Except that one I just wrote... and this one. Stop.

I am proud to say that the entry below has been the newest post for nearly two months now.

names

I got my cat from this girl who had gotten two kittens and decided she could only keep one... so after judging their personalities, she picked the one that was more of an asshole and advertised her on CL. I ended up getting her, and being a creepy spinster who will inevitably end up with 7 more by the age of 40, I posted some pictures of her on Facebook. A few weeks later, the girl I got Maxi from, who had friended me on facebook the day after the kitten exchange, which weirdly took place in a parking lot off Pike and Bellevue as though it was something illicit, posted a comment under one of the pictures.

"Aww, Maxi's so cute! She's not dead, is she? Because... her brother is. :( "

Fearing a possible genetic disorder and really not wanting to come home from work one day to a dead cat, I messaged her to ask what happened, and she said "he died of Cat Shock. I don't really understand what it is, you should google it." So I did, and apparently Cat Shock is exactly like human shock, in that it can only happen when a cat has a massive trauma or injury... so like, not acceptable as a sole explanation for death at all. Anyway, the point of this is that recently I guess she got a new cat, named Garlic, which her photo album explains is named after the old cat, whose name was Garfield. Which was crazy to me, because is something really named after something else if it only shares the first three letters? BECAUSE also, my grandma had a sister who died before she (my grandma) was born, and the sister's name was Dorothy, so when my grandma was born they named her Doris (worst name ever) SUPPOSEDLY after Dorothy. Is this a coincidence or is the three letter tribute a thing?

King County Code Hit Parade

12.60.010 Prohibited forms of entertainment. It is unlawful and contrary to the public morals
and good order in any place open to the public to:

B. Conduct, permit or allow the singing of an obscene song or conversation or discourse in
obscene language, or dancing in an obscene or immoral manner

D. Conduct, permit or allow any lecture, or moving or motion picture or slide to be shown,
discussing or depicting venereal diseases or concerning sex subjects; or to sell or offer for sale any sex
literature in connection therewith. (Res. 11211 Items 1 - 4, 1949).

Chapter 12.56
BODY STUDIOS

12.56.010 Defined. As used in this chapter, a "body studio" is any premises, other than a
massage parlor or public bathhouse as defined in Chapter 6.40, and licensed as such, upon which is
furnished for a fee or charge or other like consideration the opportunity to paint, massage, feel, handle or
touch the unclothed body or an unclothed portion of the body of another person... and includes any such premises which is advertised or represented in any manner whatsoever as
a "body painting studio," "model studio," "sensitivity awareness studio," "communication center"...(Ord. 2605 § 1, 1976).

Only a true slacker genius could read my mind...

And create this...

http://www.readatwork.com/


It's an effing amazing site that allows you to read short fiction under the guise of working on all sorts of things. Best part! Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince" via powerpoint. GENIUS. The first I saw graphs whizz in, I almost pissed my terribly un-ergonomic work chair.

New Zealanders: Some day we will meet and I will tongue kiss you for this. That's right. DFK.

And The Creepiest Response Award Goes To....

in reference to my craiglist posting:


Yo [sic] seam [sic] like a very nice person! I sincerely hope the trucker sees your post and replies to you. I really think most women would be upset, close thier [sic] window and never open it again. I have been fortunate a couple times to see a women going about her business when she didn't know I could see her. I have never had the courage to honk or say anything because I thought I would be viewed as a creap [sic] and it my fauld [sic] for watching. I don't mean anything by it, but sometimes it happens. I like what I see and I don't turn my head. Does that make me a bad person? So, if he doesn't reply to you just remember you helped one person feel better about himself. If it happens to me again, maybe I'll say "thank you" to her for making my day a little better. Have a nice day!!! Tom

How I Slowly Move From Place To Place On The Internet

You Scared Me In My Bathroom - w4m - 24 (Capitol Hill)

Reply to: mailto:pers-732742994@craigslist.org?subject=You%20Scared%20Me%20In%20My%20Bathroom%20-%20w4m%20-%2024%20(Capitol%20Hill)Date: 2008-06-25, 5:21PM PDT

Me: At my sink, in my bathroom, in my 2nd floor apartment, washing my face, looking forward to a journey into slumber courtesy of Tylenol PM. Hair pulled back in scrunchy, face covered in exfoliant beads and water. Wearing Umbros from middle school and a bleach covered t-shirt.

You: Trucker of indiscriminate age, race, and appearance (my contacts were out) loitering at a red light on Bellevue and Denny, honking your big truck horn over and over and over. When I looked out the window, there you were, waving gleefully at me. I think you may have mouthed "hi" or maybe you said it and I just couldn't hear over the incessant honking. You could have stopped honking once I looked. I waved back at you and then we made awkward eye contact until the light changed and you drove away with a few final honks of appreciation for my nighttime cleansing routine. Don't worry, I don't think you're creepy... only lonely from long nights spent hauling goods across America. If you ever pass my street again, feel free to pull over and come on up. I won't have sex with you or touch you in any way, but I did just get cable OnDemand so we could watch Intervention and I can microwave you a chicken patty or something, and then you can watch me watch my face again because I guess it's pretty hot. But then you have to leave.

Location: Capitol Hill
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests



AND, one response I got:

"a little full of oneself perhaps?"


TROO

LASER DOG

Not photoshopped.

shit i will no longer tolerate by performers at local rock music concerts:

• "No" head while playing mediocre guitar riff. The self-doubt intimated by this gesture does not inspire confidence in your vision.
  
• The seizure march. Poorly attended. Alt country. Shoe gaze. Club show. NOT a Jewish wedding. Not even a quincinera.
• Referring to Seattle as "this town." Last time I checked the census, Seattle was a thriving metropolis with over one-half of one million people. And you, sir, are no John Cougar Mellencamp.

Shit I'm totally pro:

• "There will be beer" as a pun on "There will be blood."
  
• Starting your set off with "Who's gotta work tomorrow morning?!?"
  

out of fucking control

I'm stupid and don't know how to embed a video but please, please, please take the next one minute and 16 seconds of your life to watch this:

http://www.cyberthing.net/video-play.php?id=105

And don't waste you're time if you don't have sound, because you will not get the full effect.

That video was sent to me by my mother, with the subject line, "Maria, this made me sob" which is interesting because she hates animals. Whatever genius of editing sat at their computer matching up the swell of the music with the moment of climax is instantly the coolest person in the world in my book.

When shall we film the pathetic ladies version of this?

Our version complete with deciphering relationship statuses, decoding the mystery imagery of bro photos and deciding whether or not items listed in the "Favorite Music" category are ironic.

TFGIF!

A Sacred Promise

I hereby vow, on this 12th day of June, 2008 that:

IF I make it from THIS POINT in my life (24 years, 3 months, and 2 days) to June 12, 2034, at which point I will have reached the age of FIFTY (50), WITHOUT having a normal, adult relationship (constituted by a period of at least six months of partner-exclusive sex, sharing of emotions, and meeting one another's parents, if they are still alive) I agree to the following:

I shall tattoo two (2) SUNNY SIDE UP EGGS on my chest, one on each breast, with the nipple serving as yolk.

I shall tattoo one (1) long strip of bacon on my sternum, in between the two egg tattoos

I shall allow myself to be photographed for a period of seven (7) days

I shall then make my way to a beach of my choosing, discard my clothing, and walk slowly into the sea, never to be heard from again.

Reasons I am not exercising right now...

-It's sunny, but man, oh man, that wind! that wind! It could blow me over. Seriously, it's whistling!
-It was easier to take a shower--that's bending and standing, isn't it?
-Beer just tastes better than water.
-Now that i've showered, I can't get sweaty--that would be counterproductive.
-It's only Monday: I've got the rest of the week, don't I?
-I'm meeting someone in a hour and half--is this even enough time?
-I could read, that's an exercise for the mind.
-I could clean my toilet.
-The above activity took less than 1.5 minutes.
-I could clean my bathtub--but really, don't bathtubs just clean themselves when you shower? Think about it.
-I could vigorously dance naked to Cold War Kids.
-The above activity took 3:39 minutes. I took a break half way through.
-I could do Kegels. That's exercise. But for some reason, I'm always worried someone, somewhere will see me doing them and say, "I know what you're doing. I had two kids and all I can say is, total waste of time."

Thank God There Are People Who Understand How To Make/ Do/ Utilize These Things, Because I Never Will

Highway systems

Railroad tracks (the way they can run into one another depending on if a certain piece of track is activated)*

HTML coding (or to broaden it up, "the internet")

HBO's "The Wire"



* see, I can't even explain how I don't understand it.

[Insert Handicap Joke Here]

Featured on the front page of John McCain's campaign website:

Front. And. Center.

Co-Op

I joined a grocery co-op today. It's not what you think: I am not knowledgeable about fine and wholesome foods nor fair labor practices, and I generally prefer the largest plastic bag an establishment can provide (I would coat my foodstuffs in pure petrol for transport t'were it an available option). Nay, I joined the co-op out of pure paranoia. I was afraid that the fine ass honeys I scoped in the checkout line would judge me for my lack of membership. "Christ," I could hear them thinking, "I can just see her shoveling fistfuls of Cheetos puffs into her maw and chugging Mountain Dew Red (Private Reserve) while watching reruns of "My Wife and Kids."" These facts are my own private reality. Some things should be saved for the second date.

Hours have passed since my enlistment, and I do not regret my decision. I was gifted with an array of thoughtfully crafted newsletters and coupons. And my recent membership has given me a new perspective. With the multitude of benefits offered, it seems only natural the that realm of co-op-ship should extend to other commodities and pastimes. A few suggestions:

CHEAP POTENTIALLY TRENDY CRAP CO-OP
Cost: Labor for ultimately listing shit on Craigslist
Benefits: Like a dollar store, but more urban! Members are automatically entered into monthly give-aways for items that even your grandmother knows are hideous, but you insist give a certain "feel" to your digs. Insider's newsletter featuring speculations on which recycled slogans from t-shirts and truckers' hats are bound to become ironic in the current season (1999 Generic Technology Conference, anyone???)

BABY SLOTH CO-OP
Cost: Whatever the fuck it takes, per annum.
Benefits: Members only baby sloth snuggling session once a month. Collectible baby sloth character trading cards (Jailbird Baby Sloth, Saloon Girl Baby Sloth, CEO Baby Sloth) with every purchase. Coupons mailed in monthly newsletter can be redeemed for extra baby sloth snuggling, or used as credit toward the Baby Sloth and You Soft-Focus Portrait Extravaganza (held quarterly).

DRINKS N' CREEDENCE CO-OP
Is it so wrong to wish that every Thursday evening (or maybe Sunday afternoon?) good Americans could convene, throw whatever money they had in the pot, share a few pitchers and load the juke up with picks from Green River? I thought not.

Quandaries

Straightening hair in hotel lobby: tacky or time saving? Discuss.

On location: Deerfield, IL

If anyone ever tells you you are going to "Chicago" on business, and then lets you know they have booked you a plane ticket to "Chicago" and a hotel in "Chicago" please be aware it probably actually means "somewhere that is 40-70 minutes outside anything even resembling the Chicago metro area." And please also be aware that if you can't rent a car because you're not 25 then you will be stuck hiking past blocks and blocks and blocks of large corporate offices on a rural highway in an attempt to find sustenance in the eventual form of TGI Fridays, and the outfit you gleefully threw on because it's not 50 degrees and raining like it is in Seattle, which includes denim cutoffs and suede boots, will look less Urban Outfitters and more Teen Prostitute, and people driving by will react accordingly. Then when you are sitting at the TGI Fridays bar, you will be reduced to pleading with the waitstaff to rename the charges on the check because you're trying to get reimbursed by your company and don't want them to know you just downed 4 "Ultimate Electric Lemonades made with Skyy" at 4:10 PM on a Monday.
Also if they tell you before you arrive that it's ok that you don't know HTML and only know how to use the computer to check your email, facebook, look at celebrity gossip, and write endless self absorbed blog posts, it is a lie, because within one day they will be demanding that you write code and appear confused and perturbed that you don't know that something like this:

{((if_ ** color_sp BIG[--below])

/
/
//
then RETURN =/= _fontBR>>> over $$$__integer } BLARGH]

means "this costs $4".



And then you will have a flashback of 11th grade precalculus, the class that gave you your only C in high school and effectively ruined your college applications, self esteem, and your life, and remember how every time you raised your hand to ask Ms Korkowski a question you would feel a gigantic lump rising in your throat and would have to coordinate your question into short, clipped bursts of words to avoid breaking down and crying over the unfairness of math, and you find yourself doing the same thing in this class and the end result is everything you say sounds hugely bitchy and like you're not even trying... and you are KIND of trying. So the instructor and everyone else in your class hates you and you hate them right back, especially that fucking cunt with the Katherine Harris makeup who shushed you while you were struggling to open a bag of pretzels yesterday, and you cling to the one slightly nice, helpful guy in your class who on second look kind of looks a tiny bit like a fatter version of a guy you hooked up with once. And when you interrupt the instructor to say, in a panicked voice "I don't know what you mean by tabs, I DON'T know... what are tabs?" another little guy turns around and says, "so Maria, I take it you've never used this software before?" and everyone laughs and you attempt to take solace in the fact that your life is way better than his but then realize that's probably not true because really the only thing separating you from him is 20 years and the fact that he is married and therefore has been loved at some point in his life by someone who's not his mom. Then you will fake having to take part in a conference call so you can leave the conference room and go lie in the fetal position in your Marriott room and watch CNN and wish you were Michelle Obama because she would totally not be afraid to ask what tabs are, if she didn't already know, which she would.

What is love?

An actual interchange--

Boyfriend: Let's do something romantic tonight...
Me: I've got the Rape of Nanking on dvd!

Revelations

As a child, I was prone to headaches. This can be blamed on many things: the frequent exposure of my gifted-child brain to fluorescent lights, a diet high in Hostess treats and shameful stolen spoonfuls of Country Time Pink Lemonade powder, or perhaps an attempt from by my body to ease me gently into the life of head/back/neckaches, a sad destiny for the larger busted lady. Oh also I had really, really bad eyesight and spent my days from the age of 6 on squinting helplessly through thick, smeary glasses like that dumb kid from Jerry Maguire, but a girl. When I would go to my mom and say, "mom, I have a headache," the first question out of her mouth was not, "did you hit your head?" or "have you been drinking water?" or even "would you like a tylenol?" The first thing she would ask was, "well, do you have to poop?" Every. Time. And I would think about it, and sometimes I would have to poop, and sometimes I wouldn't, and we would go from there. Process of elimination. And so as I entered into adolescence and, reluctantly, adulthood, anytime I got a headache I would immediately wonder... do I have to poop? Totally having grown up with this horrible visual image of headaches being caused by having to poop SO badly that the toxins and waste are actually backed up into the cranium, I would on occasion dole out the same advice.
FRIEND: Man, my head hurts.
ME: (concerned) oh... do you have to poop?
FRIEND: No. I'm just hungover. Gross. Please don't ask me that.
So it's only recently that I have realized that this is just some weird little made up diagnosis of my mom's, stemming from god knows where. Maybe she just wanted any excuse to remind me to stay regular, or maybe she is secretly into scat. But I will go on record as saying, I think pooping can help headaches. Kind of. Or at least it doesn't make them worse. And regardless of the validity of her theories, it's a weird little special memory I will always have of my mom. Like the time when I was 8 and my dad walked into a telephone pole in Florida and almost knocked himself out and was too dazed to go out to dinner but my mom didn't want to leave him alone for a long period of time in case his brain hemorrhaged or something, so she went to McDonalds and bought like 15 cheeseburgers and she and I and my brother sat around cross legged on the floor of the Motel 6 and ate cheeseburgers and laughed at my dad moaning softly on the bed. He was OK, in the end.

Beat me to the punch!

Satomi Kobayashi and Mikako Ichikawa nosh down on fresh lobster in Naoko Ogigami’s new film, “Glasses.”

Okay, Japan totally stole my idea for "food porn"--no, not what you think (you pervs)--just videos of people eating really good food. And by stole, I really mean, realized the genre of film in which I was born to star. Note to Toyko casting directors: I am currently available for any and all projects, excluding those involving a) cauliflower; b) bananas; and c) really vinegary wings.

Two characters in Glasses eat shaved ice at the “food porn” film’s climactic moment.

This Would Be A Good Name For A Band That Would Be Influenced By Slipknot And Creed and Maybe Feature A 7th Runnerup From American Idol as Lead Singer

PARALYSIS

Coming soon to the Everett Events Center, as the first of four opening bands.

What's in a name?

If you look up the meaning of my first name, this is what you get:

Maria
Gender: Girl
Origin: Hebrew
Meaning: Bitter

Which could not be more perfect. Because I am a girl, and I am totally meant to be Jewish/marry into the religion and my head is shaped like a dreidel, as evidenced in earlier post, and I am the MOST bitter person in the motherfucking universe.

I spend my nights lying awake, waiting/praying for the Tylenol PM coursing through my veins to kick in, pushing my cat away as she tries to walk directly across my breasts for the 70th time that minute because it really fucking hurts and there are way less sensitive parts of my body she could ford, or she could just JUMP, I'm not that fat and she is a goddamn animal and animals jump. I lie there regretting every decision I have ever made in my life, while simultaneously cursing things that I should be way, way, way over. Sometimes there are tears.
Example of something I should be done with: High school play casting decisions.

And I don't know why it's so hard to just let things go! And I can kind of separate myself from my angst and try to convince my racing, fevered mind that in the grand scheme of things it's not that big a deal, in 10 or 20 years it won't matter, but guess what?

10 years ago: a friend (and we are still friends) told me that because I couldn't unwrap a Starburst wrapper with my tongue, I would be a bad kisser. This snotty proclamation has rung in my ears every single time i've made out with a guy, at least while sober. And it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy.
Conclusion: STILL BITTER. It matters.

20 years ago: my grandma (RIP) on a regular basis attempted to make my brother feel better about being displaced from his only child throne by dangling Tootsie Roll Pops in front of me and saying "do you want one, Maria? do you? Well, only BIG BOYS can have them" and then handing it off to my brother, ignoring my cries for justice.
Conclusion: STILL BITTER. It matters.

Example of something it's ok I'm still bitter about: Having places of employment lie to me and promise way cooler opportunities/growth that never happen.
Example of something I should be done with: My rejection from NYU, received right around (for true bitterness, I like to remember it as "on") my 17th birthday. But seriously, FUCK YOU NYU. And I hate anyone who gets to go there, and after that grim day I never watched "Felicity" again. Runner up: Not getting any money from my second choice school. So, fuck you Fordham.

The thing about bitterness is that it seems it be in it's own weird little category... like it's not so much an anger management issue, because I don't punch walls or beat on animals or anything, and it's not really depression, which leads me to believe it is just entitlement, which is a generation wide issue, and therefore not my fault. Because let's be honest, nothing is.

The best thing in the world...

You know how most days are pretty sucky, but sometimes you hit a little gem that makes life bearable. Well, this, my friends, is it:

Man or woman, I will marry the person who has this tat. Best part is, ole JJ would probably hate this.

Reasons why my boyfriend will likely leave me in the next few days...

-I throw irrational fits because I can't find a seat at a bar.
-I throw irrational fits because I can't drink a margarita or eat mexican food at a give second.
-I have an extraordinarily low tolerance for clutter--including people.
-I'm pretty bad at sharing a bed and am convinced that no bed is big enough for two people to share.
-I talk in the middle of scary/suspensefuly/violent movies to reassure myself and ruin the best parts.
-I often discuss my repulsion to little children.
-I often pee with the bathroom door open.
-I insist on talking about the fact that my little brother has a hot friend.
-I wake him up from peaceful slumber to kill a spider, that isn't really that big, knowing that he hates spiders and i'm just lazy.
-I constantly talk about spontaneously moving to different countries...
-Then follow it up with equally ridiculous grad school schemes that often involve intimate encounters with other men.
-I complain for hours about going to his memorial day barbecues.
-I have a hard time staying at home.
-I sort of hate lingerie.
-Ditto on much of anything else.

Number Crunch

Time spent performing various activities per year. All calculations have been rounded to the nearest decimal.

• Talking about how bloated I feel: 624 minutes/10.4 hours
• Avoiding eye contact with street clowns, Juggalos and the recently converted: 624 minutes/10.4 hours
  
• Listening to Creedence's Chronicle: 7800 minutes/130 hours
• Watching Two and a Half Men while eating tuna straight from the can, without commercial breaks: 1196 minutes/ 20 hours
• ", with commercial breaks: 1560 minutes/26 hours
• Listening to my mother ask the kitties what they want for dinner (FISHIES or TURKEY-LURKEY???) over the phone: 234 minutes/3.9 hours
  
• Doing no. 2: 3650 minutes/60.8 hours
• Reading tips on "Finding My Inner Woman Warrior" in O Magazine on line at the grocery store: 104 minutes/1.7 hours
• Pretending to have read Proust: 92 minutes/1.5 hours
  

An Ode To Every Guy In Seattle

In college you played acoustic guitar
And wished you were John Mayer
Now you realize how lame that was
And pretend to be into Slayer*

You completed the six year plan
And moved back in with your dad
You can only stay at my place
Because I'm not allowed at your pad

We can only go to dive bars
Because you think they're "realer"
You leave me waiting on the street
While you meet your coke dealer

You spend your days smoking
ensuring you're always blazed
Showing up late at your job
With a pocket full of jays

You've grown your beard out
It suits your plaid shirts so well
Aging hipster or rapist?
We can't really tell

You want to bone lots of girls
And not commit with just one
So you turn into a douchebag
And act confused once they're done

All this is excused
Because you're "into the arts"
You gently stroke your labret piercing
A new pseuso relationship starts

You're not hot but kind of funny
You roll your eyes at what's not hip
God how I want to punch your stupid face
And knock the PBR foam from your lip




* ironically, of course

In Case You Wondered What I Meant By Fried Spiders

Adorable small Cambodian girl to me: You like spider?

Jerk American Me: No! gross, no. Please, god.

Adorable small Cambodian girl : Why? See! I like spider! (Eats one to demonstrate)

Culturally Sensitive Me: (dancing immaturely away as though she has burst into flames) Awesome! No, that is... awesome. I'm sure it's good, I just... no. I will give you 2387648536254 riel if you move the spiders. Can I buy this mango? Has it touched spiders?

If Stag-Party was a movie, it would be this:

I'm totes the lady that says, "We have our own rules here!"

As Promised...

Why I don't need to do drugs...

...because animals like this exist.

Sloth Bears!

Pissed off Otters!

Pandas!
Obese Hippos!

Tis truly a wonderful world.

something else I think I have

psychic abilities, because when I saw an email from my mom in my inbox entitled "FW:FW:FW:FW: 16 Signs You're Having A Bad Day!" I was like, GUARANTEED this is going to involve pictures of cats looking unhappy. Guess who's right, again.

I think I have...

Diabetes!




Seriously. I'm worried. Because I went on a date with a guy who has type 1 diabetes a few weeks ago, and he tested my blood at dinner and I was way above normal... I was 191, or possibly 171, and the normal is like, 110. And TODAY my boss was like, "man, you drink a lot of water. And you are always in the bathroom." I could have pointed her towards my last depressing post to explain how the work bathroom is my Crying Place, and so I am there every 25 minutes, but the truth of the matter is I totally am peeing every time I go to cry. And I do drink a LOT of water. Not only that but I like, crave it, and panic when water is not accessible/not in my hand in bottle form. And on the occasions when I have attempted to restrict my water intake in order to hopefully limit my peeing ( like every marathon bus trip taken in Southeast Asia) it hasn't worked at all... instead I have just become a thirst-crazed shell of a person, feeling my hummingbird heard beat against my chest while I attempt to swallow despite the hot air burning my parched throat, PRAYING that the bus will stop in time for me to run past the hordes of young Cambodian girls selling, I swear to god, giant fried spiders and reach the squat toilet in time. Then I return to the bus, feeling good for like 20 minutes, not even minding the Khmer version of "My Humps" that has been cranked up to maximum volume, and I allow myself a sip... one tiny, minimal sip... of sweet, sweet water, and before you know it my bladder feels like it's going to explode and I am whimpering, clawing at the windows for release once more.

So as you can see, it's a vicious cycle, and one that has been going on for YEARS. When I lived in Australia, I would frequently wake up in the middle of the night and down like, 2 Nalgene bottles in 10 minutes and still be dying of thirst. I went to the doctor and he listened to my symptoms before issuing his decree: "sounds like someone's got diabetes!" As I left the office, terrified, my mobile phone rang... an international number. It was my father calling me to tell me Elliott Smith had died. It seemed like the Worst Day Ever.

Anyway, I didn't end up having diabetes then, and Elliott Smith lives on in our memories and in the poster he autographed for me when I was 16 and stood outside Showbox to meet him even though I didn't have tickets because I'm that hardcore (and by the way have I told you in the last two days how I saw Death Cab when they were like, opening for someone in Bellingham and the show cost $3? Bring your chair closer to Granny's side so she can regale you with tales of her attempts at being an "alternative" teen)... I doubt I have diabetes now, but I will probably awkwardly bring it up at my next doctor's appointment so she can roll her eyes ever so slightly and add it to the List Of Things I Though I Had, joining the ranks of chlamydia, HIV, and gout.

Shut In

Day 11 off work.
Highlight of day: Getting up at 8:30am. Taking "nap" at 9:30 am.
Highlight of week: Going on cat safari with parents. Counted number of cats we could find on porches while driving around tacoma. Final tally: 38.

bored

I am so bored I want to die so I could be bodybagged out of work. Like I am so bored I wish my appendix would burst so I could leave work. I wish my car would burst into flames so I could leave work. I wish the FBI would burst into work and arrest someone in conjunction with a child porn ring so I could leave work amidst all the excitement. I wish there would be an earthquake so we would all be evacuated and I could leave work. I wish my water would break and I would give birth to a baby I didn't even know I was pregnant with so I could leave work. I am now 100% positive that I know every bit of celebrity gossip ever and have viewed every LOLcat ever created and have fake planned out unrealistic trip after unrealistic trip and seen every piece of clothing that would totally make me look fat ever shilled online and STILL i am so bored that on my frequent trips to the bathroom I inevitably burst into tears as soon as I am in the relative privacy of a stall while obese coworkers tap their feet impatiently outside. Because i am SO BORED and thusly spend all day revisiting in my mind the many, many hideously embarrassing or humiliating things I have done in my life and regretting every choice I have ever made, such as going to college, accepting this employment, and living through infancy.
Also frequent IM conversations like the following:

Maria: i fucking hate everyone SO MUCH. like i can't even explain
Brittany: oh god same
Maria: i hope everyone dies.
Brittany: seriously.


Lights at the end of my tunnel:
- going to Target to buy a mini vacuum
- someday getting my tax return so I can use it to pay off my credit card bills that I have wracked up from long days of online shopping while bored out of my fucking mind
- acquiring many more cats, as I've decided that for every six months I don't have sex, I am going to get a new one. 5 months, 1 week to go.
- not getting skin cancer, because it's not like i can even see the sun, or a window for that matter, from the dark ice locker where I sit and will be sitting ALL SUMMER LONG.

sweet christ, the future looks bleak.

Holla at ya?

I'm in D.C. this week and I just got the best holler ever from two rastafarians in a garbage truck. I heard some yell "hey," I turned around and then the best line ever was uttered:

"Girl, that tight little ass deserves a big ole rock!"

Followed by, "I hope yo man lays it on you smooth!"

My self-esteem has never been higher, even if the first comment is a total fallacy.

Also, I have come to the conclusion that staying in D.C. is like one long, sweaty hangover. Look forward to an epic photo album--including bear sloths!--from the National Zoo, coming soon.

Famous

Courtesy of The Stranger. And yes, I am sure.

Revelations

a lifetime affinity for Jewish men, explained?

:(

I bought these:

and look like this:

Is this why Jordan Catalano won't love me? Discuss in the girls room with Rayanne and Rickie.

Jerkface

These are a just a few things that I really hate listening to other people talk about... YET I talk about them all the time and expect others to listen/be intrigued. Inspired by listening to my own uninspired ramblings and thinking about how I would never want to be my friend.

• Long, endless dream narratives, followed by a personal interpretation. ESPECIALLY when told by children because they are always lying.
  
  
• Stories of traffic jams and encounters, especially if they are told using salt shakers, discarded pieces of food, or sleeping animals as placeholders for the cars and their actions.
  
  
• Diet/exercise regime of any kind.
  
  
• The deep ways in which an individual relates to a fictional character or song lyrics that seem reminiscent of their own lives. I myself especially like to do this with My So Called Life*, as I am clearly exactly like Angela Chase and constantly getting fucked around by various Jordan Catalanos. But god, he is hot and worth it.
  
  *I do plan to mention MSCL in every post ever, if you were wondering.

Venn Diagrams

Eating Healthy + Exercise = Innovative methods a fellow I dated suggested I enlist in order to lose some weight, "not that I think you're like, really fat or anything, because I probably wouldn't have sex with a fat girl" *

"You must be really tired" + "Wow, you look different without makeup" = Subtle ways my co-workers have let me know I look like shit today.

Having a guy point out how many tampons I have in my purse with a grossed out expression + Thinking, "man, Angela Chase's mom is a fucking bitch" while watching My So Called Life = Things that happened to me for the first time when I was twelve, and again yesterday.

A dumpster behind Jack in the Box + the dressing room of a strip club = things I'm pretty sure my car smells like right now

"I am allowed to wear jeans to work" + "I really don't care about the WNBA"= Two statements that my parents just completely refuse to believe.

The new McDonalds "southern style chicken sandwich" + a meditation retreat = things I REALLY want to try, but would probably regret halfway through.

Hangs head in shame....

Email correspondence with a co-worker (read from bottom to top):

From: Me
To: Co-worker Redacted

It's really just an ironic slang used to mock frat boys.
Sigh...well, now when the "youngsters" come skateboardin' and jive-talking on your block you can listen with confidence and know that "Totes for real, bra" = "totally, for real, brother."

-----Original Message-----
From: Co-worker Redacted
Sent: Monday, May 12, 2008 9:44 AM
To: Me
Subject: RE:

Uh, no. clearly, I'm not hip enough for such slang!

-----Original Message-----
From: Me
Sent: Monday, May 12, 2008 9:37 AM
To: Co-worker Redacted
Subject: RE:

Okay, really? You've heard someone use "totes" instead of totally before.

-----Original Message-----
From: Co-worker Redacted
Sent: Monday, May 12, 2008 9:37 AM
To: Me
Subject: RE:

Totes?

-----Original Message-----
From: Me
Sent: Friday, May 09, 2008 5:13 PM
To: Co-worker Redacted
Subject: Re:

Yep! Totes heard about it this morning and was like, "aiiieee..."
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

-----Original Message-----
From: Name Redacted
Date: Fri, 9 May 2008 17:02:13
To: Me and Another
Subject:

Ok, did you both hear *Name Redacted* tell me that he watches the Gilmore Girls??

Not So Irrational Fears

In anticipation of my first official day of unemployment:

1. I quit my job at the least secure time, economically speaking, in America's recent history. Over a cup of reasonably priced (for now) coffee, my eavesdropping hones in on the following phrases: "Credit crunch," "sub-prime (add preferred noun)" and "indentured servitude." Noticing my sullen demeanor and quickly deteriorating personal hygiene, my landlords skip the formalities and evict me without notice.

2. As far as my grandmother is concerned, it becomes easier to blame my lack of boyfriend/ambitions to have a family on an "alternative lifestyle." This is fine, until daily newspaper clippings for the Ellen Degeneres show from the "Up and Coming!!!" section of the Tacoma News Tribune start showing up in my mailbox by the kilo.

3. I am spotted by a bigwig Hollywood talent scout at an area Claim Jumper's. Over fistfuls of turkey pot pie, the scout convinces me to sign a contract for a here-so-far unnamed reality show. Thereafter, I become the first contestant voted off "Who Wants a Mailorder Wife?!?" I quickly redeem myself by becoming the featured contestant on "The Bachlorette: Courting Corey Haim."

4. Jonathan Taylor Thomas dies in a horrible accident, and I am the only witness.

...and this will be the last thing you see...

In honor of all those who have done the walk of shame...
...which reminds me, I've got a couple of years old Carhardt jacket I have yet to return...

Speaking of.... A Hilarious Helen Keller Joke (taunting karma)

Q: Why was Helen Keller such a bad driver?
A: Because she's a woman.

Stag Party Diagnosis

I'm not a hypochondriac like the rest of my fellow marksmen (I don't really get colds, yeast infections, bronchitis, heart murmurs, kidney stones, UTIs, or scurvy and if I did I probably wouldn't know it), but this morning got me thinking. Staring at my work computer screen, my eyes seriously won't focus. As in, my eyes will digest part of the screen but all the words are looking pretty funny/fuzzy. I've been squinting for about two hours now and I have a headache.

Being a doctor's daughter, I'm pretty cause/solution-oriented so here's a list I brainstormed as to why this may be occurring:

• I'm going blind and God wants me to join the ranks of Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder as a blind pianist sensation--knowing that I already do a fantastic black pianist/Rev. Jesse Jackson impersonation.
• I've finally shot my liver and developed optic cirrhosis.
• I don't eat fruit and my mom always said that would bite me in the ass.
• The blogging I've done for my job has been so terrible lately my mind is rejecting it somaticly.
• I'm waking up from the Matrix?
  
• Living in Seattle has given me an aversion to the light and i'm actually turning into a vampire. Possible evidence: I did have to have my canines filed when I was little.
  
• I'm about to have a "donnie darko-esque" daylight hallucination...DAHHH!!! plane crash!!!
• Karma is about to kick my ass for thinking Helen Keller jokes are funny.
• The lead paint that coats the windows of my apartment has been venting into my eyes at night. Can you get lead poisoning in your eyes?
• I have syphilis?
  
• The tequila shot I vaguely remember taking last Saturday may have been moonshine?
• My ophthalmologist always told me to wear my glasses more, which I refuse to do since I live with the shame of a child that wore glasses since the age of five with bendy backs.
• I haven't had my prescription updated in two years.
• I haven't changed my two-week contacts since Christmas.

Shoot, anyone know where I can get Hugh Laurie's number?

Office Haikus

Waking Up
Alarm's metal song
Red eyes stare down the mirror
Sweet lord, take me now.

Arriving at Work
Ratty hair down back
Hair pin swings from a split end
Others turn away

Office Talk
"Thank god it's Friday"
I hear from all around me
Monkeys chatter too

Sitting at Desk
Playing with pierced nose
"That's why it gets infected"
But I cannot stop.

Back to Work from Lunch
A frantic car ride
Salt water taffy binging
Cat hair covers me

Mind Wanders
Naming all the states
Phone must be covered in germs
I'd kill men for gum

Mid-Afternoon
Downing fifth diet coke
Caffeine courses through my blood
Does not quell the rage

Think Before You Speak

Something that many people don't know about me is that I know a LOT of information about a choice few subjects, such as: eating disorders, current hairstyles incorporating bangs, the heights of male celebrities, the X-men, and PRISON. What qualifies me as a prison expert? A few things. When I had cable, I watched The Shawshank Redemption everytime it was on TNT, which is a LOT. I got Oz on Netflix until I decided to start watching My So Called Life instead. And my grandpa was in Sing Sing back in the day and during frequent bouts of psychosis would regale his eager grandchildren with lurid tales of what it was like to be a Depression-era jailbird. And then there's my own experience. Flash back to age 13. My parents force me to attend an inaugaral Girls of Promise program for 8th and 9th graders, citing the brochure's promises of increased self esteem and achievement. Despite my fervent protests, I am dropped off at the meeting point and spirited away to Orcas Island, where my own personal version of the Stanford Prison Experiment began. One of my 14 year old cabinmates had a baby; another had come because her only other option was Juvie. Another asked me, "what's the worst thing you've ever done?" and I lied and said I had smoked a cigarette and she said, "once I smoked heroin." Which, in retrospect may have been a lie, but I observed someone take one of her Starburst without asking and bitch FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT, so I'm going on record as saying I believe it. My second week there two girls ganged up on and beat the shit out of another because she cut them in line to get pancakes. I sent my parents panicked notes begging for release and spent nights lying awake staring a picture of my beloved cat, wondering if I would make it home alive to see her.
Clearly, I made it through the experience, and I managed to avoid confrontation, because I essentially became the 13 year old version of a prison bitch. In that, I surrendered seats when I was told to, I shared my candy freely, and I never, ever made eye contact. This is how I know that if I were to go to federal prison, I would immediately regress to that state of mind, which is basically, "I will do whatever you want if you don't hit me in the face." And if that meant eating box, then I guess I would eat box. And on that you can quote me.

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Why I should just bite the bullet and marry Slats...

I love a character.

No, that's not quite right, I love individuals that are so utterly ridiculous, they defy being limited to the definition of characters.

Maybe it comes from my years slogging away toffee nut lattes, but I grew to love customers that became literal service industry archetypes. AKA, horrendously smelly meth-addicted trucker who always commented on the fact that I have a mole on my chest and talked about doing meth and how coffee kept him off meth for a couple more hours. OR, Enormously obese women who always talked about being hideously obese, but always ordered Venti Breves. OR, the paint-huffer (literally you could see the ring of color around most of his face) who aways tried to steal sugar and at one point defecated in front of me in an alley. OR, my building's security guard who I suspect to be an ex-con and who one day I found using the ladies restroom and when I ask him why responded, "for a change."

Yes, I am sort of obsessed with these people.

And that's why I've decided the only way I can be happy is to commit myself to the only man that encompasses all the above archetypes:

Thankfully, there's now a website to help me. And, apparently, his real name is Chris!!

Why I Don't Deserve To Be Loved

Scene: a public bathroom. Someone else, hidden in blissful anonymity behind a stall door, is clearly biding their time until everyone leaves so they can perform a #2. Time after time I find myself taking an extra long time washing my hands/fixing my hair/throwing on a few extra coats of mascara just to make them squirm. And on the way out I long to kick their stall door and hiss, "I know what you're planning to do. And it's DISGUSTING."

May (awkward or what you will) day

I work downtown, which comes with its own unique collection of delights and defeats: The ways to spend my money unreasonably are endless, overprice sandwiches and bums abound, hoodrats from Bellevue prance throughout the streets with merry abandon, traffic is always unbearable and there's generally a lot white people around.

Not so today, my friends. Today is May Day and the suits are scared.

How scared? Well, I've only gotten about 20 different emails from 20 different organizations proclaiming gloom and doom due to the fact that the Seattle longshoremen skipped work and there are a bunch of Mexicans downtown. These emails have ranged from the incredibly racist to the just plain apocalyptic. Here's a sampling:

From: *Name and Company Redacted*
To: Me

WARNING: May Day Rally Downtown Today.
As many as 7,000 people will converge in downtown. Leave your offices before 3:30 p.m. if you are worried about your commute. Traffic looks to be terrible this afternoon.

____

From: *Name and Company Redacted*
To: Me

ATTENTION: Due to the May Day protests, a large portion of our building's janitorial staff will not be working tonight. Please do not be alarmed if you find your offices unvacuumed tomorrow morning. We are working to find support janitorial services in this time of need. We appreciate your cooperation and apologize for the inconvenience.

____

From: My Boss
To: Me

In the past, this march has created traffic nightmares for folks.
Feel free to leave early to avoid the traffic (or to join the march, if that's your thing.)
I'll probably cut out a bit early myself to catch the Ms game.

____

Yes, my friends, we live in truly troubled times.

Sick Day!

Friends, is there anything better than a Sick Day? While I believe Pete & Pete was amongst the first to pay the Sick Day a fitting tribute (the enlightened will recall the episode where Little Pete feigns illness after doctoring a can of tapioca... plaque candy, President Eisenhower, and an always appreciated cameo by LL Cool J follow), I'll join the ranks and offer my own. For your reading pleasure, here is a manifest of how I chose to spend my very own Sick Day yesterday:

6:00 AM: Wake up. Get the joe brewing, scratch myself while listening to Morning Edition.
6:20 AM: Decide I'm feeling a little under the weather. Consult WebMD while drinking said joe to see if it might be terminal.
7:30 AM: Narrow down potential ailments to gout, ALS or syphillis. Call in to work.
7:35 AM: Eat some waffles, smoke some Pall Malls.
9:00 AM: Phone mother. Mother wonders why I'm calling her at such an odd hour, and I inform her about Sick Day. "Didn't you just quit your job?" mother asks. I immediately start crying and hang up the phone.
9:03 AM: Call mother back. "I'm sorry," I say. "It's just... I..." I start sobbing again. My mom calms me down by singing "Cracklin' Rosie" and letting me talk to our cat Snowy over the phone. I feel a little sleepy.
10 AM: Take nap. Have what would've been a sex dream about teevee's Rider Strong, except we didn't do it, just made out hella. Totally gave him my digits.
3PM: Wake up in a groggy haze. Consider showering, putting on a bra, brushing my hair. Decide against all three, and instead leave my apartment in full greasy forehead and pit-stained glory to get a sandwich.
4 PM: Return home. Create nice trail between bathroom and couch in trash and clothes-strewn bachelor jungle. Feel a little sleepy.
4:23 PM: Watch Disc 3, Season 4 of the motherfucking wire. Feel me?
9:35 PM: Eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. Pass out with remote still in my hand.

I Lied, This Was Good Too

Spotted: Coworkers X and Y discussing their children.

"When Muffin was taking a bath, she said, 'Mommy, my finger is in my bottom!' So I cleared the bubbles away to see and said, 'Muffin, that's not your bottom, it's your hoo-ha!' and then she said, 'it's stuck' and started to cry."

XOXO,
Gossip Girl

The Only Good Thing That Has Happened Today.

Because i'm about 10 years-old...

For some reason when I saw this, I peed my pants...

People of Lesbos take gay group to court over term 'Lesbian'

ATHENS, Greece -- A Greek court has been asked to draw the line between the natives of the Aegean Sea island of Lesbos and the world's gay women. Read More>>

Even Better...
"My sister can't say she is a Lesbian," said Dimitris Lambrou. "Our geographical designation has been usurped by certain ladies who have no connection whatsoever with Lesbos," he said.

Oh the Humanity!

Why democracy is a sinking ship...

Greetings, y'all. I guess I'm the new girl. Please commence comments such as "why are your glasses so thick? are you blind?" and "didn't anyone ever tell you to shave your armpits?" And while you're at it, please meditate on the conflagration our nation has descended into when this is how we have to teach kids about perimeters:

You Will Be Charged $4 Each Time I Molest You

$12 I got a airbed in my living room for a female. donate what you can (near boeing field)

Reply to: CREEPER@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-28, 7:09PM PDT

I'm a honest blue collar 30 something man that is just getting by. Could use the extra cash. Pay what you can. Something around $10 per night is cool. You can sleep on the queen size air mattress in the living room and watch the tv. I think it be safer if only females respond. Its not a fancy place. Its a small mother in law apt. But I can hang out in my own bedroom. Hey, if you just need a place to crash for a few nights, this is idea. But once again, not fancy. Oh, I smoke outside and I'm cool if you are a drinker or smoker

Location: near boeing field

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

happy 10th to last day of work!

Yay for quitting! I greatly admire my cohort's decision to depart a stagnant job and fly free into the world. A few words of advice:

By now, others have heard the news that you are leaving. If your quitting experience is any like my recent Springtime Quit, look forward in the next two weeks to frequent conversations that go a little something like this.
OTHER PARTY: So I hear you're leaving us!
YOU: ha! yep. yep I am
OP: (stares, arms folded, kind of rocking back and forth on feet) Huh.
Y: Yep, pretty weird.
OP: (Breaks eye contact, idly handles something on your desk)
YOU: So yeah, who knows. Weird. I mean. So. Ha-ha.
OP: Well, good luck! We'll miss you around here! Good luck!
YOU: yeah, totally, thank you. Also I'll be here for the next two weeks. So... cool. Yeah. Huh.

The best will be THIS friday, when guaranteed some people will think it's your last day, and will approach you to have even more awkward conversations, or will walk by you and shout something like, "Last Day!" and then you'll have to yell down the hall after them, your voice trailing off, "NO I still have a week left so I'll see you Monday I guess "

And then when your last day FINALLY comes and you are bidding farewell to people you don't care about and never wish to see again, awkward goodbyes peppered with false promises to keep in touch even as both sets of eyes glaze over with the effort of summarily erasing one anothers names from your memory, so that in a matter of months you can run into that person at a Starbucks or perhaps a Build-a-Bear workshop and take comfort in the fact that they have no validity in your life and are now no different from the thousands of other ex coworkers, friends, classmates, family members, drunken makeout partners, and disappointing pets you have erased from your radar over the years. Unless they add you on LinkedIn, Facebook, or Myspace, and then you still might have to go through the trouble of making your life look cooler than it actually is, by which I mean disguise the fact that your most recent Friday night consisted of getting high by yourself and playing "Snakebite" with your cat*. Not to make this about me or anything.
Also you should stock up on scissors/tape/nice pens/yellow legal pads, because man those are nice to have around.

* How to play Snakebite: poke finger at and around biting cat's face while saying "snakebite!" in a high pitched voice until cat gets bored/you start bleeding. Thanks go to Braiden Eilers for the invention of this game.

Golden Moments, Vol. I

Faithful readers of Stag Party may have detected the subtle thread of self-deprecation and personal humiliation that runs through our posts. The steady stream of embarrassing situations and humbling revelations that my compatriot and are often faced with is grist for our mill: we write with the hope that your laughter will absolve us somehow. However, friends, we here at Stag Party also have our moments of victory, too. Golden moments, you might say. And I would like to share one with you right now.

I quit my job. It felt fucking great. If you have ever quit a job you hated, then you know what I'm talking about. Let's put aside the mundane details that led to this decision for a sec, though. I'd like to examine the one facet of quitting that I find most interesting, the process of Fantasizing About Quitting. Thus, I present you with two scenarios.

How I Imagined Quitting
The minute I decide I can't take it anymore, I spring from my desk, get the Rambo bandanna I have saved for this very purpose out of my filing cabinet, grab my giant and gleaming ghettoblaster from under my desk and march down to my boss' office. She is in a meeting, but I do not care. I bust in (without knocking!), set the speaks right on top of a huge stack of reports and hit play.
After about thirty seconds of Paul Westerberg wailing "Unsatisfied," I fast forward the mix tape and "Cop Killer" kicks in. I survey the stunned faces in front of me, locking eyes with each and every one of my superiors.
"No," the director silently mouths.
"Uh huh," I silently mouth back, simultaneously cocking an eyebrow and doing a crotch thrust, "I quit."
"What?" the office manager asks. Apparently, I am still silent-mouthing.
"I QUIT!" I scream over Ice T. The applause of my fellow co-workers rises over the din; they have gathered outside of my boss' door, and IT Dude is slowly waving a lit Bic over his head. The ruckus dies down a little, and out of nowhere, Hot UPS Man appears with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and two glasses.
"Need help clearing out your office?" he asks.
"Honey, I don't even have a cubicle," I reply. We laugh together knowingly like old lovers, and ride off into the sunset in his delivery truck.

How It Really Went
I send an email to my boss letting her know I'd like to talk, and then go gorge myself on leftover doughnuts in the break room. When she finally gets back to me, I make my way downstairs with my resignation letter in hand.
"Don't give that to me," she says when she sees the paper in my hand. Apparently, my boss already has an inkling about what's afoot.
"Okay," I say, laughing nervously.
"Do not give me that piece of paper."
"Okay," I say again, "Ha ha. But, um, here," I hand her the letter. "I just want to say how much I've appreciated the opportunities I've been given here," I say, pointing like a drunken monkey at a paragraph in my letter that says exactly the same thing.
"Come on," my boss replies, rolling her eyes.
"Really!" I say. I look at my resignation letter sitting there on the desk. It looks a little sad, cheap. This might be due to the fact that I printed it not twenty minutes before on the company report stock.
"You sure you won't stay?"
I nod. There's a bit of a pause.
"Man, we're getting you so drunk at your going away party."
I nod again. This is the second best idea I've heard all day.

A New Hope

Dateline: Wednesday
Location: On my emails
Subject Heading: "Ingrid, here are nearby people that you may want to date"

I think I might just like this Sparkey, a Facebook application I'm thinking my grandmother signed me up for. Only the relevant deets are included, friends. Here's what you get:

1. Physical proximity. Hey, guess what, Ingrid? Blaine Bailey lives less than ten miles away from you! Less than! Ten! BLAINE FUCKING BAILEY. If conversation lags during your first date, perhaps you could use this number to calculate how many hectares apart you live! Draw a little map, a little topographical chart!
2. Desirability index. "Judd Nelson is more desirable than 73% of other people." Embarrassing use of a participle there, Sparkey. Beyond that, I am still left wanting to ask: Who are these "other people"? The Reverend Jim Dobson? Bill Keane? He Who Shall Not Be Named (Steve Miller)?
3. Weaknesses. This one's a real time saver. For instance, I see "Sexiest" and "Most Abusive" listed as respective weaknesses for one of my potential mates. This gives me time to brainstorm new threats/histrionic outbursts for the "I hate you/ don't leave me!" screaming match we are sure to have at the Old Country Buffet.

On Fucking Things Up

I'm a total hypochondriac and am constantly diagnosing myself with various mental ailments like OCD, aphasia, a variety of disorders on the autism spectrum, and reverse body dysmorphic disorder, wherein I think I'm WAY bomber than I actually am and am only brought back down to earth when photographic evidence is cruelly shoved in front of my face. But even though everything else is just a flash in the pan, I still have yet to appropriately diagnose this constant fear of fucking things up that stays with me always... and i say "fucking up" not necessarily like I'm going to ruin some giant project at work or cause car accident, although those are both also things I worry about fucking up, but just not being able to do SIMPLE things that are designed for the lowest common denominator. Like, I will face some small minor task and once I realize what is ahead I know... just KNOW that I am not going to be able to complete it. Like when you watched Nickelodeon's Legends of The Hidden Temple back in the day and you could TOTALLY identify with that kid who, after watching their sibling get tackled by a Mayan warrior in the ruins or whatever, just had this total look of panic on their face. Because that kid knew, he or she KNEW that it was their turn now and they were going to fuck up and lose the medallion or golden monkey or whatever, because they were too excitable/unathletic/asthmatic to achieve success, and they totally had ridden on the coattails of their far superior teammate thus far and now it was ALL UP TO THEM. Case in point: Airplane tray tables. I CANNOT work them. Everytime I'm on an airplane I start trying to get it to come out and it won't, and I start looking for some kind of button and whacking at it with simple tools like a chimp. Then I get really hot and flustered and start frantically taking off layers while wracking my brains to remember how I solved this problem the last time I was on an airplane and eventually the flight attendant will whip out the tray table for me with a tight lipped smile while handing over my plastic cup of Diet Sprite. I also cannot work unfamiliar microwaves, or locate a light switch when I am asked. "it's over there... no up... no ok, turn around... no, look UP! right... your other right... i said UP!" until I find myself whirling in a horrible gnomish jig and have to adapt the "sorry I'm kind retarded, but I hope maybe you think I'm pretty!" sheepish/jaw clenched grin I have perfected over the years of Fucking Things Up.
I don't have a good end to that observation, but I will admit that in the past I have lied and said that I appeared on Legends Of The Hidden Temple. The key to making people believe this is to admit that you didn't make it to the final round. It makes it more believeable, and then guys will ask for your number.

ode to the shitty thermos i won in an office drawing at work today

O, thermos!
How stately is thine splendor, livery'd in scratched stainless steel and ratty, pink pleath'r.
Banish the thought! of sullying your countenance with hot coffee, tea--
heat, methinks, would cause you release heavy lead, bisphenol A, etc.
Nay! Let thine cargo be
one or two gills of warm Crystal Light (Pink Lemonade),
a few drachmas of Diet Mountain Dew,
or let me fill you, my love,
with the tears that overfill mine eyes when I think of parting.

on puking

A while ago, we came to the consensus that of all things in the world, the WORST possible combination of two actions would have to be the renowned (and sadly, often utilized) pairing of masturbating and crying. Extra depressing if it's done to music, extra EXTRA depressing if said music involves Ben Gibbard in any way.
Today I would like to offer another miserable combo: the point we all reach, be it from sickness or alcohol abuse, wherein one's body feels the need to suddenly, mercilessly eliminate EVERYTHING from its depths and there is just nothing you can do about it besides pray that whatever deity you believe in will take mercy and end your life and strike anyone unfortunate enough to be around you incapable of remembering this moment. I am talking, of course, about puking and pooping, or its slightly less offensive incarnation, puking and peeing. A while back, I was so hungover on a Saturday morning that I even pilate-cized the ordeal, extending my torso and giraffe-stretching my neck out to ensure that I could vomit bile into the bathtub without having to move from the toilet. Anyway, this past Saturday night we partook in a delightful celebration of Ingrid's birth, and I bet you know now where this is going. Upon indulging in a less than top shelf tequila shot after a night of drinking only Rainier, I booked it to the bathroom because I KNEW I was about to puke. But there was a mondo line, and I kind of managed to swallow it back while waiting, and then "Touch My Body" came on and I just had to DANCE cuz it's MARIAH so I left the bathroom without throwing up and worked it out on the floor and we kept drinking and dancing and I felt great by the time we left at closing... then I'm walking home with Waleska and we're on Pine and I start reminiscing about the foul tequila and as the memory wells up inside me my body just decides, ENOUGH and Waleska quickly directs me to an abandoned parking lot where I just yak and yak and then realize i have to pee too... so I'm peeing and throwing up at the same time behind the solitary car in the lot and people are totally walking by seeing this thinking, wow that girl SUCKS and the thought of how low this moment must appear cracks me up so i'm peeing, puking, crying, and laughing all at once.
Then I went home and masturbated and cried.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY INGRID!

Irrational Fears, Pt. II

Inspired by my compatriot, I, too, will present a list of things I have been encouraged to "work through" with a licensed professional:

1) On a plane, heavy turbulence. I grip the plastic cup holding my weak bloody mary to near-breaking. After many minutes of this, the pilot comes on over the intercom to inform us passengers that things are looking pretty rough ahead, to buckle up tight, review relevant safety info, secure the straps on the oxygen thingy under your own chin before those of the chins around you, etc. Convinced the steel bird is going down, I light a Pall Mall with the matches I have surreptitiously stowed in my cleavage and straddle the lap of the balding, liver-spotted man sitting next to me, knowing that if I die, I will die doing the things I love. Within minutes the plane straightens out, we land at our destination ahead of schedule, and I am escorted to airport prison by a federal air marshal.

2) It's my big break: Ira Glass or [insert name of smart, sensitive, middle-aged Jew in the business of winning hearts] has called me up for an interview. "This mind-blowing, awesome job with full dental benefits is all yours," he says, "just answer this last question: what was the last great book you read?" I smile for a moment, furrowing my brow in mock-consternation as if to say, "Oh Ira--playing softball, are we?" I start to think. Then I start to panic, realizing the entirety of English literature has fled my brain. I cannot even remember the name of the mail-order catalogue my grandmother uses to order those plasticine elves she finds so fascinating. "Man-Hut?" I grunt, "Mama's Family? Money Tree?" There is a pause, followed by the tinkle of laughter and the phone being laid on its hook.

3) I'm in third grade. I have just pissed my pants in P.E., and the gym teacher has--rather loudly--instructed me to to go to the office and ask the secretary, Mrs. Swenson, for a pair of sweatpants. When I get to the office, Mrs. Swenson has been replaced by Jordan from New Kids on the Block. I watch how his rattail glistens as he laughs when I ask him for the sweatpants.

Irrational Fears

Irrational fears I have had in my life:
None of these have happened (yet).

Age: 5-9
At the bottom of my glass of milk, a cricket lurks. He waits to jump down my throat.

Age: 7-10 (ish):
While submerged in some area of open water, I encounter a large clam with an opening in its shell, through which can be spied a large glistening pearl. I approach the clam and reach in to touch its soft interior and the pearl within. The clam abruptly snaps shut on my arm and OH MY GOD I'M OUT OF OXYGEN AND THIS THING WON'T OPEN WHAT DO I DO I HAVE TO CUT MY ARM OFF NOW NOW NOW OR DROWN.

Age: Puberty on
I am wearing a pad instead of a tampon for an unknown reason, like perhaps I am taking part in a Little House On The Prairie convention. I go to the bathroom and, while peeing, take the rare opportunity to relax, which I do by flopping forward and stretching. However, I have forgotten that there is a cotton wad covered in my own scarlet uterine eliminations and my careless stretch mashes it into my shirt, which is, for this purpose, obviously white or some kind of eggshell color. I then must walk around for the rest of the day with period blood on my shirt.

Age: 24 (now)
I die, and when the coroner autopsies my stomach, my parents receive a police report which reads:

It appears that in the hours prior to your daughter's untimely death, she ingested the following items. Please let us know if any of these substances have significance to you, or could act as a lead in solving the mystery of her demise:
- cheetos (regular)
- cheetos (flamin' hot)
- bacon salt
- semen
- jello
- vodka
- Rainier beer

These results are published.