Bro-Dude the Hulk is one cool bro-dude.

I went to Georgia for work Wednesday and Thursday.  On the flight back to Chicago, I got a window seat.  (Yay!)  In the seat next to me was a hugely burly bro-dude.  (Nooo!)

To give you an idea, he looked rather like the soap guys from Hyperbole and a Half.  Except in a hot pink polo and a "vintage" baseball hat.

His muscles kind of hulked into my personal space, so it was a pretty cozy flight.  He was also super-embarrassed about it and not unintelligent, so we were cool.  I decided if our knees were going to touch even when we were both trying hard to not let our knees touch, I may as well just relax. 

Travelling can make for strange knee-fellows.

All was well until the woman sitting behind me asked her seatmate the distance from the airport to the suburb where I live.  I turned, apologized for accidentally overhearing, and answered.  She looked at me like I was wearing a horse mask and had invited her into my rusty, windowless white van.

I lurched around and tried to fall out the bottom of the plane, but that doesn't even work in really terrible romance novels.

Bro-Dude the Hulk leaned over.

"If you hadn't answered her, I would have."

Muscle on, Bro-Dude, my friend.  Muscle on.

There are things you'd think I'd remember...

I've been told I can get a little feisty.  And I fight flat-out dirty.  I'm small and arthritic, so I've got to strike quickly and efficiently.

So I bite.

Not strangers or whatever, just friends and the Dude, whenever we get to wrestling.  (Actual wrestling--get your mind out of the gutter.)

The Dude commented on this penchant of mine last week.

"Yeah," I said, laughing.  "Remember that time I missed and accidentally bit your nipple?"

"Uh, that wasn't me..."

Whose nipple did I bite?!

Highlights of a Weekend Survived

A quick recap:

• Two weddings
• Two funerals
• One weekend

The Dude described me to a friend as "born and pasteurized in Wisconsin."

Bringing back-up ballet flats for after everyone has had a few drinks and no one cares anymore has saved my feet.

It was still too many hours in heels.

The hotel suite we shared with some friends had a fireplace.  It was a glass fireplace.  Through which you could see one bed from the other.

It's possible for a drinking straw to taste terrible.

Some guy asked a friend from South Africa if she spoke "that clicky language."  (Because, you know, she came from that general continent area.)  I feel this was more than enough grounds to punch him in the teeth.

My friend from South Africa is a much nicer person than I am.

She can also wear high heels for like seven consecutive hours without showing any visible signs of wanting to kill herself.

I have now been introduced to everyone the Dude has met.  Ever.

Of course, I'll still need to be re-introduced next time, because I can hardly remember a name when I meet people one at a time, much less by the dozen.

Having heard more stories from the Dude's family about what he was like as a child, I now understand why some species eat their young.  (Though I guess he turned out mostly okay in the end...)

I managed to get through three sit-down meals in nice clothing without spilling anything or dribbling food down my chin.



I'm counting this one a success.

A Series of Unfortunate Eve--Wait. That title's already taken.

I went camping with the Dude, the dogs, and my folks.  This is not the unfortunate part.

Dad set the Dude on fire.  (But only a little bit.)  (Edit:  I've been told by a not-unbiased party that this should actually read:  Hero Dad saved the Dude's life moments before total combustion.)

Blink, the blind and deaf dog--It's awesome.  He grins and waves his head like Ray Charles, only without the piano.--almost, while on a walk with Dad and the Dude, floated away down the river.  Whoops!

Via

The moral of the story is:  I'm never leaving the Dude alone with the Dad again.  They're trouble.

Also fun:  I forgot to rinse the conditioner out of my hair this morning.  You know that scene in There's Something About Mary?

Via

Yeah.  It wasn't anything like that, actually.

Life Lessons

Yesterday I learned:

• To never wear sandals in a dog-friendly park.
• That dating a nurse is totally helpful in determining whether or not you need stitches.
• And that it's generally considered inappropriate to make Weekend at Bernie's jokes at a funeral.

These three lessons are fortunately not related.

I'm Getting a Fashion Update. Or Downdate. Or Something.

It wasn't a fanny pack (bum bag for you British folks, and please pardon my language).  I swear to god it wasn't a fanny pack.

But it was a belt with a pocket in it that had just enough room for your ID and maybe one key.  And it was flat!  Flat does not equal fanny pack, okay???  I just didn't want to deal with a purse at a theme park, and the belt was totally hidden beneath my t-shirt.  So just stop maligning my dignity right there.  I am unquestionably dignified at all times.

Needless to say, I took a lot of flak for it.  But then I discovered these:

Via

It's a chatelaine, and women in the 18th century hung them from their belts to carry their necessities.  Pretty, right?  So I took everthing out of my purse, and I'm going to make one for my necessities.

Classy, right?


(True:  Last weekend I saw a dude unashamedly rocking a fanny pack.  But he also was wearing short shorts and work boots with the shoelaces artistically untied, so I don't know if that's a sign the fanny pack is making a comeback or if he was just a hipster prepared for the zombie apocalypse.)

If This Doesn't End Up On At Least One Refrigerator, I'll Be Very Disappointed In Humanity.

I heard a joke I really liked, so I illustrated it.  It goes like this:

A giraffe walks into a bar and says,



This is original artwork.  I know you're very tempted to steal it and try to sell this fine-quality piece of artworkit on Ebay for gobs of money, but do try to restrain yourself. 

 Get it???

Okay, on second look, I think maybe this illustration needs a bit of explanation.  The orange stuff is liquor.  The things in the bartender's hand is glassware.  The giraffe has hooves or toes or something, not high heels.  The giraffe is the spotted thing.  That's not a tumor on it's face, that's its lower jaw.  Because, you know, the giraffe is talking.  So his mouth is open. 

You're welcome.  I'm here all week.


(True:  This is probably the best thing I've ever drawn.)

I used to weep drunkenly into my keyboard, obviously.

In the mirror, no one stares back.
Eyes and lips are drawn, lids and cheeks colored.
And so a face appears from nothing.
The mannequin, costumed, proceeds to the door
And out into a world, peopled.
Chatter can be heard--syllables crash and twinge and jab.
The sounds wash over each other and away
With the smog of the evening commute,
Leaving only traces of grime on unoccupied bus stop benches.
In the night-place, there are box-sounds and can-laughter,
And dinner, which is the same.
Finally, the face and day are scrubbed away--
Only naked honesty remains.
In the mirror, no one stares back.



Don't be alarmed.  I am perfectly (I almost wrote "pervertly," and that's pretty accurate, too) fine.  I just sort of stumbled upon/remembered a bunch of things I wrote in/immediately after college.*  Some of it isn't half-bad.  Some of it is pretty awful.  Some is super-dee-duper angsty.  And most of it was written mid-drunk.

Dear readers, let me introduce you to me, five years ago...



A Downer Commons Lamentation

"Why ever did I think
It'd be a good idea to sink
My teeth into that fried
Wildebeastie?" I cried.
Now my belly's a-churning
And my mouth is a-burning.
I think I'll just lay down and croak.
Do you have Sprite?  No, not Coke.
Alkaseltzer or Tums?
When I'm gone, tell my chums
That I'll miss them.

Ode to Vicks

You smell real nice,

And make me tingle.

My sticky chest

Keeps me single.

But it's hard to mind

When you're around, dear,

Since you've the talent to

Make my nasal passages clear.

Some people don't like you,

But I really don't get it:

There's nothing better

When I'm feeling like shit.

To sum up, quickly:

When you're looking sickly

There're no excuses

Not to use this.

Rather than toaster and tub

Try Vicks Vapo-Rub!

*Some of this may or may not be posted online in an abandoned blog.  No, I'm not linking to it.  By "some of it is pretty awful" I mean, good lord, almost all of it.

(True:  It is probably terrible that now-me finds past-me pretty freaking funny.  If, you know, hungover.)

The Three Things I Need Before I Can Achieve Self-Actualization

A K-9 poodle skirt.

I need more time to
Write really awful haikus
To inflict on you.

To be Batman more often.

Villains, beware.


(True:  This is my face.  Hi, Internet!  Please don't do anything weird with my face.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Summer Camp

When I was a kid, I went to summer camp.  For three weeks every year, I spent my days swimming, sailing, horseback riding, and making really terrible crafts.  Every moment, I was with at least eight other girls my age--a summer experience unheard of on a farm.

I had a lot of fun.  I made a lot of memories.  I did a lot of lip-synching to "Barbie Girl."*

****

I'm picking Prada and Stink up from my folks' house this weekend.  What with Kentucky and Mexico trips in two consecutive weeks, it seemed wisest to have my parents petsit rather than kennel Prada, who finds kennels stressful instead of fun. 

My parents have a large yard ringed by woods and two dogs of their own.  Prada's been able to play offleash outside everyday for weeks.  With other dogs who know her, and have learned to play a bit more gently with her (so as not to knock her over/piss her off).  Her days end in happy exhaustion. 

****

I wonder if my parents felt guilty about dropping me off and leaving me for several weeks, or if they worried that I was having more fun and learning more than I could hope to the rest of the summer at home.  If they did, I could assure them that as fun as camp was, it was great to come home to my family and relax.

And that's why I refuse to feel guilty about leaving Prada and bringing her back home.  I'm just going to assume that she has a great time while she's there and still misses me, even though I do live in a hot, cramped apartment with no yard and no other dogs for her to play with.  In the end, I just hope that it matters most that I've missed her too.

A Little Early for Mother's Day, But...

To my mom, who had to co-raise my snarky ass:


Remember when you got me a psych evaluation because I had an imaginary friend?  And the doctor told you that you had you play along, even when I said my sister had locked her in the house and we had to turn the car around and get her?

Sorry about that.

Remember that time I knocked all my teeth out and my sister told you Dad had taken me into town to get dentures?

Sorry about that.

Remember how there were never bandaids, paper towels, or scotch tape in the house?

Sorry about that.

Remember how I spilled a whole bottle of glue on the floor just a few weeks after you'd installed new carpet in my bedroom, and it never came out?

Yeah...  sorry about that too.

Remember that time I asked if people made babies the same way rabbits made babies (you know, the boy rabbit screamed and fell off), and you still didn't laugh?

I'd say sorry, but that was pretty freaking funny, now that I think about it.


Thanks for being the mom who played along.  Who didn't panic.  Who didn't ask.  Who understood it was an accident.  Who always answered my incessant and sometimes embarrassing questions seriously, so as not to embarrass me.  Because good lord, I was an obnoxious kid.

You rock.

A Poetry Slam Isn't Actually Supposed To Be Violent.

It's been a while since I've done a poetry post, and I know you, dear reader, have been desperately awaiting more of my lyrical wit...


I cooked food last night.
Dude had to eat some of it.
He is a good sport.


I went to Target
but forgot the Mt. Dew.
Life is terrible.


Trolling on Facebook.
My friends' vacation photos
make me Sad Panda.


I am wearing very bright shoes.
With multi-various hues.
When I put them on my feet
My toes tap a quick beat.
Happy sometimes comes in twos.


I once went to a poetry slam
Where everybody bitched out The Man
Though very sonorous,
I found listening onerous.
I just didn't give a tinker's damn.


(True:  It's shocking I haven't won an award for this shit yet.)

Just Say No--to Scissors

Don't run with scissors.

I'm pretty sure it's a warning exactly nobody takes seriously.  I mean, sure, children probably should avoid the motion + sharp objects equation, but we grown ups ought to be able to handle it, right?  As long as we aren't simultaneously making stabby motions with them?

Not me.  At least, I assume not--I haven't actually had a run-in with scissors yet.  But last week, I split my thumbnail smack down the middle with an apple slicer.  Two weeks ago I took a chunk out of my index finger when I was chopping vegetables and missed.  I have a nasty scar on the knobby bit of my wrist from when I juggled a razor in the shower.

If scissors are a gateway cutting tool, I've skipped straight to the hard stuff.


(True:  Super glue is a useful tool to have in one's first aid kit.)

A First-Person Narrative

I'm eating hummus for lunch and I just stumbled across the terrifying words "Honey Boo Boo."

So there went my idea for today's post.  It must not have been very important.

So, here are some thoughts on my day:

Someone has been sitting on my chair.  Someone adjusted my chair.  My feet don't touch the floor!  Who has been sitting in my chair???  Jerk.

Someone once told me the hydraulics in swivel chairs are powerful enough that a malfunction could shoot the base all the way through your butt. 

If this is a promotion, why am I sitting at the short bus desk?  I had a bigger desk in third grade, and that had a flip top for storage.  This one just has a cartoon that says, "Weenie Hut Jr's."

At what point is it reasonable to ask for my borrowed pen back?  It's been twenty minutes.  And that pen is perfectly broken in.  Is the borrower at lunch?  Maybe I could steal it back.  Crap.  It's not in plain sight and there are too many people around for me to rifle through drawers.



(True:  No, this is not a real post.  I'd sell my left foot--that's my ass-kicking foot--for a nap.  And I'd be open to negotiation.)

It's Been Nice Knowing You, But Now I'm Headed toward Certain Doom.

Pray for me.  If you are certified, please include Last Rites.  (That's something you have to be certified for, right?)

Tonight, I am learning how to play WhirlyBall. 




This can only end in tears.  The last time I was in a bumper anything, I was about seven.  My grandparents had taken my cousing, my sister, and me to Little Ammericka, and my sister conned me into going on the bumper boats with her, even though the engines were unhealthily (yes, that's a word, because I say so and so does Merriam-Webster) loud.  It was just the two of us, because my cousins chose that opportune moment to disappear.  My boat's engine cut out, and My Sister the Lawyer bumped my boat over and over while I was stranded until I cried.  It took the operator about six hours (okay, probably about fifteen minutes) to figure out how to retrieve me.

Ah, the memories.

Now, I'll be adding a sports element to an activity that's already cutthroat, and I'm not exactly the most coordinated person...

Take this morning.

This morning, I decided to wear a pencil skirt.  It's sort of sunny out, and I sometimes like to pretend it's spring.  Everything went swimmingly until I tripped on my skirt in the bathroom.  So naturally I tore the seam, which runs down the back of my skirt

And of course the hole is exactly ass-level.

If this is karma, I must have been Genghis Khan in a past life.



(True:  It's a good thing I'm wearing tights.)

Let Me Show You the Door

Not that I'm trying to get rid of you.  You people crazy enough to read this silly, self-absorbed little blog of mine are my favorite people of all.  (And the rest are hardly worth my time.)

What I mean by the title is rather more literal.  Though not completely literal, because I never remember to take photos of the wtf in my life.  So I'll have to tell you instead.

On Monday evening, it was windy.  Really windy.  Windy enough that it tore my storm door out.  Not off its hinges, mind you--well and truly out of the wall, frame and all. 

My landlord loves me.


(True:  I am a wimpy, wimpy weakling.  So I couldn't move the broken door out of the way.  So yesterday I took my trash out by removing the storm door window and climbing through.  I am a class act.)

Life-Threateners

Yesterday I scored two Lifesavers from HR.  Having a bit of a sweet-tooth as I do, I was a bit excited.  And so, when I ran into coworker M, I waved the candies in his direction.  And okay, maybe I was kind of exuberant about it.

But I swear I never meant for one of the candies to be hurled toward M's face, narrowly missing and exploding against the wall, scattering shard of the sweetest shrapnel all over the hallway.

The worst part is, the one that didn't explode/nearly brain my coworker?  Yeah, it was watermelon-flavored.  And if that isn't the saddest story you've ever heard, I just don't want to live in this world anymore.


(True:  The best Lifesaver flavor is, without a doubt, Butter Rum.  More candy should be booze-flavored and workplace-friendly.  But I guess pineapple is pretty good, too.)

Because PRIORITIES.

I went home last weekend to visit my folks.

I leave some clean clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes there (let's not talk about the books, okay?), because I pretty frequently forget to pack stuff. 

This last weekend, it worked the other way:  I forgot half my stuff there when I came back to Chicago.

Things I forgot:

• Mascara
• Deodorant
• Toothbrush

Things I did not forget:

• The new book my mom is lending me

(True:  No need to worry.  SuperTarget and priority mail saved the day, and I don't believe I descended into smelly-kiddom.)

The Banjo of Science

I recently watched a documentary called The Science of Sex Appeal.  It was all right, I guess, though there was a lot more sex appeal than science, and it was completely heteronormative.  But, I'm going to assume what science there was wasn't wrong, just dramatized and a very small portion of the whole.

So, the smell of sweat happens when perspiration mixes with the bacteria growing on your skin.  Each person's immune system, which dictates what bacteria are allowed to grow, is different.  Ergo, each person's sweat smells a little different.

And if we are driven to procreate with the best possible match, that person would be one who has a very different immune system from our own, so that any offspring would be likely to have a strong immune system that can battle the most bad things.

Apparently, this is why siblings tend to smell really bad to each other--their immune systems are from the same gene pool, and it's a subconscious way for our brains to tell us, "Dear god, not that one!  Not that one!!!!"

Now, why the hell am I telling you this?

My family is extensive and convoluted, to say the least, and much of it is located in and around my hometown.  I have second and third cousins probably into the hundreds, and I don't know the bulk of them.  I went to a funeral in my hometown this weekend for someone who was not related to me, and I ended up sitting next to a man who was well-groomed and well-dressed--clearly hygiene was not an issue here.  And the way he smelled like to had my eyes watering.

Yep, probably a cousin.


(True:  This is why, when I lived at home, I had a "don't date within the county" rule.  Too many chances to accidentally turn up at the same family reunion.)

Mad Motor Skillz, Yo. I've Got Them.

While bowling this weekend with friends, we got to talking about how in the US, we count on our fingers starting with our index finger, while in Europe, they start with their thumb.  It was just a curious, one-off observation until C tried to demonstrate the number four, European-style.

I am twenty-mumblemumble years old, and I should probably not find someone not being able to move their ring and pinkie fingers independently as funny as I do.

I my defence, he looked like a velociraptor, and velociraptors are always funny.  They are even funnier when they try to redeem themselves by doing a Vulcan salute (i.e., a Spock hand).  (I had no redeeming to do.  Not only can I fold my pinkie down solo, I can also snap my fingers on one hand in the shape of a triangle while simultaneously snapping the shape of an L with my other hand.  With a high-demand talent like that, it's a shock I'm not filthy rich.)

Also, I discovered that some people are totally incapable of not checking out a fellow bowler's butt.

I am not one of those people.

After bowling (and barbecue!  Sweet, sweet barbecue...), we hit downtown for drinks and karaoke.  It's been a while since I've been to a bar in a college town.  So it was something of a revelation to get hit on by a guy calling himself "Rhino" who opened with, "How old are you?  Are you way too old for me?" 


(True:  Try moving your right foot in a clockwise circle.  Now draw a six in the air.  Your foot just changed direction and also you look very silly.)