Non-Hydrogenated Hero

I recently encountered an older gentleman who had been unaware as to the use of text messaging in modern cell phone technology.  He became aware of this availability while present in my office. And so the story goes…

He approached my desk, still talking on his cell phone, when suddenly, he received a text message.

“OH MAH GAH.” He didn’t finish out any of his words.  He pulled the cell phone away from his ear for a second to look at it, “Whuh is this?!”  He turned the cell phone toward me.

I looked.  ”It’s a text message sir.”

“A tex message?!”

“Yes, sir.”

He put the phone back up to his ear, “I’m gonna have tah call ya back.  I just got a tex message.”

“What is this? How do I respon to it?”

He handed me the phone.  His boss had texted him.  I read him the message and he asked me to respond for him.  He watched me with an amazed look on his face as I quickly texted something back to her.  I close the phone when I was finished and handed it back to him.

In an instant, the phone beeped again with a response message.

“Oh mah gah! That was so fast!”

Walking away, he flipped the phone open and read.  I watched him shake his head with amusement as he exited my office.

This event was both entertaining and heartwarming, but wait, what the HELL was that guy doing in my office?  He never asked me for or about anything that might pertain to my job.  He literally came in, did the whole bit with his cell phone ,and then left.  Did I get scammed?  I scanned my desk for missing items.  Nothing.  All’s well.  Hm.  I wonder what he wanted.

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Socks.  Do it.  I’m for ‘em. Definitely pro-socks here.  GO.

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You know who likes butter?  EVERYONE. (Seriously, ESPECIALLY Paula Dean.)  You know who else likes butter?  CATS.

So I moved into a house with 5 other girls, three of whom have cats.  Two are lady-cats and one is a boy-yo cat.  Swarley and the other cats had a hard time adjusting to the new living situation.  They were all quite mean to each other.  I had heard somewhere, I think, or perhaps I just made it up, that in order to get ambivalent kitties to like each other, all you have to do is put butter on their foreheads.  It forces them to lick each other, thus developing a comfortable attitude and closeness.

SO, I had heard this, and due to the situation at hand, I tried it.  I whipped out the Country Crock and smeared their little cat-faces with the butt (<–That’s cool speak for butter.)  It worked.  They EFFING LOVE EACH OTHER NOW.

Which is what led me to my next endeavor, getting my roommates to like me.

Turns out, girls ARE a lot like cats.  At first they were all slightly cold to me, even rude at times, but I smeared butt (<–cool speak for butter remember?) on all of our foreheads and now we like ALL TOTALLY LOVE EACH OTHER.

YAYYY BUTTER!

Compactual Agreement

Paper Darts Magazine is holding a flash-fiction contest.  I’d like to win.  Here’s how it works…  This time around you have to use the word “frying pan” in some way.  I wrote out this story:

The year was 1991.  I was rocking it on my to work, listening to Paula Abdul on my Walkman. I looked good.  I was wearing my Nike Pumps with my power-suit.  Yes, it, of course, had shoulder pads.  Anyway, I had a 15 block trek to work every morning and there’s no way I was doing it in heals, so Nike Air-pumps it was.  I was shakin’ my permed hair and my teased bangs down the side-walk when I had to stop at a cross-walk and wait for traffic.  Still rockin’ it as I waited, I noticed one babe-a-licious hunk sitting on a bench across the street.  He was reading the news paper, and he looked good doing it.  He was wearing tight, acid-washed jeans, white sneakers, and what now one might refer to as a “Cosby” sweater.  His hair was feathered, and my heart fluttered for him.

I’m wearin’ my power-suit, having the best hair day ever, and I had my girl Paula with me.  I was feeling confident, so I decide to strut on over toward him. I sit down on the bench with him.  We make eye-contact.  He smiles.  NICE smile.  With my headphones on and music still playin’, I bop my head as a whip out my compact and my lipstick to reapply.  I immediately stop bopping because I realize it’s very difficult to put on lipstick this way.  I glance at him through my compact, angling it at him.  He looks at me and mouths something.  I slap my compact shut and throw it and my lipstick in my bag.  I stop my Walkman and slide my headphones down around my neck.

“What’s that? I’m sorry I didn’t catch what you said.” I point at the Walkman, smile, and shrug my shoulders.

“I said…” he begins to say. “OH MY GOD,” I think to myself, “A Southern accent!”

“…they’re fryin’ Pan Am.”

“What do you mean they’re frying Pan Am?”

“They’re cooked, done for, over and out.”  I melted with the drawl he used in each word, but wait, reality kicks in now.

“Wait.  What?!  Pan Am is one of my biggest clients!”

“Not anymore, they’re not, looks like anyway.  They declared bankruptcy.”

Suddenly, instead of my power-suit making me feel powerful, the shoulder pads weighed down on me heavily.  All at once it felt as though my hair fell flat, my lipstick wasn’t as bright, and neither my spirit nor my sneakers felt very pumped.  I got up from the bench.

“Sorry to have ruined your day Ma’am.”

I don’t turn around, and I don’t respond.  I only think to myself, “What horrible news… what horrible news to be delivered from the lips of such a hunk of a man.” I think the news was softened, though, by the fact that it was delivered in such a soft, Southern accent, which explains why I traded in my Paula Abdul, and am now one of today’s biggest country music fan of all time!

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The BEEF is that for the contest, the story could only be 1000 characters or less! SO, I shortened it into THIS story:

Nike Pumps with my power-suit on, I stopped at the corner. There was a hunk sitting on a bench near me reading the newspaper. He wore acid-washed jeans, white sneakers, and what might now be referred to as a “Cosby” sweater. I sat on the bench bopping my head to the music as I whipped out my compact and lipstick to reapply. He mouths something. “What’s that? I didn’t catch it.” Pointing at my Walkman, I shrug my shoulders. He says with a southern accent, “They’re fryin’ Pan Am.” “What do you mean they’re frying Pan Am?” “They’re done for, over and out.”  I melt with the drawl in each word. Reality kicks in. “What? They’re my biggest client!” “They declared bankruptcy.” My shoulder pads weighed down on me heavily now. It felt as though suddenly my hair fell flat and neither my spirit nor my sneakers felt very pumped. “What horrible news to be delivered from this hunk’s lips.” However, that soft, sweet, southern accent is why I now have a great love for country music.

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So the way you WIN is that you have to get the MOST people to “LIKE” your story on their facebook wall page, found here:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/pages/Paper-Darts-Magazine/122095368617?ref=nf

Help a girl out?  Love you all.

Ruh-Roh

My 23rd birthday anniversary was last Monday on the 12th of October.  It was completely over-shadowed by Columbus Day, and everyone forgot about me.  That’s not true.  I feel bad for Columbus Day because in actuality, quite the opposite occurred.  Sorry Columbus Day, you should probably try to do something a little more exciting than give banks the day off.

My birthday started off in the traditional way–  I ate an entire cake for breakfast. MMM. I had to work on my birthday, so instead of passing out from a sugar coma, I headed out to my car.  My friends had dumped spaghetti with sauce all over my vehicle and arranged the noods (noodles) on the windshield to spell out “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”  JERKS.  I’ll give them points for creativity, but I had italian pigeons peckin’ at my car all day.  At work, I got to spend the day google image searching things like “kitties”, “puppies”, “baby raccoons”, “baby monkeys”, “tiny and cute”, “laughing babies”, “babies in costumes.”   This was my boss’s gift to me, though he didn’t know it.  I just figured he’d be embarrassed that he forgot my birthday and would have wanted to get me something anyway, so I just picked his gift to me myself.  It was perfect.  Though, when writing out my birthday gift thank you cards, I forgot that he didn’t know he had given this gift to me, and I sent him one saying explicitly, “Thank you for letting me spend the entire time at work on my birthday google image searching things like ‘kitties’, ‘puppies’, ‘baby raccoons’, ‘baby monkeys’, ‘tiny and cute’, ‘laughing babies’, ‘babies in costumes.’” Oh well.

After work, I skipped class to allow for my annual birthday nap.  I dreamt that I was the most popular girl in school and dating the quarterback of the football team.  It was horrible.

When I woke up, Swarley was resting on my chest.  He was wearin’ a Charlie Sheen style bowling shirt and tiny  Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses.

Turns out I hadn’t woken up.

Then I woke up.

TO THE BARS! My friends insisted on buying me some kind of shot called a “Scooby Snack” all night.  I regret allowing this.  The next day we all sounded like Casey Kasem and couldn’t tell who was who.  What if instead of having hangovers from drinking too much, you just had to endure sounding like Shaggy??  I’d take it.  I’d take it and I’d run with it straight to Prank Call City.

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When you turn 18, you think you know everything.  You can drive, you can vote, you’re graduating high school– hitting the world hard and fast.  It took me five years of experience and college to realize at age 23 that I know nothing.  Not necessarily NOTHING. I mean, I know some THINGS, some FACTS, ETC.  But everyday this is more and more true, E Pluribus Unum– “Out of many, one.”  I am such a small fraction of the world.  I know, have seen, and have experienced such a tiny fraction of it as well.  There’s so much to take in, to absorb. It’s overwhelming, exciting, and humbling all at once.

Pennies got it right y’all.

Edible Audibles

This morning I played Russian Roulette.

Wikipedia (LOVE YOU) describes Russian Roulette in this way EXACTLY (you can tell because I put it in quotes), “Russian roulette (Russian: Русская рулетка Russkaya ruletka) is a potentially lethal game of chance in which participants place a single round in a revolver, spin the cylinder, place the muzzle against their head and pull the trigger.”

Yeah. Prit-tee-dang (dang)erous…

if you play it with a gun.

I, however, played it with an Egg McMuffin. (Egg and cheese only please!)

The way the egg is cooked for this breakfast sandi, you never know where the gross yolk is going to be.  For those of you who don’t know, the yolk and the egg, overall, takes on the consistency of that of a hard-boiled egg.  To say the least, I’m not a fan of the dang yolk.  Normally, I would check my sandwich and remove the yolk, but this time I forgot.

I FORGOT, and if it had been a bullet, it would have cost me my life!  KA-POW! Eggs and brains everywhere!  I bit the yolk, or the bullet, so to speak, and my whole mouth and morning was ruined.  I should never have unintentionally played such a foolish game with my breakfast. Never again.

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This HAS to have been said before, but if not said, surely felt by others:

THE VENT OF THE DAY:

I cannot express to you the uneasiness I feel when I’m drinking out of a water fountain near one of the bathrooms at school, and then I overhear toilets flushing in the bathroom, and then suddenly the water pressure of the water fountain I’m drinking out of changes. *furrows brow*

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I’d like to go around campus secretly planting tomato seeds anywhere I can within the landscape, hundreds of them.  No one likes tomatoes. OK, SOME FREAKS like tomatoes.  Seriously though, how fun would it be to see the campus completely surrounded by tomatoes?!

The only thing that could make this idea better is if after the tomatoes grew, I went around and glued googlie eyes on them.

**This idea is a joke.  Please, no one go and carry out this idea.  The fact that this is written out here is enough to pin it all on me.  Find a way to pin it all on yourself FIRST.  THEN, you can go git it done. I’ll appreciate from afar.

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Saturday, I laid in bed til 4:00PM.  I was only actually asleep until 10:00AM.  I just laid awake in the quiet of my room.  The only thing that would disturb the quiet is the sound, noise, and conversation emitted by my (five) roommates elsewhere in the house.

Here is a sort of transcript I kept of the things I heard Saturday:

10:25AM: Children laughing. My thoughts– “What the HELL?! We don’t have children?!  …Wait… do I even KNOW for SURE if any of my roommates have kids?? I guess it’s possible.  I mean, I’m not usually here most of the time.  Hmmm.”

11:15AM:   Cell phone conversation. “I swear it was JUST PART of a watermelon…” It trailed off.  I REALLY wish I had heard more of that conversation.

12:02PM:  One of my roommates is singing through the house.  I don’t think she realizes I’m home.  She was doing a SPOT ON Kermit the Frog impression and covering George Michael’s “Father Figure.” AWESOME.

12:08PM:  Same roommate waltzes back through, this time singing “I Want Your Sex.” Inappropriate.

1:17PM:     An old man’s voice inside the house. “Edna! Where’d you put my suspenders?!” I don’t recognize this voice, and then I hear, “OH DANGIT, I’m in the wrong house again!”  EEK.

2:55PM:    A roommate and some of her friends in the living room talking.  “I’m going as Powder for Halloween this year.”  “Lame, like baby-powder??” “No like from the movie Powder! DUH!” “Oh. Cool..”  UH, NOT COOL.

3:37PM:    A couple of the roommates are home.  I hear one yell to the other, “You don’t think Kate would mind if I used the last of her whiskey for this recipe do you?”

One roommate responds, “Nahh, she’s super cool about other people usin’ her stuff.”  Yeah… BUT

Another roommate interjects, “HELL NO! Are you kidding?! Don’t touch Katie’s whiskey!  She needs it to breathe!”

AT LEAST SOMEONE  IN THIS HOUSE KNOWS ME!

3:41PM:   CAT SOUNDS!

I got up at 4:00, like I said.  I feel like I had a pretty productive day for having laid in bed for most of it.  I heard some things I liked, some things that I didn’t, and some things that were said too fast to write down.  I’ll never make it as a stenographer.

Skittle Me This

I saw a video today of a crying sorority girl.  At first I laughed, and I’m sure if you’ve seen it, you probably laughed too.  After my initial reaction, I had one of those ever so unpopular follow-up reactions– I felt bad.  I felt bad because maybe, just maybe there’s a crying sorority girl inside all of us.

PSH.  And then I got over it REAL QUICK and continued my laugh.  OH YOUTUBE.

Here is a short, open letter to crying sorority girls everywhere:

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Dear Sorority Cryers,

Stop letting people videotape you… doing anything.  Unless you’re trying to dominate the internet videowebs, then, by all means, congratulations, we’ve seen you do it ALL.  We’ve seen you topless.  We’ve seen you cry.  OH WAIT, maybe not ALL… We haven’t seen you crying while topless– Someone get on that?

-Pants, Pants, No Pants

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(This is the part where you go, “Jeeze Kate, you’re one to talk– Even your blog name would suggest clothing, clothing, no clothing.”)

You’re right, perhaps in writing and in name there is a little bit of a sorority girl in me afterall. BUT I’m definitely not crying about it.

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Let me interrupt this statement to bring you a more serious statement for a moment:

I’m in love with cream cheese.  We have plans to marry soon.  You’re all invited.  Please don’t tell Voldemort. (He hates cream cheese.) (Oh also, making stereotypes about people isn’t cool.  I’m sure there are sorority girls out there who don’t cry or show their boobs, BUT let’s get real ladies, if you ever expect to get famous… you’re going to have to do one or the other.)

OH COLLEGE HUMOR.  Can I say that? Is that a copyrighted grouping of words?  Maybe I should say OH COLLEGE-STYLE HUMOR.  That makes it my own now right?

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And now, for a short story in honor of my dear friend Jenna for her birthday:

This is the story of how I came to realize that Jenna and I would best friends (forever).  Welcome to high school. Picture this:

Me. 1968 powder-blue Mustang. It was a 289 with a 4-barrell Rodchester and boy-YO did she purrrrr. I’m driving through the parking lot of our high school at the end of the day to head home.  I’ve probably got “Mustang Sally” playing on the radio, and it’s turned down as low as I can get it while still being audible.  I love the song, but haaated when it would come on the radio.  I was so concerned that if people saw me in my car and heard me listening to “Mustang Sally”, they would think I had it on tape and was playing it intentionally to be “cool.”  I promise I wouldn’t think that was cool.  Alright maybe I thought it was a little cool.  SO, I’m driving through the parking lot and I see JENNA.  At the time I had no idea who she was, but I’m at a stand-still with traffic, and I see her walk over to her car.  She’s wearing a hat.  This hat:

She sees me looking at her.  She makes an angry face.  I look away.  I hate when people catch you looking at them.  I like for most people to think I’m not interested in any of them or what they’re doing, so I hate it when someone catches me acting otherwise.  I glance back at Jenna.  She takes off her hat and throws it from across the parking lot.  The hat, I kid you not, goes STRAIGHT INTO MY CAR like a spinning whirl-wind of wonder.  It lands in my lap.  I look up and Jenna’s running at me.  I’m freaking out.  She gets to my window and says, “Give me my hat back.” I almost hand it back to her, and then start to say… AND THEN SHE SLAPS ME ACROSS THE FACE AND TAKES THE HAT.  I’m in shock.  Who the hell does this girl think she is?! She continues to stand there with the hat upside-down in her hands.  She pulls out a giant bag of Skittles and pours it into the hat.  Hat/bowl– Interesting concept.  She takes the skittle-filled hat and slaps in on my head.  The Skittles spill all over me and my car, except for the few that remained in the hat on my head.  Still shocked, I look at her. She pretends to slap me again and then instead leans into whisper, “Taste the rainbow.”  I knew then that we had to be friends.

My face still tingles when I see a rainbow to this day. OH FRIENDS.

Walt’s ‘n’ Crafts

I apologize for the lack of post last week.  On Monday-ish (when I would normally post,) I was visiting an old friend who doesn’t believe in computers, or the internet, or pre-sliced pre-packaged fruit.  His name is Walt, Walt Disney.  Maybe you’ve heard of him??  So this isn’t THAT Walt Disney.  This is a 72-year-old man who believes himself to be Walt Disney.  His real name is… not important.

Walt and I met at a 7/11.  With cups in hand, we both reached for white cherry.  BOOM: FRIENDSHIP SPARK IGNITED.

Walt gave me his card as we both exited the 7/11. (By the way, he paid for my Slurpee: STRAIGHT CLASS.)  The card had exactly three items on it.  One, his “name”: Walt Disney.  Two, the typical mouse-ears style icon. And three, his AIM screen name: WaltzMeLikeAHurricaneTheSequal. (I know what you’re thinking, “KAAATIE, but YOU SAID he doesn’t believe in computers or the internet!” Walt’s an interesting guy in that way. I mean just because I don’t believe in calories, doesn’t mean I don’t eat them. See??)

As you may have guessed, I immediately went home, got online, and added WaltzMeLikeAHurricaneTheSequal to my Buddy List.  He’s online. We start chatting.  Things get awesome fast: We both share a love of white cherry Slurpees, Disney movies, cards, fake mustaches, and we both hate it when people use these –> ;.

This is how our friendship began.  It turned into us meeting weekly at 7/11 for white cherry Slurpees. (Predictable, but charming.)

The week before last, we were having our usual face-to-face when Walt asked me if I’d come pick him up at his home Monday.  Walt lives in one of those communities in which everyone lives in the same building, they all happen to be about the same age (old), meals are provided at the same times everyday, and there’s a big bird-cage for the old birds in the cage to watch actual old birds in a cage. (See what I did there?)  Walt suggested we take a night out on the town, and I agreed.

I went to Walt’s home to pick him up.  I was escorted to his room.  I enter.

“Well hello there! I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention to the time.”

“It’s alright Walt.  No worries.  Are we ready to go?”

He puts down his book.  I glance at it.  He was reading, Inside the Dream: The Personal Story of Walt Disney by Katherine and Richard Greene.

“Walt, would Walt Disney read a book about himself?”

“Absolutely.  Wouldn’t you?”

“A book about myself? or Walt Disney? I suppose both.”

“See. Of course I would read a book about myself. In fact, I’ve read every book about myself.”

I look up at the shelves on the wall.  Sure enough every book (or what seemed like every book) ever associated with Walt Disney was up on those shelves.  I began to look around more.  Disney posters covered the walls, and Disney movies lined more bookshelves.  He was really going for it.  I admire him for that.  Walt had gone into the bathroom, as I sat looking around at his room.  He came out from the bathroom changed.  He had changed into what looked like a maestro’s tux of sorts.  His hair was slicked back, and he had acquired a pointy mustache (drawn one on his face.)  I said not a word.  I told Walt I felt a little under-dressed to say the least, and he told me not to worry about a thing.  I wore a dress, but not of the same caliber as his tux.  We left his building.

I stopped at the nearest 7/11.  An evening with Walt without white-cherry Slurpees would be no evening at all.

Walt directed me to our next location.  We arrived at a mall.  Walt took me to the Disney Store inside the mall.  He pulled from behind the register of the store, a Mickey Mouse costume.  He asked me to put it on, and I obliged.  (He’s an old man and my friend, I obliged damnit.)

We spent the rest of the evening greeting children and parents in the store as Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse.

At the end of the evening, Walt gave me five dollars in quarters and said, “There’s more where that came from if you show up again next week.” Five Bucks?!? Five dollars (in quarters.)  I guess it’s better than nothing, and I wasn’t expecting to get paid to hang out with Walt in the first place, but five bucks to entice me back next week??

“You’re going to have to do better than that.  That suit was hot and itchy.”  Walt flipped an extra quarter into my open hand.  I shrugged and put the change in the pocket of my mouse-pants. He turned around. There were two attractive women waiting for him at the door of the store.  He put his arms around both of them, turned back around to wink at me, and say, “Make sure you fold that suit up nice. It’s a rental!” And then, he left.  What the hell Walt?!

Ah. I made five bucks. Oh well.  I won’t go to that 7/11 anymore, and I won’t see Walt anymore. OH, and I took WaltzMeLikeAHurricaneTheSequal off my Buddy List.  Friends don’t dress their friends up in hot, itchy Mickey Mouse suits and pay them 5 dollars in quarters at the end of the night and then ditch them for two non-mickey-mouse-suited babes.  You just don’t do that.

I kept the pants.  (The big red diaper with the two big white buttons.) I’ve been wearing them around the house.  My roommates are not amused, but I am.

*Here’s to entertaining ourselves!*

St-St-St-Stick That Sp-Sp-Spoon to Your Nose

I woke up this morning with that sick feeling in my stomach.  You know that feeling.  You feel guilty, like maybe you’ve done something real bad, but you’re not awake enough to know what it is, and you don’t want to roll over to find out what it is, and maybe just maybe by not rolling over and going back to sleep, you could avoid the thing entirely.  I believed that.  I went back to sleep.  An hour and a half later, not only did I wake up facing the other way, but also facing an empty can of frosting. I sat up quickly. DUDE.

I SLEPT WITH A CAN OF FROSTING.

I knew things got out of hand last night, but I cant believe I SLEPT WITH A CAN OF FROSTING.  I look around, apparently we used foils– they’re everywhere.  I still feel sick, but less sick knowing that at least we played it safe.  I clean up the foils and head for the bathroom.  When I come out, frosting’s gone.

*WHEW* Relief for a moment, but…

I still feel sick.  Maybe I wouldn’t feel as bad if that frosting had actually belonged to me, or if we had found each other at random, but the thing is… the thing is…

WELL, you see, the thing IS… UMMM that frosting was my roommate’s.  If she ever found out, she’d be pissed, hurt, betrayed by both of us (me and frosting.)

I have to remedy this, before she finds out! I contemplated telling her.  We all make mistakes.  I mean, I’m only human! How could I resist the creamy, sweet temptation of that buttery, sugar spread!? Apparently, I couldn’t, and that’s why I’m here.  I won’t tell her.  She doesn’t have to know.  Telling her would only hurt her, and for no real reason.  It didn’t mean anything.  It was just one night.  It was what it was.  I keep trying to justify my actions, but for what?– To make myself feel better, but it’s not working.  I know what I have to do.

I run to the store.  I head for the Isle de Bake and quickly begin scanning.  I’m searching for the hottest can of frost(ing) this place has to offer.  I’m going to get her frosting so good, so smooth, so mmmyeah that she forgets all about hers.  I find it.  I’m not going to divulge, but let’s say this one was finger-lickin’ good.  (I can only assume.)  Also, it says it’s whipped. What girl doesn’t love a frosting that’s whipped, that will tend to her every need and desire!?! THIS IS THE ONE.

I rush home with the new (the better) frosting.  I bust inside thinking that I’m going to put the frosting where it goes before my roommate ever notices that hers was missing.  I bust inside, like I said.

To my surprise, I find my roommate watching MouseHunt, but that’s not the real surprise.  Not only is she watching MouseHunt, but her face is covered in chocolate frosting!  I walked in as she was licking the last of it off the spoon.  I. CAN’T. BELIEVE. IT.

SHE DIDN’T LEAVE THE SCRUNCHY ON THE DOORKNOB! She just allowed me to walk in on her! SO RUDE!  I would never do that.  I ALWAYS put the scrunchy on the doorknob when I’m… uhh… busy.

I shielded my eyes. “OH. Oh..uhh.. I’m SO sorry.” I ran into my bedroom.

Apparently, she’s found a new frosting on her own. Good for her.

Good for me too.  I spent the rest of the afternoon eating MY new, fancy frosting.  I slipped into a sugar-coma at some point, and woke up hours later facing the wall again, just like this morning, feeling just as sick but mostly from eating too much frosting and from nothing else.  Mmmyeah.

Coolers and Poolers

Last Friday, a dear, dear friend of mine came into town from THE BIG MO (cool-speak for Missouri.)  She and I have been friends since the early days of junior high.  She spent the entire weekend here, and goodness how things have changed from when we were young. (Cue “When You Were Young” by The Killers.)

Allow me to demonstrate:

Typical weekend night during our early years,

Sleepover at one of our houses.  First thing’s always first, homework! We LOVED it.  Homework was done while an upliftingly, delightful chick-flick played in the background.  After homework was finished, we had snax (that’s cool-spell for snacks.)  Then we’d spend the rest of the evening discussing what I had coined as “Operation: Population” where we’d talk of how cool it would be to be popular, or socially adept.  After spending the evening laughing at the ridiculousness of our conversations, we’d go to sleep at about 8:30p.m. We were wild.

So that’s the past.  This is the now. We’re older, and uhhh… smarter, and uhhh… like way cooler.  YEAH.  So I’m all pumped ‘cuz my dear friend’s in town, here’s what up now, y’all:

She calls ON THE PLANE (safety hazard, BUT BREAKING THE RULEZ IZ COOL!), and she tells me, “DUDE, we are hitting HURRICANE HARBOR fast and hard this weekend!”

I say, “HELL YEAH we are! WAIT, dude, aren’t you STILL ON THE PLANE??”

She say, “YEAH, WHAT OF IT?! I’M COOL. REEAL COOL.”

I say, “DEALIO.”

We hang up at the exact same time.  It was AWESOME.

After much anticipation, she’s finally in town.  We’re decked out in our super cool two-piece swimsuits, along with our other two besties (more cool-speak for “best friends,”) and we head out to H-CANE H-BOR.

We arrive at the Harbor de la Hurricane (cue “Hurricane” by Bob Dylan) and they won’t let us into ze place! (Cut “Hurricane” abruptly.) They inform us that the entire place has been rented out.  I demand they tell me what the hell for!

“WHAT THE HELL FOR?!”

“A wedding.”

“Oh. Ummm, I see.” I’m hiding the fact that I’m PISSED.  I’m not only pissed because me and my ladies had made plans to party water-park style, but also because someone had ACTUALLY STOLEN my wedding dream, to be married in The Wave Pool but also, to have the entire wedding party arrive at The Wave Pool by way of The Lazy River.  DAMN.

We all put our cover-ups (moo-moos) back on and head back to the car.

A car pulled up near us, we thought to ask a question like directions or something, but instead a window opened and a cooler’s worth of ice was heaved at us out the window, along with men in bathing-suit-style tuxes yelling, “SLUTZ!”  They sped away.

At first, all of us stand there, silent.  Then we look at each other.  Turns out one of us, I won’t say who, wasn’t wearing anything under her cover-up (moo-moo), which was now revealed due to the wetness caused by the ice.  We all choose to ignore it.

Suddenly it hits me and I tell my ladies, “‘GUYS! Operation: Population’ WORKED!  The four of us are obviously REALLY COOL now, being older, smarter, etc. AND we were just called “SLUTZ!”  How crazy-cool is that?! Popular girls get called sluts all the time! You never hear of quiet, nerdy girls getting called sluts, SOOO it MUST be true! We’re cool and popular! DREAMZ ACHIEVED Y’ALL”  They agreed.

DREAMZ. ACHIEVED. Y’ALL.

Domestic Dealings

Without being aware of it, until recently, I have been contributing to an unhealthy relationship within my household.

I came home one day and my comma key was missing. Some of the other keys looked a little beat up as well.  I wasn’t sure what had happened.  It looked bad, but not enough to worry about anything, I thought.  Surely, this was just an accident.

The next day when I came home, not only was the comma key still missing, but so was my K key and my other Apple key. Now things were getting serious.  The other keys looked a little roughed up too.

I had to say something.  I can’t just ignore this.

“Computer,” I say with concern and sincerity, “What’s happening to you? Why is this happening to you? What’s going on here when I’m gone?”

Computer responded, “Nothing. I fell. I swear.” Computer winces.

Swarley (my cat) emerges from behind Computer.  “What the hell were you doing back there?”

I flip Computer’s screen down to reveal his back.  It’s covered in scratches. Jesus.

Swarley’s been abusing Computer.

I yank Swarley up and set him into a box on Kitchen Table.  I put Desk Lamp over Swarley. Bright lights make all creatures honest, completely and totally honest.

“Swarley, what the HELL is going on here?! Why the hell would you do this to Computer?!”

Swarley’s crying.

“That doesn’t sound like an explanation to me!” I say into the box.

“Because of YOU! I HATE HIM! I HAAATE HIM. I WANT HIM GONE! BECAUSE OF YOUUUU!” Swarley meows out.

“Me? WHAT? But why?!”

“The way you look at him! You’re always playing with him! Laughing with him! Giving him ALL of your attention! What about me?! I have needs too! The jealousy and hate I had  for him because of YOU just built up inside me, and when I figured out that he couldn’t defend himself, it was all too easy.”

I drop to my knees, head in hands.  I can’t believe what I’ve done. This IS my fault.

Everyone’s crying now. Me. Swarley. Computer.

Swarley on his own, hops out of the box and heads to Computer. I thought for sure he was going to lash out at him, possibly worse than anytime before. I think Computer thought so too because he flinched when Swarley stuck his paw out at him. Swarley was looking for a handshake. “I’m sorry Computer. I should never have taken this out on you. I’m SO SO sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” He continues to meow, “Fwendz?” Computer nods. “Fwendz,” Computer generates a meow sounding similar to that of Swarley’s. Computer is so smart.

Now it’s on me. I apologize to them both.  I apologize to Computer for not recognizing that something was wrong and for not acting faster.  I apologize to Swarley for creating the tension, for not giving him as much or more time and love as Computer.  I told him I’d do my best.

And here I am now, I’ve been writing on Computer.  Still missing my keys, but making it work (thanks copy and paste.) And Swarley is in my lap, we’re telling our story together.  (The real deal is that the shrink I made Swarley go to (because he obviously has some anger issues) suggested that the two of us venting out this story with Computer would be an excellent way to begin the healing process in our family. So here we are.)

Family matters, y’all.

(fwendz)

Bread Rises, Free Falls

The value of sliced bread isn’t much when you’re selling it at a yard sale (or yahd sale for those of you on the East Coast.)  To be fair, the value of sliced bread isn’t much at the start anyway.  I’ve never payed more than $2.00 for a loaf of sliced bread, and even at my $2.00, if I’m paying $2.00 for sliced bread, it had better be some damn good (or dang good for those of you in the South) bread.  Approximately $2.00 or less is the nominal value of a loaf of bread these days,  nominal being the value of the bread in terms of dollars (or dallahs for you East Coasters again), not the nom-nom-nom utility value you get out of eating the bread (which may or may not be greater than $2.00 depending on how hungry you are.)

I had a yard (yahd) sale this past weekend.

Let’s talk about tings.  THINGS.  I had lots of things.  Things is things.  Some of my things were for necessity and some of my things were unnecessarily purchased for the use of satisfying want, for adding to the look and feel of my apartment or myself, for the purpose of sitting on my desk and collecting dust because if it hadn’t been there, the dust would have settled on my desk instead, for entertaining my cat, for entertaining me, for creating clutter, fire, and ice.  I had many things for many reasons, but really, for no reason at all.  I don’t place a whole lot of value in things.  I place value in people, relationships, quality, time, energy, etc. I don’t have much value for things, but somehow had allowed myself to collect a plethora of them.

I decided to get rid of all of these tings. THINGS. I don’t need them.  I need a few clothing items (thanks LAW and WEATHER) and I need food, water, and shelter.  I decided to have a yard (yahd) sale, not only to get rid of my collection of things, but also to do an experiment in the way of values.  Here’s how it worked y’all:

Two day yard (yahd) sale,

Day 1: Everything would be priced at it’s sentimental value, the value that if I valued my things, I would value them at, and the value of their utility to me if I really valued them or needed all of these tings. THINGS.

Day 2: Everything would be priced at it’s nominal value.  Dollars and cents yo’s.  The price that most used, pre-warn, pre-sat on, pre-licked, pre-scratched, dust-collected, pre-plugged-in items go for today.

The first day of  my yard (yahd) sale came.  Most things had been priced fairly high because I had looked at them and decided their value based on “what if” this meant a lot to me or I felt like I REALLY needed this.

Day 1, I ended up making $700 dollars selling one thing and one thing only: a small wooden replica of Mount Rushmore, made in Mexico.  I had never been there.  I found it and thought it an amusing piece to add to my desk.  (I have aspirations to one day have my face carved into the side of a mountain as well.) So, I valued the piece at $700, and apparently so did the man who bought it.  The man was wearing a powdered wig (this fact may or may not have to do with anything.)

The second day of the yard (yahd) sale, I repriced everything.  Now all the items were priced at their actual dollar values rather than my own personal values based on sentiment or utility.  This day was fairly lucrative (Though, obviously not as crazy lucrative as the first) (If I ever decide to pursue the spoken rhyme (or rap), I will go by the name, Lucrative.)  I sold nearly everything, everything but the sliced bread.

When the yard (yahd) sale was through, I made myself a sandwich and reflected.  I’ve learned a few things from this: 1. Men with powdered wigs have too much money. (If I ever decide to marry for money, I know where I’m headed, The Powdered Wig Convention.) 2. Apparently sliced bread just don’t sell at a yard (yahd) sale, even if you put a sign by it that says “FREE: Take a slice or the whole thing!” and 3. Apparently I look like the kind of girl that’s going to trick you into taking some bad sliced bread.

also, UM meteor shower! WHAT?! party in the u.s.a. y’all!