I've just now remembered that I have a "blog" (I feel so stupid saying that), and that I haven't updated it since December. I was reading my December posts and realized that I was writing about all of my traumatic Hot Dog Day experiences as a small child. Since I am obviously over it, I will sum up the last two in a nutshell (I realize that nobody cares to hear them, but I'm pretty sure I am a little OCD about finishing shit like this...you know, stupid stories that I write in my "blog")
So anyway, you can read the first two here and here.
So the next horrible thing that happened was that I was playing tether ball on Hot Dog Day, slid my butt down on a terribly dangerous wooden bench that was falling apart and got a 4 inch shard of wood (does wood come in shards? I think this was definitely a shard) lodged in my thigh. Had to get it removed in the ER. Missed my beloved hot dog. ALSO I missed burritos for dinner that night...don't even get me started with ER wait times. That's a WHOLE other blog post right there.
Last terrible Hot Dog Day story (I swear). 4th grade boys. Hot dog eating challenge. Mile run in P.E. after lunch. Big horrible mess. Never felt the same about Hot Dog Day again.
Orange ya glad that's over? (I know I am).
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"So," you must be asking, "what the hell has been going on with you since December??". Well I will tell you, then we can all get on with our lives;
1. Grad School continues (just started the 3rd semester)
2. Moved in with The Boyfriend (we are "in love")
3. Started playing Roller Derby (aka I get the shit beat out of me 2-3 nights a week)
4. Got a puppy (Her name is Regina, she is adorable, and she was very sick as a small puppy, so I am in the hole a little bit after all the vet bills)
So there's your update.
NEXT!
Showing posts with label Silly rabbit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Silly rabbit. Show all posts
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Hot Dog Day Part Deux
I've decided that my hot dog day follies are going to become a series. Enjoy part deux. It is my favorite of the series, and I hope it becomes yours too.
You may enjoy part one here
The second hot dog incident was worse than the first one. I was in first grade. Same love for hot dog day, same dumb jumper and knee socks. My class had just finished a rousing game of kickball, when I realized that I really needed to pee. "I better go RIGHT NOW", I thought "Or I won't get a good spot in the hot dog line!" Well, right then, the bell rang. The bell signifying that it was time. Hot dog time, mothafuckers. I happened to be very close to the Almighty Hot Dog Room, and I could see the other kids running at full speed towards me with reckless abandon. I couldn't go pee now. I had made a choice. I was going to be, like, the 3rd person in the hot dog line! That had never happened to me! Oh happy day! I got in line, and noticed that my urge to urinate was becoming a border-line emergency. The hot dog gals were taking FOREVER setting up the stations. I waited for like 5 minutes in line, and then it happened. I peed. In my jumper. In the Hot Dog Room. In line. I immediately ran out before anyone had noticed what had happened and straight to the office.
I didn't want to admit to the office lady that I had peed my pants, but I didn't really have a choice. Time was ticking and the hot dogs were getting cold. I whimpered and looked pathetic and asked to call my mom for a new jumper (it was pretty obvious what had gone down). Now, here's the weird part. Instead of just calling my mom and getting me a fresh pair of undies from home (no, no...that would be TOOOO easy!) the office lady suggested that I try on one of the pairs of underwear that she had "just lying around the office"
ok...
There are multiple things that concerned me here. Namely; 1) why the hell were pairs of underwear just LYING around in the school office and B) why were there MULTIPLE pairs?
What the hell?
Even as a 6 year old girl, I knew this was not good. So, being the decent child that I am, I took the 3 pairs of "underwear" into the bathroom and stood there for about 5 minutes to give the illusion that I was trying them on (I wasn't). After enough time had passed I walked back into the office and stated that they simply did not fit and I needed my own underwear and jumper from home. My mom finally came and gave me some new clothes, and I got cleaned up and ready for a fucking hot dog.
And guess what?
Foiled again. No delicious hot dog for Pee-Pants Mcgee. I took it in stride though, I had been through enough that day. I thought this would be the end of my hot dog day problems, but it wasn't.
--------------------------
And for those of you who are sick of hearing about hot dog day (I know I am!) go check me out at Mushroom Printing, where I give a tip of the hat to my rodent friends.
You may enjoy part one here
The second hot dog incident was worse than the first one. I was in first grade. Same love for hot dog day, same dumb jumper and knee socks. My class had just finished a rousing game of kickball, when I realized that I really needed to pee. "I better go RIGHT NOW", I thought "Or I won't get a good spot in the hot dog line!" Well, right then, the bell rang. The bell signifying that it was time. Hot dog time, mothafuckers. I happened to be very close to the Almighty Hot Dog Room, and I could see the other kids running at full speed towards me with reckless abandon. I couldn't go pee now. I had made a choice. I was going to be, like, the 3rd person in the hot dog line! That had never happened to me! Oh happy day! I got in line, and noticed that my urge to urinate was becoming a border-line emergency. The hot dog gals were taking FOREVER setting up the stations. I waited for like 5 minutes in line, and then it happened. I peed. In my jumper. In the Hot Dog Room. In line. I immediately ran out before anyone had noticed what had happened and straight to the office.
I didn't want to admit to the office lady that I had peed my pants, but I didn't really have a choice. Time was ticking and the hot dogs were getting cold. I whimpered and looked pathetic and asked to call my mom for a new jumper (it was pretty obvious what had gone down). Now, here's the weird part. Instead of just calling my mom and getting me a fresh pair of undies from home (no, no...that would be TOOOO easy!) the office lady suggested that I try on one of the pairs of underwear that she had "just lying around the office"
ok...
There are multiple things that concerned me here. Namely; 1) why the hell were pairs of underwear just LYING around in the school office and B) why were there MULTIPLE pairs?
What the hell?
Even as a 6 year old girl, I knew this was not good. So, being the decent child that I am, I took the 3 pairs of "underwear" into the bathroom and stood there for about 5 minutes to give the illusion that I was trying them on (I wasn't). After enough time had passed I walked back into the office and stated that they simply did not fit and I needed my own underwear and jumper from home. My mom finally came and gave me some new clothes, and I got cleaned up and ready for a fucking hot dog.
And guess what?
Foiled again. No delicious hot dog for Pee-Pants Mcgee. I took it in stride though, I had been through enough that day. I thought this would be the end of my hot dog day problems, but it wasn't.
--------------------------
And for those of you who are sick of hearing about hot dog day (I know I am!) go check me out at Mushroom Printing, where I give a tip of the hat to my rodent friends.
Hot Dog Day Part One
When I was a child, we had Hot Dog Day at school. I believe it was a Tuesday (probably one of the reasons I like Tuesdays so much as an adult). Hot dog day was fantastic. You could get hot dogs (duh), chips, chili, and probably some other stuff that didn't matter like drinks and fruit and stuff. But, obviously, the hot dogs and chili were the best. Some bold (read: awesome) kids even got a chili dog, which was like 25 cents extra. I preferred my chili separate.
I would get one hot dog with ketchup and mayo (because I'm a mayonnaise-loving fatty), and a small cup of chili with a dollop of sour cream, chopped onions, and shredded cheddar cheese on top. Oh yeah, those were the days.
But hot dog day wasn't always a good day, my friends. No. It came with it's price.
The first hot dog day incident happened when I was in kindergarten. Since I love food so much, and obviously cannot contain myself to wait in any sort of "line", I ran to the glorious hot dogs as fast as my little legs could go. This resulted in my falling down an entire flight of stairs within the school building. Nobody was around, and surprisingly, I didn't feel that hurt. I got up, dusted off my ugly-ass Catholic school jumper, and ran to the Hot Dog Room (also known as the gym to big kids).
I got in line, my eyes wide at the sight of the delicious hot dogs, only to be startled by the screaming that ensued all around me. Apparently, the fall that I had sustained had been worse than I thought, and not only was I bleeding profusely from both knees, but I tracked puddles of blood into the immaculate Hot Dog Room. The other kindergartners were making a huge fuss so the teacher came over. She took one look at me, blood all over my white button up shirt, jumper, white knee socks, and Keds, took my hand and dragged me straight to the office, where I was promptly cleaned and bandaged up. By the time it was all over, I missed out on hot dog day all together, and had to eat some crappy peanut butter sandwich that one of the hot dog ladies made for me.
I went back to the Hot Dog Room afterward to see if there was possibly one stale or mushy hot dog that didn't get eaten that I could have. No such luck. They were, however, impressed at the amount of blood that they had to clean off of the floor. I was denied any hot dogs until the following Tuesday, and had to stave off my cravings all week. This was my first hot dog day injury, but it certainly wouldn't be my last, oh no sir. The next one would find me in the emergency room. I bet you can't wait to find out why.
I would get one hot dog with ketchup and mayo (because I'm a mayonnaise-loving fatty), and a small cup of chili with a dollop of sour cream, chopped onions, and shredded cheddar cheese on top. Oh yeah, those were the days.
But hot dog day wasn't always a good day, my friends. No. It came with it's price.
The first hot dog day incident happened when I was in kindergarten. Since I love food so much, and obviously cannot contain myself to wait in any sort of "line", I ran to the glorious hot dogs as fast as my little legs could go. This resulted in my falling down an entire flight of stairs within the school building. Nobody was around, and surprisingly, I didn't feel that hurt. I got up, dusted off my ugly-ass Catholic school jumper, and ran to the Hot Dog Room (also known as the gym to big kids).
I got in line, my eyes wide at the sight of the delicious hot dogs, only to be startled by the screaming that ensued all around me. Apparently, the fall that I had sustained had been worse than I thought, and not only was I bleeding profusely from both knees, but I tracked puddles of blood into the immaculate Hot Dog Room. The other kindergartners were making a huge fuss so the teacher came over. She took one look at me, blood all over my white button up shirt, jumper, white knee socks, and Keds, took my hand and dragged me straight to the office, where I was promptly cleaned and bandaged up. By the time it was all over, I missed out on hot dog day all together, and had to eat some crappy peanut butter sandwich that one of the hot dog ladies made for me.
I went back to the Hot Dog Room afterward to see if there was possibly one stale or mushy hot dog that didn't get eaten that I could have. No such luck. They were, however, impressed at the amount of blood that they had to clean off of the floor. I was denied any hot dogs until the following Tuesday, and had to stave off my cravings all week. This was my first hot dog day injury, but it certainly wouldn't be my last, oh no sir. The next one would find me in the emergency room. I bet you can't wait to find out why.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Humans RULE
Well, you will all be happy to know that I HAVE CAPTURED THE MOUSE! Alfredo, that is. So it looks like the scoreboard is now Alfredo: 1 Angela:1. So, I guess it ended up a tie. But really, I won because obviously I displayed my superior brain power and kicked that fool into submission.
Actually, I was very kind to him, so yeah...he kinda owes me one. I mean, I didn't kill him. I paid 13 bucks for a "live trap" instead of like a dollar for the stereotypical mouse trap that supposedly snaps their little necks (poor mousy!). When I first saw him in the trap, I thought he was dead. It would have been terribly ironic. He was stuck in the little entrance to the trap and wasn't moving, no matter how much I shook the trap around. I figured that maybe he choked on the peanut butter or something. I couldn't see his face, but I was like 99% sure he was dead.
So, next was the unpleasant job of removing a dead mouse from the trap. I reopened the trap to assess the situation before I pulled him out, and there was Alfredo, alive and well and starting right at me. This of course merited a scream of surprise from me (I am NOT afraid of mice people, I am just kind of a jumpy person. I wasn't expecting him to be alive!). So, I closed the trap and brought it outside.
I opened the trap and turned it upside down and gently tried to shake him out into the bushes. Well apparently he found the trap to be a comfortable little home so he didn't want to budge. He dug his little claws into the holes in the entrance of the trap and would not be removed. I shook a little harder. Nothing. The guy was tenacious. This went on for about 5 minutes, and then I decided I was just going to slap on some of those yellow rubber dish washing gloves and grab him out. I was shaking the trap pretty hard at this point and I didn't want the guy to stroke out. I mean, I bought the live trap for a reason. We already had a couple of close calls.
After donning the ridiculous gloves, I ran back outside with the trap, Alfredo hanging on for dear life. Some neighbors who were walking their dog stopped to watch the show (thanks guys). I decided to give the trap one more little shake before reaching in to get him. I shook once, hard, the way you shake a ketchup bottle to get all the ketchup to the bottom.
That did the trick. Alfredo lost his footing and spatted out onto the ground. He looked up at me, stunned, and sprinted onto my shoe. I, of course, screamed loudly at being startled by Alfredo once again, kicking him off of my shoe and tossing him into a soft nearby bush while simultaneously throwing the metal mousetrap into the air where it landed next to me with a loud clang. My neighbors laughed, their dog barking and howling with the commotion.
But hey, I caught him right?
So, clearly, I am the superior species.
Actually, I was very kind to him, so yeah...he kinda owes me one. I mean, I didn't kill him. I paid 13 bucks for a "live trap" instead of like a dollar for the stereotypical mouse trap that supposedly snaps their little necks (poor mousy!). When I first saw him in the trap, I thought he was dead. It would have been terribly ironic. He was stuck in the little entrance to the trap and wasn't moving, no matter how much I shook the trap around. I figured that maybe he choked on the peanut butter or something. I couldn't see his face, but I was like 99% sure he was dead.
So, next was the unpleasant job of removing a dead mouse from the trap. I reopened the trap to assess the situation before I pulled him out, and there was Alfredo, alive and well and starting right at me. This of course merited a scream of surprise from me (I am NOT afraid of mice people, I am just kind of a jumpy person. I wasn't expecting him to be alive!). So, I closed the trap and brought it outside.
I opened the trap and turned it upside down and gently tried to shake him out into the bushes. Well apparently he found the trap to be a comfortable little home so he didn't want to budge. He dug his little claws into the holes in the entrance of the trap and would not be removed. I shook a little harder. Nothing. The guy was tenacious. This went on for about 5 minutes, and then I decided I was just going to slap on some of those yellow rubber dish washing gloves and grab him out. I was shaking the trap pretty hard at this point and I didn't want the guy to stroke out. I mean, I bought the live trap for a reason. We already had a couple of close calls.
After donning the ridiculous gloves, I ran back outside with the trap, Alfredo hanging on for dear life. Some neighbors who were walking their dog stopped to watch the show (thanks guys). I decided to give the trap one more little shake before reaching in to get him. I shook once, hard, the way you shake a ketchup bottle to get all the ketchup to the bottom.
That did the trick. Alfredo lost his footing and spatted out onto the ground. He looked up at me, stunned, and sprinted onto my shoe. I, of course, screamed loudly at being startled by Alfredo once again, kicking him off of my shoe and tossing him into a soft nearby bush while simultaneously throwing the metal mousetrap into the air where it landed next to me with a loud clang. My neighbors laughed, their dog barking and howling with the commotion.
But hey, I caught him right?
So, clearly, I am the superior species.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
You Will Haunt Me In My Dreams
Today I woke up from a nap with the unmistakable feeling of heartache. I don't know exactly why, but I'm guessing it's a dream I had. It's rare that I don't remember my dreams, since i dream so incredibly vividly. I'm not sure why this is or what caused it, but I have always had these lucid, intricate dreams that are sometimes so realistic that when I wake up, there is a period of a few minutes where I wonder if it was real. I've found myself feeling for the stab wounds that I sustained, or the new piercing that I got.
I've woken up screaming before, I've woken up crying, tears running down my face. I've woken up laughing, smiling, singing. It's all very bizarre and also embarrassing if there happens to be someone sleeping near me. It seems to happen more often than not when I'm alone though. When the dreams are good, they are fantastic. When they are bad, they are really bad.
On a totally unrelated note, there is a mouse that is in my bedroom somewhere that I have been trying to capture for about 4 hours. So far, no dice. At first, I vowed not to sleep in there until I caught him, but I've got to get to bed soon...this is getting ridiculous. Apparently this particular mouse doesn't like peanut butter as much as other mice. I've tried to make it very clear to him that I don't want to hurt him, I just want to catch him so I can put him back outside, but I guess it's difficult for him to understand that while I am wielding a giant spatula in his direction.
Wish me luck.
Also, I started running again yesterday...I am very sore. But! It felt fantastic. More on that later. I'm going to go again tomorrow. Probably. If not tomorrow then Monday.
I've woken up screaming before, I've woken up crying, tears running down my face. I've woken up laughing, smiling, singing. It's all very bizarre and also embarrassing if there happens to be someone sleeping near me. It seems to happen more often than not when I'm alone though. When the dreams are good, they are fantastic. When they are bad, they are really bad.
On a totally unrelated note, there is a mouse that is in my bedroom somewhere that I have been trying to capture for about 4 hours. So far, no dice. At first, I vowed not to sleep in there until I caught him, but I've got to get to bed soon...this is getting ridiculous. Apparently this particular mouse doesn't like peanut butter as much as other mice. I've tried to make it very clear to him that I don't want to hurt him, I just want to catch him so I can put him back outside, but I guess it's difficult for him to understand that while I am wielding a giant spatula in his direction.
Wish me luck.
Also, I started running again yesterday...I am very sore. But! It felt fantastic. More on that later. I'm going to go again tomorrow. Probably. If not tomorrow then Monday.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Reality Prevails...Until 20 Minutes From Now When I Will Be Pouring Myself a Martini
That's right invisible blog followers; I am officially back from vacation. It still makes me giggle to myself and feel a little like a fraud when I admit to having a blog, but I do that anyway...so no biggie I guess.
So, the trip was good. Relaxing for the most part. Except the "hike" I went on. Apparently the term hike encompasses full on rock climbs now...because that's kind of what this was. 8 miles. Since this is my blog (heh.) and I'm in charge (HA!) I will say that I mastered the climb in full makeup and shook my hair out when I reached the top all sexy slow-motion style, a bead of sweat glistening on my perfectly exposed cleavage as I left everyone else in the dust below me.
Clearly, this is not what happened.
Here's what it was really like: I kicked myself all the way to the top for not working out regularly, wheezing and panting like a motherfucking morbidly obese rhinocerous kicking up more dust than anybody. It was a borderline dangerous thing that I didn't bring water, even though the superhero men in my family finished the hike without complaint of any kind (my mom opted out, which is definately for the best, although it would have made me feel MUCH better about myself). I did finally reach the destination, which was some pools of water and waterfalls which are actually incredibly slippery and dangerous, but magnificently beautiful and fun to swim in. That's another thing...I didn't think I would be swimming in them, because unfortunately I didn't dress accordingly, but when I was wading in the water trying to cool off from the hell hike, I slipped on the dangerously slippery rocks and fell all the way in cartoon-syle (with much eggagerated waving of the arms and trying to regain my balance for like 5 seconds before actually going down). A couple other hikers had a pretty good laugh, and I didn't really get hurt, just a couple bruises.
By the time I got back to the lake, and I DID get back dammit, I was pretty much hallucinating from dehydration...not fun or recommended. After downing about a gallon of iced tea and water, the endorphins kicked in. It took me a few hours to recover, and I was loopy and sore, and I was covered in mosquito bites, and sunburnt...and I had a reaction to some sunscreen that left me with a mild rash...but despite all this, I have decided to do the "hike" again next year.
Now, you all must be thinking how stupid and masochistic that is, but hear me out. This year I will try to get in a little better shape (not making too many promises..), and I am going to invest in a camel back so that I may have the luxury of cold, delicious water while I am climbing. Now that I know what to expect, I can plan...so I probably won't get the shit beat out of me as much (maybe).
I am going to go ahead and pour that martini now...I have been recently reintroducing my good friends coffee and alcohol back into my life. This past week off of work has been fan-FUCKING-tastic. So fantastic in fact that I am currently toying with the notion of jetting off to Vegas tomorrow since I don't have anything else scheduled until next week. Sort of depends on if I can convince a certain AWESOME PERSON to join me. We'll see how that goes. I may not be the coolest person in the world, and I may not have had the best luck lately...but things are turning around! This is the beginning of a new and improved more awesome me...at least until late August.
So, the trip was good. Relaxing for the most part. Except the "hike" I went on. Apparently the term hike encompasses full on rock climbs now...because that's kind of what this was. 8 miles. Since this is my blog (heh.) and I'm in charge (HA!) I will say that I mastered the climb in full makeup and shook my hair out when I reached the top all sexy slow-motion style, a bead of sweat glistening on my perfectly exposed cleavage as I left everyone else in the dust below me.
Clearly, this is not what happened.
Here's what it was really like: I kicked myself all the way to the top for not working out regularly, wheezing and panting like a motherfucking morbidly obese rhinocerous kicking up more dust than anybody. It was a borderline dangerous thing that I didn't bring water, even though the superhero men in my family finished the hike without complaint of any kind (my mom opted out, which is definately for the best, although it would have made me feel MUCH better about myself). I did finally reach the destination, which was some pools of water and waterfalls which are actually incredibly slippery and dangerous, but magnificently beautiful and fun to swim in. That's another thing...I didn't think I would be swimming in them, because unfortunately I didn't dress accordingly, but when I was wading in the water trying to cool off from the hell hike, I slipped on the dangerously slippery rocks and fell all the way in cartoon-syle (with much eggagerated waving of the arms and trying to regain my balance for like 5 seconds before actually going down). A couple other hikers had a pretty good laugh, and I didn't really get hurt, just a couple bruises.
By the time I got back to the lake, and I DID get back dammit, I was pretty much hallucinating from dehydration...not fun or recommended. After downing about a gallon of iced tea and water, the endorphins kicked in. It took me a few hours to recover, and I was loopy and sore, and I was covered in mosquito bites, and sunburnt...and I had a reaction to some sunscreen that left me with a mild rash...but despite all this, I have decided to do the "hike" again next year.
Now, you all must be thinking how stupid and masochistic that is, but hear me out. This year I will try to get in a little better shape (not making too many promises..), and I am going to invest in a camel back so that I may have the luxury of cold, delicious water while I am climbing. Now that I know what to expect, I can plan...so I probably won't get the shit beat out of me as much (maybe).
I am going to go ahead and pour that martini now...I have been recently reintroducing my good friends coffee and alcohol back into my life. This past week off of work has been fan-FUCKING-tastic. So fantastic in fact that I am currently toying with the notion of jetting off to Vegas tomorrow since I don't have anything else scheduled until next week. Sort of depends on if I can convince a certain AWESOME PERSON to join me. We'll see how that goes. I may not be the coolest person in the world, and I may not have had the best luck lately...but things are turning around! This is the beginning of a new and improved more awesome me...at least until late August.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Killing Me Softly
It's never a good thing when you actually start to understand where your psych patients are "coming from". I feel pretty good about anticipating their next move, preparing myself for outbursts/physical violence etc., but seriously. When I start to actually "get it", things get a little weird.
Which is why I am going to treat myself to a Martini this evening. When I wake up. Because I haven't gone to sleep yet...
I am no stranger to the crazy ramblings of anyone, really, let alone patients. I'm sure that I, myself, have even been viewed as a total raging lunatic from time to time. Like the ol' Mr. Roboto night at karaoke where I not only drank my weight in vodka cranberries, but then proceeded to dance the robot onstage, while singing, only to fall over on the stage, while singing, and proceed to do what I like to call "the floor robot" for a good three minutes or so (it didn't seem that long at the time). Styx would have been proud, I like to think.
I'm no Jim Morrison.
I do enjoy a good karaoke party though. Which is why I will be returning to that fateful place on Saturday to reclaim what is mine (my dignity). This time, like other times before, I will not succumb to the power of The Drink (well maybe a little, but nothing like Styx night). I will sing a catchy tune, a great karaoke song. Something that a normal person might sing. I will not embarrass myself by screaming "MY BLOOD IS BOILING-MY BRAIN IBM!!!" into the microphone while doing the "floor robot". My date will not peer at me anxiously while simultaneously checking his watch because I will be classy as fuck. I mean, as hell. fuck.
Get it? Bottom line: I have been awake for almost 24 hours, and am becomming delusional, having flashbacks to other times of great delusion. And by great delusion, I mean sexy, sexy robotic dance moves.
Which is why I am going to treat myself to a Martini this evening. When I wake up. Because I haven't gone to sleep yet...
I am no stranger to the crazy ramblings of anyone, really, let alone patients. I'm sure that I, myself, have even been viewed as a total raging lunatic from time to time. Like the ol' Mr. Roboto night at karaoke where I not only drank my weight in vodka cranberries, but then proceeded to dance the robot onstage, while singing, only to fall over on the stage, while singing, and proceed to do what I like to call "the floor robot" for a good three minutes or so (it didn't seem that long at the time). Styx would have been proud, I like to think.
I'm no Jim Morrison.
I do enjoy a good karaoke party though. Which is why I will be returning to that fateful place on Saturday to reclaim what is mine (my dignity). This time, like other times before, I will not succumb to the power of The Drink (well maybe a little, but nothing like Styx night). I will sing a catchy tune, a great karaoke song. Something that a normal person might sing. I will not embarrass myself by screaming "MY BLOOD IS BOILING-MY BRAIN IBM!!!" into the microphone while doing the "floor robot". My date will not peer at me anxiously while simultaneously checking his watch because I will be classy as fuck. I mean, as hell. fuck.
Get it? Bottom line: I have been awake for almost 24 hours, and am becomming delusional, having flashbacks to other times of great delusion. And by great delusion, I mean sexy, sexy robotic dance moves.
Friday, July 16, 2010
When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong
I have a sensitivity to red wine. I think it's the tannins. I didn't have this problem until about three years ago, and I have no idea why it started. I wouldn't call it an allergy, but if I have as little as one glass of red wine, I become overheated, slightly congested, and, above all, totally loopy. Drunk even.
When you belong to an Italian family, red wine is unavoidable. When I am out to dinner with normal people, I don't have a problem. However, when my family is around, I must prepare to have red wine poured down my gullet faster than I can protest. They know how it affects me, but it happens nonetheless.
For example, last night at dinner, I agreed to "just a little" and had to literally put my hand over my wine glass to stop the pouring (it didn't work-I got wine poured on my hand). No amount of begging or pleading, or "Basta!" will get you "just a little" red wine. Apparently, "just a little" means an entire goblet full. And then it keeps getting refilled when you aren't looking.
So, yeah. Suffice it to say, I was a little ...blasted. We were looking at slides from my parent's recent trip to Italy, and there was a point in time where I accidentally tried to eat my napkin. I don't think anyone noticed my because they were preoccupied with the slides, but my inappropriate laughter may have given me away. Using a piece of penne as a vuvuzela probably didn't do me any favors either.
It's really more of a hallucinogenic fever of sorts than drunkenness, I think, because I really only had the equivalent of two glasses. It leaves a pretty wicked headache about 3 hours later though. And it makes me worry that my brother's pet chinchilla, Giuseppe, is plotting to blackmail me. He has shifty eyes.
When you belong to an Italian family, red wine is unavoidable. When I am out to dinner with normal people, I don't have a problem. However, when my family is around, I must prepare to have red wine poured down my gullet faster than I can protest. They know how it affects me, but it happens nonetheless.
For example, last night at dinner, I agreed to "just a little" and had to literally put my hand over my wine glass to stop the pouring (it didn't work-I got wine poured on my hand). No amount of begging or pleading, or "Basta!" will get you "just a little" red wine. Apparently, "just a little" means an entire goblet full. And then it keeps getting refilled when you aren't looking.
So, yeah. Suffice it to say, I was a little ...blasted. We were looking at slides from my parent's recent trip to Italy, and there was a point in time where I accidentally tried to eat my napkin. I don't think anyone noticed my because they were preoccupied with the slides, but my inappropriate laughter may have given me away. Using a piece of penne as a vuvuzela probably didn't do me any favors either.
It's really more of a hallucinogenic fever of sorts than drunkenness, I think, because I really only had the equivalent of two glasses. It leaves a pretty wicked headache about 3 hours later though. And it makes me worry that my brother's pet chinchilla, Giuseppe, is plotting to blackmail me. He has shifty eyes.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Thanks A Lot, Kid
While babysitting I had a great conversations with a friend's 4 year old niece that went a little something like this...
Alyssa: You should come get ice cream with me soon!
Me: That sounds like a lot of fun! We should do that soon if I'm not working too much
Alyssa: You work??!!!
Me: Yup
Alyssa: What do you do?
Me: I'm a nurse, I take care of sick people in the hospital
Alyssa: How can you be a nurse if you are still a kid?
Me: I'm not a kid anymore, I'm a grownup like your mommy and daddy and uncle Brian
Alyssa: And uncle Patrick?
Me: Yeah, well actually uncle Patrick is a few years younger than me
Alyssa: No he I'snt! If you are a grown up why aren't you married?
Me: (shit.) Well, I just haven't gotten married yet. I had to focus on graduating high school and college and nursing school, which is very important to do before you get married.
Alyssa: Has anyone asked you?
Me: er...no. But I'm sure someday somebody will ask me!
Alyssa: Is something wrong with you? Why doesn't anyone want to marry you?
Me: (fuck.) I just haven't gotten married yet. Uncle Brian is a grown up and he isn't married yet.
Alyssa: But uncle Brian is a boy so it's ok.
Me: I see...
Alyssa: That's ok! you can come to my wedding when I get married and I'll let you wear a really pretty dress so you don't feel sad.
Me: *sigh* Thanks, Alyssa, that's really sweet of you.
At least she didn't ask me about sex.
Alyssa: You should come get ice cream with me soon!
Me: That sounds like a lot of fun! We should do that soon if I'm not working too much
Alyssa: You work??!!!
Me: Yup
Alyssa: What do you do?
Me: I'm a nurse, I take care of sick people in the hospital
Alyssa: How can you be a nurse if you are still a kid?
Me: I'm not a kid anymore, I'm a grownup like your mommy and daddy and uncle Brian
Alyssa: And uncle Patrick?
Me: Yeah, well actually uncle Patrick is a few years younger than me
Alyssa: No he I'snt! If you are a grown up why aren't you married?
Me: (shit.) Well, I just haven't gotten married yet. I had to focus on graduating high school and college and nursing school, which is very important to do before you get married.
Alyssa: Has anyone asked you?
Me: er...no. But I'm sure someday somebody will ask me!
Alyssa: Is something wrong with you? Why doesn't anyone want to marry you?
Me: (fuck.) I just haven't gotten married yet. Uncle Brian is a grown up and he isn't married yet.
Alyssa: But uncle Brian is a boy so it's ok.
Me: I see...
Alyssa: That's ok! you can come to my wedding when I get married and I'll let you wear a really pretty dress so you don't feel sad.
Me: *sigh* Thanks, Alyssa, that's really sweet of you.
At least she didn't ask me about sex.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Why I Will Never Become a Cat Lady
Cats have recently begun fucking with me in my dreams. I wish I wasn't seriously having nightmares about cats, but apparently that is where my life has gone. So in my most recent feline nightmare, a pack of orange house cats were roaming the alleys that I was running through (cliche, I know) hissing and yowling. When they finally caught me (lead feet/cornered in the alley, of course) they proceeded to literally rip my skin off. So, yeah, something is wrong with me here.
Now, I don't dislike cats. I feel like I need to add this little disclaimer every time I talk about cats. Its THEM that dislike ME. I swear. I think that they can smell my unease the moment I walk in the room. I have had cats just run up to me and bite me for no good reason. "They are just playing!" the owners will say casually, with a big dumb grin on their face. But I know the truth...I see that look in those crazy yellow eyes.
Cats make me totally paranoid. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they catch me totally off guard. Like the time I spent the night at Maggie's parent's house in Los Osos. Her cat literally jumped on my face at 5am and started "playing" with Eric the poodle, who was sleeping soundly next to me. Or another time I was at a friends house when her cat inexplicably ran up to me and leaped onto my shoulder, ripping my tee shirt and clawing its way up to my ear, which it then proceeded to bite and draw blood. I dont even do anything to deserve these attacks! Half of the time, I dont even realize that they have a cat until something like this happens. I need to be a lot more vigilant.
Are you starting to get it now? It's not me, it's them.
I could go on for hours; these aren't the only cat stories I have...but they all seem to end the same way.
I think this all comes from one particularly traumatic cat experience I had when I was about eight. My neighbors were on vacation and elected me to feed their cat daily while they were away. This was a HUGE deal for my little eight year old self, who wanted so desperately to be about fifteen. It meant that I got to walk to my neighbors house, go into their house by myself using the key, and feed their cat, Benny. I was in charge of another life...what responsibility! And I got paid!
So, I didnt even have to interact with the cat, but he always seemed to show up when I was putting the food in his bowl (go figure) and I liked him. I had been warned that he became "feisty" from time to time, but I had no idea what that meant so I didnt think much of it. Big mistake. So, one day when I was feeding him, I put the food down in front of him, and made the grave mistake of patting him on the head like I would a dog. I guess I just lost myself in the happy moment, but he immediately looked up and shot daggers at me. It was terrifying, like his eyes had changed colors to an angrier shade of orange.
I began to back away, with him still looking up at me from his food, and he began to follow. At that point, it was obvious that he was preparing to attack, or at least bite me, so I turned and ran. The fucker chased me. He chased me down. I ran as fast as I could and jumped onto the old swing set that the neighbors had in their backyard, scrambling up to the top of the monkey bars where I sat scared but satisfied that Benny couldnt get me.
Obviously I underestimated his strength and determination to remind me that I was on his turf and I had greatly offended him by petting his head the wrong way. He flew through the air with some sort of crazy battlecry and landed on my outstreched leg, immediately digging his claws into my calf and sinking his teeth into my knee. Thankfully, this was enough of a "warning" for him, so he jumped down gingerly from the monkey bars (which I fell off of, further scraping my knees) and proceeded to eat his food that was still waiting for him on the porch.
I ran home crying (forgetting anything about being a big girl or having responsibility) and told my mom that Benny bit me...which is all I could get out between sobs. I dont think she knew the full story, and If she did, she probably wouldnt believe me. It does sound pretty ridiculous, but that cat was crazy. He and I were on different terms after that. I would see him around the neighborhood, but I wouldnt pet him. He always gave me a warning stare. My mom had to go feed him for the remainder of the vacation days, and I didnt care. She did me a huge favor.
Cats still mess with me all the time, sneaking up on me, biting me, and scratching me. Nothing has ever compared to Benny though. That guy was nuts. He belongs in a cat asylum. Or a horror movie. Or a nightmare...
Now, I don't dislike cats. I feel like I need to add this little disclaimer every time I talk about cats. Its THEM that dislike ME. I swear. I think that they can smell my unease the moment I walk in the room. I have had cats just run up to me and bite me for no good reason. "They are just playing!" the owners will say casually, with a big dumb grin on their face. But I know the truth...I see that look in those crazy yellow eyes.
Cats make me totally paranoid. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they catch me totally off guard. Like the time I spent the night at Maggie's parent's house in Los Osos. Her cat literally jumped on my face at 5am and started "playing" with Eric the poodle, who was sleeping soundly next to me. Or another time I was at a friends house when her cat inexplicably ran up to me and leaped onto my shoulder, ripping my tee shirt and clawing its way up to my ear, which it then proceeded to bite and draw blood. I dont even do anything to deserve these attacks! Half of the time, I dont even realize that they have a cat until something like this happens. I need to be a lot more vigilant.
Are you starting to get it now? It's not me, it's them.
I could go on for hours; these aren't the only cat stories I have...but they all seem to end the same way.
I think this all comes from one particularly traumatic cat experience I had when I was about eight. My neighbors were on vacation and elected me to feed their cat daily while they were away. This was a HUGE deal for my little eight year old self, who wanted so desperately to be about fifteen. It meant that I got to walk to my neighbors house, go into their house by myself using the key, and feed their cat, Benny. I was in charge of another life...what responsibility! And I got paid!
So, I didnt even have to interact with the cat, but he always seemed to show up when I was putting the food in his bowl (go figure) and I liked him. I had been warned that he became "feisty" from time to time, but I had no idea what that meant so I didnt think much of it. Big mistake. So, one day when I was feeding him, I put the food down in front of him, and made the grave mistake of patting him on the head like I would a dog. I guess I just lost myself in the happy moment, but he immediately looked up and shot daggers at me. It was terrifying, like his eyes had changed colors to an angrier shade of orange.
I began to back away, with him still looking up at me from his food, and he began to follow. At that point, it was obvious that he was preparing to attack, or at least bite me, so I turned and ran. The fucker chased me. He chased me down. I ran as fast as I could and jumped onto the old swing set that the neighbors had in their backyard, scrambling up to the top of the monkey bars where I sat scared but satisfied that Benny couldnt get me.
Obviously I underestimated his strength and determination to remind me that I was on his turf and I had greatly offended him by petting his head the wrong way. He flew through the air with some sort of crazy battlecry and landed on my outstreched leg, immediately digging his claws into my calf and sinking his teeth into my knee. Thankfully, this was enough of a "warning" for him, so he jumped down gingerly from the monkey bars (which I fell off of, further scraping my knees) and proceeded to eat his food that was still waiting for him on the porch.
I ran home crying (forgetting anything about being a big girl or having responsibility) and told my mom that Benny bit me...which is all I could get out between sobs. I dont think she knew the full story, and If she did, she probably wouldnt believe me. It does sound pretty ridiculous, but that cat was crazy. He and I were on different terms after that. I would see him around the neighborhood, but I wouldnt pet him. He always gave me a warning stare. My mom had to go feed him for the remainder of the vacation days, and I didnt care. She did me a huge favor.
Cats still mess with me all the time, sneaking up on me, biting me, and scratching me. Nothing has ever compared to Benny though. That guy was nuts. He belongs in a cat asylum. Or a horror movie. Or a nightmare...
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