You know what's more embarrassing than puking all weekend?
Throwing your back out from puking all weekend.
And even worse than that?
Further having to explain that no, of course you didn't actually hurt your back from bending over the toilet, but you did hurt it a few days earlier golfing, and the rapid, spas-y jerking of your body to the bathroom floor just exacerbated your golf injury so that after you're done seeing what a burrito looks like after it's been marinating in white wine for a few hours, you try to get up and realize you can't because suddenly you're lower back is seizing up like you just picked up a house and forgot to lift with your knees.
And then you have to walk around all day with an ice pack or a heating pad strapped to your lower back with this look on your face:
That look by the way is a) how I get all the boys, and b) a mix of fear and pain. I need the ice so that I don't crumple into a ball on the floor, but the strap that's holding it on is digging into my stomach, and totally not helping with the waves of nausea. I can't give up the ice but I don't want to puke anymore. It's a vicious cycle people! Vicious.
Here's a front picture, with notes so that you know exactly what's going on here (you can click to enlarge)(You're welcome). And no, I don't usually look like this. Usually I look better. Less just-got-out-of-homeless-ness-but-still-am-not-sure-of-the-ways-of-the-masses-so-I-wear-half-boys-clothes-and-half-womens-to-the-mall, and a little more . . . showered.
(That's a lie, I usually look like this. But I usually FEEL better so that's a huge difference. It's all about your attitude, you know? Like sure, nine times out of ten I'll be in this exact outfit for four days straight, but I rock the shit out of it. I wear those pjs like I'm on a runway dang it. Just ask the guys at 7 - 11. They know. They see it every day.)
Have you ever seen I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant? The show about women who give birth and didn't even know they were pregnant?
Let me break it down for you:
They have a baby, typically someplace weird, and had no idea they were pregnant.
There's no weight gain, no morning sickness, no kicking, no NOTHING. Well, nothing until suddenly they start to have cramps and a BABY comes out of their vagina and lands on a strangers shoe, or the bathroom floor, or wherever it is these women find a place to squat and die, because that's what most of them think is happening. They're dying, and their insides are coming out as a finale.
So, of course I'm adding that to my list of my totally irrational fears and will be taking a pregnancy test once a week even if I never have sex again. Even if I go in for a routine test, and the doctors notice I have some abnormal hormone levels, and discover that I'm actually a man, and that my lady parts were just for show, the good stuff is up inside, and I'll never be able to birth a child because what I'd always thought was my ovaries and uterus showing up on the scan at the gyno's was really just a videotape of someone else's playing over and over again that the stupid, stoned tech forgot to take out because he was too busy eating all the Cheese Its from the vending machine, and instead I just have an empty space (or whatever it is guys have up there in place of what we have - vasdeferens and perhaps a prostate), and I end up on the news, and I feel confused, and John Krasinski wins accolades from the public for standing by me. . . EVEN THEN I will be checking myself. So that I don't have a baby on a strangers shoe.
In other news, my sister just threw up in her mouth a little bit.
The thing is, I wouldn't have even been watching that show because it's like 80 degrees and gorgeous, which means I was planning on spending the day outside working on my tan (severe sunburn) and playing with James in the sun (chase after him every time he escapes from his little kitty leash and runs out into traffic).
So, I run inside because I forgot sunscreen, and I grab one of the seventeen tubes we have and start lathering my face up with that stuff, but for some reason it's not really rubbing in. Which isn't that uncommon, a lot of the sport sunscreens are super thick and gooey, but this one is slippery and goopy and just will not rub in. And I'm really rubbing, and I'm doing little circles, and I'm like, "This shit better be some amazing sun deterrent", and then I look down at the counter and I'm like:
"That's weird." Nope. Not getting it. "Why in the world. . . " Sort of getting it. But not really wanting to. "Why is that tube of. . . " Ignore. Ignore. Please no. Please no. "Why is that tube of KY Jelly sitting right there?" Look at face in mirror. Back to the tube. Back to the face. Tube. Face. Tube. FACE.
"There's personal lubricant all over my face!!" I screamed to James who sort of looked up at me like, why in the world is that sitting out all footloose and fancy free in your sunscreen cupboard?
"Because I don't use it, it just came with my diaphragm kit thing. . . never mind! Just pass the soap."
And that's how learned bar soap works way better at getting a squeaky clean feeling that girly loofah soap!
From now on sunscreen stays in a totally different room from any other sort of tube-like thing. And if my friends ever ask to borrow some sunscreen and I tell them its in the attic in a box labeled SPF only, inside another box that says, Seriously: SPF only! - you tell them this is why.
Because they just want some UV protection, they don't want to walk out into the sun feeling like the naughty end of some lucky guys prom night.
So, I lost Crystal the other day. But not like, I left the door open and she wandered out and I lost her; more like, I set her down in a safe place so I wouldn't forget where she was and then instantly forgot where the safe place was and couldn't find her.
Which is weird since she's the size of a seven year-old. How many spots does a life-size poodle actually fit in a house that's 800sq ft on a good day?
I came home for lunch and looked around for her, and thought, "That's weird. I could have sworn I left her right there in the living room, sleeping on Bub's fancy sweater." But when I came in she was gone.
And so was the sweater.
So, I checked the bathroom - nothing. The bedroom - nothing. The kitchen - nope. Under the table - uh uh. I even checked the bathtub, pulling the drape open slowly (because almost anytime I have to open a shower curtain I'm suddenly terrified I'm going to find either a) a sniper in there ready to either snipe or stab me (because also in this fear snipers work at a super close range with a silencer on their gun, and also they stab, and for some reason I've done something that makes someone spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on an ex-government sniper for me, which is simultaneously terrifying and flattering if I sit down and think about it, because really what have I done? I'm not in politics, I don't have some huge fortune someone is going to stand to inherit, I'm not a famous soap star, I didn't marry any of the royal family, and I never wronged anyone's father in or out of the service causing them to die and receive a dishonorable discharge much to the disgrace and fury of the rest of the family who were just itching for something to avenge. And that's kind of nice, it's like the counter balance I think, it makes it bearable for me to take a shower in the mornings - the fact that if there's a sniper in there I must have done something huge, and since I haven't, the chances of a sniper being in there are much, much more minimal.), and b) that when I open the curtain I'm going to find whomever I'm looking for, murdered, eyes open, soaking in a pool of their own blood.
Eyes open! That's the worst part. I can handle the soaking in a pool of your own blood, but if you're looking at me - forget it. That's freak out central.
Clearly, I should not have EVER been allowed to watch TV when I was younger.
Anyway, she wasn't in the bathtub either, and this is when I commenced what my mom later called, 'Freaking the F*&k Out'. I didn't know what to do, but I checked all the doors, none had been left open, they were still locked, which could only mean that whoever broke in to steal Crystal, got greedy, took Bub's sweater too, and locked the door behind them to throw me off.
"Nice try," I shouted hysterically to no one. "I KNOW YOU WERE HERE!" I yelled grabbing my phone and shouting/shaking as I dialed my mom. "AAAAAAAHHHHHH 3-1-0 I CAN'T REMEMBER WHEN I'M PANICKED. Just call MOM'S CELL."
"Calling Baja Fresh" my phone said.
"No! Call MOM'S CELL."
"Calling Coldstone in Chicago" my phone said after my screams.
"NO! CALL MOOOOOOM'S CELLLLLLLLL"
"Calling Baja Fresh."
"FUCK graslhfalskdjfk YOU!" I growled, fake slamming my phone into the table, because I really wanted to smash it to pieces but I still needed it to track down the kidnappers.
Finally I took a deep breath and realized I should actually being calling my sister first. But she didn't answer because she was out gallivanting with a Victoria Secret Model and her Football baby daddy, so then I tried my mom.
"Do you only have food places stored in your phone?"
"That's not the point."
"You don't even live in Chicago anymore."
"I know, but what if I go back and want to see how late the Coldstone is op- Mom! That's not the point! Where's Crystal?"
"How should I know? Try your sister."
"I did she didn't answer. WHERE COULD SHE GO?!"
"I don't know, did you check the-"
"I CHECKED EVERYWHERE. SOMEONE TOOK HER!!!"
"The 15 year-old, deaf, arthritic, cataract-ridden dog?"
"Yes!"
"Someone stole that dog?"
"YES GLAKFLSDJLIJDILJ!"
"I don't think so. I have to get back to work, call me when you find her."
I tried Bub again but clearly supermodels are more important than the love-of-her-life dog so I tried the Math Teacher who gloriously answered even though she was in the middle of teaching Jr. High Schoolers, because she is a good person.
After a few minutes of hysterical screaming, which sent her into a mild panic - because as much as we love Crystal, we know how much Bub loves Crystal and fear her wrath more than that of the possible kidnapper's - we finally stopped screaming and she talked me through the entire house until we came to my old bedroom.
"No, the door is totally shut, and it was shut when I left. She's not in there."
"Did you check?"
"No."
"You didn't check every room in the house?"
"Yes I did. Every room that wasn't shut when I left this morning!"
"Ok, Amy," she said very calmly because, as I said before, she teaches hoodlum Jr. High and therefore dealing with me is just a walk in the park. "Maybe you should just check?" without even a trace of sarcasm, or mocking, just pure I'm-on-your-side support.
"Ok, I'll check but she can't be in here she doesn't open doors and it was totally lock- OH MY GOD CRYSTAL HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?!?!?!?!"
Because there that little sucker was. Just chillin on the blow up mattress, her head resting on the pillow, the curtains drawn, looking up at me like, "What? This is where I come to think. You made me watch that teenage girl doing all that singing to other teenage girls this morning and I'm trying to figure out why*."
I'm not sure how she got in there, or why, or what was going on, but I think it's really weird that someone broke into our house to trap Crystal in the spare room and steal Bub's fancy sweater.
"Uh, Amy?"
"Yes, Math Teacher?"
"Have you checked out what you're wearing today?"
I looked down.
"Son of a bitch."
"It's her sweater isn't it?"
"Yes. Maybe."
"Ok, well then if you're ok I have to go break up a knife fight."
"Yeah go for it. We're safe."
For now. But sooner or later I'm going to have to take another shower. And that's always risky.
B: And newborn babies. God, they're the worst. All cute and stuff. Gross. Don't even get me started on fun . . . man, I hate fun.
A: I mean summer tv, not summer in general.
B: Oh I know!
A: Where's all mah stories?!? Glee is gone, Lost is over forever, Modern Family is on break, Nurse Jackie ended, I only got half of Princess Diaries 2 recorded before the Tivo changed the channel to tape ANOTHER episode of Teen Mom, Cougar Town is done, and I'm this close to actually watching one of those Jonas Brothers episodes you're taping.
Catalina is overpriced, congested, smoggy, the water is freezing, the scuba diving sucks, if you want a spot on the beach you pretty much have to get there at 6am, there's a distinct smell of sewer and seaweed every other block, the fish bite so hard they draw blood, there's constant landslides/the threat of getting killed by a falling boulder, the tiny engine-powered golf carts are louder than God, everything closes before 10pm, the locals are surly, the one donut shop sells out of everything good by about 5:01am so if you want a goddamn long john you're pretty much going to have to camp out for it overnight like you would Justin Timberlake/Bieber tickets, and my whole family gathers there all at once, one time a year, which somehow always manages to be the exact same moon-alignment that makes all the women in my family (which outnumber the guys 7:1) go into their special womanly time ALL AT ONCE, which means utter, and complete hormonal horror for at least half the trip.
That being said. . .
I CANNOT WAIT TO GO!!!
Yes, it's not perfect, but there's something time-travel-y magical about it and there isn't a single place on earth I'd rather be come summer. Maybe it's because I've been there every year of my life, or maybe it's because there's no work to be done, just beaching and eating and hiking up and down to places we've see seven hundred times but seem just as gorgeous every time you get up above the golf-car-smog-layer. Or maybe it's because even though all together my family and friends resemble a grounded flock of geese (not a flying flock where they're all pretty and making v-formations, but like a flock of geese when they're all sitting by a pond and flapping about, and honking, and squawking, and running into each other, and all trying to be the leader of the group until one just gets pissed off and flies away and then all the others see it and go noisily chasing after it . . . ok, so maybe its not the best analogy now, but you wait until I get the first barbecue on videotape), they're still so fun to be around, and it's so nice to see everyone in the same place all at once.
(Oh jesus, now I'm tearing up again. I better not be getting my period for the third time this month or someone is gonna have to pay! And it'll probably be James!) (Because he's a cat and doesn't care a wink if I yell at him, he'll wait til I'm done and then roll onto his back so that I'll rub his belly while he bites me.)
Hello lover.
If it were possible for me to make sweet love to this island you better believe I'd do it. And then I'd "forget" I'm supposed to keep my diaphragm in for at least six hours after takeoff and wind up with little expensive, crowded island babies. But they'd be cutest little island babies you've ever seen!
(**it may seem like I just gave Catalina a really bad rap, but I'm leaving out a whole lotta shit. Like how it has the inexplicable draw of making my brother strip naked in a public lunch place, how the friends I bring sometimes end up contracting VD two nights in, how at some point in the journey over someone is going to throw up, and how every single year, without fail, both my sister and I will spend so much time in the sun (read: anything over 5 minutes) we contract the HIV on our feet and hands.)(And yes - I still am SO EXCITED about going! The HIV is a small price to pay for relaxation.)
So, I've been working remotely a little bit which is fun a) because it allows me to stay in my pjs until 4pm, or whenever I have to see another human, and b) because never, not ever, at my office has this escaped and come charging down the road at me, braying like it just popped out of the Shrek movie and into real life and LIKED IT.
This is after it was corralled back into it's proper home, hence the death/vaguely suicidal glare he's giving me - but let me tell you something, donkeys may seem slow and depressed because they're always losing their tails (because I can't remember anything from any History class I've ever taken, but I remember everything I've ever learned from cartoons), but this little sucker can haul ass.
No pun intended.
He was running so fast and happily, it seemed wrong to stop him. Have you ever seen a donkey in person? It's exactly like this:
Ok no it's not like that at all, but OH MY GOD look at this picture I found!
WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THAT POOR DONKEY!?!
And they say love is blind. I don't think so. I think that giraffe saw something he liked, something he really liked, chugged the last of his vodka-coke and sauntered up to the cute little donkey at the end of the bar and then made things happen.
"Hey."
"Oh. . . hey."
"I'm Gene the Giraffe."
"Hi Gene. I'm Dawn the Donkey."
"Oh, Don. Nice to meet you buddy, just. . .uh. . .this is awkward."
"No, Dawn. I'm a girl."
"I thought so. Ha, ha. It's hard to smell you from the other end of the bar."
"You too."
**they giggle and gaze**
"You want another drink Dawn the girl Donkey?"
"Oh, I shouldn't. I've already had two."
"Well you can **clears his throat** sip it slowly."
"Oh, uh. . . "
"Oh jeeze, I didn't mean. . . I actually had something stuck in my throat, I wasn't trying to suggest something weird, I had a handful of pistachios and the coating just sort of stuck right here. . . Shoot. I really didn't mean to insinuate you should sip slowly for me, I-"
"No, that's ok, I understand. I clear my throat all the time."
"You do?"
"Yeah. Plus that doesn't really make sense does it? That's some terrible innuendo if that's what you were going for."
"I know. I only do really awesome innuendo. I mean. . ."
"Ha, ha, ha."
"Man, I can't talk around you Dawn the Donkey."
"You're doing just fine Gene the Giraffe." **hooves touch gently under the bar, and the rest is photographic history**
Anyway, nothing like that happened to the runaway donkey I saw, but he was really cute, and looked a lot like this in real life:
Fat body + stubby legs + goofy mouth = So super cute I can't stand it!!!
See also:
Oh my gosh I'm getting so off track.
So, I felt so bad when he was roped back to his home because he looked just so happy to be free! And I know we can't just have donkey's roaming the streets all free and loosey goosey, but c'mon! All he wanted was one afternoon of galloping in the sunshine down a busy street! I'm sure he would have wandered back home when it was dinner time, like a barnyard cat, or my Uncle Steve.
And that's why I'm never allowed to have farm animals, or be left alone in a zoo. Because the first thing I'd probably do is cry because the monkeys look sad, and then b)open all the cages and send all the zoo/farm animals to their freedoms (read: eventual death by freeway), and then later will cry myself to sleep for setting wild animals loose and probably doing them more harm than if they had just stayed in their farm/zoo.
So when my kids ask you why they never had a petting zoo at their birthday parties refer them to this post. And then remind them that's also how mommy ended up in prison. Again.
So I just sat in the weird corner in the parking lot of my office building, squished behind the dumpsters, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a brown Trader Joe's bag for a top, eating peanut butter from a jar with my fingers because I needed a break and this was the only place they couldn't find me.
What? I couldn't find a spoon.
Anyway, this is totally going to make me rethink my quick sizing-people-up reflex, because clearly sometimes when you think people are homeless, eating stolen peanut butter, literally wearing a brown paper bag, they're not.
They're actually just taking their mandatory ten minute break, and the peanut butter was the closest thing they could grab on the way out after spilling their entire bowl of cereal all over their shirt, which is now hanging over the side of the desk, dripping into the salad they bought from Trader Joe's because it's no longer in the protective brown paper bag, because the protective brown paper bag just had the bottom ripped out, and the handles bitten off, so that it could be shimmied over my head and around me to cover the fact that I'm wearing a bra that is so cute* it is literally the biggest teeny bopper bra they sell at Forever 21 (what? It says forever 21 right in the title. I can still shop there), while I ran out of the office and into the parking lot because the cereal spill was the LAST STRAW and if I didn't get out of there I was going to either a) start crying, or b) yell 'fuck' like I had turrets and someone just made me really socially uncomfortable.
And that's how I discovered Valium!
It wasn't like anything really horrible was happening at work, it was just four thousand things at once, and I was actually feeling pretty good, and sort of giggly as I ran out of the office half clothed, half ready for the beginning of a really low budget porno - but this is apparently what happens when you suddenly get your period every other week. I could feel myself starting to get stressed out, and I'm trying to nip things like that in the bud and be calm, and apparently this is how I don't let stress seep into me - I wear shopping bags and eat peanut butter like I'm Hurley and the Island just got a shipment of food dropped on them from some weird faction of the Dharma Initiative.
Hormones ablaze people. Let the fun for my co-workers ensue!
Just so you're not worried, I have (reluctantly) changed back into my still milky wet shirt, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna stay this way. I've got the peanut butter standing by just in case.
(*tween bras are for girls who are like 14 and don't want to wear training bras anymore, but can't really fit into big girl bras so they have these like mini bras that are SO CUTE and have sizes you thought you'd only see on batteries, and I made the unfortunate mistake of trying one on the other day because was so pretty it looked like a Dia De Los Muertos wedding cake, and I was spilling out of it, and bursting with totally false self-boob-confidence (which happens when you're wearing something designed for someone who hasn't gone through puberty yet) and so then I had to buy it, don't tell anyone.)
You know when you were little and you made your mom play Man in the Mirror seven hundred times on the way to ballet practice because it was so good that you were fairly certain if you weren't singing along to it, and internalizing that you were gonna make a difference, gonna make a chaaaaaaaaaange, at all times your brain would explode? Like some sort of mild Autism, because somewhere in there you knew it wasn't good that all you could do was listen to that song on repeat, but you just COULDN'T STOP because it felt so good?
I did that with Man in the Mirror, and then later with Cherish when I was in the fourth grade and I liked Jamie Miller, my best friend's brother who was a mature fifth grader, because I believed if I could sing it passionately enough into my mirror, he would want me. Not that he could see me, or knew what I was doing - probably that would have had the opposite effect - but somehow the essence of my womanliness would transverse the invisible magnetic waves in the air and land into his general area, which would make him suddenly look up from his game of Sorry! and know that I wasn't just his little sister's freakishly tall 10 year old friend, I was also the love of his life.
Oh yeah. It worked. Maybe not because of my singing to myself, but you couldn't have convinced me of that then (or now), but for some other unknown reason Jamie Miller wanted to date me.
And we did.
For eleven whole days.
And they were magical.
Until he tried to hold my hand in the mall and I got so freaked out I made my dad come pick me up and I cried all the way home, thus essentially ending my friendship with his sister.
Anyway, my point is - I sometimes get stuck on songs to an OCD level, and I'm not sure why, except now thinking back on the Jamie Miller extravaganza I think it might be some weird unconscious chant to get something.
Which is why I'm seriously questioning my new constantly-on-repeat song choice.
It's Kid Cudi, Kanye West, Common and a little bit of Lady Gaga thrown in just for fun. I don't know what it means, but I do know after just looking up the lyrics Kanye might possibly be my new favorite lyricist.
"I Got Seniority, With The Sorority So, That Explains Why I Love College Getting Brain In The Library Cuz I Love Knowledge"
Oh, Kanye. . . I was wondering why you loved college.
"When You Used Your Medulla Oblongata And Give Me Scoliosis Until I Comatose'st And Do While I'm Sleep, Yeah A Lil Osmosis"
Comatose'st? The most comatose? From scoliosis? I'm no doctor, but that's some crazy science. I'm not sure if a crooked spine has ever put anyone in a coma.
"And That's My Commandment, You Ain't Gotta Ask Moses More Champagne, More Toasts'st More Damn Planes, More Coasts'st"
That's poetry my friends.
POETRY.
I can't help it. I love it so much! Try and just listen to it once. I dare you. It's too catchy. It's too appealing on a million levels.
James drinks out of the toilet now. I'm not sure how or why he learned that, but it's suddenly his new favorite thing. He gets so deep up in there that it's pretty much just his haunches and tail sticking out of the bowl, because apparently when he drinks he likes to submerge up to his shoulders. So, now if I'm even slightly distracted, or if it's dark and I decide I need to pee, there's a one in three chance I'm going to sit on my cat, causing him to do some amazing gymnastic move, wherein he flips his body around, slow motion-y, without getting the rest of him in the water, and uses my butt as some sort of gripping device so that he doesn't end up on the wrong side of my Capri Sun, which hurts so bad I vaguely consider going outside for the rest of his life, or until they come up with some solution other than a toilet.
"Can't you just teach him not to drink out of the toilet?" a co-worker said after I told her the situation.
"Have you met my cat?"
"No."
"I can't teach him that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's so cute when he does it! He gets his little kitty paws all up in there and then laps the water - like I can actually hear him lapping."
"Dude. . . "
"You'd be way cuter if you lapped too."
"No, I'd be single."
"Whatever."
"And most likely childless."
"And?"
"Do you see what I'm getting at here?"
"I'm going to pretend very hard that I don't."
"Please don't do this to your mother."
"Ok, I have to get back to work."
"I'll write her a memo."
"You wouldn't."
"Oh, wouldn't I?"
"Fine! I'll teach him not to drink out of the bowl."
"Good."
"But I'm not stopping him from showering with me."
Ok, I'm not a prude when it comes to food. I eat almost anything that falls on the ground, almost anywhere (including the bathroom a few times), as long as I blow on it, because somewhere along the line I became convinced that blowing on things was equivalent to an extreme sanitation process involving boiling away microbes and then burning up their ashen remnants so they don't regenerate and form an even stronger, mutant strain of microbe - but this time, pissed off. Like vampires. Because I also picked up the belief that microbes are like little monsters.
Anyway, I eat most things. Hair in my food at a restaurant? Fine. It was probably mine anyway. And even if it wasn't, what's the big deal? Is the hair going to give me AIDS? Probably not. Drop your apple on the sidewalk? Brush it off on your jeans and keep chomping. The health that comes from an apple a day is going to outdo any invisible sidewalk spit that's on there anyway.
Isn't it?
Or if I was eating some spaghetti in the bathroom and it fell onto the sink? Well, that only happened once and I don't usually eat in the bathroom, but when I lived alone I never shut my doors and would often get really distracted with long drawn out, totally imaginary conversations in my head with how Dexter could murder someone and get away with it in the best possible way that was also funny because he doesn't do enough comedy-killing. (Active imagination by myself? Yes. Healthy? Probably not.)
On top of that I, for some reason, got in the habit of darting quickly from room to room (as opposed to when I dart slowly) so if I was standing in my bedroom and needed to get some water I'd almost run there, and then if I was in the kitchen eating some pasta and decided I needed to pee, I'd sprint over, bowl in hand, and undo my pants with my free hand as I was running because heaven forbid I waste the three extra seconds it would take me to undo them once I actually got into the bathroom. (When I moved back in with my sister I actually had to actively remind myself to pull my underwear down after I was out of the hallway.) I'm not sure why I was always in such a hurry by myself, it wasn't like I was rushing to get out of the house or something, but for unexplained rational to myself, I had the urge to be very quick at all times. Like I was racing myself to make sure I didn't get slovenly. Staying home all day is fine, as long as you do it fast.
No good can come from me living alone.
Anyway, I ate that spaghetti that fell onto the sink, even though James had just walked his kitty litter paws all over that sucker, because it wasn't the first time I'd had kitty litter in my mouth.
That being said - today I caught someone eating a moldy bagel, and after I removed said bagel from his mouth and began to pick the mold off, before realizing it was too late, the mold was everywhere, and tried to find a window to throw it out (because the inside trash was too close), he ripped the bagel from my hands, said "Eh", and continued to EAT THE ENTIRE THING WITHOUT A CARE IN THE WORLD.
I'll let the wave of horror wash over you for a moment.
Yeah. Moldy bagel. All up in his stomach.
Boys are so gross.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see if that popcorn I dropped behind the couch yesterday is still there. Like I'm gonna let that go to waste.
So I haven't written in a while because I was busy dealing with getting my lady visitor for the first time in six months and apparently it took CONSTANT ATTENTION.
Did you know you actually have to tend to such things and not just ride around in the car with your brand new jeans on all footloose and fancy-free, just thrilled to still be a woman, just thrilled to be alive, not really caring that things hurt, and there's weird cramping, and for some reason your fingers have swollen into the size of little breakfast sausages; and then when you arrive at your destination, beaming as if you'd just had sex for the first time with Ricky Gervais (yes he is sexy I don't care what you say), flipping your hair over your shoulder like you're hoping people will notice how feminine you are today, because today you got something 99% of women absolutely hate getting, but they are fools, FOOLS, because now you know when Ricky Gervais actually does notice you, and you can trick him into bed with you there's a very, VERY good chance you can have his bastard child.
And if that doesn't make a girl happy I DON'T KNOW WHAT DOES.
But then you realize you haven't actually thought about taking care of the situation, because for six months you didn't have to take care of anything, and suddenly there's the horrible realization that you're standing in the middle of Target glowing in your new jeans, which are now like a bright, flashing beacon to your complete lack of preparedness for womanhood, because even though you don't want to look, you're fairly certain it's all over you and possibly on the sweater rack you had to lean up against when a very unfeminine woman pushed her way past you.
Sorry boys.
Anyway, it turned out fine, nothing awful happened, and it wasn't anywhere near that scene from Superbad - I have just spent the last week and a half trying to get over the fact that I announced to the checker at Target that I was getting these tampons because I'm not barren and did she want a hug?
For the record, she did not.
Also for the record, I will no longer be shopping at that Target.
