But it's misty-rainy out, and where it's not dark the clouds are like Crayon drawings when only the salmon, midnight blue, and orange-red ones are left in the box.
Then as if out of nowhere this song came on and my heart exploded a little. (Ok, it didn't come out of nowhere, my alarm went off, but still.)
Love, love, love, love.
Now I'm going to go wake Becky up so she can feel the calm I'm feeling right now. She'll thank me one day.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Building Things
So my sister and I both get home around 7pm, and while I strip down like I'm on fire so that I can get my sweats on (before an alarm goes off apparently? I'm not kidding, most days I rip off my clothes so fast and throw those sweats on that I don't even have time to put my purse down or close the front door so point-three seconds after I walk into the house I've got my pjs on, and my purse slung over my shoulder inside my hoodie, while I'm waving good-evening to the neighbors), my sister stares into the fridge for a good twenty minutes until I come in and start cooking some dinner (toast) and setting the table (throwing a fork onto the couch) and then we both sit down for some dinner and relaxation (seven hours of Keeping Up With The Kardashians).
The reason we get home so late and then fall asleep together in a heap on the couch by 8pm is because we've both been working a ton. However, my work is not that thrilling because no one is impressed when I come home sweaty and exhausted saying, "I did a corporate return with twelve rentals today! And eight of them were out of state!" (except maybe my mom. and carrie.) But my sister comes home and shows me this MILLION DOLLAR MANSION she just designed and I'm all - Wow! That really is worth all the tired couch-ing you've been doing!
Because seriously, the stuff she does is amazing. It's stuff you see in glossy magazines, and art books. It's professional, and gorgeous, and so . . . impressive. In my head she just sits at her computer all day drawing with the spray paint tool in Photoshop, and makes little houses out of triangles on top of squares, but apparently that's not really how it goes. Apparently she's actually an architect for real people. Not the stick figure people I imagine I will draw to live in her little photoshop houses. What?! But she's only eight! (Oh how her and Michael will talk about me in therapy, and how I refuse to let go of their nicknames, Sugarbutt, and Bubilicious)
Unfortunately I can't show you the house because it's apparently top secret, and I would show you a tax return I just did but I don't want you to all fall asleep, so instead I give you this table my sister's firm is using in someone's house. I. Want. One. I will have nightmares about it, but still, for five minutes it would be awesome.
The reason we get home so late and then fall asleep together in a heap on the couch by 8pm is because we've both been working a ton. However, my work is not that thrilling because no one is impressed when I come home sweaty and exhausted saying, "I did a corporate return with twelve rentals today! And eight of them were out of state!" (except maybe my mom. and carrie.) But my sister comes home and shows me this MILLION DOLLAR MANSION she just designed and I'm all - Wow! That really is worth all the tired couch-ing you've been doing!
Because seriously, the stuff she does is amazing. It's stuff you see in glossy magazines, and art books. It's professional, and gorgeous, and so . . . impressive. In my head she just sits at her computer all day drawing with the spray paint tool in Photoshop, and makes little houses out of triangles on top of squares, but apparently that's not really how it goes. Apparently she's actually an architect for real people. Not the stick figure people I imagine I will draw to live in her little photoshop houses. What?! But she's only eight! (Oh how her and Michael will talk about me in therapy, and how I refuse to let go of their nicknames, Sugarbutt, and Bubilicious)
Unfortunately I can't show you the house because it's apparently top secret, and I would show you a tax return I just did but I don't want you to all fall asleep, so instead I give you this table my sister's firm is using in someone's house. I. Want. One. I will have nightmares about it, but still, for five minutes it would be awesome.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A Warning To My Office
I'm about to make sweet love to the person who brought the chocolate chip cookies in for breakfast. I don't care who it is, the 84 year old secretary - bring it on lady, and prep yourself for the best five minutes of your life. (Just kidding John Krasinski, I'm still yours for eva. But please know I am just that easy - tasty chocolate dessert? Five minutes of heaven. Including ice cream? Eight minutes. "Oh, is that Cold Stone in your pocket? Buckle up John, I've got a long commercial break with your name on it.")
After trying for the second time to get a d&%phram, and getting laughed at and publicly scorned first thing in the morning for the second time, finding the cookies was like a little sign from Jesus that things were going to be ok, and that I should just go ahead and cut that bouncy ball in half and use that as a makeshift di@!#ram should the occasion arise*, because how different can it really be, I mean really? And by jelly, do you think my doctor means grape or will orange work? Even though technically I think if it's orangey it's called marmalade. ("Oh John could you stop by Toys R Us and the deli, Mama's got a special night planned. Yeah marmalade, jelly, jam, I don't have a preference. Get peanut butter for all I care. If it can go in my stomach it can probably go in my hoo ha.")
The cookies and then this commercial, these two things make me so happy and forget all previous public shame. (You think 5th grade embarrassment is over, you think that until you decide to buy some new underwear to celebrate the fact you didn't blush that bad at the pharmacy this time, especially after you had to repeat diap#$%m three times because the dude behind the counter (pretended he couldn't)understand you, and then the underwear sales lady is all 'Oh you'd look great in that. And you know what, you can pull off a whip.' I'm sorry - what? 'Go on . . . try it.' My mother is right there. 'Where?' I don't know . . . somewhere.)
So, Becky and I watched this commercial 30 times last night, and then the 20 minute making-of video. It was done in one shot, with no computer tricking! (except for the part where the soap comes out of his hand, but still! That's amazing!) Enjoy!
*Am Macgyver of birth control!
After trying for the second time to get a d&%phram, and getting laughed at and publicly scorned first thing in the morning for the second time, finding the cookies was like a little sign from Jesus that things were going to be ok, and that I should just go ahead and cut that bouncy ball in half and use that as a makeshift di@!#ram should the occasion arise*, because how different can it really be, I mean really? And by jelly, do you think my doctor means grape or will orange work? Even though technically I think if it's orangey it's called marmalade. ("Oh John could you stop by Toys R Us and the deli, Mama's got a special night planned. Yeah marmalade, jelly, jam, I don't have a preference. Get peanut butter for all I care. If it can go in my stomach it can probably go in my hoo ha.")
The cookies and then this commercial, these two things make me so happy and forget all previous public shame. (You think 5th grade embarrassment is over, you think that until you decide to buy some new underwear to celebrate the fact you didn't blush that bad at the pharmacy this time, especially after you had to repeat diap#$%m three times because the dude behind the counter (pretended he couldn't)understand you, and then the underwear sales lady is all 'Oh you'd look great in that. And you know what, you can pull off a whip.' I'm sorry - what? 'Go on . . . try it.' My mother is right there. 'Where?' I don't know . . . somewhere.)
So, Becky and I watched this commercial 30 times last night, and then the 20 minute making-of video. It was done in one shot, with no computer tricking! (except for the part where the soap comes out of his hand, but still! That's amazing!) Enjoy!
*Am Macgyver of birth control!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Working, Sorta
I've got about ten thousand tax returns to do so naturally I've spent the entire morning cutting each individual split end of hair I have with the HR scissors. There's something about having a ton of work to do that makes me decide I have to be impeccable with my grooming. All through grad school I don't think I flossed once, and suddenly I get to work where a pile of files is waiting for me and decide I need to go brush each tooth in little circles thirty-two times and then floss before and after lunch. (Ok, I flossed in grad school.) (Just not in a crazy I-like-to-make-my-gums-bleed-to-avoid-this-asset-liquidation kind of a way.) And I think it's that you're supposed to chew your food thirty times before swallowing, not whittle down your teeth 'til they're see-thru, but still. You wanna see freshly combed arm hair? Come visit me during a deadline day.
It doesn't last long though, because explaining why I've been standing in front of the copier for half an hour inspecting my ironing job in the reflection of the toaster oven is getting harder and harder.
Me: File room, this is Amy.
Boss: What are you doing?
Me: **looks at scissors in my hand** Being thorough?
Boss: Finally someone is.
Me: **interesting**
Boss: Buzz me when you're done.
Me: You got it.
Or maybe it's not that hard. But still, I've got to stop stalling or I'm not going to have any hair left. Or teeth for that matter. And I like my teeth. They help with the eating. Plus I've got this chip in my front tooth that's almost unnoticeable, but I tongue it all day long hoping it'll wear away a little and make me look like a badass. Or at the very least some sort of pirate.
Boss: I think you'll just look like a homeless person.
Me: See this is why we only talk about work.
Boss: A gypsy homeless person.
Me: At least I'll be colorful. And Romanian-ish.
Boss: What do the Romans have to do with this?
Me: No, Romanians.
Boss: . . .Vampires?
Me: Exactly!
Sometimes we're all just stalling. Because after this, my boss did her makeup instead of reviewing a return with me. Those genes of hers run much stronger than I thought.
It doesn't last long though, because explaining why I've been standing in front of the copier for half an hour inspecting my ironing job in the reflection of the toaster oven is getting harder and harder.
Me: File room, this is Amy.
Boss: What are you doing?
Me: **looks at scissors in my hand** Being thorough?
Boss: Finally someone is.
Me: **interesting**
Boss: Buzz me when you're done.
Me: You got it.
Or maybe it's not that hard. But still, I've got to stop stalling or I'm not going to have any hair left. Or teeth for that matter. And I like my teeth. They help with the eating. Plus I've got this chip in my front tooth that's almost unnoticeable, but I tongue it all day long hoping it'll wear away a little and make me look like a badass. Or at the very least some sort of pirate.
Boss: I think you'll just look like a homeless person.
Me: See this is why we only talk about work.
Boss: A gypsy homeless person.
Me: At least I'll be colorful. And Romanian-ish.
Boss: What do the Romans have to do with this?
Me: No, Romanians.
Boss: . . .Vampires?
Me: Exactly!
Sometimes we're all just stalling. Because after this, my boss did her makeup instead of reviewing a return with me. Those genes of hers run much stronger than I thought.
Monday, February 22, 2010
That's Right I Called Myself Mama, Because I Also Think About Creeping Becky Out As Much As Possible
So, I just checked my grocery list - which I keep at the ready on mah cell phone, because you never know when you're gonna be at the store, but you always know my phone will be there, it will be there for all of you - and apparently I have a problem with making good nutritious lists, because this one just says:
apples, bananas, oreos, rebecca gayheart
It's not so much that I don't have health things on there, it's that I have two healthy things and then a rapid decline to junk food, and a celebrity with lots of hair.
Hey Beck, just heading to the store need anything?
Can you get some Gayheart?
Already on my list!
I have no clue what she was doing mixed in with my grocery list, but it might have had something to do with this conversation Becky and I had the other night:
A: I love Eric Dane.
B: Cool.
A: He's about to be a daddy.
B: Oh that's right he's married to Rebecca Gayheart and she's preggers.
A: Yep.
B: She accidentally killed a kid.
A: I know. I actually think about that almost everyday.
B: I bet she does too.
Good point, Becky. Good point.
That and I also think about Rosie O'Donnell pulling at her neck hair on a daily basis. Not 9/11, or a black man getting elected . . . no, those don't penetrate my daily thoughts, but for some reason the Noxzema girl, and a slightly scary, craft-room-having gay woman creep in there without fail.
Mama needs to watch less TV and read more non-Vampire based books.
apples, bananas, oreos, rebecca gayheart
It's not so much that I don't have health things on there, it's that I have two healthy things and then a rapid decline to junk food, and a celebrity with lots of hair.
Hey Beck, just heading to the store need anything?
Can you get some Gayheart?
Already on my list!
I have no clue what she was doing mixed in with my grocery list, but it might have had something to do with this conversation Becky and I had the other night:
A: I love Eric Dane.
B: Cool.
A: He's about to be a daddy.
B: Oh that's right he's married to Rebecca Gayheart and she's preggers.
A: Yep.
B: She accidentally killed a kid.
A: I know. I actually think about that almost everyday.
B: I bet she does too.
Good point, Becky. Good point.
That and I also think about Rosie O'Donnell pulling at her neck hair on a daily basis. Not 9/11, or a black man getting elected . . . no, those don't penetrate my daily thoughts, but for some reason the Noxzema girl, and a slightly scary, craft-room-having gay woman creep in there without fail.
Mama needs to watch less TV and read more non-Vampire based books.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Sarah, Nels, T, Shelle, Jules
This song reminds me of you guys every time. I'm not even sure what it's about, it could be about drug dealers or the fall of the Roman Empire for all I know, but I love the video, especially because they look like and edgier version of the Jonas Brothers. And it has the word cousins in it so I immediately think, "Me and my cousins. . . gosh they're all so much insanely smarter than me and Becky. Wha happen?"
And then Becky thinks, "They're smart, yes, but that doesn't mean they're smarter. Maybe we're equally smart?"
And then I think, "Oh my god how did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Let me hear what you just thought?"
"I'm much smarter than you."
Ah, of course.
"And it's 'Becky and me'."
"Shut it."
And then Becky thinks, "They're smart, yes, but that doesn't mean they're smarter. Maybe we're equally smart?"
And then I think, "Oh my god how did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Let me hear what you just thought?"
"I'm much smarter than you."
Ah, of course.
"And it's 'Becky and me'."
"Shut it."
Thursday, February 18, 2010
This One is Rated R
Two birds just fucked on my window ledge.
Well, good morning to you too nature!
(Weirdest alarm clock ever)
And when I say f*&#ed I don't mean, made love, or copulated, or had sweet, tender bird intercourse - I mean they f-ed. They f-ed so loud it woke me up. It was rough, and it was hard, I think some biting was involved, there was definitely a forceful, animal rhythm, deep gutteral sounds I thought only dogs made, and at one point I could have sworn the boy bird grabbed a handful of the girl bird's hair and pulled her back to whisper "Do you like that?" (Ewww, I just creeped myself out!)
And of course I didn't just shoo them away and go back to bed for five precious minutes, instead I just sat there peeking out at them through a slit in my blinds, watching the whole thing happen at 5:45 in the morning before realizing I was the creepy-dawn-time-bird-sex watcher with no pants on.
It was like they had been out flirting at a bar all night, making out by the jukebox, and then came home hours after last call, in a bourbon haze to use all that built up, drunk, bird-sex tension and f&*# passionately on the kitchen floor. Except their kitchen floor is my window ledge.
(And for the record, I didn't take my pants off to watch the birds, they were already off.)
(Because it's hot here, not because I'm just pants-off, always-ready to do some peeping.)
Anyway, as different as a wake-up as that was, I'd much prefer something a little calmer to wake me up in the future. At the very least some light oral. I mean, if they have to.
Well, good morning to you too nature!
(Weirdest alarm clock ever)
And when I say f*&#ed I don't mean, made love, or copulated, or had sweet, tender bird intercourse - I mean they f-ed. They f-ed so loud it woke me up. It was rough, and it was hard, I think some biting was involved, there was definitely a forceful, animal rhythm, deep gutteral sounds I thought only dogs made, and at one point I could have sworn the boy bird grabbed a handful of the girl bird's hair and pulled her back to whisper "Do you like that?" (Ewww, I just creeped myself out!)
And of course I didn't just shoo them away and go back to bed for five precious minutes, instead I just sat there peeking out at them through a slit in my blinds, watching the whole thing happen at 5:45 in the morning before realizing I was the creepy-dawn-time-bird-sex watcher with no pants on.
It was like they had been out flirting at a bar all night, making out by the jukebox, and then came home hours after last call, in a bourbon haze to use all that built up, drunk, bird-sex tension and f&*# passionately on the kitchen floor. Except their kitchen floor is my window ledge.
(And for the record, I didn't take my pants off to watch the birds, they were already off.)
(Because it's hot here, not because I'm just pants-off, always-ready to do some peeping.)
Anyway, as different as a wake-up as that was, I'd much prefer something a little calmer to wake me up in the future. At the very least some light oral. I mean, if they have to.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Facts About Living Alone
Fact: If Becky does not spend the night at our house Crystal thinks its her job to wake me up at 3am and remind me. With heavy barking at the wall. Just staring all creepy-like and barking her spaceship poodle head at the wall.
Further fact: This never fails to send me into a full on 3rd grader mode of terror, wherein I'm convinced she's barking at the wall because there's a murderer hiding in it. Never mind the fact that the wall is only like five inches wide. This is clearly a skinny murderer. And one that apparently can pass through walls.
More facts: After I take a deep breath and a swig off the wine glass I brought with me (for protection?), and am brave enough to realize there's no real murderer in the wall, I immediately think Crystal is possessed and/or the murderer, and this is just her way of warming up to somehow killing me painfully and slowly, probably by turning into a demon murderer (because dogs can't kill, but they can turn into black, smokey monster people), and first she's just gonna mess me up psychologically by barking at a blank wall, then comes the murdering transformation from arthritic, deaf, cataracted old dog, to evil Hannibal Lecter.
Even more facts: Right before I'm about to cry and/or call number 3 on my speed dial and start screaming bloody murder Crystal will look up at me and start wagging her tail, before turning, licking my hand and walking all cute-like, her butt wagging back and forth to her little doggie bed at the foot of my own bed. At which, I will pretend I'm over it and climb into bed relieved. I'll climb in on the other side though, because she still could transform, if the wall tells her to.
Fact: I'm almost thirty.
Further fact: This never fails to send me into a full on 3rd grader mode of terror, wherein I'm convinced she's barking at the wall because there's a murderer hiding in it. Never mind the fact that the wall is only like five inches wide. This is clearly a skinny murderer. And one that apparently can pass through walls.
More facts: After I take a deep breath and a swig off the wine glass I brought with me (for protection?), and am brave enough to realize there's no real murderer in the wall, I immediately think Crystal is possessed and/or the murderer, and this is just her way of warming up to somehow killing me painfully and slowly, probably by turning into a demon murderer (because dogs can't kill, but they can turn into black, smokey monster people), and first she's just gonna mess me up psychologically by barking at a blank wall, then comes the murdering transformation from arthritic, deaf, cataracted old dog, to evil Hannibal Lecter.
Even more facts: Right before I'm about to cry and/or call number 3 on my speed dial and start screaming bloody murder Crystal will look up at me and start wagging her tail, before turning, licking my hand and walking all cute-like, her butt wagging back and forth to her little doggie bed at the foot of my own bed. At which, I will pretend I'm over it and climb into bed relieved. I'll climb in on the other side though, because she still could transform, if the wall tells her to.
Fact: I'm almost thirty.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Not On Anything
So, I've been on the pill for like twelve years. (Just kidding Dad, I'm waiting for marriage.) (Anyone's marriage. Anyone's at all.) (oh my god that was a bad jokes. sorry, it's early.)
Anyway, so I've been on the pill for like twelve years. But as I've said, I'm weaning myself off some things because I want to see what I'm like without all the stuff. Not that the pill is like mood altering drugs for schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or something, but for some reason in my head I'm sure it's like stopping your lithium, or going cold turkey on heroin. Probably because I've been taking it for so long, and am soooooo paranoid about it (you're welcome past boyfriends), like I've missed one pill in the entire decade (and that I only missed because I fell asleep before putting it in my mouth and then woke up at 3am, remembered, reached over to take it but dropped it into my suitcase, and then the water I was holding was apparently way too heavy for my sleepy hand to hold anymore, and so I slowly dumped it out onto my suitcase, in essence watering my pill that was planted in my vacation clothes (it stopped all suitcase babies). I guess my 3am brain thinks as long as the thing gets some water we're all good.)
So, because it has been such a staple in my life I felt really weird about stopping it, like I was actually going to visibly change, get fatter, or suddenly start growing blonde hair in my downstairs or something. I took my last pill, and threw it into the trash can in slow motion (well, I slowly lowered it in and pretended it was falling all on it's own in slow motion while I sang the theme from Chariots of Fire), and then called Becky in to look at my empty pack of pills.
"Why am I looking at trash?"
"That's my pill pack."
"Do you need me to go get you some more?"
"No, I'm done. I'm officially off the pill."
" . . ."
"I'm all natural Amy now."
". . ."
"Do I look different?"
"A little dumber."
"Don't hate because I'm fully a woman now."
"This is why I stay late at work you know. So we don't have to have talks like this."
"I think I'm changing right before your eyes."
"Good lord."
Anyway, it's been almost two months and so far I'm totally the same, except now just a little bit more pregnant.
Just kidding.
But I am not having my period (sorry all male readers!). Which is nice, I guess. Sorta. But also very weird. And I'm for sure not pregnant - I hear you have to have sex to get pregnant. Even still, just in case God decided to f with me and knock me up via immaculation, I've peed on anything with an absorbent tip in a five mile radius. So we're all good on the not having the Jesus baby front, but still . . . no period. Weird.
And you know how (and sorry again, to any remaining males who tried to soldier on) they say women get on each others cycles? Like, my mom used to get pissed when they'd all get on my cycle cause it meant I was the alpha dog, and she's the alpha always, she's the Cesar Milan of women's cycles (you have to just ignore it, just ignore your period and let it know you don't care that it's throwing a tantrum. then give it exercise.) - so I'm thinking maybe to get it to happen I should just go find someone who's Aunt Flo is visiting and press my pelvis up against their's. You know, just to get things started around here.
Or share a bed, and drink out of the same water cup as them or something, because this shit is weird. And was not one of the side effects that I was hoping for - "Do the curtains match the drapes?" "Not anymore!" Not that anyone except thirteen year old boys in movies about the 50s, talking about a red head, would ever say that but still, how cool would that have been!
Now, excuse me but I have to go stalk the feminine hygiene aisle of the grocery store so I can press myself up against a stranger buying some tampons. Or at least show the box to my baby making area and just hope that my period is drawn to the light blue box, like a moth to a flame.
Anyway, so I've been on the pill for like twelve years. But as I've said, I'm weaning myself off some things because I want to see what I'm like without all the stuff. Not that the pill is like mood altering drugs for schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or something, but for some reason in my head I'm sure it's like stopping your lithium, or going cold turkey on heroin. Probably because I've been taking it for so long, and am soooooo paranoid about it (you're welcome past boyfriends), like I've missed one pill in the entire decade (and that I only missed because I fell asleep before putting it in my mouth and then woke up at 3am, remembered, reached over to take it but dropped it into my suitcase, and then the water I was holding was apparently way too heavy for my sleepy hand to hold anymore, and so I slowly dumped it out onto my suitcase, in essence watering my pill that was planted in my vacation clothes (it stopped all suitcase babies). I guess my 3am brain thinks as long as the thing gets some water we're all good.)
So, because it has been such a staple in my life I felt really weird about stopping it, like I was actually going to visibly change, get fatter, or suddenly start growing blonde hair in my downstairs or something. I took my last pill, and threw it into the trash can in slow motion (well, I slowly lowered it in and pretended it was falling all on it's own in slow motion while I sang the theme from Chariots of Fire), and then called Becky in to look at my empty pack of pills.
"Why am I looking at trash?"
"That's my pill pack."
"Do you need me to go get you some more?"
"No, I'm done. I'm officially off the pill."
" . . ."
"I'm all natural Amy now."
". . ."
"Do I look different?"
"A little dumber."
"Don't hate because I'm fully a woman now."
"This is why I stay late at work you know. So we don't have to have talks like this."
"I think I'm changing right before your eyes."
"Good lord."
Anyway, it's been almost two months and so far I'm totally the same, except now just a little bit more pregnant.
Just kidding.
But I am not having my period (sorry all male readers!). Which is nice, I guess. Sorta. But also very weird. And I'm for sure not pregnant - I hear you have to have sex to get pregnant. Even still, just in case God decided to f with me and knock me up via immaculation, I've peed on anything with an absorbent tip in a five mile radius. So we're all good on the not having the Jesus baby front, but still . . . no period. Weird.
And you know how (and sorry again, to any remaining males who tried to soldier on) they say women get on each others cycles? Like, my mom used to get pissed when they'd all get on my cycle cause it meant I was the alpha dog, and she's the alpha always, she's the Cesar Milan of women's cycles (you have to just ignore it, just ignore your period and let it know you don't care that it's throwing a tantrum. then give it exercise.) - so I'm thinking maybe to get it to happen I should just go find someone who's Aunt Flo is visiting and press my pelvis up against their's. You know, just to get things started around here.
Or share a bed, and drink out of the same water cup as them or something, because this shit is weird. And was not one of the side effects that I was hoping for - "Do the curtains match the drapes?" "Not anymore!" Not that anyone except thirteen year old boys in movies about the 50s, talking about a red head, would ever say that but still, how cool would that have been!
Now, excuse me but I have to go stalk the feminine hygiene aisle of the grocery store so I can press myself up against a stranger buying some tampons. Or at least show the box to my baby making area and just hope that my period is drawn to the light blue box, like a moth to a flame.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Not Unpacking
Since moving back home I haven't done much decorating, this is partly due to the fact that I can't pick a color that's not purple right now, like I have purple turrets and I don't even think about it - Oooh, I like that purple shirt - Ooh that purple blender is so cute - Ooh, I'll take those sheets in purple - Ooh those purple socks are gonna be so cute hidden in my boots - One purple latte please, no whip - and so on until this morning when I looked around and noticed that it looked like someone took some Dramamine and then threw it up all over my room.
I don't like solid colors as a personal representative choice, I'm pro-mixing, and really I don't usually think about it, I just buy stuff that doesn't make me look yellow when I stand next to it and call it a day. (And I don't mean yellow like I'm calling myself an Asian, but doing it with hate, I mean actual yellow. Like, legal pad yellow. Like, sometimes when I hold up a light turquoise sweater to my face I look like spaghetti squash.) So, I'm definitely not all about color combos, or organizing my closet by color (Gabi. Becky. Gige.) (but that might just be because I organize by sleeve length and then a sub category based on warmness - sure you can find everything red you own, but can you find all your warm tank tops at once? I didn't think so.) Nor am I one of those girls who goes around saying, "I always wearing something pink. It's my signature color!" Your signature color? What are you, like the Zorro of gross?
So, I need to unpack my room finally, but every time I go to pick out a plant or a book shelf or ANYTHING it's that damn purple. And I don't even like purple that much. I haven't had a favorite color since kindergarten and even then it was sparkly red. Not red. Sparkly red.
(ooooh. . . still pretty)
I've waited to unpack partly because I like to do things in order. And yes it's been almost six months, but I finally put my underwear into the top drawer so that my sister wouldn't have too move the fancy stack any time she wanted to get to the toothpaste.
Ok, that's a total lie, I don't like to do things in order I'm just having a really hard time unpacking, and I think I know why. I came across this article on colors (Ok, total lie again - I googled it to avoid taking my books out of boxes) and the thing said that purple, aside from meaning royalty, creativity, and magic (I knew it), it also "evokes gloom and sad feelings. It can cause frustration."
Uh, no wonder every time I go in there I want to cry and listen to Sinead O'Conner . And then I get all frustrated when there's no more Ding Dongs hidden in the bedside table. How'm I supposed to cure my gloom and sad feelings when there's no chocolate treats wrapped in foil nearby?!
Except I don't really think it makes me sad and gloomy. I've got everyone on the planet reminding me I'm going to be thirty for that! But even that I'm not really sad about because everyone still thinks Becky is older than me anyway! Yay! (Beck, it's just because you're mature and poised. Not because you look old.) (Just older than me.) (I love you!)
Anyway, I'm keeping some of the purple, but I might add some yellow because that's supposed to represent joy so maybe it'll counter balance out the threat of gloom. Yellow makes me look sick but that's ok as long as my room is color balanced and my underwear stays in the drawers! Next, my bras get moved from the back door doorknob the kitchen table. One step at a time people.
Plus, I'm just moving them because Becky has started keeping hers there. Maybe it's not the unpacking, maybe we just really, really hate drawers.
I don't like solid colors as a personal representative choice, I'm pro-mixing, and really I don't usually think about it, I just buy stuff that doesn't make me look yellow when I stand next to it and call it a day. (And I don't mean yellow like I'm calling myself an Asian, but doing it with hate, I mean actual yellow. Like, legal pad yellow. Like, sometimes when I hold up a light turquoise sweater to my face I look like spaghetti squash.) So, I'm definitely not all about color combos, or organizing my closet by color (Gabi. Becky. Gige.) (but that might just be because I organize by sleeve length and then a sub category based on warmness - sure you can find everything red you own, but can you find all your warm tank tops at once? I didn't think so.) Nor am I one of those girls who goes around saying, "I always wearing something pink. It's my signature color!" Your signature color? What are you, like the Zorro of gross?
So, I need to unpack my room finally, but every time I go to pick out a plant or a book shelf or ANYTHING it's that damn purple. And I don't even like purple that much. I haven't had a favorite color since kindergarten and even then it was sparkly red. Not red. Sparkly red.
(ooooh. . . still pretty)
I've waited to unpack partly because I like to do things in order. And yes it's been almost six months, but I finally put my underwear into the top drawer so that my sister wouldn't have too move the fancy stack any time she wanted to get to the toothpaste.
Ok, that's a total lie, I don't like to do things in order I'm just having a really hard time unpacking, and I think I know why. I came across this article on colors (Ok, total lie again - I googled it to avoid taking my books out of boxes) and the thing said that purple, aside from meaning royalty, creativity, and magic (I knew it), it also "evokes gloom and sad feelings. It can cause frustration."
Uh, no wonder every time I go in there I want to cry and listen to Sinead O'Conner . And then I get all frustrated when there's no more Ding Dongs hidden in the bedside table. How'm I supposed to cure my gloom and sad feelings when there's no chocolate treats wrapped in foil nearby?!
Except I don't really think it makes me sad and gloomy. I've got everyone on the planet reminding me I'm going to be thirty for that! But even that I'm not really sad about because everyone still thinks Becky is older than me anyway! Yay! (Beck, it's just because you're mature and poised. Not because you look old.) (Just older than me.) (I love you!)
Anyway, I'm keeping some of the purple, but I might add some yellow because that's supposed to represent joy so maybe it'll counter balance out the threat of gloom. Yellow makes me look sick but that's ok as long as my room is color balanced and my underwear stays in the drawers! Next, my bras get moved from the back door doorknob the kitchen table. One step at a time people.
Plus, I'm just moving them because Becky has started keeping hers there. Maybe it's not the unpacking, maybe we just really, really hate drawers.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Sisters
Sometimes she has undeniable proof she's not adopted:
A: Does Phil Collins make you airsick?
B: With every word of every song.
A: I know right?
B: Not carsick, or plain motion sick, but like airplane-sick.
A: Yes me too! It's so weird. I can actually smell Delta's carpet when 'Another Day In Paradise' comes on the radio.
B: Ew, don't even say that!
A: Or the taste of 7Up.
B: Flu-sick.
A: Saltine crackers.
B: Again, flu-sick.
A: The smell of plastic grocery bags.
B: Car-sick.
A: Phil Collins.
B: Doooooooon't!
A: I don't feel good.
B: This is the worst game ever.
So, I'm not sure why exactly, I'm sure he's an excellent singer and a nice person to boot, but neither Becky or I can get through a single Genesis song without feeling nauseous and like we're stuck on a plane over the Atlantic with ten hours left to go before we touch land, and not enough barf bags to last until then. It's not that we hate it and we're just being dramatic - on the contrary, I think I'd probably like his stuff - it's an actual physical reaction, like the chords trigger something in our brains that send off memories of childhood airplane trauma and suddenly my ears need to pop, and my equilibrium is all off, and Becky has turned a pale shade of green.
The only other celebrity that does that to me is Oprah. Which I know is like blasphemy, and all my female friends are going to disown me, but it's like the timbre of her voice sends signals from my brain to the rest of my body to feel stay-home-in-fifth-grade sick, sucking on ice cubes so that when my mom takes my temperature I won't have a fever anymore and she'll let me go to school the next day so I don't have to hear Oprah interview child molesters and give me nightmares about future gym teachers for the rest of my life.
A: What about Oprah?
B: What about her?
A: Does she trigger anything?
B: Only my desire to be a better person and wear the right size bra.
A: Really?
B: No, that's stay-home-from-school sick.
I knew it!
A: Does Phil Collins make you airsick?
B: With every word of every song.
A: I know right?
B: Not carsick, or plain motion sick, but like airplane-sick.
A: Yes me too! It's so weird. I can actually smell Delta's carpet when 'Another Day In Paradise' comes on the radio.
B: Ew, don't even say that!
A: Or the taste of 7Up.
B: Flu-sick.
A: Saltine crackers.
B: Again, flu-sick.
A: The smell of plastic grocery bags.
B: Car-sick.
A: Phil Collins.
B: Doooooooon't!
A: I don't feel good.
B: This is the worst game ever.
So, I'm not sure why exactly, I'm sure he's an excellent singer and a nice person to boot, but neither Becky or I can get through a single Genesis song without feeling nauseous and like we're stuck on a plane over the Atlantic with ten hours left to go before we touch land, and not enough barf bags to last until then. It's not that we hate it and we're just being dramatic - on the contrary, I think I'd probably like his stuff - it's an actual physical reaction, like the chords trigger something in our brains that send off memories of childhood airplane trauma and suddenly my ears need to pop, and my equilibrium is all off, and Becky has turned a pale shade of green.
The only other celebrity that does that to me is Oprah. Which I know is like blasphemy, and all my female friends are going to disown me, but it's like the timbre of her voice sends signals from my brain to the rest of my body to feel stay-home-in-fifth-grade sick, sucking on ice cubes so that when my mom takes my temperature I won't have a fever anymore and she'll let me go to school the next day so I don't have to hear Oprah interview child molesters and give me nightmares about future gym teachers for the rest of my life.
A: What about Oprah?
B: What about her?
A: Does she trigger anything?
B: Only my desire to be a better person and wear the right size bra.
A: Really?
B: No, that's stay-home-from-school sick.
I knew it!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Mine's About A Boy Wizard
Gabi and I went out for Mexican (food) the other day, and since we've been drinking for going on ten years now we've built up quite a tolerance. And by tolerance I mean, we can get halfway through our margaritas before Gabi starts flagging down the waiter to re-salt her glass ("More. . . yeah, a little more . . . **lick**. . . ok, now you need to start over."), and I decide to play 'lets see how uncomfortable I can make the waiter with not-really-but-sort-of-supposed-to-be-sexual-innuendo directed at both him and my little sister!' ("Do you want soup or salad with that?" - Taking a bite of a tortilla chip, "Is the salad . . . crispy?" - "Uh, I guess." - "Is it spun dry, like with a salad spinner, or do you just throw it in there . . . wet?" another loud bite, and some salt gets thrown into my eye a little - "Just . . . I don't know. I could check?" - "Ow, that salt sort of stings a little." - "Are you ok ma'am?" - "MY EYE!")
And that was just after the one drink. With the second usually comes my camera, at which point Becky chooses to leave the table and find something else to do because she knows it means Gabi and I are about to take four thousand pictures of ourselves, because when we're two margaritas in its really hard to get a shot where both of us have both eyes open at the same time.
We usually never do anything with the pictures because, well because we already have a bazillion of them, and we know what we look like, but I came across one when I was deleting them that I love! I love it because it looks like my camera was drunk when it took the shot. All kinda warmly blurry.
PLUS! I'm gonna use it to send into Hogwarts if they deny my application, because clearly, CLEARLY, I can shoot lightening bolts out of my forehead.
Or, I'm getting cut with a light saber-pirate hook. Either way, I lived and I should be allowed to attend. I want to be in Gryffindor please.
And that was just after the one drink. With the second usually comes my camera, at which point Becky chooses to leave the table and find something else to do because she knows it means Gabi and I are about to take four thousand pictures of ourselves, because when we're two margaritas in its really hard to get a shot where both of us have both eyes open at the same time.
We usually never do anything with the pictures because, well because we already have a bazillion of them, and we know what we look like, but I came across one when I was deleting them that I love! I love it because it looks like my camera was drunk when it took the shot. All kinda warmly blurry.
PLUS! I'm gonna use it to send into Hogwarts if they deny my application, because clearly, CLEARLY, I can shoot lightening bolts out of my forehead.
Or, I'm getting cut with a light saber-pirate hook. Either way, I lived and I should be allowed to attend. I want to be in Gryffindor please.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Seth MacCarbonell
So, in my dream last night this guy's mind:
(for those of you who don't recognize him, it's Seth MacFarlane, creator of Family Guy, and the future god father of my funniest child)
Was in this guy's body:
(and for those of you who don't recognize him, it's Richard Alpert from Lost, and the future guy I make clean my house in one of those little French maid outfits)
I actually threw my cell phone across the room when my alarm went off because who in the world would want to wake up from that!?!
Family Guy! In Nestor Carbonell's pretty, eyelinered frame! I don't even care that his name is Nestor. I'd repeat that all day if he asked me to.
Go ahead and click to make that picture of him bigger. "Hi there," he says. "aldk aslidr kalsdiuf" and then you can't understand the rest of what he says because you just melted into a puddle of Lost-never-aging-mush, and you just know he's gonna do something really, really hot, and suddenly you're pregnant. With twins. For the third time.
Or maybe it wasn't the melting that made it so you couldn't understand. Maybe it was because he was saying something to you in Spanish, and suddenly you're not only pregnant, you're also learning how to make tortillas on a stone just for him wearing nothing but cowboy boots and a sombrero. Then you realize pregnant-cowboy-boot-sombrero combo might not be the most attractive, especially since those boots are going to make you seven inches taller than Nesty (that's your nickname for him), but it's ok, he'll be distracted by the fresh tortilla gloriousness, and then you'll ask him to do Stewie's voice while telling you what happens in this season of Lost, and all the worlds collide into a perfect symbiosis of TV and sexy latin guy magic!
**sigh**
I'm gonna go take a nap and see if I can will it to happen again. If only you could tivo your dreams. I'd be all over that shit.
Well, with this one anyway. The one I had last week where I was stuck in the La Brea tar pits, calling out to the woolly mammoth's to help me - that one I would skip.
(for those of you who don't recognize him, it's Seth MacFarlane, creator of Family Guy, and the future god father of my funniest child)
Was in this guy's body:
(and for those of you who don't recognize him, it's Richard Alpert from Lost, and the future guy I make clean my house in one of those little French maid outfits)
I actually threw my cell phone across the room when my alarm went off because who in the world would want to wake up from that!?!
Family Guy! In Nestor Carbonell's pretty, eyelinered frame! I don't even care that his name is Nestor. I'd repeat that all day if he asked me to.
Go ahead and click to make that picture of him bigger. "Hi there," he says. "aldk aslidr kalsdiuf" and then you can't understand the rest of what he says because you just melted into a puddle of Lost-never-aging-mush, and you just know he's gonna do something really, really hot, and suddenly you're pregnant. With twins. For the third time.
Or maybe it wasn't the melting that made it so you couldn't understand. Maybe it was because he was saying something to you in Spanish, and suddenly you're not only pregnant, you're also learning how to make tortillas on a stone just for him wearing nothing but cowboy boots and a sombrero. Then you realize pregnant-cowboy-boot-sombrero combo might not be the most attractive, especially since those boots are going to make you seven inches taller than Nesty (that's your nickname for him), but it's ok, he'll be distracted by the fresh tortilla gloriousness, and then you'll ask him to do Stewie's voice while telling you what happens in this season of Lost, and all the worlds collide into a perfect symbiosis of TV and sexy latin guy magic!
**sigh**
I'm gonna go take a nap and see if I can will it to happen again. If only you could tivo your dreams. I'd be all over that shit.
Well, with this one anyway. The one I had last week where I was stuck in the La Brea tar pits, calling out to the woolly mammoth's to help me - that one I would skip.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Dinner Out
Sometimes with my brother it's not all trying to jump out of moving cars, or stripping naked in public places (oh, I haven't written about that here yet? That'll be a whole different blog, but lets just say that when my brother gets upset he tends to strip off his clothes, sometimes ripping off my mom's, or mine, or my sister's, or a complete stranger's, as we try to wrangle him into stopping. Because being naked? In public? That makes everything better. Ask my mom. She looooooves it. She loves it the way I do when people threaten me with larva, or ticks. Little woodland ticks, in my b*#thole. That specific threat was in response to me threatening "Oh I'll show you a bush." Then, "That was the first time I've ever been threatened with pubic hair!" Oh yeah, "Give me a few months, it won't be the last!") (Then some crying.) (Yes, I was drinking, but the crying was from laughing. Mostly.)
Ok, so he's not stripping off his clothes because he likes the feel of the fresh morning market air on his skin, he's usually doing it because he's horribly frustrated and confused and upset, and he's tried all, ALL he can to communicate what he wants us to know. But he can't communicate, because he's autistic and disabled x1000, so he's staring at us, and we're staring at him - both equally frustrated with the fact that we got height instead of the gift of mind reading, because good lord would that help us right now, and height, height didn't get us a pro-basketball career, height forgot to piggyback a little skill with it; and it sure as heck isn't helping the fact that no matter how hard Michael stares into my eyes the answer does not appear suddenly written across his retinas. (Totally freaky but that would be awesome! I'd probably have nightmares and/or scream but I'd still wanna see it like, "Michael say something. . . AAAHHHH!. . . . Ok, say something else. . . AAAAAHHHHH!")
Usually, or at least hopefully, before he reaches clothes-off or jump-out-of-moving-car levels of frustration something will happen, something will click in our brains and we'll remember, or we'll figure it out, and I'll go ahead and dot the 'i' on the grocery list because Woman, you can't spell 'tortilla' without the i dotted!, or I'll run back in the house and grab the Classified section of the paper he forgot in there because How'm I supposed to pick out my mansion if I don't have the Beverly Hills homes for sale section?!
And when our brains aren't in mind-reading mode we rely on his word book. My mom (the mother to beat all mothers, especially when it comes to ignoring the doctors and letting them know her son was going to be able to read goddamnit) made this word book for him, that he carries around and points to things he wants, or uses it to make us sing to him on command. (Who's the sucker now? I'm going to go ahead and say it's probably the girl singing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious seventeen times in a row while in line at the grocery store.)
But the last time we went out to dinner we forgot to grab a word book, which sucks because it's helpful to know that he wants to hear us talk about the Texaco station, or the Arco station and not have to guess at it (What, you don't love gas stations? Maybe not, but say Texaco a hundred times and watch your brother light up with a smile stretching from here to Idaho - you'll love everything about gas stations. You'll even start doing your shopping there in the little mini-marts so you can grab some napkins with the logos on them for him.) Anyway, we forgot the book like I said but decided we were too far to go back for it, and hoped that maybe handing him the menu would suffice. It didn't. He was not fooled. No matter how many of the i's were dotted.
So, my mom pulls out a blank notebook and a pen and we just start rattling off things he might like, and when we say something good he points to the pad and we write it down, thus creating a primitive version of his word book. Or what I like to call, his vacation-book, because in this version it was all just fun things he likes to hear us say or sing, it didn't have anything to do with chores, or jobs, or any of that boring stuff his real book has.
That woman - my mother - is a genius. Because there was no jumping out of cars, and there was no public nudity, it was just pure communicative happiness. Like, he saw her pull out the paper and the pen and was like, "Finally! Now you're on to something people. Now someone get me some milk to go with these tortillas."
Here he is with his makeshift book while my mom still poses the benefits of the menu's wordage.
Finally putting down her menu, Michael lets my mom holds the book and then he asks her things. Lots of fun things that make him laugh, which makes me laugh, which makes E laugh, which makes the people around us start laughing - and the infection of him spreads throughout the restaurant and no one is really sure why.
And here his is admiring my amazing penmanship, and the fact that I love him enough to do the logo for Texaco, AND the logo for GE. I'm so glad he doesn't like Starbucks cause that mermaid girl would be hard to draw on a whim.
So anyway, it turned out to be one of the best dinners in a really long time, for no reason really. The food wasn't anything special, they messed up part of our order, and I sneezed into the community salsa bowl - but the smiling, and the laughing that came from hearing me sing the theme song from Sesame Street eight times before launching into a botched version of Muppet Babies was enough to make all of our hearts swell and burst and flood the restaurant, out into the street with such good feelings that the air around Michael actually sort of glittered. Or glowed. Something shiny.
And then I sang the Mickey Mouse Club. Because he asked me to.
Ok, so he's not stripping off his clothes because he likes the feel of the fresh morning market air on his skin, he's usually doing it because he's horribly frustrated and confused and upset, and he's tried all, ALL he can to communicate what he wants us to know. But he can't communicate, because he's autistic and disabled x1000, so he's staring at us, and we're staring at him - both equally frustrated with the fact that we got height instead of the gift of mind reading, because good lord would that help us right now, and height, height didn't get us a pro-basketball career, height forgot to piggyback a little skill with it; and it sure as heck isn't helping the fact that no matter how hard Michael stares into my eyes the answer does not appear suddenly written across his retinas. (Totally freaky but that would be awesome! I'd probably have nightmares and/or scream but I'd still wanna see it like, "Michael say something. . . AAAHHHH!. . . . Ok, say something else. . . AAAAAHHHHH!")
Usually, or at least hopefully, before he reaches clothes-off or jump-out-of-moving-car levels of frustration something will happen, something will click in our brains and we'll remember, or we'll figure it out, and I'll go ahead and dot the 'i' on the grocery list because Woman, you can't spell 'tortilla' without the i dotted!, or I'll run back in the house and grab the Classified section of the paper he forgot in there because How'm I supposed to pick out my mansion if I don't have the Beverly Hills homes for sale section?!
And when our brains aren't in mind-reading mode we rely on his word book. My mom (the mother to beat all mothers, especially when it comes to ignoring the doctors and letting them know her son was going to be able to read goddamnit) made this word book for him, that he carries around and points to things he wants, or uses it to make us sing to him on command. (Who's the sucker now? I'm going to go ahead and say it's probably the girl singing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious seventeen times in a row while in line at the grocery store.)
But the last time we went out to dinner we forgot to grab a word book, which sucks because it's helpful to know that he wants to hear us talk about the Texaco station, or the Arco station and not have to guess at it (What, you don't love gas stations? Maybe not, but say Texaco a hundred times and watch your brother light up with a smile stretching from here to Idaho - you'll love everything about gas stations. You'll even start doing your shopping there in the little mini-marts so you can grab some napkins with the logos on them for him.) Anyway, we forgot the book like I said but decided we were too far to go back for it, and hoped that maybe handing him the menu would suffice. It didn't. He was not fooled. No matter how many of the i's were dotted.
So, my mom pulls out a blank notebook and a pen and we just start rattling off things he might like, and when we say something good he points to the pad and we write it down, thus creating a primitive version of his word book. Or what I like to call, his vacation-book, because in this version it was all just fun things he likes to hear us say or sing, it didn't have anything to do with chores, or jobs, or any of that boring stuff his real book has.
That woman - my mother - is a genius. Because there was no jumping out of cars, and there was no public nudity, it was just pure communicative happiness. Like, he saw her pull out the paper and the pen and was like, "Finally! Now you're on to something people. Now someone get me some milk to go with these tortillas."
Here he is with his makeshift book while my mom still poses the benefits of the menu's wordage.
Finally putting down her menu, Michael lets my mom holds the book and then he asks her things. Lots of fun things that make him laugh, which makes me laugh, which makes E laugh, which makes the people around us start laughing - and the infection of him spreads throughout the restaurant and no one is really sure why.
And here his is admiring my amazing penmanship, and the fact that I love him enough to do the logo for Texaco, AND the logo for GE. I'm so glad he doesn't like Starbucks cause that mermaid girl would be hard to draw on a whim.
So anyway, it turned out to be one of the best dinners in a really long time, for no reason really. The food wasn't anything special, they messed up part of our order, and I sneezed into the community salsa bowl - but the smiling, and the laughing that came from hearing me sing the theme song from Sesame Street eight times before launching into a botched version of Muppet Babies was enough to make all of our hearts swell and burst and flood the restaurant, out into the street with such good feelings that the air around Michael actually sort of glittered. Or glowed. Something shiny.
And then I sang the Mickey Mouse Club. Because he asked me to.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Prescription For Health, Sort Of
For someone who is not, you know, dying of cancer or treating a highly infectious disease, I go to the pharmacy a lot. Well, it seems like a lot, it's really three times a month - which according to my sister looks like if I forget to take one of my pills my arms will fall off.
So, I decided to cut some of them out, because they're not all for keeping my arms attached, they're mostly for anti-baby, anti-herpes virus. (Not on my vag Richard Alpert! I mean cold sores. We can still make love without fear of STDs!)(And by love, I mean hardcore frenching) (down there)(just kidding) (oh my god my little cousins read this now and I feel like I have to censor myself. I'm not gonna - you guys should stop reading if it's inappropriate ok? I didn't mean hardcore frenching. I meant sex. With a fictional character from a tv show based on the idea that it's going to try to explode all of America's brains so that they don't have to actually explain anything that happened with the g.d. Oceanic Six.)
Anyway, unfortunately I didn't think through my plan of weaning myself off things one at a time very well. Because if I was a smart man I would have started with the most embarrassing and then worked my way down to a thyroid prescription so low it practically just stops by in the morning to wave and make sure I still have a thyroid gland in there. But nooooooo, I do the dumb thing and save the most mortifying for last. And it never, ever fails that when I go to pick up this prescription it's the cute pharmacist boy who appears out of nowhere. All month its a gaggle of girls until I go in and then suddenly it's this boy. And it's not like I want to date and/or make out with him, he's like 18, and he's not even that cute it's just the fact that it's ALWAYS him and he ALWAYS has no idea who I am, and then when he goes to get my prescription he's all:
"Last name?"
"Stern."
"Just this one-Oh. . . ah . . . just the one?"
"Yes, just the one."
Then he looks at me all weird, like checking my face and he sees I don't have a cold sore, so it's got to mean that the prescription is for something lower, and he scans down to my pants for a split second (yeah, because my vaginal herpes is going to shine through my jeans!) and then puts on his face mask and gloves and hands it to me by his fingertips. Usually I just turn bright red, take the thing and run, but I had a glass of wine in me last night, and that mixed with the three beers I was a little more chatty than I should have been.
"I don't have herpes."
"Oh, what?"
"I mean, I do, clearly because you're holding my Valtrex prescription out for God and the rest of the world to see, but it's not for what you think it's for," I turn around to the line behind me. "It's not for down there, ok everyone. It's just for when I get stressed out. Or sunburned. On my lips."
"I didn't think that."
"You didn't?"
"No, you look clean."
"Well, that's totally inappropriate and weird. But thanks."
Oh eighteen year old pharmacy kid, maybe customer service isn't for you?
So, I worked the wrong direction. But soon enough I'll be off everything and I won't have to see Pharmacy boy again - except for when I go to get my diaphragm prescription filled and he and the rest of the staff gather around to discuss it at the loudest volume possible, before telling me this isn't 1955, and I should get back in my time machine and see if Doc Brown can fill this.
So, I decided to cut some of them out, because they're not all for keeping my arms attached, they're mostly for anti-baby, anti-herpes virus. (Not on my vag Richard Alpert! I mean cold sores. We can still make love without fear of STDs!)(And by love, I mean hardcore frenching) (down there)(just kidding) (oh my god my little cousins read this now and I feel like I have to censor myself. I'm not gonna - you guys should stop reading if it's inappropriate ok? I didn't mean hardcore frenching. I meant sex. With a fictional character from a tv show based on the idea that it's going to try to explode all of America's brains so that they don't have to actually explain anything that happened with the g.d. Oceanic Six.)
Anyway, unfortunately I didn't think through my plan of weaning myself off things one at a time very well. Because if I was a smart man I would have started with the most embarrassing and then worked my way down to a thyroid prescription so low it practically just stops by in the morning to wave and make sure I still have a thyroid gland in there. But nooooooo, I do the dumb thing and save the most mortifying for last. And it never, ever fails that when I go to pick up this prescription it's the cute pharmacist boy who appears out of nowhere. All month its a gaggle of girls until I go in and then suddenly it's this boy. And it's not like I want to date and/or make out with him, he's like 18, and he's not even that cute it's just the fact that it's ALWAYS him and he ALWAYS has no idea who I am, and then when he goes to get my prescription he's all:
"Last name?"
"Stern."
"Just this one-Oh. . . ah . . . just the one?"
"Yes, just the one."
Then he looks at me all weird, like checking my face and he sees I don't have a cold sore, so it's got to mean that the prescription is for something lower, and he scans down to my pants for a split second (yeah, because my vaginal herpes is going to shine through my jeans!) and then puts on his face mask and gloves and hands it to me by his fingertips. Usually I just turn bright red, take the thing and run, but I had a glass of wine in me last night, and that mixed with the three beers I was a little more chatty than I should have been.
"I don't have herpes."
"Oh, what?"
"I mean, I do, clearly because you're holding my Valtrex prescription out for God and the rest of the world to see, but it's not for what you think it's for," I turn around to the line behind me. "It's not for down there, ok everyone. It's just for when I get stressed out. Or sunburned. On my lips."
"I didn't think that."
"You didn't?"
"No, you look clean."
"Well, that's totally inappropriate and weird. But thanks."
Oh eighteen year old pharmacy kid, maybe customer service isn't for you?
So, I worked the wrong direction. But soon enough I'll be off everything and I won't have to see Pharmacy boy again - except for when I go to get my diaphragm prescription filled and he and the rest of the staff gather around to discuss it at the loudest volume possible, before telling me this isn't 1955, and I should get back in my time machine and see if Doc Brown can fill this.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
200th And Just Getting More And More Embarrassing To My Future Children
So, apparently this is my 200th post! I don't know why I'm mentioning it except that other people do on their blogs, and that 13 year old girl in me who shaved her legs with Suave hair conditioner, because her friends did, is coming out in me.
Come to think of it, the 15 year old girl in me who (fake) smoked pot on the way to school because her friends were, and then spent all of Spanish class (because even though she wasn't stoned, her friends were) trying to convince Sr. Welch he should reenact the scene with her in Grease 2 where Stephanie Zinone and Michael are riding on his bike and she climbs around while they're doing like 95mph, with a desk and two chairs, but he didn't because the bell eventually rang, is coming out in me too. I'm sure in his heart there's nothing he would have loved more than to lose his job because a (fake) stoned 15 year old student wanted to stradle him while singing Cool Rider.
Oh, and the 27 year old girl in me who let some Puerto Rican guy with a belt buckle that spun instructions (classy) pick her up and carry her around (the whole while screaming, "I don't think I like this!") until they got kicked out of the club because her friends wanted her to do it ("I don't care if you like it or not. He's picking you up! Let it happen! For us!"), they were in relationships and she wasn't, and apparently what her coupled friends want to do vicariously through her is be picked up and thrown around a sweaty dance floor while shouting out a request for the DJ to play Tootsie Roll just one more time, is also coming out in me. Not make out, or back it up - that wasn't happening, they just wanted me to be picked up. My friends are weird.
Or the 28 year old girl in me who got her nose pierced on the island because her friends were, well actually her friends weren't but they wanted to and couldn't because of their jobs, so they were all, "You can do it! You don't have a real job!" and so she paid the seventy bucks to get it pierced and then promptly took it out 24 hours later when they left the island and returned to real life - a painful seventy bucks, but a boatload of fun pictures where she looks sort of Indian. And or Indie. She's coming out too.
Hmmm, I'm not really as malleable as this is making me seem (slash feel) right now. I just really like making sure people are having a good time. At my expense. Or my Spanish teacher's job security. (Kidding. I secretly really wanted to do all of those things. Including the time I broke into a stranger's house because my friends wanted to see what it would feel like to kick down a door.) (Just kidding again Mom, that never happened.) (Except it totally did, and I still feel guilty and like any time there's a knock on the door it's the cops coming to arrest me for getting my shoe prints all over a door in 1992.)(I'm pretty sure the door was unlocked and slightly ajar when we "kicked it in".)
Anyway, to celebrate here's a little video that never ever fails to make me happy, and is total and complete proof I don't just do what my friends do, because this - this little gem has threatened to ruin many a friendship, but I would never, ever give this up. Or acknowledge Grease as the better movie. Because it's not. And I would totally get 'Grease 2 Forever' tattooed on my chest!
You know, if my friends said I could.
Come to think of it, the 15 year old girl in me who (fake) smoked pot on the way to school because her friends were, and then spent all of Spanish class (because even though she wasn't stoned, her friends were) trying to convince Sr. Welch he should reenact the scene with her in Grease 2 where Stephanie Zinone and Michael are riding on his bike and she climbs around while they're doing like 95mph, with a desk and two chairs, but he didn't because the bell eventually rang, is coming out in me too. I'm sure in his heart there's nothing he would have loved more than to lose his job because a (fake) stoned 15 year old student wanted to stradle him while singing Cool Rider.
Oh, and the 27 year old girl in me who let some Puerto Rican guy with a belt buckle that spun instructions (classy) pick her up and carry her around (the whole while screaming, "I don't think I like this!") until they got kicked out of the club because her friends wanted her to do it ("I don't care if you like it or not. He's picking you up! Let it happen! For us!"), they were in relationships and she wasn't, and apparently what her coupled friends want to do vicariously through her is be picked up and thrown around a sweaty dance floor while shouting out a request for the DJ to play Tootsie Roll just one more time, is also coming out in me. Not make out, or back it up - that wasn't happening, they just wanted me to be picked up. My friends are weird.
Or the 28 year old girl in me who got her nose pierced on the island because her friends were, well actually her friends weren't but they wanted to and couldn't because of their jobs, so they were all, "You can do it! You don't have a real job!" and so she paid the seventy bucks to get it pierced and then promptly took it out 24 hours later when they left the island and returned to real life - a painful seventy bucks, but a boatload of fun pictures where she looks sort of Indian. And or Indie. She's coming out too.
Hmmm, I'm not really as malleable as this is making me seem (slash feel) right now. I just really like making sure people are having a good time. At my expense. Or my Spanish teacher's job security. (Kidding. I secretly really wanted to do all of those things. Including the time I broke into a stranger's house because my friends wanted to see what it would feel like to kick down a door.) (Just kidding again Mom, that never happened.) (Except it totally did, and I still feel guilty and like any time there's a knock on the door it's the cops coming to arrest me for getting my shoe prints all over a door in 1992.)(I'm pretty sure the door was unlocked and slightly ajar when we "kicked it in".)
Anyway, to celebrate here's a little video that never ever fails to make me happy, and is total and complete proof I don't just do what my friends do, because this - this little gem has threatened to ruin many a friendship, but I would never, ever give this up. Or acknowledge Grease as the better movie. Because it's not. And I would totally get 'Grease 2 Forever' tattooed on my chest!
You know, if my friends said I could.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Work Computer, You're My Only Friend
So, my work computer is sort of old. I think it used to be one of Becky's old girlfriend's, that we bought for like $50 bucks off her. (So not only is it an old computer, it's also a gay one.) For the most part Jen3 gets the work done, but sometimes it shuts down on me completely, or flat out refuses to switch to an excel spreadsheet when I've got "Fun facts about balls" googled on my homepage, and the entire office gathers around my desk for our Tuesday morning meeting, at which point I start wildly clicking the "X" as if the harder my pointer finger hits the mouse the faster the page will close, but then it gets the stupid bracketed {Firefox Not Responding} warning at the top, and I'm all, "I know firefox is not mother f responding! Why do you think I've been clicking so hard?!" and then I switch to clicking on the open tabs bar, and Excel won't come up, not even the letter I've been writing to Gige on Word will come up, even though I don't want anyone to see that either but at least a word document is better than a highlighted, ". . .the average testicle is 2.5 inches long by 1.25 inches wide. . . " (in case I need to make one?), and suddenly everyone is there and I try to block my screen with my body, but they're all standing and I'm sitting, so I throw my sweater over it, because it doesn't occur to me til after I've ripped off my hoodie and thrown it monkey-like at the monitor that it might, just maybe, might've been easier and less crazy to just turn the monitor off.
The meeting proceeded and of course the second it was over and I unzipped the hoodie from Jen3 everything was neatly closed, and tax returns were just doing themselves. Which was sucky, because I had actually been working all day. Working a lot, I had just taken a second to google some stuff that had been on my mind, and low - two seconds into my break the above happened.
So, it was all fine and dandy but then, almost immediately we had another little sub-meeting. Of course we did. We have a conference room by the way, but for some reason the gathering happens by my desk. (Jen3 wills them there with her mind power?) And I don't have anything inappropriate open, I'm fully prepared, and somehow suddenly in the middle of the meeting the printer right next to me start printing manically and all I can think is, "Oh god please don't let that be from my computer, please don't let that be from my computer." And everyone stares at it and someone looks down at the little screen and says, "Jen3. Whose computer is Jen3?" And I look around like, "What's a computer?", and then everyone is gathered around and I know it's gonna be just pictures of fun facts about balls, because clearly with my luck the text will have been changed to an accurate form of wingdings, and it'll be neatly titled "Amy Wanted To Know About This On Company Time".
So I reach over and grab the ONE HUNDRED AND SIX page printout and ho - l - y jesus.
They're totally blank.
Just 106 hot pages of nothing.
"What is it?" my co-worker asked.
"It's nothing they're blank."
"Why're they hot?"
"Because they just went through the machine."
"But there's no ink on them."
I could be wrong, but I don't think the ink is what makes them hot. But I zip it, cause I was just looking up facts on genitals.
"Why're they hot?"
"Oh, I accidentally hit the warmer setting. I just wanted to heat up some paper."
Ok, that was not as long as I wanted to keep it zipped.
So, I don't know what was going on. I don't know when I hit print on anything, but I sort of have a feeling I accidentally pressed it when I was crazily trying to close firefox and that Jen3 was just looking out for me. Like its way of apologizing for the earlier meeting; and that time last week when it shut down JUST BEFORE I hit save on something I'd been working on all day.
Although I'm fairly certain that shut down was because someone decided to make coffee when the copy machine was running. This is an accounting office from the 70s people, not an electric factory. We have to do one thing at a time or the island is gonna shift to the wrong time period.
The meeting proceeded and of course the second it was over and I unzipped the hoodie from Jen3 everything was neatly closed, and tax returns were just doing themselves. Which was sucky, because I had actually been working all day. Working a lot, I had just taken a second to google some stuff that had been on my mind, and low - two seconds into my break the above happened.
So, it was all fine and dandy but then, almost immediately we had another little sub-meeting. Of course we did. We have a conference room by the way, but for some reason the gathering happens by my desk. (Jen3 wills them there with her mind power?) And I don't have anything inappropriate open, I'm fully prepared, and somehow suddenly in the middle of the meeting the printer right next to me start printing manically and all I can think is, "Oh god please don't let that be from my computer, please don't let that be from my computer." And everyone stares at it and someone looks down at the little screen and says, "Jen3. Whose computer is Jen3?" And I look around like, "What's a computer?", and then everyone is gathered around and I know it's gonna be just pictures of fun facts about balls, because clearly with my luck the text will have been changed to an accurate form of wingdings, and it'll be neatly titled "Amy Wanted To Know About This On Company Time".
So I reach over and grab the ONE HUNDRED AND SIX page printout and ho - l - y jesus.
They're totally blank.
Just 106 hot pages of nothing.
"What is it?" my co-worker asked.
"It's nothing they're blank."
"Why're they hot?"
"Because they just went through the machine."
"But there's no ink on them."
I could be wrong, but I don't think the ink is what makes them hot. But I zip it, cause I was just looking up facts on genitals.
"Why're they hot?"
"Oh, I accidentally hit the warmer setting. I just wanted to heat up some paper."
Ok, that was not as long as I wanted to keep it zipped.
So, I don't know what was going on. I don't know when I hit print on anything, but I sort of have a feeling I accidentally pressed it when I was crazily trying to close firefox and that Jen3 was just looking out for me. Like its way of apologizing for the earlier meeting; and that time last week when it shut down JUST BEFORE I hit save on something I'd been working on all day.
Although I'm fairly certain that shut down was because someone decided to make coffee when the copy machine was running. This is an accounting office from the 70s people, not an electric factory. We have to do one thing at a time or the island is gonna shift to the wrong time period.
Monday, February 01, 2010
Way Better Than Saying Something Weird Like Tinkle
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