So I feel slightly better today. Not because my mutant mucus ball has subsided. Nor because my coughing spasms have decreased. No, no. It would be because in the span of 3.2 seconds last night, I had the EVER LOVING BEJESUS SCARED OUT OF ME which COMPLETELY CLEARED MY COBWEBBED AND BEFUDDLED BRAIN and has left me with the added benefit of a less feverish outlook on the world.

What could have scared me, you ask? I mean, I'm a grownasswoman. Grownasswomen don't jump out of their skin at a moments notice. No sir. We keep that skin firmly attached under penalty of death or extreme maiming to the person or persons responsible for making us jump out of it. And so here is a relation of last night's events which forced me OUT of my skin:

At ten o'clock last night I snuggled down under my covers and flicked on my bedside lamp, intent on finishing the last 100 pages of my book. My face had been scrubbed, my teeth brushed and my hair pulled back in it's customary bedtime ponytail. I'd spritzed my sheets with lavender spray and taken a fairly large swallow of my codeine-laced cough medicine. My cats, normally wont to parade around the house chasing imaginary monsters, had snuggled up by my feet, the Fat One stretching to his full length with front paws resting on my duvet covered knee and the Deceptively Cute One curled between my feet in a tight round ball with neither face nor paw nor tail visible.

I read steadily until slightly before eleven when both cats simultaneously roused themselves from slumber, ears twitching and alert. After several minutes of what I figured was normal Unexplainable Cat Behavior, they both took flying leaps off the edge of the bed and raced into the living room, where I heard them stop at the front of the room where the hardwood ends and the rug begins. I half expected them to start their usual war over who gets the One Super Important Cat Toy, even though there exists a whole plethora from which to choose. That day's special toy had been a tattered black faux-rat, eyes long chewed off and tail a ragged mess of clumped fur and bare faux-rat-skin.
I read on, having long become accustomed to the strange nightly forays the cats make without regard to my need for sleep or quiet. It was then that I heard a strange sound emanating from the living room area.
At first I discounted the noise, assuming the cats were scratching against the window or that they'd found something amusing to bat across the skiddable hardwood floors. But the noise continued, growing louder with each passing second.

When I heard the window screen start to rattle in earnest I immediately slipped off the side of my bed, sliding my feet into my shoes. Crouched beside the bed, hidden from all windows, I grabbed the knife I keep between my box spring and mattress. Though I know I'm more likely to be injured while brandishing the knife in front of an intruder, it gives me some measure of peace that I have a weapon within reach. The knife has been in my family for over 50 years, it's handle wooden and smooth with a strong steel blade imbedded in the base. The blade has little give and is long enough to do damage but short enough for me to easily maneuver.

I duck into the hallway and crouch again, peering around the opening into the kitchen and listening for the persistent rattling that grows louder with each step I take. It isn't coming from the kitchen window I decide and creep further down the hallway and into the foyer, pressing myself against the wall, arm by my side and the knife gripped in my hand. The apartment is deceptively silent, the cats stationed on either side of the living room entrance with eyes glowing green in their motionless bodies.

The screen continues to rattle and I can feel my hearing becoming more acute, my eyes adjusting to the dark. I can just make out a shape on the other side of the curtains, can hear his breath as he continues to struggle with the screen. He manages to free a corner and the breath leaves my body in a near silent exhalation. I had so desperately wanted my fears to remain unconfirmed, for the rattle to be just another gust of wind, just another creaky sound old buildings are so prone to emit. In the span of two seconds I presented to myself every foreseeable option. I could remain motionless against the wall and become paralyzed by my own fear. I could take the emergency key I have hidden by the door and race out the front door, letting the intruder continue his struggle with the window. These will not work.

And so I opened my mouth and screamed as loud as I could, my voice breaking over my abused throat, sounding ragged and wild. I flicked on the living room light, keeping the majority of my body hidden behind the foyer wall while still peering cautiously around the corner, ready for the breaking of glass and my sprint through the front door.

Instead, I heard the rapid staccato of dried leaves yielding under heavy footsteps.

I moved back into the hallway, knife still in hand, listening for any further disturbance. I quietly moved into each room, turning on the overhead lights. I became conscious of weight in my pocket. My cell phone, I thought.

I debated what I should do. I'd scared the intruder away but I wasn't comfortable that he wouldn't come back. I'm a girl. I'm alone. And all I've got to protect me are two cats and a bloody knife.

So back pressed against the wall I called Lilleeeee, hoping she was home, home being the apartment directly above mine. She answered, but she was 30 minutes away from town, visiting a friend. So I hung up and called the police, actually looking forward to sturdy men in uniforms, equipped with guns and flashlights and cars with flashing blue lights.

And you know what?

I HAD FIVE POLICE MEN SHOW UP AT MY DOOR IN UNDER FIVE MINUTES.

I noticed the first three cops while peering out of the blinds of my front window. The next two showed up less than a minute later, walking the perimeter of the building no less than four times before retiring to sit in their patrol car for an entire hour, giving me the strength to finally make my way back to bed. They found only a half-torn screen pulled from my window and a collection of beer bottles. The group of three had all shaken my hand before leaving, wishing me a good night.

And so I slipped my wood-handled knife back into it's spot between the mattresses, picked both cats up and sat down on the bed with their warm furry bodies pressed against my chest. I sat them down, grabbing the codeine cough syrup that I had left sitting on the night stand. I took my second dose of the night, less than an hour from my first. And for the second- and what I hoped was the last- time that evening, I snuggled under the covers while my newly dubbed Attack Cats resumed their pre-disturbance poses, the Fat One rubbing his head against my knee before drifting off into kitty cat slumber.

so. tired.

From Thursday afternoon until Monday morning I did AB SO FUCKING LUTE LY NOTHING but languish in my bed, occasionally venturing into the kitchen to eat a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Sometimes I even worked up the energy to stare at the bathtub longingly, knowing that the energy required to strip and stand for 10 minutes under the water, raising my hands above my head to wash my 47 pounds of hair WOULD JUST PLAIN KILL ME. (Though I did breakdown and shower on Saturday night once I rationalized that though I could not smell myself, my NEIGHBORS could probably smell me and that, my friend, is no good.) I dutifully took my antibiotics, sipped my codeine-laden cough syrup and drank cup after cup of water. And you know what?

I STILL FEEL LIKE SHIT.

I've decided I have some mutant strain of sinusitis/bronchitis that has taken up residence in my nasal/chest cavity and has found it RIGHT NICE and plans to raise little mutant babies and host little mutant baby showers and then, years from now, GIANT MUTUANT CELEBRATIONS announcing the baby mutants success at Mutantville High where he studied long and hard at mutant-ology, mutant history and, most importantly, THE THROWING OF FUCKING MUTANT PARTIES WITHIN THE CONFINES OF STUPID AND DELICATE HUMAN BODIES, DESTROYING THE ABILITY FOR COGNITIVE THOUGHT AND INNER PEACE.
I won't even pretend to be an adult. I AM MISERABLE. My head hurts, my chest hurts, my eyes burn, my brain has been knocked loose from my coughing, my eyes are carrying around jumbo-size YOU MOST CERTAINLY CAN'T CHECK THAT-size luggage and my whole body, MY WHOLE BODY, is so tired and exhausted you'd think I'd done something truly productive, something truly worthwile, something like building a 4,000 sq. ft. house with my BARE HANDS for poor starving children in the heat of Zimbabwe.

BUT NO.

It's seven o'clock and the thought of having to drive home just seems obnoxious and terribly silly. I'll be back here (work) in such a short time. Might I just stay here? I have some mini-mouthwash stashed in my desk. And a brush. I could just wear my big jacket all day tomorrow and NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW.

Stupid Thoughts From Today, Mostly Influenced By Heavy Sedation Due To Over-Medicating Myself With Total Crap Cold Medicine THAT IS SO NOT WORKING.

1) Ok. So I understand the placing of signs in the elevator informing THE ENTIRE COMPANY that LORDY LORDY *some chick's name here*'s FORTY!! Super. Whatever. You're excited because your friend turned forty. But placing these same sheets inside BOTH THE MALE AND FEMALE RESTROOMS?? ON THE INSIDE OF THE STALLS??? SERIOUSLY???
2) It might be beneficial to read the backs of medicine boxes before actually ingesting said medicine. For instance, do not use the nifty vapo inhaler 15 times in a row and then follow it with 3 shots of nose spray because THAT SHIT BURNS, AND BURNS HARD. I suppose this is how people who snort coke feel. I'd bet my leftover candy that I've got a hole in my septum the size of a lemon.
3) Why do people in my office grow bamboo at their desks? Does this look like a fucking jungle? Does it? NO. When the bamboo grows 3 feet ABOVE your cubicle, perhaps it is time to start thinking about CUTTING BACK THE BAMBOO.
4) No one is fooled by that faux bun on the back of your head. We all know you don't have hair down to your ass and that there's NO WAY in THIS LIFETIME that you'll have luxurious locks. Only black ladies can do that and get away with it. WHITE GIRLS CAN'T DO FAUX HAIR. Unless your name is Britney Spears, of course. Then by all means, have at it.
5) I just sneezed and used a total of four, count 'em FOUR tissues. And I even bought the non-ghetto kind with the lotion.

THERE IS A GIANT MUCUS BALL INSIDE MY CRANIAL CAVITY AND IT'S MAKING ME VERY CRANKY.

Want. To. Shove. Q. Tip. In. Ear. Oh, THE PRESSURE.

I realize today's lil story is going to sound, er, slightly odd-- but bear with me because I'm nothing if not slightly OFF MY ROCKER. I'm also full of cheer and goodwill.

** One of the above statements is true. One of them is not. YOU GUESS.

My 'slightly odd' statement revolves around some recurring dreams I've had. Recurring for the past three nights. In a row.

It goes something like this:

I'm in a car, then a plane. The transition is very smooth in the way that only dreams could be. Because you and I and Corndog Bullwinkle know it's near impossible for any plane-train-automobile adventure to be referred to as "smooth." "Bearable" - maybe. "Horrific"- more likely. But smooth... how I could only dream. <--- Very bad pun.

This whole time, I'm looking at what I think is a man (faces very blurry, but he/she looks tall and I'm making a generic assumption due to the nature of what I can see in his head) and though the face is super blurry, I can see quite clearly INTO HIS HEAD. Not with super-man like powers, but with the ability that one has to see what cartoon characters are thinking because there are giant white bubbles above their head spilling every single one of their stupid thoughts into the cold uncaring universe. Only there's no stupid white bubble. It's like the bubble is INSIDE his head. Like I took an MRI printout and said "Oh, look, there's a picture of a horse. He must be thinking about horses." But in THIS CASE the man is thinking about a RING.
A sparkly till death do us part RING. After seeing the sparkly ring in his head, I see him flash through mental thought pictures. I see him and another blurry-faced person on a couch together, watching movies. I see them holding a baby above their heads together. I see them sitting on a rocker looking old and decrepit together. Only, ONLY, he's sad about something. At this point in the dream I'm curious about why he's sad so I make myself into a fairy and I fly in his ear.

CUT ME SOME SLACK IT'S A DREAM.

Once I'm a fairy and I've flown in his ear we have some thought-picture conversations. I wish I could tell you what these thought-picture conversations were about, but I can't. It's like I read that part of my dream in a book. "They had thought-picture conversations." But the book doesn't tell you what they were about, only that they had them. Very annoying if you ask me. No idea how THAT author got published. Gah. <---making very Napoleon type sound.
So the next thing I know, I'm looking at some weird body of water. It's very calm, so I'm thinking lake. Though there's a very big beach, so it could be an ocean. Not that lakes don't have beaches, too. But here in Arkie-saw, lakes substitute pretty sandy beaches for mossy, swampy areas that are inhabited by the nation's largest icky amphibians. So them I'm in a house and there's all kinds of people around. Blurry faces, natch. GOD FORBID I GET A DIRECT CLUE. And then I see the airplane blurry guy and he's standing in the middle of a room next to blurry girl and then WHAM! He falls in a big deep pit. A big deep pit that not THREE SECONDS BEFORE was nowhere to be seen. Just swallowed whole. The blurry face people look around and seem to shrug, then go on about their merriment.

Uh. Yeah. Then I wake up.

Ahh. Super.

Saturday morning I awoke to the very loud and uber-annoying moto ring of my only communication link to the outside word. The Cell. I groggily flipped open the phone and tried to modulate my voice into one not so closely associated with a 50-year-old smoker. A smoker who happens to have a penis.
"Hello?"
"Good Morning Miss Birdsnest! I'm Captain McDouchey-Pants and my partner Lt. McDouchey-Pants and I are calling to confirm our 9am appointment to install your Comcast wireless internet and basic cable!"
"Ok."
"Will you be availabe to have your high-speed wireless internet and basic cable installed today at your previously scheduled time of 9am?"
"Uh, yeah."
I'm still moderately groggy and trying desperately to appear fresh and rested as opposed to tore down from my night of marathon "Friends" viewing and screwdrivers. The drinky kind, not the metally kind. Because normal adult females do not drink screwdrivers in the privacy of their own home, alone, while watching a third season marathon. They awake early, eager to start their day being fresh and cute and, if still single, begin The Prowl at coffee houses, newstands and cute breakfast shops.
Me? I'M A FUCKING REBEL.
So I click shut the phone and fall back onto my super delicious and comfortable bed. It's talking to me.* Telling me to go back to sleep. One does not have to put on clothes for the Comcast dweebs, it says. Just stay in bed until you hear them pull up. It will be fiiiine.
*Never listen when inanimate objects talk to you.
Five minutes later I convince myself that I do indeed have to get up because I would sooner cut off my arm than let strange people see my unmade bed. Forget reigning in the boobies, BED MAKING IS A PRIORITY, PEOPLE.
So I make the bed, pull back the hair, put on a bra (thank god, my knees were starting to chafe) and pull on yesterday's pants. Just as I'm swishing the oral fungi from my mouth, the Comcast truck pulls up. Then, as I'm unlocking the door, I see a second Comcast truck pull up.
I think, "Hnh. Weird."
I don't dwell on this thought long because Lilleeeee, my upstairs neighbor, is barrelling down the stairs so she can chill in the apartment with me while Comcast goes about its business installing shit. You know. To protect me. Because I'm a weenie.
The two McDouchey-Pants manage to carry themselves into the apartment while carrying wires, boxes and wearing tool belts with giant walkie-talkies that I assume are suppose to convey a sense of authority. A sense of "I TOTALLY know what I'm doing. I've got a TOOLBELT, duh."
I show them where the cable outlet is. It's in the bedroom closet. A completely ridiculous place for a cable outlet but I'm not the one who made that decision, now am I? So after showing them where the outlet IS and where it NEES TO BE they stare blankly at me, informing me that they just can't do that. I'll have to have written permission from my landlord.
"To install A CABLE OUTLET?" I ask.
Yes, I am informed. To install a cable outlet.
"Ok. Super. So why wasn't I told this ON THE PHONE when I made my appointment and every single ridiculous detail was examined and typed into some soul-less Comcast database??"
More blank stares.
"So what you're telling me is, I can't have cable unless I a) get written permission from my fuckwad landlord or b) decide to turn my bedroom closet into my very own entertainment center, complete with NO ELECTRICAL OUTLETS??"
"Er, yes."
SUPER.
So I think, screw the cable, I'll just get internet. I NEED the internet. I MUST HAVE the internet. So I tell Douche 1 and Douche 2 to install the wireless internet. I retreive my laptop and place it on the coffee table. Wherein Douche 2 looks at my pretty white macketymacmac and goes:
"Oh. They didn't cover those in training."
"What exactly do you mean 'they didn't cover those in training'?" I say.
"Well, um, I don't think our stuff works on those Apple computers."
"Uh huh. And again I ask, WHY WASN'T I TOLD THIS DURING MY TWENTY MINUTE PHONE CONVERSATION WITH YOUR SHORT BUS COMCAST REPRESENTATIVE?"
"Well, uh, maybe they didn't know?"
"Yes. I suppose it would be confusing for the rep to ask what type of computer I have and for me to answer 'Apple ibook'."
Douche 1 then decides to make his presence known. I mean, I'd been concentrating all my efforts on Douche 2. He was being ignored. How dare I.
So Douche 1 takes my laptop and tries to mess with settings, mess with buttons, MESS WITH ALL OF IT and then finally makes his Word of God Announcement:
"It's too old."
"My ass it's too old. I bought it in April of last year. That makes it less than two years old. I. Don't. Think. So."
"Nope, it's definitely too old."
So I fume and bite the inside of my mouth while Douche 1 gets on his beep beep walkie talkie to confer with Corndog Bullwinkle on the other end. Corndog Bullwinkle expresses his confusion over someone owning a Mac. He asks what operating system I have. I tell him. His conclusion? It's too old.
"IT'S NOT TOO OLD YOU DICKWEED. IT WAS UPDATED NOT SIX MONTHS AGO. TELL ME ONE MORE TIME IT'S TOO OLD. TELL ME."
So then Douche 2 has the brilliant idea that they can go ahead and install the cable and set up the wireless explaining that maybe I can find someone who knows how to set up a mac on Comcast internet. I stre incredulously at him, TOTALLY AMAZED THAT THOSE WORDS HAVE COME OUT OF HIS MOUTH.
"Maybe I misunderstood, but- AREN'T YOU THE ONE THAT'S SUPPOSED TO KNOW HOW TO INSTALL THE FUCKING INTERNET??"
"Well. Um."
Yeah. This is how my morning started. And let's not even TALK ABOUT the incident involving how my fuckwad landlord moved the rusted out water heater from her upstairs back porch to the 2-foot wide "alley" behind my apartment, placing it DIRECTLY UNDER MY WINDOW. Don't you worry. I called their answering service and made sure that Cody the Super Duper Answering Service Operator took down every. single. word. of my message. A message in which I used the phrase "fucking cunt" a total of four times. Why? Because I was SUPER EXCITED to see how I am now a Burger King drive-through. Please, give the fucking homeless rejects in my neighborhood a STEP STOOL into my WINDOW you FUCKING CUNT.
So anyway. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Re: Freaktastic

So lately I've had this obsession with Maine.

Yes, the state.

The really cold one in the very northeast corner. The one where it snows like, oh, I dunno, FOR YEARS without cease.

But I want, no, NEED to go there. I've never been there, so I can't say it's because I want to smell the special Maine smell or see the special Maine shore. It's not like I've got some poignant memory embedded in my brain from days long past.

Nope. But the NEED, the URGE is so strong I almost took off work last week to drive 24.4 hours to Portland, Maine. I also looked at flight schedules, bus schedules- I even researched renting horses for the trip.

Ok, the last one's a lie. But the rest are true. $368 for a plane ticket. $324 for a bus pass. 9 tanks of gas (round trip) at $35 a pop = $315.

But I fought it. Fought the urge. And the urge has now calmed down. But I can still feel it at the base of my back, sometimes pushing up to tingle between my shoulder blades.

It's horrible, this feeling. I want to go. But what THE FUCK IS IN MAINE????

LOBSTER???

I DON'T EVEN *LIKE* LOBSTER THAT MUCH.

Ugh.

I so wish we got memo's. It would look like this:


To: Birdie
From: PowersThatBe
Re: Maine Tingle

It has come to our attention that you may be experiencing some precipitous leanings, commonly referred to as "urges" involving a trip to Maine. These leanings were planted in your spine so that you may take a trip of self-exploration and meet an old man in downtown Portland by the name of Big Sam who will teach you the meaning of life.

We at ThePowersThatBe hope this memo will clarify the "urges" you have been experiencing. Please don't hesitate to contact us should you have any further questions.

Sincerely,

Bill Gustenstaf
Assistant to ThePowersThatBe
Starry Walkway, Universe 01202355-8

Today

About five seconds ago I missed New York so totally and completely that I saw the edges around my eyes go black.

I feel stagnant.

A Gift From The Peanut Gallery

I came back from lunch today to find a special surprise.

The ingredients of this surprise?
1 toilet plunger
2 napkins, slightly dirtied
1 sugar-free pecan delight chocolate turtle, melted and stretched

The toilet plunger is an object we of sick mind pass around the group to indicate those that truly SUCK to the best of their ability. A client yells at you over the phone and you sweet talk your way out of a reaming by telling the client how MUCH you ENJOY working with them on a DAY TO DAY basis and can't we just all be friends? Plunger on desk. The boss comes by and comments that your sunglasses are on your head, perhaps you didn't notice that you were inside? Well, they're there in case you walk by, you're presence brings such an unimaginable brightness to all our lives. Plunger on desk. You're coworkers hear you give a hearty fake-laugh over a joke that is most assuredly not hearty-laugh funny. The joke was from a senior vp notorious for being a waste bin of dead jokes. You guessed it-- plunger on desk.

So I go to lunch, eat my animal crackers, drink my diet dr. pepper and play the tetris game on my phone for a full 40 minutes. I come back to my floor to find the not-so-surprising addition of the plunger on my desk. (Not surprising after the ass-kissing I participated in this morning) But what was surprising was the new addition to the plunger game.

THE SUGAR-FREE CHOCOLATE CANDY WAS MADE TO LOOK LIKE A PEANUTTY TURD, THE NAPKINS WERE SOILED TO LOOK LIKE DIRTY TOILET PAPER AND THE PLUNGER HAD MELTED CHOCOLATE SMEARED ON IT. And let's not ignore the total irony in placing a piece of chocolate on my desk that some marketing genius labeled as a "mild laxative." Yeah, I'll be rushing out to by a bag of those.

My boss later told me they had debated whether or not to try out their new plunger scheme on me. He said they were all a little nervous about me making one of my comments that always seem to come out when the room goes completely quiet.

For instance, last week one of the girls made the following statement:
"I didn't ever think we'd get a person hired for that shift."

Her statement was met with laughter from another employee, who claimed that the phrase "did not ever" was not a grammatically correct statement. I chose to disagree. And so I used several sentences to demonstrate my point. Those sentences were:
"I didn't ever go to the store on that side of town."
"No officer, I didn't ever see that girl come in the bar."
"I didn't ever have sexual relations with that woman."

Well, quite naturally, the last sentence happened to be made just as the room had fallen unnaturally silent, letting my voice carry across the field of cubicles like some spooked rabbit. Taken out of context, I look like a defensive lesbian.

*sigh*

But, as my boss informed me, they decided to risk a scary comment because the sheer amusement far exceeded any inappropriate remark I might choose to make. So now I have a brown chocolate stain on my desk and a plunger by my feet. And the peanut turd jokes are never ending.

The Tooth Faery Is Really A Mean Old Hag That Eats Cute Bunnies

My friend, Lilleeeee has a slight problem involving the #32's.

For those of you who did not spend 10 minutes on webmd yesterday, #32 would refer to the 32 teeth that we humans no longer have the capability to house in our teeney weeney mouths. So typically, you, the reader, have 28 teeth. Unless you're that douche bag that never got his wisdom teeth pulled and by some MIRACLE FROM THE GODS OF DENTAL THINGS managed to escape the spine twisting horror of having a very angry tooth attempt to push it's way into an area of the mouth that is, quite honestly, not ready for something of that size. For all you men who practice hetero and don't welcome objects in your anal cavity, think of this dental problem in these terms: Bobby Joe looks at your booty and finds that it looks right nice. So he takes a giant orange traffic cone and SHOVES IT RIGHT IN YOUR ASS WITHOUT THE USE OF ASTROGLIDE OR EVEN SPIT. That, my friends, is what an emerging wisdom tooth feels like.

And now Lilleeee has the above-mentioned problem and is fighting tooth and nail to avoid a trip to the dentist. Because it would take up valuable vacation days and we all know that vacation days are not used for anything except ACTUAL VACATIONS where you don't have to do ANYTHING. And though recovering from impacted-wisdom-tooth-extraction-surgery would technically put you in the "doing nothing" category, it would also put you in sub-category "doing nothing because of excessive pain, trauma, or heavy sedation not of your choosing." Which is why Lilleeee is mostly in the correct state of mind to eschew using a precious and hard-earned vacation day to spend it spitting up blood while your mouth is full of cotton and you're lying puffy and unattractive on the couch, sedated to the point of drooling.

Ah, but this morning Lilleeeee woke up to blood on pillow. In my world, blood on pillow clearly indicates a need for dental assistance, stat. I may read about a vampire every now and then but I bo NO MEANS find the thought of swallowing blood a fun activity. And so I think Lilleeeee has perhaps bowed to the Gods of Dental Things and accepted her puffy fate.

Though maybe the thought of left-over pain killers would be a better incentive.

Fried Green Randomness

I should be writing about one of those weird stories, one of those surreal moments that even when one looks back on them they are STILL utterly insane, slightly frightening (in the sense that you managed to leave through them) and completely weird. But- no stories today, kids. Just brief sum-ups and random things. Things that should scare away potential suitors, friends and pets.

I once drove home from a New Year's party so intoxicated I could not see farther than 3 feet from my bumper. I had abruptly decided to leave after seeing my boy-who-was-a-friend-with-an-exceptional-amount-of-benefits making out with two girls on the overstuffed, overpriced couch of the Maumelle Country Club house in which I was partying down. Mid-drink from the champagne bottle, I spied him-- tongue wrastling some 19-year-old hussy and groping under the skirt of some 21-year-old chinless slut. I was overcome with blinding jealousy, realized my jealousy was unfounded (which only angered me more) and then grabbed my then-roommate Kasi, fell into my SUV and drove the 23 miles home. Twenty of the said miles were spent no less than three feet from the tailgate of a 1998 Ford Ranger, who never once attempted to shake me from it's ass. I woke up the next morning, still drunk, grabbed Kasi out of bed and drove down Broadway to Back Yard Burger for breakfast. Drove home, still drunk, mind you- and fell asleep for 24 hours. To this day, Kasi and I have no idea how we managed to not become a New Years statistic.

I once dropped trou on a sidewalk in Spain because I had to pee. It was 3am. The natives got quite a show. I fell onto the sidewalk, thankfully avoiding my puddle. Obviously, I'd had too much to drink.

I do not eat the cup-o-ramen with the water in it, as the package indicates. I don't like it as a soup. I just like the noodles.

I cut my toenails to the quick <--- stems from years of pointe shoes. If you've ever thought about shoving your toes into an immobile wooden box and then standing on toes incased in said wooden box, then you understand how standing on toenails inside wooden box could be a tad uncomfortable. I can't give up this habit.

I rarely blow-dry my hair; hence the straggly, frizzy mess that normally inhabits the space around my head.

It takes a good fifteen minutes of constant tossing and turning to get comfortable for sleep and a good fifteen minutes of tossing and turning to fully wake up.

I have a tiny spot on the side of my nose from where the first nose ring left a small scar. Now I have a large red pimply looking spot on the side of my nose from where I ripped it out last Sunday by total and complete accident. I've been rubbing in Mederma to keep a heinous scar from forming. But I am still mourning the loss of my beautiful gold stud.

I'm not at all affectionate in public because I believe that some things should be kept private. Hand holding- check. Small cheek kisses- check. Exchanging spit- NO CHECK, DO NOT PROCEED, GO BACK TWO SPACES. I do however, harbor this secret side that desperately loves to (occasionally, not every single minute) touch and kiss and hug and hold. I would never admit to this side in a verbal exchange. I would DENY DENY DENY that my everyday demeanor is at all penetrable.

I never dreamed of what my wedding would look like, or what my bridesmaids would wear, or who would BE my bridesmaids or even the LOCATION of said wedding. I still don't. But I occasionally roll over in the morning and wish someone was there to smile at.

I don't particularly care for rocking chairs. (My legs don't touch the ground) I do, however, love gliders. I completed my transition into adulthood when I got a loveseat glider for my back porch. The back porch which is now decorated with begonias, salvia and mums. THIS is how I knew I was an adult. Having a back porch with flowers and a glider. By the way, this happened on Saturday.

I desperately want my cats to learn to walk on a leash. The Deceptively Cute One is accepting of the harness and not actively rejecting of the leash... But the idea of the harness + leash + walking is VERY BAD. The Fat One just gives me the finger when I suggest this.

I love that my mom is an artist and I love even more that she's a GREAT ONE and I wish she had more confidence in her work. As a whole, she completely amazes me. I love her more than I could ever explain.

I go to the dentist across town because he may possibly be the hottest dentist I've ever seen. And if someone is going to be digging around in my mouth, well, they might as well be hot.

I desperately lust after boys who will never look in my direction. Why? Well, we all have our theories. Some say it's because I avoid all commitment. Talk about marriage and you'll see a giant Birdie-sized hole in the door. I, however, think it's because that I refuse to settle and will eventually lust after a boy that lusts after me right back.

I don't like boys who talk excessively about their feelings. I don't talk excessively about MY feelings, so why do I want to hear about yours?? That's right, I DON'T. I don't necessarily want some grunting caveman but there SHOULD be enough cromagnon man left over to throw me against a wall and ravish me senseless. And then later tell me he loves me desperately and with great fervor, natch. :)

I love my friends.

It's impossible for me to be on time. I will forget about the conditioner I left in my hair and have to jump in the shower at the last minute to rinse, I will find it necessary to return library books RIGHT THEN, feed the cats THAT SECOND, mail that letter NOW, etc. Anything that needs doing will only be remembered at the last second and I will not be able to put off doing it, no matter how late it makes me. Thankfully, I have not been fired for this.

I don't exercise near as much as I should but I am basically healthy. I take my vitamins, watch my sugar, eat my whole foods, steam my veggies and bake my chicken.

I love giant earrings. Big dangly ones.

I have a mole between my toes.

I eat cold asparagus.

If I could be absolutely anything in the whole world, I would be a ballet dancer. Not just a ballet dancer, but a GREAT ballet dancer. I had a pretty decent amount of talent, a lot of grace and a lot of drive but I didn't have the genetics to go along with it. Even at my skinniest my boobs were disproportionately big and my ankles and knees were never strong enough to sustain years of destructive dancing. But how my body aches for it. Literally and mentally.

Tomatoes are disgusting.

I like lemon in my diet coke. But not the prepackaged Diet Coke with Lemon. THAT tastes like Triaminic.

I can remember what it was like to tap dance so fast it made my heart flutter with elation. That noise is the Ozzy to my Harriet. If there can be such a thing.

I like fall and spring the best.

I was afraid to learn to dive until I was forced to when I was 20 years old. I was a camp counselor and I taught swimming, among other things. In the days before the first session started, one of the girls took pity on me and spent 2 hours at the pool one evening convincing me to try it. I did, and got it right on the first try.

I'm hungry right now and resisting the urge to go buy the only available food in the building-- Vending Machine Crap.

I was Darth Vader for Halloween when I was five.

How An Alien Fetus Done Flew Out My Coochie, Finished

Wad of toilet paper in my hand, I mentally pleaded with my bladder to empty PRONTO while I began the high-pitched whine/scream that females can do when faced with an unknown stressor. We keep our mouths shut, scrunch our eyes tight and SCREAM with growing intensity until the stressor either a) goes away and you resume your normal activity or b) continues and the scream becomes a full-fledged, open-mouthed glass-shatterer.

Just as the urine came to a blessed stop, not even waiting for residual droplets, I sprang up only to have something brown and winged fly STRAIGHT BETWEEN MY THIGHS AND UP PAST MY NOSE, FLITTING AROUND MY HEAD BEFORE SHOOTING OUT THE OPEN BATHROOM WINDOW.

Naturally, my previous closed-mouth loud whine became a full on heart-stopping scream.
Ruby flung open the door in total concern while my two suitemates crawled over each other to get to the other door, flinging it open with such force I was sure the hinges would break.

The last of my scream had just died in my throat and the room took on the total silence normally only found within the depths of a closed and sealed casket.

"Whada fuckh is goin on?"

A very distinct, and very male voice asked from behind Ruby's shoulder. It was my roommate's random Drunk Friend, who'd happened to surreptitiously drop by while I was in the loo.

"Why've ya got no pants on, Birdie?"

At which point the only thing I could think to say was:

"An alien fetus FLEW OUT OF MY COOCHIE!"

Note: Pants still around ankles.

I could see Drunk Friend's eyes begin to focus on my nether regions and I hastily yanked up my slacks, covering the most notable areas.

"Ah say WHAT?" everyone asked in unison.

"AN ALIEN FETUS FLEW OUT OF MY COOCHIE! I SWEAR TO GOD! It flew RIGHT OUT!"

More casket silence.

Looks are exchanged between the Fanatical Suitemates, Ruby and Drunk Friend.

"You and Ruby been schmokin agin?" Drunk Friend asked.

"NO WE HAVE NOT BEEN SMOKING, I HAVEN'T SMOKED IN TWO WEEKS AND I'M TELLING YOU THAT SOMETHING FURRY AND WITH WINGS FLEW STRAIGHT BETWEEN MY LEGS AND ALMOST ATE MY FACE OFF."

At this point, I knew I sounded crazy. But the gut-clenching fear of the alien movie + weird attack to my ass/coochie area was JUST TOO MUCH.

"Um, why don't you come lay down for a second and I'll get you a drink."

Bless Ruby. She always did know just what to do.

And all I could do was be led to my bed, clutching my pants around my waist while turning to stare out the bathroom window, terrified that whatever had flown between my legs would come back and eat us all.

____________________________
A very short time later, I did calm down and rationalize the situation. A general consensus was reached between Ruby, The Fanatical Suitemates and Drunk Friend that I had, in fact, sat on the toilet so fast that I had trapped a small moth in the bowl. Once I stood up, it made a mad dash for the only available exit, the window.

In my heart of hearts, I still maintain that I gave birth to an alien fetus.

A Momentary Diversion From The Story

Before I continue with my story (and I do sincerely apologize for the cliffhanger-- I do most of my writing at work and I was running out of time to actually finish the things I get paid to do) I had to get out a bit of randomness:

1) This morning I had a doctor's appointment, one I'd been dreading for weeks. It was my yearly exam. You know. The special yearly WOMAN exam. But in addition to my very special spread-yer-legs-and-take-a-deep-breath exam, I had scheduled some blood work to be done. Most people seem to find it UNBEARABLY HARD to find one of my fucking veins so I naturally CRINGE at the thought of someone drawing a vial of blood. It's not that I'm terribly afraid of needles. Or blood. But if you've ever had multiple people DIG AT YOUR ARM for a fucking VEIN, then you know that the thought of some woman in pink scrubs with a big ol' needle and an even bigger empty vial (soon to be full of de blood) is NOT a sight one looks forward to. But today..... Oh my goodness, I'm getting teary. *swipes tear* Today... I met my soulmate. I have no idea what her name is but I swear to the GODS OF MEDICAL EMPLOYEES that I will send this woman a Christmas present because... well, here's the rundown:

Me: sitting in chair, having blood pressure taken.. pump pump pump squeeze.. releeeeeeeeeaaaase. pump pump pump squeeze... releeeeeeeeaaseee.

Nurse: "One-ten over seventy-two." Turns to write special medical runes on my chart.

Me: tapping foot, knowing what's coming. warily watching Nurse get rubber thing to tie around my arm. Nurse puts sqeegee ball in hand and tells me to squeeze it repeatedly. I do as asked. Start to hum to myself. Which I do when I'm nervous. Humming various Phantom of the Opera songs. la la la la la. Nurse takes cotton ball and swipes my inner arm with disinfectant liquid and I shudder involuntarily because I dread, absolutely DREAD what is coming. I can see the needle. The vial. I turn my head to the side to stare at the clock.

Nurse: "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

Me: Inhale large gulp of air. Can feel whole body being tense. Watching second hand on clock tick by. I figure Nurse is getting the vial thing attached to the needle thing. And then I feel a very slight pressure around my arm, the feeling you get when someone is gently pulling blood from your vein. I look over, and the needle is in and the VIAL IS HALFWAY FULL.
I stare amazedly at her while she fills the vial the rest o the way, gently pulls the needle out, puts a cotton ball over my arm and smacks on a bandaid.

Me: "You were unbelievably fantastic at that."

Nurse: "Thank you. You might as well do your job correctly if you're going to do it."

Me: "No. Really. YOU DID THAT SUPERBLY."

Nurse: "Thank you."

Nurse turns back around to scribble more medical runes on my chart as I sit with my painless arm resting on the table.

Me: "I hate to bother you again, but you can't be told often enough HOW WELL YOU DID THAT. Do you see the scars on my arm? Did you see? That's where people dig at me, DIG. You. Wow. You were fantastic."

Nurse: "Thanks." turns back to chart.

GOD BLESS THIS WOMAN!!!!!!!!!!

Do you know?? Do you KNOW how rare it is to find a perfect nurse? One who does not want to chitcat about my blood sugar level, or my thryoid test, one who doesn't pry into WHY I need these tests, one who can find a fucking vein and one who can deciper the medical runes on my chart! I LOVE HER!

2) After the festivities of my fun WOMAN exam, my doctor asked me a few questions once my feet had righted themselves on a perpendicular surface, as opposed to the fancy schmancy stirrups they'd previously occupied. No weird pains. No weird things coming out of areas that weird things have no business coming out of. Etc. And the last thing he says to me, as he's finishing up my chart:

"Do you have any prayer requests?"

Do I have any PRAYER requests? When has a doctor ever asked me for a PRAYER request? And so I was silent for a moment. And I thought. He may not be of the same religion or mindset or faith or ANYTHING that I am. But you know what? IT DOESN'T MATTER. This man in the span of TWO SECONDS reminded me what a giant selfish chick I can be. I spend more time thinking about my day-to-day bullshit than truly appreciating what I've got and giving THANKS for that.

So while he patiently waited for me to speak (which I appreciate in a person, the ability to let you think for a second before you act) I thought about all the things I wish I could change, all the people I wish I could help. I thought about the people scattered and trapped and scared and frightened in the wake of the hurricane. And it was honestly just so overwhelming, I didn't know how to phrase my request. I couldn't. So I moved closer to home. I asked him to pray for Becca's brother, who was injured overseas, his leg amputated before he'd even crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Because I can put a face to that request. There's a mother and father, sisters and brother, friends and neighbors, that I can put a face to, that I can picture in my head when I pray that they have peace and strength. And still part of me was embarrassed that I didn't have the ability to encompass everything I wanted to say, everything I hoped he'd pray for. People ask me to pray for things all the time, and I do. But never has anyone asked for something THEY can pray for, something they can add to their OWN daily burden. So, I have to say thank you to this man who reminded me how self centered I can be, how judgemental I can be and for setting the first GOOD EXAMPLE of a Person Of Faith that I can remember in a very long time.

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.

Whatever.

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.

I COULD FEEL A LIGHT BUT PERSISTENT TOUCH ON MY INNER ASSCHEEKS.

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.

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.

What?

I'm sorry.

I don't speak Skankho

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.




THE END

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
and
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.

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.

SIX COSMOS LATER…..

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.

NO PROBLEM.

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.

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!.

THE BITCH BLITHELY MENTIONS THAT MY CHARACTER IS DEAD.

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.

AND I ALMOST PUT DOWN THE BOOK AND TOOK IT BACK TO THE LIBRARY.

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.

BUT WHY DID SHE HAVE TO GO AND KILL OFF MARTIN.

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.

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.

fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

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.

GAH!

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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHA????????

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.

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.