't care one whit. I read and I basked in the loveliness that inhabited the space between my eyeballs and hands as the words on the pages beamed themselves (much as free molecules of internet beam themselves into my macketymacmac) into my salivating head. Yes, much like Pavlov proved, I do salivate at the thought of a good book. Or during a good book. I haven't had any, er, attention, since last October and even then it was HORRID and so I HAVE TO GET MY JOLLIES SOMEWHERE, PEOPLE, CUT ME SOME SLACK.

So I'm reading and as I mentioned before, I'm quite excited. Excited because the book the ghetto library near work had in stock is the one that appears to have come one, maybe two books after the last one in the series I read. And I'm happy to be reading things in a somewhat orderly fashion. I'm reading in the car, like I said, engine running, windows up (I enjoy the complete silence offered by the confines of my car as opposed to the din offered by the company cafeteria) and a/c blowing cool air onto my feet and face. I hit page 45 and BAM!.


Now, up until this point, I thought I had come in at the book directly following the one read on Monday. OH NO, MY FRIEND. I HAVE APPARENTLY SKIPPED A VERY IMPORTANT HAPPENING IN THE LIFE OF MY HEROINE. BECAUSE IN THE PREVIOUS BOOK, MARTIN WAS ALIVE and now he's DEAD.

Obviously, I am disturbed.


I couldn't possibly fathom my heroine continuing life without Martin. DAMN HER. And do I get an explanation? A little back story? NO. Just the casually thrown in "widowed one year ago, today" bullshit.

Now. Here's why I happen to be so pissed off (and I worn you, I'm about to venture into that murky world reserved only for unattached single women who find themselves, however reluctantly, looking at the world and thinking WHAT THE FUCK? THAT BITCH IS GETTING SOME {loosely translated to mean 'receiving love and undying affection and lots of great hoo-ha} AND I'M NOT??

Aurora (the heroine) meets Martin in on of the books in the mystery series. And though these books are by no means sappy love story things, there is an element of upheaval when Aurora meets Martin. Because heroines have personal lives, you know. Even if they DO go about solving mysteries and whatnot. As it happens, Aurora meets Martin while standing on the front steps of a house, filling in for her real estate mogul mother. She's been drafted into helping show a house to a prospective buyer. (Unbeknownst to anyone is the fact that a DEAD BODY LIES IN THE MASTER BEDROOM, shiver.) Martin gets out of the car. Martin looks at Aurora. AND IT IS DONE.

Now. Don't lie to me. At some point in your life you've looked at someone and KNOWN. Just absolutely and without a doubt KNOWN that every ounce of lust and need and want you felt in that split second is mirrored, reciprocated and MAGNIFIED by the other person. It's not JUST a lust thing, either. It's one of those moments when you stop thinking about the stupid crap in your head and let The Fates push you along as They Wish. Instantaneous. For whatever reason, that person belongs in your life.

Though sometimes we do a damn good job of screwing that up.

But I digress. This was Martin and Aurora. Nothing would be easy. They had two completely different lives. But BOTH OF THEM accepted the connection and BOTH OF THEM did something about it. Instead of being pansy asses and scratching a ball sac or two.

All in all, this gave me faith. If someone can write about this, then it has happened to people other than me. And therefore IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN.


I am very upset about this, Ms. Charlaine Harris. I read the rest of the book, much as I didn't want to, and I admit it was as good as the rest. BUT I'M STILL PISSED THAT YOU BUMPED MARTIN OFF.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

This Week's Super Bargain Price Slashing Event Includes Total And Complete Crap

Today I woke up at 7 am.

And then proceeded to hit snooze, every 7 minutes, until 9:30am.

I'd had every intention of getting up early, full of purposefulness and vigor, and hefting my two baskets of dirty clothes to the laundromat. Because I've gone FIVE WEEKS without washing clothes.

I've run through every pair of underwear, every bra (washed in the sink at least four times), every pair of pants (worn until they could walk, all by themselves) every shirt, blouse and sweater that wasn't made of wool, angora or other hot, itchy material (I will roll up sleeves, but I WILL NOT wear an angora turtleneck in summer. I REFUSE.) and I knew, I KNEW, I had exhausted every avenue possible. There were no more outfits, however unmatchy or unattractive they may be. It was done.

But somehow, in my sleep-clouded brain, I decided to hit the snooze button.

Eighty. Thousand. Times.

So what did I do? I put on pajama bottoms and drove to Old Navy. Because they don't care if
you shop in pajama bottoms. As long as your wobbly bits are covered, you're straight.
I spent 30 minutes in there. I tried on 12 pairs of pants and 9 shirts. In fact, I think I can in good conscience skip my workout today, IT WAS THAT HOT IN THE DRESSING ROOM. (Icky mental image. Red-faced people trying on clothes. gag)

I found ONE pair of pants. ONE.

The time: 10:50am.

Work starts at: 11:00am.


Stand at front of store, use laser eyes (LASER EYES, ACTIVATE!) and locate black v-neck sweatery-thing in very back of store. Hangar tag says XL. I've worn the same size in Old Navy for YEARS. A black, stretchy v-neck sweatery-thing is a guaranteed fit in an XL. Not too clingy.
Not too loose. Perfect.

I get in my car and take off the t-shirt I slept in (modesty DOES NOT prevail when one is desperate) pull on black sweatery thing while yanking off tag and pulling off sticker. Push back seat and lean it back -- all the better to get my pants on. YOUNG TEENAGE KID AT 12 O'CLOCK! ABORT! ABORT!

Nonchalantly cover self with large Old Navy bag and smile very large, very scary smile at blonde teenage kid.

Kid gives me strange look that implies "scary lady with no pants on is staring at me. GAH!"

Kid goes to his mothers van and gets his backpack out of the back. Van is OF COURSE parked directly beside my passenger door.

I smooth the Old Navy bag over my legs and attempt to cover my scary white ass. Continue scary smile at young blond kid, who decides it may be in his best interest to hurry back to Mommy and report scary lady.

Finish buttoning pants in stuffiness of car, it's black paint magnifying the heat that is threatening to melt my very atoms of existence.

Drive to work, park. Throw on shoes. Walk briskly and with great purpose across parking lot, down stairs, across 2nd parking lot, in front doors and then BAM!

I see a reflection of myself in automatic sliding doors.


Shirt cannot possibly be XL! Shirt is more like MAMMOTH XL!! Very unattractive! Pull tag around to nose area and attempt to focus eyes on tag that will tell me what size I am currently wearing.

THREE XTRA LARGES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


But hangar tag said XL..... BASTARDS! Mismarking incompetents that run Old Navy!
Now am stuck with gray pants-- they fit, thank god-- and a giant, smarmy black sweater! Have removed tax so hope of returning is lost. Not that I could anyway... as cannot possibly pass off bra as a very small tank top gone wrong. I'm pretty sure they'd see RIGHT THROUGH THAT. Literally.

Head hurts.

Monday, August 15, 2005

An Addendum to The Previous Post:

The US Postal Service also employs the illegimate inbred offspring of MC Hammer. As well as the lovechildren born of Milli Vanilli.

Time Spent in Hell is Only As Bad As The Genetic Pool Designates

Last Thursday I coasted into the Exxon on Markham and Van Buren with the intention of putting a whole buttload of gas in my wheezing little tank.

Well, we all know how good intentions lead to... something really bad and annoying. Insert whatever that saying actually says and you've got youself a fun time in the Exxon station.

So I pull up in the lot, which is full of ignorant folk playing Wait In Line For Gas when you can OBVIOUSLY pull around to the other pump. But, GOD. That would take a WHOLE LOT OF EFFORT to move my car into the other lane to pump gas. Didn't you know there's a LAW? You HAVE to pump your gas while facing in a Northwesterly direction. To face southeast... well. THAT would be unthinkable.

I find my credit card, buried within the depths of my purse and proceed to amble out into the artificially lit hub that is apparently the Exxon lot. I pop my fuel door. I unscrew my fuel cap. I place my fuel cap in it's designated spot. And then I swipe my card.

And I swipe my card.

And I swipe my card.


Each time, this fun little message appears "Card Not Read Now."


Eventually I shrug, assuming I'm going to have to carry my sweaty and unattractively clad self into the actual service station. (I desperately wish I could be one of those people that can go to the gym and emerge an hour later looking fresh and glowy-- NO. I look like a sweaty, chubby, red-faced Bernadette-Peters-hair-having freak.) Something that totally pisses me off because I don't even stop at gas stations that are sans pay-at-the-pump thingees.

So I press the handle and start to pump my gas.

Until it starts slowing down at nine dollars... and slows to a CRAWL at nine seventy-five... and trickles in at nine ninety-nine and then STOPS at ten dollars. Just STOPS.
I take a deep breath and hope the gas fumes kill the brain cells that are furiously spinning, looking for a match I can strike and place in the fuel nozzle. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the my car window. Yep. I'm still red-faced. Still chubby. Still have frizzy hair. FANTASTIC.

Walk into service station-- which, I might add, is being run by the illegitimate inbred offspring of MC Hammer, where I am informed of the following:

Inbred: "That girl at pump three is the one that paid the ten dollars."

Me: "That's nice. Um. I need to pay for the gas on pump two-- it cut me off at ten so...."

Inbred: "Yeyeah. You're in that black car on pump two, right?"

Me: "Yes. Black car on pump two. Ten dollars. Here's my card."

Inbred: "But see, that girl has already paid the ten dollars for her pump."

Me (true confusion setting in): "Um. Okay. That's nice. I just want to pay for my ten on pump two."

Inbred: "I'm going to ring you up for the charges on pump three since the girl on that one has already paid the ten."

Me: "Uh. No. Why the hell would I pay for gas on pump three when I pumped gas on pump TWO."

Inbred: "Because the girl on pump three has already paid the ten dollars."

We stare each other down. A good ten seconds go by.

Me: "Put. ten. dollars. on. my. card. please."

Inbred: "Look, here comes the girl on pump three again. Just ask her if she paid the ten dollars."

Me: "But I DON'T CARE if she paid ten dollars for gas, for eyebrow waxing or for a jumbo bag of PORK SKINS. PLEASE PUT TEN DOLLARS ON MY CARD FOR PUMP TWO."

Pump Three Girl: (sensing the utter distress I was in and the iminent violence that was about to had upon the Inbred Girl's ignorant ass) "The clerk opened up the wrong pump for me after I pre-paid ten dollars. I just pumped ten on three, which should cover my gas. (turns to Inbred Clerk) So all you have to do is charge her for ten dollars and everything is fine.


I glare in the Inbred's direction. I hand her my card.

Me: "Ten dollars on pump two, please." Said through gritted teeth.

Inbred: "Well. That's what I been trying to tell you the whole time. Gaawwd."


Monday, August 08, 2005

My friend Brittany noticed that I was happy on Saturday. Well. HAPPY is a relative word in my universe. I suppose one would categorize me as "happy" if I wasn't spouting off venon at random passerby or emanating disgust and loathing at The People Who Make It Their Business To Annoy Me. But still. I suppose it was a rare occurrence. Which is quite sad. But still.

So here was a rundown of my Saturday. This is in hopes of being able to possibly isolate whatever it was that made me less of a venom-spitter:

I get up early so as to be at work. On my day off. I stop at the McDonalds on Broadway for some steaming coffee. I drive to West Little Rock. I park relatively close the doors since it is Saturday and only 1/8 of the employees manage to drag their ass in. I wear my sunglasses into the building because it's still awfully bright and my eyeballs may melt. I ride the elevator to the fourth floor. I scan myself in and walk slowly to my desk. Notice that everyone else on my team is already there. Except for one. So I'm not the last. Thanks be to the Traffic Was Light Gods. Sit at chair. Make scathing remark to sarcastic chica that sits behind me. Was appluaded by my manager for my barb, it being not five minutes since I had walked in the door. I remind everyone that though the coffee is IN MY HAND do not assume that is HAS BEEN INGESTED. Then notice that manager had brought sausage and egg biscuits for us to consume. I'd hate for him to think I didn't appreciate his gesture. So naturally I ate one.

I work. Laugh and laugh and laugh at the stupid stories we all tell in an effort to amuse ourselves, sad as we are that it's A SATURDAY and we're WORKING in a CUBICLE.

Our system goes down unexpectedly at 2pm so our manager tells us it's a sign from The Fates and we should all go. Possibly because he rides a motorcycle to work and it was about to rain. But who am I to question one's motives, BE THEY NOT PURE??

I stop at Hobby Lobby after finishing up in the office and purchase a frame for the picture my madre got for my kitchen. Very nice lady doing a little cha cha dance in some advertisement for Cuba. So I get home but realize I have no picture hanging aparati. I rifle through my tool bag, finding only wire and screws and some dangerous looking long nails. So I screw in the nails on either side of the picture frame. I wrap wire around each screw head and then secure around the nail I pounded into the wall. I AM BRILLIANT. Who needs store bought mounting equipment WHEN YOU HAVE A FULLY FUNCTIONING BRAIN???

I change clothes and head to Conway to visit Brittany and her new live-in. We shop. We eat. We watch Eddie Izzard. She comments on my happiness.

The End.

Now. Tell me WHAT WAS IT ABOUT THAT DAY that left me venom-less??

Thursday, August 04, 2005

I'm Giving You the EVIL EYE.

Are You Gonna Eat That? No? WELL THEN MOVE OVER, LOSER.

Did you know it takes more energy to chew celery than the actual calories inherent IN THE CELERY?


Can you imagine if foods we actually LIKED came with this property?

Cake, for instance. I love cake. Not so much cookies. But cake, definitely. And not the cake with the super-sugary icing. Because the cake ITSELF needs to be moist and delicious and oh-so-very-mouth-wateringly-tasteee. And the icing needs to be buttercream. Or that really light whipped kind of icing that comes on some cakes. BUT NOT THE FREAKISH KROGER ICING THAT SPARKS OFF INSULIN WARS IN MY PANCREAS.

Other foods?


Cheetos. Cheetos are THE BEST. The one area where Mrs. Federline and I agree. Well... there was that ONE TIME I had sex with my loser backup dancer.. but I think I was high at the time so it TOTALLY doesn't count.

And finally:

ALL MEXICAN FOODS. See, I'm not a super-big fan of the Eye-talian foods. I like them, and I enjoy them, but I don't LURRVE them. Chinese food is awesome but let's be honest-- no one can eat that shit more than once a week. But Mexican food... Honey. I could eat that yummy goodness seven times a day if need be. The state of our nation depends upon eating as much Mexican food as possible? I GOT A PURPLE HEART FOR THAT, BITCH. That baby can't be pulled from that well alive unless that whole tub of Mexican food is eaten right this very second! THAT'S WHY MY MOUTH HINGES OPEN, FOOL. ALL THE BETTER TO INHALE DE MEHEECAN FOOD.

On another, and just as pleasing, note:


So here's how it went down: I had just sat down to work after yet another PeppityPepPep meeting when DEB (Data Entry Bitch) says "I'm just going to take my picture frames home and change out the pictures in them."

I stare blankly at her because, even though she SEEMS to be aiming her whiny-assed voice in my direction, why would it ever cross her feeble mind THAT I WOULD GIVE A SHIT.

But apparently the silence was too much for her to bear and she finally pipes up with a "Birdie, did you hear meee?"

Thinking: GAH! yes I heard you, you infantile drain on society!

Saying: Yes, I heard you. Silence. (searching brain for appropriate thing to say.) Hope you find some new pictures.

DEB: I'm going to clean out my desk too, while I'm at it. It's so dirty!

Me: Um. Okay. Good luck with that.

So she proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning out her desk and gathering up her picture frames. She mutters and empties things in the trash but I learned a long time ago to not respond to her mutterings becuase IT JUST ENCOURAGES HER TO SPEAK EVEN MORE.

DEB leaves at 11:15am.




Her supervisor comes over and asks what time DEB left for lunch. Expresses concern that DEB has not yet returned.



Calls made to DEB's cell by her friend in credit and her supervisor. Calls made to home number. Calls made to hospitals.


So today, she doesn't show up either. We look in her desk and IT'S COMPLETELY EMPTY. She even managed to somehow take the heavy-as-shit tape dispenser and stapler as well as every pen and pencil this side of the Mississippi.

Confusion is expressed that her desk is so empty... and yet her stupid leopard print pillow is still sitting in her chair.




Her supervisor signed her termination papers a scant hour ago!!!! YEE HAW!

And of course, we felt compelled (and by we, I mean the other nosy, cranky individuals with whom I work) to change her voicemail message. We didn't want anyone to be confused now did we? And if we just happened to listen to her voicemails while we were at it? Just making sure there was nothing important on there!



Monday, August 01, 2005

A Post In Which I Get To Bash Another's Way of Thinking Because I'm Female And Of Course That Makes Me Right So Blow Me.

While reading a blog I had NO BUSINESS reading (as the author of the blog no longer writes on the previous blog that I read, creating this new one that I'm sure was meant to keep out ruffians such as myself) I got through about half of The Author's ramblings and realized-- HE'S SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK. I thought maybe he was venting... maybe even using a little bitter sarcasm to drive his point home. NOPE. He's serious.

Which honestly... just makes me sad.

Here's an excerpt:

You see, I have this rule - I don't get really close with the people with which I work. To me, becoming friends with those at work, as opposed to being friendly is a no no; simply, it comes at a price.I know that this sounds jaded and cynical, but I just think that there is a definite line to be drawn. Half of the time, these are people that you would never even have met in the first place and would honestly never choose to go out drinking with. It tends to play out like this, "hey WHY is Judith from Marketing feeling my knee whilst trying to talk to me about the budget?" Or, "is Jeremy from MIS running around outside of the restaurant with his shirt off AGAIN, after having one too many, screaming about how George Lucas totally destroyed his aspirations of ever becoming a Jedi Knight?"

To which I say: WHAT THE FUCK.

Why is meeting someone at work ANY DIFFERENT than meeting someone at church? Or at a bar? You have just as much in common with a co-worker as someone with whom you attend worship services. What makes someone you may meet at church or at a friend's house any different than someone you meet at work? I've met many "friend-of-a-friends" that I haven't cared for at all, just as I've met many co-workers for whom I don't particularly care. But OCCASIONALLY I meet someone-- in a bar, in a social circle, in a class, in a work environment, that I absolutely ADORE.

And it may truly be someone with whom I have nothing in common-- but that's the beauty of it. If I surrounded myself with like individuals I think my life would be pretty boring. I like the spice these extra people add to my life and I'm thankful I took that extra non-jaded step to let them in. Where did this guy's close friends come from? From college days? Talk about a mixture of socio-economic backgrounds and religions and viewpoints and ethnicities! It's just like work-- instead of the primary focus being a corporate goal, the primary focus is learning. Everyone was there for similar reasons and there were probably a lot of people in college this guy didn't want to waste 3 seconds looking at, much less talking to. But for whatever reason, I'm sure he befriended some of them. And what was the harm? Maybe some of these friendships came and went... maybe some of them stayed. Who cares. The point is, why cut yourself off from people who could turn out to be beautiful, inspring friends? Yes, there's always that chance a friendship may sour but we take that chance with ANYONE. Why cut off such a huge portion of your day? You spend eight hours a day at work, toiling away. Why not let it be a semi-happy (or at least moderately-bearable) place? I'll be the first to tell you that there are two women at work that I had never met before stepping foot in this place-- and I adore them. Beyond that, there's a good dozen individuals that I truly enjoy. These people make my day go faster and I appreciate them for having an open heart and letting others in.

So. Now that I've ranted and rambled-- let me say I didn't want this to sound like a personal attack. The subject matter is what got to me-- and I couldn't hold my tongue.
It just seems like a more of an effort to NOT be friends with someone you may like just because they're work-related than it would to just give in and BE FRIENDS. And Lord Knows I'm never going to make an extra effort for something when the easy route can be so fabulous and give me hundreds more people from which to choose.

**Note: Of course, I'm normally write about cynical and jaded things and spouting off the above nonsense is seemingly quite touchy-feely and whatnot. I don't write about the happy-go-lucky days or the peaceful days or the days when good-things-happen because.. well, sometimes I like them to just be mine. So instead I'm perfectly happy to be the one that points the finger and says NO NO BAD DOG, THAT'S NOT THE WAY YOU GO ABOUT THAT AT ALL.
I can do this because I say I can SO THERE.