It's Friday, we should break up - The State of California and Every Social Conservative in Existence

Kim, over at repliderium.com writes a regular letter to a random asshole. She calls it "Dear Asshole." Which I think is pretty awesome. This week, she wrote a "Dear Asshole" letter to the California Supreme Court. Short, sweet, and to the point.

My comment was (longer than her actual post, yes I tend to do that) this:

But they let the marriages that were performed stand, too. Which makes no sense.

Wait, let me start over. Seriously, people, wtf? This is not okay. No one should get married, I’ll grant you, but if you’re going to let some people get married, you have to let all people get married. I understand not approving marriage between people and goats, even though some people truly do love goats. But allowing gay people to marry does not mean that next week people will be marrying goats. Even though they don’t talk back and I hear they’re very gentle lovers. One does not lead to the other. Nor does any of the other crap you’re so afraid of make any fucking sense. Please follow your Bible’s rules and stone me for eating shrimp, if that’s how it has to be.

But having said that, how does it make sense to say, “Yeah, this isn’t okay, I supreme courtly rule that you don’t have the right to be married. But…well, it’s okay for this small percentage of the gay population who got in under the wire”? Way to create strife in an otherwise, fairly united community. Assholes.

Can someone please please explain to me the fear people feel about this? I just don't get it. At all.

So I'm breaking up with you, California. Even if your beaches and your people are pretty.

And to all you social conservatives out there - watch out. Pretty soon, we'll all be coming after you. Just wait until we strip away your rights. Oh wait...you kinda like that, don't you? That explains the eight freaking years of George W. Bush. Maybe we'll force all of you to be in a relationship with a goat. I see a YouTube video in the making...

Maybe I'm a computer?

And if so, I seriously hope I'm of the Data from Star Trek TNG variety (don't judge, I love that show).

These "captcha" things? Are designed to "captcha" me. Apparently.

I can't seem to ever get one right on the first try. My fingers refuse to type nonsensical letters in sequence. The font throws me totally off base.

Sometimes there's one "word." Sometimes there are two. I never remember if they're case-sensitive and I refuse to use caps lock, so I'm forever stretching my little pinky finger over to the shift key.

I ACTUALLY JUST TYPED ALL OF THIS IN CAPS WITHOUT TURNING ON THE CAPS LOCK. THAT'S HOW RIDICULOUS I AM.

Ahem.

I get that we don't want those scary little bot guys spamming our blogs and things (so many words in this sentence are not even words I would have used ten years ago), but can't we make them slightly more human friendly? Or else can't we find a way to send sexually transmitted diseases through the internets so that all the scary bot programmy people die a horrible painful death? Only they'd be better at it than the rest of us, so I guess only us good guys would end up with the internets STDs.

That was a bad idea.

Why do you men insist that you like outgoing and funny and smart chicks when really you just want someone to make you a martini and cook you dinner (which I totally excel at anyway)? This has nothing to do with the rest of the post.

Your Team - Red Mesh Top at Starbucks

Some friends and I play this little game. I can't take any credit for it, I was only introduced to it a couple of summers ago (the summer of the tree...). It's called "Your Team."

Here are the basics:

You're out with some of your friends and you spot an awkward, socially-challenged, fashion-challenged, hair-challenged, keep-spit-in-his-mouth-challenged member of society.

You pick one of your friends, look at him or her, indicate the awkward person and say, "Your team!"

Depending on the level of awkward, you might squeal with glee at this point. Entirely up to you, of course.

And now, because of a handy little website, the game can be played cross-country style. Cell phone cameras help, too.

Last Saturday, I was at Starbucks with a friend. It was about 8:30 pm. I'm only explaining that because...well, it was a little early for what we saw.



Now maybe to some of you, it seems entirely normal to be wearing skin-tight, acid wash jeans, a black string bikini top, and a red mesh shirt to a Starbucks. But to me, it does not. She was also wearing about six tons of makeup, but I didn't manage to get a face shot (that's what she said).

She was with a friend who was wearing skin-tight, white (and I do mean skin-tight...you could see every lump and bump up in there. And she wasn't fat, ifyouknowwhatImean) capri pants, a denim tube-top with stars on the front, and platform wedge sandals. And so much makeup I originally thought she was a dude. Because it was drag-queen makeup, not because it's totally normal for men to be walking around in Texas wearing makeup. You could get cut for that shit, men. It's not advisable here in conservative land.

The best part was that the entire Starbucks went completely silent while they were in there.

I'm sorry I didn't get better pictures. But that chick? Your team!

Also, today, my hand looks like this:



And I have no idea why. Seems I punched something last night. But what? Or whom?

I'm the new Lisa Frank. Germans are tricky, though.

It all started with a fairly simple statement:

"Can you come help me? I need to scan something and I can't remember how you told me to do it."

You see last week, my boss asked me how to scan a picture for one of his reports. Not that this was the first time.

Him: Do I just push the scan button on the copier?
Me: You'd think so. But no. Remember? You push the Template Button, then Scan to File, then choose whether you want it to be a TIFF or a PDF.
Him: Which do I want it to be?
Me: What are you going to do with it?
Him: Put it in a document.
Me: Put it in what document?
Him: A report I'm working on.
Me: Then you'll probably want it to be like a picture. So we have to scan it as a TIFF and then we can make it into a more usable format.

So we go through all the steps and he said, "Now where did it go? Is it on my computer?"

Which, for all I know, is him asking if it's actually physically sitting on top of his keyboard.

Me: It's on the server. In a folder called Scanned Documents. Do you remember how to get to the server? (Half the time he thinks that the server and the Internet are the same thing, you understand.)
Him: Yeah. But is it on my computer?
Me: Yes and no. You can get to it from your computer, though.

So he went into his office and I didn't hear anything more about it. For about ten minutes.

Him: Can you tell me where that document is again?
Me: Which document?
Him: The one I scanned. I can't find it.
Me: It's on the server in a folder called Scanned Documents. It will be in a folder with today's date.
Him: Okay.

And I didn't hear anything more about it. For about a half hour.

Him: Um. I can't seem to find that document. Could you come in here and help me?
Me: The scanned thing?
Him: Yes.
Me: You still haven't found it?

I went in there and walked him through the steps to find it.

Me: Do you remember how to get to the server?
Him: Yes.
Me: Okay, let's see it.

He clicked the right things and up pops the server.

Me: Now. See that folder (RIGHT FUCKING THERE IN FRONT OF YOU) called Scanned Documents? It's in there.
Him: Oh. I didn't click that one before because I didn't think it was the right one.
Me: ...
Him: So it's in there?
Me: It's in. The Folder. Called Scanned Documents. On. THE SERVER. Yes.
Him: Oh.

I didn't even punch him.

This morning, he came up to me again. "I need to scan something and you know I can't remember how. Could you help me?"

And we went through the whole thing again.

This led to my coworker, Cam, sending me this picture. Which I thought he found on the Internet, but actually he drew especially for me, using MS Paint. That was good news, as the picture is of a girl with red hair, wearing a black dress and pink heels. And that's exactly what I'm wearing today.

Here it is:



Basically, this was like putting little twigs or newspapers on a fire (I'm really good at keeping the fire going. I'm not so good at starting it). We had a staff lunch for the departure (Shut up, I'm going to cry about it) of my bestest of friends and the only reason I can do this job and stay sane, Toanny. No, that's not really her name. It's her annoying "I'm not a celebrity but I still smushed up my name with my husband's name" name. If I didn't love her so much, I'd pretend not to know her for this.

After lunch, where the statements "I want to eat unicorn meat stewed in the blood of the innocent" and "Lisa Frank meets Twilight. That needs to happen." were uttered, it was an MS Paint extravaganza.

First, Toanny came up with this:



Then I took it upon myself to best Lisa Frank at life (though apparently someone has already done Lisa Frank meets Twilight...but only about that creepy sparkly vampire thing. No unicorns were involved.):



I call that success. Suck it Lisa Frank. (But seriously, do you spell it "weiner" or "wiener"? Because my spell-check keeps correcting me when I spell "weiner." Even though I think that's right. Damn it Germans! Why can't you follow the "i before e" rules?)

And then Cam paid homage to our last supper with Toanny. It is awesome. I'm the red-head with the <3:



Yes, it has been a productive day at the office. Thanks for asking.

Also, a snippet from a gchat conversation between me and Cam:

Cam: Word.
Getting rid of all those apostles was a pain.
me: That's what Jesus said.

And then Cam spluttered all of his coffee onto his keyboard.

It's Friday, we should break up - Christian Bale

Christian, baby, we need to talk.

Yes, you are incredibly attractive. Yes, I still love you. And no, I will never get that scene from American Psycho out of my head (which scene? All of them...). But we have to break up.

You see, I've never seen a single Terminator movie. And now, because of you, and all your hotness, I'm going to have to go see one. And I'm not down with that.

Also, your screaming, cussing outburst (while kind of awesome) was a little inappropriate. Adam West never would have done that. Has anyone noticed how even in spandex and NUDE PANTYHOSE, old school Robin still didn't have any junk? So that's just me then?

Holy Tiny Penis, Batman!

Anyway, Christian, I'm going to have to break up with you. Even though I forgave you for that Machinist thing. Which. Was. Not. Cool. I couldn't even watch it because I didn't want to see you that way.

And that one time I got tricked into watching Empire of the Sun? Yeah, I felt like a child molester perv once I realized that was actually you. As a kid. And not this amazing casting thing where they got a kid who looked exactly like you, but you were about to burst on the scene and make me sweat at any second. But no. You were that kid. Seriously, does John Malkovich not age?

So it's over. But we can still get down on the side, if you know what I mean. Let's just be done with this commitment thing we've got going on where you have a wife and don't have a clue who I am. Because it's getting a little awkward. And Ryan Reynolds is totally funnier.

Touched by a Breast-Feeder

I completely forgot that I promised Fransen my story about breast-feeding. He works at some online mommy something and hears all kinds of stories about all things mommy, but my story warranted taking to the water cooler. So here it is.

Last month, I went to Nashville to visit my family. You'll remember the stories about my grandmother and granddaddy, I'm sure.

I can't remember if I mentioned, but this trip was originally planned as a trip for my ex-boyfriend to meet my family (and run the Music City half-marathon, no he's not the one who had a heart-attack and died). The phone call to explain that no, he wasn't coming, and no, we weren't dating any more was plenty humiliating. Thanks again, asshat!

We were supposed to be flying back home together, and he was supposed to give me a ride home. As you can imagine, that would have been pretty awkward, but at some point when we were still speaking to each other, he informed me that he wasn't on my flight any more. He was taking an earlier flight.

When I got to the airport, I wasn't even concerned about any of that, because he said he wouldn't be there. Why would anyone bother to lie about that? But there he was. I thought he was a chick at first.

I was pretty unhappy about this development, so I walked over and said, "What are you doing here? I thought you were taking a different flight?"

He pretty much refused to even look at me. Because, ya know, I'm the bad guy here. "That didn't work out."

Seriously? Why tell me you're not on my flight if you're actually not sure? "You're not still...SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO ME FOR THE TWO-HOUR FLIGHT, right? Because I will go talk to the flight attendant. Right now. And try the truth this time."

He had managed to switch his seat, and I went and talked to the cute guy from LA who was standing behind me in the security line earlier.

The problem was, I was still stuck with a middle seat. I hate sitting in the middle (like everyone else). So when I got on the plane and the guy sitting in the aisle seat said, "Hey do you want an aisle seat instead?" I said, "Uh, yeah!" without really contemplating the consequences.

His wife was sitting a few rows up on the aisle and they wanted to sit next to each other. So I traded with her. I sat down in my aisle seat feeling pretty darn good about myself. And then I looked up and saw it.

A youngish woman coming down the aisle looking right at me...holding a baby.

Now even on the best of days I'm not hugely fond of children or babies. But I was exhausted, overwhelmed by conservative BS, and I had run into the asshat. It was not a good day to sit next to a baby on the plane.

I was tempted to go back to the woman in my seat and say, "Thanks, but no thanks. You can't fool me! You knew this would happen! Now I will sit next to your husband for two hours and accidentally fall asleep on his shoulder and he'll be so intoxicated by the smell of my hair you'll have to change your shampoo!"

But I didn't. I politely got up, so the baby holder momma person could sit down. And hold her baby. In the middle seat. That takes up a lot of room, by the way.

Right about the time the plane took off, the baby (of course) started screaming. Screaming. And more screaming. So she did what any sensible woman would do in her situation and yanked out a boob.

Here's the thing. I'm totally all about women being able to breast-feed in public. I don't care. Whip your boob out if you need to, but maybe cover it up with something. I mean, none of the rest of us get to whip our boobs out when we need to. And I'm all for equal-opportunities. So cover it up. Or don't be surprised that I'm staring at it. Or both.

But all this woman had was a huge, heavy, fleece airplane blanket, because she's the only mom on the planet who didn't think it was a good idea to pack a blanket for the baby in her carry-on.

Well, Mr. Screamy Pants Baby was having none of that blanket. He couldn't breathe. I assume. Maybe he was just cranky and wouldn't have even wanted a hot fudge sundae in his face.

So she's just hanging out, trying to get him to shut up, for which I was grateful. I wasn't even looking. And then I felt something graze the side of my arm. Which was sort of on the edge of the shared armrest between us.

Yeah, in trying to get Mr. Screamy Pants Baby to shut it, she had turned toward me and her naked boob rubbed down my arm. Complete with slobber. And breast milk. I'm guessing. There was definitely something wet and sticky.

And did she apologize? Or even seem embarrassed? No. Lady, you just got your fluids on me on a public airplane. The dude who gizzed on that chick's hair while she was sleeping on the airplane got arrested. AND YOUR FLUIDS ARE ON MY SKIN.

Rollin' with the Big Boys

About a month or so ago, I started taking Jiu Jitsu. My friend The Mole takes it and she asked if I wanted to come with her sometime. Uh, yeah.

I thought it was going to be a lot of kicking and punching and all that. It's not. It's pretty much two hours of rolling around on the ground trying to hurt each other. Which is awesome.

Our instructor doesn't really understand girls. It's like he thinks we're going to cry or puss out or something. So the whole time The Mole has been going, he's barely even talked to her. Which was okay for her, because she goes with her boyfriend and he's a blue belt and he can teach her things.

It's not so okay for me, though. As I have no one to ask. Well, except The Mole. So I keep going over to him like, "I don't understand. Can you explain it to me again?" And he's all, "Stupid girls in my class, ugh." And I'm like, "I don't care, just show me the shit again. Now." And then last time he actually showed me how to do something by doing it to me. The Mole and I were shocked because he usually won't touch us girls. Maybe we have cooties?

Anyway, The Mole's boyfriend had been out for the whole month because he injured himself on a take-down. Not a hooker on Cops take-down. So it had just been me and The Mole for the whole month.

We had tried a couple of times, unsuccessfully, to get some of the boys to roll (AKA rolling around on the floor, wrestling...with clothes on, you pervs) with me. But none of them would because they're scared of my boobs or something. It's the only reasonable explanation.

Well, last night, I got to roll with some boys. I rolled with The Mole's boyfriend. I rolled with The Mole's boyfriend's friend, and our climbing buddy. And while it's completely awkward at first to be sitting on top of boys with all your clothes on knowing that this is going nowhere but actual pain, it was pretty awesome.

The only problem is, today I look like the girl who lives at the trailer park whose daddy beats her on a regular basis. I have about 37 bruises (and no, that's not an exaggeration) and they're all bright pink. All the ones on my arms are in the shape of The Mole's boyfriend's hands. Which is just awkward no matter how you look at it.

And I realized? I am so weak. Climber was all, "Okay, I'm not even going to use my hands. So you only have to defend against my legs."

I said, "Um...can we start with one leg? You have a lot more muscles than The Mole."

Interesting point: In Jiu Jitsu, when someone "has your back," that is a very very very bad thing for you (and I totally had Climber's back once! I got imaginary points for that one). And "shrimping" does not mean the same thing as it does in the Urban Dictionary, but I still giggle every time they tell me to "shrimp out." (I'm not providing you with a link because if my aunt reads this, I don't want her clicking it...go look it up if you don't know, but it's not that business about toes.) And I get totally creeped out when our instructor tells me to "do the domestic violence choke."

Bob Barker and a Tootsie Pop Glass of Delicious

It's a take it easy day today. Actually, it's an I-went-out-last-night-at-9:30-pm-when-I-shouldn't-have-even-though-I-had-to-work-today-and-ended-up-showing-off-my-ladies-of-The-Price-is-Right-impression-creating-my-own-drink-and-getting-talked-into-doing-Shoop-by-Salt-n-Peppa-at-karaoke day. So yeah.

Also, I'm pretty sure the bartender is in love with me. In a totally non-creepy-but-he's-kind-of-an-old-man kinda way.

So I'm just going to put this out there, for those of you who don't follow me on Twitter (what's wrong with you?). This is one of the most fucked up true things I've ever read

Someone please tell me that it's not true. Oh, also don't click that if you have a weak stomach. I guess I warned you about that a little too late, didn't I?

Who eats eyeballs? I mean, at least, without barbecue sauce or ranch dressing or something.

I'm kidding.

Maybe.

You know, if I believed in God, I might consider this a sign of the apocalypse or the rapture or something (seriously, God, if you're out there and you read my blog, not that you need to of course, since you know everything, but maybe you just read it for a good chuckle, in which case you should probably read Your Beard is Good or Baking with Plath or The Bloggess or LiLu or i hate so much or PeterDeWolf or well, just look to the side there because this is getting out of hand and they're all way funnier than me, but if you're out there, it's time to rapture some of your crazier followers). Instead I'm just going to hope against hope that this doesn't spark an idea for a new reality television show.

It's a...date? Part Deux

I'm going to pose a question to you men at the end of this. At least, I think I am. So if you don't want to read my girly crap, please skip to the question. And answer it. In the comments, not in your head.

So there was a presumptuous kiss and an invitation to watch a baseball game. Which, seriously, is a fine first date idea, it's just that I wasn't thinking about it that way. So I was looking at this as "hanging out with the motorboater" and he was looking at it as "possibly I'm in love with this girl because she has nice boobs AND likes sports." You can see where a problem might arise. Plus, the kissing.

At 2:00 am when the bar was closing, no one really wanted to go home. So I suggested everyone (and by everyone, I mean 5 or 6 people) come to my place. We all piled in cars and everyone followed me (no, I wasn't even remotely drunk). LOB called to see where I was because she had been at the sorority party with an open bar and she was completely shit-faced and bleeding from several places (which, really, she hadn't noticed) and what was I doing and she was going to take a cab to my place and would I be there and she sounded really really really drunk.

I didn't really want her getting into a cab by herself in that condition. This is Texas, okay? It's not like New York or something where cabs are "the thing." Cabs are not the thing. I told her that if Fransen wasn't with her, I would come pick her up. She said some semblance of "it's fine, I'll take a cab" and I had people following me, so I went home.

When I got there she and Fransen were in the hallway (because they couldn't find the keys). I opened the door and we all piled in, where Fransen and LOB immediately began some form of professional wrestling on the kitchen floor. Unfortunately, LOB sort of forgot that she had decided to go commando under her dress and she might have (I admit to nothing) flashed her lady parts to the entire population of my apartment.

We remedied the underwear situation and I tended to her wounds while Smalls made drinks and everyone else pretty much sat down on the kitchen floor.

At 5:00, I finally had to kick everyone out, so LOB could go to sleep. Fransen was already passed out on the couch, having unsuccessfully tried to call himself a cab. And no way was I calling his dad at 5:00 to come pick him up.

I'm amazed he doesn't have a black-eye from all the times he got kicked in the face by LOB because she couldn't figure out what he was.

Everyone made it to their respective destinations safe and sound. And I only got two hours of sleep because I was too worried that someone would miss a flight or oversleep or something.

Then next day, Motorboater came to pick me up (on time) to go to the game. He drove and paid for the tickets, which was sort of my first clue that this was actually probably a date. It was a good game, and we had a good time. He sort of reminds me of Vince Vaughn in The Breakup (Yes, Jay, I know it's a terrible movie. But I sort of like it anyway) and I can't decide whether or not that's a good thing. Neither of us thought to bring (or wear) sunscreen, so we both got crispy fried. Sometime mid-game, he said to me, "So, now I just have to figure out how to get you out on a second date."

Um...why don't you get me out on a first date first, eh?

So here's the thing. He seems hell-bent on proving to me that he's not a douche. But it all just sort of seems like bullshit. So if being a douche is douche-y, but also proving that you're not a douche is kind of douche-y...what isn't? I mean, I know that all you men think that women don't like "nice guys." But that's not necessarily true. What we don't like are nice, BORING guys. Personality? It's a good thing.

I can't decide if I feel really uneasy about all of this because of all the things I've been through, or if I feel uneasy about all of this because I'm trying to tell myself that this dude is not a good idea. I mean, he helped me clean up my kitchen, he took out my trash (this involves sitting it outside the door, before you give him too much credit), he thinks I'm great. But it all just feels like an act. And like he's trying too hard.

Which I suppose is better than not trying at all.

Also, he texted me at 7:00 the next morning to say what a great time he had. That's...weird, right?

It's a...date?

My friend LOB was staying with me this past weekend because she's subletting her apartment for the summer.

Wow. That was no "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," eh?

We decided to stay in Friday night (especially since we were out until 2:30 am Thursday and I had to work all day). So I made shrimp nachos and we ate them (and ate them and ate them. They were really good) while watching Center Stage and drinking much red wine. I blame the Center Stage thing on Jay over at Genius Pending (also known as the smartest person I know). He's doing a month long challenge of watching a chick flick daily and then reviewing it. So I've had the movie stuck in my head for a week, and it's what LOB wanted to watch anyway. It's a really really bad movie.

After our second bottle of wine, dancing along seemed like a good idea. So we danced. Okay, I danced and she threatened video while telling me that I'm surprisingly bendy. This is true, I am surprisingly bendy. Fourteen years of dance and cheerleading (Shut. Up.) will do that to you.

Her friend, Fransen, was in town from California for his sister's college graduation, and at this point, he talked his parents into driving him to my place and dropping him off. When asked if we could bring him back later, he made the wise decision (mostly based on the amount of giggling we were doing) to say, "Probably not." So his parents agreed to come back and pick him up later. And we were all back in high school.

We made experimental dirty martinis, which were far more dirty than martini, but I thought they were delicious. So there.

The next day, LOB and I were in red-wine-hangover-land, so we went shoe shopping. That night, LOB had to join her friend at a sorority graduation party. I laughed at her.

One of my favorite musicians in the whole wide world, Patrice Pike (and no those recordings don't even remotely do her justice) was playing at a bar about two miles from my house, so I had to go. She's so amazing. I just sort of melt into a puddle of goo around her. The first time I met her, I'm pretty sure I proposed marriage. It wasn't awkward at all.

So, naturally, I managed to almost sit in her brother's lap at the bar. Then when I got to talk to her, I acted like a complete idiot (me: Remember that time I asked you to marry me? Yeah, I didn't mean that...unless you might say yes...). It's what I do.

Where's my paycheck?

After the show and at the next bar, I saw a bunch of people I haven't seen since the best bar in the world closed. That was a sad day.

Anyway, so this guy came up to me and gave me a hug and said, "Wow. I haven't seen you in years. It's really good to see you again."

Me: (Silence. Crickets. Blank stare.)

Him: Uh, don't you remember me?

Me: (Light bulb!) Motorboater*?

Him: Yeah. I haven't seen you since [bar] closed.

Me: Nope. Guess not.

This is the guy who used to walk up and motorboat me pretty much out of nowhere. Nearly every time he saw me. So, ya know, we're already kind of on intimate terms. Also, I've never seen him sober. Keep in mind that we've really only ever seen each other at this one bar, so it's not unusual for people to be drunk.

So he sits down next to me and it begins...

Him: So...I'm Motorboater (puts out his hand for a shake).

Me: Uh huh. I know.

Him: Yeah, that was my smooth way of trying to get your name. I can't remember it.

Me: Uh huh. I know.

Him: So you're not going to tell me.

Me: Nope.

And pretty much the next thirty minutes consist of him trying to get me to tell him my name and me refusing. Then I was looking for my chapstick in my purse and having trouble holding onto my drink, so he took it for me. Which seemed nice, so I told him my name.

Me: It's Shine. My name.

Him: What made you decide to tell me now?

Me: You held my drink and I didn't even ask you to. That seemed nice.

Him: So that's all I had to do?

Look, I dated a complete ass for a year and a half. Nice is like a hot fudge sundae delivered to me in bed while I watch another episode of How I Met Your Mother.

So he kissed me. Uh...

Actually, it was a nice kiss. But still. Presumptuous bastard.

I told him to stop it and we talked for a while longer. We were talking about sports. Apparently it's impressive that not only do I like sports, but mostly I only listen to sports talk radio. So he asked if I wanted to go to the Rangers game the next day. Never one to turn down a baseball game, I said, "Sure."

What I didn't realize? It seems this was a date...

More tomorrow, because this is really long and I'm tired of writing it.

*Duh, of course that's not his name.

It's Friday, we should break up - Cockroaches

I realize it seems ridiculous to break up with cockroaches, but...I'm doing it anyway. Even though we were never together. And I never liked them.

I have a friend staying with me this weekend because she sublet her apartment a few days too early. This means that I had to actually clean. It seemed awkward to tell her she had to wedge her 5'10" frame into the available space on the couch not taken up by my (clean) laundry, right? And I'm nothing if not a reasonably-decent hostess.

So anyway, I was cleaning my kitchen, which I haven't been very good about lately. It's not that it was disgusting. More like, I haven't really even been home enough to mess it up, but there have been some dirty dishes in the sink for a while. Because I didn't empty the dishwasher.

Yeah, so I was cleaning the kitchen, when I spied, with of my little eye, something scampering toward a corner. Uh oh.

Now, I'm not generally squeamish about bugs, but I don't like cockroaches (who does? You're weird.), especially in my kitchen. So I did a little squealing (no I don't have swine flu), and then remembered that I have no one but me to take care of this problem. Yay for being single!

I'm perfectly capable of killing a bug. But the thing is, where there's one cockroach, there are bound to be more. I paper-towel-squished the life out of that little bastard and then started scanning the rest of the kitchen. There are no other bugs in sight.

I continued on with the dishes, and again I see a scampering. Ugh.

It seemed to be coming from under my coffee pot. I don't make coffee very often. In fact, the last time I even looked at the thing was the last time my ex (Look! No curse words!) was at my place. So it's been a while.

I didn't really want to pick the thing up, but what choice did I have? So I did. And underneath, I found three more cockroaches. There was some coffee that had gotten trapped under there or something. I dropped the coffee pot in the sink and squealed a little more and paper-towel-squished the new offenders and left the kitchen.

At this point I was feeling all itchy. Basically, I was that guy at the beginning of A Scanner Darkly...but with better hygiene and far less drugs in my system (read: caffeine only).

I went back and cleaned the rest of the kitchen without incident. Unless you consider my sink backing up with a puke-y dreamsicle concoction and my dishwasher causing water to leak all over my floor an incident. Oh, and my garbage disposal appears to be on the fritz (no, I didn't stick my hand down there, thank you very much. Okay, I did...but just to make sure there was nothing blocking the flow of dreamsicle). Other than that, though, everything was right as rain.

What does that expression even mean?

I even got the bathroom all cleaned up and moved my clean laundry off the couch. Hostess with the Mostess!

Well, my friend called and wanted to go have a beer at one of our favorite bars because she had a friend in town. So out I went. Even though, really, going out at 11:00 pm on a school (work) night, is probably impractical.

When I got home, I went right to sleep. And proceeded to have weirdo bizarr-o dreams all night (one of which, I think I can blame on LiLu's last TMI Thursday, thankyouverymuch). In the last one, I was making out with some guy, who seriously morphed into about four different people, none of whom was Ryan Reynolds (but one of whom might have been my cute has-an-out-of-state girlfriend climbing buddy with the nice muscles, I'll never tell), when I had to pee. And somehow, well...let's just say, I ran into a rock and it was covered with cockroaches and they crawled all over me and even the flying cockroaches from Hawaii showed up and I was FREAKING OUT in my dream and I woke up and puked all over myself in my bed (I'm starting a new phrase for feeling like crap: My (insert body part - that's what she said) is feeling all cockroachy. Use it today!). Ahem.

So I'm breaking up with cockroaches, even though we never really had a healthy relationship. And on my home? I'm getting some RAID, which will take this relationship from unhealthy to toxic. For you, dear cockroaches.

Maybe it's just me?

I had another run in with the crazy sandwich lady at the grocery store. No, I wasn't ordering a sandwich. I was just trying to buy some crackers. And yet...there she was.

First contact was from four aisles away, "Hey there ma'am, can I help you find something?"

Lady, I'm walking with a purpose toward the cracker aisle. How could I possibly need your assistance?

"No thanks, I'm just going to get some crackers."

And it begins...

Her: What kinda crackers you need to-day, ma'am?
Me: I don't know. I'm going to look and figure it out.
Her: Well, did you want wheat crackers or club crackers or soda crackers or animal crackers or...

Seriously, it was like Bubba Gump shrimp up in this joint.

Me: I really don't know yet. I'm going to go look at the crackers in the cracker aisle and I'll figure it out.
Her: Well, whatcha eatin' 'em with?
Me: I don't know. Possibly cheese.
Her: What kinda cheese you get?
Me: I haven't gotten any cheese yet.
Her: Well, do you want cheddar or swiss or colby or pepper jack or...

And again with Bubba Gump shrimp. She must have had to memorize this crap to get a job. Wonder how she can remember 37 different kinds of cheese, but she can't remember that I want to punch her in the throat?

Me: I just really don't know. I'll decide when I get to the cheese.
Her: What kind of cheese you get might change what kind of cracker you need.
Me: I'm aware. But I assure you I can figure all of this out by myself.

At this point, I turned and walked away. To the cracker aisle. Where I ponder the cracker dilemma.

"Ma'am, don't forget we got crackers on this side, too."

She followed me to the cracker aisle! Can I really get arrested for assault at this point? I mean, I have proof that this woman has harassed me before, right?

Me: Yes, thanks, I can see that.
Her: They cookies in this aisle, too. Don't you forget to be gettin' some cookies.
Me: I don't need any cookies.
Her: Child, cookies aren't about need. Cookies are about want.

Okay, that's a good point...

But I would like to select my crackers in peace. Obviously, that's not in the cards, so I grab a box of Reduced-Fat Wheat Thins and start to walk away.

Her: Ma'am, that cheese is over here.
Me: I know. I don't want cheese right now.
Her: I thought you was eatin' these crackers with cheese.
Me: I said I might eat them with cheese. But either way, I don't want any cheese right now. Thanks for your help.

You know that power walking thing women used to do in the mall back in the day (do people still do that? Really?)? Yeah, I did that...all the way to the check out. With her trying to keep up and talking about other uses for crackers and the usefulness of my particular choice of cracker in multiple scenarios.

Luckily I had already gotten everything else I needed. I planned to make guacamole at my desk when I got back to the office, so I already had the ingredients for that. Once I put my stuff down on the belt, crazy sandwich lady finally decided it was okay to leave me alone.

The poor woman at the checkout is so dumb it makes me sad. But she's quiet and polite, so I don't mind so much. Today's bagger (not to be confused with a baller, mind you) was a rather large young man. He bagged groceries for the two people in front of me, then started bagging mine as they came down the conveyor belt. There were three grocery bags lying in the area next to the conveyor belt, as he started bagging my stuff.

"Hey, are these yours?"

Um, how could they be mine? The first of my groceries just grazed your hand and you have yet to put it in a bag. What, did I sneak over and bag three bags of groceries while you were standing right there?

"Uh, no. You haven't bagged any of mine."

So he asks, "Whose are these, then?"

Yeah, I don't know, because I just got here. "Maybe the guy in front of me?"

"But he's gone..."

Actually, no, he's standing right behind you looking for his groceries.

This guy clearly hadn't been to grocery-bagging (not to be confused with tea-bagging) school. He only put two things in each bag, and he dropped my avocado in its bag from practically shoulder height. And he refused to put my crackers in a bag, for some odd reason. He looked at me like I was insane when I put them in one of the bags.

Aside from a bruised avocado, I got out relatively unscathed. And now I can recite 37 kinds of cheese and tell you the possible uses for all the cracker varieties. Maybe it's worth the extra ten-minute drive to go to the next closest grocery store?

I'm starting to wonder, though. Does everyone have these kinds of experiences at the grocery store? Or is it just me?

No Babies Tuesday

Okay, not really...that would be a hell of a topic to conquer every week though, eh? "Hey guys! I'm not pregnant! Thanks for reading, goodnight." Oh, and you have to have sex to get pregnant. So there's that.

This month I saw both sets of my grandparents. A considerable experience since they are all very fundamentalist Christian and very conservative and being in the room with them tends to make me itchy. But I love them dearly.

And yet, if even one more time, I have to hear the great-grandchildren hint, I might scream.

"You know...I'd like to be alive to see my great-grandchildren..."

"Some great-grandchildren sure would be nice..."

Seriously, you guys aren't that old, okay?

Neither of my grandmothers has even hit 70. I think they still have some time before they croak.

Plus, I don't want to have kids. It's very unlikely that I'll ever have any. Maybe one day, if I'm feeling particularly masochistic, I'd consider adoption. Which, by the way, is a great option, people. It's the same principle as the puppies. Breeders are the enemy here. It's just that I don't have any interest in raising children.

Also, kids are bad for the environment. I'm just putting it out there. Because I totally care about the environment.

Even more than that, I don't want to get married. And I'm pretty sure that both sets of grandparents would choose to disown me before seeing me have any children out of wedlock (pre-marital sex, oh no!), so I'm not even sure why they're broaching the subject. There are no prospective husbands over here, ladies.

So please, dear grandparents, stop barking up this tree. Your other grandchildren are all much better options, trust me.

Hypothetically

Okay, I'm just going to lay out a hypothetical for you. Some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Let's say that last Friday, I was supposed to go to a party. I may not really have wanted to go to this party, so one of my friends might or might not have bribed me with freshly made-at-home mojitos before the party. Upon which I may or may not have agreed to go to the party, as long as someone hypothetically gave me a ride. There and back.

So my friend and I may or may not have accidentally (on purpose) drank an entire gallon of mojitos before the party that may or may not have happened.

At this point, a lot of ridiculous dancing may or may not have occurred. Along with the possible drinking of beer, wine, sangria, whatever we could get our hypothetical hands on.

It's a possibility that there was more dancing after that. Also, I may or may not have ingested a few pepperoni pizza rolls.

My friend's boyfriend, who at this point might have been fairly annoyed and was possibly the most sober person at the party that may or may not have happened, might have gotten us in the car (although, truly, I was definitely less of a pain in the ass, if any of this even happened at all) and driven us to their place.

I quite possibly passed out on the couch because driving home could have been a really bad idea. Within a few minutes my stomach might have started grumbling and I may have gotten up to throw up, only to realize that the bathroom was in their bedroom...and they were too. You know, maybe.

I, then, might have made the brilliant decision that the kitchen sink was a more appropriate place to throw up, if I even had to throw up. However, I probably couldn't find the light switch as this may not have been my kitchen, so I might possibly have completely inadvertently thrown up all over the kitchen. Possibly including the rug on the kitchen floor. And if I threw up, whatever it was might have been red. But there's no way to know.

I may or may not have had the wherewithall to clean up the mess I made, while simultaneously possibly puking in the sink some more. At which point, I might have picked up the rug, rolled it up, and put it with my purse, hypothetically for cleaning.

Hypothetically, I probably would have passed out on the couch for the night and then I might have left in the morning with the rug. Whereupon arriving at my apartment, I probably would have put it in the washing machine for immediate cleaning and then stripped all my clothes off and possibly spent most of the rest of the day watching Food Network. Or possibly reruns of Sabrina, the Teenage Witch (maybe).

It's completely possible that I acted like a hypothetical 22-year-old (as my actual 22-year-old self didn't even drink, and that's the only thing in this post that is definitely true). So I ask you this...if any or all of this actually happened, and you were my hypothetical friend (and/or her hypothetical boyfriend) would you still be speaking to me?

If any of this actually happened, I'm throwing out a heartfelt apology to all those present at the party (if indeed there was a party), the kitchen rug (if I did really puke on it), my friend (if I actually have a friend), my friend's boyfriend (if my friend does actually have a boyfriend), the mojitos (if there were any), the pizza rolls (whether or not I ate them), and my dignity (provided that still exists, or if I ever had any).

It's Friday, we should break up - Yogurt

Hey yogurt, how's it hangin'? We've been together for a while now, and aside from a falling out when I made you for my sixth grade science project and realized that really...you're just a bunch of rotting milk, we've been pretty happy.

Whether it's fruit on the bottom (how exciting, it's almost like an upside down ice cream treat!), whipped (so light and airy!), custard style (I love you even though you often trigger my gag reflex), or plain (there's really nothing exciting to say about plain), our love affair has endured.

Then came Go-gurt. I mocked you mercilessly. Seriously? Go-gurt (and breaking out the "gurt" part? Not cool.)? Because, ya know, yogurt does have a mobility problem. It's sooooo hard to remember a spoon. You argued that it wasn't your fault. Those manufacturers and brands were trying to market you to kids. And you had to be cool, yo. And still I laughed at you. Yogurt in a squeeze tube? C'mon.

After that it was, "Yogurt! Great as a digestion aid! Keeps you regular!" Probiotics will help you poo. Greeaaattt. That's what I want to think about while I'm enjoying my morning yogurt (with a spoon, geez).

And the woman who has to get all her pants taken in because she ate delicious yogurt in flavors like white-chocolate strawberry and key lime pie? She's really annoying. Although I sort of feel for her because her tailor is clearly an idiot. Much like most of the people I have to deal with on a daily basis. But really? Your explanation is "I was just outside? And I came in. So take my pants in..."? That's the dumbest thing I've heard all day (it's early).

I was still with you even after all those things, though.

Until yesterday. This? Is just ridiculous. Those kids need to get with the program and leave the '70s hair behind. I know that emo thing was popular for a while (we're all past that, right? Good.), but it's over now and we would all appreciate you not bringing back the '70s again. Some people have already lived through that twice (for which I pretty much blame Ashton Kutcher). And it wasn't really that cool the first time.

Again, I understand that it's not exactly your fault, yogurt. But I fail to see how on earth crushing a cup of yogurt is even a practical method of eating it. Never mind that it's completely inefficient. Not to mention...JUST GET A SPOON.

The flavor names really kill me. Three of them are violent. Strawberry SMASH! Strawberry-Banana SLAM! Blueberry BLAST! And then...Cherry-licious? Really? That's the best you could do? Licious isn't exciting. Cherry Choke Hold! Cherry Chupacabra! Cherry Chester Cheetah! Oh wait. I guess Cheetos might get mad about that one...

So that's it yogurt. I think we're through. We had a nice run, but you've stooped to a whole new level. And I'm just not down with it.

Bleh, Mayo.

Between Dom De Louise is dead and 911 operators and the Center for Bioethical Research (if there's a hell, may you all burn there eternally) with abortion planes and Cinco de Mayo and I haven't had any tequila today, I just have very little to say.

I'll be rock climbing, please don't run over me. Drive safely and good night.

Good Morning Poo!

We have this tradition in our office. Every morning, all the men come in...and poo. I call it "Morning Poo Time!" but without the enthusiasm that the exclamation point implies.

Now the office is very small. And we only have one bathroom. My desk is in a direct path of the poo air dissipation pattern. So all morning, I smell poo.

Maybe it's just me, but I go at home. I mean, obviously I don't ever poo because I'm a lady. But if I did, I would do it at home. Or anywhere not at the office. Because the last thing I really need is for everyone to smell my poo all morning.

They just form a line, these men, starting at 8:00 am. One after the other. I got some Febreeze, but most of them refuse to use it. Why?!? I mean, it's not really a cure-all, I understand. Mostly, then it just smells like poo covered with Febreeze, but it's better than straight poo.

And really, what do you people eat? It smells like something died in your intestines, sat and festered for about a month, decomposed to just the right level, and then you sat on our work toilet and let it loose. Thanks.

People get mad at smokers for getting to take smoke breaks at work, when non-smokers don't have this privilege. Okay, I'm kind of one of them. But this whole poo-break thing is out of control. Sometimes it takes a half hour. And the whole time, I'm sitting at my desk hoping that whoever is in there will just stay in there all day, so I don't have to be subjected to the death poo air. But no. The door opens and the stench begins. This usually continues until almost lunch time.

So here's my question to you men: If you can manage to make sure that you have to poo right when you get to work in the morning, can you not manage to make sure to poo before you get to work? Really? (Incidentally, I think I read someone else complaining about this exact same thing on a blog the other day, but I can't for the life of me remember where. Oops! So credit for this idea goes to that person, whoever he or she is...)

In other news, I forgot to put a bobby pin in my hair to keep my bangs out of my face (and since I didn't bother to dry my hair this morning, they were doing this super awesome "woohoo!" thing where they curl around and practically stab me in the eye), so I'm using a paperclip instead. Paperclips? Are not the new bobby pins.

It's Friday, we should break up - Yellow Pages

Hi, Yellow Pages? It's shine. We need to talk.

While I appreciate that you felt it would be more cost-efficient to send all your departments overseas, I have to tell you...it's not really working for me. They can't understand me when I say, "PLEASE STOP CALLING." So if you could teach them at least that one phrase, that would be awesome.

Additionally, I really do not enjoy updating my information three times a month. To people who don't understand what I'm saying. I can't even begin to explain how obnoxious it is to spell my last name five times. It only has a few letters. It's not that hard. Don't even get me started on how many times it takes to spell the name of our street. And by the way? Our suite number? Not the same as our street address. Maybe finding at least one person who understands the structure of American addresses would be a good idea. I'm here for you.

Please stop encouraging your employees to say my name multiple times per sentence. It does not make me feel special. I do not feel as though we are buddies and I want to give your company money when this happens. Actually, I kind of want to burn every copy of the yellow pages that I can find.

I don't, in any way, believe that the man who called my office from India yesterday is actually called "Bob (Beh-uhOuh-Beh) Jones (Joe-uhOuh-enuh-ess)." I'm sorry, but I don't. I think he's a liar and so are you.

No, I don't want to pay anything to you for any services. And if I hang up on you, trust me, it's not because we had a bad connection. Do not call back. I don't want to have to say, "I DO NOT WANT TO PURCHASE ANYTHING FROM YOU. WE ARE DONE I AM HANGING UP." every time. I feel like a bitch for yelling at your employees.

Yesterday, when I hung up the phone, I actually suggested that we set all of the Yellow Pages employees on fire. Not the buildings, you can keep those. Just the people. I don't like to feel violent like that.

So this is the end of our relationship, dear Yellow Pages. It hasn't been a pleasure.