Friday, July 28, 2006


I'm hot. I'm sweaty. I smell.

And I played like a goddamn cow. Have you ever seen a cow play ultimate frisbee? Yeah, they can't catch either.


I knew this night was going to be bad when I walked onto the field. Of the five people there, three of them are amongst the TOP. TEN. PLAYERS. of EVERYONE WHO EVER SHOWS UP! And the other two, they're good athletes.

I, on the other hand am the ONLY girl which is an automatic disadvantage for the simple fact I DON'T have a penis (since when was a penis necessary to catch a disc?). It is just a given that EVERY BLOODY TIME I PLAY I have to prove myself to the asshole, showboating morons amongst you, but PRICK? When I am the ONLY ONE on our team open FOUR TIMES and you THROW. IT. AWAY. EACH TIME, you CANNOT blame me because we're losing! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!! I'M PAYING ATTENTION! I'M RUNNING! I AM MAKING MORE OF AN EFFORT THAN YOU! That guy who WAS guarding me? He STOPS guarding me EVERY TIME YOU GET THE DISC!!! THROW TO WHO IS O-P-E-N! (I'm about as fond of this guy as I am of DICK!)

It didn't help that the BEST two players on the field, probably the best two players we have, were on the same team and they DIDN'T claim the handicap. (That would be me in case you missed what I said above - I'm so not kidding about the C-O-W.) I don't know who I'm more pissed at; me for the way I played (if you can call what I did playing), or PRICK for being... well, a prick.


They made me wear booties at the office today (they were having the carpet steam cleaned).

Isn't there a law against this sort of harrassment in the workplace? I feel like a walking biohazard.

Thursday, July 27, 2006


See, it's not even that big of an issue that she changed my design. That even turned out all hunky dory in the end (albeit after staring and gawking dumbly at the screen in sputtering frustration for over an hour), but the woman effed with my organizational system!

Woman! I will end you!

Granted, it's her building and her office and her computer and even her folder that my shit is in but its MY ORGANIZATIONAL SYSTEM! Not only could I not just GLANCE into said folder to find what I was looking for but I couldn't even FIND THE DAMN FOLDER when I walked in this morning! That is a good TWO MINUTES OF MY LIFE that I will NEVER get back! Two minutes that COULD have been spent writing on my blog! Because that is a TOTALLY worth while endeavor! (The italics mean I COMPLETELY and UTTERLY believe that last sentence.)

Not only that! Woman stole my pen! Oh but she played it off too. After I accused her she just HAPPENED to find another pen IDENTICAL TO THE BLACK INKED BIC I HAD WHEN I WALKED IN THERE! The same one she had BORROWED when she was explaining the changes I had to fix just MOMENTS before. You KNOW my bic is so much better than your crappy, expensive pens with it's smooth flowing ink like butter across the crisp white sheet. History will be made with that pen (or if not that one, others like it because of the simple bic's UNDENIABLE SUPERIORITY TO EVERY OTHER PEN EVER CREATED)!! I will write great works of fiction and fantasy with that pen that you can't even hope to imagine! SO HANDS OFF THE PEN WOMAN!

On a lighter note, I got a sweat bath today from Seth. The whole right side of my face and upper arm, sopping wet.

TECHNICALLY, you could misconstrue the whole event into being MY fault when no such happenings occurred. I simply wanted to pet his mohawk not realizing he was drenched and he reached back to hug me. It was gross. I was so much more NOT OKAY with the sweat than I was when Mike licked me OUT OF NO FAULT OF MY OWN THEN EITHER! Damnit, Seth!

So the lesson to remove from this children is that if given the choice between someone forcefully licking my whole cheek or having that same cheek coated in a fine film of someone else's sweat, I'd rather be licked.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006


Excerpts from a converstation between me and the wiseass oldest favorite:

"How many engineers does it take to...? I'll let you finish since you know so many."

"See, you have to define WHAT they're doing because if it's something not work appropriate then none. Because they can't. They're nerds. It's not in their nature. Only the bravest of nerds will ever perform the engineer's mating call. Many will perish in the attempt."

"I defer to your obvious exemplary knowledge of them. You're like Jane Goodall, aren't you? Oblivious to danger in the quest for knowledge. You are so brave."

"I think of it more as cheating. They're so easily thrilled by any sort of female attention, sort of like neglected puppies. They'll do anything for a belly rub."

"STAY AWAY FROM THEIR BELLIES!!!!!!! I don't mean to yell but I like the fact that you are the good one. I want to keep you like that."

"You're supposed to ask WHAT I'm so damned good at. Besides, it's not the bellies you have to worry about. It's when I say I'm patting them on the head that's the problem."

"What are you good at??????????? I'm telling Dad!"

"I ain't scared!"

"You still haven't told me what you're good at. It certainly isn't going potty alone when drinking. Stay away from their bellies and their heads. (They bite. It's true. I saw it somewhere on the internet)"

"It's okay if they bite so long as they don't leave a mark."


There is nothing hotter than a man with a beard in a hairnet and goggles. NOTHING.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006


I'm leaving to go camping in Canada with Matt E. Saturday. I have NEVER BEEN camping. It is JUST going to be me and Matt. Together. For 7 days and a 15 hour car ride. Each way.

I have a slight fear that this just might end our friendship (or we'll be fine and we'll braid each others hair all week and talk about our crushes - "No way! I think Jimmy Bobby is a total hottie, too!"). See, he has an annoying habit of getting annoyed at me when I'm annoyed at anything which in turn makes me EVEN MORE annoyed, but at him.

Driving when I don't know where I'm going, particularly in the dark, makes me tense (damnit Dad! I inherited that from you). On top of that, I am, as Kerry kindly refered to me once, unpleasant to be around when I'm sleep deprived, and we're not planning on leaving until AFTER the wedding (which I don't REALLY want to go to. I mean I do since the guys have to wear pink and it's going to be the only fraternity wedding that'll be any fun - yeah, open bar! - but I AM TOO YOUNG TO WATCH YOU TWO GET MARRIED! DO YOU REALIZE YOU'RE MY AGE? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING?!) though I'm more worried about the drive home. We'll be sick to death of seeing one another, he'll probably smell (the deal is he doesn't have to take a shower all week so long as he takes one BEFORE getting back into my car), and I haven't been sleeping well at home. On a bed. In my nice, climate controlled room, let alone on the ground in a tent.

The place, however, is gorgeous and I'm going to get to learn how to water ski (maybe jetski? Oh please, oh please, oh please!), I've always wanted to go camping, and I LIKE Canada.

I do know for a fact, however, that if one of us was to not come back alive, it would be him because I'm hiding the car keys.

Monday, July 24, 2006


I finally caved and I'll tell you why. 1) It seems like I'm the only one in the world (except Dan) who wasn't on myspace and I'm a lemming (lemur). 2) A best friend from high school is on it and I haven't talked to her since her wedding. 3) I was REALLY bored tonight.

Myspace is the devil. I may have signed up but I can do nothing with it. Nothing saves. I keep getting error messages. I finally got an image to load but I'm having issues with that, too. Remember that best friend? I can't find her and I know for a FACT she's on this goddamn site. I can't see why any of you people are on it.

I need a beer.


There is absolutely NO REASON why a movie should make me mad. (Just... work with me here. Don't argue this point. Not yet.) Jenny, Dan, and I went to see, well we went with intentions to see Pirates but that wasn't in the cards so we saw Lady in the Water instead. I left that movie theatre drained and frustrated and having NO IDEA how to put my feelings into words.

Now, I love stories, fairy tales, fables. I bought The Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales (my cover isn't that cool though) even though my mom thought I was too old. Hell, I even like some of the Disney "adaptations" of the Grimm fairy tale stories. I could even see falling for a guy who would tell me bedtime stories. (I don't, however, care how pretty Heath Ledger and Matt Damon are, Brothers Grimm was a shitty movie.)

But I spent the WHOLE movie just willing and wishing that story not to be real. I liked certain individual characters! I think I like the concept! I expected so much more!

M. Night's not a bad looking man (which translates directly into literary talent)(even though he has a stupid name). I WANT him to do well. I WILL his movies to be good. I COMPEL myself to like them. But he has to meet me halfway here. I can't wholly support this relationship on my own. NO ONE IN THAT MOVIE HAD A CLUE WHAT WAS GOING ON! The dialogue PHYSICALLY PAINED ME. It was so frustrating to sit there and watch. Granted, some of my frustration stemmed from other sources (Jenny, just LISTENING to your end of that phone conversation almost sent me into convulsions), and I'm exhausted from this weekend (the work wasn't hard but that couch was unpleasant).

I keep going to his movies, hoping they'll be good. I feel just like a jilted lover.

And I'm not taking the rejection well.

Sunday, July 23, 2006


THIS! I rode on top of this! (After we turned it over and put it on wheels)


There was no couch.

I was LIED TO and driven THREE HOURS under false pretenses! Three very LONG and BORING hours! It was the car ride that just WOULD. NOT. END. And there was no damn couch!!! BUT!

10 minutes in Rusty's car totally made it worth it. (And exactly WHAT do you think I'm talking about then? Yeah, Tiff! That's right! The good one! I'm the good one.)

So we hopped into Rusty's car, Dan HANGING out of the hatch in the back (WITHOUT INSURANCE), and Rusty proceeded to do donuts in the grass between two barns coming frighteningly close to hitting a number of things. Dan... well, he squealed. He squealed like a girl (Alright. To be fair, he didn't actually squeal but he did yell in a state of semi-terror). "Stop it you guys! We almost hit that! Rusty, stop!"

After Dan cleaned the mess off his pants ("Rusty, what's that big brown stain?") we piled on a bunch of brush into the back of Drew's pickup and Dan attempted to drive it back, losing a large branch in the process and almost jack-knifing a pickup pulling a horse trailer before Dan pulled it from the street.

I did NOT get to ride on a tractor. (Not that I was actually promised that but I was naive and hopeful.) BUT!

I DID get to stand on a rickety, precariously balanced, and BROKEN hay... thingy... on wheels (that I believe were once ACTUALLY attached) that was PULLED by a tractor. Then we lit that and a whole bunch of other wood and drank all. night. long.

And I found out something relating to a previous story. I am so very NOT OKAY WITH THE DARK. Holy shit! After the sun had set and I'd had a number of beers, I was FREAKING MY SHIT OUT. I had to acquired an escort just so I could GO TO THE BATHROOM (thanks, Rusty). This had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I could not walk in a straight line (Drew tried to push me over) or the fact that I couldn't keep an eye on where I was going because I kept getting distracted BY THE SKY! (Who the hell knew there were so many stars in the country?) or because Rusty was hitting on me all night which is why he was so "nice". NOT THAT I'M NOT APPRECIATIVE ANYWAY BECAUSE I CERTAINLY AM.

This was also a weekend of firsts (and seconds) for me:
- 1st time to ride on a broken hay thingy.
- 1st time ever getting drunk off of beer.
- 1st time Dan has ever threatened to BLACKMAIL ME!
- 1st time drinking a LIttle Kings (all I have to say is "ew").
- 2nd time ever doing donuts in a car.
- 2nd time needing an escort to the potty (thanks, Tiff).

We're (Dan and I) hoping to do this again in September, Drew willing. With an actual COUCH this time. I'm hoping to turn it into a going away party for Dan D. since he'll be leaving us soon for third world countries to battle poverty, dirty drinking water, and ticks.

Friday, July 21, 2006


I ate the rest of the cookie dough this morning.

Yes, I did just say the REST of it, and no, there was certainly not enough to share. I convinced Katie in her cookie-making escapade to leave some (NOT ALL) of the dough for me since my mother encouraged taught by poor example when I was but a wee one that it was kinda okay to partake in the gooey goodness and I've since grown to prefer cookies in their raw, untamed form (See previous post: SHOWING RESTRAINT which I unfortunately cannot figure out how to link to).

The result of my morning binge was a tummy ache. And I know. It could have been much worse what with the rawness and the eggness all together like that but (knock on wood) I've yet to be made (seriously) ill by salmonella.

I'm not stupid. I know I shouldn't be shaking my big wooden spoon at those tiny little bacteria, taunting them like the playground bully, just daring them to rip me a new one. I don't want a new one. I'm perfectly content with the one I've already been given. But at the same time, I lack what some might refer to as will power. So while I spent today with a headache, stomach unease, and a little more girth to my hips, I can't QUITE bring myself to say it wasn't worth it.


Can't sleep. So I'm going to tell you a story. (I KNOW this is my third post in one day, back off)

This story is about how NOT cut out for the country I am.

A few years ago, I came home for my birthday (best guesstimation). I have to assume it was my 20th because I was old enough the younger was in college and I wasn't with the guy. At what was some malformed birthday party (?), an uncle and aunt were sitting around with my parents in order to look shocked and appauled when two of my sister's ex-boyfriends (seems they formed a club) stopped by at my bidding, one of them sporting vivid blue hair. Much like the blue of a Slush Puppy iced beverage, and who was I, smart, sophisticated, learned college student to be hanging out with such riff raff? (I could just see the wheels churning in my relatives' respective heads - Some of my family don't quite understand my queer fascination with such people who would dye their hair UNNATURAL SHADES!! SPEECHLESS HORROR! I should be flogged immediately.)

Anyway, my point is that these fellows wanted to leave rather close to immediately and I decided to taunt my family by going with them - WITHOUT TELLING MY FOLKS WHEN I WOULD BE HOME. Yeah college twentie-something!

Off we went. The fellows. They decided to play a game I'd never experienced. It doesn't really have a name so I shall name it now: Bored City Kids Scaring The Shit Out Of One Another By Driving Through The Country In The Dark. BCKSTSOOOABDTTCITD for short. (now doesn't the title make sense?)

How the game is played is simple. Bored City Kids pile into a car of their choosing (preferably one one of them owns). BCK's (there is absolutely no reason for the 's but I refuse to edit it out) drive out to the country, or basically away from the lit up skylines. BCK's choose a random dark country road on which to turn. From here on out, all decisions about directions are made at each intersection by determining which route is the darkest.

I don't know if you were awar, but in Ohio, once you get away from the sprawling metropolis that is where I'm from (cough) (actually, it really is sprawling... but metropolis is a little strong) there are farms, and in my narrow and sheltered experience, farms have cows. And these cows are kept for the sole (before I edited this, cows got soul!) purpose of offending my delicate nature. And scaring the shit out of me when it's dark outside.

We BCK's drove along these twisting and turning roads in what amounted to be a small dusting of snow with nothing in sight but the shallow upward slope of a green hill skirted in wood planks to our left and a shallow downward sloping of black nothingness to our right when OUT OF NOWHERE appeared a cow in the headlights. (In the pasture, not the road, though my reaction would have been the same regardless) The blue haired freak, justifiably startled (what the hell was that cow doing IN A PASTURE?! IN THE COUNTRY?! WTF?), screamed.

Loud. Shrill. Girly.

This, in turn, startled me making me scream and surprisingly enough (not really), react. I hit him. Which made him yell again, and resulted in the following conversation:


Rebuttal scream! Hit!

"Why did you hit me?! I'm scared and you're hitting me!" (said in a pleaing, almost hysterical voice)

"You startled me."

"But I was scared. And you hit me."

I told you this story to tell you another. This weekend, I'm going with Dan D. to his hometown in GOD KNOWS WHERE, Ohio to attend a couch roast. Let me say that again in case you didn't catch it the first time. C-O-U-C-H. R-O-A-S-T. And it is EXACTLY that.

With beer.

And cows.

With any luck, I'll get a ride on a tractor. That's something us BCK's shoor dun eva gets ta do.

Thursday, July 20, 2006


I had a job interview today. It was one of THOSE places that are overly concerned with employees stealing and as a way of THWARTING this tendency, they give you a questionaire to fill out that asks you REPEATEDLY if you would ever/ have ever/ hang out with people who have ever/ would ever steal. On a scale of 1 to 5.

The thing is, I don't steal. I have never stolen anything (except my cousin's legos when I was 4 and I felt so horribly guilty about it I didn't even tell my mom. I threw them away so I couldn't enjoy the fruits of my thievery). I don't hang out with people who steal. The only thing these "tests" do, is make me suspicious of other people. And one of the questions, ridiculous (only one?!). It asked if I thought exaggeration was lying. Now, if you want to be technical and textbook about it, everything that isn't EXACTLY the truth can be construed as a lie. But I just think exaggeration is a form of good storytelling. EVERYONE IN THE WORLD EXAGGERATES! Except maybe God but you never know with those parables. And when am I ever going to use exaggeration in a retail job? And is the world against me? That was another question. Am I going to steal from the store? Only if you keep asking me that goddamn question. You're slowly killing my guilt and prostrating its (my) body on the side of some well traveled road, naked, cold, and STEALING THE $16 CALCULATOR IN YOUR CAR WHEN YOU STOP TO HELP ME! AHAHAHAHAHA. Hah. Eh.


I live with a nursing major who has a very active job at a very active hospital. This same roommate takes gleeful, spiteful delight telling me disgusting hospital stories. Often times these are stories I have NO INTEREST AT ALL in hearing since they make me squeal "ew!" like a sissy girl and occassionally give me bad dreams. And then, once in a while, every so often, she tells me a story with merit, something that's a great mix of genuinely funny and terribly disgusting. Last night was one of those times. I present to you: STANKY PUSSY.

A nurse in some wing of the hospital was charged with removing a catheter (pee tube) from a rather large female patient. This woman had a particular aroma about her that reached ALL THE WAY DOWN THE HALL. In the process of the removal, this woman requested to have a pad placed under her round rump and as the nurse was procuring such a request, the woman thrust her hips in an upward direction... RIGHT UNDER THE NURSES NOSE. With a stench that SEEPED THROUGH WALLS. STANKY PUSSY STRIKES! The nurse, gagging and sputtering and throwing up a little in her mouth, finishes her job and is now plotting the destruction of the doctor who ordered her to thwart the STANKY PUSSY.

May this be a lesson to you, ladies.

Friday, July 14, 2006


Well, we have!

Of course, no one is willing to admit it, to speak of it outright. Oh, they'll hint at it but present them with hard evidence and they'll deny any involvement. We all have our dirty sins.

I'm talking about that deep, dark longing. What makes your heart race and your palms sweat, makes your knees weak. It seduces the senses and makes you tingle all over in anticipation. What you only do when you're sure your alone, when you have the house all to yourself without the threat of a nosy sibling/parent/roommate stumbling in on you when you're at your most vulnerable.

Well, I'm here to tell you it's okay! I'm going to break the ice of this travesty and admit my secret sin...

I... Shannon R. love looking up apartments in Chicago on, watching Small Space, Big Style on HGTV and then looking up dog breeds on that would fit the weight specifications for certain apartments (Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. And I shall call him, "Eh").

The biggest thrills are the links that NOT ONLY give me pictures, but give me FLOORPLANS! It tingles so good.

In case you didn't know, a few of my lifetime goals are: (1) to live alone, (2) to live in a studio apartment, and (3) to live in Chicago. Downtown Chicago. ((2) would HAVE to happen with (1) but (1) doesn't necessarily always have to coinside with (2) and (3) can happen any ole damn time it wants to). In my little fantasy I can TOTALLY afford $650 a month rent, a dog, and to eat. All at the same time.

So it's okay. Even I fall victim. You aren't alone.

This Public Service Announcement brought to you by Purina Pet Chow Brand (yeah, that's a total lie).

Wednesday, July 12, 2006


Hey kids. Above and beyond the summer job I have yet to find, I am spending the summer getting my professional paperwork in order. This includes that pesky co-op paperwork that should have been done WAY before now, updating my resumé, and a complete and terrifying overhaul of my design portfolio. Step number one in this overhaul includes a new domain name, because I'm all big and growed up now and fickle. Dear God, let us not forget the true reason of fickle. So I'm going to present to you all a few options I am mauling over and I'm asking (pretty please!) for YOUR advise as to which you think is the most appropriate.

Catagories for consideration include: professionalism, creativity, MY personality, my career goals (magazine design with the possibility of writing), site needs (to be both a design and writing site), and eventual self publicaion (I plan to eventually transfer my blog to the site and publish myself). Anyway, the entries:



slrdspeech (this is my personal favorite but don't let that sway you)




other (if you have some brilliant idea other than this, I'm all ears though obviously, I'd really like to incorporate my initials but your suggestion doesn't have to)

EDIT: Whom do people use as their host server?


Tuesday, July 11, 2006


**Since Dan doesn't have his own blog (livejournal, apparently, doesn't count), I am taking it upon myself to regale you all with a story recently told to me by the one and only Dan Quixote (even if some British imp did take that blog name. PRAT! ("I prefer the term 'Renob' but.. it's your blog. Do you self-censor your content?") - Obviously not).

One day, a long, long time ago, way back in the days of high school, ("This was last fall, yea, I was 23.") young Dan had a problem. This was no ordinary problem. Well, to be fair, it really was a rather ordinary problem but not one you're likely to find living in the city. No, our hero, Dan, had a problem that is usually only likely to occur out in the country. Dan developed a tick. In his thigh. About three inches above the back of his knee. Right were he just couldn't get a good angle.

Now, anyone who has ever lived in the country or at least gone camping knows you can't just pull out a tick because it's head will pop off in your skin and no girl wants a boy who has a infected, festering tick head deep in his flesh. What to do? Fortunately for our young hero, he had heard rumor that if you were to smear Vaseline on a tick, it wouldn't be able to breath and would release it precarious hold. Unfortunately, Dan didn't have any Vaseline. He had Neosporin, and he thought, "that's close enough", so on he smeared it across his tiny foe. And the tick wiggled a little. And then nothing happened.

Never one to be nonplused, Dan thought maybe he could PISS THE TICK OFF BY SPRAYING IT WITH BUG REPELLENT. ("I wiped most of the neosporin off, but you can never get it all off.") For some odd reason, that, too, did not have the desired effect.

In a stroke of BRILLIANCE! our hero thought, "I can BURN the tick off!" And I know what your thinking. He JUST SPRAYED BUG REPELLENT ON HIS LEG, and I assure you he, too, thought of this.

Then, he thought, "f**k it." ("Yes, I did say something very similar to this but remember, I didn't think the repellent would burn that much because the propellant in the can is what usually burns.")

He held an O-P-E-N F-L-A-M-E to his leg in the GENERAL VACINITY of where the tick was located. For those of you unfamiliar, our young hero is a very hairy man and I HAVE to assume he was also a rather hairy teenage ("23."). No, no, I'm actually quite certain he was, in fact, a VERY hairy teenager ("Is that really necessary?" - Yes), as well. His leg lit in a blaze of bug repellent and blondish brown hair ("My leg hair is calico."). He beat down the flames only to find THE TICK WAS STILL THERE.

And you will never, EVER guess what our young hero did next.

He held the open flame to his leg - AGAIN - under the assumption he had burnt off all the fuel by this point. His leg errupted like a forest fire seeking it's way ever higher.

After successfully going Smokey the Bear on his own ass, one might think our young hero gave up, but he had one more trick up his sleeve. He wadded ("It was more a roll.") up a piece of paper, lit it, and HELD IT TO HIS OWN LEG, burning himself in the process. The tick was still there.

Only then did our hero think to CALL AND ASK SOMEONE TO HELP HIM ("Well, I had tried everything else."). He called his parents, nice people, and asked if they had any more ideas. They suggested he come down to the barbeque they were at so some old farmer could take care of it for him. Oh! And while he was at it, he could get a sandwich, too. He drove to the party where his parents and the parents of kids he went to school with were and let this farmer yank this tick from his leg in a manner that required REMOVING A CHUNK OF SKIN WITH IT and all Dan could think was, "this farmer must think I'm a really big pussy." ("True.. and I also suspected the other guests at the barbeque were wondering, 'How the f**k did this kid survive six week in a third world country by himself if a tick causes his testicles to retract?'")

At this point, our hero should have left the party, head down, shame faced, and headed to the asylum of his own embarrassment but someone at the party just HAD to go and offer him a sandwich.

The story SHOULD end here, but it doesn't. Oh God, it doesn't.

The party then moved indoors because the host thought it appropriate to subject the various guests to the Blue Collar Comedy Tour and a sketch in particular where the four members make references to their decks ("You know, what's off the back of a house." -Dan D.) which was really just a "clever" ruse to hide the fact that they were talking about their dicks. Deck, dick, who knew? So he watched this sketch. In a small room. With his parents.

After it was over, he commented to the guy next to him that he'd just reached "a whole new level of awkward". ("My family isn't really the dick joke kind of family. If someone made 'A man from Nantucket' reference at the dinner table, I do believe they would be ostracized.")

I love hicks and ticks. God bless America.

Monday, July 10, 2006


I was... well, to put it bluntly, I was peeing and a strange and admittedly nerdy thought just popped into my head. What is it about expelling waste from your body that just lets the thoughts flow?

So during this very act that we all do, hopefully on a daily basis, memories of childhood conjured themselves up out of a thin pale stream. Specifically, the really dumb things we tried to get one another to say when we were nary more than waist high. I present to you: iCup. I'm sure an older brother/sister/cousin/play date asked you and you thus asked your younger brother/sister/cousin/play date at some point in your childhood career to spell iCup. As in "I see you pee."

And strange fantasies started to fill my mind. The one in particular I'm referencing involves me YEARS down the road when, not only do I have a child, but said child is old enough to come running to me CRYING IN GUT RETCHING, SNOTTY SOBS about one of my sisters' children inevitably teasing the freakishly nerdy offspring that is BOUND to come from my loins and that my MATURE and MOTHERLY response it to tell them to tell the offending cousin to spell iCup. Then (and this is when it gets almost offensively nerdish) I think that with all the iStuff coming out NOW, by the time I actually manage to squeeze out a tiny bundle of need (I mean Joy! and Sunshine! and I-Swear-I-Really-Do-Want-Children-One-Day-And-I-Promise-To-Take-Relatively-Good-Care-Of-It-Too-Even) they may even HAVE some contraption called an iCup which would render the joke null and void.

And what a sad, sad world it will be when I can't see you pee.

Friday, July 07, 2006


I ran around Nippert tonight for two and 1/2 hours. I bruised the big toe on my right foot, and I stoved the big toe on my left foot so now I'm limping around, and it. feels. WONDERFUL. I am going to be so sore and tight tomorrow and I'm going to piss and whine and moan and love every achy minute of it.

Ways To Woo Me While Playing Ultimate
- Yell at your teammates, "Somebody guard her already!" and, "Watch her! Watch her!"
- Tell me that you plan on elbowing the little high school girls in the face.
- Seem impressed when I tell you my nickname is "Man-girl" and it was given to me by Mark Ogg.
- Admit that I totally saved your ass with that catch.
- Laugh when even I show displeasure at playing with more girls.
- Come over after frisbee and ask me for a cookie.
- Don't think I'm a total bitch when I say you didn't throw me off, the reason my throw sucked was because it was right handed and I'm a lefty. (AHH! One of those things that you instantly realize you're an asshole for saying the moment it leaves your mouth)
- Stand there looking like a dope until I realize you're trying to high five me.

How NOT To Woo Me While Playing Ultimate
- Say the same joke over and over again when it wasn't funny the first time.
- Or better yet, have nothing that comes out of your mouth all night be funny (save the high school girl elbowing).
- When I suggest that maybe the high school girls CAN'T catch a Hammer throw, tell me that doesn't mean you aren't going to throw one. PLAY TO THE SKILL LEVEL OF YOUR TEAM, ASSHOLE.
- Throw long when we all know your aim SUCKS long.
- Throw the frisbee so hard you D-I-S-L-O-C-A-T-E your teammates finger.
- Ask everyone on the team their name EXCEPT THE GIRL! SCORN! HATE! EVIL FEELINGS UPON YOU!
- Make me think, "why don't you try throwing it TO THE GIRL! who is open and has been for the last 5 minutes!"
- Invite the little high school girls to play with us when we're already over-crowded and most girls suck.
- Ask your friend, "How do you catch a frisbee?"

Wednesday, July 05, 2006


"This shirt looks more risqué than it actually is because it doesn't cover all the tan lines."

"Yeah, I have to admit I noticed."

"The boobs or the tan lines?"

"... boobs."

"Well, I've never noticed you notice so, good job."

"I try not to look at all but when you present them like that..."

"It all goes straight to your hips."

"Well, it's true. You just looked didn't you?!"

"If this is the first time you've noticed me looking at your butt then we're good."

*Names have been left out to protect... another who isn't me.

Saturday, July 01, 2006


The BEST PART about the 12 hour drive home today was the potty break in Charleston, West Virginia.

Little boy: "Whose feet are those? I want to see!"

Mother (but not my mother): "It's another lady. Just stay here until I'm finished."

Little boy: "Lady! Lady? I love you, Lady."

Lady (my mother): "I love you, too."