| Wherein My Ma Masters the G-Chat And Sounds Like English Is Her Second Language, Which It Isn't. |
I'm working on the second half of the story about when I got butt-punched, but for now, I just wanted to share. Indulge me, and gaze upon the future as I reveal what I am destined to become in a quick 30 years...
Susan: i am so frustrated! I came early 1 1/2 hours! today to meet with a student who was late getting here, and now all my last period students either have someplace else they need to be or they left school early for a dr. appointment-without telling me. and I made arrangements to stay after school to work with a kid on a paper because i didn't know where everyone would be last period, so instead of being done at2:00. i will be here till 4:30. which is a lot of difference for a teacher whose subject is not respected anyway as i was told by one of the other teachers the other day! rant, rant, rant Susan: oh look you are not there. all my diatribe goes unread, probably the best that way any how. well, cheers then. love you. oh you are here Susan: good news is i get paid today
Susan: you are the besr kid best me: bessr than anyone else the besrest! Susan: dont make fun of mommy when she is ranting but really, who is besrer than you? me: nobody that's all i am saying Susan: i concur come home i need someome who makes me lasugh - even if it is at myself or laugh Susan: what did you tell them?what kind of pictures? tell them after you talked to them you thopught they were leaving so you made plans me: the next weekend is ladybug's bachelorette party i'm going to try to not take the whole weekend off Susan: way too many fun things to do on your calender. you should try being unpopular, it frees up a lot of time me: that will happen when i live in st louis and have no friends Susan: you will have me!!!!! i will show you how to sit on the couch and watch reruns. you will catch on. theres a learning curve. but you know, i'm a teacher me: thank goodness you're here! Susan: you will still have your friends though , you know and we will lausgh at all the besr things that happen Susan: yes yes besr times ahead Susan: sometimes if you take a long time to respond i start to do something else and then i get distracted, and i forget to come back to the email me: it isn't an email it's an IM an Instant Message me: i was helping the nurses with something Susan: you are so important me: that's what i tell people, at any rate Susan: do they believe you? because your brother and i totally embrace that ideology me: haha it works better at home Susan: well as I've learned from my recent review of works such as 1984, it is easier to indoctrinate small groups, who then help support the truths for the mass consumption Susan: don't let me keep you from your work any longer. I'll sign off now. you have a nice evening, nice chatting with you. me: you too talk to you later, ma love you Susan: i love you baby girl besr baby girl ever. Labels: family |
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| Weird Shit I Done Did For Money #2 |
So, you all know that I don't keep secrets from you. The reason for this full disclosure is two fold. 1) I feel the only justification for having a life as plagued by indignity as mine is the fact that I get to share it with other people, and 2) I absolutely canNOT keep my shame to myself. Physically incapable. My mouth and fingers betray me on a consistent basis. Which is why I am going to share this tale with you. At work, those of us involved in clinical research (like m'self) have to attend these big training meetings with OTHER people involved in clinical research. They're called Researcher's Network Luncheons or something. I don't know. I don't normally pay attention to anything but the unlimited Diet Coke and dark chocolate they offer. Plus free pens. After about, oh, a bazillion of these things, you start to recognize some of the same faces over and over. You even start to make a friendly acquaintance or two. Oh, look over there. It's Loud Eater. Ha ha, hope we don't sit next to him again. Woo! Couldn't hear the speaker that time! I think his jaw is motorized. I wonder if he's that loud during oral?" Truth Serum, if you're getting up anyway, will you get me another diet coke? And throw this one away. The trash can is behind Obviously Diabetic Lady. Wait till she's checking her sugars and then toss it over her head...oh, you're not getting up? Um. Well. Would you? Come on. Mama's thirsty." And so on. A few months ago, I arrived late (shocking) to one of these shindigs and had to grab an aisle seat on the other side of the room from my colleagues. Talk about cranky. All the dark chocolate was gone, and the Diet Cokes were all the way on the other side. What pissy luck. As if reading my thoughts, the girl next to me murmurs "Do you think we can pass a note across the room requesting diet cokes?" "Bitch, you psychic?" And voila- our friendship was born. My new friend was named Daniella, and she turned out to be a PA in the dermatology department. She was a bit older than me, married, and newer to the research world. Once, on a break, we were bitching about the difficulty of recruiting subjects to participate in certain studies, and we ended up promising one another that should we have a study for which the other one was duly suited, we'd allow ourselves to be recruited. Of fucking course, she never qualified for my studies which had inclusion criteria like this:
Male
Between the ages of 50 and 80
Undergoing triple bypass surgery
Half-Irish, Half-French (Irench)
Weird facial moles
Allergic to poppyseeds
Born in months in which you could eat oysters
Et cetera.
But she had studies with inclusion criteria like this:
Human
Has some skin
Guess whose favor got called in first?
So she called me one day and said "I have this study, it pays $200, it invol-"
"Sign me the fuck up."
"Wow, really? Great! Oh my gosh, Meg. THANK YOU. This is so fun!"
We agreed that I'd take a long lunch the following day and go to her office to officially give an informed consent, plus also look at her vacation pictures.
I told my best work friend that I was doing a study in dermatology. "On what?" she asked. "Two hundred dollars." "No, what do you have to do?" "Hm? Oh. I don't know. Daniella will tell me."
"If it were me, I'd want to know what the study was."
"She said they don't do drug studies, so what's the worst it could be? Some moisturizer or something? Rubbing leaves on my face? It will be fine. It only takes 90 minutes. Two hundred dollars in 90 minutes! This is awesome."
I had her pretty much talked in to signing up with me, but she said that she wanted to wait until after I'd done it just in case. Coward!
When I got to Daniella's office, she ushered me into a backroom, chatting at me a mile a minute. We sat down and I insisted on seeing the pictures while signing the consent form, which I neglected to read in any detail. Mistake number one. I skimmed it, and here is what I took away from that review: Blah blah skin blah blah stress dermatology, stressed skin blah blah two hours, stressful interview, blah blah, review of skin sample, blah blah $200! It seemed that they were going to look at my skin before and after some sort of "stressful interview" to see if there were changes in it as a result of aforementioned stress. Of course, I took this as a personal challenge. "Go ahead, fuckers. Stress me out. I dare you." In between pictures and gossip, Daniella explained the premise of the study. "So you'll be here for a few hours, and we'll do the skin bi- oh my gosh, look at this one, the monkeys come RIGHT UP TO YOU- and then you wait around and then you go in, and have this fake interview, I think they make you pretend to be applying for a job or something, and then we-- oh god, I look so fat in this picture! I was just so bloated, really-- and then we take another sample and then you're done, okay?" I barely looked at the paper long enough to sign it, and then made her go back to the pictures where her husband had just caught a fish and was clearly terrified of it. IMPORTANT NOTE
Do not do what I did. If you, or your family, ever agree to be involved in any medical research, no matter how trivial it may sound, you are entitled to a fully informed consent meaning that you get as much time as you need to read through it and you can make whomever is consenting you explain every word of every sentence if you wanted to. Also, if you ever change your mind you can always withdraw from the study. Always always. Don't be afraid to do that. I am just a big old dumbass and far too trusting. Just so we're clear. Don't be like me.
Now that that's out of the way, I can tell you what happened next. Daniella told me that after the skin sample, I was going to go into a room with three "stony-faced" doctors who were going to pretend to interview me for a job selling tires. And even though I didn't know very much about tires, she said, I was going to have to do my best and be interviewed for 10 minutes straight, and I could never stop the interview, I had to keep going.
Hoo-fucking-ray.
I'm not even kidding. If there is anything that trips my trigger more than being encouraged to lie and make shit up in public in a room full of people who are FORCED to listen to me for an extended period of time, I don't know what it is. I mean, friends? I have a 120K degree in PRETENDING. I was a theatre major. This was going to rock. I could not flipping wait.
Daniella had, at this point, noticed my shit-eating grin, and asked if I was uncomfortable. I said "Nope. I'm so ready. Bring it on." She rolled her eyes and speculated that the "interviewers" were not going to know what hit them. "This is probably going to get us busted," she said, "but I think it might be worth it."
See? See why we're friends?
Daniella left the room briefly while I texted everyone, letting them know what was about to happen to me. By the time she got back, my phone was pinging itself stupid with all the replies, most of which were something along the lines of "Are you sure you thought this through?" "Two hundred dollars!" I'd reply. I was so merry in my texting and speculating that it took me a minute to notice the surgical-looking kit Daniella had set on the table in her office.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Oh, that's for the sample."
It was a vaguely more intimidating collection of crap than the Q-tip and slide I was expecting to see. It looked, to me at the moment, like this:
And I suddenly became nervous.
"What is that shit?" I asked, trying to seem casual.
"This is the local anesthetic, this is for the biopsy, and this is to stitch you up!"
"Stitch me up?"
"Stitch you up!" Daniella said, less perky this time.
"I'm getting stitches?"
"Well, just one. Or two. At most."
"Um. Oh."
"At each sample site."
"OH. How many are there?"
"Um. Four?"
"Four? Four stitches? What kind of biopsy?"
"Punch biopsy."
"Where, on my face? That is awful!"
"No...Meg. Did you read the consent?"
"No, I was looking at somebody's vacation pictures."
"Oh. Oh, right. I'm sorry. I should have told you. This study consists of four samples- from the biopsies- from your, um. From your butt."
"Oh, ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!" I gorilla-laughed, because I couldn't think of anything else to do. "Wow! I really should have read that consent!"
"Do you still want to do this? Because if you do, you're going to have to take off your pants now..."
And that is where I will leave you. What do you think happened next? Go ahead. Guess. I'm already working on part 2.
Labels: $$$, help my brain is weird, lying, moneymaking schemes, on the job |
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| i'm in trouble |
I really wanted to tell you how deadly screwed I am, or will be, in T minus 2 weeks.
So my darling, beautiful, loving, treasured friend Fudge is getting married. I feel sorry for you all that you don't know her. I really do. She's a doll of a person. She's a fancy pants lawyer in Chicago, as is her fiance, the charming Air Bud. I enjoy them both so much and I cannot wait for the delight that will be their wedding.
Save one little thing.
So Fudge texted me the other day saying "Would you be willing to do a reading at our wedding?"
I wrote back "I'd be honored. Thank you so much!"
She said "How do you feel about the Bible?" which made me laugh, because I mostly wanted to say "It's not going to burst into flames when I touch it, if that's what you're worried about."
Instead, I just said "I feel great about it," or something to that effect. I walked around cocky as all hell for a few days before it occurred to me to actually research the passage I'll be reading. I was nervous then, because what if it was one of those "Women, submit to your man" passages of which the King James Version is so fond? I'd have to throw up mid-reading. And we already know what my friends would do.
But never fear. Here is the passage:
I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.
Lovely, right?
Now I will post it again, bolding the parts that are going to make me dissolve into a puddle of shame-inducing giggles and cause me to become excommunicated from my friendfamily.
I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.
Quite the girth on the ole man-god, eh? Careful with the grasping, though. It's possible to go overboard.
When I read it out loud to the Suzer, she said "So basically, Jesus comes in from both sides and hits it in the middle?"
Forever and ever, amen.Labels: friends, sex |
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| two stories about third grade and this friend i had- part two |
hi hi hi.
sorry, we're back.
so, last we spoke, i was telling you of my friend justin jordan and the light he brought into my life. the other story about him that i NEEDED you to know concerns science class.
specifically, this story is about the life cycle of the butterfly.
so, we were in science class and our teacher was having us take turns reading aloud from the science book. Science class occurred in "learning pods" and we were broken into groups of 4 or 5 and the desks were put into little clusters with everyone facing each other. This particular day, Justin Jordan was sitting directly across from me. This will become important later.
So we're reading, we're reading...blah blah blah caterpillars blah blah, I take my turn and read to everyone the passages about the larvae stage, someone else goes, and then it is Justin Jordan's turn.
This particular day was one of those heady, weighty, perfumed summer afternoons that one can only experience at a certain proximity to the Mississippi river valley just before it starts to think about dumping itself into the Gulf of Mexico. My grade school was not air-conditioned, and during this mid afternoon class heads were definitely drooping in humidity-induced catatonic states.
Justin began to read, plodding along, informing us about some Big Changes in the life of the butterfly. I was watching his face, because (and I know this is weird), I've always liked to watch people read aloud. It's interesting to me to see how engaged they become facially, to see them see the words, and sometimes to witness a line making sense half a second after it leaves their lips- a mini delay that can be the source of delightful amusement or irony for me. (" 'DON'T YELL AT ME,' Gerard said quietly. Oh. Oh, oops. 'Don't yell at me,' Gerard said quietly." )
It's not as creepy as it sounds. Promise.
Anyway, so it could stand to reason that I was the most alert kid in the class at this point (AND MAYBE OFTEN AS I AM KIND OF HIGH-STRUNG), which I say just to provide myself a decent excuse for what happened next.
"When the larvae are ready to go on to the next step in the life cycle, they enter a phase known as the pupa."
Except JJ did not say pupa like you or I or the teacher would choose to say it. We'd say it like this: PYEW-pah.
He said: POO-pah.
Which we all know is not right.
He knew it wasn't right too, so he quickly tried to correct himself. Over and over and over.
"POO-pah. No, wait. poo-PAH. No no no, wait. POOOOH-pah. NO...WAIT. POOPAH. NO! Waaaiiiit...Poo.Pah. Nowait!"
Friends, this went on for some time. During the first few movements of the staccato symphony of Poopah and Nowait, I began to giggle. Unfortunately, Justin Jordan is many things, but a quitter is not one of them. He persevered.
"Poopah. No-wait. Poopah. NOWAIT. Poopah. No- waiiiitt..."
My giggling became more intense. I tried to muffle it by coughing, which only served to make it sound like I was barking. Oddly enough, nobody else was having a problem controlling themselves. Sure, one or two kids smirked or let out a subdued and mature "ha." But I was experiencing a Vesuvius of shame-tinted laughter that was threatening to elicit sympathetic reactions throughout my body.
"Poopah? Poo-OO-pah? No. Wait. POOPAH. No, nowait."
My teacher was not amused with my semi-muffled wet gasping horsey snorts and circled back around the learning pods to stand behind me. I sank lower in my seat, trying to hide my spasmodic face behind our bulky and battered textbooks. Unfortunately, my hands were shaking so much that the book rattled on the desk, further drawing attention to my plight.
"Meagan," said my teacher. "Do you need to go sit out in the hall?"
Sitting out in the hall was pretty intense punishment in our grade. There was the isolation factor, as you were cut off from all the good stuff that was happening in class and with your friends, plus it was SO UNGODLY BORING THAT YOU WANTED TO DIE. Yours truly found herself in the hall regularly. Probably about twice a week. Sometimes less, sometimes more.
If you were still so bad that you required further chastisement after sitting out in the hall, you had to go down to the principal's office. Not much happened there- you sat in another chair in front of the secretary while you were waiting for the principal to come and talk to you. It was even more boring because there was very little to see or do in front of the secretary- when you were in the hall outside of your classroom you could look at posters, or stretch your legs, or whatever. Once I napped.
I had ended up in the principal's office before too- most recently because when I'd last been sent into the hall, I'd seen it coming and had the foresight to tuck a book under my shirt so I'd have something to do out there. I got so caught, and had to walk myself to the principal's office, and all she'd said was "What book was it?" and I said "Nancy Drew" and she said "WHICH ONE I LOVE NANCY DREW?!" and I said "The one where she lives with the Amish people! And Bess gets hit on the head! And there's a witch tree!" and we chatted for a bit longer then it was time to go home.
Anyway, I was no stranger to the hall. So when my teacher asked a question clearly designed to shame me in to behaving, I instead leaped at the opportunity to escape the situation.
"You know, I think I really do need to sit in the hall," I said, excusing myself.
"POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOpah," said Justin Jordan woefully, clearly upset that I was leaving. I snorted like an asthmatic water buffalo and lurched into the door, my swan song of incapacitating laughter finally, blessedly laid to rest.
I wandered out into the hall and sat on the ground. It was immediately boring. It was also hot hot hot, and since I was sitting all curled up pretzel-style, I got some awkward knee-pit sweats right away. The water fountain outside our classroom door was gross, inevitably warm and filmy with gum over the spout. Such is the way of things in grade school.
I knew there was another water fountain way way down the hall, and I debated with myself about whether or not I could run super fast to that fountain, slurp down some refreshing water, give my kneepits a dainty splash, and run back before my teacher came out to check on me. A clock would have been helpful here, but alas- details like time are only important to less adventurous girls.
I didn't really want to go to the principal's office again, since I'd been so recently, and I was sure the punishment was going to be far more severe this time. (First trip the principal's office = book club. Second trip = lose a finger. Or something. I was sure of it.) But the more I thought about that water, the more I realized that truly, the only thing I've ever wanted in the whole world was cool refreshing delicious life giving water and if I didn't get any right now, I would certainly die and OH MY GOD, THE THIRST! I AM PARCHED. NOBODY HAS EVER BEEN THIS THIRSTY EVERRRRRR FUCKITI'MGOING!
I took off, pumping my arms like only a little girl who faints after she runs the mile can.*
I reached the fountain, practically took a bath in it, and then ran back to my classroom to find everyone lined up outside, ready to head to art class. My body went on autopilot, because of the panic you see, and I didn't stop running, just ran to the end of the line and jumped into place, thinking that if I quieted my breathing and stood very still they'd think I had been there the whole time. Idiots.
Obviously, that didn't happen, and my peers turned around to stare at me- red-faced, panting, and soaked. My teacher walked to the end of the line, asked where I had been, and then told me to go walk myself to the principal's office for running around "playing" while I was supposed to be sitting in the hall. She didn't have time to do it herself. Everyone else needed to be at art class.
I turned to walk away, a little sad because I had to miss art class, and while I was by no means a child prodigy in the visual arts, I always had a good time making things that required a lot of explanation later. Just as I was about to round the corner away from my class, I heard my friend Justin Jordan cry out "Pooooooooooooooooppahhhhhhhh!" and broke out into giggles once again.
So worth it.
*I am not that delicate. It was just really, really hot where I grew up. And I consistently exercise poor judgment when it comes to competition and running in the heat. To this day, in fact!
Labels: childhood, help my brain is weird, memories |
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| Who likes stains?? |
So tomorrow, to help celebrate the resurrection of the mister jesus, I will be traveling to New England to spend time with Dr Dawg, the Suzer, and the Suzer's family. Know who else lives in that part of the world?
This guy.
See, if I had a twin who was a boy and older than me, and, um, married to a vet and was raised on an entirely different continent and - hooboy, this is getting complex- um, and maybe we didn't actually LOOK like twins...
Fuck it. We're both slobs, okay? That's the deal. Walking disasters with a penchant for well-intentioned but imminently doomed social awkwardness/indelible stains.
I am going to meet TK and his lovely wife!! This is the best Easter ever!Labels: accidents, blogs, friends |
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| Entre'acte |
I know, I'm delaying again.
But it's because she buttered me up and then asked me to guest post. I'm a sucker for flattery, so I went ahead and did it.
Here it is. It's about FACTS, because I'm nothing if not a journalist at heart.Labels: blogs |
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| Intermission because this just happened. |
So at work for the past week or so, I've been eyeing a young man who is tall and goofy and kind and well-traveled and completely uninterested in the narcissistic and self-obsessed world of the New York Doctor. He doesn't fit in and he's a nerd and he doesn't care. And that, my friends, is a breath of fresh air where I work.
In any case, things were going well- teasy, flirty, well-intentioned machinations culminating in some really good conversations and sheepish smiles. "Perhaps this young man will ask me me out," I thought. "I mean, perhaps not. But what if he did? That would be nice."
Then an unassuming little e-mail arrived in my inbox. My heart sank.
if ure bored lets have a drink sometime b4 u escape away to ure adventures and ure new life
I showed it to Kelsi. "Is that from a man?" she asked. "Yes. A big man. Of many years of age." I confirmed. "Well, if ure bored, u could grab a drink. Mebbe he is smrt," she wrote. "And just hiding it from you. Trying not to blind you with brilliance."
Mission accomplished, sport.
I think I'll still get a drink with him, because he is nice and he is interesting and all of those things I said up there, and I'm trying not to be such a judgmental bitch all the time, but still. You guys. It gave me great pause.
Back to poop in the next post, promise.
PS- He's so tall that if we had babies they'd be the most average-sized children in the world. Because that's how genetics work. Trust me, I work in a hospital. I know these things.
Labels: i'm kind of a jerk, on the job |
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| Two stories about third grade and this friend I had- part one |
This started off as one post but now it's two, because I yammer on like the lady with all the cat litter in line at the drug store, and I didn't want to overwhelm you.
So, here is part one. Okay? Thanks, muffin.
1) Wherein God made my friend be lame
When I was in third grade, education was doled out in Units. You had your Pioneer Unit, your Butterfly Unit, your 50 States Unit, and so on. The unit that left the most indelible impression in my memory was the Dinosaur Unit. It was a pretty sweet one.
Basically, we picked a dinosaur to study for three weeks. During the course of that unit, you were to prepare several reports on your Dino's life cycle, habits, extinction, etc. I chose the Stegosaurus. Cliche, I know. On our final day of the unit, I presented several projects and reproductions and dioramas I had done on Steggy, and brought in Stegosaurus-themed baked goods that my mom had helped me make (we used peanuts and chocolate chips for the spines). We all even got to make t-shirts of our dinosaurs and wear them on that special last day.
It basically ruled.
Well, it ruled for most of us.
One of my good third grade friends was named Justin Jordan. He had a mother named Jordan Justin. They were hip like that. Justin Jordan and I got along super well- we perfected the art of covert note-passing, we were instant partners on any project, and we were the Wallball Team champs for the third grade. An immaculate child himself, he also was responsible for telling me when I had dirt on my face (which was always). I was a shitshow even then, you see.
Justin was a Jehovah's Witness. At the time, the Jehovah's Witnesses did not believe in the existence of the dinosaurs. My understanding is that they do now, though only within certain contexts, timelines, and segregated from anything evolutionary. Whatever. This post is not about the J-Dubs and their beliefs, so don't e-mail me being all "They thought the dinos ate themselves to death! How about how they don't get no berfdays!?!?!? WHAT ABOUT BLOOD TRANSFUSIONS?" because that's not the point. The point is that he and his mom had only two names between them.
No, really, here's the deal. When we were doing our Dinosaur Unit, Justin was not allowed to choose a dinosaur on which to report, feature on a t-shirt, nor with which to conduct a fictitious interview.*
He could participate in the Unit, because the alternative was twiddling his thumbs for weeks on end, but poor Justin Jordan had to focus his research on:
The Beaver.
No joke. Sad little lamb. I felt so badly for him. He knew it was going to suck. He dreaded every moment of it, and would stare longingly over my shoulder as I put the final touches on my Stegosaurus- A Spiny Hero poster. "Um, hey," I'd say, trying to be supportive. "That tail looks really, uh, realistic. That's a good beaver tail, right there." "Thanks. I traced it from the encyclopedia."
At the end of our Unit, when all of the projects were proudly displayed around the halls and we ran around like fools in our too-big bulk-pack homemade t-shirts, high on sugar from T-Rex Nuggets and Pterodactyl Egg Treats, Mrs. Justin made Justin pose under his beaver picture for minutes on end, dejectedly showing the camera his "Hey, I'm A Beaver" book that he made.
The highlight of the Unit, for me at least, came when Justin presented his report on the beaver. At the end, he announced he had a treat for everyone. A beaver treat, he exclaimed. His mother murmured to mine that she didn't know he'd done that.
Justin walked up and down the rows of students, handing out fun size Snickers bars. "Beaver turd?" he asked, ever the flight attendant concerned with the comfort of his passengers/fellow students. "Beaver turd? Beaver turd? Sure, you can take two." By the time Justin got to my row, I had already dissolved into a helpless puddle of giggles. His motions took on a slower, more deliberate, almost theatrical quality. "Beeeaaavvverrr turrrrrrrd? BEEEEEEEAVVVVVVERRRR TURRRRRD?" He got to the kid right in front of me, offered him a treat, and turned to me.
I had buried my face in my arms and was quaking with terrifying church laugh fearjoy. I felt him loom over me, and my giggles got worse, bordering on seizure-like. I could hear my mother hissing my name behind me, which only made me lose control faster. I'm pretty sure I was drooling.
I dared to peek up, and there stood Justin, bag of unwrapped poop-themed treats in front of him. An evil little glint in his eye, he bowed low and said "I got you this beaver doody. Please eat it all."
Well, that's all she wrote. I was down for the count. Sure, some of the other kids were laughing a little, but unfortunately I was the only one whose composure had completely disintegrated. I don't know why this is- perhaps I was the only one mature enough to perceive his comedic genius. Or perhaps I'm a big old childish predictable a-hole who will laugh at poop jokes until I am dead and buried, and even then I plan on Laughing From the Grave while I haunt people.
*Actual question from my fictitious interview- "Steggy, what did it feel like when you burned up while you were becoming extinct?" "Hot." "Did you wear sunscreen?" "No. But I should have." "I always do. Always."Labels: childhood, memories, potty humor |
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| You scratch my back, I'll throw a snowball at yours |
After all the Oscar live-blogging, which I am wholly unqualified to do, I debated live-blogging the broadcast of A Raisin in the Sun starring P Diddy and Phylicia Rashad that I am watching right now. Then I got embarrassed about my nerdiness and decided against it. So you get this.
I got inspired the other day and started going through my stuff because there is too much of it. I save a lot of things. I am looking, right now, at some items whose need to be saved is questionable at best. They include:
- a Post-It brand sticky note that came with some CDs someone burned for me oh, three years ago. It says "Enjoy!"
- countless address labels from The Humane Society, Bide A Wee, the Nature Conservancy, and both my high school and college alumnae associations
- blank birthday cards that I buy because they make me laugh and then I manage to lose them before the intended party's actual birthday and then I find them but by then it is too late, they've already had the birthday so then I convince myself that I can TOTALLY hold on to them for another 50 weeks which we should all know by now is a total impossibility
- a pretty glass bottle because - boy oh boy!- it's pretty. and I planned to fill it with something at some point
- supplies for Birch Camp Heartland that I have started compiling already because I'm obsessed with camp and people are wonderful and give me things all year long for the kids
- a lovely wedding invitation from a wedding two years ago (Ed. note- fuck it, even i realize how idiotic that is. I just threw it out. Thanks, blog.)
- thank you notes. i have oodles of thank you notes (blank ones. as in, i have a lot of thanking to do)
- antique luncheon set that i picked up at an estate sale, even though I don't have room for it nor do I currently host luncheons, but GOD DAMMIT, IT IS SO PRECIOUS
- bridesmaid dresses. out the wazoo. wahzoo? whazoo? wazew. oiseau.
- Bad Idea Shoes
- dust. apparently i also enjoy collecting dust. it is gross in here.
- pens from pharmaceutical companies. but they're so nice! such nice, nice pens!
- a lot of pictures drawn for me by a lot of children in a lot of different countries
There's more, but I had to stop because I was depressing myself. In any case, it's not that I'm a hoarder. I fear becoming one, actually. But a lot of the stuff that is hanging around my house is there just because I've stopped noticing it or I feel guilty throwing it out, or I have forgotten that I am the one to whom it belongs.
In any case, the result of this ridiculousness is that I have too much crap. I am determined to get rid of most of it before I move. I have relatively few attachments to clothing, so I started there. After an hour or so- it would have been faster but I had to stop every now and again to yell at the TV like a crazy person- I had a couple of piles of things for donation and garbage.
I sorted and bagged everything, scooped it up, and took off up the road for my local little thrift/resale shop.
A word about this place: I love it. Love it. Over the past four years, this little thrift shop has kept me in glassware, reading material, CostumesNOutfits, sweaters, filler wardrobe pieces, etc. It's a great little store, and it really fills a need in my neighborhood. As such, I try to donate gently used things to them whenever I can. It's staffed by some charming and helpful men hailing mostly from various West African countries, and if I speak French at the check-out I get a discount. They're super nice. So I was pleased to be able to drop off some stuff to them- they're always really grateful- that they could maybe sell. Or burn. Whatever.
I gave them the bag, went to the bank, ran to the market, and went to the gym before heading back home. I was feeling pretty good- it had been a long but productive day.
I walked into my room and started taking off my clothes so that I could jump in the shower when I saw something that made me pause mid-strip.
One of the bags of clothes I'd donated was in the middle of the floor.
"How the fuck did that happen?" I said out loud, my voice muffled by a rather nasty sports bra entanglement.
I just stared at it with the bemused and befuddled expression one gets when confronted with a physical impossibility. It did not make sense for the bag of clothing I had carried ten blocks and placed into the hands of another person to now be inside my (formerly) locked house.
I sat down and looked at the bag, and considered the options.
- I hadn't really taken the bag up there. This I knew to be untrue, as I distinctly remembered struggling with gym bag, bag of clothes, coffee cup, and keys while talking on the phone. So, option number one was out.
- I hadn't actually donated it. Also untrue. I had chatted with the thrift shop guys when dropping it off. I remembered telling them that I had a new roommate and that I would send her in there. (Kelsi, go in there.) And I certainly didn't carry it back home.
- Kelsi had stopped by the thrift shop of her own volition, discovered that I had donated things, decided that I didn't actually MEAN to do that, collected my things for me and returned them to my room. Then hid in the closet or something, because I hadn't seen her in our not-large apartment. Guys, I really considered this. It seemed a little plausible. That's how confused I was. But I knew it to be unlikely because she didn't know what I'd donated, she'd never do that because she's not a crazy person, and she was at work anyway. So.
I was truly lost. The disclaimer here is that I've been working 7 days a week for a lot of weeks in a row, so I'm a bit tired and as such my decision-making integrity has been somewhat compromised (and I'm breaking out, but that is less important), so I'm sure that a well-rested person with more than one lonely braincell rolling around upstairs would have figured this shit out faster, but there you go.
Anyway.
I got in the shower, still confused as to how my attempt at a decent deed ended up causing me so much bewilderment. It wasn't until I was back in my room, putting on some lotion while staring at the bag, that I had a realization which caused me to yelp and squeeze lavender-scented emollient on my bedspread.
4. I had not actually donated the clothes. True, I had bagged everything up and tied it and carried it all the way over to the shop, given them the bag, and gone on my merry way, but the bag was not full of clothing.
Ladies and gentlemen, being the benevolent soul that I am, I donated my garbage to the less fortunate.
I had placed both the clothes for donation AND the trash I was finding in garbage bags and I guess, in my hustle-and-bustle, I had somehow scooped up the garbage garbage instead of the clothes garbage and handed it lovingly to my thrift store friends. The items to be donated remained in my room.
I called the Suzer and her first response was "What are you going to bake them?" You see, that is how we make amends in my world. We bake I'm Sorry items.
"I made you an I'm Sorry I Broke Your VCR pie."
"Would you like these I'm Sorry I Snapped Your Phone In Two (I Mean Really, Though, Who Would Have Thought That Possible? So Flimsy, Right?) brownies?"
And of course, the legendary
"Here is an I'm Sorry I Took A Shit In Front of You cheesecake."
I told the Suzer I wasn't sure what I should make for them, so she suggested lemon bars. "Everyone likes lemon bars," was her rationale.
Kelsi got home a short while later and I filled her in on my faux pas. "Kitchen sink cookies?" she said.
"I don't think the joke would translate well." I tried to get her to go in to the store and buy back my trash under the guise of pretending to be a Trash Enthusiast but she was reticent to say the least.
I still haven't baked them anything, which means, of course, that I haven't gone in there yet either. I am not sure what to say when I do go in. "Hey! Do you guys still have my trash? Whooo! Sorry about that one!"
or
"How much did you guys get for that, um, antique...ah...vintage...crap I gave you earlier? Lots of money? No need to thank me."
Mostly what I want to do is to run by while screaming "I AM SO SORRY I GAVE YOU GARBAGE IT WASN'T ON PURPOSE AND I CERTAINLY DIDN'T MEAN ANYTHING BY IT SORRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"
Would that work?
Help.Labels: accidents, i'm kind of a jerk |
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
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