Flowers Are For Pansies

This morning I had one of those moments when I sat down on my toilet seat lid and contemplated reenacting that moment when the Incredible Hulk literally busts through his clothes, ripping them into teeney tiney wee little shreds. Not because I had muscles paying homage to the joy of steroids but because my chosen shirt for the day was that unbelievably complicated to get on.  I originally chose it for today’s attire because I haven’t worn it since, like, January and it’s purple and pretty and makes me want to say things like “Don’t you just luuurv jewel tones?” But about halfway through the process of trying to get the damn thing I totally lost all desire to talk about jewel tones and got pumped up to talk about how I rip the heads off poor defenseless kittens when I get annoyed.

So I sat down, defeated, on my gleaming white toilet seat (bleached the night before, naturally), my right arm held captive beneath the purple sweater, my head through the opposite side of the shirt and the tie thing in the back that’s supposed to lay delicately and gracefully at the back of my neck was at the front of my neck, hanging limply and dejectedly, no grace about it. 

I should explain that this is no ordinary shirt.  It’s one of those festive criss-crossy shirts that are supposed to accent my accentable areas and draw attention away from my unaccentable areas.  But this criss-crossiness doesn’t just happen in the front, IT HAPPENS IN THE BACK AS WELL. And in an attempt to make the general population scream in futility, the makers at Gap have decided to give you helpful little sewn-together areas so that, theoretically, you should be able to pull it over your head.  BUT LO, there is a tie at the neck! So that your back boobage doesn’t mistakenly tumble out!  Danger zone!  Alert! I’ve yet to fully comprehend the purpose of the neck-tying area but WHO AM I TO JUDGE, I leave projectile bottles of bleach in my trunk, just asking for a summery day to render it a veritable missile of goo!

So anyway.  I decided to wear a green shirt today instead.  One with a nice normal v-neck and two regularly shaped arms, no criss-crossy about it.     

 

Duck Feet

My previous experience with the Comcast assclowns was not so pleasant and totally made me want to gouge out my eyes with one of those little spoon-slash-forks from Kentucky Fried Chicken. I guess because I wasn't going for the super complicated installation of wireless internet they were able to downgrade the number of technicians sent out to my home to a whopping one! person, a guy who smelled like licorice. Which made me think of jagermeister, and please don't judge me if that's not spelled right because I hate that sickly sweet crap masquerading as liqour. But he DID smell like licorice which was slightly strange in that way that makes you wonder if it was a personal decision to smell like that or if it's something he's struggled with his entire life and was possibly teased mercilessly about as a kid. Like if he had cankles or wore tightrolled jeans after 1995.

I'd have teased his ass, too.

Before going any further I'd like to thank this kid for writing here for a few days while I sat in a cubicle and trained with a guy who's job I'm taking over. The only cool thing that came out of that was my swank ass digs with windows. And the whole BlackBerry, laptop and cellphone situation. Though it's really not as cool as one might originally think because who REALLY wants all that shit when it means They can get ahold of you at all hours of the day and night. But who am I kidding, I ate that shit up with a brita filter.

It's strangely freeing that I can sit in the privacy of my own home and write FUCK SHIT ASS CUNT HOLE MOTHERFUCKER and not worry that Someone is looking over my shoulder and blatantly judging me for my lack of vocabulary or utter offensiveness. (Or for the fact that that I'm totally not working.) It's so freeing, in fact, that even though I'd been practically salivating for two weeks in anticipation of getting my very own internet connection in my very own home (well, apartment, let's not be technical) I completely forgot about my plan to have a post that utilized the word Fuck in every sentence. It's probably too much to ask that it's freed me from my near-obessesive verbalization of the aforementioned words, though.

Sometimes my immaturity astounds EVEN ME.

Because I'm not in the mood to tell an entire story I'm going to give you some one brief look of what mi vida was like this past week:

Tuesday night I was at work until midnight. Please, contain your jealousy. I was tired and cranky and ohsovery exhausted when I walked out to my car, opened my door and was BLASTED with the smell of bleach. Now, I like bleach. You might even say I love bleach. I have an unhealthy obsession with using it, which means I can only buy white sheets because THEY MUST BE BLEACHED. But the car is not the place one wants to smell the bleach, being as how it's a CAR and not a BATHTUB. Slightly perplexed, I walked to the back of my car and popped the trunk where I quickly found out that leaving a gallon of bleach, even if accidentally, in the trunk of one's car is never a good plan. The high had reached 90 degrees that afternoon, rendering the gallon-o-bleach a veritable projectile of bleachniness. I didn't even have the energy to clean anything up; I just grabed the Febreeze from the backseat and sprayed it angrily at the airvents, hoping the smell might somehow magically dissipate.

About six minutes later I'm pulled over by one of the city's finest for going 82 in a 60. I won't even argue, it was my godamned fault. But it was late and the interstate was DESERTED I tell you, except for the red truck traveling beside me at the exact same motherfucking speed. Though I probably looked the most suspect seeing as how all my windows were down and I was repeatedly hanging my head out of the driver window to gulp a mouthfull of fresh air.
I'm too afraid to call the number on the ticket just yet because it's kind of nice living in ignorance of how much that ticket is going to cost me.

I Have An Ulcer In My Mouth

Q: Are the rumors true that Robin has a third nipple?- Coyote Mike
A: Wasn’t aware there were rumors but I’d appreciate it if whoever started them could be lightly beaten with small, toothy woodland creatures. Thanks. I’m very sensitive about such things.

Q: Where did you two go to college and what did you study and is she as fascinating in person? – Carl from L.A.
A: We both went to the University of Central Arkansas and are Honors College alumni. I majored in Telecommunications w/ a minor in Honors Interdisciplinary Studies while Brittany was a vomitous overachiever and double majored in Speech Language Pathology/Psychology and double minored in Creative Writing/Honors Interdisciplinary Studies. Until I asked her last night I was completely unaware that she was a doubleupper. I can be excused from knowing this as I worked full-time for the majority of college, hence excluding me from various bits of knowledge up to and including the whole double major scenario and her favorite flavor of jell-o. And I am totally not fascinating in person. I go to work with wet hair almost every day, I drink a Diet Dr. Pepper for breakfast, my favorite food is cheetos, I tell horrible and long-winded stories and all the items on my desk are lined up perfectly. I give heinous first impressions and I wear lots of bracelets. I get nervous on the phone with boys and talk super-fast and laugh my weird girl-laugh and usually make not one lick of sense. Though I am SUPER flattered that someone thinks so.

Q: If Robin won a million dollars, what would she do with it? – Jenni
A: Since I’m capped off at a million we’d have to assume slightly less than half go to taxes, leaving me about 650-thou. I’m thinking I’ll hire a landscaper for my parents 26-acre property, refinish their deck, give my mother new countertops, buy my dad a new truck, build my mom an art studio with lots of windows, pay off my car, pay off my debt, buy a small house with wood floors, take a trip to Switzerland and buy myself a cabana boy named Paco who performs various and sundry duties.

Q: Dear Abby, what’s her other strong points besides writing so eloquently?- Texas Roxy
A: I open a mean can of asparagus, I can aim the squirting water bottle at my demonspawn with a successful water-hit up to 30 feet away and I have wicked nice teeth.

Q: How tall is Robin? – Pam
A: I am five foot seven inches, exactly. Not even a millimeter above or below. Well, maybe one.

Q: Robin, what does Brittany look like naked? – anon
A: I’m only assuming here, but are you by chance infected with Mad Cow Disease?

Q: What is Robin’s medical history? Has she ever contracted an exotic disease? Visceral Leishmaniasis? Rabies? Malaria? Whooping Cough? Polio? Tuberculosis? Mononucleosis? Osteoporosis? Any osis? – anon
A: I totally got mono my sophomore year thanks to a slutty fellow counselor at the summer camp I worked at- but he was totally hot and drove a bitchin Camaro so that makes my SIX MONTHS SPENT IN BED TOTALLY WORTH IT. I should have ixnayed his ass when I found out he drove a red Camaro. I distinctly remember a time about 2 months into my bout with the dreaded kissing disease when the elevator was broken and I had to take three flights of stairs to my dorm room. By the time I got through the first flight I was panting. By the second flight I was near the passing-out stage and had to sit on the top step for TWENTY MINUTES until I thought my shaking legs could hold me up. I don’t even remember walking in my room but I woke up ten hours later face down on my dorm bed. Fully clothed, thankfully.

Q: If Robin was an animal/book/murder weapon which ones would she be? Also, what’s her telephone number? – The Belligerent Intellectual
A: If I were an animal I’d be an alligator because HOW COOL would it be to have snappers like that? If I were a book I’d have to be a new one because I totally judge books by their cover and can always find fault with a design so I’d probably have to with a book about star crossed lovers (oh, the cheese) and have the cover be a brilliant cerulean blue with a warm chocolate brown one-inch edging and a tiny metallic gold star (because YOU get a gold star!) in the center. If I were a murder weapon I’d have to go with a tea cup because you KNOW someone can fuck your shit up if they kill you with a tea cup.

Q: Does Robin like fat guys?-Drunken Chud
A: How obese are we talking here? There will be no slapping of the fat and riding the wave in.

Q: Has Robin ever had a lesbian experience? – Drunken Chud
A: Besides the spin the bottle kiss I shared with some fellow college graduates, no. Pussy totally skeeves me out.

Q: If some catastrophe were to strike and Robin could only bring 4 things with her, any 4 things, her possessions or someone else’s, what would she take to live out her days in the wilderness- Drunken Chud
A: A supersize box of chapstick, a harpoon gun, a plastic covered and sealed queen size mattress (for sleeping and river traversing) and a tarp.

Ole'!

I should clarify some things about L*%$#%, my shaggy-haired stalker. 

 

1)       By older man, Brittany means that he was a sophomore while I was a lowly freshman.  In the world of an 18-year-old, someone who is that much closer to being able to legally buy beer is an Older Man. 

2)       He was, in all senses of the word, a total and complete rebound.  I had just finished a ridiculous relationship with Kevin, Man Of The Facial Hair, who had decided to move.  I know.  Moving.  That’s almost akin to maiming small woodland creatures in the presence of children.  THE PROBLEM would be that he moved.  And forgot to tell me.  I’m mentally slapping my leg now in my fit of hysterical laughter.  Because that shit is fun-neee.  Kevin was quickly followed by Hunter who is now infamous for the following phrase: “Come back when the white van is gone.”  The white van being his druglord, obviously.  Oh, and those strange smells in the back garage?  THAT WOULD BE METH.  But did I know? Of course not.  I’d grown up in Small Town Southern Middle Class Suburbia where throwing back a 30-pack was way more hardcore than snorting a line of coke.  Then L^$#% showed up with his shaggy hair and soft-spoken demeanor and twenty page papers on the Euthanization of the Mentally Diseased and my heart, it went pitter patter. 

3)       Brittany was right, I was passive aggressive about this guy for about a three week span.  But never fear, my normal cynical and obnoxious nature got it’s chance to shine one evening following the letter Brittany and Emily so lovingly composed. I was lounging in bed that night with all the lights off and the windows open.  It was one of those rare fall nights that weren’t terribly cold or terribly sultry and the breeze was unbelievably soothing.  I should probably try to explain why I like lounging in bed with the lights off but that would take too much damn time and I’m not in the mood.  I was contemplating the nature of toenails when I heard a rustle outside in the holly bushes… a sound I knew as L&^%% wiggling his way between the hedges.  So I calmly picked up my phone and quietly punched in the number to the front desk where Emily, the RA, was stationed for the evening.  I whispered the code phrase “The goose has landed” and placed the phone back in its cradle.  No less than 45 seconds later and I hear our favorite Campus Cop, Hollywood (dubbed so in a tongue-in-cheek homage to his C-movie star looks and fubar teeth), crashing around the side of the building waiving his big Campus Cop-issue stick in the air.  L*#$% takes off at full speed as Hollywood screams all manner of obscenity, finally giving out the chase at the end of the parking lot.  Notso strangely, I was never bothered again.

4)       Brittany forgot to mention the most important part of this story: Halloween was a few weeks after our, um, breakup and in a stunning display of utter scariness, L*$%& showed up in head-to-toe black spandex, a yellow tutu and a gold and black furry antenna.   After viewing what can only be described as the world’s most revealing Halloween costume, a male friend of ours remarked, “Ya know, if I were him, I woulda at least stuffed a sock in there.  Does he know he looks like a 12-year-old girl down under?” 

 

 

The Stalker

Keep your pants on, kiddies.
The answers to your questions about Robin are on the way.
Expect them as tomorrow's post.
All but that last one . . . I think I know who you are and I have to ask: WHY WOULD ROBIN KNOW WHAT I LOOK LIKE NAKED?????????
This isn't College Co-Eds II.
We don't walk around in the nude and have pillow fights.
Those kinds of friends don't even really exist.
Sorry for bursting your bubble.

In the meantime, enjoy the following:


Freshman year was full of firsts.
First time away from home.
First real taste of freedom.
First fraternity party.
First dorm.
First horrible bout of poisoning from what the cafeteria pawns off as food.
But it's free, so it's worth it, right?
It was also Robin's first encounter with a stalker.

He appeared nice enough.
Attractive, older male.
A few dates.
Some phone calls.
Seemed normal enough.
Until . . . .

He wouldn't leave her alone.
Everywhere she turned, there he was.
At first, even though she might not admit it, it was flattering.
This guy that could have any number of women.
Paying constant attention to our dear Birdie.
But there's a thin line between attraction and obsession.
And he surpassed that line with a quickness.

He started hiding out in the Holly Bushes under her window.
Yes, holly bushes.
Big, prickly, green shrubbery.
That can't be comfortable.

He would stare in her window.
We caught him several times.
Robin, for the first and last time in her life, was passive aggressive.
She didn't want to hurt his feelings.
And part of me will always think that she wasn't quite sure that he was over the line.
He was.
So we took over for her.

Emily (our fantabulous resident assistant and good friend) and I took it upon ourselves to email him. Speaking of passive aggressive.
We called Robin in to witness that which we were doing.
She needed to know what we were doing in her name.

Granted, some of this letter is paraphrased . . . who the hell remembers a letter you wrote 8 years ago? BUT, the part in BOLD is verbatim.
Trust me on this.
THAT part, you don't forget.

L*&^,

Stop calling me.
Stop coming around.
I'm not interested.
It's downright scary.
If you continue in this pursuit, I will call the police.
Do not call me, do not email me, do not approach me, do not talk to my friends, do not talk to my family, do not talk to my dog, do not be seen in my general vicinity. Stay away from me and all things in relation to me.

Robin.


L*&^, though a very intelligent man, couldnÂ’t take a clue.
Even one so blatant as the above.
He continued to stalk our dear Robin.
Though he was surreptitious about it.
A bit.
Until Crystal - Robin's roommate and our dear friend - caught him at the window again:
On tip toes, hands on the windowsill, trying for a glimpse of our dear Robin.
At this point, Crystal reached through the window, forcefully threw him into the holly bushes and slammed the window shut.

L*&^ was not heard from again.
Nor seen.
At least not Freshman year.

When we were Sophomores and he was a Senior, we heard tale that L*&^ was moving to CO.
We ran into him in the courtyard of Short and Denny Hall.
Yes, he was packing to move to CO.
But he was taking his girlfriend/soon-to-be wife with him.
Turns out he had gotten a 17-yr old Freshman pregnant.
Nice.

---Meghansdiscontent - - AKA Brittany

An Opportunity . . . Of Sorts

It is entirely possible that [redacted] may kill me for this, but I'm all about living on the edge lately.
Or maybe I just welcome death.
Whatever.

Here's your chance:
Submit questions about Robin.
Anything you wish to submit.
I will answer what I can.
I will then forward any remaining questions to Robin and if she is willing to answer them, so be it.
Otherwise, this is your opportunity to find out what her friend thinks about her and things I can tell you that she probably wouldn't. :)

You can post them anonymously or not under the comments section.

Questions can be about [redacted] specifically, about her past or our shared past, anything Robin-related.

Enjoy!

--- Meghansdiscontent - - AKA Brittany

I Got Nothin: But I Promise To Do Better Later In The Week

Robin has asked that I entertain you folks with some stories while she is unable to reach a computer.
Though this will not be entertaining, I promise to do better later.
There are certainly stories from college and later years which would allow you insight into our dear Robin, but this will at least tell you guys how we met.

Robin and I are on the way to a mutual friend’s party recently when she looks at me, obviously perplexed, and says: "Do you remember how we met the first time?"

After I got over the shock and awe of her not remembering something so vastly important, I was able to answer:
"Yeah, don’t you? You were sitting outside the laundry room of the dorm reading a book, waiting on your laundry, and I was going to do the same, only I’d forgotten my book. So I struck up a conversation. We discovered we had graduated less than 30 miles from each other and started listing people we had in common."

"Huh. I just didn’t remember."

"And now?"

"Yeah, not so much."

"Huh. Whatever."

Great story, eh?
The only shocking thing we DID realize was that this was almost 8 years ago.
Holy Jayzus.
We’ve known each other 8 years.

And, as you could have guessed, we’re not keen on keeping people around.
We both acknowledged that our friendship to each other and to a handful, literally maybe 4 total, of other people from college are our longest friendships.
Neither of us talk to anyone from grade school, middle school, junior high, high school or any jobs that we’ve ever had.
We have our handful of college friends and then the randoms we have met in the last few years.
All other ties to the past (save family) have been severed.

Are we the only people like this?
Do all of you other people still have friends from your childhood?

- - - Meghansdiscontent - - - AKA Brittany

You Thought I Was Dead, Didn't You

As it turns out, I’ve been moved to a different part of the Fluffy Cloud Where The Carebears Live.  This particular part is actually the innermost sanctum of the Fluffy Cloud and requires Actual Work; not to mention the Quick Learning one is expected to participate in.  And though one could get excited that this new part of the Fluffy Cloud comes complete with a Blackberry, a cell phone and a laptop, keep in mind that these are not just fun toys—they are, in fact, tools one is expected to use daily as a part of this Actual Work process. 

So because I will be sharing a cube with a very official sounding Carebear while I am trained to the fullest extent of the law, my email and internet access will be sporadic and short.  Please Bear with me. 

If you’re nice, I might get Brittany to write some stories about last weekend. 

But only if you’re very, very nice.

 

I Joined The Band To Get Out Of P.E.

Twenty minutes until I go home and I’m so tired I could easily crawl under my desk and sleep until morning.  Maybe it’s the rain or the cloudy skies or the gradual polarity shift scientists say is happening or perhaps even my body is so in tune with le nature that I can sense the slowly depleting ozone layer and my body is offering itself up as retribution for the sins committed by mankind.  And if YOUR body was offering itself up to the Ozone Gods then you too would be ridiculously tired. 

Also, my left buttock hurts.  Don’t ask me why because I couldn’t tell you.  Even though my body was offered up to the Ozone Gods they declined the left buttock, instinctually knowing it was malformed and because of this rejection my left buttock has taken to sulking. Which has manifested itself by way of strange pains.

I’m so glad this is making sense to someone BESIDES ME. 

In preparation for this weekend I’m doing nothing because I have to be on my best behavior.  Brittany and I are going to Fayetteville (spelled right? how sad. this is a large city in my current state of residence and I can’t even be bothered to spell check it.) and as I have never been there I’m strangely excited.  Not strangely as in the first two paragraphs strangely but strangely as in this is a college town with a bar-lined street named after the offspring of a male appendage (Dickson) strangely.  We talk constantly, her and I, of taking weekend trips to somewhere, anywhere, over the rainbow.  This life sometimes gets so monotonous that only a little road trip will clear the air.  But now, after two weeks of having her heart broken (I am not allowed to break the heartbreakers knees because she still *retch* loves him and HE seems to think he has another side to the story.  To which I say Who Cares because you suck and can’t make up your mind and lie by omission which makes you a Vagina.  And not the good kind, either.  Obviously I’m expressing the full range of my maturity, she is my friend, leave me be.) as well as just a few days after hearing the words “kidney” and “failure” in the same breath and from someone we may as well concede would know about such things as he is a medical doctor and all.  So in an attempt to distract from broken hearts and failing kidneys we’ve decided to force her liver into shock because really, WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO DO? Take medication? Eat healthy? Meh.  Obviously our solution of is way better than that. 

Again, I am kidding.  I don’t drink that much – anymore—and neither does Brittany. And killing one’s liver is never a good response to anything.  Much like breaking someone’s knees is not a good response due to that pesky jail time and possible broom raping from Big Joanne in the cell next door. 

 

 

Obsess Much?

Yesterday on lunch I decided I would pop on over to the bank and deposit (DAMN IT I DID IT AGAIN WITH THE Y THING) some money.  Not much money, but I don’t like to carry cash because I get tempted to spend it and suddenly the six packages of granola bars I bought from the vending machine equal thirty dollars.  In case you’re confused how six packages of granola bars, at seventy cents a piece, could cost thirty dollars well then you and I are in the same boat.  But this is inevitably what happens so I have attempted to correct the way that the dollars flow endlessly from my wallet. 

The bank is less than a 10 minute drive from work which is great because it used to be like 40 bazillion miles away which meant that the lunch run bank trips were only done with there was great need, i.e. check going through and have no money! Must move money from savings to checking, stat!

Don’t you fucking love how I tell stories? I do this in person too and it is WAY more annoying.  Ask anyone, ANYONE who has spoken to me on the phone or in person and they will most definitely confirm.  I can’t just tell you the story about going to the bank, I have to tell you about the godamn granola bars and the fact that my bank has possibly the fewest amount of branches in the entire state because I picked this bank my first day of college back in 1998 in Conway, AR.  The helpful little registrar lady said I could drive down Oak Street and there’d be a fucking plethora of banks from which to choose.  She was right, there WERE a large number of banks.  It just so happens that I picked the ONE BANK that has only ONE BRANCH in Conway and ONE BRANCH in Little Rock.  But instead of moving my fundage I have fanatically stuck with this bank because I’m just too damn lazy to change over all my automatic drafts and wait for checks and shit.  But now there’s a branch close to work and the day I realized it was going to be MY BANK, the one that I normally drive 30 minutes to get to, I did myself a very large happy dance. 

So as I’m driving down the road a maroon Subaru gets in front of me and I end up directly behind him for about 10 lights in a row.  Whatever kind of Subaru he was driving is the kind that’s mostly on the level with my Honda so I could see straight through his car, thanks mostly to the fact that there was no window tinting on the vehicle.  These windows were so clear I could have seen a dog hair on the back seat if I’d tried hard enough. 

As we’re sitting at the first light the young gentleman takes his right hand and begins to notso gently smack the top of his head.  Not the side of his head, in a movement that could possibly be construed as a one-time DOH! moment.  No, he was smacking the exact center top of his head over and over and over and over.  When the light changed to green, he stopped. 

Interesting. 

Next light, same procedure.  And the next and the next and the next.  The whole time I’m sitting in my seat with my mouth hanging slightly open, mouthing What The Fuck every few minutes. 

At the last light we had together he merged into the righthand turning lane and I continued straight and into my bank parking lot all the while he continued to smack the top of his shiny and shaved bald head, over and over and over.  Then the light turned green, he turned right and placed his hand back in his lap. 

All I got to say is, Hunh?  

I Hope These Kids Give My Heart Back

At some point I’ve probably talked about my second job, the one where I work in a nursery two-to-three days a week.  I should point out that this is the kind of nursery where there are small humans, not small-to-medium sized plants.  I have no skills with plants, no matter how much I’d like to have a backyard of begonias and salvia, my two favoritest flowering plants in the whole entire universe.  This is the kind of place where some pleasant and notso pleasant Christian families come to drop off their kids while they participate in a small group discussion about Keeping The Faith, George Michael style or Keeping The Faith, God style.  They don’t really talk about anything related to George Michael, though. 

Sometimes I think that, as a parent, if someone offered me free childcare for four hours at a time, even if those four hours involved listening to the musical stylings of a really bad musical director or possibly even absorbing the grating drone of a pompous Billy Graham-esque church leader, I’D TAKE THAT TICKET AND FUCKING SMILE.  Thankfully the musical director isn’t that bad and the church leaders have yet to display any signs of Grahamness so the parents are probably okay with getting their weekly doses of Jesus, all while their smiling, drooling children play in the yellow basement nursery, a place so far away from the actual church-y area that the chances of a parent having to hear “But Mommy, why?” one more damn time are quite slim.

Because I am not a teacher and have firmly put my foot down about caring/instructing for small humans over the age of three, my only real job in that yellow basement is to keep the babies and toddlers relatively happy.  Be that changing diapers, wiping snotty noses and/or drooly chins, placing bottles in mouths, sippie cups in hand or bouncing two 7 month old baby girls on my knee in a desperate attempt to get them to stop. fucking. crying. that is my job and truth be told I don’t remember what my life was like before I spent 16-20 hours a week caring for these kids.

In two months I’ll have been working there a year and my god people, the changes these kids can go through in a year are utterly astounding.  I’ve watched one girl, undeniably my favorite, morph from the precious toddler so stricken by the fact that Mommy had abandoned her to the Evil Nursery Workers she would whimper and cry for hours on end, clutching my neck for fear that I might have to put her down, into the chest-constricting angel she is now.  Please note that I honed my mad baby skills by changing rancid liquid poop diapers and feeding 5-month old babies all while this kid had The World’s Strongest Death Grip around my neck.  She will turn two in July and already, already! she can count to ten and sing her ABC’s and holy cow, the shapes and colors!  She knows them all! When she says triangle she puts the emphasis on the last syllable and tilts her delicate china doll face a little back as if the force of that last syllable was too much to say with her chin in the normal position.  And in the cutest mispronunciation of a color I have ever heard she says “eeyorange,” a mix of the name “Eeyore” from Winnie the Pooh and “orange.”  And when she says our names, ‘our’ being the girls who share the yellow nursery dungeon-esque space with me, she makes every single one of us melt.  Every time she says my name she pitches her body a little bit forward and nods her head in one quick yet obscenely cute bob as if to affirm that she has, in fact, said the right name and that we should probably give her a cookie and maybe a juice box because she’s a wee bit parched.

The clincher came Sunday night, a time when I usually walk away so tired and worn out from 8 hours of corralling and diaper changing and time-out placing that the only thing I can think about is getting home to wash my face and plop in front of the couch for Grey’s Anatomy.  One family was late picking up their wee ones so I was one of the last cars left in the parking lot.  As I was walking out to my car one of the little boys, Micah, jumped out of his dad’s arms and ran towards me with the kind of innocent and guileless and infectious grin that only children can have.  He stopped about a foot away so I crouched down onto the hard black asphalt and smiled back. He ambled the last few steps over and placed his tiny chubby hand on the side of my face, uttering the three words that officially broke my heart in two:

“Bye Bye, Ribbit.”          

It's Oh So Quiet, Said Bjork

Why is it that every time I type the word ‘deposit’ I type it as ‘deposity??’ This is a very valid question and I’m going to need the answer ASAP because, hello, I need to stop doing that. Even when I tell myself, “You are about to type the word ‘deposit’ please don’t add the ‘y’” I end up doing it anyway- just like I did back there about 19 words ago because obviously I am the world’s biggest freak. I just don’t understand. I mean, it’s a complete extra and unnecessary finger movement- it’s not like it’s a key that’s under the left hand. If I consistently typed an ‘f’ after the word I might could possible understand it. Or maybe even a double ‘t.’ BUT NO. I type a ‘y’ each and every single fucking time. Which just makes my pinky tired with all that backspace work I put it through.

And do you know how many times a day I type the word ‘deposit?’ At last count it was somewhere in the millions. Slight exaggeration, obviously, but still. Very annoying.

You know what else is annoying? Friends. Friends are the most annoying human beings on the face of the planet. I’m just saying. Not the tv show Friends because I quite like that show, especially the early ones when Chandler was supremely funny. Not that he wasn’t as funny in later episodes but because he had to do that whole character arc thing and go from being the sarcastic Could I BE Any Funnier guy to the Grown Up Who Occasionally Makes Witty and Acerbic Remarks guy. So I guess if I’m honest with myself, he did get less funny. This is the kind of revelation that will shock the world, my friends.

NEXT TOPIC

I wish someone, anyone could have been at my apartment last night to witness the true scariness I enacted without one ounce of shame. In fact, if I’d purchased my digital camera this weekend like I wanted to instead of letting my dad convince me to let him buy it online (which does honestly have a better price but I’m a creature of, well, nowishness) I’d have had it handy to permanently capture my visage and it’s startling accoutrements for all the world to see.

Because, dear internet people, it turns out that I pressed my luck just one inch too far. I had my hair cut and dyed on Thursday, the day before my birthday, because I love having Birthday Hair and Makeup. It stems from my younger days when Mom always bought be a new outfit as part of my birthday loot and I wore it proudly to school as if to announce that not only was I the Birthday Girl, I was wearing some clothes that hadn’t even seen the inside of my washer yet. And I most definitely got myself some new hair for the mostly unremarkable birthday age of 26.

To be fair, my hair has been through a lot, especially in the past four months. It started out by bleaching the top half of my hair in a salute to my hidden punkishness. Then when I found out I was going to be an Ass Wiping Specialist I expressed my displeasure by leaving work 5 hours early, ahem, and going home to dye my hair flaming red. At least the bleached out portions. But you should know that the color on the box is now what’s going to happen when you apply it over bleached out, stripped out hair. Bit like bozo, I was. Because having bozo-colored hair totally showed them, eh? Then I died that portion a medium brown. Now, 2 months later, I’ve got the dark tresses I’m assuming I started out with as I haven’t really seen much of my normal hair since 1997. DO NOT JUDGE ME I just happen to like the dye.

As it turns out this dying episode was the final straw and my stylist made the following comment when
blowing out my hair “Boy, you’re hair sure feels dry.”

THIS IS NOT SOMETHING YOU WANT TO HEAR.

I discard the comment because she’s flat-ironed it into submission and it doesn’t really feel that dry to me, just more like she put too much product in. As stylist are wont to do. No judgments.
But then I wash it the next day. And it sprouts up into a brillo pad like monstrosity that truly expresses the might of my hair’s fury at being dyed one more damn time. At home with my mother later that weekend, she suggested pouring olive oil on it (as heavy-duty conditioner was OBVIOUSLY not doing anything) and we heated the oil, poured it over and she wrapped my head in saran wrap while we watched an hour of the home and garden channel.

Sunday night when I came home The Hair was still expressing it’s almighty displeasure so I thought, fuck this
hour long oil shit, I’LL JUST SLEEP IN IT. So I heated up the oil, poured it on my hair and gathered my hair in a knot on top of my head. It was at that moment when I realized I had no saran wrap.
Only foil.

That’s right, I took a 4 foot strip of foil and wrapped my head in it.
Then, because I was scared the foil might slip off, I grabbed the ghetto highlighting cap that I’d saved from some box of highlights from many years ago. I never used the cap, the kind where you shove the weird needle hook through the designated holes and yank out strands of hair to be highlighted which ultimately makes you look like a dehydrated chia pet with weird small tufts of hair sticking out. Why I had saved it, I have no idea. But I took it out of the back of the bathroom cupboard and pulled it over my foiled head, tying the plastic strings together under my chin.

One doesn’t want the oil leaking out onto one’s pillow, now does one?

And then I went to sleep, like a good little worker who has to be up at the ungodly hour of 7am to make it to work by 8am. Okay, 8:15.

So here is my rendition of what I looked like:
*note: kidding. apparently blogger doesn't like me today.

Cake, It's Not Just A Band

Old Boss:

Happy Birthday!!!

Now you can throw that fake id away!!

Happy Happy Joy Joy!!

Later

Robin:

THANKS!!!!!!!

I am a fabulous 26 today. Please note that I will be 26 next year as well. I’m thinking in 2009 I’ll move up to 27.

Old Boss:

Now that you determine the feasibility of programs and programming…What fraction is that? 26 after 26 years, then 26 after 27 years, then 26 after 29 years? Ummmm…..

Robin:

I feel like it would be kind of improper to share that information with you. I mean, of course I know the answer but we should really be more cognizant of company security. We can’t have just everybody running around with that kind of answer.

Old Boss:

Robin: Hi! What’s your name?

Fence: Hi! My name is Fence

Robin: Fence, nice to meet you!

Fence: Nice to meet you too! Now that you’re a <job title deleted, dur>, I’m sure that you need to move to the other side. Here is a gate for you to walk very easily to the other side so that you can take a new stance on issues!

Robin: Why that is so very nice of you, Fence! Of course, I need to be on the other side.

________________________________________________________________________

Today is my birthday and truly, it could not be going any better. I think the conglomeration of previous bad birthdays has given me new appreciation for the ones that run smoothly. Today I’ve had comments and text messages and voicemails and emails ALL ABOUT ME AND MY BIRTHDAY and I just can’t tell you the kind of happy little glow I get each time. It’s ridiculous and juvenile and possibly even a bit self-centered but it’s the bestest feeling in the whole entire world when someone actually yells HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HOOKER across the parking lot. Also, I’d like to add that the random trivia found on MSN this morning indicates that “the Eiffel Tower, one of the world’s most recognizable landmarks, officially opened on this date in 1889.” My birthday is so cool that even the EIFFEL TOWER gets to celebrate. I don’t care if you think me cheesy but I’ve stood under it’s giant legs and it’s so unbelievably marvelous and stunning it makes you kind of understand how Tom Cruise would want to proclaim his undying *cough* love for his *cough* soulmate Katie Holmes. On this day there will be no judging of his strange Dianetics-induced antics. Tomorrow, though, game on bitch.

I also have to send out a little thank you to my Mom’s womb-area for a) baking me long enough b) being just so damn eager to spit me out into the cold harsh world it forced me to visit a whole 6 weeks early. I think this was God’s way of telling me that my early arrival on this most auspicious of days was going to be my one and only shot at getting somewhere, anywhere early- much less on time. Hopefully neither my mother nor her womb find this blog (and seriously, the chances are slim as she has yet to grasp what the ‘desktop’ is) but if she does I hope she gets far enough to read this next part:

Dear Mom,

I love you more than anything in this whole entire world, including my cats and you know how much I love my cats. I’m not really referring to Llama as he is the devil incarnate but maybe I love him just a little bit. I’m really talking about Oscar and Thomas, rest in peace, and Cleo, the worlds fattest furball who still insists on rolling in the dusty patches in your driveway so he ends up looking kind of brownish-grey but you and I both remember the time when he was just a youngun and smelled like baby powder for many years in a row. This was obviously before he discovered the dusty patches but I digress. This is not about cats, this is about you and how damn cool you are and how if I’d been given the option to choose anybody else, any other mother in this whole entire world, I would still choose you. You make my life complete in that way no one else can because no one else carried me around for nine months minus six weeks and ate lots of pickles and bell peppers. Raw ones, not cooked, because we both like that crunch. Thank you for making me go to dance practice when I wanted to quit so I could stay home and watch Punky Brewster (even though I told you it was because I hated dance class and my tights made me itch) because you KNEW with your strange mom-radar that I was totally lying and just wanted to look at Punky’s bedroom again, the one with the cool bed. Thanks for driving me all over town as a kid so I got to do as many things as humanly possible even though I’m absolutely positive you’d have rather been lying on the couch reading a book. Thanks for letting me play with your hair when we visited Jolene’s house and thanks for letting me pretend I was a grownup with you guys, even though Jolene may have thought I ran my mouth incessantly and you probably didn’t get to talk about all the adult things you wanted to talk about because I was sitting RIGHT THERE, right beside your legs, refusing to leave because I was too old to play with my snotty younger brother and Jolene’s snotty sons. I always sort of blamed her for not having girls for me to play with until that one special day when I realized that you don’t actually get to pick that kind of stuff. Also, thanks for always leaving me voicemails that start with “Hi sweetie” because I secretly like it and I don’t even mind when you call me that in public.

Love,

Robin

You Don't Have To Be Bruce Willis To Make A Decision

This afternoon I had lunch with two friends of mine.  Actually, one is my Actual Friend and the other is the Special Friend of the Actual Friend.  It’s not that I don’t like the Special Friend, it’s just that I can’t ever REALLY befriend people who ooze wishiwashiness. Though we (and by ‘we’ I mean humanity, collectively) are certainly entitled to moments of indecision, I’m a firm believer that those moments of indecision need to be few and far between.  It’s okay to straddle the fence for a brief period of time about whether or not you should go through with an upcoming wedding.  It is not, however, okay to straddle the fence about the upcoming wedding ALL THE WAY THROUGH the wedding and post-wedding and post-post-wedding.  I’m using this as an example, obviously.  The same applies to choosing a restaurant for lunch.  Don’t agonize over the Wendy’s/Burger King decision all the way through the drive to the Wendy’s/Burger King and through the Wendy’s/Burger King meal and then AFTER the Wendy’s/Burger King meal.  This makes you a douche and it’s best if you just not talk. 

We didn’t have any blatant displays of wishiwashiness at the lunch table today but I still know that it lingers not far under the surface which is why I have to refer to him as Her Special Friend and not My Actual Friend.  Obviously this is like the world’s longest discussion about who I ate lunch with today but I totally don’t care and you can drink my pureed toe jam.

My point is that today I totally had validation for the obscene amount of money I spent at Target last week.  As a side note, I swear that Target has a homing beacon that draws all females within a 30 mile radius inside its automatic glass doors to peruse its overpriced crap.  It’s a pull that someone with double X chromosomes just can’t resist, much like men and their random Y chromosome can’t resist the pull of the Gander Mountain superstore.  But it’s true; the local Target has received a strangely large chunk of my paycheck in the last 10 days. 

As for the validation, which I swear I’m getting to, it all started when I laid my sunglasses, phone and ID badge on the lunchroom table.  I ate my meal, an edible though not memorable frozen meal containing chicken and broccoli and what someone is trying desperately to market as ‘cheese.’  After we’re done eating I gather all my trash together and reach for my sunglasses ONLY TO HAVE A GINORMOUS CHUNK FALL OFF.  I don’t actually know what you call that part of the sunglasses and I’m too lazy and disinterested to google it.  But the WHOLE SIDE, the side that is necessary to keep them resting peacefully perched on your nose and ears just plum fell off. 

So now, as I sit at my desk an hour later, I’ve made peace with the excessive dollars that have made their way into the Target coffer.  Because Target provided me with new sunglasses even when I felt mildly guilty for purchasing new ones when I so obviously had a functional and unscratched and unbroken pair.  But The Fates have picked today to smile on me and now I just have to find a way of justifying the $17 I spent on eye-wrinkle cream.  Thankfully, I no longer have to justify the $25 I spent on wee little dog outfits that I repurposed as cat outfits.  Brittany was with me so I think I might be able to blame it on her, much like I blamed Monday’s ingestion of Paradise Pie on her.  But I returned the outfits the next day because I just cannot allow people into my house to later be greeted by my two Demonspawn who are sporting a tracksuit with ‘woof’ emblazoned on the back and pink ruffled dress with embroidered bunnies. 

Blame Latvia

Right now I can hear the gentle constant drone of the cooled air rushing through the air conditioning vents above the cubicles and truly, it’s one of the most pleasant sounds I’ve ever heard. In one fell swoop it’s reminded me that not only is it sunny and beautiful outside but it’s a stunning 71 degrees- a temperature so perfect even the miserly wanks of the world will agree, albeit grudgingly, that spring is most definitely here to stay. At least until summer knocks it out of the ballpark with a giant metal bat so it can trundle into the scenery with gallons of oppressive and lung-constricting heat.

I know, it’s just an air conditioner. But one has to understand that Corporate America will wait until the last possible moment to switch on the good ol’ AC—so the sound I hear is an indication that the Higher Ups have pooled their collective wills to dictate that spring will stay in residence because god forfuckingbid they turn the heat back on should a random frosty front decide to hop on through.

This kind of weather makes me forget that I spend roughly thirty dollars a month on Claritin in an effort to control the hellish misery induced by that dusting of yellowness on my shiny black car. Which makes it unshiny and ultimately ends up pissing me off. It also makes me forget that, should I forget my daily dose, my jaw and neck and upper arms and eyebrows and ears will itch uncontrollably, kind of like it’s doing now because YES MY FRIENDS I forgot to take my Claritin. They’ll turn red and hot to the touch, especially my ear lobes. I’ve thought many times today how much I’d love to find a way to strap ice cubes to my ears. They have strap-on genitalia, why can’t They have strap-on cooling devices? I should clarify this by saying that They should make every effort possible to make these strap-on cooling devices as unobtrusive as possible because I can just see some giant marketing douche, probably the same marketing douche that came up with those cereal and “milk” bars, pushing an idea for cooling ear muffs and scarves. Because nothing says cool like wearing ear muffs in the office. Save for starting a booger collection under the armrest on your chair and laughing hysterically at your coworkers when they inadvertently steal your chair out of your office and end up with their palms embedded in your biological smathering of nose goo.

I’ve had like six cups of coffee in the last hour and holy catpoop I have to pee so bad I just seriously considered the advantages of high cubicle walls and multiple trashcans.

My New Lotion Smells Like Oranges

Right now I can feel the collective Rock of Food, similar to the Rock of Gibraltar, sitting immobile and sullen in my lower intestinal track. I know, tasty. Run off and eat your dinner now, kiddos! It’s just that in six days I’ve spent copious amounts of time in booths or tables with a nice cloth napkin spread over my thighs to catch the inevitable barrage of things I drop on myself. It started Thursday with the trip to Jasmine’s, a nice sushi/tasty food/bar at the edge of town that even now, with the 46lbs I’ve gained in 6 days glaring at me, makes my mouth water buckets of spit. I was treating myself, you see. I’d been eating so well, keeping such close watch of my checkbook that I thought What The Hell! I’ll spend a twenty on a delicious lunch this week. But then I got to work the next day and looked in my Outlook calendar- I’d scheduled a lunch with coworkers! No biggie, the girls are fun and I’ll order something healthy and cheap. And so I ordered the Jalapeno Grilled Tilapia from Johnny Carino’s. Which sounds deceptively healthy. Fish! Grilled with vegetables! That’s like 2.3 calories! But then it was placed in front of me and the fish, oh the beautifully seasoned fish, was placed daintily on top of a heaping pile of angel hair pasta tossed in a yummy cream sauce with chopped bits of jalapeño and spinach. And, not wanting to be wasteful, I ate every last drop. If I hadn’t been surrounded by a table full of female coworkers I would have licked the last scraps of sauce from the edges of the bowl that I’d been unable to sop up with giant chucks of fresh bread.

Six hours later and I’m sitting in another restaurant, this time it’s Buffalo Grill, and I’m devouring an excellently grilled bacon cheeseburger and fries like I’ve never eaten before in my life. So I go home, resolving to spend my weekend cleaning and eating my leftover frozen dinners.

But then I get bored.

I send Brittany off on her adventure with a waive and a smile, secretly knowing that it’s entirely possible I may have to google a Certain Someone and drive cross country to break Certain Someone’s knees. I use this expression a lot, the threat to break someone’s knees. I threatened to break my brother’s knees when he drove his car into a ditch and disappeared, only to turn up in the county jail. I want to make it clear that I don’t use this expression in vain. I will actually break someone’s knees should they happen to piss me off enough. Or, in this case, hurt a friend enough. Because breaking someone’s knees sends a certain message, much more so than threatening to kick someone’s ass. You can kick someone’s ass and chalk it up to horseplay. But there’s no getting around broken knees. That person meant business.

So after I watched her drive off into the sunset I called Amanda, who desperately wanted some cheese dip. And me, being the self-sacrificing friend that I am, acquiesced to her crazy demands for the liquid cheese. And upon penalty of death I might have eaten some, okay, a lot of that cheese dip. BUT IT WAS FROM SENOR TEQUILAS AND YOU JUST CAN’T BEAT THE DELICIOUSNESS OF THEIR WHITE CHEESE DIP.

Then Sunday I went to work. I came home. I made a frozen dinner. Yay for me! But then the Dollar Movies were calling and I mean, My God, you can’t beat watching a movie for a dollar. So Amanda and Kara and I threw ourselves into Kara’s slightly unstable vehicle (made unstable by her frightening driving habits) and swung through Wendy’s to get a spicy chicken sandwich, lettuce only, fries and a Mix-n-Frosty. I had to get the Mix-n-Frosty because HELLO! You get to add things, like butterfingers or oreos, into your frosty! Nothing could possibly be more delicious! Except maybe smuggling it inside the theater at the bottom of your purse and eating it in the cold dark anonymity of the movie theater.

Then Monday came along. I’d gone grocery shopping the night before in an attempt to curb my eating-out but NO! My plan was defeated by the same Fun Lunch Girls who insisted I go to The Purple Cow. Where I ate a cobb salad that had all the nutritional value of a bucket of raw bacon.
Then dinner with Brittany at Chili’s where I ingested Southwestern Eggrolls, the most delicious invention ever because who REALLY wants to eat an eggroll full of cabbage and strange pork pieces when they could eat eggrolls filled with chicken and spiciness?? I know. And then I ate some Paradise Pie. But Brittany made me.

After Monday comes Tuesday, unless you’re a cast member in The Godfather and then it might come after Saturday or whenever The Godfather wills it to be. I got up early, made my healthy turkey wrap and ran out the door. But at 10:30am my phone rang, another co-worker in need of relationship advice- how was I to turn that down?! I was needed in a time of female turmoil! And there’s only one place to conduct female relationship squabble- Fu-Lin’s! So I had the Kung Pao Beef with an eggroll and wonton soup and I must say that the wonton soup was especially good today but let’s be honest- it’s just a bit of liquid trying to work its way down through the solid rock of food that has taken up residence in my body. This is not to imply that I’m having trouble expelling the food because EW. I would never talk about that. I would, however, talk about warts or ulcer-induced vomiting but I draw the line at personal poopage. Because it’s not that it’s ACTUALLY sitting in my stomach it’s just that I can feel the ACTUAL four chins that are just waiting to burst out from underneath my jawline thanks to the sixty thousand calories I’ve ingested recently.

I would make a joke *here* about bulimia but that would probably be in bad taste.

*Addition: I do not actually HAVE bulimia, BRITTANY, GIRL WHO IS TRYING TO DISTRACT ME FROM HITTING HER OVER THE HEAD IN HOPES OF KNOCKING SENSE IN THERE, the ulcers make mi estomaga muy sensitivo, yo, and there is sometimes vomiting when it is unhappy with what I’ve decided to put in it. THIS DOES NOT EQUAL BULIMIA. It does, however, mean that I can have a very uncomfortable fifteen minutes hovering over your bathroom toilet.

Genie In A Bottle Got Rubbed The Right Way

There will be future discussions, I’m sure, about how much I like my new job. Because not only do I like it, I love it so damn much I want to wrap it in a furry blanket and kiss it’s cold wet nose. Let’s not forget that a scant couple of months ago I was seriously considering offering my skills up for the Toilet Paper Roll Changing Specialist position because I’d rather spend my day inside a mirrored and linoleumed environment changing half-empty toilet paper rolls than participate in one more second of the fiery hell of being an Ass Wiping Specialist. And though I deemed my previous job title an “Ass Wiper” please know that it had nothing whatsoever to do with what happens in a bathroom. Which makes it all the more revolting because the Ass Wiping was happening in a non-sterile and open floor plan environment. So it might be possible that I’m a bit overly enthralled with my new job because in comparison to the stomach-churning work from a mere 10 days ago THIS PLACE IS LIKE THE FLUFFY CLOUD WHERE THE CAREBEARS LIVE.

And what’s really great is that, though I’m only two floors down from my previous cubicle, the walls are so thick and fireproof that you can’t even hear the incessant screaming and wailing as each employee takes his turn on the roasting spit, hoping that this might be the day when he doesn’t have to go home and toss his smelly smoke infested clothing in the bin whilst scraping the burned rotting flesh off his abdomen.

Topic Change:

Today on lunch I went to The Purple Cow and tried to convince the manager that because I was wearing purple velvet shoes I should get a free purple milkshake because obviously I’m the most loyal customer ever. He didn’t so much buy into my theory but that’s okay. I left my gum under the table.

KIDDING.

Back to original topic, sort of:

People in my new job wear lots of man-loafers and dress pants. Not just pressed khakis, which are the bare minimum a male can get away with, but ACTUAL dress pants. With belts, even. And they say things like “We had the in-laws over this weekend…” and “When the electrician came last week….” and “I tried out this new fertilizer on my azaleas…” It’s a whole ‘nother world down here. And GOD HELP ME but I just got that damn Aladdin song stuck in my head. The one where they sing to each other on the flying rug. Don’t judge me; I spend a lot of time with children under the age of four. I won’t lie to you either, I sometimes sing that song in my kitchen while I’m waiting for my 96 cent Michelina’s Lean Gourmet to cook it’s required three minutes and thirty seconds in the microwave.

My kitchen has great acoustics.

It's Early Yet, Said the Crow to the Owl

So, yes. 

A bit overwhelmed.

 

I sat in my car Monday morning and agonized over making the right decision. 

 

Because, you see, though there is normally a ‘bail’ option, it’s much easier just to NOT CHOOSE a certain path. 

Less heartache.  And headache. 

 

Obviously I got out of my car.  And went to work.  On my brand new floor in my brand new office with my brand new boss. 

And it seems okay.  Maybe even more than okay. 

Push Pins

I have a tiny scar on the inside of my elbow from ‘donating’ plasma a handful of times my freshman year in college. The ‘donations’ were concurrent with a lesson learned in ‘overdraft charges.’

I can remember every outfit from every first day from every year of school- even kindergarten.

The week before 5th grade my mother gave me $100 dollars for my back to school shopping. In the world of a 10-year-old this was an amount that had to be stretched to the last possible cent. So I purchased black shorts, purple shorts and orange shorts followed by an orange shirt with purple polka dots, a black shirt with purple stripes, a purple shirt with orange polka dots, an orange shirt with black ribbing around the neck and arms and finally a bright red shirt just for shits and giggles. Then, on the chalkboard easel in my bedroom, I meticulously detailed the combinations of outfits for each school day in September. My idol was Clarissa from Clarissa Explains It All.

I don’t hold much stock in matching. Today, for instance, I am wearing pink shoes, grey pants, a blue tank top over a white one, a brown cardigan shrug and black bracelets.

I am not nearly as obsessed with clothes as the last few paragraphs indicate.

I put off doing laundry until the last possible minute.

I eat a lot of ramen noodles- not only because I don’t have gobs of money but because I genuinely like them.

I don’t know how to salsa dance but I imitate it in my living room at least twice a week.

I thought the bad first impression I give was a talent I only recently acquired. Recent as in the past 8 years. But upon further dwellage, I learned that I’ve always given a bad first impression. I remember meeting my best friend Constance in 7th grade, the year that all the elementary schools emptied into the large middle school across town. She was in my History class, along with a host of other guys and girls that would later flow in and out of my friend circle. That same year, while lying sprawled on the carpet of my bedroom and discussing the trivialities of life, she informed me that she thought I was a snobbish bitch that first day in History. She soothed my poor childish ego by following that statement up with reassurances that she later came to find me funny and nice and sweet and smart- not at all snobbish or bitchy.

I either ignore or befriend the boys I crush on. Because I am so undeniably mature.

I abhor people who wear their ignorance as a badge of honor.

I have roughly 25 nail files, which I rarely use.

I wish they made room fresheners that smelled like Pledge. Pledge is my favorite smell in the whole wide world.

I love public transportation.

I wish I had enough money to live on top of a mountain in a house made of recycled products with solar panels and windmills and a large cistern wrapped in shiny copper. In my fantasy land I’d ride my zip line bucket to the village below for supplies and books. In the real world I’d drive my hybrid to the base of the mountain for supplies and books. Because zip lines are fun going down, not so much on the uphill.

I’m usually just a bit on the sleepy side.

I prefer desktops over laptops.

I get in eating ruts. For the past seven nights I have pulled out a large four tortilla, sprinkled it with cheese, dabbed a bit of picante sauce in the middle and nuked until bubbly. I have rolled it up, dropped it on a plate, grabbed a cup of yogurt and a spoon and sat in my favorite yellow chair to eat in front of mindless television drivel.

I have been told that what you read here doesn’t coincide with my real life persona. That I’m ‘harder’ in person, with a general attitude of devil-may-care—to throw in an overused cliché. I’ve had others reassure me that that’s simply not true. Whatever it is that makes me different in person, I’m working on it. I swear.

I Like Blue Pens

I’ve got that lightly crunchy feeling between my teeth, thanks to my toothpaste happy dental hygienist. Every time I close my mouth the miniscule sand-like pieces grind together, making strange echoing noises inside my head. Though I will give her credit for being reasonable with the tooth-scraping device, bless her.

After today’s trip to El Dentisto I’ve decided there’s no point in finding a mouth doctor you like because really, WHO CARES. The past three times I’ve been to the dentist I’ve sat in the automatic chair for 40 minutes while some abominably perky 23-year-old scrapes my teeth, takes x-rays and shoves the spit-sucker into corners of my mouth I haven’t seen in, well, ever. Senor Denisto usually rolls in as the Perky Hygienist is making my next appointment on their super-efficient touch screens located in every little room. Glad to see my insurance dollars are going to a good cause. Now, I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of Senor Dentisto because he’s a tasty and delicious morsel, far above the normal cut of Mouth Gougers I’ve ever met. Hell, he’s a tasty and delicious morsel PERIOD. And it doesn’t hurt his cause that he always makes a crack about my five thousand bracelets and pointy shoes. But I do find it quite sad that he spends less than 30 seconds taking one of the pointy teeth-pickers and poking it at my teeth, only to announce with a great big toothy smile that my teeth are perfect, thanks for stopping by. I mean, I secretly love that he tells me my teeth are perfect because I have an unhealthy obsession with teeth in general. But 30 seconds? This is all I get for being poked and prodded and scraped for 40 minutes? I at least want him to slap my x-rays up on the screen and spend a few minutes looking at them in front of me, if only to give me the impression that Dentisto’s are just as involved in my mouth-health as those perky girls in black and pink scrubs.

And then I ruined my nice clean teeth by eating a baconeggandcheesemcgriddle from McDonald’s. AND IT WAS DELCIOUS.

Then I went to Old Navy because I still had an hour before I could feasibly show up for work. Wouldn’t want to get them thinking that I could come in EARLY. You might remember the last time I went to Old Navy- I woke up one morning and realized I had nothing clean to wear and promptly shuffled my pajama-ed self into my car, across town and into the warehouse environment where they pump steady streams of over-dj’d pop music. I picked up a pair of grey pants and a black sweater and changed in the car, where I was totally busted out by a 12-year old kid who was completely creeped out by the Lady With No Pants On. Today I had clean clothes but I really just wasn’t that keen on wearing them.

So I bought new ones.

And then drove to work, parked in the very back parking lot, whipped off my shirt and attempted to pull on
the tank top I’d carefully arranged for quick dressing. Naturally, there was nothing quick about it. My head got stuck in the arm hole while I flashed WHAT I THOUGHT was an empty rear parking lot. But I could never be that lucky. To the guy in the green SUV: THANKS AND YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY TOO, JACKASS.

Turning My Hay Into Gold Thread

In four days I start my new job, the big snazzy one with a cubicle literally 4 times as large as the one I sit in now along with actual barriers between me and the world, barriers taller than even the above average man, barriers that reach just shy of the ceiling. I will have a new, flat screen computer with top of the line software and hardware. I will work on projects that influence the company culture, generate new business and streamline existing processes. It seems daunting when I truly sit down and think about it—but deep down I know it will be okay. I can learn relatively anything, relatively fast. They liked me enough to hire me above all other applicants and I have to trust their judgment.

Here’s where the problem fits in:
There is no plan involved. I get a better job with better pay BUT THERE IS NO PLAN. I don’t have a track outlined in my head about where I want to go next, what job I want next, what office I want next. When I planned on going to radiology school there was a definite, outlined and subcategorized PLAN. I would attend school- check. Find a job with the traveling health services- check. Spend 6 months in each place before leaving for a new locale- check. Two years later determine a location I’d like to stay in- check. Buy a home- check.

I think what frustrates me more than anything about my current situation is the lack of change. I spent an hour on craigslist today looking at apartments in Amsterdam, thinking how desperately I want to pack up and leave, clean out my savings and spend three months in a run-down studio apartment, eating ramen noodles and making friends. THAT is what makes my heart go a-flutter. How do I get there? I could teach English as a second language, maybe…. if you forget about my heaping pile of credit card debt I’m required to pay each month along with the 17-grand I still owe on the Honda. How do I do it? Am I transferring some genetic need for companionship into the need to pack up and leave? Or am I just predisposed to flightiness, the need for constant change, even though I claim to hate it.

It’s just… today I sat at my desk and thought about the time I spent in the Netherlands and I missed the slice of bread I had for breakfast each morning, nine days straight, slathered in butter and covered in chocolate sprinkles. Like you and I go to McDonalds and expect our packet of grape jelly with our sausage biscuits, the Dutch expect their packets of chocolate sprinkles. And not the generic brown sprinkles found in the U.S.- these are the most delicious chocolate sprinkles ever to be found or tasted. I missed getting on the train in Alcala’ and riding the 30 minutes into Madrid. I missed being able to see the Sacre Coeur from my hostel window. I missed the walk to the university in Spain, the flip flops on my feet sticking to the hot pavement, passing the plaza and the allure of the bakery at the end of row, ordering croissant con queso y jamon, sin jamon por favor. Si’, solo queso because the guy behind the counter could never quite believe I only wanted the ham and cheese sandwich with cheese only, please. The Gap store in Paris I ducked into during a rainstorm, only to be met with the first stacks of clothing above a size 4 I’d been able to find since arriving, speculating that the French kept all their chubby people boarded up in sheds for fear of letting the tourists see the true effects of fresh cheese and gallons of wine. I even missed traveling with Kasi, the undisputed Travel Nazi of the Western Hemisphere.

And I’m sad because I thought I was a grown-up then.
And I’m sad because I thought being grown-up was always going to be like that, traveling with friends and laughing at street vendors and getting stomach cramps on 11-hour flights.
But I’m happy I’ve found a place that lets me pay my bills, live in a nice apartment, visit my friends who insist on living 30 miles away.
And I’m happy I found a venue to vent and write and write and vent.
But I miss parts of that life, when I thought I was a grown-up.

I've Lost My Nail File

I should probably apologize for the last post because which one of you really wants to read about bloody beating hearts? That silence I hear is everyone pinning their mouths together and making eye contact with their neighbor, silently pleading to be released from the wrath of the girl who previously just seemed A Bit On The Funny Side But Turned Out To Be A Prime Candidate For A 9x6 Cell.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina! ß said in contralto Madonnavoice.

This morning I had chocolate pudding for breakfast not because it looked tantalizing in it’s see-through container and not because it seemed like a grrrreat (Tony the Tiger!) way to start my day but because pouring a bowl of cereal just seemed like too godamned much trouble. Standing in front of the refrigerator I thought I’m a fucking adult and I can eat what I please. In fact, this realization was somewhat of an epiphany for me and one I’ve seen in others as well. Most notably was Spring Break during my freshman year at college. I woke up in the beachfront condo I was sharing with five other females and wandered into the living room, only to be greeted by my college roommate sitting cross-legged on the pull-out couchbed, eating Pringles and Corona. I expressed extreme disgust with her breakfast (of champion!) choices wherein she informed me that she was a grown ass woman and could do whatever the fuck she wanted. Though I’ll have to split hairs with her on being a grown ass woman at the ripe old age of 19, I do kind of have to agree with her, even if I still find her chosen combination of breakfast foods revolting. As a side note I might add that later in the afternoon, after falling asleep on the balcony post-consumption of roughly 12 Coronas and 2 cans of Pringles, she woke up to the vicious dive bombing attacks of two dozen sea gulls. I watched her spring from her plastic chair, legs tangled in her giant beach towel and run head first into the sliding glass door while screaming “THEY THINK I’M BREAD! THEY THINK I’M BREAD!”

She was rather pale.

My chocolate pudding wasn't really all it could be (get an edge on life, in the army!) but it was infinitely less time consuming than reaching inside the cabinet, pulling out a bowl, reaching inside another cabinet, dragging out the cereal, opening the box AND LET'S NOT FORGET A POSSIBLE EXPOSURE TO PAPER CUTS VIA THE DANGEROUS CARDBOARD, pouring out the cereal, getting the milk, opening the milk...GAH. Even now it makes me tired.

So I thought about how one could make cereal more efficient while I was eating my prepackaged chocolate pudding and realized, shit, somebody has already had this dream, to make the cereal easy for all. But they ended up at the wrong conclusion, which would be those cereal-n-milk bars they sell next to the granola bars in the grocery. I’d like to have a word with the advertising mammoth who decided that the correct marketing ploy would be to show commercials with the graphically enhanced ACTUAL milk transforming into the “milk” that is found between the layers of the cereal bar. This is not only unappetizing but it makes me want to not buy the regular cereal as well, in fear that some of that “milk” may have contaminated the cereal dispensers at the plant. Blech.

You Can Bypass This One If You Want

I wish there was a funny way to say I wasn’t sleeping, that I looked upon the sleeplessness as an exercise in self-awareness or that I found it endearing in a neurotic or mildly wacky kind of way. As in, “That girl looks like she’s not sleeping, WHAT A CHARACTER, THAT ONE.” or “Though obviously lacking in the REM category, BET SHE’S A TOTAL LAUGH.”

I’ve held off mentioning anything that might intimate my lack of voluntary and horizontal slumber because really, who wants to read about the bleary-eyed girl who sits at her desk, hallucinating tiny spiders marching in a line against the cubicle wall. In my vast and uber intelligent opinion, folks want to read about small men who live in trees (David the Gnome!) and make lamps out of human skin or perhaps Rodents Of Unusual Size who live in fanciful forests made of licorice and lollipops and swim in rivers of chocolate with pretty red beating hearts in lieu of shiny maraschino cherries. Obviously I’m exaggerating the scariness that the sleeplessness has wrought upon my aching body OR AM I. In truth I got out of bed this morning, quite intent on avoiding the bloody beating hearts adorning my wooden floor. And even though, logically, I can tell you that THERE ARE NO BLOODY BEATING HEARTS ON MY WOODEN FLOOR, in the haze of my sleep-deprived waking coma I was most certainly afraid of stepping on one. And slipping to my death. Because I am eternally afraid of slipping. On flat ground, on stairs, on linoleum TAKE YOUR PICK. But rest assured that those bloody beating hearts were a detriment to my health by way of ending up ass first on the unrelenting oak of my floor.

Before you submit suggestions please know that I have tried every single godamned one of them. Earplugs, chamomile tea, yoga, nasty ass warm milk, exercise, reading, not reading, television, no television I HAVE TRIED THEM ALL. I have waking dreams at weird times of the day, most involving subjects that normal people do not entertain. There’s no time frame for the night drama that I can pin down, either. It didn’t start with Matthew’s incarceration for drunk jogging, nor did it start with my campaign for My Mother To Get A Fucking Divorce. Please note that I can never remember sleeping WELL, but I can’t remember when the actual NOT SLEEPING went into full effect.

All I can tell you is that the NOT SLEEPING is in full swing for the ??? month in a row, much to the chagrin of my burning eye holes.

And so, as a final touch, to everyone who has ever bitched me out for leaving a party early because I was tired or declined an invitation to a night out because I was tired or gave me the look that implied that I am a sorry ass individual indeed because I so blatantly throw away my chances to meet and greet with the opposite sex because I was tired: BACK OFF. 1) I really am that tired 2) I REALLY AM THAT TIRED and 3) Did you read the second paragraph? Did you? Because if you did then it should be perfectly clear that I most certainly do not need to fucking meet and greet with the opposite sex. If people with herpes can be kind enough to bag it up to prevent the floodgates from opening on their oozing genital sores, passing it onto the unsuspecting world at large then I can be kind enough to prevent the world from having to interact with my neurotic sleep deprived eccentricities.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT IS CONCLUDED.

Hats Off, Gloves On

I totally just got put in the BEST FUCKING MOOD.

 

God Bless whoever put the Jack Johnson ‘Upside Down’ song on their answering machine.  GOD BLESS YOU WITH MANY RICHES, MY FRIEND.

 

Because normally I have to listen to Nelly or 50cent or some other rapper who I totally couldn’t recognize if they slapped me in the face.  Or slow R&B songs.  WHICH I HATE.  Or Mariah Carey.  WHOM I ALSO HATE. 

 

Oh, but you with the Jack Johnson, BLESS YOU.

 

And even though it’s totally unrelated and makes no sense, hearing that song made me think that I wanted to go by the Flyleaf album today on lunch.  Which should seem totally normal to YOU because normal, regular everyday people do such things as buy CD’s.  But I have a problem with shelling out cash for CD’s when I hear them on the radio and hearing only one song guarantees NADA as far as me actually liking the entire CD.  So I normally wait… and wait… and wait… until I forget that I even wanted the CD to begin with. 

 

BUT TODAY I’M GOING TO PARTICIPATE IN POP CULTURE AND PURCHASE MUSIC. 

 

*medium sized happy dance because sitting in cubicle*