You know what cures hangovers? A roomie that delivers Bloody Marys to you in your closet because you swear you've turned into a vampire and the sun is going to destroy you.
You know what causes you to drunkenly hallucinate that the fire sprinkler on the ceiling is a gecko? Not having any damn A/C in said closet.
This state is a rarity for me. A very rare, count it on one hand, unicorn-spotting occurrence. I had to discover for myself that Cachaça tastes like whiskey
and tequila had a baby and you want to eat that baby. Now I know that whiskey is stronger than
me. This is called learning. It's also called “Frowned
Upon Friday”.
In whatever drunken state of wisdom I was in when I ventured to my closet, I thought it was a good idea to pull all of the covers off of my bed and cocoon myself in them on my closet floor. Now, this is not just any ordinary closet, but it's not quite the gateway to Narnia either; this is a massive hangover curing cave of wonder. You could fit another bed in here along with our washer and dryer. However, the layout of our bedrooms wasn't designed for hangover rehabilitation purposes, as I'm now realizing. The windows are directly across from the door to the bathroom that's directly across from the door to the closet. Based on the trajectory of the sun's rays... blah blah science blah blah we both get the blinding hallelujah glory of the sun at 7 am every morning.
I'm up way too early for someone who wasn't planning on "seizing the day". I planned on seizing my sunglasses and somehow navigating through my apartment to hunt down the number for pizza with as little interference from cabinet corners towards my hip bone as possible. Unsuccessful.
To some degree not short of brilliant, I must have been thinking ahead (or thinking with my stomach) and left myself the pizza flyer on the bar. Oh, the joy, they know my usual order by my phone number. I'm not ashamed of this, I'm relieved that I have very little talking to do and a pizza will arrive. If I crack each of the previous doors open just enough, I can remain in a dark state of hibernation with just enough light that I won't forget where the wall ends and the door begins. I've given myself enough accidental bruises by assuming that all doors are open in the dark.
Thirty minutes later and I have my pizza beside me, while I hum along to the sounds of the Internet modem, tactfully mounted on the wall so that when I sit up, I can smack my head on it. This is my own Hell. I'm too miserably hot to stay here but if I get back in my bed I will end up suffocating myself with pillows to escape the sunlight.
Either by extreme exhaustion or a mild heat stroke, I've managed to fall back asleep.
It is now 7pm and I'm ready to embrace the post hangover world we can aptly sum up as "sweatpants".
My most recent google searches: "Where to get dippin dots in Dallas" and "What are gelled nails?"
I'm okay, everyone.
Counting Sleep by Trent Dabbs You have to have a great soundtrack for spending a weekend in doors packing.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
The more things we put in our purse, the stronger we become.
One day, the fire alarm went off at work and the first thought I had was, "OHMYGODWHEREISMYPURSE?!"
I stood up, purse in hand, and saw that everyone else was looking around over the cubes to see if anyone was going to evacuate/on fire. No such luck. Our office secretary did, however, hold up her cup of water and yell, "I've got it! I'll save us!". I genuinely thought I might go into an epileptic shock from the amount of strobe warning lights beaming me in the eyes. The "alarm", which started to resemble someone cranking a cat's tail as it wailed, ceased and we were all left standing in our department with various objects in our arms.
Let's see what everyone would take with them if a fire was actually engulfing the office.
The second I heard the alarm I grabbed my purse... and nothing else. I had sense to leave my headphones plugged into my computer, because, I've already embarrassed myself once before by accidentally unplugging them with my foot and letting everyone know I was listening to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song (SHUT UP! YOU LOVE IT TOO!) and I still haven't lived that one down. Every woman had her purse in tow, but there were also random items grabbed out of sheer uncertainty and panic: a manila folder, desk plant, napkins, ruler, box of Oreos... good call.
The guys had very little in hand: car keys, a cup of coffee, one man had sense to grab his briefcase, but other than grabbing *Winchester (the office gnome) it was nothing compared to us.
*Winchester is a Texas cowboy gnome who came to us via last year's White Elephant Christmas Party. He has a habit of ending up in random places he ought not be in, but we kindly direct him back to his shelf in our shipping coordinator's office and go about our day.
The scary realization (other than the above statement of how we regard an inanimate object as a real person) was that we women put a lot in our purses. And this gives us a small glimmer of control. I have my purse, I'll survive this. Any given purse will most likely contain: Gum, make up, wallet, cellphone, car keys ... one time I mentioned needing a bike pump and the roomie chimed in, "I've got one right here!", pulls the pump out of her bag of wonder and saves the day. Mine doesn't (usually) go that far, but it's standard to find 78 cents in loose change, of which one coin is foreign and another is a Chucky Cheese game token (Delaney will then use these coins on a gumball machine and break it), band aids, band aids, band aids, a fork, Tylenol, Advil, two types of allergy medicine (I'm a one stop shop pharmacy to rival Walgreens), random jewelry, a sticky note pad (Yes, I make more lists than I care to... list), NO pens, and 3 Burt's Bees. THREE. Because I will loose one before I can get to the end. I honestly have no idea what's waiting for me at the end of a tube of chap stick. There should be an award for chap stick upkeep if it doesn't end up there at some point in it's lifespan.
Of all the purse chaos, flying turns me into the Mary Poppins of purse coordination. If I didn't come prepared, with snacks and magazines, I'd probably be that disgruntled passenger flipping out over the amount of boarding groups that come before B. Surprise! Platinum Members! Business Class! Priority Family! Small Children Travelling Alone That Like To Visit The Bathroom Seven Times On A 45 Minute Flight! Group A!
And while I'm on my airport soapbox: Don't get me all excited about arriving early if we don't have a gate, Plane Announcement Guy, it's not like I'm jonesing for more tarmac time. And to the man that decided to take the middle seat between me and another innocent passenger when there are plenty of other empty ROWS, stop trying to talk to me and peek at my ipod. Maybe I'm not really listening to music, maybe I don't want to hear about why you're flying to Nashville to see your aunt. Please put your shoes back on.
(Steps off box)
I'm as sweet as pie, I promise.
So, why does my purse consist of more sticky notes than Office Space and an assortment of granola bars and water bottles that could double as a bomb shelter survival meal for six? Just because.
Seriously though, sticky notes are taking over my life. The joke at work is that if someone took all of the sticky notes and legal pads off my desk, I'd probably write on my arms. Or crawl under my desk and hide.
Someday by Cary Brothers The majority of the songs I love from them are bittersweet, but this one is a bit more upbeat. A bit.
I stood up, purse in hand, and saw that everyone else was looking around over the cubes to see if anyone was going to evacuate/on fire. No such luck. Our office secretary did, however, hold up her cup of water and yell, "I've got it! I'll save us!". I genuinely thought I might go into an epileptic shock from the amount of strobe warning lights beaming me in the eyes. The "alarm", which started to resemble someone cranking a cat's tail as it wailed, ceased and we were all left standing in our department with various objects in our arms.
Let's see what everyone would take with them if a fire was actually engulfing the office.
The second I heard the alarm I grabbed my purse... and nothing else. I had sense to leave my headphones plugged into my computer, because, I've already embarrassed myself once before by accidentally unplugging them with my foot and letting everyone know I was listening to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song (SHUT UP! YOU LOVE IT TOO!) and I still haven't lived that one down. Every woman had her purse in tow, but there were also random items grabbed out of sheer uncertainty and panic: a manila folder, desk plant, napkins, ruler, box of Oreos... good call.
The guys had very little in hand: car keys, a cup of coffee, one man had sense to grab his briefcase, but other than grabbing *Winchester (the office gnome) it was nothing compared to us.
*Winchester is a Texas cowboy gnome who came to us via last year's White Elephant Christmas Party. He has a habit of ending up in random places he ought not be in, but we kindly direct him back to his shelf in our shipping coordinator's office and go about our day.
The scary realization (other than the above statement of how we regard an inanimate object as a real person) was that we women put a lot in our purses. And this gives us a small glimmer of control. I have my purse, I'll survive this. Any given purse will most likely contain: Gum, make up, wallet, cellphone, car keys ... one time I mentioned needing a bike pump and the roomie chimed in, "I've got one right here!", pulls the pump out of her bag of wonder and saves the day. Mine doesn't (usually) go that far, but it's standard to find 78 cents in loose change, of which one coin is foreign and another is a Chucky Cheese game token (Delaney will then use these coins on a gumball machine and break it), band aids, band aids, band aids, a fork, Tylenol, Advil, two types of allergy medicine (I'm a one stop shop pharmacy to rival Walgreens), random jewelry, a sticky note pad (Yes, I make more lists than I care to... list), NO pens, and 3 Burt's Bees. THREE. Because I will loose one before I can get to the end. I honestly have no idea what's waiting for me at the end of a tube of chap stick. There should be an award for chap stick upkeep if it doesn't end up there at some point in it's lifespan.
Of all the purse chaos, flying turns me into the Mary Poppins of purse coordination. If I didn't come prepared, with snacks and magazines, I'd probably be that disgruntled passenger flipping out over the amount of boarding groups that come before B. Surprise! Platinum Members! Business Class! Priority Family! Small Children Travelling Alone That Like To Visit The Bathroom Seven Times On A 45 Minute Flight! Group A!
And while I'm on my airport soapbox: Don't get me all excited about arriving early if we don't have a gate, Plane Announcement Guy, it's not like I'm jonesing for more tarmac time. And to the man that decided to take the middle seat between me and another innocent passenger when there are plenty of other empty ROWS, stop trying to talk to me and peek at my ipod. Maybe I'm not really listening to music, maybe I don't want to hear about why you're flying to Nashville to see your aunt. Please put your shoes back on.
(Steps off box)
I'm as sweet as pie, I promise.
So, why does my purse consist of more sticky notes than Office Space and an assortment of granola bars and water bottles that could double as a bomb shelter survival meal for six? Just because.
Seriously though, sticky notes are taking over my life. The joke at work is that if someone took all of the sticky notes and legal pads off my desk, I'd probably write on my arms. Or crawl under my desk and hide.
Someday by Cary Brothers The majority of the songs I love from them are bittersweet, but this one is a bit more upbeat. A bit.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Thou shalt always keep a bottle of bubs on hand for special occasions. Or Wednesdays.
I'm relatively organized. I buy Birthday cards months in advance (I'll admit that I might be single-handedly keeping the Post Office alive and I'm ok with this.), I know exactly where my missing sock is hiding in the floordrobe (wardrobe + floor) that is my bedroom, and I keep all of my important paperwork in one place, clearly labeled. So, I grab the folder marked "CAR STUFF" and set it out so I can take it with me in the morning to complete my errand. On a whim, I open the folder to check that everything is there and low and behold, I find a sticky note that reads:
You lost the title.
Don't forget to get a new copy.
Things I learned while waiting my life away at the DMV:
This is just the classiest DMV that you ever did see. Honestly, I underestimated the amount of vomit a little person can projectile. I won't get too graphic, but I will never be able to eat applesauce again. I finally make it to work a whopping 3 hours later and I don't think I've ever been more relieved that my office smells like absolutely nothing. Other than the occasional waft of cigarette smoke/aroma of a forest fire from the emergency exit that people sneak out of, my office is usually smell-less.
This is surprising because the fire department/paramedics make appearances here at least once a month. You'd think that something exciting was going on, but that's never the case. That doesn't mean all the women will suddenly stop congregating at the window, fogging it up like children on Christmas morning to watch the first snow, it's more like a stake out post, hoping to see a shirtless fireman. Not just because they're shirtless firemen, but also because it's the middle of the week and we're all run down and desperately hoping for a pick me up of sorts.
When we reluctantly fail to witness anything close to a cast member on Dancing With The Stars, we start a message about our favorite childhood tv shows, sending youtube clips back and forth. From this conversation I had an alarming realization that Mr. Roger's Neighborhood might have greatly influenced my fashion tastes... I love a good grandpa sweater. Not a grandpa IN a sweater, I just realized that I own a shameful amount of cardigans. Now, I'm the youngest in my office, so things get interesting when I start naming the shows of my childhood. Mainly because I start singing the entire Duck Tales theme song and no one can relate. And then I get patted on the head like "awww shucks" when they've run out of "participation" ribbons.
Nobody told me that Lamb Chop died!
That was the first time that I cried at work.
I didn't CRY cry, I just teared up a bit. It was a shock. I'm not proud of this.
No. Second. I lied.
The first was when an old boss decided to basically Salem Witch Trial me at every opportunity. The one time she gave me a compliment, "Nice skirt.", I immediately spun around to make sure she hadn't set it on fire as she walked by. I refuse to turn this into a tell-all for how evil this woman was, but she really made it difficult to love her like Jesus would. People with that much hate probably need more love than they're willing to let people give. She's gone now, we turned the sprinklers on and she melted.
No, seriously.
The boss that replaced her is heaven sent, an actual human being, and hilarious on business trips to Chicago. Yes, the one where we got lost in the city, hours before our flight home. Her remedy for calming nerves is to tell me the plot for "Adventures In Babysitting" while I audibly start praying for salvation and a road that doesn't lead us farther into the Southside of Chi-town.
By the way, trying to get to Soldier Field from the main highway is impossible. It's like a revolving door: exit too early and you smack into a wall of false hope and glass. Mainly the false hope bit. But you get to drive right past the road that DOES lead to the stadium. Exit just a little too late and you're cursing at yourself as your destination flashes before your eyes. And it's not an easy fix, either way you're left with no other exits to turn around as you're forced to endure the spin cycle around the city until you can try again. And fail again. Add one more try for good measure. Nope, missed the exit again. Spin cycle complete.
Want the drug lords of the windy city to think that you're a cop running patrol over their area? Miss that exit three times in 15 minutes and then see what kind of looks you get in a Prius. Damn you, Judy Garmin.
What up, segue.
Paper Thin Hymn by Anberlin old and new, this band can do no wrong by me.
Don't forget to get a new copy.
- I really need to get my bangs trimmed, I almost fell asleep because they were serving as blackout shades.
- The speed in which a woman says "nothing" when asked "what's wrong?" is inversely proportional to the severity of the coming storm. Shout out to the couple across the room that decided to turn everyone's morning into an episode of Maury.
- Beware of the toddler running around like an escaped convict and handing people soggy cheerios. By the way, where is your mother?!
- This child will throw up all over the waiting room floor.
This is surprising because the fire department/paramedics make appearances here at least once a month. You'd think that something exciting was going on, but that's never the case. That doesn't mean all the women will suddenly stop congregating at the window, fogging it up like children on Christmas morning to watch the first snow, it's more like a stake out post, hoping to see a shirtless fireman. Not just because they're shirtless firemen, but also because it's the middle of the week and we're all run down and desperately hoping for a pick me up of sorts.
Another childhood classic: Wishbone, one of my favorites. Of course when you give your opinion there is always someone that has to be negative and make remarks like, "I don't get it" and "That looks like a dumb show"... really? He's a dog and he's well versed in classic literature, and I'm sure he is smarter than you. Please keep talking.
What changes the tune of this conversation is the fact that Wishbone was actually filmed close by in Allen, also near where Barney was filmed (Now a printing company that I've been to several times for work - some useless DFW trivia for you). My coworker went on to tell us how sad it was for the community when Wishbone died. All three of us that actually know the show and it's awesomeness are reminiscing when my coworker casually starts in on how Wishbone died around the same time as Lamb Chop.
What changes the tune of this conversation is the fact that Wishbone was actually filmed close by in Allen, also near where Barney was filmed (Now a printing company that I've been to several times for work - some useless DFW trivia for you). My coworker went on to tell us how sad it was for the community when Wishbone died. All three of us that actually know the show and it's awesomeness are reminiscing when my coworker casually starts in on how Wishbone died around the same time as Lamb Chop.
I didn't CRY cry, I just teared up a bit. It was a shock. I'm not proud of this.
No. Second. I lied.
The first was when an old boss decided to basically Salem Witch Trial me at every opportunity. The one time she gave me a compliment, "Nice skirt.", I immediately spun around to make sure she hadn't set it on fire as she walked by. I refuse to turn this into a tell-all for how evil this woman was, but she really made it difficult to love her like Jesus would. People with that much hate probably need more love than they're willing to let people give. She's gone now, we turned the sprinklers on and she melted.
No, seriously.
The boss that replaced her is heaven sent, an actual human being, and hilarious on business trips to Chicago. Yes, the one where we got lost in the city, hours before our flight home. Her remedy for calming nerves is to tell me the plot for "Adventures In Babysitting" while I audibly start praying for salvation and a road that doesn't lead us farther into the Southside of Chi-town.
By the way, trying to get to Soldier Field from the main highway is impossible. It's like a revolving door: exit too early and you smack into a wall of false hope and glass. Mainly the false hope bit. But you get to drive right past the road that DOES lead to the stadium. Exit just a little too late and you're cursing at yourself as your destination flashes before your eyes. And it's not an easy fix, either way you're left with no other exits to turn around as you're forced to endure the spin cycle around the city until you can try again. And fail again. Add one more try for good measure. Nope, missed the exit again. Spin cycle complete.
Want the drug lords of the windy city to think that you're a cop running patrol over their area? Miss that exit three times in 15 minutes and then see what kind of looks you get in a Prius. Damn you, Judy Garmin.
What up, segue.
Paper Thin Hymn by Anberlin old and new, this band can do no wrong by me.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Dear guy at Chipotle with the Power Ranger's ringtone: You are my soulmate.
I eat at Chipotle more than I would like to admit, but alas, here I am, professing my love anyways. I drive past the same one every day on my way home from work, and it's all too convenient to just pop on in and grab a burrito the size of a small child.
As for the Power Ranger business? This is the fourth time in the last year that I've stopped in my tracks because I've heard this damn ring tone. If it's the same person or a very loyal fan following in the North Dallas area, I have no idea. But I support it.
Long story short, my kindergarten boyfriend was the red ranger and I was the pink ranger and e v e r y day we would sit by each other on the school bus and talk about the Power Rangers episode we watched the day before and then what we thought the episode would be about that afternoon. Fascinating, I know. Then on Fridays I would kiss him. And we had the same favorite Van Halen song. We really had everything going for us... I think he had a mullet. Never mind.
When it comes to being dorky and owning it, I support this. Hell, I encourage it. That's not to say that this doesn't backfire a great many times. Men of the world that think it's OK to use song lyrics as pick up lines: It's not.
Stop it, or else I'm going to start using my favorite new rendition of your pick up line against you, "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but I'm on bath salts, and you look tasty." Did I lose you? Yes? Kind of? Too soon?
I've come to recognize that there is this strange phase that happens when you start to LIKE like someone, and that we've all (probably) experienced this in some form or fashion. Sometimes it's just nerves or maybe you're taking dating advice from Night At the Roxbury, I don't know. It's not the real you, it's the goofiest and most annoying side of you that you know. I hope.
This theory has been proven wrong many times, so I'm not declaring it in a medical journal that the jerk you met at a bar will drop the act and turn into Jim from The Office. He won't. He might. Don't count on it. I'm more so talking about the awkward phase that can turn you into a total goober in front of a the object of your affection: laughing way to loud and far too often at a joke before it's even told, doing that thing with your mouth half closed and making that clicking noise while winking, using cheesy pick up lines that are songs my 13 year old sister wouldn't even touch and just using pick up lines in general.
This phase is different and unique for everyone, sometimes you recluse when you're usually outgoing, sometimes you act like a monkey at the zoo trying to show off but falling out of a tree instead etc. I find that most go for the show-off route, which in turn makes me revert back to the equivalent of my kindergarten nightmare where I punched Mitch in the playground maze.
It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girl dies in tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.
Yes, that is a quote from The Naked Gun. Sadly. THIS, of all the sappy romantic comedies and tragic love stories, has resonated with me over the last couple of years. I guess I look at love as one of those uncontrollable forces of nature that can come from any direction at any point in time. So, with that I applaud everyone that's found the person that you just want to be around all the time in any way that you can.
Dear Chipotle,
I don't know how to quit you.
Pachuca Sunrise by Minus The Bear
As for the Power Ranger business? This is the fourth time in the last year that I've stopped in my tracks because I've heard this damn ring tone. If it's the same person or a very loyal fan following in the North Dallas area, I have no idea. But I support it.
Long story short, my kindergarten boyfriend was the red ranger and I was the pink ranger and e v e r y day we would sit by each other on the school bus and talk about the Power Rangers episode we watched the day before and then what we thought the episode would be about that afternoon. Fascinating, I know. Then on Fridays I would kiss him. And we had the same favorite Van Halen song. We really had everything going for us... I think he had a mullet. Never mind.
When it comes to being dorky and owning it, I support this. Hell, I encourage it. That's not to say that this doesn't backfire a great many times. Men of the world that think it's OK to use song lyrics as pick up lines: It's not.
Stop it, or else I'm going to start using my favorite new rendition of your pick up line against you, "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but I'm on bath salts, and you look tasty." Did I lose you? Yes? Kind of? Too soon?
I've come to recognize that there is this strange phase that happens when you start to LIKE like someone, and that we've all (probably) experienced this in some form or fashion. Sometimes it's just nerves or maybe you're taking dating advice from Night At the Roxbury, I don't know. It's not the real you, it's the goofiest and most annoying side of you that you know. I hope.
This theory has been proven wrong many times, so I'm not declaring it in a medical journal that the jerk you met at a bar will drop the act and turn into Jim from The Office. He won't. He might. Don't count on it. I'm more so talking about the awkward phase that can turn you into a total goober in front of a the object of your affection: laughing way to loud and far too often at a joke before it's even told, doing that thing with your mouth half closed and making that clicking noise while winking, using cheesy pick up lines that are songs my 13 year old sister wouldn't even touch and just using pick up lines in general.
This phase is different and unique for everyone, sometimes you recluse when you're usually outgoing, sometimes you act like a monkey at the zoo trying to show off but falling out of a tree instead etc. I find that most go for the show-off route, which in turn makes me revert back to the equivalent of my kindergarten nightmare where I punched Mitch in the playground maze.
It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girl dies in tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.
Yes, that is a quote from The Naked Gun. Sadly. THIS, of all the sappy romantic comedies and tragic love stories, has resonated with me over the last couple of years. I guess I look at love as one of those uncontrollable forces of nature that can come from any direction at any point in time. So, with that I applaud everyone that's found the person that you just want to be around all the time in any way that you can.
Dear Chipotle,
I don't know how to quit you.
Pachuca Sunrise by Minus The Bear
Saturday, June 2, 2012
If at first you don't succeed, redefine success and celebrate your victory in a Snuggie.
The roomie and I have adopted a motto: I will if you will. This is one of the strongest bonds of bestfriendship ever created.
Feel like going to a party? I will if you will
Want to eat a dozen donuts? I will if you will
Let's plan a trip to Fiji, who needs a savings account anyways? I will if you will
Looking/acting/being ridiculous and having someone on your team being just as ridiculous with you automatically makes you feel better. Sadly, it doesn't always make you any cooler, in fact, it hardly ever does.
With that, I'm going to make a very bold statement in support of Snuggies. Never have I ever had so much fun making fun of a blanket with sleeves, but the time has come, and now I must have one. You don't have to tell me, I know Snuggies are as big of a joke as the WNBA, Smart Cars, and sporks. Let's be real here, sporks?! Who got rich by creating an eating utensil just for a grapefruit? Hmmmmm?! Anyways, the Roomie and I had a long running Snuggie joke and it lead to me finally buying one for part of her Christmas present.
We then decided to list all of the things one can do in a Snuggie:
We decided that the Snuggie was awesome. So, we're on the couch, about to start a movie, the Roomie sitting comfortably in said Snuggie and myself curled up in my blanket. Then, menu screen comes on, and by sheer proximity, I'm the designated remote grabber. Of all the gin joints. It's balls to the wall cold outside of my blankety cocoon. Try and follow me here: It's as if you're in a hot tub, in December and 1 of the only 3 valid reasons for ever leaving a hot tub in December happens:
You raise just an inch of your body out of the water and suddenly the Artic tundra is gripping at your flesh, threatening you with death. You can feel the fierce winds of the blazing chill stab at your skin and envelope you into a frosty hell. Suddenly, you hate every decision you've ever made that lead you to this very moment that you are without a Snuggie. THAT is what it's like to have to take off a blanket and reach for the remote.
The Snuggie is also useful when you want to get out of a situation. As in, the guys want to grab dinner, but we feel like staying in and eating popcorn followed by spoons of peanut butter right out of the jar. So we reply back, "Sure thing! We're wearing Snuggies! See you in 10!" Suddenly we're uninvited to dinner and we can resume the fabulous life. We don't have to make up excuses like "Busy. Having a staring contest" or "We're cleaning the carpets" - that one is an actual excuse we've used. If you met our friend... Thor, we'll call him, you'd understand why we have some... unique "House Rules".
House Rules:
There are also a few Unspoken Rules:
This is a non-judging Snuggie.
Times like this I'm happy to live with my best friend.
The General Specific by Band of Horses
Want to eat a dozen donuts? I will if you will
Let's plan a trip to Fiji, who needs a savings account anyways? I will if you will
Looking/acting/being ridiculous and having someone on your team being just as ridiculous with you automatically makes you feel better. Sadly, it doesn't always make you any cooler, in fact, it hardly ever does.
We then decided to list all of the things one can do in a Snuggie:
- Eat an apple!
- Read the mail! (Every daily function becomes amplified when donning a Snuggie)
- Make a pizza! (This was a terrible idea, the oven almost turned into a Snuggie inferno)
- Wear it backwards like an open-face robe! (Please do this alone in your room)
- Put your feet in the arm holes and wear it upside down! (This is frowned upon)
- Hide tissues in the sleeve like grandma!
- You have to pee
- You've turned into soup
- Pizza guy is at the door
You raise just an inch of your body out of the water and suddenly the Artic tundra is gripping at your flesh, threatening you with death. You can feel the fierce winds of the blazing chill stab at your skin and envelope you into a frosty hell. Suddenly, you hate every decision you've ever made that lead you to this very moment that you are without a Snuggie. THAT is what it's like to have to take off a blanket and reach for the remote.
- Use a coaster or die
- No shoes on the carpet or else you have to remove an article of clothing... probably your shoes
- Must put lime in Corona or put Corona back
- Don't let Amanda participate in a rap battle
- Or skateboard
- Or climb a tree
- Always share your alcohol
- Always share your pineapple
- It is perfectly acceptable to be late to dinner if you're watching Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles
This is a non-judging Snuggie.
Monday, May 28, 2012
It was always strange to me how "this little piggy" didn't have separation anxiety
One day, the little sister, Delaney, and I were driving down the street when we saw a very old man pushing a wheelchair and in it was a very old woman. He was in trousers and a button up cardigan, buttoned all the way up to his nose hairs, and she had a pink shawl around her shoulders and a cute little basket weaved hat with a flower in it. Just like every old couple should be. Yes. Delaney and I both go, "Awwwwww" and then we continue on our drive.
It's kinda quiet, she hasn't decided to blast a Katy Perry song just yet, so I take this moment to lay some sisterly bonding down. "Delaney, when I'm old..." she's already cracking up. To her, me being 22 is OLD. Like ancient. And it's her favorite thing to tell me that I'm 40.
She's 13 and she thinks she can get away with it. Well, she can't. Today I came prepared,
"When I'm 90, you'll be 81."
She stops laughing, "That's not cool."
Ha Ha. I continue, "When I'm 90, and you're 81, will you push me in a wheelchair like that?"
"Uh, sure... of course."
"Good. I'm going to wear a bikini so I can get sweet grandma tan lines."
Delaney finally stops laughing, considers this and holds out her pinkie finger towards me, "Fine." she says.
Then we do the handshake that she created when she was 3. That is why I love my little sister. Yes, there are millions of other reasons, but this one I'm documenting. For sentimental reasons and mainly so I can remind Delaney that I have proof.
Just a few minutes ago we skyped before she had to go to bed, and when we turned the cameras on we busted out laughing because the first thing we saw was that we were both rocking the crazy pony tail, sticking up in the air, every which way and eating pizza. We're more alike than I feared.
Delaney has been my own personal Barbie doll since the moment she was born. With two younger brothers, I was practically bargaining my skip-it and beanie babies for a little sister. Telling God I'd never boil cabbage and use the water to convince my brothers it's blue Gatorade... again.
I like unassuming and creative forms of revenge.
Me: You have a Twitter?!? What for??
D: So I can see what Justin Bieber is up to.
Of course. Why didn't I think of that. I've been using Twitter for the wrong reasons, clearly.
I've had a Twitter for a few years now, I got one when I was living in China as another way to tell everyone about my adventures. This didn't last too long, as I had a Chinese cellphone with me and it lacked certain capabilities (smart phones were just beginning to show their uprising). So there's a whole 10 tweets from that period of my life. I come in and out of phases of utilizing Twitter. And by "utilizing" I mean that my posts consist of mainly hockey, food, Harry Potter, and the painful burden of being a big sister.
Like taking Colton to Studio Movie Grill, where you order food while you watch a movie at table with reclining chairs. We get there early and Colton looks around, and I already know what he's about to do... "What happens if I press this button... ?" the smirk across his face is insane as he lets his pointer finger hover over the call box for when you need to summon your server. Well, the lights are still on in the theater as people are still filing in and finding seats, people sit to my left and Colton's right, this doesn't phase him. Colton looks at me, and I'm struggling to say anything because 1- I already know the joke 2- I know he's been dying to say this for ages, given the opportunity, and 3- It's funny. Colton smiles at me and quietly (not really that quite) shouts a terribly botched gurgle of accents and then sharply draws his pointer finger down, directly on to the call box button. He then looks at me, my hand over my forehead in dismay, and he says very matter of factly, "I just blew up Africa,". I'm trying not to laugh and encourage him, but he adds, "and if our waiter takes any longer I'll detonate Guam while I'm at it! ---- Oh heyyyyyyy, I was just saying I'd like a hamburger." Perfect cue for our waiter to show up.
Then Colton said something about the people sitting next to us smelling like soup, which I thought was absurd, until I realized he was right. And then the soup lady opened her mouth and her voice sounded exactly like what celery would sound like if it could talk, so we had to move down a few chairs. Of course, this meant that Colton had to press the "new" call box button... same waiter... less amused.
I can't take him anywhere.
Lily Two by Matt Pond PA is one of those songs that I keep coming back to, year after year.
It's kinda quiet, she hasn't decided to blast a Katy Perry song just yet, so I take this moment to lay some sisterly bonding down. "Delaney, when I'm old..." she's already cracking up. To her, me being 22 is OLD. Like ancient. And it's her favorite thing to tell me that I'm 40.
She's 13 and she thinks she can get away with it. Well, she can't. Today I came prepared,
"When I'm 90, you'll be 81."
She stops laughing, "That's not cool."
Ha Ha. I continue, "When I'm 90, and you're 81, will you push me in a wheelchair like that?"
"Uh, sure... of course."
"Good. I'm going to wear a bikini so I can get sweet grandma tan lines."
Delaney finally stops laughing, considers this and holds out her pinkie finger towards me, "Fine." she says.
Then we do the handshake that she created when she was 3. That is why I love my little sister. Yes, there are millions of other reasons, but this one I'm documenting. For sentimental reasons and mainly so I can remind Delaney that I have proof.
Just a few minutes ago we skyped before she had to go to bed, and when we turned the cameras on we busted out laughing because the first thing we saw was that we were both rocking the crazy pony tail, sticking up in the air, every which way and eating pizza. We're more alike than I feared.
Delaney has been my own personal Barbie doll since the moment she was born. With two younger brothers, I was practically bargaining my skip-it and beanie babies for a little sister. Telling God I'd never boil cabbage and use the water to convince my brothers it's blue Gatorade... again.
I like unassuming and creative forms of revenge.
Me: You have a Twitter?!? What for??
D: So I can see what Justin Bieber is up to.
Of course. Why didn't I think of that. I've been using Twitter for the wrong reasons, clearly.
I've had a Twitter for a few years now, I got one when I was living in China as another way to tell everyone about my adventures. This didn't last too long, as I had a Chinese cellphone with me and it lacked certain capabilities (smart phones were just beginning to show their uprising). So there's a whole 10 tweets from that period of my life. I come in and out of phases of utilizing Twitter. And by "utilizing" I mean that my posts consist of mainly hockey, food, Harry Potter, and the painful burden of being a big sister.
Like taking Colton to Studio Movie Grill, where you order food while you watch a movie at table with reclining chairs. We get there early and Colton looks around, and I already know what he's about to do... "What happens if I press this button... ?" the smirk across his face is insane as he lets his pointer finger hover over the call box for when you need to summon your server. Well, the lights are still on in the theater as people are still filing in and finding seats, people sit to my left and Colton's right, this doesn't phase him. Colton looks at me, and I'm struggling to say anything because 1- I already know the joke 2- I know he's been dying to say this for ages, given the opportunity, and 3- It's funny. Colton smiles at me and quietly (not really that quite) shouts a terribly botched gurgle of accents and then sharply draws his pointer finger down, directly on to the call box button. He then looks at me, my hand over my forehead in dismay, and he says very matter of factly, "I just blew up Africa,". I'm trying not to laugh and encourage him, but he adds, "and if our waiter takes any longer I'll detonate Guam while I'm at it! ---- Oh heyyyyyyy, I was just saying I'd like a hamburger." Perfect cue for our waiter to show up.
Then Colton said something about the people sitting next to us smelling like soup, which I thought was absurd, until I realized he was right. And then the soup lady opened her mouth and her voice sounded exactly like what celery would sound like if it could talk, so we had to move down a few chairs. Of course, this meant that Colton had to press the "new" call box button... same waiter... less amused.
I can't take him anywhere.
Lily Two by Matt Pond PA is one of those songs that I keep coming back to, year after year.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Don't worry, the spider is smaller than you. Yeah, so is a grenade.
I had a realization while at the grocery store earlier this week, and no, it wasn't that I'm too old for Fruit by the Foot, because I'm not and quite frankly I don't give a damn if I am. I'd like to see you pry the box from my hands.
I realized that I only have 2 phone numbers memorized. TWO. And then my mind went racing through all of the scenarios that any normal, sane individual would and it finally landed on this alarming scenario: If I was kidnapped and somehow able to spastically flail around and either A) injure the kidnappers B) free myself or C) injure myself and then the kidnappers feel sorry for me and let me go out of pity - and make it to a phone, I would be forced to call either my mother - which would suck because 1. She would freak out and that would make me freak out even more and then we'd cry. Or 2. She wouldn't answer. Not on purpose, but because the woman leaves her phone on silent for decades in the depths of her mom purse amidst the crayons and crackers. Honestly, we're all 13+ so crackers don't do much to calm my nerves anymore... but yes... I do want a peppermint... And then when she realizes that her phone has been blowing up, she calls back the second I set my phone down and walk out of the room. Then I miss the call by last ring (Hello? HELLO?!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?! So, there's option A. Mom and solid reasoning why this option is flawed.
Then there is the dreaded option B) An Ex Boyfriend. There are plenty of other people I'd rather call to come save me/kick ass/find my little brother Colton and have him come kick ass, but unfortunately, it's been pointed out to me that I do not have Jack Bauer, Bear Grylls or The Fonz's phone numbers. And only one of those people actually exists.
Please do not send old Kiefer Sutherland to free me, that man still scares me from his vampire days in The Lost Boys.
So, I would call the Ex and I'm sure he'd come save me and then I'd say something snarky, per usual, once we're safe and on the run. Like suggesting that he could use his ears to fly us to safety... then he'd probably threaten to take me back to the kidnappers himself. There isn't an option 2 to this scenario unless he chose to bring my brother and in that case our adventure home would probably resemble a mash up of Kangaroo Jack and Homeward Bound...
And that's what I was thinking about whilst at the grocery store in the produce section, deciding on whether or not to get raspberries or blueberries for breakfast tomorrow. I chose both.
It might just be me, but I enjoy going to the grocery store. Some how everything can be solved when I go to the grocery store. Everything that I need at that particular point in time is right there. Unless, it's midnight and you need something from the pharmacy, then you're screwed. But seriously, everything is organized with signs to guide you, it's the least stressful chore there is. That's not to say that things can't go wrong, just because you write it on a list doesn't mean that it magically jumps into the basket or makes it off the hood of your car because you left it there when putting the groceries away. I'm referring to the box of Fruit by the Foot that caught your eye and the decision to eat one before even starting the car. I'm good at making grocery lists that never actually make it to the grocery store.
Oh, and rambling about absolutely nothing of any significant value.
Make Believe by The Graduate
I realized that I only have 2 phone numbers memorized. TWO. And then my mind went racing through all of the scenarios that any normal, sane individual would and it finally landed on this alarming scenario: If I was kidnapped and somehow able to spastically flail around and either A) injure the kidnappers B) free myself or C) injure myself and then the kidnappers feel sorry for me and let me go out of pity - and make it to a phone, I would be forced to call either my mother - which would suck because 1. She would freak out and that would make me freak out even more and then we'd cry. Or 2. She wouldn't answer. Not on purpose, but because the woman leaves her phone on silent for decades in the depths of her mom purse amidst the crayons and crackers. Honestly, we're all 13+ so crackers don't do much to calm my nerves anymore... but yes... I do want a peppermint... And then when she realizes that her phone has been blowing up, she calls back the second I set my phone down and walk out of the room. Then I miss the call by last ring (Hello? HELLO?!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?! So, there's option A. Mom and solid reasoning why this option is flawed.
Then there is the dreaded option B) An Ex Boyfriend. There are plenty of other people I'd rather call to come save me/kick ass/find my little brother Colton and have him come kick ass, but unfortunately, it's been pointed out to me that I do not have Jack Bauer, Bear Grylls or The Fonz's phone numbers. And only one of those people actually exists.
Please do not send old Kiefer Sutherland to free me, that man still scares me from his vampire days in The Lost Boys.
So, I would call the Ex and I'm sure he'd come save me and then I'd say something snarky, per usual, once we're safe and on the run. Like suggesting that he could use his ears to fly us to safety... then he'd probably threaten to take me back to the kidnappers himself. There isn't an option 2 to this scenario unless he chose to bring my brother and in that case our adventure home would probably resemble a mash up of Kangaroo Jack and Homeward Bound...
And that's what I was thinking about whilst at the grocery store in the produce section, deciding on whether or not to get raspberries or blueberries for breakfast tomorrow. I chose both.
It might just be me, but I enjoy going to the grocery store. Some how everything can be solved when I go to the grocery store. Everything that I need at that particular point in time is right there. Unless, it's midnight and you need something from the pharmacy, then you're screwed. But seriously, everything is organized with signs to guide you, it's the least stressful chore there is. That's not to say that things can't go wrong, just because you write it on a list doesn't mean that it magically jumps into the basket or makes it off the hood of your car because you left it there when putting the groceries away. I'm referring to the box of Fruit by the Foot that caught your eye and the decision to eat one before even starting the car. I'm good at making grocery lists that never actually make it to the grocery store.
Oh, and rambling about absolutely nothing of any significant value.
Make Believe by The Graduate
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)