Friday, July 22, 2011

I'm old enough to be your mother.

Yesterday I was walking to the grocery store when the driver of a large truck honked his horn and scared the shit out of me.

I stopped in my tracks, excited to see a car accident, when he leaned out the window and gave me a creepy grin and a thumbs up.

There was no car accident. He was honking at ME.

Me? Really? I looked down and assessed my outfit (sweat pants are all that fits me right now!) and took inventory of my face: I haven't donned makeup or done my hair in weeks. (It's scrunch season, remember?)

A few years ago, I would have smiled back and waved like a prom queen, basking in the validation of my single hotness.

Instead I stared back in gaping confusion, wondering if he was playing a mean joke on me, and thinking that I'm probably old enough to be his mother.

When did it become an oddity that people would check me out? I'm not single anymore, but I'm only 27. And that's not THAT it? I guess I could stand to trade in the bermuda shorts for a cute skirt now and again, so I don't embarrass the cats when I take them to the vet.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Amazon thinks I need a therapist.

This is the last time I buy used books on Amazon. They're starting to judge me.

A few months ago my sister gave me a book titled "Codependent No More" from her grad school stash. I scoffed at the title, and wanted to punch her in the face a little for thinking that I was so fucked up that I needed a self-help book.

But I guess she knows better than anyone how fucked up I actually am, because she is my therapist. (I pay her in high fives.)

So I reluctantly began to read it. I sped through it in about a week, and fell in love with the author. This book changed my life. For reals. I was craving more inspiring thoughts, so I decided to go on Amazon to buy some more love.

Obvs, the used books were cheaper, so I went nuts and got three (Hello, they were 22 cents apiece! Plus shipping, of course.) Two of the books arrived judgment-free. The third came with this business card taped to the cover:

I'm not sure who Margaret is or how she knows about my Amazon purchase. Does she run the bookstore that I made the purchase from? Is she psychic? I'm not sure why she thinks I would choose a therapist based out of Chicago, since I am in New York. What must she think of my book choice that she took the bold step to adhere her business card to the cover with packing tape like a billboard for crazy people? Thanks for the concern about my self-help book shopping bonanza, Margaret, but I prefer my reading material sans propaganda.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Is there a breeze in here?

Whoever designed the haute couture "gowns" (and I use the term loosely) that you're destined to adorn during your doctor's visit should be tarred and feathered. Ladies, I know you get where I'm coming from on this one.

Every gown is different--some slip over your head, with giant slits up the side. Some are shaped like a coat, with sleeves, completely open in the front. The worst of them all? They tie at the neck and split down the front, leaving everything that you want to cover exposed. And a dainty little bow tied at your throat, mocking the loss of your dignity.

You sit on the table, paper crunching under your butt, legs crossed, tucking in the corners of your paper garment in a pathetically desperate attempt to retain a shred of privacy.

Then, you're supposed to act like a grown up in front of a complete stranger in a white coat, talking about the weather, or sports, or cheeseburgers, while they poke and prod in the places you least enjoy being poked and prodded. In your dainty paper gown, that has now lost all integrity as an item of clothing.

You'd think it would get easier as you get older. But no matter how many years go by, I find myself curled in the same pseudo-fetal position, feeling as awkward as one of those dreams where you find yourself running down the school hallway naked.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Smug cable bastards with their Britney headsets

I got the cable bill this month and it went up $60. SIXTY EFFING DOLLARS. ARE YOU KIDDING ME! We don't even use the home phone. In fact, it's the spam number I give out when I enter contests and shiz.

So needless to say, I was pretty irate when I got the letter in the mail.

I'm an independent woman, okay? Really, I am. I've lived by myself, I fully support myself, and I even know how to use a hammer. (Sortof.)

But there are just some things that I have to admit I REALLY love having a bf for. Besides the obvious things, like coaching me when my car is on fire.

K graciously offered to call for me, and I eagerly accepted. I HATE negotiating with those smug bastards in their Britney headsets, tiptoeing around the condescending tones.

Seriously... I know your job sucks, but go eff yourself.


K called and was able to successfully (and very calmly, might I add--calmer than I was actually hoping for. I wanted ANGER, people!) negotiate our bill down from a $60 increase to a $6 increase. SCORE!

So yeah, I really appreciate when he does that shiz for me. Because I just hate calling. I get all sweaty and red and pissed, and tomato face just does NOT look good on me.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Douchebag Kids

K and I were at the drive in the other day, parked next to a frazzled mom in a convertible with three kids under the age of 8 crawling on the outside of her Sebring like ants on a Hostess cupcake. You could see the exasperation in her face, and as her daughter blew a monkey face on the outside of her windshield, she turned as red as a beet and yelled: "GET YOUR ASS IN THIS CAR OR WE ARE GOING HOME!"

She had absolutely lost it.

Which made me think (and suddenly become very nervous) about having kids.

I have QUESTIONS. And concerns.

Like... what if your kid grows up to be someone you don't even LIKE? Mean, obnoxious, racist, or homophobic?? I'd like to believe that your child takes on your own open-hearted views, but in truth, though they are your spawn, they are separate human beings who develop their own views based on their own life experiences.

To be completely honest, I think I am just too damn selfish right now to have kids. There are a multitude of things I want to do before I devote my life to the creation and upbringing of another, and I'm just not ready to give them up yet. Like laying on the couch for nine hours straight watching Lifetime Original Movies and eating a gallon of icecream. Or reading my book uninterrupted. Or even watching what I want on TV, not Spongebob Squarepants. And based on my friend's post about the perils of grocery shopping with 2 kids under 2, I now have a newfound appreciation for going to the Price Chopper all by myself.

I often think that I'm not old enough to take care of MYSELF; how will I take charge of another human?

I know that when the time comes, I'll be totally psyched. K and I both WANT kids, and I know it will be awesome when it happens.

I just hope they aren't douchebags.

Does anybody else worry about things like this??

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Useless Boating Crap: Session 2

Last night, we dove into more useless boating crap that you must know so you can be a ship captain. I almost failed the unit 5 exam because I was so busy taking screenshots and cracking up at the hilarious illustrations.

Here are some of the highlights:

Smiling and wearing hats on a boat is strictly forbidden.
If a guy in a cutoff T offers you a beer, give him a high five.

Don't throw your cans and keys in the water...

... or this will happen to you.

Black men with six arms can do jumping jacks.

Thanks for identifying that green button!

Oh NOES! That boat is on fire.

What else would you use to check for gas vapors?

Our ample-busomed professor of boating.
As a completely unrelated and inappropriate sidenote, we determined that the host of tonight's exam has ginormous machine-gun jumblies and was probably a porn star before she did boating videos. I can't wait for the day she hands me my boat captain diploma.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Police Blotter Wednesday: Don't Drink and Hoverround

June 20, 4:50pm 
Police responded to the rear lot of the high school to assist EMS with a report of an injured man. The patrol officer found a man who said he crashed his motorized cart after drinking six or seven beers. The man was taken to the hospital for treatment of a laceration to his right knee and others to his upper arms.

What did we learn today, kiddies? You can take your Hoverround to the Grand Canyon, but you best not be driving it drunk.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Boating School: Crap that you need to know if you want to stay out of dolphin jail.

We got a BOAT! An honest-to-Jesus, real life boat. With an engine and EVERYTHING.

So it's fourth of July weekend and we decided we wanted to take that boat out. We drove to a nearby lake to check out the boat launch facilities, and stopped in our tracks when we read the sign that said: Y'ALL NEED TO GO TO SCHOOL. NOW.

Boating school. Where we have to learn to be boat drivers.

What?? How fucking hard can it be? Green means go. Don't run over swimmers. There's not even any brakes on that mutha.

But we had to, so we did. We spent our 2 year anniversary sitting side-by-side in the upstairs office on separate computers, completing an obnoxious online boaters safety course. And making inappropriate comments about round bottom hulls and cockpits.

And it was HILARIOUS, y'all. Lots of detailed illustrations and exaggerated instances designed to scare the crap out of you:

Thank you for clarifying how the accident occurs.
Circle of Death!! NOOOO.

Gorgeous detailed illustrations and interactive capabilities.

Jesus, Jimmy--why did you go boating with your jeans on??

We still have two hours left in the course to finish tonight. I'm sure it will be chock full of exciting information and illustrations. But after we're done, we can totally be captains of ships and shit.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Glass Orb of Death

What's your worst nightmare? Aside from dying in a firey plane crash or being buried alive, mine is a (previously) irrational fear of ceiling fans falling and chopping me up into sushi while I sleep.

I came THISCLOSE to my worst fear this morning.

It was an otherwise ordinary morning. I woke up excited for the long holiday weekend, I popped out of my side of the bed to a hot new jam from NKOTBSB and hopped in the shower. K was still sleeping; he's on 4 10-hour shifts this week.

I was getting dressed in our walk-in closet when I heard the jarring and unmistakeable crash of glass smashing on a hard surface.

I dashed out of the closet (thatswhatshesaid) to see what the hell had happened.

K sat up in bed, wide-eyed and blinking. Apparently, the fan had spun so rapidly that it knocked loose one of the glass globes encasing the light bulbs, causing it to fall and smash K in the foot... and THEN smash to bits and pieces on the wooden stool at the foot of the bed.

I've never seen him wake so instantly.

What a way to start your day, huh? Half an hour later, we had cleaned up the glass and vacuumed the floor, all the while trying to wrangle the 3 cats away from the shards of glass, and all I could think was how grateful that he hadn't been hurt, that I hadn't been in the bed TOO, and that one of our kitties hadn't gotten annihilated by the glass orb hurdling through the air.

I'm not sure I'll ever sleep with the fan on again.