sex, lies, and chocolate

Whenever I pay for something in cash, I think to myself, "I need to save my ones, those are going to come in handy someday." This is not true, but my brain hasn't yet realized that. As a result, I periodically end up with millions of ones (ok, ten ones) and one twenty, at which point I think, "I need to save that twenty, it's going to come in handy someday." This is the situation I ended up in today, when I went downstairs with NiceBoss for lunch.

Henceforth and thencetwixt, I paid for my $8.something meal with a buttload of ones. FoodGuy, who yesterday complimented my newly dyed hair and I think suspected me of trying to draw his attention to it by leaning over to scratch an itch on my leg, laughed on the inside (I could tell) and suggestively asked, "Where'd you get all those ones?"

I realized that he was insinuating I was a stripper, but didn't trust my natural inclination to go with the joke and thus encourage him, so I just said, "Change." I'm actually kind of proud of myself for resisting a self-deprecating joke. It's pretty much the first time ever.

At least he didn't come right out and say I was a stripper, which is better than my botany teacher from last year.

Speaking of my botany teacher and chocolate-I didn't tell you about the chocolate yet? My bad. I left work early today because of hideous cramps-I'm telling you, they were fugly-and the accountant told me to get a heating pad and eat chocolate. I laughed, because, c'mon, chocolate for cramps? She was serious, though, and was shocked that neither the receptionist nor I had ever heard of that. She yelled out, "Get this girl some chocolate!" and passed me some Hershey's Kisses. What an angel. I then used her words as an excuse to go buy two chocolate bars on the way home. I was willing to give this "chocolate" idea a try, and then another try if need be. And then I'd have an excuse in case my parents saw me eating candy: "GOD, it's MEDICINE! You're supposed to be a doctor, don't you know ANYTHING?"

Now, speaking of my botany teacher and chocolate... Somebody was giving a presentation on the benefits of chocolate in the class, and she had brought in a bag of chocolate for everyone to share, which incidentally made me temporarily forgive her for all of her disgustingly anti-capitalist hippie ways. She brought up that the Aztecs or some other people from a while ago thought that chocolate had erectile-enhancing properties, so their emperor/king/whatever would feast on it before a sexxxy night with his ladies. After she said this, BotanyTeacher sat up excitedly, looked around the room, and asked me to pass him the bag. (And yes, I had the chocolate--hello, free chocolate! My friend and I were the only ones who seemed to appreciate this so it stayed with us the entire class.)

Attack of the Parenthes((()())))()()AAAAHHHH)))

Last weekend I went out to dinner on South Beach with Friend 1 and Friend 2. (Like Thing 1 and Thing 2, only I can't call them that because apparently it "dehumanizes people" or something.) We ate at some Asian fusion place, so naturally I ordered 3 bowls of miso soup. I like miso soup as much as vampires don't like wooden stakes through the heart. (That means I really like miso soup.) After dinner, we walked to Friend 1's car (conveniently located next to adult video store Gaydar's "Rear Entrance") to put more money in the meter so we could par-taaaaay all night long (i.e. go to the Starbucks with Hear Music). Friend 2 was talking to her boyfriend on the phone, who was warning us about not giggling (in case men took that as a sign we were eminently rape-able) and walking through the streets (in case cars took that as a sign we were eminently run-over-able). As we all laughed at his paranoia, a car backed up into a truck. Hard. Five feet in front of us. A truck that was parked right next to Friend 1's car. We stared in shock (dumbass! and lord, that was loud! and egads, what if he had hit us! eek! loud noise! crash! red glass! other words!). The (stupid) driver got out to look at the lights he had completely smashed on the truck. That pacified us-at least he was going to leave a note, not just run off like that poopyhead who fucked up my sister's car (coughcough).

Oooor not. (OOOOOR YES?) (No.) When we had finally worn ourselves out with all that exciting coffee-buying and cd-cover-looking-at-ness (?), we walked back to Friend 1's car to find that DriverMan had not left a note, had not swept the broken glass out from the middle of the parking lot, had, in fact, done nothing to own up to what he did to someone else's vehickel. How dare he! (cough.)

Love

Cripple: you're so gay
Cripple: and by gay i mean rapist
Dropout!: can't i be both?
Dropout!: because i am
Cripple: no
Cripple: gays don't rape women
Cripple: (not that i am one)
Cripple: (a woman)
Dropout!: if the raper is a woman then she does
Dropout!: gay woman raper
Dropout!: raping women
Dropout!: sounds good
Cripple: women are never gay
Cripple: and you aren't a woman
Dropout!: BUT I HAVE A PENIS

Is in the Air

Today I wanted lunch. I went downstairs to the cafeteria. The security guard told me it had closed early that day. We sort of started talking as I walked to the elevator. I thought it was over when I got distracted by something else and turned away from him (I have the attention span of an ADD cat). Then I tripped and almost crashed into the elevator door. I turned around and he was staring at me and laughing. Smooth.

Gag, Spoon

CuteBossWife sent CuteBoss a CuteCookieBouquet, and at first I pretended to ignore the symbol of my true love's fidelity to that whore, but then I got hungry and ate a cookie. It was so good that it was like eating a really good brownie, except it was a cookie. Filled with love. Gross.

I also accidentally wore pink to work, forgetting what day it was. With all this heart-shaped-cookie-eating and pink-clothes-wearing, people are going to start thinking I have feelings or something. Double gross.

Strange, I Do Like Soup

I was listening to a commercial about Campbell's soup when the cheery announcer lady asked me how she could make the perfect chicken noodle soup. I answered with a surprising and sudden amount of bile: "I don't know, how about not being a stupid hobag?"

I don't know where that came from.

Jew!

Brunch with mom's father this morning.

[talking about sitting in the same waiting room with Billy Joel]
Zayda: As soon as he signed in, everyone was fawning all over him, [high voice] "Oooooh, Billy Joel, come on in," while I'm sitting there like a hunk of... (I assume he was going to finish that thought with something like "chopped liver," but he never got around to it.) We do have something in common, though: the prostate.

Zayda: He's Jewish, you know. Billy Joel. Jewish.
Mom: Jewish? Really? Are you sure about that? I thought he was Italian.

So This Is How People Act?

My father's parents came over for dinner tonight. I felt a little uncomfortable after the following conversational tidbits:

[about a Brazilian painter we know]
Mom: "He fired everyone in the gallery."
Dad: "Almost everyone. [He fixes me with a serious look] He kept two Latins."

[about the quality of Walmarts pants v. Brooks Brothers pants]
Grandpa: "The only difference is which Oriental makes them."

[continuing the pants argument]
Dad: Well, it's not the fabric, but the stitching, the quality of the seams-it'll last longer. But who knows how long you're going to last? [Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa all laugh uproariously. I blink.]

I Have Officially Conquered My Body

There I was, sitting at my computer, numbing my tired, tired brain with endless games of solitaire, when my right leg abruptly leapt up and banged itself against my push-in-pull-out-able keyboard holder thingy (which isn't very useful, considering I have a laptop, but gosh darn it if there isn't a keyboard sitting there, attached to nothing, and looking as if it could've been made in the Stone Age, which is really quite an achievement when you consider how primitive the rest of their technology was at the time). The drawer, as I will incorrectly call the holder thing, banged in with great force, resulting in a loud BANG. This resulted in me being shocked. Why had that happened?

Then I remembered that I had been banging my fist into my right thigh for quite some time, and on the last go-around, I had banged a little too far south, setting off what I shall call "a reflexive knee muscle action." I laughed at myself, then I really laughed at myself, and then I banged my fist into my thigh again, testing out whether reflexes actually exist. They do, and they sure are funny. I kept doing this for a full 5 minutes, alternating legs, moving from thigh to direct-knee contact, trying out different positions, and laughing so hard I had to lay my head down on the desk and gasp for air at one point. Then it stopped working. My reflexive knee muscle action wasn't happening. I had made my body immune to reflexes! Whooo! I'm just like Gene Wilder in the beginning of Young Frankenstein, where he blocks Old Guy's reflexes with a near-deadly clamp around his neck, except without the killer clamp. That sounds cool, though, I think I might go get one...

To sum up, I get greatly amused by trivialities that a 4 year old would get bored of after a few seconds and know Mel Brooks' movies a little too well. Oh, and yeah, I conquered my body. HIGH FIVE!

Stupid "TAB" Tag

1. Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you”.

2. People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly.

1. I hear music in my head constantly. Whatever is the last song I listen to before going to work or going to sleep is the song I sing repeatedly all day or all night. It can get irritating.

1. Whenever music plays, whether for real or in my head, I move my muscles in tune with the music. My calf or bicep flexes to the beat, or maybe my pinkie toe. I'm usually good at hiding it-in public my pinkie gets a big workout-but one time I was listening to headphones and falling asleep on a couch at my boarding school, and I forgot I was doing it. My friend got worried and told me that she thought there was something wrong with my arms. I got embarrassed and mumbled, "No, that's just something I do..."

2. I can't eat a Hershey's Kiss all at once. I bite into one at least 3 times. When I see people pop them whole into their mouths, I wonder how they can handle it.

3. I have a penis. His name is Thor. He smells of rich mahogany.

4. I like kid's toys more than is normal for someone my age. My Slinky, for example, went with me everywhere when I was at school. And by school, I of course mean college.

5. I watch Friday Night Lights, I was a cheerleader in middle school, I've even played in informal pick-up games, and I still have no freaking clue how anything in football works. This might not be weirdness as much as it is stupidity.

6. I am epically bad at unstapling things.

P.S. My lovely crippled friend reminded me of something that should have been included in here-on a first date last year, I carried around a football. See, an hour before I left, I told a friend about my planned excursion, and he joked that I should bring along the football I was holding (I told you I sort of play football sometimes). Since I take every joke too far, I decided, hey, why not? When we walked into the moderately fancy restaurant, the seater stared and blinked at the pigskin tucked under the arm carrying my pink purse. I considered asking for a third chair for it, and maybe call it Monty, but c'mon, I do have some dignity.

Sweeeet.

I'm living at home. My sister is not. She has a car. I do not. Cogito ergo sum*, I've co-opted her car. Last week I sort of drove it into the wall of our garage and scratched the front side up real nice-like. Huge white scratches on the shiny black paint. I debated between telling my parents or waiting until they saw it, which hopefully would be never. I went with the waiting idea, and goddamn if my sister didn't come home for a visit 2 days later. "Fuck," went my brain, when I got home from work and saw her sitting at the dinner table. She was about to drive to Miami in her car, which of course was now covered with my crap on the inside and a big ole car-bruise on the outside. I handed over the keys with some trepidation, but also a little hope. See, maybe if she didn't notice it for a while, she would think that either she or someone else had fucked it up in Miami without her realizing it. The likelihood of this was low-you'd have to be pretty fucking stupid to not notice what I had done. On the other hand, I enjoy avoiding potential problems until they slowly and inexorably grow into much larger problems, like marshmallows in a microwave, and I can no longer evade their gooey, stretchy arms of deliciousness.

Anyhoo, after 4 days without anyone punching me in the gut over my irresponsibility, I figured either I was in the clear or still nobody had noticed. So earlier today, when I took out my mom's car to go to Publix (I was not going near my sister's car again in case I unfairly got the blame) and got a call from my sister talking about a scratch, I was afraid the topic was going to be the car-bruise. And it was. I couldn't hear what she said at first, but at least she didn't sound mad. Was it possible? Had I pulled it off? Escaped punishment, a bore-me-to-tears lecture from my father, and even more eternal disappointment from my mother? Yes I had. Turns out she was letting me know that someone in Miami had sideswiped her car in a parking lot, because apparently God loves a procrastinator.**

*If you feel the need to correct me on the use of this phrase, I will feel the need to correct you not having seen the BBC version of The Office and remembered every throwaway line spoken by Ricky Gervais. Then I will feel the need to rape your ass, although I'll probably feel that need no matter what you do.

**Seriously. One time in junior year of high school, I got in a shouting match with my parents, ran upstairs, and furiously kicked at the wall. A wall I assumed was sturdy enough to laugh off anything I threw at it. Wrong. My foot flew through it, and I spent the entire night freaking out about what would happen when I confessed. Around 6 AM, I decided to not confess at all, but to saran-wrap the hole (for the bugs) and put up some posters (for my parents). I lived in constant fear that my oddly-placed pictures would elicit suspicion, but then I went to boarding school and figured it wasn't an issue anymore since nobody went upstairs except for myself. I found out later that my mom had redecorated and taken down my art, finding the hole, but I never got in trouble. And people say running away from your problems doesn't help. Tish tosh.***

***Man, that was a long footnote.